February 2023

The Painted Rocks 

I spy chipmunks scampering over the rocks on the road to Tafroute. It’s been so long since I saw this striped, squirrel-like creature that for a second it’s hard to remember its name. Back in the 1970’s, chipmunks were caged pets in schools and households across Britain. But roaming free in Morocco, they are released from the karma of captivity. I comfort myself with this thought as we speed towards the Rocher Peinture, a group of brightly coloured granite boulders strewn intermittently amid the desert plains of the Anti-Atlas Mountains. 

The largest rock is the size of a small hillock, and resembles a strong, muscular organ, rather like a giant heart or a lolling tongue. The land artist Jean Verame (1939-) originally painted it a deep azure blue ( left) in the mid -1980’s, but time has weathered its surface to a lighter cerulean (below right). Smaller rocks washed in bubblegum pink and acid green squat like unfamiliar blobs in the landscape. There is spacious desert as far as the eye can see, periodically interrupted by the bright protuberances. It looks and feels like a film set, especially when my lover walks off into the distance, a lone figure in the landscape. As I hang back at the big blue rock, I have a premonition he will soon walk away and not turn back.

A big full moon is strung over the Anti-Atlas as I pick out the Hotel Salama in the middle of Tafraoute's main square. For me the sign is an easy spot as it pokes above the low rise shops and businesses nestling under the looming mountains.The hotel breakfast bar serves particularly good coffee, the butter is excellent, and there is an egg. Later, we barter for blankets and shoes, and when I express how good it is to see the mountains from the town, a small group of traders complain the mountains get in their way!

The sheer beauty of Morocco’s physical geography abounds from the deserts of the Anti-Atlas to the snow striated Atlas Mountains. As the road winds from one place to another, a varied palette of stones create swirly textile-like patterns across the undulating hills, producing a breathtaking variety of ever-changing landscapes. A mountain in the shape of giant tagine cooking pot rises up to the sky along the way. On the ground, pebbles and larger stones have been arranged in piles by the roadside to communicate a myriad of messages; no entry, a place of prayer, a boundary marking the road’s edge, a sheer drop, and other possible alerts left by and for travellers and nomads. The hooded cloaks of the sun wizened men of the Maghreb seem to mimic the mountain peaks. And, late in the day, these pixie-like men sit in groups to appreciate the mountains, which all too soon will block out the rays of the evening sun.

Crossing an invisible boundary from the scented Kingdom and the last commune in the craggy mountains into a new territory, we share the well-maintained tarmac road with a solitary camel. The animal has become separated from the rest of the herd dotting the desert plains smattered with a few wind stunted trees. As soon as we stop to take in the scene and film the camel wandering calmly passed us, a Berber herdsman races across the desert on his motorcycle to ask if we have any cigarettes.

The people’s skin is noticeably darker at river valley oasis of Tata, where families are playing and washing clothes in the slim river. Further downstream the empty buildings in the semi-abandoned village stare blankly across the waterfall. After checking into the bright pink Hotel Tata, we devour the tastiest tagine of our road trip and later enjoy the effort of lovemaking at the end of another day.

The Draa River Valley

After many miles the fertile Draa River Valley appears, awash with palm trees.The palm is a highly prized resource by the locals, and no pesticides are used anywhere in the Draa. Every part of the palm is utilised: the trunks  build houses, the leaves keep the Kasbah kitchen fires burning in hollow, low clay ovens that burn like glowing skulls, whilst the delicious and ubiquitous dates, syrup, oil and nuts are all part of the palm’s cornucopia. The women congregate to make couscous in the cavernous kitchen, and during wedding feasts follow the tradition of eyeing up the eligible males from the balconies overlooking the courtyard.

Sizeable villages of empty high-walled red clay Kasbahs are slowly being returned to homes for extended families. Some thirty people live in one or two of the otherwise vacant mud fortresses overlooking the palm fields of the Draa. A silent mosque stands beside an abandoned synagogue, the Jewish population having returned to Israel in 1948. Inside the mosque, beyond an atmospheric prayer room with impressive Moorish arches, a mediaeval well still yields water when the bucket is deeply dipped. Nearby, the tiny, whitewashed cave bedrooms set deep into the clay walls await the return of students of the prophet Ben Yosef.

