Today we are in the region of the Dades and Toudres Gorges and
went on a “small, easy” hike. We left at 9:30am
and didn’t get back to the hotel until 3pm.
Our guide was a 20 year old university student named Mohammed. He seemed
really nice, and he’s handsome, and would jump at any opportunity for a green
card. Josie (and Scott) I’m really sorry, but I might have accidentally
betrothed you. (Did I mention that he is
cute?)
You must understand, Mom and I almost never really know what to expect. Our written itinerary might be a loose guideline for what part of the county we are in, but often when Y conscientiously prepares us for what the coming day will bring… oh, wait. He doesn’t do that.* Even when we pepper him with questions, we still seem to find ourselves thrust into situations with no clear understanding of what is happening, how long it will take, what we are looking at, when our next meal or bathroom stop may be, where we will be sleeping that night, etc. etc. Chalk it up to grand adventure.
THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF:
#3: Surprises!
So this morning we found ourselves in the care of this nice young man, trotting dutifully along after him, hoping we were wearing appropriate clothing. (We knew we were hiking. We knew it would be “nice, easy, maybe three hours. Easy incline, no need to use your hands.”) We did NOT know we were cheerfully embarking on a death march of epic proportion.
I’m skipping over parts of what we talked about, because you are probably eager for the funny-slash-humiliating bits. I will simply state that in hindsight, vacationing on climbing trips with my father ought to have had the warning bells ringing loudly in both our heads. Oh, how fondly we talked about Dad. All. Day.
It became immediately clear that Mohammed is what you call “sportif.” “Legs of rock,” he said proudly. Mom and I do not have legs of rock. Or lungs prepared for a five hour hike in altitude.
You must understand, Mom and I almost never really know what to expect. Our written itinerary might be a loose guideline for what part of the county we are in, but often when Y conscientiously prepares us for what the coming day will bring… oh, wait. He doesn’t do that.* Even when we pepper him with questions, we still seem to find ourselves thrust into situations with no clear understanding of what is happening, how long it will take, what we are looking at, when our next meal or bathroom stop may be, where we will be sleeping that night, etc. etc. Chalk it up to grand adventure.
THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT YOUSSEF:
#3: Surprises!
So this morning we found ourselves in the care of this nice young man, trotting dutifully along after him, hoping we were wearing appropriate clothing. (We knew we were hiking. We knew it would be “nice, easy, maybe three hours. Easy incline, no need to use your hands.”) We did NOT know we were cheerfully embarking on a death march of epic proportion.
I’m skipping over parts of what we talked about, because you are probably eager for the funny-slash-humiliating bits. I will simply state that in hindsight, vacationing on climbing trips with my father ought to have had the warning bells ringing loudly in both our heads. Oh, how fondly we talked about Dad. All. Day.
It became immediately clear that Mohammed is what you call “sportif.” “Legs of rock,” he said proudly. Mom and I do not have legs of rock. Or lungs prepared for a five hour hike in altitude.
Note that while we were gone from 9:30
to 3:00 pm technically the last hour was
not hiking. Rather, it was spent in an isolated upstairs room of a kasbah,
viewing hundreds of handmade rugs beneath the watchful gaze of a wizened old
lady… that Youssef! Leave it to him to 1) never mention rug shopping; and 2)
send us on a death march and then spring
this moment of “hospitality” on us when we were exhausted, dripping in sweat
and longing for our disgusting whole-bathroom shower experience.
(The bathroom is right inside the “front door” to the room, with only a curtain for privacy. The shower is just a spray hose jutting out of the wall next to the sink. No stall, no curtain. You just stand there showering yourself all over the toilet and sink. Sort of like in a compact RV I guess. Still, my windows overlook nothing but the Atlas and I slept SO well last night. Who cares about a rotten shower? The never-washed wool blankets are also, strangely, growing on me.)
Despite being hard work, the hike was simply amazing. Mohammed was so kind, so patient and considerate… “only 15 more minutes to the top!” was a refrain he encouragingly repeated for at least two hours.
(The bathroom is right inside the “front door” to the room, with only a curtain for privacy. The shower is just a spray hose jutting out of the wall next to the sink. No stall, no curtain. You just stand there showering yourself all over the toilet and sink. Sort of like in a compact RV I guess. Still, my windows overlook nothing but the Atlas and I slept SO well last night. Who cares about a rotten shower? The never-washed wool blankets are also, strangely, growing on me.)
Despite being hard work, the hike was simply amazing. Mohammed was so kind, so patient and considerate… “only 15 more minutes to the top!” was a refrain he encouragingly repeated for at least two hours.
Mom is one tough woman, though I was grateful she was
sucking wind badly because it gave me some desperately-needed rest without
losing too much face. I was just being a good daughter, pausing a moment to let dear
mama catch up, doubled over trying hard not to retch in front of Mohammed.
