Festival, feasting, and Spain again
3 comments January 24th, 2006
When Madani headed back to his family for Eid Kabeera, the fete of mutton, I sent the camera with him, since I thought I might be spending a rather solitary time of it in the tent. As it turned out I had a wildly sociable time with a nomad family camped nearby, and sorely missed the camera; but nonethless, Madani got some great pics of his time with the family, although I can only feature a few of them on here.
This is him with his family and the unfortunate sheep. The process of slaughtering and eating is a ritualised one in Saharawi culture, following fairly strict traditions. After the throat is slit in the usual halal fashion (leaving the streets running with blood, since every family slaughters a beast) the carcass is skinned and hung to drain the blood. 
Then the tissue from the front of the chest is taken (I know a million people out there are going to correct me on names and locations of animal pieces, but I am no expert and just have to describe what I saw) and dried. Meanwhile the sweetmeats are cooked up over a coal brazier, whilst the tender meat from the neck is strung onto skewers and wrapped in the dried tissue ready to grill. It is a wonderfully relaxed, convivial gathering, with everybody preparing something; the women wrapping the intestines into plaited ropes, ready for a later pot, the meat being wrapped and skewered, and over it all the wonderful smell of fresh meat grilling over 
the hot coals.
This is Madani’s family in the process of preparing everything. I was in a tent on this day, the guest of a very kind family who wouldn’t hear of me eating alone for the fete. I was captivated by the bustle of activity, as everyone from the youngest of children to the eldest of grandparents participated in preparing the meat, all sitting in a congenial group in the smoky tent, talking and laughing, singing as the delicious smells wafted through the space and out into the desert. The small girls of the tent, no more than six years old, picked up the babies when they cried and comforted them, leaving their mothers free to carry on working. The children in the tents are so capable; one small girl, no more than eight, returned to the tent to eat her brochettes and then resignedly pulled her sandals back on and marched back out onto the hammada to guard the thirty or so goats the family own, with not so much as a word of protest. She ran here and there, whistling and using her stick to drive them into good feed, quite confident in her role. The other young girls in the tent variously operated as baby carers, cleaners, fetch and carriers, or simply general dogsbodies. They never stopped working and never once did I hear them complain that a task was too hard, even when it involved a large, heavy cauldron of boiling water being shifted from the fire to the tent. It was a lovely family and I felt thoroughly welcomed and at home, not to mention utterly stuffed with wonderful meat!
Meanwhile Madani had a marvellous time being with his family again, and similarly 
stuffed himself into gastronomic heaven. We met in Agadir on my way back to Spain, and had a few very civilised beers in a quiet courtyard bar. It was a very odd experience for me, almost like being back in Europe; we kept looking at each other and bursting into nervous giggles, wondering if it was totally obvious to all there that a couple of stinking nomads had just come to town. The next day we handed over and Madani returned to the camp, where I just spoke to him and he is going suitably loopy on his own, bless him.
I then embarked on the mother of all horrendous bus rides. For various reasons I had to go to Ouarzazate before heading back to Marrakech; this alone was a very cold eight hour bus ride. After a night there, I got on the bus I have done many a time, the route from Ouarzazate across the High Atlas mountains to Marrakech. Unfortunately this year Morocco, like much of Europe, has experienced a particularly harsh winter. As the temperature in the (unheated) bus got increasingly icy, we arrived at the barrier which marks the entrance to the infamous Tizi n Tichka pass – featured some time ago in this diary page when Gary and I crossed it on foot last year. There were something like 100 vehicles backed up in front of the barrier, and snow was falling in thick, heavy curtains. We came to a stop and the driver informed everyone that he had high hopes the barrier would open later in the day; we would wait until then. There was not a word of protest on board, despite the fact that the temperature in the bus was falling to subzero temperatures, the sole food supplier in the little village had closed after being besieged by the passengers of all the coaches stopped at the pass, and many people had connecting buses in Marrakech they were likely to miss. Everybody simply settled in and began chatting, sharing out their blankets, putting on extra layers of clothes, and sharing whatever food they had. After a couple of hours a local woman turned up with a huge pot of soup which she charged 3 dirham a bowl for; it was wonderful, and just what we needed, since by this time it was 3 in the afternoon – the bus having left at eight that morning.
