That couldn’t have been great for my digestion. He assured my that I was overreacting and reminded me that I’d had tagine for the past three meals. Renato, who is a diplomat’s child and has grown up in about four different third world countries, rightly told me that I was an idiot. In my terror, I woke my friend Renato and started babbling frantically. What if my situation deteriorated? What if I was really sick! These are the sort of thoughts that one encounters at four in the morning. Here I was throwing up until there was nothing left, (and then still going) in the Sahara desert, god knows how many miles from decent medical care. About halfway through my incredible purging, I started to get scared. After all, sand retains no heat and so the temperature can vary by as much as fifty degrees F, (28C) from the day to the night. I would run shakily back to my mattress and pull my knees to my chest and my blanket as tight around me as I could. I went back and forth from my bed to the freezing sand for the next four or five hours. I wouldn’t tell you about my personal health issues at all, but I really do think it’s vital to understanding my experience in Morocco. I threw off my blanket, leaped over my sleeping travel partners and fell into the sand outside, heaving. Around two-thirty, I knew for sure that I was going to throw-up. My day began very early, not because we were due to set off at daybreak or anything, but because my stomach wouldn’t hear of me sleeping another second.
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