THE TRAVELco.
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A myriad of labyrinthian alleys and puzzles leading into a square of stoic disorderly chaos. Medinas in Morocco are notoriously hard to navigate regardless. Fez for example combines homes, shops and dye pits along thin winding streets travelled by tourists, commuters, donkeys and motorbikes. Some lanes seldom wide enough for the overweight let alone a Vespa overtaking a mule. Vendors selling convincingly realistic but inconceivably obvious fake Moncler, Balenciaga and YSL clothing plotted next to the same sized entrance but much grander shops selling expensive marble vases and life-sized animal sculptures. To say unruly would be an understatement. But it’s its lack of order and rules which likens it to the way man evolved and summarises Morocco as a country. Unlike Europe, it’s not been planned thoughtfully by a corporate bod and then cost-cut by some NPC CFO. Sure, there’ll be food stalls selling fresh olives relatively near the butchers hanging seemingly intact camels heads, but then you’ll have real gold being sold two doors down from fake copper. The layout and placing is unsystematic to say the least. Then above, at random intervals, you’ll see the most painstakingly hand-crafted wooden roofs with ornate detail. Patterns sculped and welded by talented hands. As you notice it’s clever craftsmanship your conscious mind wonders why here? Not Morocco, but why this spot for the thoughtful shade. Does this utilise the sun the most at midday? Did the original vendors below request it? The answers no. It’s all sporadic and after time you find it best not to question things. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I keep likening this trip to a dream. For in a dream you don’t question the inaccuracies of reality. You just float with it and enjoy the present. That’s what I was trying to do.
Depending on your mood and general perspective, places like this can be perceived as a new world by which to open your arms positively to all that it offers. However sometimes after a day travelling in the heat, everyone’s positivity can dwindle. After hours, when you finally speak to someone who’s not trying a hard sell and by miracle see some light at the end of the medina tunnel, you reach Marrakech square. Hundreds of juice vendors shouting the first association with you that will come to their mind in an attempt to force some blended fruits down your throat. For me, it was normally tattoo associated and to the one on the side of my calf provided my new adopted nickname to the locals, Familia. ‘Hey Famila, you look at me’ ‘it’s hot, you need a drink.’ If ever there was a product that didn’t need to be sold like this, it was juice. Then past that all, onto the next obstacle in the most sense-engaging, exciting yet stressful walk of your life is the cobras. Yes. As in fucking snakes. They’re everywhere. Not penned off or caged up but simply loose. The vendors sit their playing their pungi, charming them to which tourists pay money to watch or take pictures. To their credit, whether it’s the music or what they’re feeding them, the snakes did seem to be mesmerised and rarely move unless when antagonized. They were occasionally. Avoiding this ploy or failing, or worse yet having one thrown round your neck, to which there’s no escape from the payable tourist toll, were the spider monkeys. Being the year after the Qatar World Cup, many were dressed in little Argentina football kits and sunglasses. A cruel animal right defilement in an attempt to be comical. Despite being something I don’t agree with it’s difficult to pass judgement in foreign parts of the world where it’s incomprehensible to understand another’s path to where it’s crossed yours. Thoughts like this tend to reserve a seat in the back end of my mind when venturing. Like a breeze passing through a mesh net, not disturbing it but undeniably there. Each person in this square, whether a snake charmer, juice seller, tea-pot provider or just a tourist has all followed a different journey in their life and the odds of them all crossing at the same place at the same point in time is exponential. Without going and speaking to everyone, assuming language barriers weren’t a factor, it’s impossible to know how and what brought them here – just like they won’t know yours. It's important, where you can, to maintain a kind, friendly and strong (as the former two can often be misperceived as weak) manor and attitude when interacting with extraneous strangers.
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That night we walked to the medina side of town and back past the square. It was a long walk but the best way to take in as much as we could for this would be our final night. Never a moment of silence at this point, the group walked and flowed as if a wave, groups interchanging with new conversations being joined and transfigured. We ate outside on a rooftop of a hotel. Not skyscraper tall but high enough to put us level with the illuminated Mosque in which we were facing. I ordered and ate a Mekful, which was probably the best thing I had eaten in Morocco. Served in a Tagine; sweetly flavoured slow-cooked beef with onions and peppers served steaming. In between conversations I looked down the table. Mehdi and Omar began to sing with one of the waiters and everyone was smiling and laughing.