One by one the trucks and buses turned around and headed back to Ouarzazate, convinced the barrier wouldn’t open. Ahead of us the odd vehicle was still passing; the common conclusion was that if one had enough cash to hand over to the gendarme on the barrier, the bad conditions would be forgotten. But finally it became obvious that the snow wasn’t easing off, and our driver admitted that even if we all pitched in to pay baksheesh, he wasn’t overly comfortable tackling the steep descent in fading daylight and heavy snow. We all agreed with this, and then a lengthy debate ensued about the best course of action: should we return to Ouarzazate, and give people the choice to end their journey; should we go to Agadir and then on to Marrakech (an enormous detour of about eight hundred km) or should we chance the alternate pass over Taznact and Taroudannt, also a major detour but slightly less than Agadir, albeit with the dodgy mountain road? This became the final choice in what was a very civilised group discussion. Everybody on the bus coughed up the fifty dirham per head to cover the extra costs involved, nobody saying anything about the few women on the bus with small children who didn’t have the money. And so we set off.
But the weather got worse, and because so many other buses had chosen the same route, every town we came to had sold out of food after servicing the unusual demand; as the bus trundled on through the treacherous night, we shivered and shook with the cold and shared the bread and cheese we had been able to buy. Behind me a women with three small children, one a new infant, was helped by the two crusty old blokes opposite me who simply took control of the two older ones (toddlers), cradling them on their knees to keep them warm, talking and playing endlessly with them all night, taking them to the toilet when the bus stopped, finding them food and drink, leaving the mother free to look after her new baby. All over the bus I was struck by how incredibly kind everyone was to each other; there was not one raised voice or dispute, no complaining about missed connections or inconvenience, or the terrible cold, even when the bus was stopped at another barrier for a further three hours. Sometimes I would hear a mobile phone ring, and the laconic answer would go along the lines of : "Oh, hi! Yeah, everything is ok, just a bit of a hold up on the bus, no I’m fine – how are you?" Never once did I hear anybody get distressed and say what a nightmare it was. I know I go on frequently in this diary page about the extraordinary humanity of Moroccans, but never was it more amply demonstrated to me than through that terribly long, cold night, when the priority of everyone on the bus seemed to be to look after the other, and laugh at the situation with great good humour. Somehow, even though buses were sliding into each other and cars going off the road in near zero visibility, and half the bus was close to hypothermia, the calm, resigned acceptance took out the element of panic one would expect in such conditions.
In the end it was 28 hours on the bus when we pulled into Marrakech; 28 hours for a trip that usually takes no more than seven, and it was a stiff, cold, tired crew that lurched into the cafe for tea and kissed each other goodbye.
My journey to Spain after that was uneventful, just the train up to Tangier (on which I met a man from Belgium, blonde as you like, who told me his mother was an exiled Saharawi woman and he was the long lost prophet of the Saharawi people….hmmm) followed by the boat to Algeciras, and the bus up to Malaga, where I am now blissfully ensconced in a lovely little apartment with Gary, whom it is heaven to see again. The sheer luxury of eating glorious Spanish food again, and drinking wine in the sun by the sea, is impossible to describe; one could not have asked for a more perfect break, not to mention the bliss of talking to the one person who really understands the walk. Unfortunately for the time being we will remain apart, since Gary has commitments elsewhere, and the walk must continue; we are hoping this situation will change by Dakhla at the latest. In the meantime we are having a wonderful week and thoroughly enjoying the break and each other’s company.
I am not at all looking forward to the travel back to Tan Tan, though I know of course that once I am back in my camp in the glorious peace of the desert I will be perfectly content once more. It is just the getting there that drives me nuts!
Normally I finish a post with a photo, but they are a bit in short supply this week due to my laziness. I promise more next time. In the meantime it will be some time before there is an update, possibly until we finish the piste stretch to Laayoune. I will catch you all there, and if I have time, post before then with some more photos. To all my mates who have sent such lovely emails, man, I miss you all, and really, really love hearing from you. Have a beer for me (and I will raise a glass to you all here in sunny Spain…)
Cheers.
