Ourika Valley

We drove into the Ourika Valley to see the tomb of Setti Fatma. As we left the "red city," the scenery turned from the earthen clay tones to the golden hues of harvest. Gold gave way to green as we reached the valley, which receives the runoff of the still-snowcapped mountains.

We stopped at a souk in the valley. As we had sweet mint tea (a-tay) and doughy white bread with vegetable soup, we listened to the music of the rural Berber people. I've tried to keep myself from getting sick, but I'm certain the tea will be the end of me -- I didn't see a single source of fresh, clean water in the souk. Hopefully my Mexican stomach won't be bothered too much by the flora.

We progressed further into the valley on the way to the tomb. We past by the ruins of several mansions; these summer homes were destroyed a few years ago in a sudden flood, and hundreds died. I heard a story of a "Mr. Gold" who was warned by the local Berbers that the beautiful valley would be overrun by the river in the near future. Mr. Gold scoffed, since the river was but a mere trickle and the region had been in a drought for more than a decade. Little remains of his once sprawling estate.

Once we reached the village of Sitti Fatma, I discovered that Sitti Fatma's tomb is at the top of a cliff. A very steep, tall cliff. (Our guide forgot to mention this part.) Before the climb, we girls found the nearest "W.C." to empty our bladders...

Let me interrupt this for a moment to say that all the glamour and exoticness and mysteriousness of Morocco is suddenly lost when you find yourself in a dark cave with a hole in the ground, covered with filth and smelling to high heaven, masquerading as a toilet. Remove all images of Penny Lane, replete with black hat, leaving her sunglasses at the ticketing counter.

After the unpleasant squatting experience, we began our ascent. A pregnant woman in a jalaba whizzed past us in heels, no less. (Do women who choose to wear a veil ever make exceptions? It seemed a bit ridiculous to hike the steep climb in such attire during the monsterous heat.)

The view was spectacular. The cliffs towered over us, and the waterfalls were incredible. You're reminded of tales from Greek mythology, of Atlas, who was once able to hold the world on his shoulders, petrified to form Morocco's Atlas range. An Arabic "thanks be to God" seemed very apropos, as the view left no doubt in my mind that such an incredibly complex creation could come from anything less than divine.

On the way back to the van I saw a chained monkey. The monkey kept leaping up, trying to bite onlookers, but then being yanked mid-air by his chain. I then remembered the puss-yellow face of the man with a monkey in the Jamaalfna. These are definitely not animals to be kept in such type of captivity. I'm not sure that my paying or not paying the monkey-keeper would prevent the abuse from happening; it seems that only the government can step in and stop the abuse.

We stopped in to see a bread mill run by the water of the nearby river. A simple wooden tool rattles a bag and funnel, allowing a few grains of wheat to pass on top of the spinning stone wheel. For a coarser or finer grain, the wheel is simply lowered or raised. Simple, efficient, clean.

I feel asleep on the way back, despite our driver's wreckless driving. On the way to catch the Bus 10 to go home, I got only one cat-call this time. (Yay!)The guy began to walk with me, speaking in Arabic, French, Spanish, and English in order to get me to talk to him.

"I want to have....an intimate relation with you," he said with a French accent.

"I don't think so," I scoffed.

He continued, and after politely but firmly telling him to leave me alone, I lied and told him I was married with two kids.

He stopped, and I continued walking.

Then: "Want to make it three?"

Posted 09:35 PM (GMT)