In front of a Cybercafe, a donkey, tongue hanging out, rests, as his owner drinks a glass of mint tea bought from a man with a tray.   Men in pointy-hooded robes drive carts pulled by mules or horses, through unnamed streets paved in stones. Sometimes the men pull the carts themselves.  Marrakech: the medieval juxtaposed with the twenty-first century.

We had the chance to go to Morocco this past week with a family friend. We booked a "package" deal from Paris -- flight, hotel, half-board.  The plane was grounded in Casablanca due to fog -- we made like Rick's cafe and drank scotch whiskey purchased from duty-free.  Several hours later we arrived in Marrakech.

Morocco has been a trading country since the Phoenicians established ports there in the 11th century BC.  They have been ruled by Berbers and Romans, Vandals and Arabs, Portuguese, Spanish and French.  The eventual result is a "Moroccan" personality, and a country currently governed by a king.

Morocco is not really a "free" country as we know free in the West.   There's a big brother presence, requiring  we "register" as we enter and leave the country.  We took care with our painting and drawing, in light of the recent"cartoon" scandals.  On my way out of the country I was quizzed on what type of art I made, and spent about twenty minutes clearing the passport control desk.  I am not really sure it was totally on account of my art.  The woman next to me, decked out in robes and veil, toting three children under the age of seven, was still at the desk when I was released to the security check for another set to.

We walked into town each day, passing fields in process of being cleared for new development.  People lived in these fields, and we chatted with a man and his sons who had camels.  There were new "American" housing developments being built outside the medina.  Bulldozers were overturning huts and trees, as cranes loomed over the fences.  Benches along the street into town were occupied by men, women and families.  I passed a man in a brown robe with a giant grasshopper resting on his chest.  The two sat perfectly still, except for the man smiling at me as I admired the scene.

We took a car out to the mountains, with a less-than-pleasant driver.  "These Berbers," he snapped, "can't be taught anything, not even the Koran.  They have no written language."   We were driven to a Berber market, entered through the "eye of a needle", a break in the stone fence surrounding the trade.  It was a brutal affair, the ground littered with goat skulls and blood.  A man followed me around trying to sell me cheap bracelets.  Another wrapped Blair in a turban.  Barbers set up like so many sheep-shearers, cut stiff black hair and beards.  There were only two women in the entire market besides me.

Mountains in the Atlas range exceed 13,000 feet. Barbary apes frolic on the other side of the river, awash with rapids from the melting snow.   It's cold out and we stayed in the car while others from our party shopped and climbed to the waterfall.  I watched rosy-cheeked Berber women carry river-washed laundry on their heads, and huge piles of twigs on their backs.  A breathtakingly beautiful young girl, in a white dress and green leggings, little black shoes and a white turban,  smiled at her friends, as they passed with their loads.  I took fashion notes. "Berber women work very hard," one of our party later commented.  "Men and women work hard," our driver replied.  I didn't choke him, but could have.  I am a guest in this country.

The souk is the attraction of Marrakech, where everything is for sale.  We bought shoes, custom-made and smelling of goat; a variety of metal objects; an antique rug made by  Jews 100 years ago; witch-doctor drugs "we have 1500 spices" the herborist claims; and postcards.  Everything is up for bargaining -- it is not unusual to pay 10% of the asking price. By the time we left I learned to pick a price and stay with it -- eventually the vendor will meet it.   I admired snake charmers and fortune tellers, denture makers and water sellers.  And when the market became too much, we sat in a cafe and ate grilled meat.   Mint tea is the drink, and don't even think of finding a beer inside the medina (walled city).

At least half the traffic is under animal power, and I prayed that some [animals] would come back in another life as the master.  Dress is almost all Berber/Arabic, except for tourists.  I endeavored to bridge the two, and one of my fellow travelers referred to me as a bag lady.  "No women wear skirts anymore."

We visited museums and Saadian graves; we saw the Marjorelle gardens and rode camels.   Blair rode the papa camel, I rode the mama, and the baby followed close behind.  When the baby camel faltered, the mother let out a deep groan from her barrel of a body.  Like the note of a musical instrument, it reverberated through her and through me,  bellowing the song of the universe.


Laurie (painting and text) and Blair PESSEMIER
"Marrakech Doorway" acrylic sketch on canvas  10 x 13 inches