In Morocco so many exciting and new things have been happened to us that it's hard to keep up with them in my journal. In less than one week we have shared sugary-mint tea with Berbers, walked barefoot through the Sahara, gotten lost in the medina souks, haggled with fossil salesmen, bartered for souvenirs under monkey-filled trees, visited a gorge, a cave, an erg, been accosted by nomads, and gotten caught in fast-sinking mud.
Despite having been on the road for 15 months now, our surroundings still fascinate us - a desert lake full of migrating flamingos, fossil mountains, herds of dromedary camels. The people, the cities, the way of life here is unique. The scenery runs the gambit from mountain ranges, to sand, to palm filled oases. This country, only hours by boat from Europe, couldn't be further away.
What follows is a series of short tid-bits describing some of the interesting observations and experiences that we have had here thus far.
"How cruel," I said to John. We were moving behind a pickup truck packed with cows, four of them, rib to rib, jostling in unison, banging against the metal rails. The tail of one cow looked oddly twisted. The rump of its owner was pressed so tightly to the back that moving it seemed impossible. "Don't those people care that their cows are uncomfortable?" It was a rhetorical question, but John answered it anyway by pointing out the windshield.
In front of the truck was a city bus. We both started laughing. We must have been looking at a hundred heads, all butted one against the other. There were no distinguishable gaps between bodies. Arms were everywhere, pinned behind shoulders and backs. Necks were strained, leaning, chocked off. Cheeks were pressed to windows; hands grabbed for the ceiling, clutching for support. "No I suppose they don't care," I said.
The bus stopped twice while we were behind it. At least eight more people clambered on board. Where, how, we have no idea. One after the other they just vanished into the mass. I looked at the cows, I looked at the city bus. "Which group of cattle do you suppose is least comfortable?" Again John just pointed. The cow with the sideways tail was answering that question for me. From the spot where his tail should have been came a stream of manure. The rail became covered, the tailgate became covered, and then, as we pulled out to pass, the 'E' in Peugot disappeared in brown.
Mmmm, Olives, I love them; but it probably would have served me better not to have walked down the olive makers street in Meknes. Olives there are piled in mud-walled rooms, in baskets, in crates, in buckets, on blankets, on the ground. All around men stir and sift and practice the 'p's - pickle and pick, pit and paw. The number of fingers that touch each olive is astronomical. Black fingers, green fingers, dirty fingers, most likely never clean fingers. But when those delicacies are stacked in perfect pyramids on trays in the medina shops, my do they look appetizing. We almost forgot the process that got them there. But the perfect mounds meant even more fingerprints got them that way.
Of course we could have bought straight from the wicker baskets heaped on the streets, shoo away the flies, scoop up a handful - reduces one fingerprint, maybe two - probably not. But either way, the purchase goes into a clear plastic bag and back in our van, amidst all the other packaged foods, it looked sanitary. Germs leave no visible trace. Still before we eat any of those olives, they will go through yet another series of handling maneuvers, what I call the cautious 'C's - cut, clean, cook and then - finally - Mmmmmm - chew.
It doesn't look like I'll be bringing my Bulgarian Reebcks home after all. Who would have thought that old shoes would be worth more than the earth. But they are and that's why I've traded them for stone. Not just any stone, stone that has been pressed under the ocean for more than 300 million years.
All that is left of that ocean now is sand, Sahara sand, and hundreds
and hundreds of fossils. You can find perfect samples of every ancient
oceanic creature and plant you can think of here. They are heaped in the
road side souvenir stalls and some of them are incredible. We've seen
enormous trilobite, ammonites, anthropoids, belemnite and corals. We've
even seen dinosaur teeth and dinosaur vertebrae. Some stands have fossils
that have been carved and polished into ashtrays,
table tops, eggs, pendants, pen
holders and dinnerware. Wouldn't it be fun to own a piece of the past?
