In Casablanca, the mosque is built over the sea. A bastion of faith on the old sea wall, the tides and waves curling into its foundation. Inside the fortress, a pocket of calm. From end to end a small channel carved into the marble floor, where water flows, cooling and soothing with its unique whisper.

I stand barefoot on carpet, my sandals at the entrance with two men silently abuzz in arabic murmur. I am at ease in the peaceful inner décor of mosques. I am afloat and untouchable. There is a coolness to the marbled protectorate and a calming in the patterned mosaics. Calligraphic inscriptions of the Qur’an ring the columns and trace the contours of the sanctuary. I cannot read the arabic verses and so, uninterpreted, I am alone to inhabit my own story and welcomed to do so. I look inward, but feel expansive, heeding every breath.

In Damascus busloads of Iranians descend the old city on this stop of their hajj.  All in black, men in fine western suits and women draped head to toe. They are immaculately dressed, the women sharp in their embroidered burkas, fine slacks and leather shoes of the latest european fashion. Amongst themselves they hum with anticipation behind black sunglasses, but outwardly, they have all but removed themselves as anything more than a physical holder of the space they occupied. It is at once both eerie and oddly beautiful in its mystery and anonymity.

Darlene kneels on the soft divide between the muslim and christian halves of the mosque, a shrine for a prophet shared by both faiths. She is cloaked in a borrowed hood, yet her golden curls betray her. Families approach, smiling, and offer forth their children. Disinclined, but gracious, she accepts them and the families come to her and take photos, fathers and mothers with their children, collecting memories.

Walter and I enter a neighboring mosque early one morning. There is only a hint of the surge of pilgrims that will later fill the streets and halls. It is a persian mosque with a martyr’s tomb. A slain child, daughter of a caliph, bloodline of the prophet. The tomb is adorned in gold beneath a dome of glass mosaic. Women in black huddle and cry softly. Families lean tightly together, reciting the qur’an amongst themselves. Tears of faith and belief for the little girl, as one by one, men and women enter the hall and press themselves against the tomb.

We are on the floor by the marble columns of the entrance when an elderly gentlemen steps forward. After a moment, he turns and comes to us. I look up into his eyes. “I am Iranian,” he says and extends a welcome. In turn he shakes our hands, touches his heart, then turns and walks to the tomb, where he presses his head against its side and closes his eyes.

In occupied Palestine, we cross the square and stand at the open door of the mosque named for the second Caliph. Atop a flight of stairs a small, venerable gentlemen in a conservative, gray western suit and stocking feet, waves us up. He is the muezzin, the man who sings the call to prayer, and he invites us to join him.

The prayer hall is a large, humble space on the second floor where we are joined by several men who joke about the merits of sons and daughters and share with us the extent of their own families. When the time comes, we are invited downstairs into his station, a simple room with a microphone and stereo system wired to the minarets loud speakers. With us seated beside him, he smiles, stands, and turning to the microphone, he sings.

The adhān covers the entirety of Arabia.  By design, this call to prayer penetrates every nook of the city. It is intentionally loud and often tinny. However, on that afternoon in Palestine, when the muezzin sang, we heard that call in its purest form. We shared the intimacy of his song, his heart, and his pride. The complicity of organized society confounds me the world over, but the gifts of an individual does not.

darlene in casablanca

darlene the dervish

umayyad mosque, damascus, syria

umayyad mosque, damascus, syria

Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque, damascus, syria

Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque, damascus, syria

Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque, damascus, syria

Sayyida Ruqayya Mosque, damascus, syria

al-Aqsa Mosque on the temple mount, jerusalem

the muezzin, bethlehem

mosque of omar, bethlehem

casualty mosque in the golan heights

casualty mosque in the golan heights

courtyard of the alabaster mosque, cairo

courtyard of the alabaster mosque, cairo

Thank you to everyone who voted and especially to Amy Haggstrom and Younes Mell, two of Moroccos finest.

Nominated for Best of Morocco Blog Awards 2010

The Elephant Cloud has been nominated by Morocco Blogs for The Best Morocco Blog of 2010 in the category of Travel.  Click the link to see other nominated blogs and vote for your favorite.

We are on the left hand side, scroll down the page to the third category, “Best of Travel Blog.”

We are first in the Travel Category: “The Elephant Cloud.”

