“You took the Marrakesh Express? What was it like?” I asked him.

“Good. Smooth, fast and comfortable, and, best of all, air conditioned. We sang the song over and over, all the way there.”

“What was Marrakesh like? I’m going there next week.”

“You’re going to Marrakech in July? Are you an idiot? It’s in the Sahara desert!”

“It’s the only chance I’ll get.”

“You know when you bake a potato, and you open the oven, and that blast of heat hits your face? Imagine stepping into that 400° oven. That’s what it’s like when you step off the Marrakech Express in summer.”

He was right. That’s exactly how it felt. Marrakech is a beautiful rose-colored city in the desert, but it was 135° in the daytime. No joke. You can’t move, or eat, or function at all in that kind of heat, so no ones does anything until 10pm when it cools down to 95°.

At night the large central square comes alive.

Snake charmers, kick boxers, monkey acts – performers from all over Africa make their way to the famous Jemaa el Fna. It’s a wondrous thing. I love saying “fna.” Ffffnah!

The locals stay cool by taking all-day warm baths and steadily drinking incredibly sweet hot mint tea. I was incredulous, but it really works. Something about the sweating, I guess.

At night, they wrap themselves in wet sheets and sleep on the roof. Every few hours someone has to get up and re-soak the sheets.

I’d never been so miserably, helplessly hot. After three days I’d had enough. A local invited us to his uncle’s house in the mountains for some relief. About an hour away.

It was beautiful and cool. There was a babbling river running through the backyard. I immediately jumped in. It felt so good to finally cool off.

The local walked over and watched me.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“What do you mean? It’s fantastic.”

“Well, there a lot of other homes up this canyon.”

A big wad of toilet paper floated by. Reality dawned on me. Oh, god. I exploded out of that river like a cartoon character.

Later, I met a man in the nearby village.

“Is this your store?” I asked him.

“Oh, yes. I also own that hotel over there. Also that gas station. I am the richest man in this village, so I can afford three wives.”

“You really have three wives?” I had never met someone with multiple wives before.

“Yes. One has thirty four years, the second has twenty six years, and the third has fifteen years.” He was very proud.

“Which one do you like the most?” I asked.

He looked at me like I was an idiot. The kind of idiot who goes to the Sahara in July.

“Why, the youngest one, of course.”