Return to the Kingdom

by Jori Breslawski (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Morocco

I felt elated as we sped out of Marrakech towards the distant Atlas Mountains, their hazy silhouette rising out of the dusty red earth. Marrakech is somewhat of a hellhole to me-the luxurious playground of rich Europeans and the resulting culture of harassment, overpriced goods, and a sick melange of chained monkeys, snake charmers, and belly dancing created for the sole purpose of catering to and perpetuating the world’s exotic expectations of Morocco. I hid up on my hostel’s rooftop for the most part, leaving only once to purchase some dates, almonds, and of course, a glass of orange juice. Morocco has many faces, and I was now headed to the remote Berber villages of the Atlas Mountains. The Amazigh inhabited the Maghreb long before the Arabs came to politically dominate North Africa. Waves of foreign conquests have weakened their influence, however growing demands have led to the recognition of Tamazight as an official language, as well as a new cultural awareness and desire for its preservation. My driver brought me to a vibrant green valley, where I met my guide, Omar, as well as Abdul who would lead Katrina, our mule. I chatted excitedly with them as we set off up into the hills-the beauty and remoteness overwhelming my senses. However, as we walked through cherry groves, climbed higher amongst walnut trees, finally reaching the heights of juniper and air infused with wild Rosemary, Omar became too touchy for my liking, and as I asked him to stop and tried to pull away, the fear started the creep into my veins. I hate to admit this, but being here alone as a woman, even just for a week, has chased away some of my idealist expectations of the world. I’ve been grabbed at, harassed, and gawked at as if I’m a piece of meat surrounded by a starving pack of wolves. As I walk through the streets I make every effort to appear ambivalent to their perverted voices, to their greedy eyes, but the wall I build is glass. Despite the emotional toll it has taken, I hadn’t felt real fear until that moment, in which every step I took brought me further from civilization and closer to placing my fate into the hands of these two men. I tried to shake the worry crawling up my spine, but realized it would pulse through me with every beat of my heart until they proved me wrong. The two men chipped away at my pessimism while we stopped in a mountain pass for lunch. There, we laid out cushions under the shade of a juniper tree, drank tea and ate an exquisitely colorful lunch of vegetables and fruit grown in the valley. We took a siesta until mid afternoon, when we started hiking down into the next valley. We arrived at a gite, where we would spend the night. The view from the balcony took my breath away, and as the evening went on, I found my fears of my guides’ malign intentions abating. That night, I even convinced them to prepare my mint tea without sugar-a travesty in Morocco-after a twenty minute argument and likely a couple fuses blowing inside their heads. The crowing of roosters, crying of goats, laughter of children and the singing of muezzins echoed loudly through the walls of the valley. I drank in the mountain air, feeling an exhilarating rush as my soul came back to life. I found myself wishing we didn’t have to leave in the morning-I don’t remember the last time I had the luxury of falling asleep to a deafening orchestra of crickets outside my window.