We were headed for Cameroon, the flavor of West Africa.

The Cameroon Embassy in Morocco sits off to the right of a small road, miles from the consulate district. In fact, with no guards, no Cameroonian officials, no check points, the only legitimate proof of an embassy is the dusted President’s picture hanging aslant from a wire above the door.
“Sorry we can’t help you, we only issue visas to Moroccan nationals, are you a Moroccan national? Why didn’t you apply for one in your own country?”
Blank stares, our distress signals flare. Everyone knows visa applications are obtained at embassies- Senegal, Ethiopia, France, they all issue visas. We urge her to ring the Ambassador, surly he could approve the visas.

Our nightmare confirmed, Morocco does not budge.

Searching online tickets from Casablanca to Cameroon on Royal Air Morocco priced an outlandish $800. Skyscanner found the same RAM flight from Casablanca to Cameroon, but originating in Paris for only $300. That’s 1172 more miles for a savings of $500, go figure. We immediately book our tickets to Paris for a second chance at visas.

Finding our way through guarded gates, past men with guns, we arrive at the Cameroon Embassy in Paris.
“Yes, of course you can get your visa here, you can get it in any country, why did you not get it in Morocco if you were there for two months?”  Indignant, we hand over our papers, watching as he mulls over each one, setting it down, picking it up, slowly working our stack.
“Come back tomorrow,” prune faced and smirking, he pushes the plethora of papers our way, “this is not the official stamp, you need a police notary from Cameroon.”
We immediately contacted Joseph, begging him to notarize his already stamped letter.
No news is good news, except when INTERPOL is holding a week long conference in Cameroon, suspending all nonessential police duties, including notaries for visas.

Our plans foiled, Cameroon was no more.

And so the fairy tale goes, Jay and Darlene spent one glorious week in the throes of Paris, wrestling the Cameroon Embassy. The tickets now read Dar El Salam, Tanzania. East instead of West, their journey continues.

Founded in the 9th century and now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Fes was an urban mecca housing the world’s first university. Change comes at a sluggish pace, donkeys laden with heavy crates still transfer goods through narrow alleyways, ‘Balok, Balak’- look out, the driver shouts, pulling his animal through the crowded passage.

Our roof-top  chamber locked from both sides and the barred windows felt a bit like prison, but our voyeuristic perspective of the winding passages below were well worth the 100dirham, 14$, for Pension Talaa. Did I mention the shared toilets and showers downstairs?

For 4 days we wove through souks (open-air markets), fondouks (enclosure housing tradesman upstairs and his animals and wares below), medersas (Islamic schools), fountains, mosques and palaces all woven into the walled fortress, where monuments from centuries back remain standing.

Under an arched doorway, stepping over wool shavings and muck, we emerge deep within a fondouk, sheep and goat skins piled high. Sweaty men swipe machetes under the wool, separating the layers clean,  another stretches out the naked hides. The donkeys are waiting below as newly dried skins are piled high on their backs; harnessed tight, they make their way to the tanneries. ‘Balok!”

Following behind, we end up at the edge of the Medina where women and children clutch mint under their noses and faux guides offer ‘Tanneries, this way,’ with a walk through a cousin’s leather shop first. For 10 dirham, we pay to avoid the shops and enter the ancient tanneries alone, observing the toxic primitive techniques. Animal urine is used to soak the dried pelts, removing any stray hair and dirt while Pigeon excrement softens the leather.

Under the sweltering sun, men draped only in shorts, knee deep, lower the skins into toxic colored vats. The leather emerges dripping of bright, beautiful blues, saffrons, crimson and are spread atop the roof rafters to dry before another donkey hauls them off to the leathersmith. As my camera captures the images, a wave of guilt washes over me.

Rounding a mederesa, children’s giggles rise above the 4pm call to prayer as they race outside, scattering under our feet. We fill our bellies with 5dirham hand stuffed chickpea and hardboiled egg sandwiches off the street. The Medina lures us deeper, offering treasures at every turn, until looking up, we are again lost in her labyrinth.

fondouk

fondouk- goat and sheep skin

fondouk

skins

wool

tannery

tannery

tannery

tannery

drying leathers

tannery

mousque

souk

fruit

slipper maker

souk- slippers

market

souk- metal

souk- metal

souk- pottery

fuits and nuts

donkey

Fes

That afternoon I got online to help launch a new website for Pixelface Graphics in Portland, Oregon and Darlene talked to Tess on a video conference over the internet. We are in the medina across from an old medersa where there was a seventeenth century clock powered entirely by the flow of water from pot to pot to turn the gears and advance time. The clockmaker passed years ago, as did his art. Today, an old man sits in the alley with a basket of hay half full of eggs as donkey carts pull crates of produce thru the one lane maze of streets.

