Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 58 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
"Morocco," Sherrill declared, "is the most sexist country I've ever seen."
This was saying something, since by this time she'd seen a good chunk of the world. I couldn't contradict her, though, because we had run into some outrageously sexist behavior there. However, despite that and because of the efforts of our good friend Hala, Morocco turned out to be one the most exciting and memorable of our travels.
By day eight of the trip, our little group was on its third national guide. The first two had resented working for a woman and had assumed that their job was to take us to pricy shops where they'd get kickbacks. Marwan, our third guide, was different. His English was a little shaky, but for the rest of the trip, in his full-length djellaba and pointed yellow babouches (slippers), he helped us through cities and over mountain paths, actually happy to show us his country.
This was saying something, since by this time she'd seen a good chunk of the world. I couldn't contradict her, though, because we had run into some outrageously sexist behavior there. However, despite that and because of the efforts of our good friend Hala, Morocco turned out to be one the most exciting and memorable of our travels.
By day eight of the trip, our little group was on its third national guide. The first two had resented working for a woman and had assumed that their job was to take us to pricy shops where they'd get kickbacks. Marwan, our third guide, was different. His English was a little shaky, but for the rest of the trip, in his full-length djellaba and pointed yellow babouches (slippers), he helped us through cities and over mountain paths, actually happy to show us his country.
Sherrill at Hassan Mosque, Casablanca Casablanca was larger and more varied than Sherrill and I had expected, with funky markets and high rises, grand squares and shabby shopping areas. The big surprise was the enormous new Hassan Mosque, third largest religious structure in the world. Most of Europe's cathedrals could have been swallowed by this mosaic-skinned monster that held 25,000 worshippers at one time. A young woman guided us through it, citing statistics to impress us. Galleries for female worshippers looked down on the enormous room where many thousands of men could worship at the same time.
"Why isn't there space down here for women?" Sherrill asked her.
"Oh," replied the guide, "women are free to worship the same as men—up there."
Later, we learned that the 38 year-old new king, Mohammed VI, had recently married a commoner who was a computer engineer. And, we were told, the new parliament about to open had thirty-five women members. The crowds of young people and swarms of children that we saw verified that 71 percent of the Moroccan population was under 25 years old. Maybe there was hope for the future.
"Why isn't there space down here for women?" Sherrill asked her.
"Oh," replied the guide, "women are free to worship the same as men—up there."
Later, we learned that the 38 year-old new king, Mohammed VI, had recently married a commoner who was a computer engineer. And, we were told, the new parliament about to open had thirty-five women members. The crowds of young people and swarms of children that we saw verified that 71 percent of the Moroccan population was under 25 years old. Maybe there was hope for the future.
We headed north along the coast to Rabat, capital of Morocco since independence in 1956. The city, once French-influenced, seemed to have become a mishmash of architectural styles and neighborhoods, but still possessed a raffish charm, especially the cliff-side kasbah and walled medina, where we wandered along crowded cobblestone lanes, some so narrow that we could touch the buildings on both sides with outstretched arms as we peered into souks and shops.
Medina gate, Fes, Morocco When we walked inside the crenellated walls of the Rabat kasbah, we might've wandered into an old Hollywood epic of Crusader knights vs. Arab warriors, but outside those kasbah walls feral cats lurked among Roman ruins. Olive orchards and cork forests sprawling below the town reminded us of southern Spain and the sunlight and bold colors that invaded Matisse's dreams when he was in Morocco and forever influenced his art, dazzled us, too, but fear seemed to be keeping visitors away. We saw few other Americans in this Moslem country.
A drive through more olive groves on another day took us to Volubilis, the Roman empire's most remote outpost. From here, lions and Barbary bears were sent to Rome to battle gladiators and wheat and olive oil were shipped to feed the restless masses. Less than half of the site had been excavated, but what we saw was impressive—especially the huge, richly detailed mosaics. Bulky stork nests balanced precariously atop some of the limestone columns, waiting for their tenants to return from the north.
