Posted September 2, 2022: Morocco.

We arrive in the afternoon in Casablanca, the main airline hub for Morocco, to be met by Mohammad, our sweet, if slightly too bossy, driver for the next 10 days. Sitting on our stateside couches, planning this grand adventure, it was going to be all trains, all of the time; in Morocco rail service is excellent. You remember my big red suitcase purchase in Johannesburg, and I could send you photos of the odd little (but many) bags Celia kept acquiring, so, long story short, we pooled our dwindling resources and hired a driver for the whole Moroccan adventure. Mohammed was a great driver and especially kind to me because I reminded him of his mother who had recently died. Every now and then he hugged me with tears in his eyes. It was actually rather nice, and allayed my annoyance at being ordered around the rest of the time (in the nicest of ways of course). Here’s a travel tip: you can hire a driver or a guide. Often with only three friends traveling together, you’ll be in a car or small van, and the driver/guide will be the same human being. And when you’re very fortunate he/she will be good at both. Bonny at Basecamp and Dirk on the Garden Tour are examples of that. Mohammad was indeed an excellent driver, guardian, and guide as far as getting to the right places at the right times, but not a nature/history/geography guide—though he knew everything about movies and he kept us organized and comfortable.

Marrakesh, mostly my idea based on the idyllic time Scott and I had there about 10 years ago, was, personally, a bit of a bust. My tendency to want to recapture a time before, when I revisit a place…and to want my companions to love it like I did then…makes me pushy, grouchy, or exhausted. Nah, it was fine…well not really. Jemaa el-Fna Square was packed all day, looking more tacky than charming. And. It. Was. 110° F. South Africa had been dead winter in that San Francisco kind of way; the change was (briefly) excruciating. We had two days to acclimatize and then we were off to Fez.

A nearly-profound experience was to be had. We were in Morocco (unintentionally) in time for Eid al-Adha (Festival of Sacrifice). Eid al-Adha marks the culmination of the haji (pilgrimage) rites near Mecca, but is celebrated by Muslims throughout the world. It begins on the 10th of Dhū al-Ḥijjah, the last month of the Islamic calendar and continues for an additional three days. During the festival, families that can afford to sacrifice a ritually acceptable animal (sheep, goat, camel, or cow) do so and then divide the flesh equally among themselves, the poor, and friends and neighbours. Eid al-Adha is also a time for visiting and for exchanging gifts. This festival commemorates the ransom, with a ram, of the biblical patriarch Abraham’s son, Ishmael (rather than Isaac, as in Judeo-Christian tradition). Paraphrased from Britannica.

Since I am not a religious person, I mostly focused on the humane treatment of animals aspect of the event, and also wondered how many contemporary Muslims just go out of town for a few days (I was told quite a few). On the first day of our visit, we hung around in the souk, watching ‘lambs being led to slaughter’ (or carried in a wheelbarrow or over someone’s shoulder) and, since we were staying in a souk in the medina (traditional Arab part of the city), there were plenty of bleating lamps and young sheep with which to commiserate. At first we tsk tsked over their impending demises, but upon second thought, we realized how much kinder was the ending of their lives than the millions of poor beasts ‘fed’ through the western world’s packing houses. We were told it was important that the actual slaughter be carried out swiftly and humanely.

Death came to the sacrificees (mostly young sheep) early on our second morning, generally while we were still sleeping. Celia, on her morning walk, was invited into one family’s home right after the butchering, and offered tea and stories. When all of us went out a little later, the killing was over, but the souk was amply supplied with newly-skinned, scorched, and sliced heads, buckets of entrails, and heaps of ragged bits of flesh, horn, wool, and hoof. The community was out and about in the souk and streets, in homes the women (mostly) were boiling, broiling, roasting, baking meat, lots and lots of meat. Our host in the riad told us warm tales of his family’s participation, and how convivial the day is with kids playing with new toys, and friends bringing various non-meat offerings to round out the meal.

While wine with meals or the moderate consumption of alcohol could/would/should be okay, the way we, in the non-muslim world, guzzle booze and behave after said guzzling, is a tragedy of major proportions. I was trying to imagine a major festival environment in the U.S. without alcohol. Sadly, I cannot. Of course, some Muslims drink liquor, but perhaps with less fervor than the rest of us, and honestly, it’s nice to be in countries where public drunkenness isn’t an everyday issue.

At one time or the other we motored through both the Atlas and the Rif mountains, and the landscape on any given day would resemble those classic European/North African scenes of low, hazy-appearing, user-friendly mountains; palm, olive and almond groves, either ordered or wild; and dwellings on the hillsides that often displayed some elements of classic Moroccan architecture’s glowing colors, intricate patterns, and balanced silhouettes.

Our ride from Fez to Chefchaouen was perfect, like riding right through the painting. And upon entering Chefchaouen, we all said “yeah, this was the way to end our time far from home. Chefchaouen is a city in Morocco that’s famous for its blue hue. I read that “While it was founded in 1471, it didn’t get its distinctive color until 1492, when it received an influx of Jews escaping the Spanish inquisition, who brought a tradition of painting buildings blue.” There are other explanations as well and it’s surely a bit of everything, especially now, when the desire to get bluer and bluer is to make tourists like us happy. Sara picked this destination after watching a youtube introduction. For our visit, we lived in a charming blue (of course) bed and breakfast overlooking green slopes, more blue buildings and the occasional donkey.

The grand finale. Sara went on an river adventure, hiking, swimming, playing with two young men who conduct day tours, operate a small restaurant, and do whatever else it takes for young people to get by wherever they are in the world these days. She spent the evening at the restaurant hanging out with them and their friends, and probably had her best time since leaving her friend Bonny in BaseCamp. Six weeks is a long time to spend with even with the sweetest of old people…and Celia and I may not even be the sweetest.

Meanwhile Celia and I had a day trip with Mohammad to his home town of Tangier. Loved that place. Wish we had selected it as one of our stays. Well, there’s always next time…or not. As we wandered the streets, an old leftover hippy from back in the day told us we looked liked 1960’s flower girls. We think he meant ‘flower children’ and were highly complimented. Mohammad took us out to the edge of town to the Caves of Hercules and Cap Sparta. Don’t know what to say about them except…go there. It’s windy and the water is wild and you can can see Spain from there, and it’s where the Atlantic and Mediterranean meet. No place better to visit than where big chunks of land, big chunks of history and/or big oceans meet.

So then we went back to Casablanca. And flew home. Sara and I, business class from Amsterdam to LA, 11 hour flight. So here’s how business class feels as opposed to steerage (also known as low class [or economy class!]). You must watch Snowpiercer (the movie). Pretty much describes business class on KLM versus steerage class on all airlines. KLM business class is wonderful, amazing, comfortable, luxurious, pampered…sleep, delicious food, attentive attendants. OMG. It is how I was meant to travel (well, I did once when I used to save miles—got me first class from San Diego to Albuquerque, late at night, with an extra big plastic glass of wine too bad to drink. Since I’ll probably only take a few more overseas flights in this particular lifetime, I decided to take business class to Norway next summer…so I went on line and checked the prices. Then I decided steerage was more my style—it’s not so bad—I was the oldest person to zip-line (they said), perhaps I can be the oldest person to survive middle-seat, Row 76 on a 16 hour flight to Antarctica just before the last glacier melts into the sea.