"Between us there was, as I have already said

somewhere, the bond of the sea."

- J. Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Rebel with a cause

--

We met Abdul one night in an illegal drinking den in Essaouria.

An unnamed bar, an unnamed street: a haven that the locals kept to themselves.

Away from tourists.

Away from police.

It was the kind of spot where stray dogs and alley cats met to drink gallons of cheap beer and smoke hash joints and weed pipes.

Abdul was a prince among beggars, another son of the shadows. He talked all through the night. He said God gave us two ears but one mouth - so we could speak only a little and listen to a lot. He hadn't slept in two days. He was taking the weekend off from his job as a mechanic in the north. He spent forty-eight hours spread evenly between bars, brothels and fishing.

'Hoder!' He cussed. He had been a sailor and picked up slang words in every port. He slammed his fist on the table. The hands were titanic and rough like all wise men's. 'You go to Taroudant? Why? You read this in book, no? Fuck that. I tell you, you must live in your own time. You are what you feel, what you see. I am not a philosopher of politics, but I know this. You are your eyes. Believe only as you see.'

Oualidia.

We came.

We saw.

We left.

Fisherman's wife, Al-Jedida

--

The three of them stood in the middle of the little road, in their dark clothes and lively shawls. They cast long shadows in the morning sun, long shadows on the sand.

"You are beautiful, Monsieur," said Fatima. She was big, friendly and standing in front. Behind her, her two friends talked with her in a hearty arabic. She alone spoke with me, a few words of French, a few words of English. With the abandoned Portuguese houses of Al-Jedida around them, it is striking how similar they are to our own; any of them could have been a Portuguese wife in a fishing village just like this. "This one," she said, holding up the baby from her warm bosom, "she can be your femme. Marriage." I laughed, loud and long.

"No, no, thank you!"

"This one, then!" She said, pointing at her second daughter. This one old enough to walk, had just come running around the corner. "No? I have third one, in here-" she wrapped two thick arms around herself.

I thought about it for a second. I laughed and took my leave and left the three fates behind me.

Blinking, I pry my eyes open. My head feels like it's been vacuumed twice and my mouth tastes of dead cat. I swing myself into a sitting position and the world spins just a little bit. I suppose it does that all the time.

"I'm a bit hungover," Duarte says.

"Uh-hum," I grunt. The watch says it's 8.30 but there's a midday brightness in the room:

Welcome to Morocco.

--

Al-Jedida

See no evil

How many pens is a picture worth?

--

I have a love for Marrakech few other cities can rival. It's the way the city looks and feels like it has been through the blender and all kinds of cultures and ages ended up mixing. It's in the way the city can live off the tourists and without them. It's in the way the Souk feels like it should: authenticated even if it's fake, like a carpet with a tag. It's in the beauty of its streets too - the streets that, like the dunes in the desert, change colours throughout the day. And as it changes colours, it changes moods - but it is always mysterious.

Beautifully so, of coure.

--

Don't pass me by

CBK 06

'Is this the first time you've been to Morocco?' He asked, like about a hundred before him.

'No,' Dad said, 'we came here for the first time 26 years ago.'

'Ah, so you have been nomads all your life!'

--

The Sahara / a sahara (my parents)

('On 3, show me your favorite yoga stance!')

Finnt, the hostess

--

'Your berber: it is not bad,' she said.

'Thank you. I'm only learning.'

'He's moving into the desert,' Khamal said, laughing. 'He's found the house.'

--

Finnt

Tinerhir

--

'What about this one?'

'That one, Mohammed? It has the dunes and the mountains, see? For traveling. Repeated four times, like the seasons - means all year. And then all around, on the borders, see? Mountains, too. Unbroken, like... forever. This is a nomad's carpet.' Mustafa explained. 'Perfect for a prince of the desert, no?'

'I like it.'

'What's wrong with the one about a big family and a safe house?' My mom asked.

'I - I don't like it so much.'

'Doesn't Prince Tagine want one for his room? or you, Pasha? Great Sultan? To make the Royal Treasurer happy, no?'

We left Tinerhir with a variety of nicknames and a carpet I've been promised will fly.

Me: 'Khamal, could you stop right there? Just for a picture?

'I think I found where I want to live.'

Khamal: 'I think with a nice bedouin girl maybe?'

Mom: 'I think he's feeling better.'

'You know what? You're not only stupid, you're stoic too. Suffering in silence like that. You're sick, admit it.'

(-Accidental Alliterations)

(Photo credits belong to Jose Vieira Peres)

Skins for Wolves

--

When I walked down through the markets of Fez all I saw was imitation Adidas track suits, cheap Nike shoes and fake leather shops. To escape from this Maghrebi Chinatown, there was probably no place better to hit than Meknes. The city had a real market, with real tradesmen and artisans where the locals actually shopped at.

--

Story teller draws a crowd

Fez

--

Our guide spotted an old acquaintance and immediately warned:

'Ladies, be careful with your handbags. Make sure they are closed.' His friend approached him and reproached him.

'Momo, come on, you are ruining my business here. Think about my family! I have two boys -'

'Who are almost thirty.'

'Well, yes, but that's not the point.'

I can't actually follow a conversation in Arabic (yet?). But this is what they were saying. I'm pretty sure.

Fez, early morning

--

When I woke up in Morocco, I realised few things could make me so happy.