The Elephant Cloud

Don’t ride the buses at night Younes tells us, especially over mountain passes. But then again, that’s the only way to get to Tafraoute- 5-6 hour bus ride departing at 3pm.
Moroccan road slang (flashing lights, horns), spoken articulately by our bus drive, successfully delivered us along a one way road with blind corners, no side rails and deathening drop offs.

I managed not to get ill with my stomach perched atop my tongue. I read, listened to music, pantomimed Arabic words for scary, deathly, steep and shared them with my fellow passengers. At 7pm the obligatory stop for prayer and meal…
With only water, we received offerings of dates and crackers from sympathetic passengers. Once over the manic pass, our brakes squealed with every turn.

After a restful sleep, we were awaken to a beautiful crimson sunrise, illuminating our valley nestled between red granite mountains at 3257ft.

God willing… If it is God’s will….

A beautiful expression I recently acquired, placing everything into the hands of God and out of one’s responsibility.

Beggars with hands extended are often given a nod and quick Insah’Allah.
Will you have bread later tonight or tomorrow, we implore at the boulangeria?- Insah’Allah, she answers.
After biking hours in the highlands, we are famished and stumble upon one of few restaurants in Tafraoute, inquiring if he will be open after the fast- Insah’Allah he smiles and retreats inside.

Would you like to look at my rugs, rugs from Berbers, camel wool, nice for your home, just look- Insah’Allah I smile and walk away.

From the twisted branches of the Argan tree hang a fruit irresistible to the industrious goat, whose gastronomic engine delights in the hard outer fruit before the terminal end deposits the inner pit to sun dry in the scorched fields. Later collected, these pits are pressed for their oils, delicious in their own right, or mixed with honey and almond paste as a spread.

So very pleased to be in the land where goats climb trees.