...Marrakesh and Jemaa el-Fnaa: cobras, monkeys, drums, fruit stands with plastic food, minaret scaffolding with three gargoyles, Tibetan-looking water-bearer, motorbikes roaring through the souk, timeless carts being pushed uphill (I help one old guy, joking I'm on a working holiday visa). Madrasa packed with tourists, later we queue at the tombs of people we've never heard of. Breaking away from the group to go to a rooftop cafe above the Kasbah for a quiet lunch. Starting an international incident as two hat vendors vie for our business, then escalates into heated argument. Young woman in colorful clothes turns out to be western fashion rather than a native dress. Bad music from a hotel nearby somewhere. Dinner at Dar Es Salaam with the trad music and belly dancers and photographic traces of Hitchcock...
... Marrakesh express to Casablanca. Parched earth of the Sahara, sharing the red red of New Mexico, ofttimes cultivated. Near in the sea, as seagulls hover over a rubbish tip. Casablanca reminds of a British built city of the Raj, with its large municipal edifices. The only thing real about Rick's Cafe are the two enormous bouncers preventing entry. Even more enormous is the city mosque, miles and miles of carpet. Boys jump into the sea from an adjacent wall, until chased away by cops, return after the cops move on...
...Wending the narrow lanes of Rabat, seeking traces of blue...
...Train to Fez through patchwork of hills. Ditching the group again to do a deeper look at Fez's souk, the tourists gone in the heat of afternoon. Getting truly lost in there, until coming across the Rue Talaa Kebira, which we follow past the poetically crumbling Bou Inania Madrasa, and on until Bab Boujloud and our exit...
...Through the Middle Atlas. A ski field called Michelin above the Euro-looking Ifrane. A long ride as the mountains become hills, become desert. Oases always seem to be on the right side of the road, so you get two different trips based on what side of the bus you sit on. Desert hills, a row of giants with furrowed brows. Palm tree groves, which imply the presence of water, yet
their branches are covered with dust from trunk to tip. High broad streets like in a
Texas town. These settlements of faded glory, some buildings empty, some intact, others appearing to be going up. I think of India and its unfinished look, until it hits me that maybe these kinds of places have always looked like this, some buildings empty, some intact, others appearing to be going up...
...Charming if not slightly tacky Hollywood oasis hotel at Erfoud. Market day in Rissani, lingering over coffee and watching the world come to us. Leaving the road to blast through the dunes in a 4x4 to our camp digs. Not tents but small concrete bungalows with showers and A/C. Obligatory camel ride out to the Erg Chebbi dunes for sunset. Our guide shushing everyone to enjoy the quiet, followed by her own phone chat to a grandchild somewhere in the green of England. Music around the fire after dark. Me rising early, stalking the sunrise alone. Nothing beyond here but Timbuktu. Our vehicles passing line after line of camel trains as we make our way back to tarmac, and town...
...Two days drive through the desert. Pock-marked ghost qanats stretching out to their former sources in the far off hills. Despite the lack of water, there seem to be a lot of car washes in the desert. Casbah after casbah. Driving through the canyons, walking up to a ruined hotel in Todra Gorge. Incredible oasis of Tinghir (but why won't the bus stop to let us go down and walk in the shade of their palms?) Ouarzazate and Ait Ben Haddou, films sets, real and imagined. Over the Tizi n'Tichka and back to Marrakesh...
...Sharing with LYL that we wish we had a few more days here. And shame on me for not realizing that Essaouira was less than two hours away. Next time...
On the turntable: Tommy Bolin, "Energy"
