Magical Moments in Morocco

By Angel Williams - I landed in Casablanca in the final weeks of my four-month trip around the world. As a woman traveling alone, I had to overcome most of the obstacles that any traveler might encounter as a “stranger in a strange land,” such as communicating past both language and cultural barriers, and transportation nightmares. Every airport presented a new challenge, as I navigated new terminals and sought directions. The more time I spent on the road, the more things I acquired — baggage was an issue. But being a woman didn’t really affect my journey, until I reached Morocco.

I arrived in Casablanca at three o’clock in the afternoon. Casablanca is often referred to as “The White City” due to the color of the buildings. The hotel I stayed in, although rated amongst the top in town, didn’t create an impression worthy of recommendation. I dropped my bags and went straight to the streets to explore the terrain and find sustenance. With no particular itinerary in mind, I chose the main street of the city to wander. Passing one outdoor café after another, hunger was starting to bite and I decided to stop at the first place that looked appealing. What I found was an endless lineup of establishments that were patronized by men only. Hungry as I was, their penetrating stares kept me moving.

By four o’clock that afternoon, even my rumbling stomach couldn’t persuade me to join the army of testosterone diners. I don’t always travel alone, but I have never toured with a group. If ever there was a place to change protocol, this was it. I headed straight for a travel agency. Before you could say, “Get me a veil or get me oughta here”, I had signed up to join a group tour that was scheduled to leave for Marrakech the following day.

My fellow tourists were European, mostly Italian, and although there were some language struggles, I felt comfortable and surprisingly content to be one of the crowd. The big tour bus that shuttled us from city to city was a transportation style I had always rejected, but the safety it provided and the unexpected camaraderie turned out to be surprisingly enjoyable. I bonded quickly with a group of Italians and was forced to expand my limited vocabulary in their language in order to talk. Our communication was enhanced through hand gestures and drawings, but the two years of college Italian was finally put to use.

Each city we visited had its own charm and horror. The view from the bus windows was endless patches of sandy beige highlighted with vivid patches of rich green oasis. The city streets offered a much wider variety of color and texture: doorways covered with ancient mosaic tiles, donkeys burdened with rough woven baskets of bright colored yarns and rows of loosely-defined storefronts displaying copper pots, carpets and leather-crafted items such as, camel saddle covers and pouches to hold wind and water. We climbed narrow stone stairways to rooftops that provided an aerial view of hundreds of vats filled with brilliant dyes that went on as far as the eye could see.

The further south we traveled, the more substandard our accommodations became. The highlights of the tour seemed to bring us farther back to a culture and civilization I had only read about in history books. We encountered individual tents scattered here and there, housing families of nomads that existed in the minimal dwelling with little more than old woven blankets and a few large cooking pots. We found ourselves in open meat markets with freshly killed carcasses swarmed by flies and men in robes sitting beside ancient balance scales to determine the market value of their unchanging lives.

I remember hiking for what seemed like eternity, taking off my shoes to wade across streams that are apparently not always present, and being shepherded along by a herd of local pilgrims who were making a trek to a lush, tree-lined pond. Evidently, this particular location was rumored to have unique powers to promote fertility. This was certainly a place I will not quickly forget.

There seemed to be large segments of bus travel where we curved around and crossed huge stretches of land minus any visible form of civilization. Perhaps that is why it was so odd to suddenly have the driver stop in what seemed like the middle of nowhere to allow us a photo opportunity. We were hesitant to leave the air conditioning and comfort of what had been the best lodging we had experienced so far, but were not surprised to find two young boys on the side of the road, playing instruments made out of old olive oil cans and other disposable packaging.

We finally arrived at what the tour leader jokingly referred to as a four-star hotel—a Holiday Inn in a small town would have looked like a palace compared to this place, and were told that we would be picked up the next morning at 5am and transported in Land Rovers to the Sahara Desert. After being served an early dinner of the usual couscous, we all went to our respective rooms for a good night’s sleep. Prior to that, I had heard of bed bugs and even imagined what it might feel like to get bitten by them. As I crawled between the sheets I could actually see them jumping up and down! Five o’clock in the morning couldn’t come quickly enough for me, as I spent the night trying to find comfort on one of the couches in the lobby.

In the morning, still black as night, the group leader divided us up to fill the five Land Rovers. During the drive into the darkness, we were told what to expect when we arrived at our destination, and not to be afraid. The guides said that several men would appear out of nowhere, covered in long robes, and that they would take our arms to lead the way. That said, there really was no way to anticipate exactly how frightening that would be.

Silently, people under living fabric, pushed and pulled us up and down over the sand dunes. Slowly, they showed us the chance of making it over the dunes without them was improbable. Then they stopped as the light of day gradually emerged. We sat in the reddish colored sand and watched the sight with the same reverence one might reserve for observing the original creation of life.

As the massive desert revealed itself, we looked around for the first time and saw that the “dark forces” that got us there were no more than young boys who couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Satisfied that we had basically gotten what we had come for, they quickly started to promote their own agenda. Black leather cases sprung open, revealing tiny fossil-embedded rocks. Each boy capable of conversing in any one of at least eight languages, they began their sales pitch. The fossil rocks cost the equivalent of fifty cents apiece and if you bought at least one, they seemed to feel the job of pushing tourists over the sand dunes in the dark was every bit worth their while.

The shopping portion of our adventure was followed by a display of wandering camels and the men who rode them. This was the desert of Laurence of Arabia and the Morocco I had hoped to see. Despite the discomfort of jumping bed bugs and unpalatable food, I had experienced the most magical moments I have ever spent on earth.