Marrakesh to Casablanca, Morocco, Thursday January 15th

I was sad to be leaving Marrakesh – there were many more interesting things to do and see here and while we were here, we were not in Casablanca, the last city of all for us. We woke early to eat and pack, and then sped along to the station in the bus. Two cleaners with mop-like brooms performed a choreographed cleaning ritual on the spotless marble mosaic. Keith searched for the toilets, foolishly believing that arrows indicating up besides steps meant that. At last we boarded the train, and walked down the corridor looking for a compartment with room for us and all of our luggage. We found one with two ladies and a little boy. Here began a boring journey during which we nodded off occasionally, waking to find the landscape changing to green farm lands, to the shanty town look of outer suburbs, and finally to high rise buildings, roads, shops and the city of Casablanca. The ladies chatted with each other but we rode on in silence. Occasionally I thought that I heard French words mixed with whatever language they were speaking.

We left the station and, batting off the many offers of taxis, found the bus stop and waited for the number 2 bus that would take us into the city centre. We had a very cheap hotel in mind, and found it easily. After a quick lunch, we set off to walk to the Grand Mosque. It was further than we thought and we ended up having to run part of the way to make it in time for the only afternoon tour at two p.m. The mosque will be closed to the public tomorrow because it is Friday; the special day when most people attend for prayers. We arrived puffing and panting, just as the tour marched in, but we had not yet bought our tickets. A kind attendant took our money and rushed down the stairs to buy our tickets for us so that we would not miss out. He also bought us one concession ticket, which was a bonus, since the entry price for one person is more than our hotel for both of us for the night.

We all placed our shoes in plastic bags and then we joined the English speaking guide, who was accompanied by a Polish woman translating his words for her tour group. We learnt so many facts about the mosque; that there were 77 architects and engineers, and also the same number of columns to commemorate them. The mosque covers 9 ½ hectares, was built over the sea, caters for 25000 worshippers inside and another 80000 in the courtyard, took six years to finish from 1987 – 1993, with 55 million man hours being needed to complete the project. The ceiling opens to provide ventilation on Fridays when everyone comes to this mosque, rather than to the 2000 other mosques in Casablanca. Hassan II’s family tree is written on one column. He commissioned the mosque and wanted it to be a big and very impressive monument that would really put Casablanca on the map. It certainly is that – and is a graceful and beautifully proportioned mosque with superb artistry and craftsmanship everywhere. Above all it is very definitely a Moroccan mosque, and epitomises the use of colour and design that we saw in the Ben Youssef Medersa. It is the only mosque open to non-Muslims in Morocco.

We stood under the minaret, looking up at the ceiling and imagining the weight of the 200 metres above us. Downstairs there are 41 fountains for purification washing before prayers and magnificent copper lanterns that remain shiny despite the moist atmosphere. The secret to this is in the mixture called tadelakt, covering the pillars; a mix of sand, black soap, limestone and egg yolk, which absorbs humidity. The pillars in the mosque proper are covered in a mixture of limestone, plaster and egg whites, so it was reassuring to know that there had been no need to worry about left over yolks or whites during construction. Downstairs again, we came to a hammam, which the guide said is just to show tourists what one is like, and which is not actually used. More steps led to a Turkish bath, not operating either, although it had water in its pool and is used sometimes.

The Grand Mosque was financed by the people, with a tax being imposed on everyone and some making voluntary contributions. Some Moroccans in El Kelaar des Mgouna told us that the Grand Mosque is referred to as the Mosque of the Poor, since it was built at the expense of the welfare of poor people. They commented that Hassan II said in an interview on television that he made an economic misjudgement with the way it had been financed. Our guidebook says that US$750,000,000 was raised, which temporarily reduced Morocco’s money supply and brought down inflation.

During the tour, I had met a woman, Debra, who I was talking to at the end. She lives in Brisbane with her Moroccan born husband, and they are here with their children visiting family. It was starting to rain, so I suggested that we go somewhere for a cup of tea to continue our chat. As it was, her husband, Rashid, was waiting for her in their hire car, so she suggested that we go over and meet him, and drive somewhere for tea. They needed to end up near our hotel, so we were saved a long walk in the rain or a long time sheltering somewhere, and spent a delightful hour chatting and having a drink together. It was a lovely chance meeting, with Rashid explaining that Moroccans often use a mixture of French and Arabic, and that the degree to which it is done reflects a person’s level of education. He also told us that he can get better prices being a Moroccan that Debra, and joked that he told her to hide sometimes. He said that it would be possible for that to happen even with a large bus company, and so it may be that our guide Youssef had in fact got a reduced bus fare for us.

We spent the last of the daylight walking in the Medina, a section that was only built in the late 19^th Century. Casablanca was a Portuguese settlement that was abandoned in 1755, and became not much more than a settlement for the local tribes. Development as a commercial centre led to the creation of the Medina just above the port, but its buildings have a neglected air now and most of the shops that we saw are functional ones for today’s lifestyle. We walked for a while in the rain, past noisy games halls with pool tables, shops full of brand name items and piles of rubbish.

Our last stop for the day was in one of the very few craft shops we have seen in which the items have price tags. We chose a couple of little things, and it was so different to have no-one asking us what we would offer, or suggesting an over inflated price.

We decided to have our last dinner out, and settled into the very cheap restaurant attached to our hotel. The TV showed terrible scenes of death and destruction in the Gaza Strip, and all the interviews were on that topic, even though we could not understand them. We discussed how the State of Israel had been set up, and what were options for ending hostilities, and how common ground, or even acceptance of each other’s right to exist and have a peaceful home could ever be found. It was a very depressing topic, and the vision of two little boys, floppy in death from wounds to their chests, was burned into my brain.

Keith changed the topic to our year – to whether it had met our expectations. It was hard to change mental gear for me, but when we both looked at how things had turned out, we were both happy with how it had gone. The long ago tossed out goals had all been met, with lots of extra unexpected bonuses along the way. Wanting to meet people had been well and truly accomplished, but we had not expected to make friendships which will continue to develop. We learnt about cultures and ancient history, and about modern history and issues as well. I hadn’t become fluent in French but we could both use it for communicating so that was a very good start. I had also learnt that language is all about communicating, and that while vocabulary and grammar are important, having a go and making contact with others is what drives language acquisition. We had met all sorts of characters, some for a moment and others for much longer. We had travelled as we wanted to – taking our opportunities and following where they led us. We had enjoyed being with each other, and sharing so many experiences. I was sure that I needed to change my work/home balance, and not just because the family will be living with us, but for our own sakes. We had been free of the regular responsibilities, free of timetables, free of work obligations, free to enjoy being alive. Simple things had given us great pleasure. We knew that we were amongst the privileged few in the world to be able to do what we had done, and that life is very tough for many people. On occasions we were frustrated or uncomfortable with the role of voyeur tourist, relishing the times we had roles such as learner, friend, visitor, pilgrim or helper. I was cured of wanting to live in the 16^th Century. Keith learnt that he could survive without being permanently connected to the radio news and current affairs programs since he was experiencing and seeing so much first hand. We had learnt again and again that people have forever been hating each other, that difference is used to create ‘other’, and that ‘other’ is a category which enables people to commit atrocities. We also learnt about, experienced and observed the other side of the coin, the ability for people to reach out and share, the ability to respect and to care for each other. We had seen many natural and man made wonders. So all in all, we are in awe of the magnitude of the world’s blessings and problems, and we are very glad that we spent this year journeying, learning and experiencing life beyond our own shores.

