THE TRAVELco.
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Very rarely would the roads we travelled pass directly through villages. They were spilled amongst the hillside laying casually, as if a weary traveller resting his legs to admire the vistas in the distance. In between the roads and the village was always a valley. Streams of serene running water lined with balanced rocks that seemed to charmingly defy physics in the most tranquil and precarious way. These stones were often used as checkpoints and curbs; a practical use for a therapeutic hobby. I wonder if those that make them take pride and enjoy the process or whether the action is as arduous as laying cones in a road.
We had been travelling via train for the majority of the day, from Casablanca to Meknes and then taxis from Meknes up into Moulay Idriss. As the day began we were blessed with the sort of bright sunshine that someone from England could easily forget existed. I remember appreciating it as we waited on the grassy platform for our train. Later my appreciation faded to resentment as it’s unrelenting heat pierced through the train window as my shirt stuck to my skin. Resentment is a harsh word as I was still in good spirits. Ash and I swapped seats and joked as we shared the discomfort. That train journey marked as one of the first chances to firmly break the ice and form new long lasting relationships which ultimately is the hallmark on a trip like this. I cut my leg helping get the suitcases off of the train and being with five people that worked in hospitals I was in good hands. There’s now a tiny scar on my thigh that I hope stays like a tattoo as every time I notice it, it reminds me of that day.
We quickly left the hustle and bustle of the city, leaving it’s buzz behind for sounds of leaves blowing, birds chirping and streams flowing. The landscape metamorphosing gradually from tall buildings to rolling hills. Uphill the van slogged into the village, slowly but surely as if assimilating the donkeys we would shortly use to lug our luggage up the cobbled Moroccan streets to our guesthouse. I felt bad as I felt more than capable to carry my bags myself however the locals insisted and after five minutes of walking I realised the gradient and quality of footing would have made this an increasingly difficult task. The streets were thin like alleys and full of children playing and cats bathing in the sun. Locals would be hanging freshly dyed threads out to dry as another obstacle to avoid on our course. In what would be a recurring theme on this journey we were greeted by our guesthouse hosts with Salam Alaikum and mint tea. The tea always steaming and sweet and poured from an impressive distance. The ongoing Moroccan joke of no sugar no tea had yet to wear thin at this point.
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The guesthouse was a Riad located toward the top of the village. It had a courtyard and terrace overlooking almost the entirety of the houses and valleys below and into the horizon. I could see football pitches with people playing, kids running through the streets, donkeys being led with cargo and locals making their journey up toward the mosque. There was a faint humming from far that grew louder. It was the afternoon prayers making its way through the speakers of the town. The children I had noticed playing on one of the rooftops below were now gone, presumably inside praying with their family. We stood inspired for a good half hour before getting changed into something more comfortable to explore. My room was on the first floor of the courtyard with a comfortably sized double bed facing an ornate window looking out at the same view a story below previous. My bathroom was delicately tiled in blues, whites and reds with a low mirror intended for someone shorter than myself. It had a single shower, toilet and sink along with a smaller window. As we bobbed along the cobbles we twisted and turned as we brushed past the locals at the mosque atop the hill and onward toward the viewpoint. Serendipitously the sky was still clear as the sun lowered its way down, having earned its day it transitioned from pure white to a soft burnt orange. Its haziness created a contrast on the olive tree leaves in the woodland to the left of Moulay. I watched as a lone soul paraglided across the illuminated landscape. It was one of those times that romanticises life and that the memory of which can easily be confused with a dream. I think the reason connections formed whilst travelling are so salient is because you live otherworldly experiences together. It forms a bond that can rarely be tried but still eternal due to shared life long memories at the same place at the same time.
After the sun had tucked itself in behind the horizon we made our way down toward the small square of the town. I’d spent much of the day conversing with Ash, Meera and Brooke during our journey and now wandered with T, Aussie Luke, Josh and Mehdi. We’d been on the lookout for a football since we first met the day previous as it was an apparent commonality that we shared and there would be clear opportunities of its use. We talked about playing football under the sun in the Sahara Desert, green parks in Fes and anywhere in between. We did. As we strolled past sweet smelling tagine stalls we found a shop with a ball. Unfortunately the store belonged to the man who five minutes earlier had angrily shouted at me in either Arabic, French or Berber because I took a picture of his donkey. It was an apologetic and awkward negotiation to say the least that was increased by the fact that T had quickly accepted the man’s initial special inflated tourist offer that the rest of us quickly knocked a few Dirham off of. I always asked before I took pictures after this.
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With our ball we headed back to the centre of the square to wait for the remainder of the group. I was cautious as I’d previously noticed a policeman take a ball from some kids for playing however after trying our luck it appeared there were some benefits to being an evident tourist. The kids quickly circled as we kept the ball in the air and tried tricks that we’d learned in our respective homelands that all seemed to consist of some form of around the world and chest or head hold. A few kids joined in but were too young to keep up with the consistency of our game. After not too long we had a little audience with even the policeman threatening to crack a smile. We dribbled the ball back up the cobbles in time for vegetable tagine and meatballs followed by drinks on the terrace under the stars and into the early hours of the morning. The local Casablanca beer wasn’t terrible, with the citrus version even proving quite refreshing.
In the morning I watched the sunrise through my window. I showered with the window open and the fresh morning air surprised me in it's coldness. The days were hot in this part of the country but it took a while to reach these heights with the mornings and nights been much colder. After shutting and locking the window I pressed my clothes from the evening before into my case. As part of my newly formed routine I had to sit on my case in order for the zip to close. Once all ready, we met downstairs for three different types of Moroccan pancakes, mint tea and coffee before a last stroll down the clumpy streets and into taxis to Volubilis. A UNESCO protected heritage site, these Roman-Berber ruins still featured relatively intact pillars and evidence of structure, with surprisingly well-preserved patterned tiling. Some of these tiles displaying images of porn and even a sex room signified by an ancient concrete penis. History’s beautiful. I say surprisingly well preserved as amongst the green gardens and natural landscape we were able, unimpeded, to climb and touch the antiquities as if walking back into Roman times themselves. Back home if you were to visit, say for example, Stonehenge, you have to stand behind a rope a hundred metres away, just to look at the stones (and with arguably less salience). For what parts of the world like this can lack in clean drinking water and technology it certainly makes up for in its lax approaches, trust and primal preservations of nature. It makes me think as more countries strive to become more westernised whether they’ll lose the little qualities like this that make them so special. I hope not.
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