A drive through more olive groves on another day took us to Volubilis, the Roman empire's most remote outpost. From here, lions and Barbary bears were sent to Rome to battle gladiators and wheat and olive oil were shipped to feed the restless masses. Less than half of the site had been excavated, but what we saw was impressive—especially the huge, richly detailed mosaics. Bulky stork nests balanced precariously atop some of the limestone columns, waiting for their tenants to return from the north.
Medina, Fes, Morocco We'd been looking forward to Fes, oldest of Morocco's imperial cities, and the largest existing medieval city in the world. The unmapped lanes and alleys of Fes's medina meandered invitingly behind stark brown walls for us to explore. Our introduction to this maze of leaning, crumbling buildings was with a local guide, dodging crowds of people, flattening ourselves against dusty walls, and leaping into doorways to avoid heavily laden donkeys. And, of course, beggars and hustlers pursued us. There were no neighborhoods of rich or poor. Everybody lived jumbled together behind the rosy-brown walls. If you opened one of those ancient wooden doors you might find a palace or a slum or something in between. Private lives were private—very private.
Weavers, Fes souk, Morocco The ancient buildings and covered bazaars were crumbling, yet bursting with humanity. A stop at one of the leather dying shops reminded us of how hard it can be just to survive. After climbing a series of staircases to the building roof, we looked down on young men wearing loincloths wading in vats of dye, legs and lower bodies stained by the dyes. The stench of the manure-treated leather reached us even on the roof.
Outside the medina, we could see a dozen minarets of different sizes and shapes rising out of a sea of brown buildings. Five times a day, we heard the competing calls to prayer. One afternoon, I walked through the nearest gate into the medina. Young men and boys rushed up to guide me. I refused them, but they followed me down the steep, narrow streets, haranguing me in broken English. I could see that I'd get lost among the abrupt turns and dividing and re-dividing lanes, so I found my own way out.
Outside the medina, we could see a dozen minarets of different sizes and shapes rising out of a sea of brown buildings. Five times a day, we heard the competing calls to prayer. One afternoon, I walked through the nearest gate into the medina. Young men and boys rushed up to guide me. I refused them, but they followed me down the steep, narrow streets, haranguing me in broken English. I could see that I'd get lost among the abrupt turns and dividing and re-dividing lanes, so I found my own way out.
Climbing into the Middle Atlas mountain range after we left Fes, we drove higher and higher through cedar forests until we reached the 6,000 foot-high plateau where Bedouin shepherds made their seasonal migration each year. Along the way, we saw a Bedouin camp on one of the rocky hills. Hala and our driver hiked up to talk with them. A little later, she returned to tell us that they'd invited us to visit their camp. This Bedouin family of three generations had made a semi-permanent home on that rocky hillside, with their main goatskin tent, a cooking tent, an oven, and pens and corrals for livestock. The women were friendly and the children curious. All of the men except one and a 16 year-old boy were out with the goat herds.
Bedouin camp with wild cat "rocking horse," Morocco The women were modestly dressed in patterned trousers covered with flowery dresses and skirts, sweaters and scarves, but not shy. The matriarch of the family took a hot loaf of round flattish bread from the oven for us to sample: crisp on the outside, soft inside, delicious. With Hala and the driver translating, we were able to talk with them. Everyone had a job and responsibilities—although life on the rocky plateau was difficult, it wasn't intolerable. The boy showed us four day-old lambs nursing in a pen and a "rocking horse" for the small children made out of a stuffed wild cat mounted on a pair of rockers, a bit grungy but loved.
Continuing past volcanic cinder cones, we entered a rugged country of bizarre rock formations, mines, and fossils. After a while, we stopped in a small Berber settlement for lunch. While the rest of the group was having tea, I crossed the road to a shed in which a Berber man had set up a rock shop that included geodes, nautiloid fossils, trilobites, and other fossils. I bought a perfect trilobite bigger than my fist, still within its rocky covering. Later, Don, a geologist in our group, assured me that it was the real thing.
