Achieving Morocco: One Traveler’s 7 Day Adventure
At times the path is so narrow that I am brushing up against the walls. The sides of time riddled buildings rise up on my left and right, blocking out the sun. At times it looks as if they are reaching inward towards each other, trying to block out the world as well. It is cool and musty here. Pack animals stumble up behind me, their burdened sounds drowned by the commotion in the markets, and someone yells “Attention! Attention!” until I move to the side.
I am here, like many travelers, to kick-start my inner adventurer. The danger and romance of Morocco are not wasted on me. I am seeking something magical. Something spectacular.
Snap! A government official jumps from behind a textile stall and takes my photograph. I am not troubled, as this has happened many times over. I pretend I am famous. My blonde hair alone is making me the subject of much speculation. I can not disguise the fact that I do not belong here. However my dark glasses are allowing me to look without eye contact, giving me a sense of security.
Yes. The magic is here, but I need to work for it much harder than I had thought. It requires endless patience, humor and an eye for recognizing the spectacular before someone points it out to you. Magic does not come easy in Morocco.
Modern Morocco struggles with contradiction. In my tangled alleyway, I see a weary donkey loaded down with enough propane to fuel a jet plane. I quickly move away. A milky-eyed child sits on the ground with his wares spread out in front of him. This includes an oddly out-of-place pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. A set of frilly underwear sways from clothesline in a merchant’s stall. A German man in my group leans over to me and says, “We now know what those covered women are wearing underneath” and gives me an naughty grin.
In my seven-day stay, I will see fields of poppies, camels rolling about in the sand, the oasis of Marrakech rising out of the desert, monuments, castles, poverty and bounty. I will learn the difference between a Berber tent and a Bedouin tent. I will also learn the meanings of cloth colors in a country of strangers and visitors. I will have my face painted with kohl in a spice market. I will even hold an asp in my right hand with a king cobra only two feet from my left hand. These are my spectacular discoveries. The magic I seek can be found everywhere. It is in a nomad chastising me for being married three years without producing any children. It is in the crisp alpine air of the Atlas Mountains. It is found when I duck through a seedy alleyway and open a door to find ornate silk pillows and sweet mint tea on the other side. Smugly, I know that I have achieved my adventure.
The hours in the tangled alleyways of Fez are causing my feet to ache, but I am too distracted to really care. I will rest later. I am here, in Morocco. I made this adventure happen. I am touching the ground and breathing the air of an ancient civilization. I have achieved what I set out to do. How could I not go? Ask yourself again.
