This post really could have been alternately titled mazes, smoke, south, land, cold, obsession, legs. I chose to name it after but in this way to represent a distressing feeling of lived in that land of the Maghreb. It is true that the last ten days are the exact opposite of the style that I wanted to travel and could find (I had already discussed): a slow travel, time with a more gentle and understanding - at least ideally - more profound.
The approaching return of the border, the final deadline, he returned to a hungry visionary, there is no time to stop, you must fill your eyes with sensations, colors, sounds, smells. Every hour of day and night is precious because it is the only moment in which something might happen, for there is always time to sleep and die.
And so inevitably proved wrong.
Let me explain.
Foreword, Fes and Marrakech are wonderful cities in the sense that evoke wonder, they leave you speechless.
Fes with a maze of alleys ncudduliati (best word that comes to describe a snake coiled on itself), tangled, claustrophobically equal to each other and at the same time every time.
Only after two days of walking I began to grope to grasp the structure, but how many dead ends, how many returns on their passi.E without a square (this is the real claustrophobia), without an open space to breathe. Down, down, deeper and deeper in what I defined as a Sardinian descent into hell.
Where do you think it's over you open a new door
stone and polyp extends with its many tentacles of grocers, cobblers,
tanners, dyers, Ferraioli,
dates, gold, silver, bronze, pellettai, cinturai, butchers, chicken coops, manufacturers of bandages and drums and darbuka.
Marrakech, the legendary Red City, is more air, like maze of streets and side roads that fortunately more often widen to shady squares where you can expand your lungs.
Unlike in Fes you can also wander through the corridors silently listening to the beat of shoes on the cobbles.
A Fes is the only one to enter a mosque or madrasa , to put the muffler and get drunk with light.
course then we are not sure how many souks, markets, again return to the pleasant atmosphere of the oriental bazaar.
And at the heart of all that, the square Djamee al Fna.
An anonymous and immense open space where, however, at nightfall, anything goes.
People gather around the tables where they serve couscous and tagine, cow's legs, kebabs and sandwiches. The smoke from the grill permeates the air scatter the light bulbs like white village festival.
And a few yards away they found gnawa musicians ,
storytellers, snake charmers,
street artists, women who paint henna tattoos,
oud players , bendir in contempt, banjo, dancing.
A truly wonderful place, you say. Indeed
filtering after a few days it is.
But there is an insurmountable border.
The presence of hordes of tourists means that any foreigner it is (not that I consider myself something special). So - in the words of a Brazilian friend - we carteras with patas , wallets with legs.
Frontier is why all that distance, with very few exceptions, those I have spoken to have done so with an interest in mind: draw me into their shop and sell their products, take me somewhere and ask me a tip, take me to the shop of his brother so he could sell his product, visit a taxi, show me the place in exchange for a tip. A nice lady met in a square, after a couple of minutes to chat invites me to a house which offers me tea. Begins to tell me that being familiar with the medical herbs, and then my wife has a set of spices from which I can buy souvenirs to take home.
A cute boy who lives in Milan takes me for a walk in the country, pleasant chat in the evening. Then when I come back at night I do find the little woman at the hotel Berber ready to sell your product.
And all, all is said, or in front of my waste or even directly, have tried to sell me smoke.
The dynamic is that, you were expecting? I agree, but what bothered me is the extreme aggression.
The haunting obsession, the haunting refrain, hola, bonjour, Italian, hello, smoke hashish, 'enter just to see, hashish', good price, hashish ', no obligation, hashish', ladies a few coins, hashish ' , taxi, hashish, 'the square there, hashish,' hashish ', hashish'.
Aggressiveness means that you answer sciukran laa, no thanks, not goods, no gracias and make you the parrot laa sciukran, laaaaa that makes you want to turn around and give him a hit it.
forgot, Ramadan! It is right, I spout Ramadan in Turkey, Morocco Ribecco me.
Only in Turkey are soooooo vague. Ramadan in Morocco do it all, even those who normally are not very religious, or point. Because it is a bit 'as we have for Christmas, you go home, you find yourself in the family, see friends.
For tourists there should be no problems, but I was a little 'bad put me to drink and eat in the street.
result, very little food (also because the fucking 'hot!) Just a little' grapes macerate for hidden leaks in the alleys darkest to drink a bit 'of water.
Ramadan also makes people nervous, especially those who smoke as Turks (ahahaha) nervosiiiiisssssimi! On the first day
only four fights in the street outside the hotel, with broken bottles, shouting, girls who they kill Chianelli, which pull hair. On the third day the bus will stop for a break after an hour has not yet started. Under a scorching sun. I'm just in time to see the driver being taken away by ambulance along with the ticket.
Frontier is also the fact that I have often prevented from entering a mosque. Ramadan? I do not think, I think the desire not to see more pain in the ass even in their spaces. Fortunately, there
Casablanca.
There he finally found a healthy indifference, walking the white lanes of the medina through the shops, mosques overlooking the sea, Rick's Café, where day and night, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman are in love passionately on a black and white screen.
hammam anyone asks me if I want a massage, a sprinkling with soap. And make me pay the right.
stalls for me the bread costs the same as for others, a slice of fish, small fish fried to give them to me taste them.
A boy smiles at me in silence just looking at me with a wandering backpacker's girlfriend an internet café allows me to check the mail for free, so there are only five minutes, the children pass me the ball, a boy in the hostel gave me the gloves for the shower.
For this we must return, because it is a country with immense human potential.
For now, only to jump on the future of the signals.
Borders are all what I have in the past one year.
By sea and by land.
O through the tunnel.
borders that bring me back home.
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