For some reason in the desert, the change to dusk and dawn is almost audible. Like a can of soda being cracked open, the sky suddenly changes from a bejeweled black sea to radiant purple and orange expanse of color. And again, later in the day, the relentless heat gives way without battle to a deep periwinkle and the first signs of the crescent moon. Night is the female part of life's equation, coming to nurture and soothe, spreading out a cool blanket of stars as an antidote to the fierceness of the day.
I lay there quietly in the Bedouin tent, which was made of mud and straw and camel dung waiting for the sound of dawn swooping in and out of sleep when footsteps outside woke me. I opened my eyes to see a curious camel had wandered over to say hello. The "tent" had no roof so the world took me in as I did it. Perhaps it was a dream. We were in the middle of the Sahara.
For years I have dreamed of coming to Morocco. If Russia had the iron curtain, than the Arab world had the long black veil. Perhaps it was the glimpse beneath this in Saudi or the stories of Arabian nights that persisted but one thing is for sure- this country is everything I ever dreamed it would be and more. Expectations swirling and thick were met and surpassed by far in this magic place full of cobalt blue flowing robes, turbans and one thousand tales.
Two days earlier Angelo and I had been in Ouerzazate, a desert town a few hours outside Marrakech. The town has been made famous in recent years by the film industry, which is constantly shooting here. Gladiator, Alexander, Kundun, Kingdom of Heaven and dozens of other films are made here which explains the nice hotels (where we did not stay) and the booming economy. We were trying to figure out how we would make it out to the desert to go trekking through the Sahara when, with a little help from serendipity, we ran into Ishmael- a gargantuan Toureg nomad with blue robes, heavy silver jewelry and a white turban. I wondered if he was from Orange County and had just walked off the set of the newest Michael Bay action film. But no, Ishmael was indeed a nomad whose father had been chief of a tribe in Mali. He had 14 brothers and sisters and his father died last year at the age of 105. Towering over us at about six foot seven, he grinned and to every question we asked about trekking and answered gently "as you like."
For the next few days Ishmael would lead us and another young couple of medical school graduates from Edinburgh University into the wild, scorched and thirsty lands- into the palace of winds. Ashoosh is the Arabic for wind- how beautiful this language is. First we traveled by 4x4, crashing through the desert and staying on the road when possible with the windows down. To get a similar sensation, please turn a hairdryer on HOT and on HIGH, now hold it two inches from your face. Now turn on 5 more hairdryers. Absolutely the hottest air I have ever felt. Along the way we occasionally crossed the paths of pick-up trucks that held about six guys, all in blue robes and black turbans that covered their faces. Are we on the Indiana Jones set? As we hurdled past Zagoura and M'hammid and toward the Algerian border the vistas were straight out of National Geographic. Groups of camels grazing, a lone oasis in the distance, heat rising off the earth in waves. Punctuating the desolate landscape women would appear like apparitions, walking with baskets and covered head to toe in veils. Where had they walked from and where were they going?
After dismounting the old Land Rover (which had 432,000kms under it's belt- I mean hood), we began the next leg of our journey via camel caravan. We enjoyed the stillness of the easy camel gait as their long legs sunk into the silky sand. My chameau was named Siri Biri and we got along famously. Soon after we began the sound happened again and with Allah’s slight of hand, the day changed to night. We rode quietly under the stars until we reached the tent encampment. That night we lounged on beautiful rugs and pillows under the sky and enjoyed olives, mint tea and the songs of the nomads as they played their drums and sang. Then the wind kicked up filling the air with sheets of sand and we went into the covered tent to eat tagine (which was made of camel- poor Siri Biri).
The next day we journeyed through the searing heat to the Erg Chagaga sand dunes, which is on the Algerian border. This is the land of Le Petit Prince and it was exactly as I pictured- the fine red sand tossed in infinite drifts was elegant and soft and equally as cruel.
On the way back from the dunes, sand drenched and exhausted we stopped by Ishmael’s family’s house while he collected some of his things. The front room was covered in rugs with bare concrete walls where two clocks hung. One didn't work at all, the other one kept careful track of the endless minutes, hours and lifetimes that the women had to do away with. The women were scattered on the floor (there was no furniture), sisters, aunts, cousins and nieces in their full hajib. According to Ishmael they take care of the house, drink tea, watch Arabic music videos all day and then they wait. His ancient and sweet grandma was there too. She also wore the hajib and her hands and feet were black from a lifetime of henna. On her right hand she wore one silver ring with the Nike swoosh. What in the world could that have meant to her? Angelo played soccer with the nephews in the dirt yard and then it was time for the long long trip back to Marrakech through the Draa valley.
