THE SOUL OF MAROC

I wrote much of this just a few hours before leaving Maroc, the name Moroccans give their ancient land. From the first moment of arriving, I felt its great welcome. I was asked am I tired? Am I hungry? How could my hosts help me feel better right in this moment, these first moments in Marrakech? It had not been a long flight from Madrid but the lines through immigration and customs made me both hungry and tired.

My hosts listened with ears that heard my needs and immediately began to address them as their guest in their beautiful country. And from that moment of arrival, they were constant in their desire to see my needs were addressed. I experienced many, many news things in Morocco and I have written about them in other blog posts.

My experiences in Morocco's South has made me believe that the desert, the great golden Sahara, has been a constant and guiding influence in the long history of Morocco and might just be its heart. The constant threat of danger formed a culture in which hospitality became the key to survival.

When I first pulled up Southern Morocco on Google Earth, I saw great swaths of mountains and plains (which I learned were called hamadas) slashed with stripes of verdant green. Southern Morocco's desert may be it's heart, but the life-giving rivers coming from the Atlas Mountains in the South's verdant and cultivated valleys are its blood, providing water for homes and crops in this otherwise seemingly inhospitable landscape.

But surely, it is the Moroccans themselves that are its soul. Moroccans, and particularly Amazigh Moroccans (who the English called Berbers) are very modest people. They are kind and thoughtful; they are clean and tidy, always ready to receive a guest as commanded by the Koran and the exigencies of an unforgiving desert. They are justifiably proud of the gifts their country can offer - the exotic adventures, the ancient kasbahs, the beautiful dunes of the desert, the stunning gorges cut by constant waters, the green and productive river valleys. But this pride does not make them arrogant. They are a humble and loving people. In writing this, I hope I do not offend their sense of modesty but how can I possibly explain why I think its people are the soul of Morocco without offering my readers a chance to meet some of the wonderful people I have met there?

For some, I have kept their names since they are businessmen and women and would love for my friends who might be traveling through Morocco to consider them for goods or services. For others, I have changed the name so that it might be less easy to identify them. For any offense, I beg apology.

As I was repacking and trying to cram my gifts into the one small suitcase I brought, my host Adrienne told me she hoped I wasn't 'disappointed' that we hadn't made it to Fez, one of the oldest and most historic of the Royal Cities. I was actually taken aback by the thought that I might be disappointed and took a few seconds to gather my thoughts about my stays in Boumalne Dades and areas further south. I finally settled on the truth of my visit which is even without tourist sites that surely must be listed in every guidebook known to the traveler, I had been given far more than memories and beautiful pictures to show my friends. I had given me the gift of getting to know its people, surely a gift far more valuable.

My last night in Boumalne, my hosts and I went from new friend to friend so I could say goodbye as would be proper in the desert where friendships mean a great deal. Almost all of these people had given me a small gift or a memory that is irreplaceable. Spending my last few hours seemed the courteous way to thank them for taking time to not only meet me, but to let me know they felt getting to know me was the most important thing they had to do whenever we spent time together.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would not have met Masu, my driver up and into the Tanghir Gorge (the subject of another blog post to come) whose smile is as as wide as the ocean and whose sense of humor exceeds the restrictions of the lack of common language. The three of us, Adrienne, Masu and I had a lively conversation all about the lack of common language and we laughed at our ignorance while acknowledging how much fun we were having together regardless. Masu reaffirmed my belief that lack of a common language is only a barrier if you NEED something but if your intent is to have a good time, to enjoy common experiences, common language is down the list of important ingredients.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have gotten to know Odmane, the general director of Xaluca Dades, the luxury hotel that was the site of my blog post HOT IN THE HAMMAN. When our overnight stay in the nomad encampment in the Sahara Desert was aborted due to an impending sandstorm, Odmane assisted us by making sure we had rooms in another Xaluca Hotel, Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, outside of Merzouga and right under one of the Sahara's enormous collection of dunes, Erg Chebbi. Before the sandstorm hit, the hotel staff helped us hire camels and a camel guide to fulfill my deepest Moroccan wish - to sink my toes on the top of a sand dune in the Sahara.

Back in Boumalne on my last night in Marocco, we told Odmane of our experience riding our camels into the dunes to return to the hotel where the sandstorm rattled the doors on their hinges and sent sand drifting under the door, affirming our gratitude that we could still experience the desert but safely. Odmane, whose entire family had been in the Sahara tourism trade for generations, told of his first wild drive through a sandstorm, at 16-years-old, after the driver of the vehicle he was in refused to continue in the blinding storm. Feeling a heavy responsibility for his guest, he took over the wheel even though he was a very inexperienced driver, intent on finding a safe place in which he and his guest could weather the storm, only knowing he really was on the dirt road when he felt its washboards under his feet. From Odmane, I learned how deep runs a sense of responsibility in desert families for their guests.


Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Odman, the merchant, a lanky, good-looking Amazigh (Berber) who invites his customers to Moroccan 'tea' right outside the door of his shop, one of the many doors down one of the many narrow alleys that form Boumalne Dades. I would not have met his beautiful sister who brought us tea with just a bit of saffron, a luxury spice even rare and valuable in Marocco. From Odman and his sister, I learned that Moroccan merchants take an interest in their customers needs and are willing to spend whatever time is necessary to fulfill them. I learned that a transaction with a Moroccan merchant provides an opportunity that goes beyond the purchase into friendship.

 



Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would not have encountered a traditionally-raised woman, whom I shall call Fatima whose marriage had been arranged as it was at that time in Marocco at the very early age of 13. She lost the husband of her 4 children also very early and, without any education, she has managed to raise a family of professionals - a lawyer, two sons certified to work in the tourist trade (very important in Marocco), and a budding mathematician who was studying for her finals during my visits. Now, with all of her children only home for visits, she lives in her spotlessly clean house in the family's kasbah and grows fruit and vegetables in the family plot along the river. She is younger than me. Fatima's happiness, peace and strength are palpable. From her, I learned the Moroccan family relationships, especially her right to bring her children to live in her family's kasbah, mean men and women are supported by their extended family in whatever way is needed. An offshoot of this strong family relationship (to the extent family members are not denied housing) is that homelessness is practically unheard of in Marocco.

Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Aziz Bolouz , who is a sports trainer that offers his family's stunning Kasbah Assafar perched high above the Valley of Roses to groups of athletes wanting a special place to train. Aziz, a runner, takes them up and down the mountains and valleys of the High Atlas, knowing every nook and cranny. Aziz told me he has met so many different kinds of people he wanted to know how people come to believe what they believe so in addition to his study of sports training he took a degree in philosophy. The night we were guests in his family's kasbah was spent dancing and accompanying the two Asafari who sang traditional songs until I could no longer keep my eyes open at 2am.

Aziz and I understand each other's need to be more outside than inside. We both constantly check the sky and track the sun on the mountains' many canyons. I hope to put together an adventure hike in the High Atlas in 2017 with Aziz as the provider of tents and other support. From Aziz, I learned of secret places in the High Atlas and of the great and ever-changing beauty of the sweeping Valley of Roses below his kasbah. He also reinforced the multi-faceted character of the Amazigh, living both in the modern world yet respecting very old fashioned traditions of respect for nature and for hospitality.

These are the people that are the soul of Morocco. Strong, resilient, honest, trust-worthy and reliable. Proud of their heritage but humble by nature. Important and honorable characteristics. I'm sure I would have loved seeing the ancient university in Fez or the great palaces in the other royal cities, but if my trip had not been exactly the way it was would I have made friends like these? I think not and for that I feel very blessed indeed.