Tomorrow we take that plane and it will all be over.

Marrakesh, Morocco, Wednesday January 14th

After a bit more typing, and as usual realising that my brain and fingers are more productive early in the day, we set off for a walk around the walls and across town to the Majorelle Garden. Unlike Fes, where the walls hug the intricate maze of the medina, here the medina is a compact discreet area and there are other buildings, roads, squares and gardens between it and the walls. Marrakesh excels with its gardens and I would love to come here in late summer or autumn when the literally thousands of roses we have seen would be in full bloom. As it was, I picked up a few pruning tips, and it seems as if brutal pruning is favoured here. We exited through one of the many grand gates and found ourselves where the bus had deposited us two days ago. We were able to give the garden there more than just a glance today, and to admire its mixture of palms and shrubs.

We didn’t actually see any street signs, but we knew the name of the one leading from the gate and could use it to find ourselves on the map. We love this aspect of a new city – walking the streets to learn its character and to find our feet. Crossing the road here is a bit of a nightmare, with the lights often not including a pedestrian element, and often only applying to traffic travelling in one direction. There are stripes on the road to indicate a crossing, but no drivers respect pedestrians on them and it is a case of dodging in and out of oncoming vehicles. As far as we could see, Marrakesh outside the walls was like any major city anywhere, except for the number of gardens.

The Majorelle Garden was created by French artist, Jacques Majorelle who came to Marrakech in 1919. He was a plant collector who created as much a sculpture as a garden, with the plants providing an exciting array of different textures, shapes and forms. There are many different types of palms and succulents, as well as other shrubs, trees and climbers. Although not flowering now, there are a multitude of greens, greys and browns, against the raked red stones of the beds. Paths lead between them, and are lined with huge pot plants painted blue, yellow, orange and green. There is a long canal, and several ponds. The structures of a pavilion, the garden edges, a museum and colonnades and a gazebo are painted a vivid blue, which was the colour of the French workmen’s overalls, as the garden was being built. The garden has many staff, still wearing that colour, who maintain its raked stones and immaculate appearance. Jacques Majorelle died in 1962, and the gardens were neglected. Yves St Laurent and Pierre Bergé purchased it and restored it, and very sensibly created a trust so that it will continue to be cared for. A path in the garden led to a memorial to Yves St Laurent, which had an ancient column at its centre. We entered and left by a gorgeous courtyard, with red paving, slightly lighter rendered walls, vivid green and blue tiles surrounding a central fountain, and pots of nasturtiums. It was simple and vibrant. People were sitting around in the sun here, and in the shade throughout the gardens. This garden is certainly a work of art.

The museum holds a small collection of Majorelle’s paintings. He was intrigued by rural southern Morocco and really captured the sense of it, as we have experienced it, in his paintings. They are beautiful, and like visual sonnets to the land he loved. There are outstanding examples of crafts, including amazing carved doors, which were collected by Yves St Laurent, in the rest of the museum.

We took a long walk to the other side of town, pausing to buy fruit and veggies and to be given a complimentary bunch of parsley by a sweet old green grocer. We remarked on the smog from all the traffic, drifting like a haze in all the streets. At last we came to the Theatre Royal, and opposite, the equally grand Marrakesh station. It is new and like a film set for the place the rich and famous would arrive at in an exotic city. It has so many guards and cleaners, with the former keeping out beggars and mischief makers and one of the latter continuously sweeping the beautiful central mosaic marble floor design, so that no speck of dust or foot print will mar it. We purchased out tickets to Casablanca for tomorrow; our last destination and the place we would fly home from on Friday. It all felt very momentous and inevitable.

We ate lunch on a bench near the theatre and then walked back towards the medina. Dear Marrakesh provided two more enormous gardens for us to stroll through, with one having names like ‘Avenue of Olives’ in it. It also had roses in flower, fountains, paths, a myriad of trees and a children’s area with two gigantic grey concrete dinosaurs amongst the play things. This section was named ‘Children’s Space’. It was well frequented by families and young people who we guessed were students from the nearby Hassan II High School. There was definitely a French influence at work here, with the order, care and opportunity for romance.

Our last garden for the day was the Cyber Park, which is absolutely huge and provided a long respite from walking beside roads. The trees here are very old, which seemed strange, given the very modern name. At the end of the gardens there is a building that seemed to be an internet café, and outside, scattered around the gardens, there are free internet stations. It was quite a remarkable idea, but a very handy one in a city with a lot of poor people who would not have home computers. The garden was full of people walking, sitting, reading, relaxing or logging on to their favourite sites.

By the time we reached the square, we realised that we may not be able to fulfil our last shopping requirements as well as visit a palace and a museum house. Really, it didn’t matter since we had had an enjoyable time and the pace in Marrakech was a slow one. We had received a last minute request from our daughter to buy a belly dancing belt if not expensive, and so we set off in pursuit of one. The belly dancing shop, not for tourists but the one regularly frequented by the women of Marrakesh, according to the proprietors, was awash with gaudy colours and dangling coins. There were two salesmen, both in their sixties. They stood in their very proper western overcoats amongst their stock of see through, seductive and saucy bra tops, pants and skirts and scarves covered in coins. I couldn’t imagine a modest Moroccan woman asking to try on the red bra top with the gold tassels dangling from the centre of the cups, along with the skin tight skirt with the coins. We explained that we just wanted something cheap for a party costume, a concept obviously very foreign to these gentlemen, who were used to providing quality items for use in the privacy of the home. Eventually they produced a range of silver coin covered chiffon scarves and one demonstrated for me how to use it, wiggling his hips in a convincing manner. At this point, Keith revealed that Holly had definitely requested either gold or silver, but he couldn’t remember which! We went back to the hotel to check her email, which was just as well, since she wanted gold coins. We found a similar black chiffon scarf with gold coins on it in another shop, but I did feel bad that we had not returned to our two kind and helpful gentlemen, since maybe they had one after all.

Next I wanted some small items, and we just pottered in and out of shops, looking at all the lovely treasures and eventually making our purchases. It was dusk already, and with Keith’s cough getting worse as the cold increased, we decided to buy another fried jaffle for tea, to eat it in the square, and to have an early night. A new act had arrived, but we did not see how the hedgehog, the hamster and the pigeon, nibbling on lettuce and apparently not a bit fazed by being on the ground in a square thronging with noise and people, were going to make money for their master. All the other acts were on in full force, with the faces of the crowd showing their interest and enjoyment.

