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Desert Dreaming
By Abi
Dennison
Ahmed's
eyes pierced mine, the beads of sweat were forming round
the rim of his headscarf, his grin highlighted his bright
white teeth, 'you want Moroccan massage, you look tired.'
'I'm fine,' I smiled politely, pointing out there was
nowhere to sit and no shade from the 48 degree (celsius)
sun.
But, as if from nowhere he pulled up a mattress usually
used for sleeping on the roof.
'Then let's sit and talk,' he smiled. Not wanting to
be rude and desperate to shake off my conservative Englishness,
I perched on the edge of the mattress. We talked about
Morocco, about my life back home and, of course, the
weather.
It was a stupid thing to do in retrospect, but like
the rest of the group I was raveling with, I had been
encouraged to talk to as many people as possible. We
had all sat in the airport on departure and criticized
our friends back home for booking flimsy holidays to
beach resorts where they absorbed themselves in a novel
by the hotel pool and never ventured further to experience
the true heart of a country.
With four months off university to look forward to,
I had spent the last two terms saving up for my secret
escape. I wanted to leave the worries of work at home
along with my 'keen to settle down' boyfriend. I needed
to be reminded that there was an amazing world of people
out there to whom the word 'deadline' meant nothing.
So I booked myself on a two-week organized backpacking
tour to Morocco with a group of teachers, a green peace
activist, a divorcee, an accountant and a family.
I
had read plenty of stories about women who had flings
with mysterious Moroccan men and had the times of their
lives. I was no Shirley Valentine, but I was determined
not to appear the frigid westerner.
It is hard to tell whether a Moroccan man is just being
friendly or if he's after something a bit more. In Marrakech
a man coming up to you whispering 'one thousand camels'
is a chat up line; in the Draa Valley of the south it's
a fully pledged marriage proposal. So when Ahmed bought
up the offer of a 'Moroccan massage just for the arms,'
ideas of ancient mystical healing powers filled my head
and I honestly believed it would be rude not to accept.
Ahmed seeing all systems go, flung me on to the mattress,
rubbed my arms to a red glow and made a pass for my
legs. I panicked, bolted straight up and Ahmed plastered
a big sloppy one on my lips. It must have looked something
like a Carry On film as I leapt up, half laughing, half
gasping for air, and legged it to my room.
I realized that unraveling the mysteries of Morocco,
should, at times, be undertaken with the same caution
you give when being approached by suspect men who chat
you up in the bars back home.
You can feel tremendously welcome in Morocco. People
will smile say 'hello', chat with you and help you find
your way, but if you're a western woman with pale skin,
blue eyes, blonde hair and generous in the hip department
then you can also feel quite isolated. Local women will
stare at you with curiosity, and many men will stare
at you with a less innocent kind of curiosity.
But it wasn't going to put me off my quest of unearthing
the 'real' Morocco.
' I am a traveler not a tourist,' I mumbled to myself
and on a large-scale social kind of a way, I was going
to mingle.
I mingled with the carpet seller in Meknes, the barman
in Moulay Idriss and the archaeologist in Erfoud. It
was becoming more and more apparent that my mingling
experiences were somewhat heavily male based. It is
unlikely you'll talk to many Moroccan women and it's
very rare to see them sitting in cafes, manning a stall
or working in public.
It is a man's pleasure to talk business, politics and
chitchat with you. Nearly 99 % of the population is
Muslim and it is believed that women are naturally gifted
at bringing up the children so they tend to take control
of the household. However at around sunset when all
the housework is done it is refreshing to see gaggles
of women sitting in the street, exchanging gossip on
the neighbors and laughing and joking, most likely at
their husband's expense. They may even be following
the scores of the national woman's football team. Another
place for a good old chinwag seems to be the hammams,
the community baths that are found in every town. Here
sturdy women with huge pendulum breasts bent, stretched
and scrubbed me within an inch of my life until my skin
looked shiny and new, whilst the locals stole shocked
glances at my sunburnt bits.
Morocco is a progressive country, and although men can
marry more than one woman, a law passed in 1999 meant
that the first wife could refuse other women from marrying
her husband if she didn't approve.
And not all women stay at home. I met a female infant
school teacher whilst walking through the old quarter
of Fez. She ushered us off the street and invited us
into two small stone rooms where children sat in small
rows behind old wooden desks. Their teacher counted
them in and they sang to us at the top of their voices.
Around us the walls were covered in paintings of blue
and yellow stick figure mothers and fathers, and flowers.
On leaving it was made clear that a small financial
donation was politely obliging. Tipping is regarded
as charity, one of the five pillars of Islam and is
taken very seriously. If you want to remain on people's
good side then always give what you can.
