Impressions of Morocco: Part Three

Part One//Part Two

Desert Camp

Candles flicker in brown paper bags twisted into lanterns, marking the way either side a carpet runner that runs the entire length of the camp, with extra carpets running to each of the sixteen or so glamping tents. Many metal lanterns are also placed around the camp, emitting a warm and satisfying light, and a fire pit is being lit in front of a communal tent crafted from Berber rugs. Inside, I can see a number of day beds covered in colourful cushions. Around the camp are little nooks for gathering; a hut with hammocks strung, rugs with ottomans and cushions, tables and chairs. Bamboo torches are being lit on the dunes. The accomodation tents are canvas, and sneaking inside to look inside I am awed by the luxury- gorgeous satin backboards on the bed, an adeptly woven blanket, selenite crystal lamps, and in the ensuite which is equipped with both a flushing toilet and a shower, the most amazing stone sink. The stars are just beginning to come out as we are welcomed with mint tea and dates and almonds, and we sink, relieved and overcome by beauty, onto ottomons and let the beauty wash over us.

And so the magic began.

The desert winds were amazing. They were a force that pushed me inside- my fumblings at wrapping a desert turban were far beneath these winds. They were a force that demanded either adaptation, or a lifetime’s experience of them- to stay out in the night, even under the shelters around the camp, so I retired to my tent.

Never have I felt so cocooned. Apart from the sound of the wind, which roared so formidably, there was nothing. There could be nothing. I could hear nothing else but also, it liberated me from the energy of everyone else in the camp. Deeply nestled and comfortable in this ridiculous and incongruent luxury, I was able to connect to the winds with no fear- to listen to them, to feel them rocking the tent and the very earth, to feel how their power sculpts the landscape each and every day. It was just me and this wild place. There were no thoughts, no pre-occupations, no emotions. Just presence. Making love with the universe.

Being from a fairly hot climate, I didn’t find the heat in the desert overwhelming. In fact, the dryness was a welcome change, where I come from, long months are both hot and unbearably humid. I feel like the arid dryness of the desert was healing, and did a lot of good for an underlying, swamp-dwelling mosquito virus I have been living with in the past year.

The only time I did hot- from sitting in the sun too long, which was of course stupid- a siesta was the only cure I needed.

However, whilst the air temperature was bearable, the searing temperature of the sand itself was not. All the heat was absorbed into the earth itself and walking across the sand any time from late morning was near impossible, even with sandles on. Wearing boots was out of the question- they don’t bear well to walking up sand dunes, so the only options would be bare feet (which would probably result in actual burns come afternoon) or sandles. As our circle was being held in a bedouin-style rug tent just a little way up a sand dune, we did have to do the dash, a fire walk it felt, from camp to tent and back again a few times. The searing pain, and the awkward steps down or up the dunes and the way the sand slips down and makes the way hard- we didn’t move much!

On one magical morning, a few of us rise at the first gentle licks of daylight and emerge to this beautiful landscape to greet the day on camel-back. We walk a short distance from the camp where we meet our guide, and the animals. They are sitting in line, saddled and decked in blankets and cloths and harnesses. As we get on our camels- a little feat in itself, to swing my leg up and over such a large beast, the camel rises, first by leaning forward, then back, and then finally up to it’s full hieght.

At first, there is exuberant chatter and the awkwardness of trying to take photos whilst also remaining firmly and safely positioned on the camel. That soon falls away, however, and the desert takes over. The golden quality of the light, the purity of the air, and the slow, somnolent gait of the camels lulls me into immersion and a trance-like connection to the land. A feeling of expansiveness I have only experienced before looking over the ocean from a clifftop takes me. We wind through the dunes, timeless, and as the sun rises, and shadows become playful, I feel myself breathing fully. There is no wind this morning, instead, the tracks in the sand of porcupines, the charcoal from a fire made by a previous camel safari, the vista of far away, mesa and mountains of a different landscape again. For one of the few times in Morocco, I feel that the human element of my experience is far smaller than the more-than-human. This in itself is a reason to exhale deeply.