Keith left me at the hotel to type while he went to the internet café. I joined him after a while to ring Kerry’s family in England, since we were still on the same side of the world. I had the loveliest chat with Maureen, and know that Rohan is joining a very loving and inclusive family. On the way back by myself, I wondered at the collection of men who lean against walls in the narrow alley that leads to our hotel. There would be about fourteen of them, some singly and others in groups. Since some are always there, they must have some role, perhaps to suggest a hotel to people passing by. They provided a sense of security for me, walking out in the dark alone, as they posed in never ending nonchalance in a scene that waited to be painted.

A gate in the city wall

Marrakesh, Morocco, Tuesday January 13th

When I woke up, I felt really tired. My cold was still hanging on and so I lazed about in bed typing and trying to restore myself to perfect health. Keith read the guide book and we made plans. At lunch time we set out for the museum. To set out for a destination here is a little hit and miss, even with the map. The medina is completely different to Fez; made up of wider lanes with galleries and smaller lanes leading off them. The souks are somewhere in there, with each craft having its own, but there are so many other stalls selling craft goods all the way along that you can have a visual or shopping feast wherever you go. We were not so interested in shopping, but had a couple of little items that we wanted to pick up. We decided to ignore the stalls for now or we would never make it to the museum.

At the entry to the museum there is a display to show how the building was restored, and also a sweet translation into English of the welcome to visitors to the museum. The museum is in the most beautiful nineteenth century palace. It has a breathtakingly beautiful internal courtyard and because music was playing and there were chairs around and people sitting about relaxing, you could imagine life in it in former times. In those days the courtyard, now covered with a skylight, was planted with fruit trees. Part of the palace is an art gallery and paintings, textiles and a sculpture by Morrocan artist, Nafaa Mezouar, were on display. Keith liked one called ‘Moyen Atlas’, which combined paint with a textured, almost wrinkled surface.

The rooms leading from the courtyard featured different areas of artisanship, and photos showed traditional use of each type. The embroidery photo showed little girls of about five years of age concentrating on their samplers. The different regions specialised in different forms of embroidery, and even now the continuation of the traditional skills has kept the differences alive. The jewellery was large and chunky and, from the photos, it was clear that more was the way to go. I don’t know how brides could walk with all the heavy jewellery that they would wear. A silver ‘hand of Fatima’, used to ward off the evil eye, had a scarab beetle on it; an Egyptian symbol of good luck, so it was really a powerful aid to happiness. It was interesting to see a photo of a groom with his face covered.

The hammam rooms still had their decorations in them, which was a change after seeing all the Roman baths in ruins. The hammams served an ablutionary purpose prior to praying and so were regularly built as part of mosque complexes, but could be in rich people’s homes or just set up as private businesses. The lady who ran the women’s hammam knew everyone and oversaw the running of the place and the scheduling of visits. Bathing was a social event as well. There was a reception room so, if there were too many people already there, or if your favourite masseuse was busy, you could wait and chat with others. Women allowed half a day for the outing, and organised easy to make meals so that they could spend time away from home. They also went at the same time as their friends, taking all the young children as well. Another room featured tea pots and sets, with tea drinking apparently being introduced from England in the 17^th Century. I was amazed to see exactly the cloak that the Imam had been wearing on our donkey ride in the textiles section, and learnt that it is called an akhnif.

Just across the square from the museum there is an archeological site with a beautiful ablutions kiosk in it. It originally served the Ben Youssef Mosque, but was buried under rubble over the years and it was only in 1952 that it was found again. The ground level at that time was two storeys lower than it is now. We walked down steps made of ancient bricks, which we guess were salvaged from the rubble during the excavations. This kiosk is one of the very few Almoravid buildings still intact. The Almoravid dynasty were in power from about 1060 – 1147. The building is remarkable because the architect must have given his all to this kiosk and it has all sorts of features and decorations that were to be taken up as signatures for Moroccan architecture in later eras. When it was built it must have been a most innovative design. Even to our uneducated eyes it was a miniature masterpiece.The neighbouring cistern and fountains have also been excavated, as well as the latrines. I can never work out ancient latrines, which always look as if people in the past were a very communal lot. Cats seemed to be in control of this site, with a very lazy one sleeping off the night before, on duty at the gate. Others resisted having their photos taken by Keith, perhaps having learnt that they should be paid to pose. A very dirty cat with a bent tail was seen off the premises by the reigning feline dynasty’s junior members.

The Ben Youssef Mosque has been rebuilt and altered over the years, and attached to it is the Ben Youssef Medersa. It was a school where students learnt the Koran by heart and studied other ‘diverse sciences’, but really the lessons took place in the mosque and the medersa was an enormous students’ residence for revision, study and accommodation, complete with prayer hall. The 132 rooms are on two storeys, with some looking into the large central courtyard and others facing small courtyards around the perimeter of the building. Islamic architecture is inward facing and private, with blank walls presented to the street and windows facing an internal courtyard. The rooms were extremely basic, with four walls being all most students got, along with room mates, with each person bringing his own furnishings and cooking requirements. About 800 students lived in this medersa at a time. Some rooms were a little larger and had a shelf cut into the wall. Two rooms were set up as they would have been, and as parents of students who moved regularly, we think that a tiny desk, an ink well, a small carpet, a one burner cooking stove and pot and an ablutions bucket as belongings is sufficient for anyone studying. The rooms and corridors were a little like rabbit warrens, but each had access to a courtyard which let in light and fresh air.

For me, the highlight of our time in Marrakesh was the central courtyard of this medersa. Originally founded in the fourteenth century, it was rebuilt by the Saadians in the 1560s. The Saadians were a southern dynasty which was greatly influenced by the Spanish Andalusian art styles. They favoured intricate decorations on all surfaces. That means that this building is like the Alhambra in Granada and may have been built or designed by people from Muslim Spain. I was raving about it as we walked around, admiring the details and craftsmanship, but mainly the overall design that brings all the smaller touches together. The colours were different to those used in Spain, with the natural colours of Morocco forming the palette - coffee coloured plaster lacework, chocolate carved wood above the pillars, pinky apricot pillars and lower plaster work, cream on apricot inscriptions from the Koran, apricot, black and cream border tiles and blue, green, orange, tan, gold and cream mosaic tiles in geometric designs like flowers. There are many carving patterns that we had not seen before including pine cones and palm motifs, with some parts protruding out from the surface. Arcades along two sides are thought to have once provided extra teaching space. A marvellously decorated prayer hall at the end links to all the colours and details in the courtyard outside. It was food for the soul indeed.

By eavesdropping on a tour group, I learnt that people were supposed to give money for the building of new mosques and medersas. Poor people who couldn’t, would have been expected to donate ten to twenty days of labour. The tour guide also commented on early educational methods. Students learnt passages from the Koran by rote. They were pardoned for two mistakes but if they made a third they had to stay back an hour and study more. Parents would know that their child was late home, and would beat them to make them learn better. The Imam would be the teacher, and each week the parents had to pay according to how much of the Imam’s time a child had taken. Poor or disabled students were beaten a lot before it would be decided to keep them home and set them to work around the farm or workshop.