Continuing past volcanic cinder cones, we entered a rugged country of bizarre rock formations, mines, and fossils. After a while, we stopped in a small Berber settlement for lunch. While the rest of the group was having tea, I crossed the road to a shed in which a Berber man had set up a rock shop that included geodes, nautiloid fossils, trilobites, and other fossils. I bought a perfect trilobite bigger than my fist, still within its rocky covering. Later, Don, a geologist in our group, assured me that it was the real thing.
Sherrill on High Atlas Range road, Morocco We met our third national guide in his flowing djellaba, yellow babouche slippers, and pale blue turban at our hotel in Erfoud at four a. m. the next morning when we gathered for a Land Rover trek into the desert. Although fluent in French, Marwan was self-conscious about his English, but he didn't seem to be afflicted with the macho egotism rampant in Morocco.
We had traveled 450 km over the mountains in one day, partly along the winding Ziz river gorge, the result of centuries of erosion, then following ancient caravan routes into the desert. Often the road was bordered by coppery red strata that had been upended and twisted by ancient cataclysms. When we passed through small towns we noticed that people in the south dressed more conservatively than in the north, the women in black chadors with face veils—although they seemed to be doing most of the work while the men lounged in cafes, drinking coffee or mint tea.
We had traveled 450 km over the mountains in one day, partly along the winding Ziz river gorge, the result of centuries of erosion, then following ancient caravan routes into the desert. Often the road was bordered by coppery red strata that had been upended and twisted by ancient cataclysms. When we passed through small towns we noticed that people in the south dressed more conservatively than in the north, the women in black chadors with face veils—although they seemed to be doing most of the work while the men lounged in cafes, drinking coffee or mint tea.
Sherrill, lunch stop, Todra Gorge, Morocco It was still dark, masses of stars above us, when we reached our hotel, but almost immediately we set off in three Land Rovers toward the remote outpost of Merzouga to watch the sunrise. At first, the desert was hard-packed with scrub jutting through its broken surface, then we alternately careened up and down over sand dunes and more of the hard-packed sand. Finally, we stopped, tumbled out of the Land Rovers, and followed Marwan and Hala to the massive dunes of Erq Chebbi, Morocco's only genuine Sahara erg—a huge, drifting expanse of dunes that loomed in front of us like black mountains.
"We're not climbing those!" Sherrill exclaimed. But we were. A few dunes later, Sherrill and two other women stopped. "We'll have the same view from here!" they said almost in unison.
A party of Germans, we discovered, had ridden out on camels even earlier and already were silhouetted on the highest dune against the sky as it slowly turned pink. The blue robes of their camel drivers stood out sharply against the rosy color of the dunes.
A party of Germans, we discovered, had ridden out on camels even earlier and already were silhouetted on the highest dune against the sky as it slowly turned pink. The blue robes of their camel drivers stood out sharply against the rosy color of the dunes.
Valley of the Kasbahs, Morocco Eventually, we hiked back to the Land Rovers and bounced to the oasis of Merzouga for breakfast at a mud brick, palm-roofed inn that had been built for trekkers. Then we continued to Rissani, once the final stop on the caravan route south, where we found the ruins of a great caravansary. Date palms still bristled around the oasis and straggled into the desert. A brown-robed youth led a loaded camel past. It was hard believe that for centuries these disintegrating mud-brick walls had been the site of a busy commercial center where East and West and South all had met.
The next morning, we set out across hard-packed desert, continuing deep into a gorge where red and orange desert cliffs soared to 2,000 feet, only a narrow strip of blue sky between them. That night, we stayed at a mud brick hotel modeled after the kasbahs of old, then in the morning drove into another canyon of high cliffs, following the road of "A Thousand Kasbahs," until we reached the hilly city of Ouarzazate and its ancient kasbah that was being restored with help from UNESCO.
