'Travelling - it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.'
I thought I'd kick things off with a quote from Ibn Battuta, because that's what you do. This post, whilst about an existing moment in my life, was inspired by a read I found over at This Battered Suitcase. I can honestly see these types of stories appearing more and more on The Sheep Was Here so I do hope you enjoy.
‘Couscous!’
The
Brazilian hadn’t stopped laughing about Arabic’s true meaning of the word; the
American language teacher had since become incapable of not smiling about the
door she’d opened the previous night, just like the rest of us. It was early
morning, the dark and cold type of morning, and we were seated in the
guesthouse dining room eating the Moroccan pancakes I’d first tried back in Tangier.
The toughness of these bad boys made me think the knife I’d been given wasn’t
going to get the job done whilst I sat with the two boys from England. I’d
shared a room with them, as well as the Brazilian, and we’d gotten on just
fine. That was when I’d first learnt their names; for some reason I hadn’t done
so when the bus picked me up the previous day but in my defence, most of them
had been asleep. Upon claiming a bed in the guesthouse room I’d casually put
the question to them, What do I call you three?
‘We’re
cousins,’ one of the Brits said; the short-haired one.
‘I’m
from out Essex way and he’s just moved to Brixton,’ the long-haired one
explained.
‘I
went to Brixton for a few hours, back when I was in London,’ I told them. ‘I
caught the Tube out there to see the mural of Bowie.’
‘I work around there,’ the
short-haired cousin then added, ‘in retail.’
I
was a minority on this tour of eleven, the only Australian once again. The
lively rest were either from Europe or the Americas; a lot of them were South American.
We were all moving onto Merzouga today where we were going to ride some camels
into the Sahara and sleep under the stars. The excitement was bringing a good
vibe to the dining room, in that guesthouse that we’d pulled up at late last
night. None of us knew where we were on the map; the tour company hadn’t given
many details.
Continuing
with my pancakes, I looked up and down the table. There was the tour group I
was a part of, each member either being tired or lost in a conversation, as
well as the others that had stopped here for the night. At one end were four
Muslim girls having a laugh about something and nearby were some Canadians
who’d been in the same situation as I the previous day.
Was
the second bus (on this four day tour of the Sahara) going to remember to pick
me up? The question had been pretty persistent for those couple of hours, in
which I was alone. I was already missing this French/Colombian couple I’d met
on the first tour who I’d gotten on brilliantly with; ours was now a Facebook
relationship.
I’d been waiting back in Aït Ben
Haddou at this hotel in walking distance of the Ksar. It had a nice atmosphere
and the staff kept several eyes on me whilst I ate in their restaurant and
charged my phone; they’d also given me free fruit. After a few hours of painful
uncertainty, the hotel manager drove me to the second bus which picked me up at
a crossroad; the Canadians, apparently, had freaked out so much that they hired
a private taxi to get them to the current guesthouse in who-knows-where. They
weren’t like the bad-arsed Canadians I’d met so far on my big backpacking
journey. One saint of a bad-arse had taught me how to roll a joint back in
Tangier.
I
was sipping at my mint tea, still hearing the Brazilian laugh about the true
meaning of couscous, whilst the Pommie cousins shared that they’d stayed at the
same hostel as I back in Marrakech. I would’ve been elated had I not already
booked into another hostel, with zero bad reviews on TripAdvisor, for my return
stay in the city.
‘You
didn’t like it?’ the short-haired cousin asked me.
‘The
place stank, the manager was rude. The prick blamed me for not knowing to
present a travel voucher to the morning receptionist when it came to doing a
day tour.’
‘Shit,’ the
long-haired cousin added, looking a little concerned. ‘We’re going back there
after this.’
‘Just
don’t ask them for their hospitality,’ I said before my phone vibrated on the
table’s varnished surface. The Wi-Fi in this place wasn’t spot on but it got a
message across. I then read a message from my mother.
