July 29, 2012
Marrakech Airport is something of an administrative obstacle course between running the gauntlet of customs, having your documents checked again, swapping EUROs for dirhams and tracking down your luggage (lonesome on the floor by the conveyor belt, looking like a security risk).
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| Beef tajine @ Les Jardins de Ouarzazate |
Racing toward the city, we're flanked on all sides by donkeys, motorbikes, old Mercedes and olive trees. The red housing spans the horizon but there is no high-rise; I learn later that the tallest structure in the city is the 12th century Koutoubia Mosque and it is decreed that nothing be built any higher than its four-tier, golden minuret. The city walls span 26 kilometres through which, as with the Old City of Jerusalem, there are a number of entrances, each with their own name, determined by their purpose. For instance, the "Door of Leather" refers to where one could find the tanneries (as opposed to the Marrakech fetish scene, presumably).
An outing to the medina is unexpectedly exhausting, in that one must be on their guard at all times. We are mercilessly harassed by vendors and men but we ignore them and keep walking. The market alleys are winding, bustling and colourful, with baked goods, tajine cookers, tea sets, traditional clothing, Moroccan furniture and a fabulously ornate bathtub for sale. We're dodging donkeys, bikes and the surge of locals, having just flooded the streets at the end of afternoon prayer, when we decide to return to the square. I buy a delicious mix of dates, apricots and nuts slathered in honey and sesame seeds, as well as a drink from one of the dozens of fresh orange juice stands. It's ice cold and a mere 4dh; it may also have crack in it, as I find it addictive.
As the afternoon wears on, snake charmers and monkeys emerge, the latter doing flips and chasing tourists as far as their leashes will allow. I've no interest in paying for such "entertainment," owing to some awareness of what those animals are subjected to.
The urgent persistence of some of the vendors and their unabashed resent and verbal abuse when one politely declines an invitation to browse their wares is indicative of a market that cannot accommodate luxuries like basic respect. There may be an assumption that as Westerners who can afford to travel, likewise, we surely have money to burn. And if you have little, there is little distinction to be made between those who are simply comfortable and those who are rich. Perhaps there is no actual distinction whatsoever, if the salient point is a sense of freedom. Irrespective of the dollar value, an accumulation of wealth is a cornerstone of having agency: it means choice, not having to depend on others, security. It means fewer limits. It is the difference between a dream and a boarding pass. Accordingly, I did not respond any time we were insulted (happily, this attitude is not one I've encountered outside of Marrakech thus far).
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| Whale marrow |
The onset of night brought the relief of cool air and a meal of soup with with harissa and chicken tajine spiked with turmeric, cumin and cardamom.
In the morning, we enjoyed chocolate croissants for breakfast (a remnant of the French occupation of 1912-56) and set off for Ouarzazate.
We pass the Marrakech-equivalent of Melbourne's Docklands - government built suburbs that appear empty; red ghost towns. We climb as high as 2,500 metres in the Atlas Mountains and stop for "Berber whiskey" - freshly brewed mint tea ("All delicious, no headache!"). Ouarzazate turns out to be very cosmopolitan, owing to its position as a premier shooting location for Hollywood, with two film studios, a film school, outdoor sets and more infrastructure than Marrakech appears to have (shoots include Kundun, Kingdom of Heaven, Gladiator, The Hills Have Eyes and The Last Temptation of Christ). The temperature is soaring by the time we reach Les Jardins de Ouarzazate and while there is no humidity to complain about, a swim is a priority. We lunch on divinely fresh, crunchy salads - grated carrot, rice, Spanish onion, potato salad, capsicum - and a superb beef tajine; I am positively drooling all over myself as I savour the richness of the sauce, set against the sweet, mollassassey prunes.
Unfortunately, the Valley of the Roses is devoid of said flowerings at this time of the year. Rose products are the predominant souvenir at our rest stop, as well as Morocco snowglobes. Granted, it does snow in the high Atlas Mountains but icicles and sleet will not be the things that evoke memories of northern Africa once I am back home.
Near to our hotel in the Todra Gorge, the mountain faces take on strange new forms, of massive, rounded boulders heaped on top of one another, slanting diagnolly. In the sunset light, the shadows stretch out and the crevices appear to deepen, for a landscape that is at once majestic and haunting.