The next morning, we set out across hard-packed desert, continuing deep into a gorge where red and orange desert cliffs soared to 2,000 feet, only a narrow strip of blue sky between them. That night, we stayed at a mud brick hotel modeled after the kasbahs of old, then in the morning drove into another canyon of high cliffs, following the road of "A Thousand Kasbahs," until we reached the hilly city of Ouarzazate and its ancient kasbah that was being restored with help from UNESCO.
Sherrill at Jbel Zagora Oasis, Morocco Ouarzazate has been called the Hollywood of North Africa. Why make movies in Morocco? It has more sun than you'll ever need, mountains and desert, historic towns, ruined fortresses, picturesque villages, and cheap labor. Epics like Lawrence of Arabia and Gladiator and exotic pictures like Sheltering Sky and Jewel of the Nile were shot there. Ancient as it is, Ouarzazte has a few modern hotels up the hill from the old city, used by tourists—especially it seemed from France—when they're not full of movie crews.
A classic car club from France touring Morocco had reached Ouarzazate just before we arrived, their cars corralled in the hotel parking lot, ranging from a fifties Impala to a couple of antique Citroens to old MGs, Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMWs. Most of the drivers were in the hotel when we arrived, but a few still wandered among the cars, dusting them and stroking their shiny skins as if they were race horses cooling down after a run.
A day later, we began the trip south on the old caravan route across the rugged Anti-Atlas range, passing villages populated by Berbers and desert Arabs. When we reached Zagora, the last oasis before the Sahara, we saw the town long before we entered, standing on the edge of the desert like a mirage. Although there had been an oasis there for centuries, much of it had been rebuilt. In the late afternoon, we drove a short distance to the base of the Jebel Zagora mountain, where trekkers were getting Land Rovers ready for desert exploration. We, however, were going to climb the mountain so we could watch the sun set from its summit. Four of the women, including Sherrill, elected to ride camels, rather than climb.
Marwan led the rest of us up a trail, zigzagging among rocky outcroppings. Several times, as the sun sank lower in the sky, we stopped to catch our breath and look at the view. By the time we reached the summit, we looked out at an impressionist painting of red, maroon, dark green, black, and brown running together. Marwan called on his cell phone to order a couple of Land Rovers to take us back down. However, when I saw how narrow, twisty, and steep the rocky road was—and how far the drop over the edge was—I decided to walk down. One other person said she'd walk down with me, rather than wait for the Land Rovers.
A classic car club from France touring Morocco had reached Ouarzazate just before we arrived, their cars corralled in the hotel parking lot, ranging from a fifties Impala to a couple of antique Citroens to old MGs, Mercedes, Jaguars, and BMWs. Most of the drivers were in the hotel when we arrived, but a few still wandered among the cars, dusting them and stroking their shiny skins as if they were race horses cooling down after a run.
A day later, we began the trip south on the old caravan route across the rugged Anti-Atlas range, passing villages populated by Berbers and desert Arabs. When we reached Zagora, the last oasis before the Sahara, we saw the town long before we entered, standing on the edge of the desert like a mirage. Although there had been an oasis there for centuries, much of it had been rebuilt. In the late afternoon, we drove a short distance to the base of the Jebel Zagora mountain, where trekkers were getting Land Rovers ready for desert exploration. We, however, were going to climb the mountain so we could watch the sun set from its summit. Four of the women, including Sherrill, elected to ride camels, rather than climb.
Marwan led the rest of us up a trail, zigzagging among rocky outcroppings. Several times, as the sun sank lower in the sky, we stopped to catch our breath and look at the view. By the time we reached the summit, we looked out at an impressionist painting of red, maroon, dark green, black, and brown running together. Marwan called on his cell phone to order a couple of Land Rovers to take us back down. However, when I saw how narrow, twisty, and steep the rocky road was—and how far the drop over the edge was—I decided to walk down. One other person said she'd walk down with me, rather than wait for the Land Rovers.
Desert camp on the edge of the Sahara I didn't see Sherrill or the camels at the top, but eventually found her and the other women looking just fine near some shops a short distance from the mountain base. They'd ridden the camels around the oasis, explored several stores, and had refreshments. Once we were all together, we drove into the desert to a Bedouin camp where we'd spend the night. The narrow road disappeared in the darkness and, finally, we stopped and walked further into the desert—almost like Marlene Dietrich hiking into the sand after Gary Cooper in the old movie Morocco.
