11.1.2012 Goats in trees and snakes in boxes (Morocco)

Tree climbing goats

City walls

The dawn had drawn a rumpled, fleecy blanket – fiery red – across the sky as we clanged down the silver gangplank and made our first ever arrival in Africa.  A light mist of smoke hung over the city below us; a square orange castle clung to the hillside above.  Obediently herded into the bus by Hassan, our guide, cool in his flowing cream robe, we watched as Morocco unfolded – white or terracotta cube houses, wide open plains stretching dry between the blue Atlas mountain ranges,  which trimmed either horizon.  The dryness was punctuated by prickly trees with dusty dark green leaves and small yellow fruits, by plump, dusty sheep herded by men in flowing black or brown robes, and goats perched high in the trees, cropping their sharp leaves.  Rich terracotta walls, battlemented with rectangles that made you want to jump up and walk along them – up, down, up, down - their straw and mud manufacture conjuring up pictures of Pharaoh and the Israelites.  Here and there, weather and years had worn away their neat corners, leaving a row of orange teeth, bared against the open plains all around.

Mint tea

An hour later, an elegant entranceway of cool tiles, a ceiling decorated with the twisting plasterwork patterns, and into a tranquil cafe, its greenery an antidote to the dust outside.  Open tents of thick, rich fabric - maroon, gold, blue – settees upholstered in peach and red velvet; a man serving mint tea from the curving spouts of silver and gold teapots - pouring it, sparkling amber, from shoulder height and with complete accuracy, into tiny glasses, filled with fresh whole leaves of mint and stacked on embossed silver trays.

Then the walled city, its cream ramparts shaped as in a children’s fort, square battlements, wide curvaceous gates, arched at the top, pinched in the middle, like a plump lady whose corpulence is nipped at the waist with a tight belt. 

And so into the souk or market.  Narrow passages under a high roof, the pungent mix of herbs and spices fills the nostrils.  Stalls crush and compete.  Piles of plump dates, shiny nuts, dried prickly pears (don’t eat too many for fear of dire effects on the digestion) all piled high; spices in drums, each carefully shaped into neat cones at the top – orange, yellow, black, white – every shade of each.  Boots hanging neatly in pairs from the ceiling; robes and scarfs of every colour and pattern; leather shoes, with long pointed upturned toes, in yellows, browns, greens.  Carved wood, butchers stalls with meats hanging above the counter, metalwork produced while you wait.  A whole alley of furniture makers, chiselling and sawing, create small tables, huge dressers, wooden spoons; elsewhere are baskets, two handled, in all sizes; woven panniers for the donkeys which are to be seen in the streets outside, laden and pulling carts while the bikes and motorcycles weave between them and the long glossy tourist buses.  Vegetables of every colour and shape, some recognisable, some not.  This year, the rains which should have arrived in October and lasted till mid-February, have not yet appeared, and it’s early January, so fruit and veg have quadrupled in price as a result.  Pottery, mostly brown, and featuring everywhere the shining tagine pots, with their typical conical shape and tiny chimneys. Fish, displayed packed tight like silver leaves; velvet cushions in high wobbly stacks, purple, blue, gold.  The stall holders call out, entice, beseech.  Bill tries a bit of bartering, but the deal does not turn out to our satisfaction, so no purchase ensues. 

Music!

We arrive in a broad, open square with trees scattered across its cobbles.  There’s a man with a cobra in a wooden box.  He sits on a carpet, trying to drum up business before beginning to charm it with his pipe, but interest is sparse, and apart from once raising its sinuous silver head briefly, the cobra makes no further appearance. Two musicians entertain, broad smiles, long striped gowns and pill box hats.

Groups of men, swathed in the traditional robes – long, with a pointed hood, wizard style, at the back – are sitting in the shade of the trees, talking and smoking.  A group gather around a tall, dark man, a blue turban wound loosely about his head.  He has a carpet thrown out on the cobbles, covered with dried herbs and small bottles, and he’s doing a hard sell on what appear to be medicaments of uncertain origin.  He soon draws a sizeable group of men to watch, little white woven hats, like small baskets, leaning forward and nodding.  He’s doing much better business than the snake charmer.  There are men everywhere, bartering, smoking, sitting at the round cafe tables, laughing on the pavement.  But very few women.  Pondering on this mystery, we depart, airconditioned, to the high white walls of the Destiny - a little bit of Britain, roped to Morocco by seventeen stout ropes. 

Some of the other passengers have refused to leave the ship today, staying by the pool, anxious, they say, about the culture, the country, the people here.  For us, admittedly cocooned as we were in a tourist group, it was not as much of a culture shock as we expected.  The hubbub was not as relentless as India, the market similar to Romania.  But yet different it certainly is.  60% Berber, 39% Arab, the population presents a mixture of history and culture that is largely unknown to us.  Worth the visit without a doubt.