We enjoy the balcony extending from our room before showering and changing for dinner. The meal consists of thicky, meaty soup, chicken and lamb skewers hiding beneath French fries and vegetable cous-cous with fragrant chicken. To our surprise, the menu makes provisions for alcoholic beverages and A, N and I each order half bottles of rosé. We see out the evening with tea on the verandah, discussing travel, photography and proposed venues for a hammam once we return to Marrakech. I sleep the sleep of the comatose.
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| Oranges and cinnamon |
July 30, 2012
I am PUMPED to find the local equivalent of pancakes at breakfast. Closer to roti, with berry preserve and Laughing Cow cheese, they make for potent fuel for the day ahead. We check into another beautiful hotel, with a brightly-coloured pool area, the blues, golds and green of the trellis juxtaposed against the looming, red mountains.
Remember those Looney Tunes cartoons depicting the protagonist lost in the desert? He inevitably finds himself taunted by a persistent mirage: an oasis, emerging amongst the dunes, all bent palm trees and a perfect mirror of a lake. It is even more of a mirage than I'd guessed, for today we hiked a real oasis and found it to be the perfect encapsulation of 'tranquil agility test.'
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| Someday he'll find a rainbow connection |
We traversed the rocky riverbank, through and over undergrowth of bamboo, date and fig trees and white and purple flowering plants, scattered with darting, miniscule frogs. I was muddied and sweaty by the time we reached the kasbah. I felt like a furnace, like I'd swallowed the roughness of the landscape and my insides were coated in the dust we'd stirred up and breathed in, and I liked it. I was ravenous, however. We'd obtained canine company on the trek and when I turned a corner of the kasbah, there was one of the dogs, facing forward but with his head turned back towards me, as if to say, "Come on, slowpoke, it's this way."
Inside, we are welcomed warmly, our host sheathed in a royal blue tunic with yellow detail and a turban. He graciously asks that we remove our shoes and seats us in a room lined with handmade Berber carpets. We are grateful for another refreshing salad platter, this time consisting of two kinds of olives, carrot, cucumber and a Moroccan take on salsa. Our main course is an alternative interpretation of tajine, chiefly made with eggs, tomatoes, onions and spices. It resembles an omlette and while it lacks the bold savouriness of yesterday's beef variant, it is light and very easy to eat considering the weather.
Our hosts make fresh mint tea for us, memorable by virtue of the phallic mound of sugar used to sweeten the brew. They explain to us the workings of the carpet co-operative and then fit us with richly-coloured scarves shaped into turbans in readiness for our time in the Sahara, commencing tomorrow.
On the way back to the hotel, we take a walk through a section of the gorge, where hundreds of locals are cooling off in the river. Most barely notice us but the ones that do smile warmly and converse with us en Francais.
We always eat late, owing to the locals not preparing dinner until after sundown, in line with their observance of Ramadan, but I am not perturbed. We are always fed so well; the food is rustic and made from good produce and any chance of scaling back my gluttony seems remote.
August 1st, 2012
I found the isolation I was looking for, last night in the desert. I wandered away from the dune boarding contingent, to where it was silent, save for the sound of the wind whistling through my headscarf. The sand beneath my feet was not yellow like that at home; this was red, fine and shaped by the wind into uniform ridges. The sun was about to set but the moon was already high and I savoured the pleasure of having made it to this place. I thought of my luck, being here, about to sleep in the cool evening air of the Sahara and yet, that that luck was of my own making. I thought of Zaida, wondering if after all he'd been through, he could have imagined that his offspring would have such freedom, that the world would open up before them and that there'd be virtually no limits on how far we might venture and what sort of life we might live.
On Monday evening, we dined beneath the leafy trellis by the pool, the Atlas Mountains rising ominously around us, silhouetted by the moonlight. A starter of tomato soup is unremarkable, but the kefte - spiced meatballs in slow simmered tomatoes - were succulent, sweet and enriched with the texture of the boiled egg halves on top. Sadly, the sweet vanilla yogurt dessert cloaks bananas so I overdosed on peanuts instead, with freshly brewed mint tea.
