I was given
a new name this past weekend.
Not a nickname in English.
Not a new Spanish name.
An Arabic name.
Actually,
Mustapha renamed all of us.
SK became A’isha, which means “life, vivaciousness,” and he called
Ida Fatima, after the prophet’s daughter who abstained from temptations of the world. Last, he looked at me and
said, “
And you will be Karima,” which later I learned means “
generous, giving, noble.”
For a few short days, I saw a new world through Karima’s eyes… A world where donkeys and carts are just as common as cars and scooters. A world where story tellers draw crowds around them each night in the main square. A world where most women keep their heads covered at all times. A world where modern technology stands in stark contrast to old ways. A world unlike any other I had ever seen… that world I found was in Morocco.
Marrakech may not be the capital of Morocco, but it nevertheless thrives upon the tourism industry and the thousands of foreigners who co
me to a place that is so different and so, well, foreign. The Medina, which is the old city surrounded by a large red wall, is the heart of Marrakech. It’s a messy conglomeration of squashed buildings, narrow alleyways, squares and marketplaces. The steady rhythm of life flows in and out of the city walls through one of fourteen gates, each with its own name, design, and symbolic meaning. The sounds of the city rise into the dusty air: the shrieking of breaking taxis, the clopping of horses’ hooves, the thrumming of motorbikes, the shouts of the merchants, the babble of languages. The red brick minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque (Marrkech’s largest mosque built in the 1100s) proudly stands at the end of the road leading up to the main square, the Djemaa el Fna.
The Djemaa el Fna of Marrakech is a remarkable place. During the day, snake charmers rattle out tunes on their pipes while cobras either dance to their hypnotic rhythm or lie dormant on a nearby mat. Women call out to passersby, offering to decorate body parts with henna ink. Carts overflowing with exotic dried fruits and nuts, o
thers full of oranges for fresh squeezed juice, and some blaring American or Arabic pop music form neat lines on one side of the square. The flies discouraged us from tasting the dried products, but we did enjoy a fresh glass of orange juice one morning. At night, the snake charmers are replaced by other street performers and story tellers. And food stands attract hundreds of people to their benches with their lush displays of Moroccan salads, olives, kebap skewers, cous cous, tagines, pastillas, fish and calamari. Some stands exhibited unique specialties such as lamb’s brain or snail soup. We passed by those with curiosity… and kept on walking. “It’s not KFC,” the servers would say, “but it’s finger-lickin’ good!” I wasn’t sure I believed them all the time. Stepping back from this gastronomic gallery of epic prop
ortion, I could see that the large white plumes of smoke were rising from the grills faster than the full moon over the square. Whether passing through in daylight or in moonlight, there was, is, and undoubtedly always will be exciting sights, sounds, and smells in Marrakech’s main square.
Just behind the Djemaa el Fna lie the souks, the twisted maze of a marketplace where merchants sell “typical Moroccan goods”: brightly colored slippers, lavish carpets, polished wooden pieces, tea sets, ceramics, jewelry, olives and mint leaves, spices, smelling salts, and salves. In the souks, people pass you by just as quickly as the first price a shopkeeper offers for a brass lamp. You have to be prepared to be hassled and to haggle for what you want (or don’t want). We quickly discovered that we could lower the suggested price by half, at least, and we got really good at playing along with their games. We could have made more deals in one hour with 
Moroccan merchants than a car salesman would have made in one day during the “Cash for Clunkers” bill. However, staying in the souks for any length of time wears you down, what with people constantly trying to bring you into their nook of a shop and with so many people milling about in small spaces. Fortunately, we were able to retreat from the pressures of the markets and the chaos of the city simply by returning to our hostel, the Riad Massin, which wasn’t what I’d consider a hostel but rather a true Moroccan gem.
In some ways, riads embody how the Western World imagines of the Eastern World (even though Morocco is in West Africa). The word comes from the Arabic word ryad which means garden, 
because these traditional homes have an interior courtyard and/or garden. Riads are tranquil sanctuaries, where the trickle of fountains and birdsong weave a delightful tapestry for the ears’ enjoyment, as rich and vibrant as the plush floor pillows. Intricately carved wooden doors welcome weary ones to their blissful abode, and the coolness of the tiled walls magically wash away the heat and grime of the city with their fresh breath of serenity. Perhaps not all can enter, but tea is always offered and never withheld from anyone who passes through the narrow alleyway and finds their way to this riad. Staying at the Riad Massin was a pleasant example of how to experience Moroccan hospitality and comfort.
Wanting to take advantage of some of Morocco’s other treasures, we arranged an excursion through the sister travel company to Riad Massin for Sunday. Early Sunday morning, SK, Ida, and I got up, showered, and prepared for our day’s adventure. As we waited in the dark and quiet courtyard, I knew that something had to be wrong… how could it be 8:30 and not another soul but us was up? We found a clock and were horrified to see that it was actually 6:30. The Easyjet pilot had told us Marrakech was an hour ahead of Madrid, but it was really an hour behind! Therefore, we had spent all Saturday operating two hours ahead of everyone else in the country. Flabbergasted by the mishap, we three hopped into Ida’s queen bed and took a nice morning nap.
