Drive to Tamtatucht

I can’t say that I am that spontaneous, but when Omar and I woke up this morning I was bound and determined to get some work done I’ve been putting off for various lame reasons. “We’re going to Tamtatucht today!” I told him with a sweet morning’s breath kiss. He barely acknowledged this information by slowly opening one eye, searched my face for an inkling of seriousness, found it, and promptly fell back asleep.

The dark olive green taxi sputtered up the French built road through one of Morocco’s most encompassing and awing destinations, Todgha Gorge. I was crammed into the backseat with 3 others, the driver not exactly spared himself from awkward discomfort, since in the front seat sat 2 with one undoubtedly pinching the stick shift with his butt cheek. Can’t be gay in Morocco but downshift groping sure is allowed.

From the speakers, what ones left that did work, came an interesting cacophony: Berber music that sounds as if recorded on some apparatus devised during Billy Holliday’s era. The static and white noise overpowers the pauses. Most of the Berber music uses an array of hand drums, a type of guitar that is plucked and not strummed, and a troupe of men and women that emit a call and response type of vocals with women reaching sharp yells supposedly inspired from the way they communicate across fields, valleys and mountains. To even the most open-minded music appreciator, these long repetitive songs can destroy the most lucid daydream and some with hearing aids have been known to turn them all the way off, preferring the silence.

The driver pushed something to make the tape deck wheeze and emit a multitude of low vibrations and what I can only liken to the noise of a loose or tired fan belt, a high-pitched scream, as we reversed or fast-forwarded to the next impressive stream of repeated rhythms and yelling. The road we were on followed the river, at this point there was no more water and only a dry river bed. The villages had long since disappeared as well as the fields. The road was getting farther into disrepair, the driver choosing to brave the gravelled washout rather than the potholed discourse parallel to it. The road had accepted its fate as a lost cause a long time ago. To think, to even humour the idea that a man-made road would survive in these conditions is ludicrous. At times, the river floods, swelling the banks and the road, and then it cracks into dry heat, the rocks melting, thirsty for rain. The road is used by a multitude of motorists: large construction trucks called cameos, dump trucks, huge, overflowing tourist buses, human-sardined transit vans, little foreign rental cars and overpriced ATV and dirt bike rentals that come roaring through, disrupting the awesome voice of the gorge walls, it’s echoes now becoming as ear-splitting as poorly recorded Berber music.

Being the last into the vehicle, I had the privilege to squeeze my short legs and full behind onto the tiniest the piece of cushion allotted in mankind. I had a flashback to a previous time. I had jokingly wiggled into a baby’s seat on a swing set on a public playground where my sequoia thighs then got stuck and I had to be pried loose by hysterically laughing friends. Unlike then, I knew I would be stuck in a different fashion and for a longer time. My knees jamming the back of the driver’s seat, I could feel the steel bars and loose padding. Thank my lucky stars our driver was unusual in his small and light stature. It wasn’t until after we had left the gorge area and were driving along, careening through the long curves that I noticed the inevitable: swampass. Yes, we all fall victim from time to time, the most victimized being those in unventilated transportation on plastic vinyl seats wearing some God-awful fabric we thought was trendy. I had on a favourite pair of hiking pants that strangely zipped off under the knee, an aspect I hadn’t utilized in this conservative culture. And after 2 years of hiding my legs, they are translucent and white enough to cause a bad case of drop jaw and possibly be mistaken by some ex-Boy Scout tourist as a distress sign for help. How embarrassing a rescue! Like a kid who wears a hat to hide the head lice, I keep ‘em covered, for your sake and mine.

We continued on, despite my obvious discomfort. We seemed to be following a small red van, which is an absurd thought, seeing that there is only one road. The vehicle was filled with people and their market goods, bags of flour stacked precariously on top. It slipped around each corner with ease. I briefly daydreamed of the door flying open and my body flying into the boulders below, a common daydream of mine once inside public transportation. How these locks stay secure is beyond me, especially with constant pressure from my hips and those of others day in and day out.

We finally came into Tamtatucht. The valley spread out before us. It is a beautiful area and I was happy to have arrived at our destination with no casualties except a once-fresh pair of panties. We grabbed our stuff and trudged up the stairs to the Auberge Ali, a center of science and learning, now owned by AbdelKarim Kharuj, a good friend of Omar’s. The sun just peaking overhead and its blue skies contrasted the red hues of the mountains stretching out before us. A nice breeze cooled my flanks and I checked my B.O. It looks like the day was going to be a good one.