We linger over breakfast of bread, eggs, creamy, shaved butter, fresh orange juice, preserves and viscous, floral-flavoured honey. You know you're on an overland trip when 9.00am qualifies as a late start.
At our second rest stop, I write a postcard, making mention of The Tea Party being my preferred soundtrack as we race through Morocco (although anything is a relief after having Pete Murray inficted on me). We reach Kasbah Ennasra after midday, another breathtaking hotel of yellow and red tiles, tree-lined, open-air hallways, wrought iron furnishings inlaid with marble and colourful upholstery and accents of dark wood, purple linen and ornate mirrors. The dining room overlooks another glamorous pool area, a blaze of turquoise.
Our multi-course lunch opens with plush bread, like brioche; I am hard-pressed to limit myself to one piece, dipping it into the pale olive oil on the table. Thankfully, I do, as we're then presented with tea, a warm plate of ratatouille, rice, orange slices and olives and in quick succession, triangles of bread filled with softened onions and lamb cooked in cumin, coriander and a little chilli. For main course, spiced chicken, potato salad and cucumber slices. Everything is good and clean-tasting. Dessert is outstanding - smooth creme caramel with sauce exhibiting that characteristic just-burnt taste.
A couple of hours of off-road driving later, we spy our caravan of camels in the distance. I realize that although the headscarf turbans did make for a worthwhile exercise in mugging for the camera, they are an indispensable practicality. The wind carries the sand all around us and the scarf keeps it out of my hair and off of my face. It is then for us to choose a camel by standing next to it. They're peaceful animals, for the most part. Some wail loudly for no apparent reason, sounding like Chewbacca. I elect a tall, white camel and I deliberate over nicknames, sorry that I am unfamiliar with any great African philosophers to call him after, settling on Sir Humps A Lot.
On the ride, I'm struck by the desert's vastness, inhospitability and silence. The presence of tourists notwithstanding, it seems lonely and I imagine how threatening such a landcape would have been in the days prior to GPS and dehydrated food. My mental meanderings are interrupted whenever our camels take a steep step downwards and I lean back, clinging determinedly to the saddle. The clouds behind me are ablaze with the beams of the setting sun.
At the camp, we dune board and dine on olives with chilli and preserved lemon, peanuts, popcorn (which is both puzzling and welcome), another variant on ratatouille, with rice, lamb skewers that are satisfyingly charred and an onion-heavy tajine.
The bathroom at the end of the camp is something that a great many hostels and music festivals should aspire to - not only is it a flushing, Western model, but it is clean and not bereft of toilet paper. I pick a mattress out of a tent, but I only join in with the music-making by the fire briefly, as fatigue has me overcome. I lie down, keen to do some writing by the ample moonlight, but tiredness dissuades me and I fall asleep quickly.When I wake in the middle of the night, there is no sound whatsoever and I feel as though I am on an island out in space, disconnected from the world.
We're awoken at 5:00am and ride our camels out to watch the sunrise between
two enormous dunes. Daylight floods the sky rapidly and we ride on to
breakfast. I switch on my music, riding high through the desert to the frenetic
ministrations of Metallica, Rammstein, Rage Against the Machine and In Living
Colour.
On the drive back to Ouarzazate, we pass tiered gorges and a variety of
towering rock formations, including a distinctive protrusion resembling the
back of a stegosaurus, as well as an expired donkey. I consider the harshness
and exoticism of the surrounding land and I ruminate over the possibiity that I
am one of many tourists "playing desert" - approaching adventure but
stopping just short and being coddled through a veritable "Morroco Theme
Park" by the local guides. What, however, do I expect? Would I feel closer
to the brink of authenticity if we'd inadvertently found ourselves driving side
by side with members of the local gun running syndicate? I have loved the food
and experiences so far, but when people remark on how far flung and dangerous
some of my travel is, I'm compelled to clarify that it's low-risk and I can't
really be considered brave or intrepid. I did have my anxieties prior to the
trip and specifically about Morocco, but now that I am here, I am informed and
I know how safe it is (realizing of course that "safe" is subjective;
Ibrahim suggested we recommend the trip to DFAT personnel so that they might
downgrade their warnings against Morocco). The conditions are challenging and
the heat alone would put many off. However, even though I am essentially a
morbid gothophile with a fetish for winter and a phobia of the beach, I love
and have hungered for red soil on my insides, in the air I breathe, sweat and
traditional music sounding through the city, alien rituals that remind me that
people everywhere are striving to live a meaningful life, feel connected to
something, come to terms with death and find wisdom, love, solace.
