The Elephant Cloud

Azemmour, a sleepy coastal town north of Al Jadida, known for elaborate paintings within the medina walls, inhabited by residents, a few artists and per a torn out page of The Lonely Planet, The House of Powder (Dar el Baroud)- remnants of a Portuguese military establishment.

Our search for Dar el Baroud began while most slept off Ramadan. We wandered down narrow pathways, dead-ends, discovered worn murals dating 30 years back, turned left, right but no Dar el Baroud. Scorching from direct sun, we retraced our steps for the exit; it was there I met Mohamed Hamidi, a dignified artist strolling the medina, his lame left arm tucked under his smoking jacket. Intrigued by our question, he had never heard of this relic and so joined our search for Dar el Baroud.

He rapped on doors, peered into windows, interrogating the small medina neighborhood for any information leading to the whereabouts of our ruin. Soon, scores of bored children and curious elders joined our search of Dar el Baroud.

Our rough French conversation turned to German once I learned his wife lived in Bonn. An invitation to his studio brought respite from the sun and a viewing of his cutting-edge work. “Abstract, in a very sexual way,” an attempt to discuss fine art in German proved difficult if not lackluster, “The colors …” I tried.

Laughter, a weathered smile. In return for his hospitality, I knew our cafe invitation would be refused due to Ramadan, instead his right hand over his heart, “Shukran,” he offered, thanking us for a morning in search of the elusive Dar el Baroud.
Although we never found this fabled rampart, we stumbled upon the heart of the medina.

Imagine a month long fast celebrating the Koran as it was revealed to Muhammed, similar to Christian Lent, followers adhere to strict Islamic law- Forbidden are the right to drink, eat, smoke or participate in sexual activities from sunrise to sunset, thus paying homage to the poor and homeless.
4am the Muezzin incants from his mosque, signaling prayer, absolution and commencement of the fast. Muslims finish off their 3:30am breakfast. Local cafes and restaurants remain closed; abstinence keeps most tucked in until mid-day, as sleep shortens fasting hours, the city slugs along.

As the sun sets, families rush home to break the fast. A call from the Muezzin atop his minaret, screaming sirens attached to telephone poles, even a military cannon shot off into the Atlantic coast signifies the hour of 1900. A strange sight to behold, streets completely unoccupied and locked down for twenty minutes as traditional Iftar(Arabic: إفطار‎) is served- hard boiled eggs, mint tea, hrira(soup), dates and pastries.

Then as if Muhammad himself were to appear, the city breaths life. Men savoring cigarettes and sipping espresso fill outdoor cafes; streets overflow with children and women weaving their way through stalls and markets, chatting with satiated bellies. Cooks open their kitchens for travelers.

In the Muslim world, Ramadan is highly regarded. It is a hard time to travel and as the sun presses over head, smokers get irritable without nicotine- seemingly every Moroccan smokes. To immerse ourselves is nearly impossible; hours on foot exploring new cities with humid temperatures soaring, we can’t go without water. Discretely, we manage to hoard food and drink, eating only a light breakfast of market food. Finally, as night falls, we give in and indulge in Moroccan Tangine.

I love Islamic mosques for the peace and serenity of their design work, quite the polar opposite of the macabre suffering that bombards you in Christian imagery.

Here Darlene looks out through the gates of the second largest mosque in the world, Casablanca. Only Mecca in Saudi Arabia is larger.