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By Root 742 0

her pipes. The scenery changed gradually from the uninterruptedly banal red-pebbled desert to breathtaking Martian landscapes of mountain peaks, flat buttes, deep wadis, and cliff towns. Mostly, however, it was dirt. At times, nothing identified what was out the window as being anywhere on earth. Not a living thing. Occasionally – very occasionally – there would be a mud farm, where deep trenches had been dug for building materials, and a few forlorn-looking goats. Seemingly nonsensical property dividers, irregularly piled baseball-sized stones, indicated boundaries between nothing and nothingness. No water, no trees, no animals, and yet there they were, mile after mile of precariously balanced rocks. Finally, Risani appeared, a sun-bleached, dusty, desultory town of dirty streets and disheveled citizenry. We checked into the ‘best’ hotel, a faux Casbah of mud and cinder block, the familiar combo of inadequate electric heater, mushy bed springs, and lime-encrusted showerhead. Beer, at least, was available in the lobby – along with a very special menu of tagine, couscous, and brochette.

I had come to Risani to find meshwi, the whole roasted lamb so integral to my delusions of desert adventure. It had been arranged in advance over the phone with a group of Tuaregs who guided people around the Merzouga dunes as a business concern. But after a conversation on his battered cell phone, Abdul was telling me that the next night’s dinner in the desert would be ‘something very special.’ I knew what that meant: The bastards were planning a big meal of couscous, brochette, and tagine. I was furious. I had not come all this way to eat couscous again. I could eat that in the lobby with the Japanese and German tourists. I’d come for whole roasted lamb, Berber-style, tearing at fat and testicles with my bare hands around a bonfire with the Blue Dudes, the whole beast, crispy and delicious, laid out in front of me. ‘But, but . . .’ I stammered, ‘I wanted meshwi! I was getting meshwi!’ Abdul shook his head, whipped out his cell phone, made a call, and spoke for a few minutes in Arabic. ‘They don’t have whole lamb,’ said Abdul. ‘If you want, we must bring ourselfs.’

‘Fine,’ I barked, irritated. ‘Call them back. Tell them tomorrow morning we’ll go to the market, buy a whole lamb, dressed and cleaned, and anything else they’ll need. We’ll throw it in the back of the car and take it on out. All they’ve gotta do is the voodoo that they do – cook the damn thing.’ The plan was to get up early, swing by the market, buy lamb and supplies, load it all into the back of a hired Land Rover and rush out to the desert before the food began to rot.

Abdul looked dubious.

The next morning, we arrived as planned. The ground meat, vegetables and dry ingredients were no problem. The lamb, however, was proving to be difficult. At a butcher counter down an alleyway to the rear of a flyblown souk, a gold-toothed butcher considered our request and opened his ancient nonfunctioning stand-up fifties-era Frigidaire, revealing one hapless-looking leg of lamb, cut rudely through the hip and leeching blood.

‘He has only the leg,’ said Abdul.

‘I see that,’ I said irritably. ‘Tell him I want the whole thing. What do I have to do to get the whole thing?’

‘It is bad day,’ said Abdul. ‘The sheeps, they come to the market Monday. Today is Wednesday. No lamb comes today.’

‘Ask him . . . maybe he’s got a friend,’ I suggested. ‘Tell him I’ll pay. I’m not looking for a bargain here. I need a whole fucking lamb. Legs, body, neck, and balls. The whole animal.’

Abdul embarked on a long and contentious new tack – one that was of clear interest to the butcher, who raised an eyebrow. I imagine Abdul was saying something like ‘You see this stupid American next to me? He has no sense at all! He’ll pay a lot of money for his whole lamb. It’ll be worth both our whiles, my friend, if you can hook us up.’

The conversation became more animated, with multiple rounds of negotiation. Others joined us, materializing from dusty, trash-strewn alleyways, getting involved in the discussion,