Dinner back at Les Jardins de Ouarzazate includes another bountiful spread
of salad, chicken tajine with peas, beef tajine with root vegetables, warm,
sultana-topped cous-cous and syrup-filled crepes. Rapturous! I digest by the
pool with V, while Ibrahim, N and A swim, the latter two gradually
finishing their warm wine. I assist with the last drops and proceed to launch myself at my bed.
August 4, 2012
On Thursday morning , I get my fill of soil as a group of us go quadbiking
through the rough landscape of Ouarzazate. We commence near the film sets for
Kingdom of Heaven, Prince of Persia and The Hills Have Eyes, rounding through
agricultural plots, down rocky slopes and through residential areas. The
experience gave me a taste of why people are passionate about motorbikes.
Having washed off thick coatings of dust and changed, I felt considerably
fresher...until I set foot outside. At a rest stop, I demolish coconut yogurt,
pineapple-coconut juice (the nearest thing to a cocktail so far), muesli
biscuits and water.
We arrive at Ait Benhaddou, a colossal, fortified city
clinging to the side of a mountain, with a rainbow coloured rockface. Ibrahim
explains the city's history as a stopover on the caravan route from Sahara to
Marrakech, when the latter was the nation's capital. At the peak is a lone
communal house - an "agadir" - used to store the village's valuable,
encouraging unified defense in the event of attack (where kasbahs only
facilitated for individual defense). The grandest of the city gates turns out to
be a modern addition, built for the filming of Gladiator.
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| Argan oil co-operative |
Back in Marrakech, the sky is sufficiently overcast that I can look
directly at the sun as it sets, burning through the haze. Owing to several late
nights and early starts, I take the opportunity to flop on to my bed and do
nothing. Just before 8:00pm, the sirens sound, signalling sunset and the end of
the day's fast. We make our way to the square, which is bustling with activity.
Ibrahim and Mustafa wave us over to stall #117 and we sit at a single, long
table, amidst the din of singing cooks, piles of tomatoes, olives and eggplant,
roaming dessert carts loaded with sticky sweets, snake charmers, vendors
brewing coffee and steam rising from the streets. Incredibly, it begins to
rain, but only momentarily - Ibrahim informs us that annual rainfall does not
exceed 15mm.
Waiters clamour through wall-to-wall diners with fresh orange juice. We
enjoy Moroccan salad - plump tomatoes with Spanish onion, flat-leaf parsley and
spices - potato croquettes, creamy, chargrilled eggplant, skewers of lamb,
chicken and vegetables, some diabolical chips and mixed calamari and prawns
with fresh lime, which I suck the juice out of.
After dinner, I wander the
souks with the girls but V and I are tired and doubly exhausted by the
markets and mandatory haggling. Crucially, I just cannot get excited about
counterfeit handbags and ugly shoes, no matter how low the price is. The
replica Hermes bags look especially cheap and simply scream Aspirational
Fantasy of the Unwashed. Why the obsession with junk consumer goods that
masquerade as having prestige? From where does this desire to accumulate
useless trinkets spring? The markets sell everything from baby clothes to
oversized furniture and most of that which is on offer is unremarkable and
could be found at Chadstone Shopping Centre. I didn't need any of it and there
was little to be found that had some unique connection to the city or its local
artisans.
We rose early for a city tour with guide Mustafa, meeting in
glossy Gueliz and making for the main mosque. On the back of a run-down on the
mosque's history, M and I engage in a lively discussion about religion.
