Once upon a dune of the Sahara.

Who in their right mind hasn’t fantasised at least once in a lifetime about flying carpets, magic lamps, genies, desert camps and starry nights? Lying down under a lavishly adorned tent, sunk in layers of soft silk cushions with an army of servants buzzing around to fulfil your slightest whim. I know, this may sound too fancy-pants and aristocratic for some, and I might even agree with that, but… what if, with a few minor tweaks (strikethrough the flying carpet and the magic lamp), this whole scenario would be written for you, and you alone? Wouldn’t that be something worth telling your grandchildren about? Or your “comrades” over a pint of beer at the most “in” bar in town?

What if, after a long day of scouting the whereabouts, sipping tea and munching dates with the people of the land (the splendacious Berber nomads) you’d arrive at this glorious desert camp where, suddenly, imagination pales to the wonders of existence? What if the infinite golden dunes would scribble your sunset décor and your good-hearted hosts, in their flowing blue robes, would be the masters of your candle-lit dinner and the maestros of your drum symphony?

Would you put your hectic life on hold, long enough to play the lead of your own fairy tale?

I bet Scheherazade would have mentioned this story, had she still been around. And I double bet that Shahryar would’ve saddled the camels and dashed to Morocco just to check it out.

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