Morocco atop Chewbacca
Reflections on 1999 trip to Morocco via camelback
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Morocco came to us on a whim.
After traveling around Europe for six weeks, my fiancé, Ellie,
and I chose to take the big leap to Africa – just 8.7 miles from
the southern tip of Spain at its narrowest point, the Strait of Gibraltar.
Coming to Africa wasn’t in the plans and had never been imagined
by us, but that’s exactly what made the experience even greater.
We arrived via ferry in the port of Tangiers. From a distance, the city
looked like any other. Buildings and hills swept across the landscape,
but what lay beneath was something we had not prepared for or even considered.
After all, we had come to Africa – the land of starvation, desperation
and corruption – the epitome of the third world.
As we chatted with the taxi driver on the way to the train station, I
was overwhelmed with a feeling of shame and depression. What had gone
wrong here? Or worse, had anything ever been right?
Crowds of impoverished people stared blankly at us as we sped passed.
Prior to this moment, I had never seen people so blatantly impoverished.
It made a hobo in Los Angeles look like a prince.
In Europe I had done my best to not perpetuate the stereotypical-American
tourist, but for one reason or another I misplaced some of that determination
in the early hours of my arrival in this other world.
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Putting all thoughts aside,
we embraced in a hug as we waited for our train to Marrakech. It hadn’t
yet dawned on us that we were in a Muslim country, but we were quickly
reminded when a cop asked us to stop. Embarrassment rushed in, we said
our apologies and obeyed their wishes. We soon understood why everyone
was staring at us.
After a long, dirty, smelly train ride we arrived in Marrakech. It was
here that our Sahara Expedition would begin.
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For the next four days we
crisscrossed all around the country with 6 fellow travelers and the driver.
Hotel Ali in Marrakech ran a tour of the Sahara Desert on camelback. It
is somewhat regrettable that we experienced this amazing country from
such a limited perspective, but it turned out to be the trip that dreams
are made of.
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See, our decision to go
to Morocco was not founded in a pre-determined quest, but we knew that
our lives had crossed the paths of an amazing group – something
that can’t be pursued.
These three Australians, two Belgians, a pair of yanks, a Dutchman and
the Moroccan driver would erupt into deep discussions, musical sing-a-longs
and good times for the next four days.
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The driver led the minivan
on a steep climb up mountains reminiscent of the Grapevine. Only rather
than being overwhelmed with the familiar, comforting smog and smug of
Los Angeles, we were heading to a place where few Californians venture
– the Sahara.
Once over the crest of the mountain, our driver stopped at a small roadside
café. It was here that we realized our driver was getting kickbacks
for stopping at certain spots. It offered us Western travelers a much
desired conspiracy theory for our contemplating minds.
Soon enough we were in Zaragora putting our packs on camels and mounting
up. Within minutes the source of those puzzling sounds from Chewbacca
was put to rest for us all. We were convinced that George Lucas must have
recorded the very sounds these humped creatures make when the guides kick
the shit out of them, forcing them to rise with Western tourists on their
backs. PETA should look into this.
As we rode through the neighboring small villages and farms, kids of all
ages came running up to us with hand woven grass camels. We handed a couple
kids some dirhams and said Shokran (thank you in Arabic) for the gifts.
The sun set as we arrived at our makeshift camp. With the aid of bongo
drums from Ilja, one of the Aussies, we took turns playing and singing
songs with the guides and some others who helped cook the meal.
It was the clash of two cultures, banging and belting their classics loud
and proud. Our group would sing something like “Hotel California”
then their group would sing something we had never heard.
Soon the groups converged on songs by Bob Marley – a man known for
uniting so many like us before. His message is one that continues to traverse
all barriers that divide us.
After our acoustic medley in the desert sands of Morocco, we had a round
of Moroccan tea. It’s a sweet, mint-flavored tea.
Then submerging from the ground, the guides revealed a big bowl of tajine
– vegetables and meat served with bread. After our communal meal
we had another round of tea and songs.
The stars that night were memorable. Orian, the Big Dipper, Venus and
Mars lurked over us.
I awoke the following morning to my guide calling out, “wake up
America, wake up!” I chuckled as I opened my eyes to the sunrise,
but I couldn’t help but think of the magnificent symbolism in the
guide’s ominous words.
America does need to wake up; I only wished I could do more.
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The sun scorched on our
van as it chugged along for eight hours. At one stop we were told that
it was at least 43 Celsius (110 Fahrenheit).
As we approached the large dunes in the distance, there were mini tornadoes
on both of our sides. The driver explained to us (through the French translation
of our Dutch and Belgian friends) that the winds blow like that frequently
and form all the dunes in the desert.
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Before we headed out on
the camels again, we lathered up with sunscreen and waited for the sun
to cool.
The big dunes were much more exciting. As the camels stepped you could
hear waves of fine sand sliding down the dune, like small wakes at a lakes
edge. It was peaceful; even with the moans and groans of Chewbacca.
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When we got to camp we made
a desperately difficult climb to the top of a dune to watch the sunset.
It was a spectacular feeling: sitting upon a huge dune in the Sahara as
we watched the sun fall behind another.
After some tajine and tea, a smaller crew of us climbed up the dune again.
This attempt was much more difficult because we went straight up to avoid
the grass, where the scorpions hang out. I and Jan-Willem, my new friend
from Holland, kept pushing each other to keep going. Once we took a step,
we would slide back down half the distance gained.
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We sat up there for hours,
looking across the Sahara, enjoying even more stars than the night before.
We talked about our lives back home and the journeys we were on.
The next day we were treated to a scenic drive into a gorge. We stopped
there for an hour as we cooled off in the stream running through the middle.
It had now been days since we’d tasted any liquor. Morocco is a
dry country, much like the rest of the Muslim world.
But the spell was broke when we arrived in town and found a hotel that
had “special beer” for sale. The beer was nothing to write
home about, but it quenched our thirst and made us forget all about the
absence of liquor in this scorching land.
We spent that final night in a hotel in the middle of the gorge. It felt
like a mini Grand Canyon.
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After dinner we made our
way to the terrace and enjoyed another session of bongos and song. Soon
we were joined by the chef from hotel. He played the bongos for awhile
and then told us about his restaurant, Couscous and Cookies, in New York
City.
The next morning, we explored deeper into the gorge and found views that
could only be compared to scenes from Indiana Jones movies.
Soon we were in the van again, making our way back to Marrakech.
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A casbah was rocked in honor of The Clash.
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Then it was back over the Moroccan Grapevine to Marrakech.
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After returning to civilization,
we made our way to the medina for some orange juice.
Tipping our glasses in memory of the good times, we said farewell to our
new friends and caught a taxi to the train station.
More of the world awaited us in Europe – not to mention the packs
we left in lockers in Spain – but while we wished for more time
in Morocco, we were grateful for the time we’d spent there and the
amazing people we’d met.
I arrived in Africa with a feeling of hopelessness for the people, but
after the few days I spent there, I had realized that these people knew
nothing else.
I had made the arrogant mistake of perceiving their lives as desperate
and stark, but the happiness that resides within them moved me to great
lengths.
By all standards of Western thought, people forced to beg for money and
food from tourists should not be as happy and content as those of us who
have the luxury of wood homes, metal cars, and plastic bodies.
But in Morocco such a paradox exists. I found that some of those same
“desperate, starving people” were in fact happier than friends
of ours from back home.