If all goes according to plan, you will view some pictures on this blog. But this is Morocco – the Sahara Occident, in fact – and very rarely do things go to plan. Thus it is highly likely that you will not be able to see what I have been up to, and so I shall endeavour to paint a few pictures in words.
wind, mist, more rain, cold, wind again, the odd bit of very hot sun, and then more wind. The rivers have flooded. Nomads were washed away, tents, goats, Landrovers and all – some eighty lives lost in this region alone, not that this makes the news, because of course they are just nomads – who would miss them? The prediction of MBarak – more reliable than any news service, by far – is that this weather pattern is likely to continue for most of this month, in this region. 
limping along, we walked until we found a fantastic place to camp - a well, great feed for the camels, small palmeraie, and close enough to the road for me to wave down the police if I need them, just near the point where the piste track takes off into the wilds. We put up the tent in a good spot, and took stock of our supplies – at which point I begged a short leave of absence in order to return here, to Tan Tan, and buy necessary items such as booze and fags. Very fortunately for me, the gendarmes in the nearby village are exceedingly hospitable, and not only drove me in to town, but also directed me to the best place to buy contraband booze – and negotiated a very good price. Extremely understanding, bless ‘em. They have promised MBarak faithfully that they will arrive every day to check I am ok, and since I have now met their wives as well, not to mention the numerous nomads camped in the vicinity, I somehow doubt that I will have a very solitary time of it. 
last time we were in Tan Tan. He came back to our camp with us, and provided me with a marvellous week of speaking blessed ENGLISH, and communing with my own culture once more – a rather strange experience, actually, after such a long time in the Sahara. I made a concerted effort to take my melekhva off after he commented that he found it rather odd to have a discussion with a woman completely wrapped up. I tend to forget it, to the point where I feel rather naked without it; I have been trying to wear my "tourist clothes" a bit in order to remind myself of my other life. One thing I did realise, when he started to take photos of us walking, is that I am wearing the same melekhva in every shot; he reckons I should explain that I have one for walking, and others for socialising. (It is the French mentality and obsession with chic – I know all the Australians out there couldn’t care less). 
wonderful day in the women’s tent having intricate henna decorations tattooed on my hands and feet, a very long process and a lot of work for the women who created them. Not for me, however; I spent the day reclining on cushions and being fed. Yep, pretty much my idea of paradise, as we all know. It was rather amusing for me to try to explain the concept of Christmas; they had never heard of Christ, let alone Christmas.
contraband. (I swear that when, or if, I ever return to European society I will forget that it is possible to enter a shop and buy alcohol legally, and go searching out the nearest Landrover with tarp covered back.) It was a pretty low key celebration, all in all. Everyone here is of course waiting for the real festival, when every family buys a goat or sheep and slaughters it in the ritual halal manner of slitting the throat, and then gorges unrestrainedly on meat, meat, meat for two days. After years of being a temperate meat eater, I have turned into a raging carnivore during this trip, and salivate eagerly every time I think of barbequed brochette. No goat is safe near my camp right now.
what I did. And so I gave into the myriad of factors preventing our immediate continuation, found a really good place, and plan to thoroughly enjoy this rest time. There is no point fighting the elements or fate when the world decides to take a break; and never, ever in Morocco is it worthwhile trying to speed things up. Time simply moves differently here, something I came to terms with long ago. Try to fight it and you really will go mad – far better to just lie down, brew the tea, and have a good long chat with whoever turns up at the tent, before taking a little wander off to check that the camels are munching contentedly. Let’s face it, things could really be a whole lot worse…
family and friends who email in varying states of panic, that it is exceedingly difficult for me to get to internet – this little expedition today involved three different trucks, the gendarmerie, 150km, and a hotel for the night; not to mention the customary derrangements we encounter every time we enter a town. (The last time, Jean’s bag got stolen, and we couldn’t involve the police since it was stolen from the back of a vehicle laden with contraband gasoline – a friend of ours who had offered to drive us back to camp on his "business" run – and Madani spent a hectic day interrogating every petrol sniffing deviant in the slums until we finally found the thief, who led us to where he had dumped the bag in the river, and then cowered whilst an excited mob delivered rough justice with hands and feet. Just another bloody day out…)
than I am with Madani and MBarak, and now doubly so, since the gendarmerie here have decided that I am their personal responsibility. All is calm and tranquil in my little desert world.
day when the sun drops behind the vast gravel mountains, and the stars soar far above in the still desert night, I look up and think that I must be one of the luckiest people on earth; I think of all the nights I sat in London, cooped up inside, watching adventures like this on the television and feeling a sad, weary kind of envy, wondering if I would ever get out of the work-and-pay rut and on with the life of my choice. And even though it is cold now in the night, I wrap up in a blanket and we make a little fire and I listen to Madani and MBarak sing, and drink my tea, and think that I don’t have to wonder anymore, don’t have to feel sad or envious – right here is exactly where I want to be, and I am grateful for this life every single day. 