As well as encouraging singing, I realized that from
an early age, parents probably educate their children
on the benefits of the tourism trade as well, and it
was one subject they'd learnt pretty well.
When
we reached Merzouga, the scorching sand sea desert of
the Sahara, I decided to take a walk by myself over
the dunes. I felt an amazing sense of solitude, the
soothing orange sand mesmerized me. In the distance
I could see something dark wobbling on the skyline,
probably a mirage. But within a few minutes I heard
a rustling sound behind me and an exhausted boy in a
Nike cap thrust a box of small marble camels in my view,
'20 dirum?' Like most countries, Moroccans have obviously
realized that where there's beauty and history there's
money to be made.
Disappointingly only 25 percent of the Sahara is made
up of sand, the rest is rock. But to encounter the classic
desert experience you can book group camel treks from
the 'sand sea town' of Merzouga into the dunes where
you camp in Bedouin tents for a night. In the darkness
of the evening, our hosts slaved over oil cookers preparing
chicken and vegetable tagine, which we feasted on by
lantern light. Surprisingly beer and wine was also passed
around. Alcohol is not illegal in Morocco, but many
don't drink in public. I was told that there are two
versions of the Qu'oran, an old copy which states that
man can drink, but in moderation, and a modern version
that claims no man is capable of drinking in moderation
and so he should not drink at all. Unlike more fundamental
Muslim countries, many of Morocco's inhabitants are
happy to follow the original.
After supper we were invited to participate in traditional
dance and song whilst the men played drums. Moroccans
love music and appreciate an enthusiastic audience who
will participate. I'm still not sure if they enjoyed
us hollering 'Rock the Kasbah' at the top of our lungs,
but an offer of football, another national past-time
made up for any injustice.
Morocco is full of diversities, the wide expanse of
the desert, the bustling bazaars, souks and colorful
spice markets in Marrakech, the western style beach
resorts of the north and the barren Atlas mountains.
In the spring time the landscapes of the Moroccan countryside
are enormous green carpets of lush plants and flowers,
but by the time summer arrives the land dries and the
continuous grays, browns and reds really makes it more
rock, more rock, Morocco.
Carved
into the hillsides and the mountains everywhere is 'God,
King, Country' in white chalk, with the green star of
Islam and the national flag below. With no visible life
around it's as if the writing is the work of Allah himself.
With few reminders of western capitalism I found myself
forgetting my stubborn cynicism and effortlessly liberated
my mind to contemplate my existence in the great scheme
of things.
However, I was soon brought back down to earth by my
fellow backpacker Neil, an overweight, under-washed
teacher from Mexborough, who, when he wasn't trying
to convert the tour guides to Christianity, was giving
us regular updates on his diarrhea. In fact by the end
of the week most of the group had come down with the
bug and descriptions of breathtaking scenery, exotic
foods and inspiring culture soon turned to distributions
of Imodium, avoiding spicy menus and hasty exits behind
the nearest clump of bushes.
The second week of our trip sent us trekking, (with
many toilet stops) through the Middle Atlas. Here we
stumbled on many small stone villages, old men suddenly
opened up their front rooms to reveal small shops selling
unidentifiable boxes of food and old dusty glass bottles
of cola specially bought in and sold to the western
trekkers. As soon as I stepped outside, an army of wild-eyed
children dressed in a mixture of traditional cotton
trousers, dresses and Disney T-shirts smiled insanely
at me, desperate to investigate my purchases. They sat
impatiently waiting for us to finish eating, girls stood
like old fishwives, hands on hips clucking their tongues
on the roof of their mouths.
It is advised to ignore them for as long as possible
and prolong the ambush, humor usually works, in fact
it can get you everywhere in Morocco. Blonde jokes,
bald jokes, they work with even with the youngest of
inhabitants. Not to be intimidated by my watchers I
took up the young girl's pose, which automatically resulted
in a burst of childish giggles. I brought out the sweets
and hands flew everywhere. They finished the dregs of
my drink and took the bottle back to get the few dirum
Coca-Cola offer for recycling. Then they marched with
us to
the outskirts of the village and further to the point
where their homes were mere dots on the side of the
mountain. Here they waved good-bye and raced each other
home.
Throughout my trip, wherever I went, it seemed I couldn't
find a Moroccan translation for 'lie-in.' As soon as
the sun rose, people were up. It's such a lively country,
people's practices are often described as medieval,
but they're full of youthful spirit and life; there's
a pulse
throbbing like the beat of a drum, right through the
land from Casablanca to the Sahara. I could convince
myself I experienced the real Morocco, I met the locals
and took part in a completely different way of life
- but if I discovered one thing it was the existence
of a universal pattern of human behavior that rises
above all cultural barriers.
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