A multihued wall of tent material hung from poles, beyond it a circle of tents illuminated by strings of small electric lights. Beyond the camp, we saw only blackness. As we stepped through an opening in the fabric wall into the first of two large circles, Bedouin men greeted us and took us to the tents where we'd spend the night. Around midnight, we were told, the electric lights would be turned off to save the generators, but lanterns would be set out.
We cleaned up as well as we could, then sat at two round tables where a feast of Moroccan dishes appeared. After all that exercise, we were starving. It had been quite a day and evening. When we woke up in the morning, we saw that we were surrounded by rolling waves of sand. A gold and brown scorpion crawled onto the red carpet, barbed tail aloft.
"It won't bother you," Sherrill told me, "if you don't bother it."
Just the same, I wasn't happy until I'd crushed it and got rid of the remains.
After breakfast, we drove back along the route we'd come, returning to Ouarzazate, past rugged rock formations and several kasbahs, some crumbling, others still standing on the cliffs.
A multihued wall of tent material hung from poles, beyond it a circle of tents illuminated by strings of small electric lights. Beyond the camp, we saw only blackness. As we stepped through an opening in the fabric wall into the first of two large circles, Bedouin men greeted us and took us to the tents where we'd spend the night. Around midnight, we were told, the electric lights would be turned off to save the generators, but lanterns would be set out.
We cleaned up as well as we could, then sat at two round tables where a feast of Moroccan dishes appeared. After all that exercise, we were starving. It had been quite a day and evening. When we woke up in the morning, we saw that we were surrounded by rolling waves of sand. A gold and brown scorpion crawled onto the red carpet, barbed tail aloft.
"It won't bother you," Sherrill told me, "if you don't bother it."
Just the same, I wasn't happy until I'd crushed it and got rid of the remains.
After breakfast, we drove back along the route we'd come, returning to Ouarzazate, past rugged rock formations and several kasbahs, some crumbling, others still standing on the cliffs.
A day later, we drove again through stony desert, this time toward Marrakesh, romantic city of legend. On the way, we passed an Egyptian ruin with gigantic statues of pharaohs and gods—a movie set created for the remake of The Mummy, now abandoned to hot desert winds. Before long, we came to the rosy-hued kasbah of Ait Ben Haddou, one of the best preserved kasbahs of the region, featured in at least twenty films, including Lawrence of Arabia, Jesus of Nazareth, and Jewel of the Nile.
Medina street, Marrakesh Hiking across a dry riverbed and up narrow steps cut into the reddish clay between mud-brick houses, we made our way into the remains of the town. Only a few of the houses were lived in, now, but an old woman drew us into hers to show us her weaving. First, however, with a toothless grin, she pointed to her autographed photograph of Harrison Ford, given to her when he was there making one of the "Indiana Jones" movies. She may never have seen the movie, or any other movie, but was proud of that photograph.
Returning to the other side of the river, we found a little outdoor restaurant with a view of the kasbah. The food was good, but the place was swarming with flies. We had to spread paper napkins to protect our plates.
"One of reasons that Jimmy Carter was given the Nobel Peace Prize," Sherrill told us, "was his work to eliminate the flies in Africa that get in people's eyes and cause blindness."
"Thank you for sharing that," replied one of the group, waving flies away from his face.
"Does North Africa count?" asked somebody else.
Then we began our climb into the High Atlas mountains, through a lunar landscape of red, orange, and brown cliffs and canyons. It was hard to imagine camel caravans making their way along that route, but they did for hundreds of years. Finally, we descended into the valley and reached thousand year-old, pink-hued Marrakesh, for centuries an important caravan stop, then a French city, now a major arts center and the base for our final week in Morocco.
