1 Rickety Old Bus
1 Clinically Insane Bus Driver
10 Ridiculous stops in the middle of nowhere
12 hours
1 Bitter, mean bus attendant
1 Glue sniffing maniac at 3 am stop (optional)
I arrived in Marrakesh yesterday morning at 8:30. It feels strange to be here, considering that I was here just a few short months ago. Little seems to have changed but the temperature, which is now at about 42 degrees Celsius (approx. 108 degrees Fahrenheit). Djeema El Fna Square continues to be a totally insane shock to the senses, packed with snake charmers, henna artists, fruit hawkers, pickpockets, water salesmen, story-tellers, and guys with monkeys.
The last few days have been filled with strange adventures of the type for which I always yearn and seldom experience. I spent a few days in Fes, and took the time to visit the Tanneries where people continue to dye and work all types of leather with traditional processes.
These processes are incredibly archaic, and the sights, smells and sounds emanating from the entire operation are in their own way both jarring and inviting. Viewed from above, the tanneries spread out beneath the viewer. Men wade in giant vats of colored liquid, pulling hides from large piles and running them through the dyes.
The dyes themselves are made from such ingredients as pigeon shit, animal urine, and natural coloring. The smell is horrible, and most stores in the district give visitors a sprig of mint to hold beneath their nose as they browse the shops.
Leaving Fes the next day, I headed off with Sol, Veronica and Rosangela in the direction of Merzouga, a town most famously known as a gateway to the Sahara and the dunes of Erg Chebbi.
I had been to these dunes before, having visited this part of the Sahara in January, but I was excited to go back again, knowing that the pacific feeling that I experienced last time in the desert is something for which I will always search and to which I will always return.
Things in the desert started out terribly. Rather than going to the same place that I knew from last time, we decided to head to a different place, nearly dragged along by a tout that assured us of our need to go to the place that he knew. We acquiesed, and when we arrived, everything felt wrong.
Imagine: In the middle of the desert, in a place only reachable on foot, by camel, or by the local Land Rovers, one lives only by the grace of those with all that one needs. He with the water and the food and camels and the shade is boss. In short, as many have said; "te tienen por los cojones." I imagine that no translation is necessary to express the sentiment.
And did we ever feel this power imbalance. Lunch was super expensive, water was expensive, changes in our intinerary were expensive. There was no need for subterfuge or hiding of intentions. We were being fleeced, screwed, and robbed, and there was nothing we could do about it.
And still, I took a deep breath, put things in perspective (the three dollar omelette was not, contrary to popular opinion, going to put me in the poor house anytime soon), and calmed down. I was not going to let anything ruin my time in the desert, in the middle of endless rolling sand dunes and an endless sky.
Luckily, things turned out more incredible than I could possibly have dreamed. A recent freak rainstorm had flooded the region a week before we came. For many, living in the difficult, dry terrain, this rain was an obvious blessing. For others, including the four that drowned in a nearby hostel, the man that was electrocuted, and the many that lost their houses, the rain was anything but a gift from above.
For us, and for all those lucky enough not to lose a home or their life to the torrents, the rain was a wonderful gift, and allowed us the strange experience of swimming in a temporary lake in the Sahara. The last time a similar thing occured was five years ago. Before that, fifty years passed without this type of rainstorm. Oddly, some visitors a few years ago visited with a canoe and left it behind. Lacking a proper paddle for the craft, the locals improvised with a push broom. We did the same.
When we finally took off into the desert, atop our dromedary mounts, I was still a bit pissed off about the whole affair. I was at that moment prepared to be annoyed by everyone. I found myself angry at the guide, who seemed to treat us like an annoying cargo to which he directed neither words nor glances. Walking in front of the camels, holding the guide rope, he took short, choppy strides and moved us through the desert as if we did not exist.
A short time passed, and all sorts of pains associated with riding atop a single hump began to to appear. I asked the guide to stop and let me down, gesturing that I would walk with him.
I was surprised by the guide, who, dressed in the local Berber attire had appeared to be much older. This guy was easily less than 20 years old, and to my surprise, seemed to be smiling and happy to have company for the walk through the hot sand. And so we walked together the rest of the way, somehow understanding eachother in a mix of Spanish, French and Arabic, laughing and making jokes and having a great time. This guy, Moha, quickly decided that Christophe was not a suitable name, and I was rebaptised with the Berber name Freksh, which was to stick with me for the rest of the trip.
We spent the night outside a typical Berber tent, sleeping under the seemingly endless dome of stars. Luckily the weather had cleared up by the time we slept, for a short while before dinner, the skies had opened up and let loose with a raging torment of rain and sand, once again giving us the rare opportunity to experience an excessive amount of moisture in the arid desert environment.