Later that night we voted to interrupt our drive home to pull over at a petrol station and watch a world cup game with twelve men glued to a TV outside that kept losing reception every few minutes. Talk about an ad for Fifa! What a truly magnificent adventure.
MARRAKECH
A wonderful, sensual, whirling epicenter of chaos and magic and fuel for the imagination. True to its reputation, Marrakech is hot and bustling and bursting at the seams with life. The city thrives around a medina whose heart is the famous square Jemma El Fna and whose veins are the complicated labyrinth of souks that feed into it. It is truly the mother of all markets and under the inky sky and shimmering moon you will find snake charmers, magicians, shamans, fortune tellers, dancers, musicians, story tellers, henna painters, trained monkeys, rows and rows of orange juice stands, food stalls which have everything from boiled goat heads to brains and miscellaneous meat kabobs to escargot. The souk is a seemingly infinite expanse of stalls displaying a kaleidoscope of blankets, slippers, lanterns, teapots, trays, jewelry and pottery amidst other local handiwork. Life here seems to ebb and flow according to the heat, and Marrakech is a city of the night, jumping to life when dusk is cracked open. The prayer called from the Muezzin at the top of the mosque five times a day seems to be a gentle metronome suggesting a way of life as opposed to requiring it as it does in other Muslim countries I have been in. No one we saw stopped to pray, save for a few men at the mosque wall. The speed of commerce here seems to trump piety.
I have quickly come to love the souks here as well as the people who worked there. Angelo has officially made souk a verb and frequently suggests to my deaf ears that it is time to stop souking. Marrakech is truly a spectacle for the senses and our first real entry point into Morocco.
From the beginning we were welcomed here with open arms and open hearts."Salam aleikum" people will say which in Arabic means peace be upon you. We landed in Casablanca and took the first train we could get to Marrakech. On the train we metMohammed and Ashraf who spoke wonderful English and took us under their wing. They invited us for tea after the train ride with the other two Moroccan girls who had shared our cabin. Then after tea, Ashraf took us to our riad, picked us up later for
dinner in the stalls at the souk (I baffled him with my strange vegetarian beliefs but Angelo ended up heating heart kabobs as well as a lot of other unidentified meat product. The boys watched his every bite anxious for his reaction- they were so proud of their food. Hah! Vegetarianism has it's privileges!), they took us around the market, bought us key chains to remember the night, we went for ice cream, to the bar for a sprite and a hookah. THEY PAID FOR EVERYTHING. They were gracious and lovely and proud. They even got in the cab with us to get us home safely and paid for a man to escort us through the medina to the riad.
This is how virtually every Moroccan we have met has treated us. Absolutely unbelievable. Angelo and I ducked into a barbershop so he could shave his head (see pictures- so hot!) and the barber was eating his plate of cous cous and brains or some other dubious gelatinous substance. He insisted we sit down; he rinsed two forks and shared the lunch plate that his wife had made him. Like Angelo says- we gotta stop hanging out with the locals or we are going to get so sick! Anyway, we have never met friendlier more helpful people - chasing us down when we forget change and helping us find places and people and numbers and fun. I hope we are this hospitable to people in our country who come to visit not knowing one word of the local language.
The combination of Arabic mixed with French is truly beautiful. Words like tajine, vizier, Tuareg, Ouerzazatz, El Jadida and Shaherezad conjure up the magic that lives here. And so after days of souking and eating cous-sous, tajines, p'astilla and orange juice in Marrakech; we headed to the Sahara, and after that it was on to Essouira.
ESSUOIRA
Our final stop here is in the town of Essouira. A seaside town in western Morocco. This whitewashed breezy enclave is a Mecca for kite surfers, music festivals and French tourists. Apparently Jimi Hendrix visited here once and thus every t-shirt they sell has his face on it! The cooler weather, bright blue skies and more laid back atmosphere has made this a perfect place to spend 5 days doing laundry, recovering from a stomach bug(shocker) and getting some quality internet time in! The beaches are beautiful and its so wild to see all the Moroccan women out there- all in their veils, some with their faces covered sitting next to the French girls in their teeny weeny bikinis. What cultural divides lay across the tiny spec of sea.
It’s amazing how when you visit such distant shores you can actually feel the tectonic plates within yourself creaking and lurching, changing and restructuring your make up and how you see the world. We are so lucky to be here and hope to come back to Morocco soon. In’sh’allah as they say here. It means God willing.
Tomorrow we are on to Cairo for two days and then to Kigali, Rwanda to meet up with our friend Sharon. We love and miss you all.
Bessalama,
Shaherezade and Mustafa
