April 2004, High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

By Seth Plattner

The mini-bus takes another hard curve, completely pulling me out of my hypnotic sleep. It’s been this way since we left Marrakesh, but sleep is sleep so I don’t really care. We arrived in Tangier three, maybe four days ago, and I’m starting to feel the effects of constant traveling in order to see as much of Morocco as we can.

Tangier was a hassle. Rabat was too cosmopolitan. Marrakesh had good markets, amazing markets, but now my nerves are shot from bargaining and I need a break. It will be nice to get out of the cities and into the innards of Morocco. In order to fulfill a friend’s lifelong dream we are taking a mini bus to Zagora to mount camels and ride them through the desert. It will be fun, but I’m more interested in the drive through the smaller, lesser known towns of Morocco.

As we wind through the High Atlas Mountains, the developing scenery forces me into a jumbled reflection of my time in this country. The ironies of Morocco are pulling on my brain, and I’m not quite sure what to make of them. Hoards of tourists shuffle their feet through groups of stray cats, stray children. Couples and families ride past me in horse-drawn carriages with smiles on their faces and cameras in their hands, as the decrepit creatures pulling them through the streets fight to stay alive. Poverty and money compete for the fickle attention of the market goers.

I can’t be sure if I am experiencing ritual trading retained by tradition and culture, or liturgy guided by the need for a dollar. As we pass through these ancient palaces, the cluttered Medina, and sacred mosques, we are surrounded by stunning Arabic architecture. But all we can think about is what to buy in the markets. The beauty of this country is shrouded by necessity. The bus is slowing down. I am pulled back to the present. Sometimes I guess I think too much.

Our tour bus is now coming to a stop. We have pulled off on the side of the road to observe a small hillside town whose name I don’t know. Just as at the last stop, groups of small children rush our bus with crafts, rocks and empty hands.

I get out to take some pictures and breathe fresh air. As I approach the guard rails of the road the children come offering me their goods, quickly going through their sales pitch in every language they know, hoping someone will take what they offer. But I am distracted by something else. There is a girl, a tragically beautiful girl, no more than 5 years old I would guess, standing by the rail just staring at the tourists around her, analyzing who might spare her some change. Her unkept hair is swept back from her face with a dirty hair band revealing beautiful caramel skin and bright brown eyes that shine through the dirt smeared on her face. Ratty, stained, over-sized clothes hang onto her body.

I stare at her and try to get her attention. When we finally make eye contact I motion for her to come to me, pointing to my camera signifying I would like to take her picture. She quietly replies “Oui.”

I kneel down in front of her to take her picture, and as I focus she starts biting her nails and darting here eyes left and right, unable to concentrate on my lense. I keep pointing at myself, trying to get a shot of those gorgeous eyes, but she never gives me the opportunity. Her body language is telling me to hurry. The psychology of the picture is absorbing.

Too concerned with the other comparatively wealthy tourists, she cannot focus on the meager task of posing for a picture. Yet the anticipation of a profit in whatever amount keeps her from running away from me. I snap my photo and she holds out her petite hand. I give her a euro so she won’t disappoint her mother. Hurrying on, she knows she has a job to do - a job she has been bred to do and will probably do the rest of her childhood. She will beg the others in our group; she will beg the groups that come after us. She will beg for years until she produces her own child who will beg too, in the same town, on the same strip of road with the same beautiful brown eyes. The guide motions to everyone that we are leaving.

The group starts to return to the buses, and the children quickly follow. I take my seat by the window and they tap, trying to get my attention, hoping I will still buy something. The bus pulls away, and their efforts are squandered.

My mind returns to the little girl. I pity her, yet I can’t help but adore her. I tell myself I should have given her more money, when I know this would only encourage her to do what she is doing, smothering any hidden potential she might have. Here I begin to realize the plight of Morocco. So much to love, and so much to lament.

I walk the streets, soaking up what is presented to me, not taking notice what is right in front of my face. I smell and taste the foods cooking in the markets: kebabs, couscous, breads, spices and fish. I marvel at the snake charmers, the fire eaters, the henna artists. I indulge in the plethora of goods presented: scarves, rugs, jewelry, statues, African masks. Yet, at the same time, the poverty lies at my feet, begging me with dirty outreached hands, and how am I to coldly turn my gaze?

Yet I do, and only when I look, when I look really hard through this desire for commodity, the need of the impoverished, the tattered clothes of a little girl — everything that clouds my judgment — do I see what Morocco truly holds: beauty, architecture, language, clothing, religion, mountains, and children. These are the things that have molded this country, and they are smeared with their own dirt, lying hidden beneath their own demons. These things are what I want to take home with me. This should be my image of Morocco.

I notice the desert is coming into view, peeking through the mountains. We pass a man selling chickens on the side of the road. His child isn’t wearing shoes. My friend is talking about how much she loves her new bracelet, and I realize I am now thinking about what else I can buy in the market.

Seth Plattner is a recent graduate of NYU and now lives in Denver, Colorado. Among his passions are traveling, food, and writing the stories of the world that need to be told.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Thursday, October 26th, 2006 | Email This Post

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