The following morning after breakfast the group had split in half. Meera and Brooke had decided to watch the sunrise from a hot-air balloon, Kelly, Ariana, Maddie, Danny and Adriel opted for a traditional Hamam Spa experience whilst Meg, Bella, Josh, Luke, T, Ash, Caleb and I went quad biking. Within forty minutes we had left the centre of Marrakech and were in the Agafey Desert. The camp was minimal but cool. Not in temperature, it was scolding but the layout was open and relaxed. Shade tarps covering woven rugs and low tables. Following some mint tea and health and safety signatures we were fitted with helmets and led to our rigs. It was exciting. I’d never ridden a quad bike before and I’d looked forward to it since the idea was put to me. There’s something about going fast on foreign terrain with the risk of injury that feels like fun.
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We did some a few turns and small hills to get our bearings with the steering and brakes (or lack of) on our Yamaha bikes. They were bigger and more powerful than I’d imagined, making it easier to throw out the back and drift. After some figure eights and varying gradients we began to move in convoy on our trail through the Agafey Desert. More like gravel, the hard sand and rocks kicked up dust as we zoomed in between branch and bush. Out the camp the landscape transposed to dusty clay routes riding the peak of dunes. We were advised to stay close together but with different experience levels and wanting to allow gaps to go full throttle we spaced out. Along one stretch where the vista had levelled we passed slowly through grazing mountain goats. They ate calmly as I assume they were used to the sounds and dust that quads bring and stood peacefully, mounting the backdrop of snowy mountains like a post card. It still baffled me that I could see snow whilst in this heat.
As we stopped atop a mound and took some pictures with the photographer we sipped some water and talked. I was enthralled at the views however Luke was not impressed by the speed the group had been set at, having ridden quad bikes before. In asking to pick up the speed to our guides, they talked amongst themselves and pointing at Luke, Bella, Josh and myself to follow him along a harder trail and at faster speeds. As you would be, it was an ego stroke to know I looked like one of the more comfortable drivers even though at heart I didn’t feel it. Josh and I laughed as he felt the same. I’d nearly followed him into a tree at about thirty kpm about five minutes before.
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We left the others and marched at full throttle up a steep rocky hill. Luke was in front of me and kicked up a whirlwind of dust so that I could barely see his head bobbing above the cloud. With this I had to guess and judge where the large rocks to avoid were and spent most of these parts standing as to not jolt my back in a sudden collision with one. I watched the leader slow as he quickly diminished from view as did Luke next. Like a rolleroaster, I hung over the edge and clung on as I realised we were due to tackle a near vertical drop on a bike that had essentially no breaks. I controlled it to the best of my ability and, as with the others, gave up on the breaks about halfway down and road the rest of the hill into the flattened out straight. This half of the journey we averaged up to nearer fifty mph and zipped over the gravel into sharp turns in an effort to stay together and on our bikes. It was exhilarating. Despite having a secure helmet and goggles, I was wearing shorts, a vest and sleeveless utility jacket. In the event of coming off I would of seriously injured myself. Sorry mum. Luckily I didn’t, and neither did anyone else. The danger only added to the fun. We bounced through puddles and up over mounds as we laughed and signaled to one another. We made it back to meet the others at camp covered in dust and exhausted. My forearms were pumped and vascular from clinging on with my grip and mind and eyes were weary from concentrating.
Upon our return we were joyous and weary. In resting our legs we were brought more mint tea and some pancakes. Not before being hosed down with an air gun. Flinging the dust from our clothes and satisfyingly bringing their colour back; removing the desert from our being but not our minds. The air cleaner was beneficial but not substantial. I walked round the corner and launched myself into the bath like sink to wash myself. It was one of those days where you could saturate yourself in icy-cold water and it bring relief. Some of the water had splashed up my shorts and vest but the dry heat of the Agafey soon dried me. As we ate we scrolled through the photographer’s pictures and decided to buy them for twenty dirham each. The bus back was a curdled mix reveling in the joy of our day yet contemplating this being our last bus ride together.