Just before 9:00 proper Moroccan time, we gathered in the courtyard for our trip. There we met our travel companions, three guys around our age from England and the US, and we were introduced to our guide, Mustapha. From the moment I met him, I knew that Mustapha was quite a joker, kidding around and cutting up, commenting that he didn’t speak English well. Actually, he spoke English more fluently than most of my teachers at my bilingual school. Before we had even left Marrakech, Mustapha pulled out the microphone from under the front passenger seat of the van. Since none of us knew any pop Arabic music, he took center stage (well, center seat), singing to us ladies in the front and to all the people we passed on the streets. And it was within those first few minutes of our ride that Mustapha gave each of us our Arabic names. Thus, Karima, Fatima, and A’isha left the hustle and bustle of the city and headed into the Ourika River Valley and the Atlas Mountain Range.
Our party bus first stopped at a Berber home to understand how the Berber people live and to have breakfast there. The Berber people were the first to settle in Morocco, but they were pushed to the countryside when the Arabs came. Now they are the poorest people group in Morocco, and they still live off of what they produce. It was only within the
past 50 years that the government installed taps in their villages so they don’t have to go to the river everyday to get water. The homes are made of the thick red clay that is so abundant throughout the land. The cows live in the room next to the kitchen. Accommodations are simple and modest. Since the Berber women cannot leave their home without a male escort, they have almost everything they need at home, including their own hammam (like a steamy bath house). Girls are often married off young and have a child or two by the age of 20. The Berber lifestyle is still very much the same as it was hundreds of years ago, which is rather remarkable given that we have entered an age where books are no longer just printed with ink but also come in digital form.
For breakfast, we ate thick flatbread with homemade butter, 
honey, and olive oil. The Big Mama of the Berber home we visited showed us how they make their mint tea, which usually involves adding a giant lump of sugar into the boiling liquid. I drank a lot of tea throughout my entire stay in Morocco, because it was so refreshing, so delicious, and so sweet! I even bargained for a silver teapot to take back with me in case I ever decided to make tea like they do. (It’s still sitting on my dresser.)
After breakfast, we drove a little further into the valley, pulled over on the side of the road, and were greeted by a small herd of camels. One by one, we mounted our furry friends, which were then linked together to form the Camel Congo Line. I named my camel Herod (he's the black one in this picture), and he lazily followed the others for our 20 minute walk along a hillside path.
While riding a camel was a bit of a novelty and I appreciated Herod’s services,
I was more captivated by the beautiful scenery that surrounded us as we moved further into the Atlas Mountains. In the distance, snow covered peaks jutted out into the bright blue sky. Cacti covered entire rocky slopes. Rustic, rickety-looking bridges made of wire and tree branches crisscrossed the Ourika River as it hurried past its stony bed, spluttering and shushing its way down the valley. 
Eventually, we pulled over in order to cross one of those precariously swinging bridges; and Ida learned how to conquer her fear of heights. She was given more opportunities to do so when we reached our ultimate destination and began to hike up a rocky mountain path to a waterfall. Along the way, we passed mountainside cafes and stalls displaying jewelry, ceramics, and other trinkets. Locals and foreigners alike were enjoying the natural surroundings and I had to patiently pace myself out of consideration for others who may not have had as much experience climbing as I’ve had. Funnily enough, there were moments when I looked back on the sun-kissed mountains across the valley and I had complete déjà vu: I’ve seen similar sights in the Valle de Elqui in northern Chile!
Spending the day in the Atlas Mountains and Ourika Valley was the perfect compliment to the crazy commotion of Marrakech. After our hike, we went to a restaurant where they served us Moroccan salad, cous cous, lamb and chicken tagine, and oranges & dates for dessert. Mustapha was an excellent guide and travel companion. I really wished that we had had time to do the three day program, which goes to the desert where you really ride camels and sleep in tents under the bright stars. Next time…
Hopefully there will be a next time, because through Karima’s eyes, I was introduced to a fascinating world, one which I hope I will have more opportunities to explore and discover.
To understand our 
merous farms and gardens, and dotted with white, grey, and red, signs of the towns and villages where a vast majority of 
Top: The view from the teleférico platform Middle: Crazy rock formations of Las Cañadas Bottom right & middle: playing and picnicking in Las Cañadas Below: Yupi's photo shoot in the crater
he edge. Everyday the clouds roll in off the 
nd parties, taking turns every weekend in the warmer months. It’s what all the locals do and where everyone goes to see friends and to be seen. The girls get all dolled up (high heels and all) and couples dance to the fast-paced rhythms blaring over the speakers. Food and drink stands form a border around the party scene. It reminded me of the Bay Point Billfish Tournament of PCB, 
