Traveling to Morocco: the travel of my life
Traveling to Morocco is like stopping time. It definitely stopped the moment I crossed the border. Old cars, unpaved roads, donkeys behind you…free smiles, helping hands, brotherly hospitality. Yes, it did. Time stopped. Because being in a hurry kills. That’s what I learned when traveling to Morocco. That everything has a time, and it will arrive only if it’s supposed to do so insh’Allah.
When I traveled for the first time to Marocco, I didn’t feel myself in a very different place. Maybe because of the mostly black haired people, or their brown eyes, or the old buses used in Spain 20 years ago. Also, the tiles decorating walls, the inscriptions taking me back to the old Mosque in Cordoba. In the distance, a “Giralda” like tower, or a copied Alhambra. I don’t know if it was the olive and spices markets, the indigo colored wood, the coutyards, or the vespa motorcycles everywhere which reminded me of adventures with my father… both sides of the Mediterranean still share blood from centuries ago, and that, that is impossible to ignore.
First impression at the souq
I remember entering the labyrinth of the Marrakech city’s market. Dizziness and excitement invaded me after feeling a thousand of looks over me. They all were trying to decode what I was looking for, whom I would talk to first, if I was another poulet blanc. to get money from. I was absolutely absorbed in colors, textures, smells…never had my senses been so awake as in that market. Never had I felt so like getting lost and finding myself at the same time. Around the corner, a seller spits at us. Too low price there. First try. Another seller smiles when listening to my Arabic accent. Second try. Later, an old man invites us to have tea. His grandson shows to us a carpet, and another, and one more. Third try. An hour later, another seller explains to us that, in the market, we are prey. He turned out to be the biggest hunter.
The call to pray
Suddenly, some music echoes. Loudspeakers everywhere cut my breath. Is a siren, an alarm? What is that making people moving all around? Some doors open, hundreds of men walk to them, others stand by their stalls. The labyrinth is still more alive if possible. The music doesn’t stop. I did. I stopped to watch around me to figure out what it was happening. It took me some seconds to understand. I felt relieved: in Morocco people still go to pray when called. It was just the Adhan.
A silent night at the Merzouga desert’s doors comes to my mind. I abruptly woke up in the middle of the night. I sat down in bed and, for the first time, I could be really aware of the calmness, an overwhelming calmness while a minaret’s moan cowered my heart. Prayers again. What a peaceful moment it offered, the call to seclusion and a moment to be grateful. The Adhan was also in my bag on my way back.
After driving 564 km across the Big Atlas by bus, 12 hours of red Kasbah and sand storms… the reward arrived
Learning to feel grateful
If you are traveling to Morocco, you need to visit Erg Chebbi (Read here my post about Wadi Rum Desert). This is the only place where to enjoy the dunes, near the Algerian border. After driving 564 km across the Big Atlas by bus with no safety belt, 12 hours of red Kasbah, sand storms and a painful body…the reward arrived. A waxing moon welcomed us. A camel follows instructions from someone who tells us how he is orientated in the night, following the dunes and not the stars as I thought. A succulent dinner, simple but delicious, and the endless sand that revealed its secret not before sunrise. Five people, a firework and a multilingual conversation. Now, I start to feel the real Morocco.
Big thanks to Ali, and their family to engrave on my soul one of the most magical moments I’ve ever lived. Not to mention the perfect sunrise that we enjoyed exclusively: no one or thing on Earth, just the sun, the desert and us.
Traveling to Morocco is also a wrinkled grandmother sitting in front of a loom, in a courtyard of an adobe house in Hassilabied, or Pozoblanco, a humble village with cordoban name, what a coincidence. Traveling to Morocco is a mother giving me a present and cooking the best couscous I’ve ever had. And a daughter, spending her time painting my hands with henna. I just make her understand thank you, the rest of conversation is just about shy smiles. And there too, I learn to feel grateful for receiving so much.
Familiar and far away land
That’s how I remembered Morocco, as a familiar as well as far away country. Similar people in different time and space. A house at the border whose mint smell reminds me my childhood, maybe I have been already in that house, maybe his owner was from this part of the border. I’m sure I’ll see you again, Morocco, Alhamdulillah.