According to Mohammed, we were still better than the Dutch, who are “boeff” (miming large pot-belly with his hands) and never make it the top. I suspect the Dutch may be the ONLY nation we can claim supremacy over in this unofficial little Olympics.
According to Mohammed, we were still better than the Dutch, who are “boeff” (miming large pot-belly with his hands) and never make it the top. I suspect the Dutch may be the ONLY nation we can claim supremacy over in this unofficial little Olympics.
We declined the “panoramic view” add-on, which was “just over that peak.” Having been climbing with Dad, our instinct for self-preservation belatedly kicked in. Plus, the view from the saddle was spectacular! And there and back for a panorama in ADDITION to wherever our actual destination was (still a complete mystery, and still “15 minutes away”), was not appealing.
Fortunately, our true destination was not far at all. Over a rise, and impossible
to detect, was a tent and several caves where Berber nomads actually LIVE.
Really, truly. I choose to believe this was not just a tourist show simply
because the caves were only marginally more rustic than the kasbahs in
the village. Or our hotel, for that matter.An older woman made us tea, with a beautiful little two-year-old girl (Abeisha) to help her. We enjoyed our tea in the company of five-year-old Youssef, completely entertaining and adorable.
Before I forget, ten people lived in those caves, and Mohammed told us that little Youssef’s father is 78 years old. (ICK!)
We teased Mohammed that we were making him late for a date with his girlfriend. Little did we know that it was actually ourselves who were late - - for our date with a rug salesman.
Exhausted, the hotel in sight, I remember thinking how close I was to a shower… But no.
“Maybe now you like to see a family and how they live in the kasbah?”
I’m learning (and clearly I’m a slow student) that when your guide (be it Youssef or his designee) adds a “maybe you’d like to?” … it’s a sure warning that very probably you WON’T like to.
In all honesty, I did truly enjoy the experience, even though we may have walked away as fleeced as the camel fur being patiently carded and spun by “auntie.”
Ali charmingly introduced himself and welcomed us warmly into his home. We walked up some steps to the top floor and sat on some rugs. A huge, vertical loom was set up on one side of the room.
Ali spent a great deal of time courteously and thoroughly explaining the process of creating hand-woven Berber rugs. And threw in the fact that some widows and divorcees from the village work on the rugs as a way to support themselves. (Oh, these Marocs are GOOD.)
After extended pleasantries and two cups of hot tea so we would feel especially welcome, the rug parade began. My goodness! Camel wool, sheep’s wool, even cactus thread… all colors and designs were ceremoniously, one at a time, set before us. We saw maybe 25 rugs, each lovingly described in great detail.
Ali went so far as to get out a scary-looking implement with metal claws. He then positioned himself on all fours on the topmost rug. “You have maybe cat? Small child? No problem!” He raked the evil-looking claws dramatically over a fine rug. And the rug withstood the test. “Lifetime guarantee! (NO, I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.)
Then the real fun began. Mohammed looked kind of sheepish and amused as Ali got down to business. Numbers were written down on a small notepad. Outrageous numbers, which were exclaimed over, then crossed out and rewritten. We were HAGGLING! And doing OK at it, mostly because honestly – we didn’t want a damn rug!
Finally, an impasse was reached. Mom did NOT want a rug and we were leaving.
Oh no we weren’t! Now it was MY turn! Despite the fact that I’d been Lead Negotiator for Team Amreekya, I was not going to be let off the hook.
Throwing Ali a major curve ball, I asked to see cushions instead. Cooly, almost totally unfazed, he ordered the cushion parade to begin. After MUCH negotiating, and I must add, ALL of it done with smiles, obvious enjoyment on Ali’s part, and only minor discomfort on mine, I sealed the deal on two cushions (really great and unique!) for just $X.
I leave the “X” out of consideration for my husband, who is encouraged to assume I negotiated a SUPER deal!
The really delightful part is that I shook hands with and PAID “old auntie.” She’d remained quietly in the corner throughout it all, but only at the end did we realize SHE was actually directing negotiations. Ali was the charming, well-spoken sales guy, but this woman was clearly BOSS.
As they packed my cushion covers tightly for suitcase space, attention once again turned to Mom, and her small blue rug was offered to her for $5 less than our most outrageously low offer. How could we refuse?
Whatever we paid, it was certainly no more than we would have in Marrakech or another big city. So I look at it as $X for the cushions, and $X for the EXPERIENCE. Really, Aaron. SUPER deal!
PS) Josie, saw Mohammed at dinner tonight. (He looked very fetching in a djallaba.) When he learned you were a lawyer, he backed out of the engagement. His exact words, I kid you not Josie, were “A lawyer? Sounds like trouble. She might know her rights and everything.”
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