She tells me she supports the ban on the headscarf in her native France, on the
grounds of security and women's suffrage. I am uncertain of my position; I
recognise the merit of her points, but I take issue with the notion that it is
for the government to decide what we can and cannot wear and penalize us
accordingly. It also seems to be an inversion of feminism; if we can agree that
women are masters of themselves, who are we to turn that on its head and assume
that women donning the hijab are being coerced? Can't the same argument be made
about the usual suspects in Western society - cosmetics, high heels, breast
implants? It seems that when it comes to choice and freedom of expression, to
do so within the sphere of capitalism goes unquestioned; how an individual opts
to spend their money is their business. If they've been subjected to
manipulation by advertising, their actions are still considered to be driven by
choice. Yet, religious coercion is subject to legislation, ignoring the agency
that democracy grants in how people choose to observe their faith. I'm trying
to envisage an attempt by a government to legislate the wearing of the crucifix
and I cannot.
How does a society rationally and humanely discern who is truly making a
choice and who is a victim of circumstance and oppression? Worse, the state
relies on the effectiveness of spin and propaganda so that the citizenry is
persuaded to support divisive policy, so how exactly are we supposed to take
seriously attempts to rein in coercive religious practises? Obviously I'd
benefit from sitting down with Chomsky's "Manufacturing Consent" when
I am home...
Still on religion, I query Mustafa as to whether or not the French
attempted to impose religion the populace during the occupation.
"No," he tells me - in fact, the French were very sensitive to the
local religious customs and what they did bring with them, the lingua Franca,
administrative systems and infrastructure, the Moroccans were grateful for,
lest they still be living in the Dark Ages, as Mustafa put it.
We then visit Palais Bahia, aka the Sultan's Pussy Palace - a fuck pad
masquerading as an administrative hub. As fuck pads go, it's unassuming from
the outside but inside is the stuff of all my Moroccan interior decorating
fantasies.
The centre courtyard is framed by intricately carved columns and
doorways, laid with tiles and exploding with flowering ginger plants and orange
trees. The opulent interiors feature ceilings painted in florals, set off by
ornate light fittings and an imposing fireplace. A second courtyard is all
white, blinding in the midday sun. Through the passages, Mustafa leads us to
the main entertaining quarter, with a dining room, a raised area for
(blindfolded) musicians and a small "sleeping" area, where the sultan
would retire with a wife/concubine in succession. "Guy sounds like a
pig," D astutely points out.
Back in the market, we visit Epices Arenzoar, suppliers of tea, spices,
herbal remedies, lotions and potions. We're offered smells and samples of ras
el hanout, Nigella seeds, rose cream, almond cream, amber and jasmine oil,
surely smelling like aggressive pot-pourri by the time we emerge. The cheerful
shopkeeper regrets he's unable to offer us an experience of the virility
treatment - "Ramadan, you know." I buy a pack of their ras el hanout,
keen to cook many a Moroccan dish back home.
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| Mille et Une Nuits |
It is 1:00pm and with the mercury up to 48, we retreat for our pre-arranged
hammam. After a foot treatment, we're sent down to the darkened hammam waiting
room, all red and gold-lit, with dark wood lockers inlaid with red stones
lining the walls. We strip and are led through to the washroom for an initial
bucketing with warm water and then to the suffocatingly steamy hammam. With our
pores as wide open as the Todra Gorge, we're asked back to the adjoining
washroom for a light scrub and a coating of mud, before being returned to the
hammam to marinate. It's too much for D, who calls out pre-emptively to say
she's had enough; chicken is done, as it were. I suck it up but the cool shower
afterwards brings exhalation and relief, as well as a shampoo that leaves my
hair feeling like something better than straw for the first time all week. I'm
wrapped in a white robe and deposited in the waiting room with a glass of fresh
mint tea, so relaxed I might melt into a puddle. I join C in the circular, upstairs lounge,
all cushions and comfort, for another cup of tea. At last I feel less like a
sweaty, desert hog and more like a polished, African princess (skeptical as I
am of these treatments having any real effect, my skin does feel
velvet-y).
On the way "home," some misguided vendor thinks the way to encourage us to buy water is to throw it over us. I exclaim angrily but my electronics are fine so he escapes further admonishment. At the hotel, we have our last meeting with Ibrahim and Mustafa, who've organised a delicious, triple mousse birthday cake with tempered chocolate for N (as well as lacquered, wooden camel souvenirs for us all).
