Happiness is a jam-packed breakfast tray

Fez, 20 May.

Africa again. Landscapes that roll into softness. Colors, vibrant, with the power to round off the edges of stones. Ochres and siennas that dissolve into sand.

The cry of dogs in the night. Tree-climbing goats nibbling on the foliage, donkeys and chickens along the road. People everywhere. Along the dusty roads, some ride bicycles but most go on foot. This is the land where even the desert has eyes. Here, amongst the camel herders and rocky hills of the unfolding desert, you are never, never alone. If you happen to stop at the centre of the barren landscape where, the only thing between the dusty plains and the bright sky is you, out of nowhere a herd of children comes running towards the car. They stop and smile and wave as we drive on, through this desert land that is alive with thousands of watchful eyes.

And we drive on, following the straight, narrow ribbon of tarmac that dissolves into the horizon. The road slices through the infinite vastness of the desert, cutting through gorges and skirting the slow, steep mountain passes through the Lower and the Higher Atlas. We drive through Oasis’. Here, in the dappled light of the palm grove, water flows in shimmering streams. Like the pattern of a Kilim, it winds around the stems of the palm trees, where the soil is moist. A bjellabah-clad figure heaves a can of water onto a scrawny donkey.

We drive towards the Kasbahs, these ephemeral fortresses made of water and sand, and their facades tattooed with chalk. Morocco, is a land where the realms of Africa and Islam are joined in work and in prayer. I see tattooed faces, djellabahs flapping in the wind, babouches of soft leather and hooded kaftans. This is a place shrouded, the mystery of which forever tantalizes my imagination. Veiled faces and shrouded bodies pass me by in total anonymity. In the labyrinth of the Medina there are forbidden mosques and small doorways that lead to secret places. I discover spy-windows and screens from which you can look without being exposed to the prying eyes of strangers.

And the mystery itself is enveloped by a strange mélange of scents, whether it’s the pleasing aroma of musk and sweet rose maroc wafting into the narrow alley from the herbalist store or the acrid fumes of ammonium and leather from the tannery, mixed in with the aroma of almond and honey from the market stalls. And to this inebriating, olfactory cocktail, comes an added dimension of mesmerizing sound.

The medina, a living, pulsating human anthill that hums to the rhythm of electric sitars. From the remotest corners of the maze, rises the cacophony of street vendors, the incessant thump of the weaving looms in the rug cooperatives, the tinny hammering of silversmiths, the strident claps of traffic and the drone of the crowd. And suddenly, surprisingly as if by accident, amongst all this frenetic activity, one distinguishes the melodic trickle of water in a fountain and then, above all else, you hear the Iman’s call to prayer coming from the minarets.

The noise in the medina persists eternal; exploding beyond the whitewashed walls and the perimeter of the citadel. But for all its force, this noise is but a murmur that is soon scattered and numbed aginst the endless silence of the stark desert plains. In the desert, even the wind is silent, as it sweeps the dust high into the sky. And as the clouds of sand are gathering, the land now is also veiled, like a woman’s body. Barely visible, villages recede into the pink haze of a dust storm.

Rissani, 23 May.

On the outskirts of the Sahara, where it’s been over five years since the arid ground was last moistened by y single drop of rain, on the road from Rissani to Erefoud and Tnehir Nick and I drive the Fiat Uno through the sandstorm. The wind sweeps mounds of dust onto the road, which are too big to drive over. So Nick manouvers the car around them, singing Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” loudly, and out of tune. It was then, at eight am that the first rain drop hit the windscreen. The light drizzle drew streaks through the orange paste quickly started to form on the windscreen.