The industrious Moroccans follow an obedient routine of work and prayer. There is so much order, so much belief in a higher power. The absolute peace that permeates each place I visit may be a residue of the influence of the Hindus, and the total power of the Mughals, who ruled Morocco around 300BC. Whatever it is, it works. And, the drive towards a harmonious life is distilled into a serene quality that makes Morocco the safest country in Africa.

But this Moroccan state of grace was not always the case. For hundreds of years in Tamegroute, civil wars raged in the Kasbahs, where the clashes between vengeful clans wiped each other out down the centuries. The mud fortress that is my temporary home dates from the 16th Century, and the bedchamber with a Tudor-era casement window is freezing cold! Thankfully, the splendour of the wooden vaulted banqueting hall festooned with brightly woven tapestries and rugs, glowing lanterns, a roaring fire, and supper served on colourful pottery with tales of family rivalry, more than makes up for the icy atmosphere. 

Back on the road, we head for the UNESCO Heritage site of Ait-Benhaddou, an ancient Kzah, or commune, dating to the eleven hundreds, with none of its structures built after the 17th century. A modern foot bridge links the road and the tourist shops to the high standing mud fortress, a vast ancient stone mound, something like Silbury Hill in Wilshire, which I have to climb, and the Arab and Jewish cemeteries. Ait-Benhaddou is linked to the ECLA studios, a popular film location for dozens of films including Laurence of Arabia, Gladiator, The Remains of the Day and more recently Game of Thrones. 

After a pitstop in Zagora to eat, buy textiles and drink the obligatory mint tea, we spend a last night in a freezing Kasbah under the white Zagora Mountain. From this town, it is a fifty two day walk or camel ride to Timbuktu or Mali. Instead, we head for the Tizi n’ Test, a high mountain pass linking the Souss Valley to Marrakesh.The hundred year old road is billed as one of the most treacherous on earth, and although in February it’s banked by snow, seems safe enough if driven carefully. A high roaming pedlar sells us handfuls of brightly painted crystals: the split geodes of bright red, purple and russet quartz beguile our oxygenated minds in the mountain sunlight. We stop for a hot drink, a comforting plate of chips, and absorb the steamy warmth of the cabin like cafe overlooking the snow-flecked High Atlas.

Back in Marrakesh

On my return to Marrakesh, I seek out the Mellah, the Jewish Quarter built on a salt marsh outside the walls of the now ruined El Badi palace. The Sultan Ahmad al-Mansur built his once incomparable Moorish palace in 1578 on the proceeds of the sugar trade, complete with a Crystal Garden, a Pavilion for his favourite concubine Myrtle and a creche for his staff. Nowadays, storks nest comfortably on its crumbling high ramparts. The streets beyond throng with shopfronts selling sandalwood and vats of the 30-spice seasoning for tasty lamb tagines. Dating from the 16th century, the Mellah was once a place of special protection for Jews, but as the population grew, it became a confined ghetto. The Jewish diaspora first arrived in Morocco after the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, and were later followed by a wave of Sephardic Jews expelled from nearby Spain by the Alhambra Decree of 1492. Many repatriated when the State of Israel was declared in 1948, others emigrated, some to France  and Quebec.Today, around 486,000 Israelis are of Moroccan origin, and 6,000 Jews remain in Morocco, with the largest, mostly elderly population in Casablanca.

On the Derb el Hamman, a thoroughfare deep inside the warren like Medina, two boys, who can’t be more than ten, lark about, and practice their inevitable role as souk guides. The kids walk with us, pointing the way to the “Big Square” squawking, “Give me money!” During their one sided negotiations, the broader one reaches out and slaps his friend hard across the cheek. His wide Moroccan hand, large for a child, makes full contact with his friend’s face, the sound echoing dully around the thick enclosed walls. I feel like slapping him back, but control myself. In the end, we give both of them money, and hug the abused one. In a market saturated with souk guides, the slap ploy is a masterstroke to get them what they want - cash and attention. I see the kids again on the day we leave, larking about, smiling. I high-five the red-faced one and say goodbye to old Marrakesh.

Photo of Blue Rock by Nathaniel Lane