Like the cat at the Koubba, the attendant at the medersa was having forty winks and didn’t notice us go by.

We wandered around the medina soaking up the atmosphere and looking for a place to have a cup of tea. We found a tiny little café in an alley, and sat and watched the locals. There are so many beggars here - stationary ones who find a good spot with a lot of people passing and sit with their hand out, and mobile ones who work the crowd and anyone seated. We were approached many times, and in Marrakesh we have handed out coins more than anywhere else since Egypt. It is a bit of a dampener when you are relaxing over a cup of tea to have begging appeals, and also the noise and fumes of the many motorbikes that career through the narrow streets amongst the people is not so great. I was reading the guide book aloud to Keith and we chose a couple of places to visit tomorrow. We were happy to take it slowly and to just indulge in a little more of the entertainments in the Djemma el Fna this evening.

On our way home, we were intrigued by a fast food shop where a woman fried bread dough and added fillings. We watched for a while, and began chatting with a couple of New Zealand graphic designers who are working in the UK. They, and eventually we, ordered what turned out to be oily but delicious fried jaffles. They told us that with three years of experience in graphic design it is possible to get positions overseas, as they had done. They also mentioned inter-government projects that gave good experience, such as in working for developing countries setting up museums. They were enjoying their work experiences and catching a holiday in Morocco, saying that their wages easily allowed for travel.

Finally back at the hotel, I typed on until I was nearly up to date and Keith had some more dinner then went to the internet café to publish as many pages as he could. We are so close to the end of our trip, and have both sacrificed other activities to create this blog. We want to leave Morocco knowing that the record of our travels is virtually complete.

Kalaa des Mgouna to Marrakesh, Morocco, Monday January 12th

We rose early to find that the lights were not working. The power point worked but not the lights. Nevertheless we groped our way around and packed up our bags. Just before we left, the lights came on. It was still dark outside as we crept past the house so as not to wake Youssef up. It wasn’t far to the road. We took off our bags and Keith walked up and down to keep warm. No one stirred. We heard a vehicle in the distance but it turned out to be a laden utility and it didn’t stop for us. Silence again, save for Keith’s footsteps. At last we had to admit that our get away plan had failed due to the early hour and the remote place.

We started walking back to the house. Before we got there, we heard the car start up as Youssef backed out of his drive. When we reached him, he began to ask us what we were doing, but then settled for telling us to get in. I sat in the back with the bags and Keith sat in the front. Youssef asked me if I had slept well. I said that I hadn’t because I had been worried because of the difficult time he had given us the night before. He said, ‘No problems,’ and in French, he apologised for upsetting me. He later apologised to Keith as well. Maybe for him that wiped the slate clean, but for us, we knew that he could be dishonest and unscrupulous, so we would not ever recommend him as a guide to others.

We were glad to be on the bus and away. It was a large bus with less than a dozen passengers, which meant that reserving seats the previous night had been unnecessary.

The sun rose, creating pink and mauve lines above the distant snowy mountains. We were both exhausted so we slept for a while, waking to find ourselves in snow covered mountains, the High Atlas, being driven along narrow switch back roads. Little stalls selling brightly coloured ceramics were set up in freezing spots along the way. For once we had invested in a bus with heating, and we were glad that we had. After we had crossed the highest mountains, the views were just as spectacular of valleys with rivers winding through them and every available bit of fertile land farmed. The run up to Marrakesh was a mix of towns and farmlands, and even in Marrakesh, where there is an incredible amount of traffic, donkeys and horses are still used for transport. There is so much traffic that a haze of exhaust hung over the streets in the still afternoon air.

It was a bit of a walk to the tourist office but, since they were supposed to have a list of hotels and could give us a map, we thought it would be worthwhile. The map bit was, but the hotel advice was a circle drawn on the map to show where we could look for cheap hotels. Burnt out, but polite, is how I would describe the man who served us, and we saw so many tourists here in what is the off season, that I had some sympathy for him. We took a bus to the area he had indicated, near the main square – the Djemma El Fna. We followed our guide book’s map towards one of the cheap hotels it recommended but were made offers for rooms as we walked along. One sounded fine so I went up to have a look while Keith minded the bags. The man dropped the already cheap price without me doing any haggling and after I said that I thought that we would take it. It was a pleasant moment to counteract our bad feelings of last night. We do have to remember that we have met many kind and helpful Moroccans in the tourist industry, and to keep a balanced view.

As soon as we had unloaded our bags we set out to enjoy the afternoon and Marrakesh in the sunshine. The Djemma El Fna is an enormous open square with no infrastructure in it. It is just an empty paved space which is the greatest venue for buskers Moroccan style. It was already reasonably busy. Snake charmers played their pipes while cobras rose up, and just as quickly were squashed down under a hat if someone appeared to be taking a photo without paying. I don’t know how snake charmers made money before cameras were invented, but now they seem to live on photography payments, with an assistant who wanders around with snakes to drape over tourist’s shoulders for more photo opportunities. Bundles of snakes lay on the ground with sometimes no-one even watching to see that they didn’t make off. One charmer, taking a break, was bitten by a young snake that he was carelessly ‘doodling’ with, and just shook his hand a few times and sucked it. Water sellers in traditional costumes posed with tourists and also cashed in on the craze for photos of every moment.

Women sat on stools, calling out to women and waving patterns for henna hand and face paintings. Other women told fortunes with cards, although I don’t know how the customers would have understood if they didn’t speak Arabic. There were games to try such as fishing for soft drink bottles and a card game in which the customer had to say where a particular card was. A dispute arose from that one, at the same time that a man with a snake chased a female tourist who had taken a photo and not paid enough. Circles of men indicated something of interest in the middle, and these varied from acrobatics, comedy routines, men doing belly dancing, story telling with a few props and readings from an illustrated Koran. Unlike western buskers, who tend to be young and travelling, most of these buskers were middle aged or older, and many were very serious. It was such a pity to not be able to understand what was being said, although we could enjoy the musicians who performed for circles of listeners or who moved across the square playing their instruments. Payments were made voluntarily by listeners and onlookers, sometimes to encourage the next part of the act and sometimes at the end. As many as a hundred and fifty people would be crowded around a performer.

There were rows and rows of stalls selling freshly squeezed juice, with pyramids of oranges and grapefruits. Others sold all kinds of dried fruits and their displays were immaculate works of art, with every kind neatly in its own section. Some more stalls on the ground had items for treatment of ailments and for making spells. Different herbs and compounds were displayed amongst parts of animals, such as horns, skins and testicles, and roots and bark of different plants.

What was truly amazing was that on a Monday afternoon there were so many people with the time to go to the square and listen. While there were some tourists, the vast majority were Moroccans and nearly all men, completely absorbed by what they were watching.

