the berber pirate.

“On est les Berbers, on n’est pas les Barbares,” he said with a darkly charming hint of a smile.

“We are Berbers, not barbarians. We wouldn’t charge you if you didn’t want to pay.”

And just like that I was being swept off my feet and onto a donkey.

The Berber pirate then selected a comrade from the huddle, sending him to Bonne. I began to feel a little smug; Bonne's companion was perfectly nice looking, short and stout with a baseball cap, but he had nothing on my guy. The Berber pirate lept gracefully onto our steed, pulling my arms around his waist and clicking his heels. We were off.

We rode down into the muddy, flooded sands, where groups of tourists were wading around with their jeans rolled up, milling in search of the best possible angle to capture the Kasbah on camera. I felt a little smug again, up on the donkey with a Johnny Depp look-alike.

"Wait here," he said, descending and motioning for his comrade to follow. Bonne and I sat on our donkeys and took pictures and made a video, giggling like schoolgirls all the while. Through the camera lens I saw the men coming on horseback, the Berber pirate holding his hands out with a big smile. They transposed each of us gracefully from donkey to mule, and then we were off again, heading away from the tourists and up into the sand castle hills. 

The Berber pirate gave us a seamless narration as we rode, telling us of the movies that had been filmed, the celebrities who had visited, the myths and folklore of the place. Then the conversation turned to personal stories. They asked us how we knew French so well; we regaled them with tales of our studies abroad. We asked them where they had traveled, and we were bestowed with images of deserts, mountains, and winding paths deep into Africa. 

"Soon, we will follow the river to Marrakech," the Berber pirate said. 

"Take me with you!" I barely stopped myself from exclaiming. 

We arrived at the highest point of the dunes, where a fortress formation provided a look-out over the land. More pictures were taken, more stories told, and were it not for the sight of a new caravan of tourists pulling up in vans, Bonne and I may never have remembered that we had a group waiting for us.    

"Uh oh. What time is it?" We asked the Berber pirate. 

He squinted, thoughtfully, at the sun. 

"It's a quarter to noon," he said. 

"Oh please," we groaned. "Doesn't anyone have a real watch?"

The Berber pirate looked around. Over on the next dune was another group of Americans with their own guide. "Hassan!" He yelled. "What does your watch say?"

Hassan consulted his wrist and looked up. "It's a quarter to noon!" He yelled. 

The Berber pirate just smiled. 

We re-mounted our mules, with Bonne and I each taking the front position this time. We were to steer the mules as they went down the dunes, with the Berbers providing moral support and guidance if necessary. I was terrified from the moment I was put in command, of course, and clung to the mule for dear life while over-thinking which side to nudge my knee into. Soon I had even more to deal with, as the Berber pirate was starting to get a little fresh.

“On va tomber, on va tomber,” he murmured in my ear, his breath warming my neck, his hands sliding up my thighs to tickle my waist. He would lean to one side and then the other in a deliberate attempt to throw the mule off balance, so that he could then clutch me tighter in response to my terrified squeals.

‘We’re going to fall!” He crowed again.

“Arrete!” I said, and slapped him hard on the leg.

Up ahead, Bonne and her chauffer were chatting merrily away about the weather, tourism, and other such innocent topics. Their heads bobbed complacently in rhythm with their mule as they descended the hill, and I prayed that no one would turn around to see the sordid action that was transpiring only a few feet away.

“Turn into the village!” My pirate commanded his young protegee before turning his attention back to my neck. He was riding, so to speak, entirely closer than was necessary. “On va tomber, on va tomber,” He whispered again.

Defiant, I scooted a few inches forward just as we approached a gathering of stone one-level buildings. In retaliation, the pirate clicked his heels against both sides of the mule’s belly, and suddenly we were off, whizzing past Bonne and partner through a frighteningly narrow archway.

“Hi! Ahmed!” Voices called from doorsteps and open windows as we galloped full tilt down the cobbled streets of the ancient Kasbah.

“Mustafa! Abu!” The pirate called back, laughing gaily and administering the occasional tickle.

I was defenseless, as every ounce of my energy was now concentrated on holding on for dear life, and flattening my head against the mule’s every time we careened through another low overhang.

We were whizzing along too fast, I thought, not simply because it was terrifying but because it was too soon for this experience to end. I didn't WANT to go back to the van and the Westerners and the guided journey. I wanted to disappear into the dunes, never to be heard from again, to ride along the river to Marrakech with the pirate and his caravan, to cook him breakfast and have all sorts of Berber babies, and.... oh, shit, we were back where we started from. 

Lorena, Linda, and Lauren were waiting up the road, and they launched into simultaneous tirades when they saw us. 

"It's a half hour past the meeting time.... where WERE you.... everyone is worried.... the other vans left without us...."

"Re-LAX!" We waved our hands in response as we were helped down from the mules by our handsome men, relishing every moment. "We were just getting a more complete view of the Kasbah!"

We turned sadly to the Berbers and offered them a final embrace, as well as fifty dirham. I didn't know about Bonne's pirate, but mine had definitely earned it.

The Berber pirate kissed each of us on the hand before re-mounting alongside his friend and turning toward the desert. All five of us watched in reverent silence as they clicked their heels in unison and went galloping away across the sands to the Kasbah, the blue folds of the Berber pirate's cape billowing in the breeze.

"Now THAT," I said, "was a tour."