One of the women asked the guide how often he gets lost in the desert. “In the desert, never,” he answered. “I have my GPS in here-” pointing to his head. “Although in the city- I get lost all the time,” he finished. I guess to live in such an immersive and demanding environment is to know it intimately. Knowledge for survival.

Travel through the Senses: Taste/Tagine

The food is variable. The average is simply dry and bland. In the best tagines, the meat is so tender that is feels unworldly in my mouth: like there is more pillowy fat on and in it than there actually is, succulent and juicy without being overly rich. Instead of the vegetables that I expected, the meat is stewed with fruits: apricots or figs or prunes; and sprinkled with crisp walnuts. The juices of the meat soak into the buttery couscous that is lighter and more vibrant than any I have tasted. The heat of the tagine pottery keeps the meal piping hot, so that the meal needs to be lingered over by necessity. I question whether meat will ever taste and feel- because the soft feel of it in my mouth is as much a key to the experience as the taste- as satisfying as it did in Morocco. I certainly haven’t eaten as much meat since I got home, both because the meat-heavy meals have satisfied that nutritional need and craving, and because my regular meat dishes just seem only half as good in comparison.

Travel through the Senses: Touch/Hammam

The hammam room is much smaller than I thought it would be. The walls and ceiling are black marble and tile, and the roof is curved. There is room for one person to lie down on a marble bench on the side of the room, and three to sit on the other. The darkness and wetness and shape all converge to create a womb like feel. At one end of the small room, there is a trough which is being filled noisily from a brass tap. We are asked to sit on the benches and one by one, we are rinsed down by the woman bathing us. She takes a bowl and throws warm water at us, at our bodies and over our heads and in our faces, rapidly.

One by one, we lie down on the marble and she washes us down with the traditional black soap, a sticky, aromatic goo. Then, taking a fresh loofah, she exfoliates our skin by rubbing briskly up and down our limbs and torso and, more gently, our face. She seems a little dissatisfied when one of our group does not have much dead skin apparent. For me, it feels like it falls out in sheets. How long has it been since I have so rigorously attended to the detritus of my body?

We are then painted with clay and left to sit for some time, before being directed out of our cavern (rebirth?) and under a shower, washing away the last remnants of not only our dead skin and impurities, but the days in the desert as well.

Leave-taking

I didn’t leave the medina until my very last night in Marrakech, except for briefly skirting around the ramparts in taxis, from one gate to another. On that last evening, I left in a caleche- a horsedrawn carriage. As with many things, I was scammed. The price we negotiated- and that I did negotiate down, significantly- was still much higher than the price list which was (unhelpfully) posted inside the carriage to prevent deceit. But at this point, I was fatigued of deceit. The luxury of sitting in a carriage in the soft end of the day sun; the last chance to experience new sights and a different side of this city; to not integrate myself further into Marrakech but at least experience it a little more, this was all worth more than haggling over a fair price.

The ride was hypnotic. The rhythmic motion to my weary bones and heart, the strange oxymoron of being transported in a such a way, on the same road as modern buses and cars- at one point passing camels waiting for passengers. The sound of the horse’s hooves on cobble stones and tarmac was something that translated perfectly from my imagination. It was exactly as I expected it to sound like, and the soundtrack it provided really was intoxicating. The sights I passed almost became secondary to the rhythm of the ride and at a few points I found myself welling up with tears because tomorrow I would leave, and perhaps might never be back.

To have had this experience is potent. It is both medicine, and a humbling. My view of the world, and my place in it, is altered irrevocably. My yearning for more travel is awakened and empowered. My heart is content with just the thought of home: the sweet familiarity of home, the way I can look out my window at night and see stars and the Fig Tree and hear the river; the knowledge of the deep privilege of holding my children in my arms.

There truly is no place like home, and my conceptualisation of what home is, is far broader now, in the quiet moments of reflection of a journey made.

Part One//Part Two