Into the South

 I have visited many places here in Morocco, but none has moved and intrigued me like Merzouga. The ISA trip to Merzouga was our last excursion together and was by far the best. Daniel really got us the hookup on this one. After an eight hour bus ride from Meknes where we were able to watch the countryside turn from mountains to desert, we arrived in the abandoned looking village.

The town of Merzouga itself was not what I was anticipating. Being a tourist trap kind of place and all, I was under the impression that Merzouga would be a little more than a couple of dusty turban shops, a handful of mud and plaster homes, and a lot of sandy wind. However, it is not the town that brings the hordes of foreign adventurers anyway, it is the dunes. The dunes roll across the horizon just behind the oasis, spanning the fifty kilometers separating Morocco from Algeria. 
       The only thing between Riad Nezha, where we stayed (and I would suggest it to anyone in the vicinity), and the sun soaked dunes were the oasis date palms and gardens. Even from here you could smell the peace and calmness blowing off of the sand. The experience was not completed, however, until all twenty some odd Americans rode off into the sunset on camelback. We stayed that night in woven wool Berber tents with nothing around us but the dunes and the sun.

        When I came back to Merzouga again it was with my parents. Everywhere we had been in the mountains had been almost unbearably hot. It was not until we stepped off the bus and into the desert that we actually cooled off. Merzouga is so windy that sometimes it feels cooler than more northern cities. We were the only guests in Riad Nezha this time, giving it an entirely different atmosphere. The last time had been a mad house just with all of us students, and to add to that the Riad was fully staffed in order to accommodate and entertain us.  This time it was all peace and quiet.

       On the second day my friend Moha, the Riad’s young manager, tied his blue ten meter shech (turban) around my head and waved to the three of us as we slowly lurched away atop our camels. I do not know quite how to describe riding a camel. Although it is a must do for anyone coming to Morocco, do not be expecting a comfortable of even exciting ride. For one, Berber camels, it turns out, are not very smart. Malian camels for example, can be trained to go wherever you want them to, and can be ridden somewhat like a horse. Berber camels on the other hand must be led along by a man on foot, otherwise they will go wherever they fancy, which could be to the middle of the dunes. So a camel man walks along in front as your camel jerks and sways along giving you a worse crotch ach than a road bike. Despite the discomfort, there is something spectacular about seeing the sand whip and snake across the dunes from camel back. And one can easily imaging a world before cars and online banking.

       As we went I watched Rachid the camel man navigated us through the sand. Like most sounthern Berbers, he wore a shech and a sky blue robe (I of course forget their name) which blew around frantically in the wind. They all wear these well ventilated robes to keep cool, and they are always blue. Blue, they say, is the color of freedom. Blue like the sky, which as not limits. And really, I had never seen such complete freedom as I did in Rachid, who was tall and quiet and was born walking the dunes.

P.S. I have no pictures because the sand destroyed my camera.

Oh look, a dromedary!

Whenever I think of what to write for the world (some of it anyway) to see, I get so  overwhelmed with all of the stories I want to tell, images I want to show and people to introduce. I feel a sort of duty to my few readers telling me I am obliged to write about every adventure or misadventure that has happened. Unfortunately, this sentiment encourages me not to write anything at all. I think this idea is somewhat a result of my classes (which are now over) at Moulay Ismail. One of the reoccurring themes within the classroom was the idea of us American students acting as ambassadors of Moroccan and Islamic culture to the west when we return home, and in our regular correspondence with family and friends in the states. I want people to understand this peculiar, spectacular, and loving country as I do, and for this I feel I must paint the most accurate image I can here on this blog. However, my dear readers will have to be contented with a scattered and vague portrayal of the past month as well as the coming ones. 

  My parents have finally arrived in Africa. I knew they would love it here. My family is always adaptable and hardy in just about every situation. It helps also that Morocco is somewhat like a third world version of the UP. On their second day in, I, the inattentive guide, had to leave them to their own devices while I headed off to school. When I came home I was surprised to discover that they had wandered all around the hectic and confusing Madina by themselves, drank tea with my shop owner friend Shukri, and had made it out again unharmed and without getting lost. I felt like a parent whose child has taken its first step without falling. We spent about a week together in Meknes, mom and dad getting their bearings and adjusting to Moroccan life while I took my last exams and said many sad goodbyes to my little family of displaced Americans. 

When all was finished, we headed off to Chefchaouen, a small city in the rif mountains. Everything on Chaouen in painted blue. We spent our one full day there hiking in the mountains with Heather, my beautiful belly dancing roommate, her boyfriend, and Hannah. Getting out of the city and into the mountains was just what us uppers needed. It was good to be away from the city after months spent in Meknes, and my dad was happy to be exposed to rural Moroccan life for the first time. The Berber women on their way to the villages bellow with loads of wheat or wood stacked high on their backs making their way past us and the little boys with herds of sheep threatening us with slingshots were all exciting and new for them both.

Since coming here I have become generally used to Moroccan culture and ways of life, so having to pairs of fresh eyes allowed me to reexamine my surroundings. I had forgotten that it in the west everyone is not so eager to help and to talk to you, and that it is not normal for shop owners to recognize you from days before. I had forgotten also how exhausting it is to bargain for everything you want to buy, or how fascinating the odd combination of old and new can be.