The price of the past is as varied as the species for sale. And money isn't always the preferred payment. Three different people asked for my shoes. "These?" I pointed to my Reebcks. "But they're falling apart." New or old, it didn't matter. People here are desperate for clothing, and shoes are high on their lists. No one seemed to believe that this was my only pair. Surely people driving a VW camper would have more. They would have extra sun glasses and watches too. They would have rounds of T-shirts for everyone. "If I give you my shoes, what will I wear?" I asked them. "You will wear your other pair."
It was no use explaining to them that my shoes were junk. My $11 purchase in Bulgaria had turned out to be a flop. You get what you pay for; Reebcks are no comparison to the real thing. Within a month the bottoms began leaking. The inserts, which were only thin cardboard, became mush. I'd found a strong box in Greece and taken to cutting out new insides. The replacement rate was up to twice a week. Silicone sealant had replaced the lousy glue which had held them together originally. I pulled some of the flapping silicone away. "You see," I said to the man at the souvenir stall, "junk." But he wasn't deterred. "Good for running," he said. He pointed to his loafers. "Better than these." So off they came. At arms length, holding them out to him, they didn't look too bad. They were fairly clean and just that morning they had gotten a brand new slice of cardboard. But he'd soon find out that looks are deceiving. "Don't run through any water," I said. The man grinned and in return wrapped up the alabaster statue I'd been admiring. I added the equivalent of $18 in French francs to the trade and he was a happy man.
Now, instead of shoes, I wear my boots. If anyone wants them it's a definite 'No'. Occasionally I'll put on John's red reef walker slippers but I tend to walk out of those. That's probably why John's shoes have thus far evaded the wanton eye - size. But his socks are another story. They don't have to be a perfect fit. Too big? Bunch 'em up. And that's exactly what the man who got them is probably doing. We wanted the two fossil plates he had for sale and he needed new socks. Sold. But why stop at shoes and socks? There are dish towels and cassette tapes. pens, chocolate and wine to part with. The more remote the location, the more trading is acceptable. This is the first time that we've encountered people who point to our clothes and ask for them outright. Well, there are only so many clothes we can live without. Despite what everyone around here believes, we really are traveling light. But we did make a thorough search of the van and come up with a few more tradeable items. "Do you think anyone will want a plastic lettuce knife, a used copy of Robert Ludlum's 'The Bourne Supremacy', dental floss, or a toiletry kit bag?" Maybe - ya never know.
Morocco is a land where there is no shortage of conversation. Given the opportunity everyone will come over to talk. They will flag down your car or follow you on their bicycles just to ask where you are from. A big conversation item for us has been our van. We've explained countless times to unbelieving souls that yes, it is possible, that two people can drive a German van and not be German. They point to the van, they point to us, how is this possible. "It wasn't easy, believe me."
Today though, I was asked a somewhat different question. While stopped in a small town, there was a tap on my window. The words came first in French then in German and, after I shook my head and said American, the young man switched to English. "My name is Kamal," he said. I also know Greek, Italian and Japanese." During busier months, he acts as a guide for tourists. Now however, business was slow. "I have very good friends in America," he said. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. On the flip side he showed me their address. "California," he beamed. Then came his question. "As you can see I can speak very good English. But I am not so good at writting it. Would you please help me to write a letter to my friends?"
"I would be honored," I said. I pulled a fresh piece of paper from my notebook and picked up a pen. "Shoot." Kamal looked at me. "What does this mean - shoot?" "Oh, sorry," I modified my command. "Go ahead, what do you want it to say?"
His letter was simple and I added a few Americanisms to liven it up. When I read it back to him he approved. Then we began talking of other things - life as a Muslim, living in Morocco, living in America.
Kamal told me that the Berbers are allowed up to four wives. He was to young to have any, only 22, and didn't have enough money to support even one. But he did have a girl friend, Fatima, and another in Meknes. "No of course they don't know about each other." Kamal's family is less traditional than Fatima's. She is allowed to come calling on him but it doesn't work the other way around. "If I were to go to her house for dinner, I would have to marry her," he said. "No, I want to marry an America or Canadian girl so that I can see the world."