We stayed watching the entertainments for a while, and then walked to some seats opposite the treed Foucault Square to eat our lunch. It was a good choice since we could observe everyone passing by and a bad choice because all the horse drawn carriages were just opposite and the smell of manure and urine, despite the nifty arrangement hanging below the horses’ tails, was pretty overpowering. It was just lovely to be relaxing in the sun anyway, with no arrangements to rush to fulfil and nowhere we had to be. It was just lovely to be warm. The motor bike has gone crazy here in Marrakesh, with so many rushing back and forth without regard to any road rules that there is quite a bit of noise pollution as well as exhaust pollution from them. Women ride them as well as men here. There is a wide range of dressing among Moroccan women, from the traditional to the modern for all ages. The tourists are very interesting to observe, with the majority seeming to be our age or older. Of course there are lots of young people too. Today we were noting how couples looked like each other, and how if they were old hippies, they would both be old hippies, and if one wore a lot of gold jewellery, the other would too.

A little girl of about eight with a very runny nose was trying to sell a tray of biscuits. Her younger brother, about five, came along with a couple of packets of tissues for sale. Keith said ‘Non, merci,’ (No, thank you,) but instead of moving on the little boy just propped in front of Keith repeating ‘Non, merci, non, merci’. Presumably someone has taught him not to take ‘no’ for an answer and to wear the customer down. Keith just ignored him and eventually he moved off, with a very firm, ‘Well fuck you!’ Such are the life lessons for some five year olds here. His approach was successful further on when a tourist gave in and took the two packets and gave him a coin. He grabbed a packet back, so he obviously knew what his goods were worth.

Moving on again, it was a pleasure to see the Koutoubia minaret, built in 1150. It is an aesthetically very pleasing minaret, nearly seventy metres high, in soft apricot stone with bands of green tiles, and turrets like stepped pyramids. It has been recently restored, but not to its original state, which would have been painted plaster. The original mosque on the site can be seen as excavated ruins. They show the costly mistake which was made by someone who did not line it up properly with Mecca. It looks to have been about ten degrees out. It was demolished and a new mosque was built beside it.

We strolled in the loveliest gardens behind the mosque, with roses still in flower providing a lovely perfume. They are in a formal style, with a central fountain and paths around beds of orange trees, palms and flowers. There are numerous seats, and all were being sat on. We were not the only ones to be taking a day to relax and enjoy the weather. I noticed an elderly French couple, walking along arm in arm and making it from one resting spot to the next around the gardens. Their appearance was timeless, and made no concession to modern travel wear or comfortable shoes. Their faces were marked by joy, and their expressions were sweet and benign. I hope that we can be as happy to be in the moment in our later years, and that we are still visiting gardens in exotic places too.

Suddenly I was very tired and so we walked back to the hotel. I didn’t even last to have any dinner, since I was fast asleep by 5.30. Keith went out to the internet café. I didn’t wake to find his note telling me when he would be back. I didn’t wake until fourteen and a half hours later.

Below: views of Marrakesh's main square in the late afternoonThe two seller above has all kinds of animal parts, one presumes to be illegally obtained, such as python skins.

A roadside food stall in a mountain village with the snack meals prepared in traditional pottery tajines, with a small charcoal fire in the pot underneath.

In Fes motor vehicles are banned from the medina. In the narrow market streets of Marrakesh we found the constant speedy motor scooters a noisy, smelly, hazardous nuisance, making the area unpleasant to be in. In the still air the exhaust fumes hang in the air and it must be a very unhealthy environment for those who work there.

Trekking in southern Morocco, Sunday January 11th

Keith woke early and surprised some locals when he appeared at the spring with a bucket to collect water for the toilet. He walked around the area to stay warm. I woke at about eight o’clock when we had breakfast of omelette, tea and bread. We thanked and farewelled the family members and Youssef II, and set off on our trek. The water in some puddles was frozen and the wind was icy cold.

We crossed the road and headed off over the mountains, along a little path that was one person wide. It was a fantastic feeling to have nothing man made in view – just the vast and bleak mountains and their glorious textures and colours. Youssef was walking very fast and I had a little trouble keeping up as I wiped my weeping eyes and dripping nose. We were 2400 metres above sea level, so it was probably my cold that was affecting me, rather than the altitude, but I did feel a little breathless. After a while we passed a village, and could see a part of a long wall. When we asked Youssef about it, he told us that it was the wall that marked someone’s land, where no-one else could go, and that a house would eventually be built in it. Youssef was not very communicative, but he did tell us that he had been very cold in the night.

We walked for quite a long time before we headed downhill and into a gorge. The river rushed along through it and was washing over the stepping stone crossings. At one point we were clambering along the cliff wall, and it was quite difficult for me but I managed with Youssef’s help. Youssef decided that the mountain crossing that he had planned a little further on would be too difficult for me and said that it was no problem because we could go the other way, by the road, at that point. I asked Keith if he would like to go over the mountain with Youssef and I could meet them later coming via the road, but Keith said that we should stick together.

The gorge became narrower and the river crossings more frequent. Soft flaky snow was falling. Youssef was trying to find more rocks so that I could cross at one point when a man on a donkey came along. Later Youssef told me that he was the Immam of the next village; a friend and a neighbour of his aunt. After some talking, the man agreed to take me on his donkey up the gorge to the aunt’s house, where I would wait for Keith and Youssef. Getting me up onto the donkey was a major task, but once I was up there it was quite comfortable because I could put my feet into the open panniers and hold onto the man’s waist. He was wearing a marvellous semi-circular hooded cloak of tightly woven dark brown wool to keep him warm. We trotted away, leaving the others to negotiate the river with their longer legs. The gorge was a different place from the muffled perspective of the back passenger on a donkey, but it was very beautiful, with oleander bushes fringing it in many spots. The Immam made sure that I was holding on well whenever we went uphill and I was in danger of slipping off the back.

It was a surprise to the aunt and her family when we arrived, and I dismounted on a rock outside her door. Nevertheless, she took me into the family room where some boys were watching television. I was deposited there and after a while Youssef and Keith arrived. Youssef had hurried to arrive, leaving Keith behind and unsure of what streets to take or where to go once he came to the village. He had to ask people on the street which way a man had gone.

We met the wives of the aunt’s two sons, one of the sons and the grandchildren, and the Immam was there too. We had a cup of tea and then we seemed to stay on forever. Lunch appeared - a Berber omelette for us and a tajine for the family. There was a warm, friendly atmosphere but the television was showing continuous coverage of the war, in Arabic. We could see the images but understand nothing. The family and Youssef were talking about it. At no stage were we included in any of the conversations, so it was a bit like watching a play rather than having any part in it. The only time Youssef spoke to us was to say ‘Happy?’ or to answer a direct question from us. Eventually I coaxed a little boy called Mohamed to come and sit on my knee, and then we were a little included because motherhood is revered and respected everywhere. He was the sweetest little boy and just snuggled in.