We left the desert the next morning, once again riding our camels and then driving across sand flats and through sandstorms in a decrepit Land Rover. Arriving in Rissani, about an hour away, we bought tickets for Marrakech, ate some food, and got on the bus, ready (more or less) for the 12 hour journey before us.
When we got on the bus, we were among the few passengers, but as the transport stopped in every town between us and Marrakesh, the seats quickly began to fill with passengers. At one of the many stops in the first half hour or so, an entire musical group joined us in the back of the vehicle. They were dressed in traditional garb--djilibas and hats, and carrying a variety of instruments--djembes, huge tambourines, horns, and other unknown types of drums.
Within a few minutes, the group, evidently returning from a performance, had begun to play their drums and sing. The entire bus looked back with interest, and we were quickly made to join in the festivities, clapping and singing along. The girls were repeatedly asked to dance, I was asked to sing, and at one point I joined the musicians with my guitar and we performed an absolutely unique Afro-American version of the Italian anti-fascist song, Bella Ciao.
At some point in all of this, the musicians began to invite us to stay with them in their town, as there was to be a festival at which they would be playing. We demurred, explaining that we had already bought tickets to Marrakesh. We were invited again, and again said no. At some point during the musical performance, we all came to the conclusion that we would join the group, that we would happily give up money paid for our ticket to join these friendly folk in their town.
We all descended from the bus at the same time, stepping out onto the side of the road. Following the musicians into their village, we walked down dusty streets past houses of concrete and adobe, avoiding mud puddles with their direction and assistance. Where, we wondered, could this festival possibly occur? Their was no sign of any celebration at all. We sensed something strange--not dangerous, just strange--about this whole affair.
We arrived at Abdou's house within a few minutes. Strong, tall, and very dark, Abdou was the obvious leader of the group of 18-20 year olds. He ran the entire group like a general, giving out orders that were happily obeyed by all around him. "Get that bag," he would say, or "close that door," and his friends would scurry to fulfill his orders. After we settled in at his house, we quickly discovered that these orders were not limited to his friends, and we all found ourselves in the awkward position of being ordered to brush our teeth, wash our face, eat more, drink milk, stop smoking, follow me, go to bed.
As we also quickly discovered, the "festival" which we were to attend was a concert on Abdou's rooftop made especially for us. Their were no screaming fans, no wild dancing in the audience, no street vendors hawking greasy wares. The festival was us and them, and there it ended.
We took it in stride, as it was obvious that these guys meant us absolutely no harm with their little "festival" lie. On the contrary, they treated us like kings, making us dinner, playing music for (and with) us, laughing with us and at us.
After dinner, we settled in to watch some television with the group. Most of the people had gone home by now, and only a core number remained. Abdou summoned me to his room and gave me a djilaba to wear to bed, and placed a Fes-like hat atop my head. Seeing me like this, he was inspired to begin to call me with the (for me tongue-in-cheek) honorable title of Haj, a title reserved for those who have made the pilgrimage to Mecca.
My name now became Haj Driss, as earlier in the evening I had once again been baptised. I was now known by the name Driss (Haj Ddriss), Sol was Champs, Veronica had become Fatima, and Roseangela Najet.
We ended up spending an entire day with the group, and while we may have originally balked at the subterfuge required to lure us to their house (note: the possibility, however small, does exist that he whole thing was caused by a linguistic confusion, but much thought on the matter has pretty forced me to discard the idea), the treatment we received was more than enough to endear us to the group.
On the morning after the "festival", after a delicious breakfast, we headed out into the town for a tour. We saw the kasbahs, the old fortress-like structures that made up the old town, now abandoned. We walked through fields of olive trees, followed by the town's children. The guys taught me Arabic words and then forced me to use them on the locals, occasionally elbowing me and saying, "tell this guy good morning," or "tell this kid you have no money for him."
After seeing the town, we headed out to the house of Driss's family, for a delicious couscous with his mother and sister and his sister's children. The family was incredible, friendly and welcoming. The mother made the couscous on the floor of the kitchen, mixing the steaming grain by hand and baking bread in a clay oven. The whole family joined us to dance and sing and eat. We were all invited to return.
We ended up leaving a few hours after the meal, finally ready to take the journey to Marrakech. Tears poured from many eyes (not mine, as I'm one hardened soul), and I was made to promise that I would return within a week (which I will do). Until then, here I am, in Marrakech, hot, sweaty, happy and, as of yesterday, newly short-haired.
See you soon.
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