Monday, 3 June
The last few days have been spent on the road, firstly west to Essaouira then south to the ancient city of Taroudant in the Sous Valley, then north over the mightily impressive Tizi-n-Test in the High Atlas returning to Marrakech.
The Tizi-in Test is a pass in the High Atlas and was a highlight of the trip to Morocco. Although just one lane of badly potholed bitumen, the views and colours of the surrounding mountains, valleys and villages were incredible. I was told not to look at them but to keep my eyes on the road but managed to sneak a sideways glance now and then.
We stopped at a “café” near the top of the pass, 2100m, where a Berber man asked Sharon for medicine for his headache, and it was there that I bought her birthday present, a silver Berber necklace from the Sahara. Sharon was happy, he was happy, his headache was well gone by the time I had drained my wallet and filled his engraved leather satchel.
Everywhere we stayed, the hotels and riads, have been a respite from the street. Many Moroccans are poor and beg on the streets or try to make a living selling the smallest of things. In Marrakech, the sellers of leather goods, clothing, jewellery are very adept at haggling and although we leave shops feeling pleased with what we have bought in the equivalent Australian currency, the exuberant pleasure the dealer displays at the end of haggling, sealed always with a handshake, often leaves a hollow feeling that I could have done a better deal. That, notwithstanding, the “goods” we have purchased would seem to be good value had we bought them at home and that gives some comfort. And I guess the money the we have paid has helped support a family for a month or two.
As in many places around the world, throw away plastics shopping bags are a scourge, and nowhere is this more evident than in Morocco. Around the small villages in the countryside and larger cities they are caught on bushes, walls and blown in the hot winds. There has got to be a better way.
The land is dry and seemingly barren in many places but where we drove through the Atlas into the valleys where the rivers ran, not deep, but steadily over a gravelly bed, lush vegetation grew. We bought bananas, from a stall in a valley where large plantations grew small, sweet fruit and apricot trees grew on terraces on the river banks. Oranges abound and fresh orange juice in cafes is only second to green mint tea. We entered green courtyards off squalid street full of rubbish, drove through tree covered avenues that reminded us of France then crossed plains with hardly a plant.
We entered ancient mosques 800 years old and stayed in a riad in Taroudant that seemed to be as old, but was only built three years ago. Its gardens grew bananas around a swimming pool yet outside a bright blue painted door in a high wall was a dry and dusty area where a herd of goats chewed on plastic bags.
Morocco is a country of contrasts.
Tom has left us. He has flown back to Spain to continue his travels and we await our flight at the new departure lounge in Marrakech. Tonight we fly to Madrid and tomorrow pick up our car.
This afternoon, as I paid the taxi driver his fare, I smiled and said, ”See you next time.”
He said, “There won’t be a next time.”
There are other places to travel.