We set off again, coming out of the gorge and up onto the road not far from where we had caught the bus the day before. Youssef walked ahead of us and only spoke if we asked him something. It was not so far to the village where we had had a glass of tea the day before so we were surprised when he suggested stopping there for tea. We said that we didn’t need any and could walk on, but if he wanted to have a rest, that that was fine too. We stayed there for ages while Youssef caught up on the hash smoking that he had missed during the morning, due to having run out. He talked with his friends, and with us to push further tours. He said that snow on these mountains meant that the road to Marrakesh would be closed for the bus, but that he could drive us and we could stay at his friend’s place. We said that we would be taking the bus in the morning to Marrakesh and that we would not be taking any other tours. If the bus couldn’t go, we would wait for one that did. From this point on, the lack of effort towards us seemed to degenerate into disinterest and even contempt. Perhaps he had seen us as rich tourists who could be milked for more and he was disappointed, but lack of sleep may have been affecting him too. At any rate, he asked me for medication for the absent shop keeper who had a headache so I handed over my only three paracetamols. After that we were just sitting there waiting for him to finish, as precious walking time passed by.

At last we left and from then on we seemed to be perpetually about five metres behind him, no matter how fast we walked. At one point he stopped to make another walking baton for Keith but I explained that we could not take them away with us even if we wanted to, because of the Australian regulations. We were now in the country we had walked in yesterday, and it was different, yet just as beautiful, seeing it from the other direction. We walked on and on and on. When Youssef stopped to go to the toilet, he told us to just keep going up the road. We walked for at least three kilometres without him, which gave us a chance to discuss his behaviour. Ultimately we thought that it is best to have some time with a guide before employing him, to check that he is able to be the sort of guide that you want and that your combined language skills would be adequate. The fit here with us wasn’t perfect, with all of us speaking only some French, and us wanting more that just someone to follow into unknown country. No doubt the people who wrote in his comments book had had great times, with different expectations from the beginning.

When Youssef caught up with us, he suggested that we flag a ride if possible. That seemed a good idea since it looked as if we might not make it back before dark. No passing vehicles stopped for a lot further, but we kept walking on. Eventually we were lucky and, piled into a taxi, we were driven at least six kilometres, but maybe more, to Youssef’s village. We scrambled back up the hill to his place and gratefully warmed ourselves by the heater. His sister-in-law had prepared a delicious meal so we had an early dinner. Keith paid the last part of the trekking fee. Youssef said that we could repack our bags and give him things that we didn’t need – ‘for the poor’. He said that we could give him our medications since they are expensive here. We could also give him some money for continuing his building projects and that hat is what tourists do.

It was when we discussed the bus that the atmosphere completely changed and Youssef turned nasty. He said that we would need to book tickets that night for the bus in the morning, with the best one being at 7 a.m. He could drive in and do it, for an exorbitant cost that he claimed was only for petrol. He also gave the bus ticket prices at way above what we expected them to be. He was so nasty when we queried the prices that I just wanted to get on the first bus and leave. I did ask him what would happen if we gave him the money he claimed was the cost of the tickets and it turned out to be less. He said that he would give us back the difference. You can see by this that we no longer trusted him. We gave him the money and he left to buy the tickets.

When he returned he told me that the price he had told us was the correct one but that he had been able to get it cheaper as a Moroccan. I did not really believe that since it was a big company and not just a private bus company. He asked me to give him Keith’s walking boots while Keith was in the shower but I refused. The bus tickets had the price written on them. When Keith asked for the change, about $A20, Youssef said that he was keeping it as a charge for the trip to take us to the bus tomorrow. It all went downhill from here, with us reminding him that that was included in the original agreement and him saying that we could make our own way there since it would be too early for him to take us unless we gave him more money. We were ten kilometres from town in a place with only occasional passing taxis. He raved on about his costs, and what he had paid the families and how we should pay more, particularly aiming it at me, as possibly the softer touch. He went on about being a poor man, as if that gave him the right to be dishonest. In the end he agreed to take us, and said that we could knock on the house door to wake him up. He told us all about other generous tourists again, and I said that we were not other people. He left, but almost immediately popped back to remind us to give him things for the poor and some money to help with his buildings.

We were completely nonplussed and the ugly scene left us feeling very uncomfortable. Even though he had not been the greatest guide for us, we had enjoyed the trekking. We had paid him a lot of money for what the tour turned out to be, but we had chosen to do that. Now we felt that we were dealing with an unscrupulous man who to some extent had us in his power. We couldn’t understand why he had suddenly agreed to drive us for no extra cost, although Keith thought that perhaps he still hoped we would give him more money. I was glad that I was not alone in this situation, since Youssef had been quite aggressive and overpowering. We went to bed, but not to sleep, as each of us re-ran the conversations and thought of what we should do. At last I dropped off but Keith worried on. At 3 a.m. he asked me if we could just leave very early and take our chances on other transport, since he never wanted to see Youssef again. I had thought that we could report him to the tourist police if he tried any more tricks and I wanted him to say ‘Happy?’ so that I could say that I was not. We decided to do Keith’s plan, and if no-one came by, to put mine into action.

A Berber nomad hut: sheep and shepherd share the same space for warmth during the night. There is not enough feed for the sheep to stay for long in one place.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Saturday January 10th

Keith and Christine would love to hear from you with questions, comments, personal news and any news at all from Australia or wherever you are. We will reply to all emails! Please write to either windlechristine@gmail.com or windle.keith@gmail.com

Youssef collected us and drove us to his house where we left our big packs. We would stay there on Sunday night and leave early for the bus on Monday morning. We had the inevitable cup of tea before we left.

It was exciting to be scrambling down the hill and onto the road, setting off on a two day trek into beautiful country. The distances were realistic, with about 16 km today and 19 or so tomorrow, and with our recent walk at the Todra Gorge, we knew that we could handle them. It was cold to start with but we walked at a brisk pace and I was soon stripping off. The area is really lovely, with the bare mountains showing every kind of geological change. The light shining on ridges and casting other areas into shadow and the changing colours of pink to almost red gave us constantly interesting views. We walked along the river and through the gardens. Youssef said that the gardens no longer support Berber families and that they have to buy some provisions from markets. Men were working in the fields, turning over the ground with short handled spades with the blade at an acute angle. Tamarisks were grown to be coppiced, and they and the prunings from the olives and figs provided fuel for cooking. Lucerne, wheat and various vegetable crops were grown between the trees and roses. The men’s puppy followed us until it was driven back by Youssef.

An old lady sat at the doorway of a walled house and yard, and Youssef asked her if anyone was home. The family was out working in the fields, but we were able to go in to use the toilet. When I held out my hand in greeting to the old lady she ignored it. Youssef told me that she was blind, so I reached down to her hand and took it as I spoke. She spoke to me in Berber which I didn’t understand. There are four forms of the Berber language in Morocco, and everyone learns Arabic at school. Children start on French at third class level in primary school and on English at secondary school, called college here. Many older people speak only Berber and Arabic. We left the old lady sitting on her step and continued on.