Returning to the other side of the river, we found a little outdoor restaurant with a view of the kasbah. The food was good, but the place was swarming with flies. We had to spread paper napkins to protect our plates.
"One of reasons that Jimmy Carter was given the Nobel Peace Prize," Sherrill told us, "was his work to eliminate the flies in Africa that get in people's eyes and cause blindness."
"Thank you for sharing that," replied one of the group, waving flies away from his face.
"Does North Africa count?" asked somebody else.
Then we began our climb into the High Atlas mountains, through a lunar landscape of red, orange, and brown cliffs and canyons. It was hard to imagine camel caravans making their way along that route, but they did for hundreds of years. Finally, we descended into the valley and reached thousand year-old, pink-hued Marrakesh, for centuries an important caravan stop, then a French city, now a major arts center and the base for our final week in Morocco.
The old city and the ville nouvelle were close to each other, making it easy to explore both. We started with the sixteenth century al-Badi Palace, an elaborate ruin where the Marrakesh film festival was held every year. We also saw that the storks had returned to Morocco, comfortably settled on their nests atop mud-brick walls and towers.
One morning, we explored the notorious Marjorelle Gardens, owned then by Yves Saint-Laurent, but created between 1922 and 1962 by French painter Jacques Marjorelle. Sherrill was amused by the stylized garden, the palm trees, cactus beds, fountains, and ponds. Vivid blue pavilions, urns, low border walls, and a blue and rose-brown house helped set off the plants. Morocco seemed to be a land of dramatic contradictions, of economically desperate people doing whatever they needed to survive and ferociously stylish decadence.
One morning, we explored the notorious Marjorelle Gardens, owned then by Yves Saint-Laurent, but created between 1922 and 1962 by French painter Jacques Marjorelle. Sherrill was amused by the stylized garden, the palm trees, cactus beds, fountains, and ponds. Vivid blue pavilions, urns, low border walls, and a blue and rose-brown house helped set off the plants. Morocco seemed to be a land of dramatic contradictions, of economically desperate people doing whatever they needed to survive and ferociously stylish decadence.
Sherrill, Marjorelle Gardens, Marrakesh That evening, we experienced a little of the human comedy and drama of the huge Djemaa El-Fna Square (Square of the Dead). Musicians, storytellers, acrobats, jugglers, men with monkeys and snakes, wandered among scores of food vendors, competing for tips. Some tourists had found their way to the square and the surrounding roof-top cafes, but the locals far out-numbered them. For a while, we sipped drinks in a roof-top cafe, gazing down on the square as waves of semi-organized chaos ebbed and flowed across it.
A side trip through harsh but oddly beautiful country took us to the coastal town of Essaouira, where Orson Welles filmed part of his low-budget Othello in 1948, shooting part of it in a steam bath with his cast draped in sheets because he couldn't afford costumes. Small blue boats rested on the stone embankment below an 18th century Portuguese fort. Several of us of walked out to a small seafood restaurant. Sherrill ordered sardines and was astonished when she got a platter so large that we shared it with three other people.
A side trip through harsh but oddly beautiful country took us to the coastal town of Essaouira, where Orson Welles filmed part of his low-budget Othello in 1948, shooting part of it in a steam bath with his cast draped in sheets because he couldn't afford costumes. Small blue boats rested on the stone embankment below an 18th century Portuguese fort. Several of us of walked out to a small seafood restaurant. Sherrill ordered sardines and was astonished when she got a platter so large that we shared it with three other people.
Hala had arranged a farewell dinner for us deep in the Marrakesh medina, where we were served a series of dishes unlike anything we'd had before, starting with mezze with a Moroccan twist, then continuing with main courses that included a pastille (a Moroccan specialty of pastry filled with ground pigeon, lemon-flavored eggs, almonds, cinnamon, saffron, and sugar encased in layer after layer of the thinnest pastry), then moving on to chicken with lemon and olive, and finally juicy spit-roasted lamb carved at the table, followed by an array of sweets. We all ate too much, but it was too wonderful to regret a single decadent bite.
To be continued....
To be continued....
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