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Mountain Pass

Don’t ride the buses at night Younes tells us, especially over mountain passes. But then again, that’s the only way to get to Tafraoute- 5-6 hour bus ride departing at 3pm.
Moroccan road slang (flashing lights, horns), spoken articulately by our bus drive, successfully delivered us along a one way road with blind corners, no side rails and deathening drop offs.

I managed not to get ill with my stomach perched atop my tongue. I read, listened to music, pantomimed Arabic words for scary, deathly, steep and shared them with my fellow passengers. At 7pm the obligatory stop for prayer and meal…
With only water, we received offerings of dates and crackers from sympathetic passengers. Once over the manic pass, our brakes squealed with every turn.

After a restful sleep, we were awaken to a beautiful crimson sunrise, illuminating our valley nestled between red granite mountains at 3257ft.

Insah’Allah- ن شاء الله

God willing… If it is God’s will….

A beautiful expression I recently acquired, placing everything into the hands of God and out of one’s responsibility.

Beggars with hands extended are often given a nod and quick Insah’Allah.
Will you have bread later tonight or tomorrow, we implore at the boulangeria?- Insah’Allah, she answers.
After biking hours in the highlands, we are famished and stumble upon one of few restaurants in Tafraoute, inquiring if he will be open after the fast- Insah’Allah he smiles and retreats inside.

Would you like to look at my rugs, rugs from Berbers, camel wool, nice for your home, just look- Insah’Allah I smile and walk away.

Essaouira

Into the dark of last night, our bus pulled into Essaouira, a fishermens port. Gypsies throng at the bus vying attention for money, food, cheap places to stay while the street kids press at your side…
We are quite used to this now, and like many bus stations, the less fortunate prey on the newly arrived, the disoriented, the confused…

Not Exactly Fluent

Parlez-vous francais? Non?! Well so much for all those books, tapes, and tutors.

So what is that?  Arabic? Or Berber. And would it really matter?  Naw, we are doing just fine.

Oasis

A crescent lagoon nestled down the valley of Oualidia turned into an unexpected peaceful coastal town of maybe 4000. An early morning fishing spectacle- blue wooden boats cresting the swells, fisherman, hand over hand, pulling in a catch of crab and lobster, and surfers straddling boards,waiting for the big one.

At times we are sleeping on floored mattresses, having cold showers every third day and skipping meals; however, our new oasis is far from squalor.

Being off season, we were approached immediately by Ahmead in his polyester running suit and asics shoes, he governs pensions for wealthy owners and offered his best apartment for an unbelievable fare. We couldn’t resist and we couldn’t leave.. We stayed basking in the amenities, 3 terraced pools and free wifi.

Jay contracted some work, I built Ahmead a website http://dahdouhahmed.wordpress.com

Go figure…

In search of Dar el Baroud

Azemmour, a sleepy coastal town north of Al Jadida, known for elaborate paintings within the medina walls, inhabited by residents, a few artists and per a torn out page of The Lonely Planet, The House of Powder (Dar el Baroud)- remnants of a Portuguese military establishment.

Our search for Dar el Baroud began while most slept off Ramadan. We wandered down narrow pathways, dead-ends, discovered worn murals dating 30 years back, turned left, right but no Dar el Baroud. Scorching from direct sun, we retraced our steps for the exit; it was there I met Mohamed Hamidi, a dignified artist strolling the medina, his lame left arm tucked under his smoking jacket. Intrigued by our question, he had never heard of this relic and so joined our search for Dar el Baroud.

He rapped on doors, peered into windows, interrogating the small medina neighborhood for any information leading to the whereabouts of our ruin. Soon, scores of bored children and curious elders joined our search of Dar el Baroud.

Our rough French conversation turned to German once I learned his wife lived in Bonn. An invitation to his studio brought respite from the sun and a viewing of his cutting-edge work. “Abstract, in a very sexual way,” an attempt to discuss fine art in German proved difficult if not lackluster, “The colors …” I tried.

Laughter, a weathered smile. In return for his hospitality, I knew our cafe invitation would be refused due to Ramadan, instead his right hand over his heart, “Shukran,” he offered, thanking us for a morning in search of the elusive Dar el Baroud.
Although we never found this fabled rampart, we stumbled upon the heart of the medina.

medina mural