***
Travelling had been a
constant of mine for years now, non-consecutively I’ll add, but in all of those
trips I hadn’t missed out on much. That was probably a reason as to why I loved it so much. The chance to swim with a
whale shark once deprived me of attending my friend’s baby shower though (it
was a non-traditional kind of shindig - the women got to do all of the regular
stuff whilst the men got to drink and play pool) but apart from that, nothing.
Now, though, I was going to miss something…
I’d
wanted to call home but my mother had told me to keep going - that and the time
zone indicated that Melbourne would be asleep and I’d already woken them up
when the anxiety caught up with me in Spain. That had me figuring that I’d have
to wait until I was back in Marrakech. Shit!
All I could do was join in with the
rest of the tour and treat it like the ride of a lifetime. That had of course
been the plan anyway. We left the guesthouse before the sun rose, at about 6:00
I think, and got on our way to Todra Gorge. I’d already seen enough photographs
that had me thinking it was the set of an Indiana Jones movie, but I was more
excited to see it for its natural side. Nature is why I travel, after all.
Everything going through my head was
all about the destination, as we drove over, but a few relevant randoms made
their way into the maelstrom that was my mind. I thought about the times we’d
spent together; they hadn’t been as plentiful in recent years, though. Whenever
we met he would more or less talk about his one and only time ordering at
Subway. It’d become one tedious staple. He could never understand why he
couldn’t get any stew there.
When
we stopped in Tinghir a skinny man in a long white djellaba greeted us at our
bus, saying that he was our tour guide; he was going to show us around the small
farming community before taking us to the gorge itself. Still, I remained
positive. Adventurous. The landscape was abundant with so many colours; the
crops, the clear sky, the old earthy-toned buildings. It was a humbled place
and humility is what I liked seeing on my journeys. However, even as we were walking
and watching I couldn’t help but feel this bad sensation biting away at the
back of my mind. Whilst we were walking through the crops, when our guide made
a little camel from a long leaf for the Chilean girl in our group, even when we
were telling the local children begging for money to bugger off. I was letting
myself get clawed at; that one time Subway experience kept repeating over and
over, in his voice. Do you have any
stew? I refused to let myself take centre stage on this experience; I’d had to
put up with an idiot in Thailand who’d done that. This was to be shared.
We moved onto a large house that
looked run down on the outside; our guide explained that we would be hosted by
the head of a Berber clan and one of his wives. We were greeted by the family
head, an aging man with a greying beard and wrinkled cheeks who like our guide
wore a djellaba; his was of dark brown wool. Before we entered the home the
guide explained that the Wife would shake our hands but couldn’t speak any
English; only Berber. He taught us a few phrases to share with her but I
quickly forgot them.
The
Family Head led us into a room and invited us to sit down on the floor carpeted
in a multitude of colours. There were just so many carpets. The Wife was seated
in one corner, wearing garb of many blues that concealed her small body; her
hijab had a pattern of black and white on it. Judging by her face, alone, she
was young but with a darker complexion to that of her husband who then took a
seat next to me, of all people. The Wife though, silent as she worked at a loom
with varying shades of wool, had a nice smile. We had all shaken her small and
delicate feeling hand.
As we were served mint tea, yet
again, I thought about the previous day so that I might forget about the events
of the current. I’d stopped at a carpet shop with my first tour where I’d
received a similar form of hospitality; mint tea and bright local smiles. The
hosts had politely offered us any carpet we liked, for a good price, but my
future stops in the Netherlands and England prevented me from buying one; they
were just too big and I didn’t want to deal with posting anything back home. Nomadic
logic, I had figured. That first host had been nice about it, but…
‘No pressure at all. You buy any one
you like. Any one. Two? Take your pick.’ Polite but pushy was the tone the
Family Head was using. We were allowed to take pictures, which was enough for
me, and were taught a few things about the carpet profession.
The wool came from sheep and camels,
or it was spun from cactus fibres which I’m sure would appease many vegans. The
loom in the corner, constructed by the man of the house, looked to have been
made from tree branches, and hanging from it were balls of wool coloured in
blues, yellows, greens, reds, black and white. The Wife, the Carpet Weaver, was
getting bits and pieces out of some unspun wool with what looked like the brush
I used on my border collie back home. Whenever she looked up she would smile,
making me feel welcomed, which almost had me believing that she might be tuning
in with my current state of mind.
