The road to Tafraoute, Morocco

Retracing our steps, we went back through Mirleft and Tiznit, and then headed almost due east to Tafraoute.  The narrow winding road took us on a beautiful trip through a very pretty valley, lush with grassy terraces, shrubs and palm trees.  But the real magic was in the almond trees, now in full bloom, their pale pink and white blossoms gracing not just the trees, but forming soft pastel carpets underneath.  A landscape for daydreams: young girls on white unicorns with rainbow manes and tails galloping, galloping together over fluffy pink clouds fretted with silver and gold.  Or for memories: of drives with my mother to see Vancouver streets lined with cherry trees, their blossoms often deeper pink than almonds.  The younger trees like ballerinas, slim and graceful.  The older trees laden with blossoms, their crowns nearly touching one another over the street, perfect pink, perfumed tunnels.  “Oh look, look!” my mother would exclaim.  “Look at these ones!”  My sisters and I, all teenagers, and not easily impressed, or moved, would be moved, in part by the trees, and in part by our mother’s almost delirious delight.

My reveries were not in the least disturbed by the little Berber villages in the valley, either nestled in its folds or perched on its rocky slopes and ridges.  Simple houses made by hand from a mixture of the valley’s red red earth and dried grasses.  They blended effortlessly into the landscape, at one with their surroundings.  We passed donkeys carrying great loads of firewood – mostly brush and small sticks and twigs.  Or hay or market day provisions or purchases.  Trotting in front of small children brandishing sticks, and broad smiles.  Or sometimes trailing after Berber men in dark or brilliantly white djellabas.  How do their women folk keep these so clean?  Three steps behind the men, or more, the women folk walk.  Most of them are clad in loose black saris. The only splashes of colour are the scarves and head-dresses of the women, and the ragged clothing of the children.  Everyone, even the children, are carrying something on their back – in the case of the women, a baby or child too small or too tired to walk.  Or bundles of whatever they have purchased, or are selling or trading at a local market.  We saw a few people on bicycles, and almost no cars or trucks.  When they saw us, children ran alongside the road, waving, and jumping in front of the car, trying to get us to stop, hoping for a handout. Would that we could feed them all.

There are many signs of modernization in Morocco, all apparently part of a concerted effort by the new king to improve the Moroccan economy and the lives of its people.  Most of the roads we’ve been traveling on are narrow, winding their way around hilly or outright mountainous landscapes, through narrow valleys and over streams, the majority of them are in good condition, and many recently paved.  Some represent impressive feats of engineering and construction, especially when we see some of the work crews, mostly bare-handed and scantily clothed men, working with picks, shovels and wheelbarrows.   Everywhere we have been so far we have also seen new water and hydro lines, and new satellite and radio transmission towers on every ridge or peak.  The towers explain how it is that Moroccans can use their cell phones everywhere, and why so many Moroccans, even goatherds in the hills and deserts, have them.  I have been tempted many times to take a photo of a hooded or turbaned goatherd, wrapped in his djellaba, astride his little donkey, his bare or slippered feet almost touching the ground, and talking on his cell phone.  Even the women have cell phones, so perhaps the social order will change more rapidly than one might, with casual observation, imagine possible.

But with the advent of technology, and specifically satellite tv, comes the scourge of unrestricted access to all it offers, including hard core porn.  Benedictine, the duena of the auberge in Mirleft, bemoaned the fact that young (12-13 year old) Berber girls are seeing images of hard core porn that they have no way of understanding.  They think, because most of the women in these videos are white, that that is what white women do.  And of course boys and men are also seeing these images.  Given the women’s subservient role, still, in this culture, what kind of desires, expectations and demands might this give rise to?  It’s discouraging, and disgusting, to contemplate.