New meets old on quite the canvas, this medieval city is intoxicating.

My eyes fell upon hundreds of chickens. Each stall fronted a runway with scratching white feathered chickens. On the back wall, cages of lovely hens stacked on one another, often a rooster perched atop, ankle tethered to the metal. Occasionally rabbits, pigeons, turkeys or other live fowl were on display. Buyers would point, and the sellers quickly bound the feet together, tossing the feathered bundle on the scale, equaling out as weights were added to the other side.

We continued down the alimentary canal of livestock, stopping suddenly at a bloodied butcher drenched in chicken. An old fashioned grinder to his right, feathers spewed everywhere. A trickle of blood ran out his stall. As my eyes followed the stream, it converged to a river; looking down, I then noticed a steady flow of blood beneath our feet. A man hurried past, Jay motioned towards the fresh cow head mounted over his right shoulder, vital dripping down his back as brains and such spilled forth. The visceral attack didn’t end, each butcher proudly displayed entrails, brains, rows of severed heads.

The creme de la creme- a dozen freshly cut hearts hot on a griddle, each punctured with its own toothpick. A camel head adjoined to his dissected upperhalf remained on sale. Knives were dancing, hands without gloves, stalls without sinks… Moving along, skirting the blood, butchers bumping into you, trying to keep our sandaled toes sterile, I looked up one last time and noticed between these stalls of bloodied carcasses were beautifully stacked designs of cured green olives, tomatoes, chilies.

“A free taste?” offered the vendor. “La Shukran,” (no thanks) we replied, trying not to perseverate on everything we learned about disease. “Let’s get the bread later,” I shuddered.

chickens

woman at market

innards

cages of chickens

camel

turkeys and hens

sellers

Tipping back the last of their red wine, eyes gazing from the window on Portland’s drizzle, she whispered, “Would you climb the highest peak in Northern Africa with me?” The apartment already barren, furnishings gone, their belongings bursting from two backpacks, “Should we sacrifice a goat first?” he smiled.

Months later, her bag filled with tent, sleeping bags, canned tuna, packaged cheese and fresh dates, she counted the cairns as they trekked across the Tizi n Tamatert pass, 2279m, on to Tachddirt. Barefoot children herding cattle and sheep in for the night, they were invited to sleep in the mud house of an eldered, toothless berber, his daughter steamed a plate of couscous.

Trekking over wild and harsh terrain, into lush river valleys, overgrown fig, apple and pomegranate trees share terraced groves with olives and nuts, the boy was in heaven. Heading for the “huge old walnut tree.… then follow the path pasts the village houses” she led him right off the topo map into Setti Fatma where they nursed blistered feet and weak knees.

Days later, they pass the weathered shrine of Sidi Chamhrouc, heading towards Djebel Tobkal, 4167m, the highest peak in Northern Africa.  At 04:30 from the Tubkal Refuge, his headlamp wakes her, “Ready for the summit…” She layers for warmth and sets off into the bitter cold morning. Trudging up bolder fields and scree, dawn greets their steady pace and at 8:27 with a panoramic view of Morocco, he whispers in her ear, “Where are we going next?”

trek

mountain pass

berber woman carrying hay

Tachddirt

Our room in Tachddirt

Tachddirt

villiage

cloud-1537

atlas mtns

goats

berber window

room for the night

view

mule track

trek

villiage

cactus

villiage

villiage

cloud-1604

friend

cloud-1621

summit

mtn

mtn

refuge

Just a block from the Maarif Mosque and market, this is the cleanest place in all of Morocco and the best place to find wine, popcorn, bookshelves, internet and an ex-pat community well steeped in Moroccan culture and history.

It’s a pleasure to stay in her world, a teacher at the American School in Casablanca, her stories of the Moroccan Elite delight hysterically. Many thanks to her and Younes and their open hearts.