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Published: July 12th 2008
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The village of Allal Tazi
Sunset behind the village of Allal Tazi Morocco: A World Apart, A Short Flight Away
After spending a night in Hotél Oasis near Madrid's Bajaras Airport, we took the hour and a half's journey and landed at Mohammed VI Airport in Casablanca. We bought the return flights through EasyJet for 211 British pounds, when bought on separate tickets (89 for return Liverpool to Madrid, 122 Madrid to Casablanca).
The staggering heat was the first thing any of us noticed; we quickly realised why there is advice against travelling to northern Africa in July. Aside from the poor air conditioning, I was surprised by the modernity of the airport, and the amount of Moroccan women dressed in the latest European trends. It seemed like since the last time I had been to Morocco, over 3 years ago, it's mentality had become a bit more daring and experimental with European customs.
We made our way to arrivals, and, after a member of our greeting party failed to arrive, we went to a café to wait. To commend ourselves for having made it, I offered to buy the four of us that were present some red bulls and vodkas. I made the mistake of not asking the price
Cous cous
Preparing the cous cous in a traditional Moroccan cous cous dish beforehand; by the time the drinks were mixed on the table our waiter asked us for 280 durhams, which is roughly 20 British pounds. I must have had "gullible tourist" written on my forehead and not have noticed.
When the final member of our party arrived, we headed to the trains and embarked for Kénitra, where my companion owned a large home. The train was full of families and men returning from work and no one said "excuse me" or "pardon," and I thought to myself that the heat must make everyone moody. The train looked a lot like something from Indiana Jones, and it had no air conditioning and the wind coming in through the open window felt like an oven. However, with the red sun setting behind the maze of sand-coloured apartment blocks, and tin-roofed shanty villages, I was overcome with giddiness to finally be out of Europe.
Eventually the slums gave way to strawberry fields and palm trees, and then a violet-blue ocean, and we had left the gritty city for the countryside. We arrived at Kénitra and took a crowded taxi to the house, which was in the village of Allal Tazi nearly
At the entrance of the village of Allal Tazi
Standing in front of a walled factory that stood adjacent to a mini souk that served the villagers 30 minutes away. The village was small and had no paved roads other than the main one that took you to the next village, and there were always workers from the factories flagging for taxis or hitch-hiking. Donkey-drawn carts were the second most common form of transport after taxis, some of them loaded with women and children. Here, in the countryside, most women wore the traditional Moroccan dress; jilabis with headscarves. Donkeys, sheep, turkeys, roosters, and chickens roamed the village. There were no fences to keep in grazing livestock; that was the job of herders and dogs. This is Europe 150 years ago.
Children ran everywhere, and women swept the front of their houses with bundles of tied straw. Our house, the mansion of the village, rose above a cluster of huts and stables. Nearly every building had clothes lines on their roofs.
We were three upon reaching the house. The first thing we did was go to the local souk and supply ourselves with enough food for the week. We spent about forty quid on vegetables, fruits, pumpkin, a bag full of bread, sugar, tea, milk, and mineral water. The next few days we sunbathed, cooked Moroccan
dishes, and played with the animals. At night we stayed up on the roof terrace and used the telescope to gaze at the stars and the Milky Way. It was pure night sky with minimal interference of city lights. Every night as I lay in bed the village sounded like a jungle. The donkeys would start neighing, which would alarm what sounded like hundreds of dogs, unsettling the sheep and causing the roosters to crow. My friend's pet monkey, Habib, would also join in on the chant. That would scare the horses and before long the mosque would come onto the loudspeakers and it would be time to get up and go pray. Sleep was not something we got a lot of.
I loved to get up in the morning (au contraire, not sleep until after daybreak) and watch the Moroccan women working. Families live together here; mothers with their daughters and their granddaughters, all tending the humble farm and fetching water from the wells. Gathering straw to feed the animals, hanging out laundry, making bread. I could not look for long; my friend Lahcen had told me not to look twice at the women, or at least not directly. That was as good as sleeping with them, I was told, according to Islam law. For this reason I took no pictures of them.
We departed back for Casablanca as a friend was getting married, and the fiancé's family had wanted to meet us. The tickets were 70 durhams per person. The train ride entailed hoping down onto the tracks to get across and change platforms, something they would throw you in jail for in Europe. Casablanca was noisy and dirty, like New York in the early 20th century. Every vehicle ever conceptualised clashed together in a laneless maze of two way traffic, infested by fearless pedestrians.
Nonetheless, the family's hospitality soon made us forget where we were. They treated us like royalty, having spent the entire day cooking in anticipation of our arrival. They first brought out something called "spekea" which was very sweet and covered in poppy seeds, and "mesteela" which was something like Samosa, except covered in icing sugar. Then, they re-set the table for Moroccan bread - "khobs" (pronounced "ccchobz"), with stew and a tarjeen chicken dish.
The next day we flew back to Madrid. The whole trip was done on less than 300 pounds, and it was a real eye-opener - a way to see a mystical country that has thus far largely resisted Western monoculture. I know it won't be long before I come back.
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