Sometime before the letter dictation, John had run into the bank to change money. He still hadn't returned and eventually Kamal offered to go look for him. "This bank is very busy now because it is the end of the month - pay time," he said. When he returned, his arm was around John's shoulder and he was smiling, "I found him for you," he yelled. Kamal shook my hand through the window and then went around to shake John's. He handed me another business card and said. "This is my family's hotel. Perhaps when you are here again you will stay with us. Now I have two more good friends from America."
I think we may have corrupted the minds of the Muslims of the Sahara. We've stopped at a small kasbah on the edge of the Chebbi Erg sand dunes. There's nothing here except a mud-walled hotel, four workers, three camels, plenty of way-too-sugary mint tea and a cassette tape recorder. Forget that Moroccan singing gentlemen; we'll be jamming to Little Feet tonight. I wonder if they know what 'I have a rocket in my pocket' means.
When they asked if we had music, we offered them all four of our tapes - two jazz, one folk concert and the one that's been played four times now - Little Feet. I think they're gearing up for set number five right now. I guess there's going to be a 'fat man in the bathtub' until those batteries run down.
There are a lot of thing I expected to see in the desert, but skis
aren't one of them. And here I was worried that if we made it to
Switzerland this winter, I'd be out of practice. Does anyone know if you
should snow plow on sand? Actually you push, and push, and push. Without
poles I didn't get very far and, even with them and the steepest dune we
could lug those skis up, I only went about five meters before my arms got
back into the action. Let it be known that from here on, I will never curse
wet sticky snow again.
But compared to snow, walking up sand hills with skis on is easy. There was enough friction out there to hold me perpendicular to those slopes for hours. The only problem is that it only took a minute for sand to shift over my bindings and cover my tips. My next step after taking a break, weighed a ton.
Just as the cow always sees greener pastures across the fence, I continually saw better dunes. They were always further up the erg and they always looked a lot closer than they were. The erg is deceiving in that way. 100 meters looked like 20 meters; 500 meters - no problem. I'll be there in five minutes. Somehow my eyes never took into account all those dips between here and there. I never did make that last dune.
The best way to walk across the sand we've found is to walk the ridges. We each grabbed a ski and dragged it behind us. Sometimes the ridges dipped into valleys and we were forced to tackle a side. At a 3:2 ratio (three steps up to two down) this wasn't easy. John managed a sudden sprint near the top of one dune. Panting and puffing at the top, he threw his arms over his head in victory. I stopped to congratulate him but in doing so slid back four whole steps. The concept of standing still on a slope of loose sand doesn't exist.
Three runs down bunny dunes and I was ready to hit the lodge. "There is lodge out here isn't there?" Alas, no - we each grabbed a ski and with no tow-rope in sight, dragged them back - up and down, up and down, to the kasbah. Once there, we tossed them against the mud wall where we'd found them and headed for the hot chocolate.
"Good day on the slopes?"
"Great, but the snow is a little gritty today."
"Get back in the van! Get back in the van! Go! Go! Go!" Those have become familiar words to us since we've driven into the desert. Every time we pull off the road for a photo or a break, we see them coming. They are the fossil sellers.
Today we were sure we were safe. There was nothing but dry land all around. Some unusual hillocks stood near the road and I wondered if they were old mud houses fallen victims to the weather. I wanted to get a photograph. I couldn't have been out of the van for more than three seconds before John yelled, "Look!" I followed his arm. At first I saw six of them, then another two - all on them were on bicycles, one hand on the handlebars, a tray, held high, in the other. Waiters on wheels and it was road side service. "Where did they come from?"
If they caught up to us there was no telling how long we could be delayed. "Get in the van," John yelled. He started the engine and turned the front wheels. "Hurry, hurry!" I closed the door as the tires hit the pavement. The closest boy to us raced forward and thrust a fossil at the window as we pulled away. "Whew! That was a close one," John said. "Did you get the picture you wanted?"
"Yeah, I got it," I said. "But we need to pull over again. I need to pee."
"No way," John said. "It's not worth the risk." He pointed out the windshield to the vast expanse of emptiness around us. "You see all of that," he said. "It's all a mirage."
