Where ever you go… There you are.

  When we first rolled into Rissani I thought I couldn’t leave the place fast enough.  The touts and beggars amble through the dusty streets seeking out the last hustle of the tourist season.   
Swarmy men befriend you and fill your head with promises of terrace sheesha and hot showers.    Thank Allah we met Mohammed at the little café downstairs from his hotel before we left for the desert.  Coming back from the Sahara we were sure of what we wanted.  Food, water, and solace from the relentless Saharan heat.     At the Hotel Filalia we found ourselves with a new surrogate father, a lovely salon for wasting away the hottest parts of the day and as luck would have it a water shortage.  Who knew in the desert there were times when whole towns had no water.   

Silly American, water is just another thing we take for granted.  

  But in America you would never be allowed to sleep on the roof of the hotel, I think one of the greatest things about Morocco are the terraces.   For one or two Euro a night you can sleep on the roof, outside of the sticky rooms and questionable bedding.  Staring at the stars provides all the entertainment one could ask for.    Hotel Filalia is not a two, three, or even four star hotel.   It is the hotel of a thousand stars as Mohammed would like to say.  It is also a bit like the song Hotel California, I think we tried to check out a few times but it was almost impossible to leave, and if it hadn’t been for the painful heat, and my need to be in Spain in a  few weeks time ,  I could have stayed in Risanni for awhile.
 
 Mohammed took it upon himself to take us everywhere with him.  We met his friends, drank gallons of mint tea, and wandered the souks and the back alleys poking our noses into everything. We contemplated buying donkeys and getting in line for a good old fashioned bloodletting, neither happened in the end though. 

  A few nights pass and we are invited to spend the evening at Mohammed’s friend’s house, there would be black market wine, date liquor, Moroccan pizza, oud playing and of course dancing.  Supposedly it was the first time this guy had ever had westerners in his house.  He kept apologizing for the state of things!?  And we tried to reassure him that his house was amazing as we were comfortable and happy.  Bowls of olives were passed around and suddenly after watching a video tape of the guys wedding I started to get this creeped out-where are all the women feeling.  In the whole tape there wasn’t one shot of the bride, or any other women for that matter.    I asked a bit meekly of Mohammed to explain and sure enough, you have to love Muslim culture, the women have their own little wedding celebration far from the eyes of the other men that may be attending the party.  After hearing that I kind of took a figurative step back from the situation, here I am a western harlot hanging out with men who have their wives tucked away in dark corners and on the rooftops, but because I am a western girl I can party with them and all is good?  Hmmm, not anymore, I asked to be taken up to the ladies. 

  On the terrace the night air was cool and fresh.  The wives, grandmothers and daughters were centered around a communal tajine dish.   Sophie and I sat down as they wished, the circle got wider and we were within minutes engulfed in a whole other reality completely hidden by the men.  Bits of strange tongue like meat were thrust into our hands and we tried without words to express gratitude, but they must have taken that for hunger because they kept trying to feed us more.    After a while it was time for the pizzas to be cooked for the men downstairs, there on the roof was a small adobe oven which they fed with bits of straw.  The smell reminded me of Galena so I was instantly in love with the permanent memory, and finally getting a chance to see how the other half of Morocco lives, the women that is. 

  Heading home that night in a group that consisted of a barber, a fully pissed CD salesman/musician, two Mohammed’s, a few random drum players, an Italian, An Argentinean, two Londoners, and finally two Americans,  we wearily walked until the moon started rising and there was the sound of celebration coming down the street towards us.  The drummers  as if right on cue starting drumming with the people who were approaching and for awhile we had a full on jam session with a Berber family out on their wedding celebration.
No, the Berbers don’t mess around with the night long parades throughout the street celebrating the union and love they will have for a lifetime.  They embrace it, and I would have to say the most beautiful thing about it was the fact that they were there Bride and Groom together hand and hand for the entire world to see. 

Even if it was 3am.
 
 

 

  Travel in Morocco isn’t as difficult as one may imagine.  As long as you aren’t in a hurry, and have a gut of steel the local buses are a great way to see the country and sweat like mad.   I like getting off at some of the stops and eating all the wonderful strange treats the locals have whipped up for the weary eyed bus rider. 

  The bus ride to Rissani was long, hot and dusty.  Slowy the mountains gave way to plains and then the plains dissapear into dusty desert.  The adobe houses built along the way blend completely into their surroundings. A monochromatic daydream throughout the whole ride.  Ocassionally a oasis appears and the green of the palms draw you in and for a moment you forget you are in the middle of a very harsh and unforgiving enviornment. 

  As soon as we reached Rissani and got off the bus we were bombarded with people trying to get us into their taxis, to their hotels, to their restraunts!   Enough!  We refused all the offers and headed to town to try to make some sence of the confused and shady atmosphere. 

  Yes, we wanted to ride camels into the desert, but with everyone telling you theirs is the best, you tend to get pissed off, besides being tired and sweaty, bargaining just isn’t on the high list of things I want to do when I first roll into a town.

  Thankfully Mr. Couscous came to our rescue.   With his funny arabic/french/english expressions like Americans are sweaty like sugar, we couldn’t resist his charm and took him up on his bargain offer of 200 dirhams per person for a camel ride, and a night with the Berbers.

   Camel rides are so fun!  All the way to the camp our group was silent, the stars came out and the dunes became huge looming shadows in the fading light.  Truly a magical experience, definatley worth 20 dollars US. 

  At the camp we befriended our Berber hosts.  We played with the little girls, drummed on empty water bottles and danced under the stars.   After much playing around we enjoyed the best Tajine I have ever had in my whole Moroccan experience. 

  The rest of the night we spent running up and falling down the dunes, staring at the stars and getting sand in every imaginable place, god it was good.  The next morning we got back on the camels and took a 4×4 ride to Rissani where we would meet our adopted father Mohammed.

 

 

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