We passed by a village where we could hear the sound of a celebration, which Youssef said was a wedding. At last we came to a house that seemed to grow out of the gorge wall. We entered and met some friends of Youssef’s. We were taken around to a locked building which had rugs and cushions in it, as well as a strange little tree ornament. Youssef’s friend brought us some tea and mostly we were alone drinking it. We didn’t realise that this was the lunch stop since it was quite early. Once Youssef said that we would be having lunch, I reminded him that we did not eat meat or fish. The man brought in a delicious Berber omelette and bread. Knives and forks are not used here. The food is presented on a communal plate and pieces of flat bread are used to scoop it up. Through the window we could see a woman digging up carrots in the garden on the flats below. She gave them to Youssef to deliver to her mother up in the mountain village where we would be staying the night. Youssef’s friend is also building on areas for tourists to stop and eat at and also an area for a craft shop.

As we left, we passed a woman washing the clothes in the canal. There is a great system of canals everywhere, with water taken from the river upstream and fed through very small canals to irrigate the farmlands. I was so busy watching her that I slipped and fell quite heavily. I scratched my thigh and tore a hole in my pants. Of course I said that it was nothing, and walked on.

Youssef helped me in the tricky parts where it required a very long step or the ability to walk on a ledge or near vertical rocks. Keith had no problems at all and enjoyed any parts that were challenging. We crossed the river on rickety little bridges a couple of times and on rocks at others. Youssef took a long cane from a pile and broke it and cleaned it to make me a Berber walking stick. It was excellent, being very strong but light. Eventually we left the canal edges and gardens and returned to the road. Although not as interesting, we did pass through villages and see more people. Women and children were carrying great loads of wood and animal feed on their backs. Some men were working on canal repairs. People were walking along the road and some were simply resting beside it on rocks. The mountains continued to dominate the scenery and along with the river, and at one stage the confluence of two rivers, provided constantly changing and mesmerising vistas.

Another stop was at a village café where we had more cups of tea. The owner was a tall, gaunt man in a dark woven cloak. He sat opposite his shop in a patch of sunshine against a low wall. He wiped the nose of his young son now and then; a boy we had guessed to be about five years old but who the father said was eight. Nearby a group of girls was playing soccer, practising some pretty nifty footwork. Youssef told us that there is a women’s soccer team in Morocco that does quite well.

Youssef asked Keith for some money to pay for food for later, so Keith gave him part of the fee. I was a bit embarrassed at that show of lack of faith in our guide, but I know that not paying until you have received services is what the guide book advises. When Youssef returned, he made a plate of sardine, tomato and onion salad which he offered us. I reminded him that we are vegetarian so he ate the salad alone. During this stop Youssef spent quite a lot of time chatting with his acquaintances. We could not understand what was being said and Youssef did not include us with any translations. About every half hour throughout the day he would ask us ‘Ca va?’ or ‘Happy?’ which after a while began to get on our nerves. He did answer our questions but most of the conversation he initiated was directed at ways to make more money out of us, such as suggestions for him to take us to the desert or on extra trips here and there, or that we should stay with his friend in Marrakesh.

We set off again, this time with the road climbing higher and higher and eventually passing under a short tunnel. The water fell in noisy cascades down below. The rocks were amazing, looking as if they had been neatly laid as bricks. The whole area was an erosion lover’s dream, showing the effects of water and the extremes of temperature. It was late afternoon and any warmth from the sun had long since gone. We climbed up a hill for a view over the village in a valley while Youssef stopped for a rest and a smoke. Just as we climbed down a country bus came along so Youssef flagged it down. It seemed to be full already, but we were wrong since we and a few more passengers further on were squeezed in. It was a mini bus, probably for about fourteen people, but the back area was full of bags of wheat or some such. That did not stop it transporting twenty people including the driver and four children, and a sheep. I couldn’t see anything but Keith was near a window and said that that was just as well, since I wouldn’t have liked the long, steep drops from the road to the valleys below. Youssef chatted to a man beside him all the way.

It was nearly dark when we arrived at our destination of Timetda. Youssef’s friend, another Youssef, also got off, since his family home was there too. We walked across to an earth walled house, beside a spring that fed a pond for animals to drink at and an outlet for people to collect water from. Youssef I (our guide) had told us that we would be staying with his family so we assumed that this was his house. Youssef I told us that Youssef II had invited us for a cup of tea. We entered a little courtyard with buildings around it. An elderly couple was sitting in a little, dark, smoke filled room where the fire was being coaxed into life. We were introduced to them by Youssef II as his grandparents. Next we were taken into a large room where both Youssefs laid out carpets at one end and gave us cushions to sit on and blankets to wrap ourselves in. It was icy cold and even two blankets were not warming me up. A lady and her daughter brought in the tea. I think that she was the widow of an uncle but I am not sure. At this point Youssef I said that we would be staying here, and that it was the same as his family’s house. Youssef II was as student in Amsterdam, studying geology and languages. He worked as a guide and a driver in the holidays and would continue that work when he finished. He spoke English but we spoke French with him at first to include the other Youssef in the conversation. Youssef I said that it would be better if we spoke English so that he could learn it. Youssef II explained that the Rose Valley has excellent examples of different periods of geological history in the rocks, and that the ‘bricks’ we had seen, the tilted sections and the gorge were all of great interest to geologists. Each year tours of geology students come here. He said that there were many Moroccan students at his university in Amsterdam, including some girls.

The two Youssefs offered us a taste of the fig wine that they were drinking; a clear and strong alcohol that they downed in small swigs. They were both smoking kif (hashish), as Youssef I had been doing for much of the day. He had told us that it is good for the health and has no consequences of impairing your judgement such as alcohol does. It just helps you to relax. We had thought of all the studies in Australia that have led to drug testing as well as alcohol testing for drivers, since it does impair judgement. Youssef I is a taxi driver as well as a guide.

It was not quite the evening with a Berber family seeing the way of life that I had expected, since we were apart from the family in a room with just the two guides. I asked about the bread making that Youssef I had mentioned as being something we would see, but it had finished while we were having the tea. We did see the semi-circular earth oven that it was made in and the tray it would have sat on. The bread is round and flat but does have some yeast in it, and is stored in a plastic basket under cloths. A pot of couscous sat ready on a little stove.

The lady brought in an earthenware container full of hot coals to warm the room and Youssef I started to prepare a tajine for our meal. A tajine is the name of a shallow ceramic dish with a conical lid. It sits on a ledge on the pot of coals and is cooked from below, with the steam aiding the cooking. First onions were cooked in a little oil and then spices and salt were added. Meat went in next and was cooked for about a quarter of an hour, being turned over every now and then. The meat was then piled up to make the inner core of a pyramid of vegetables – carrot, potato, green pepper and tomato, which were added according to the length of time that they would take to cook. It seemed to take forever to prepare and even longer to cook, but time goes slowly when you are sitting about listening to other people talking in another language and feeling cold. We asked what the lady had been talking about with them as she used the bellows to heat up our coals. It had been about the two marriage proposals she had received during the past three days and that she had not yet chosen.

I asked Youssef II if there was somewhere that I could put my long johns on under my pants, and he took me by torch light into another room where the lady and her daughter sat around a fire. He shone the torch on me so that I could see what I was doing, and I am sure that he took me into the one warmer room, but it felt strange to be taking off my pants in the presence of others, particularly of a man we had not met, who also came in. It is the only time that I have felt embarrassed to have a spot light on me. Still, I was now so much warmer that it was worth it.

