Wednesday, July 09, 2003
"Oh", he said, "and we've got electricity. We've had that for about two years now."
I'm Imodium'ed up to my eyeballs and I'm climbing a mountain.
We left Marrakech in the morning and by the time we reach the village of Imlil, it's almost noon and fairly hot. A mule is send ahead with our backpacks, while we have a break and a coke and a smile. Our guide Brahim disappears and returns with a tooth-less and moustached guide cum goat-herd, who is waving money around. "Do you know these?" he asks. They are Scottish pound notes. "Do you think...maybe..." says Brahim. We exchange glances because we don't have much cash as it is, but succumb to our hearts' goodness and exchange the pounds for dirhams. The guide cum goat-herd leaves but quickly returns with a pretty silver bracelet. "Thank you", he says, "for the lady." We thank him profusely and he smiles and says: "Maybe later, you come to look in my shop."
The air in the mountains is fresh and the temperature much cooler than the frying hell-hole that is Marrakech. We are staying in the village of Arumdt, in a guesthouse run by Brahim's brother, situated in Brahim's brother's forecourt. We are the only visitors, which is a bit weird - it's very quiet. The only sounds are from the five daily prayer-calls, the cows and the kids.
The garden is full of herbs and vegetables - aubergines and corn and tomatoes - and every morning and every evening the cook picks leaves for tea directly from the garden; mint and camomile. The kids are a bit shy but polite and funny - especially the little one who loves the radio - he literally carries a big old battered ghetto-blaster in his arms all the time. Whenever we walk past the children in the village, they greet us with a "bonjour, monsieur" - maybe they don't know they exact meaning of "monsieur" or perhaps it is the trousers and the hat - the fact that I am actually "mademoiselle" does not seem to affect them at all.
In the day-time the women collect grass for winter-insulation, or wash clothes at the stream at the foot of the village. The men work as guides or hang out around the house, shooting the breeze with their (male) friends and family. The children imitate this division of life; the girls help their mothers, while the boys swim or sit around in groups mirroring their fathers.
The evenings are spend on the roof: this is quite common it seems, for people to meet up and hang out on top of their houses, whilst enjoying the incredibly beautiful sunset. Our host and a friend come to the roof to pray, discreetly and calmly, mumbling prayers facing Mecca, with the wind in their backs and their hats in their hands, framed by the orange colours of the setting sun.
I'm Imodium'ed up to my eyeballs and I'm climbing a mountain.
We left Marrakech in the morning and by the time we reach the village of Imlil, it's almost noon and fairly hot. A mule is send ahead with our backpacks, while we have a break and a coke and a smile. Our guide Brahim disappears and returns with a tooth-less and moustached guide cum goat-herd, who is waving money around. "Do you know these?" he asks. They are Scottish pound notes. "Do you think...maybe..." says Brahim. We exchange glances because we don't have much cash as it is, but succumb to our hearts' goodness and exchange the pounds for dirhams. The guide cum goat-herd leaves but quickly returns with a pretty silver bracelet. "Thank you", he says, "for the lady." We thank him profusely and he smiles and says: "Maybe later, you come to look in my shop."
The air in the mountains is fresh and the temperature much cooler than the frying hell-hole that is Marrakech. We are staying in the village of Arumdt, in a guesthouse run by Brahim's brother, situated in Brahim's brother's forecourt. We are the only visitors, which is a bit weird - it's very quiet. The only sounds are from the five daily prayer-calls, the cows and the kids.
The garden is full of herbs and vegetables - aubergines and corn and tomatoes - and every morning and every evening the cook picks leaves for tea directly from the garden; mint and camomile. The kids are a bit shy but polite and funny - especially the little one who loves the radio - he literally carries a big old battered ghetto-blaster in his arms all the time. Whenever we walk past the children in the village, they greet us with a "bonjour, monsieur" - maybe they don't know they exact meaning of "monsieur" or perhaps it is the trousers and the hat - the fact that I am actually "mademoiselle" does not seem to affect them at all.
In the day-time the women collect grass for winter-insulation, or wash clothes at the stream at the foot of the village. The men work as guides or hang out around the house, shooting the breeze with their (male) friends and family. The children imitate this division of life; the girls help their mothers, while the boys swim or sit around in groups mirroring their fathers.
The evenings are spend on the roof: this is quite common it seems, for people to meet up and hang out on top of their houses, whilst enjoying the incredibly beautiful sunset. Our host and a friend come to the roof to pray, discreetly and calmly, mumbling prayers facing Mecca, with the wind in their backs and their hats in their hands, framed by the orange colours of the setting sun.
Powered by Bravenet