‘Is
there anything you know about carpet weaving?’ the Family Head asked us, still
sitting next to me. There were heads shaking all around the room, but then I raised my hand.
‘I learnt yesterday that the women weave the carpets with
whatever spare time they have. The women never know for sure how long it’s
taken them to weave a single carpet.’
The
Family Head disagreed in an open and loud fashion that left me in a state of
meh. I peered over at the English cousins who looked as if they were concealing
some laughter. The Carpet Weaver looked up, silent as always, before returning
to her work. Her husband then instructed her to start unrolling carpets for us
to look at and feel, no doubt adamant that he’d make a sale.
Each
one of those carpets had a nice texture to them. The shades were vibrant, as
was to be expected, and the patterns were as unique as our fingerprints. We
were all taking pictures; one of the Italians had expressed a fleeting interest
in one of the smaller carpets but it didn’t eventuate into anything the Family
Head was like to react about politely. The Family Head then left the room for
some reason whilst the Carpet Weaver stood at one end, looking to her right
with both delicate hands buried in her pockets. I took a photo of her, liking
the silent pose she was making.
The mental clawing at the back of
mine was still on.
Seriously, who hasn’t picked up on
the fact that Subway doesn’t serve stew?!
Not
until I’m back in Marrakech at that new hostel with the zero bad reviews! Shit!
I watched the Carpet Weaver
standing upon her work, not for one moment expressing a hint of pride. I didn’t
know if pride was a sin in Islam. We then stood up to leave; I put more heart
into thanking the Carpet Weaver for her hospitality, than her husband, before
being led by our skinny guide back to the bus and onto Todra Gorge. As we were
walking away from the big house in Tinghir I looked back but the Carpet Weaver
hadn’t stepped outside to see us off.
‘Shit,
he wasn’t impressed with you,’ the long-haired cousin laughed as we walked
together.
***
I’d seen a Saharan
sunset from a top a mammoth sand dune and bused it through the snowy Atlas
Mountains; those peeks had reminded me of zebra foal stripes. This stint in
African nature was well appreciated, but now I was exhausted. We all were; the
sites were beautiful but the tour company we’d travelled with could use a bit
of a facelift. I was also well and truly over camels. The plan had been to buy a wooden camel back in
Marrakech, for my collection of wooden figurines purchased from abroad, but I
thought I’d settle for a cobra instead. Snakes didn’t cause discomfort.
We
were all dropped off at varying spots around Marrakech just as night had overtaken
but I was left feeling nervous since I didn’t know the neighbourhood my new
hostel was in. I had a map but I was freaking out a little - a lot, actually. I
was the third last to be dropped off; I started walking down Rue de La Kasbah
in the dark, once even blending in with a family pulling their suitcases just for
cover, but a shopkeeper then came out to me and gave me proper directions. Genuine
people are everywhere, I told myself, before I realised that I was standing
near a very familiar looking market, and a rooftop café; I’d walked around here
days earlier with another Aussie and a Swede. The confidence then returned to
me as I started walking the neighbourhood. These streets were quiet, a welcomed
upside, because I liked quiet.
I
arrived at the much cleaner and opened-aired hostel to be greeted by a young
man wearing a leather jacket and his black cap backwards.
‘Thank you
for choosing us,’ the young man said after my booking was found. ‘If there’s
anything you need, just let me and the others know.’
‘I just want to recover.’
‘Haha,
you’re not the first.’
I already liked this place; their
Wi-Fi code was Couscous. Once I’d checked in I got my phone charging. When it
had power I dialled home and got a hold of my father. It’s one of those chats that
isn’t detailed in some How To guide, so I just let it all come out. All of it.
‘Dad, I’m so sorry…’
My tears finally started
to stream down my cheeks there, alone, in the dorm room.
For Doug...