We ate some vegetables from the tajine and a couscous and vegetables dish that the lady had prepared. It was a very nice meal, and we had enjoyed the soft singing of some traditional Berber songs while it cooked. After more tea, it was time for bed, with the blankets and rugs being consolidated on one side of the floor for us to sleep on and under. We asked where the toilet was, and then it was time to sleep. I wore all my clothes, my hat, scarf, gloves and shawl and it was still a while before I warmed up in bed. Keith was cold all night and found sleeping on the floor uncomfortable for his back. I was not so uncomfortable except when I rolled over onto my injured thigh which had quite a few lacerations on it.

El Kalaa des Mgouna, Morocco, Friday January 9th

We slept in a while and then lazed about having showers and typing. It had been a long time since we had had a morning with nothing to do but wait. We had breakfast at 10.30 – a leisurely meal of bread, cheese, jam, juice, tea and coffee. The Kasbah had been built using traditional materials and methods. It was away from other buildings and ringed by mountains. Monayeem had painted a design on the door himself, and efficiently ran every part of the business.

Our couch surfing host arrived a little late, having been on a chat line to a French friend until the wee small hours. He took us to meet his wife and children, since his father was out. His house is enormous, and was recently built once he and his brother each married and produced six children in ten years between them. The old part of the house is now used as a barn for a cow and sheep with lambs. From the rooftop terrace we could see the ruins of the original Kasbah of the village, which had had too many families in it, causing homes to be built outside its walls. Later it ceased to be used at all. The ruins of Kasbahs and mud brick buildings are very picturesque, as they seem to melt away rather than tumble down. Our host’s wife was friendly and gave us some tea and biscuits. We gave the family some apricots and almonds, and showed them photos of our home and family. The three little girls were very sweet, although quite shy at first.

We set off walking to town with our host pushing his motorbike until a taxi with room in it passed by. We were driven off and met our host again at the taxi rank in town. He then found us another taxi, which we all took to the Rose Valley. The taxi driver was called Yousef and was a family connection of our host’s. He was an expert on the Rose Valley, since he lived there, and took trekking tours into it. We stopped along the way to see two Kasbahs, one of which was wanted for transforming into a hotel by some French investors. The locals refused to sell it. Our host had been telling us that we shouldn’t go to Marakesh, that there was nothing much there and that it could be dangerous for us in view of the war. Yousef agreed and they both thought that more time in their area before finishing our travels in Casablanca would be best for us.

Yousef invited us all for a cup of tea at his house, so we ended up there. He showed us how he had been building on more sections to accommodate the tourists who came to explore the valley and go trekking with him. He showed us his book with comments in it and told us of clients who came year after year, and of some who gave him money so that he could continue with his building project. We thought that he was just making conversation, but he put a proposal to us that we go trekking with him for two days in the nearby mountains and gorge, staying overnight with a Berber family and seeing them going about their daily tasks. It was pretty much a hard sell and quite a high price. Our host went over things with him, I think, but we could not understand what was being said. Keith said that we would think about it during the day and Yousef said that if we did that, we may miss out since he would be picking up other tourists and they may take up the offer. We felt that we were being pressured, but it was the sort of thing we would really enjoy and would only take up one extra day. The price seemed high for Morocco, but not unreasonable for us. It was not something that we would ever normally do, and was really stretching our budget, but we did think that it was just the grabbing of the opportunity that was how we had hoped to travel. We were very careful to go over everything that we would be doing, where we would be staying, that all meals would be included, that we are vegetarian and don’t eat meat, chicken or fish, that transport from the Kasbah, and on the final morning to the bus station were included, and that no shopping was on the agenda. I also explained that while I could walk well on the flat and gentle hills, I was not a confident or capable climber.

We left with our host to walk back to Kalaa through the farms and villages. It was a really delightful walk, stepping along the little earth walls that divided the gardens and irrigation channels. Our host is a well educated man who teaches Arabic literature in a secondary school. He told us that the Berber religion, before the arrival of Islam, was a mixture of Jewish and African nature worship, and that the Buddhists that our young guide had told us about could not possibly have been here. He had married his wife after knowing her for three days, and most women have their interests centred on the home, children and animals once they are married. The figs were a legacy of the Arabs, and the Jews had developed a way to distil the figs to make alcohol. He drinks and smokes, as do many Moroccan Muslims. He said that the moderate Moroccan version of Islam does not require them to pray many times a day or to abstain from alcohol and smoking. The Kasbahs were fortified to keep other Berber groups out, but that Berbers were all peaceful. The attacks were made by Berbers desperate for food.

The gardens we walked beside were edged with olive trees and centifolia roses. The petals are harvested over a two month period and sold to a French perfume maker. These days the returns are so low that it is hardly worth harvesting them, however they are the basis of a massive tourist influx for the annual rose festival, so they do bring in revenue that way. The king has recently bought land and planted it with roses, which has led some people to hope that he might be planning to develop a Moroccan perfume industry that could pay better. At any rate, the roses grow simply from cuttings and so the number of plants could be increased quickly if needed.

We scrambled up the hill beside the old Kasbah and walked along the road from that point. It was quite late and cold, and so when a taxi passed, our host hailed it. Back in town, we continued on in the taxi while he collected his motor bike. Unfortunately our taxi driver sailed past our stop, and once he realised it, he told us that he would drop us off on the way back. Once again we thanked our ability to speak French sufficiently to have understood what was happening, because we seemed to drive on and on as night fell. At last the driver turned back and we arrived at our stop. He overcharged Keith, who queried him, but gave the correct change when our host intervened. Our host said it was a case of mistaken calculation ( 8 + 8 = 19).

Keith stayed in the downstairs room at our host’s house, where he was able to use the internet, and our host drove me back to the Kasbah on his motorbike. When we arrived, a Spanish couple, Paula and Ramon, and their guide, Ali, were warming themselves by the fire. They were delightful company and had just come from Marakesh which they had enjoyed visiting. I failed to type up all the days that I was behind on as we chatted and compared experiences. Ali used to be a props man on the movies, and had worked on Mummy 1 and Mummy 2 and other films that I had heard of, but gave it up because of the terrible rate of pay he received. Now he works for a travel company and takes small groups of travellers around Morocco. I didn’t feel quite so guilty at socialising instead of working when Keith arrived and confessed that he had spent a good deal of his time chatting to our host’s brother. Of course, we always prefer to socialise since it is one of the most enjoyable and educational aspects of travel, so neither of us were really feeling guilty at all. We had another delicious meal - soup, a spicy mix of vegetables topped with an egg mix and mandarins – and chatted on with Paula and Ramon. Ali popped in and out and Monayeem was a dignified host, now in western dress, making sure that all was went well.

We set our alarm for quite early, to allow for repacking our bags as we would only be taking our day packs trekking with us and needed to be ready for Yousef, who would come to pick us up at eight a.m.