From the Awakening to Travel to Morocco in the 90s (page 4 of 4)

I’d read in the GDR that as you ventured further south, people’s skin became progressively darker. Indeed, we saw this firsthand. It wasn’t just a myth that you’d sometimes notice a certain hostility toward foreigners. One morning, as we were driving by, some kids actually threw a few stones at us. Oh well, let’s just say they didn’t put much effort into it. Still, just a few dozen kilometers away, attitudes were completely different.

In its historical section, the GDR also explains that over time—and perhaps due to cultural exchanges with other civilizations—the Moroccans of the plains had occasionally broken free from the strong religious, moral, and cultural constraints. Each time, the hardliners would come down from the mountains to restore order and, above all, return things to how they were before. A key element in understanding the reasons behind the persistent stagnation and weight of tradition.

Back in the 90s, I saw a report on M6. It claimed that 50,000 French people or French households had settled in Morocco. I imagine there are at least that many now. Some have beautifully renovated riads, turning them into dream homes. Given the standard of living accessible to the French and the ease of communicating in our native language, I totally get why some of my fellow countrymen made that choice. I wouldn’t have dared take that risk, knowing that Islam could wipe it all away at any moment. Not necessarily in the short term, though. As long as Morocco has enlightened rulers, the country will remain a reliable and trustworthy partner.

What really struck me at that point in our journey, though, was the dreamlike scenery that unfolded before us—ksars and oases surrounded by sand and rocky terrain. It all seemed unreal but turned out to be undeniably beautiful. A Hollywood set, except it was real life. As I often point out, photos will never capture the temperature... Either way, gazing at southern Morocco is pure wonder. We visited a few ksars, but between the overwhelming commercial pitches and the feeling of intruding on the locals’ privacy, we didn’t linger too long.

Hi Jojoone,

A huge thank you for this travel journal—it brings back so many memories! And especially thanks for the accuracy and relevance of your comments on Arab-Muslim culture and society, which are still so timely...

Calaf

Hi Jojo

When I look at these photos illustrating your memories, I think that, after all, Morocco hasn’t changed that much :)

Hi Jojo

When I look at these photos that illustrate your memories, I think that, after all, Morocco hasn’t changed that much 🙂

But wow, we sure have! 😛

So, have you picked Oualidia for your next trip there?

So, have you marked Oualidia for your next trip over there?

I’ve been to Oualidia several times—I’ve got my favorite spot at a little eatery there: L'Araignée Gourmande ;)

After Ouarzazate, we continued on to Zagora and M'Hamid. It was something else to hear myself suddenly exclaim, "M'Hamid, in the Sahara!" with those sharp, illuminated Arabic intonations of some janissary brimming with excitement! I did it regularly as a fan of repetitive comedy, though with a fair dose of irony. Still, it’s nothing when you just tell the story—you had to see and hear it to really get the full effect.

I finally had the chance to see and climb some respectable dunes and exhaust myself completely and pointlessly by racing up them like a madman. Anyway, you might as well act the fool while you’re still young. When you’re older, your body might not handle it, and you’d look ridiculous!





M'Hamid is clearly one of the gates to the Sahara. We wouldn’t have ventured beyond that village for anything in the world—it marked the end of the drivable road and the beginning of an endless *reg*. We got out of the car to soak in the atmosphere before heading back north, but we only stayed outside for a few minutes, with the temperature probably hovering around 50°C.







I’m a little embarrassed to admit we turned down an invitation to a wedding when we crossed paths with the procession in a village. For one, we didn’t know if the person who invited us was even in a position to do so. Plus, given the time, we would’ve missed our stopover hotel for the night. As for me, a Moroccan friend had dragged me to a wedding like that in France, and I’d had an extremely unpleasant impression seeing that big curtain dividing the room in two, separating men and women. It’s said that having foreign guests at a wedding brings good luck, but back then, we were far too detached from any kind of conventions to play the role of good-luck charms.



It was in Zagora that you’d find the famous and mythical sign: "Timbuktu 52 days." If up until then you didn’t feel like an adventurer, that injustice was corrected right there!

Driving with the windows wide open, shirtless and hair blowing in the wind—it’s a beautiful image of freedom, and we didn’t hold back. Of course, women are always somewhat at a disadvantage when it comes to this kind of thing.



This trip through the deep south only made me more addicted to warm temperatures, and I was smart to schedule this vacation at the start of summer to avoid too much of a thermal and psychological shock upon returning. Because back home, "When the low, heavy sky weighs like a lid on the moaning spirit, prey to long boredom, and from the horizon embracing the whole circle, it pours us a black day sadder than the nights..."





So, for the return trip, we passed through Taroudant for no serious reason—sometimes called "the little Marrakech" because of its ramparts. I made a local furious by letting out an exasperated "Halini," as he was the only one who hassled us persistently during our stay. Everyone around him calmed him down and reminded him that this year, it was especially important not to bother tourists.



We also took a look at the legendary Essaouira, a seaside city where Jimi Hendrix (according to the GDR) wanted to buy an entire neighborhood, which didn’t happen due to protests from the locals. Either way, the poor guy wouldn’t have enjoyed it for long...

You can buy all sorts of more or less functional objects made from Barbary thuya wood there. It’s not necessarily a great idea, though, since this wood is adapted to the local, slightly humid climate and cracks quickly once you bring it home.

We could tell that Essaouira is often windy—really windy. Personally, on the seaside ramparts, I felt like I was in Saint-Malo; the photos prove it.







In the surrounding countryside, we saw plenty of argan trees, from which the highly sought-after argan oil is extracted—and it comes at a price. Speaking of which, Kenza Qiraouani Boucetta and Zoubida Charrouf have shown that consuming argan oil and/or applying it to the skin improves skin elasticity in postmenopausal women. Not insignificant info for most VoyageForum users...

This trip was an excellent idea. We ate well everywhere, the landscapes were out of the ordinary, and Morocco is undeniably a destination that’s both close and exotic.

But really, future Mr. Jojoone, was it really necessary or reasonable to put a whole gram in the mint tea at breakfast?



It’s clear that our return to Oualidia gave us plenty of time to shake off all the stress we’d built up in France. We made the most of the beach as much as we could, daydreaming and savoring life in that brief moment of respite.

We even had the pleasure of tasting oysters at a small farm right next to the village.









Having pretty much exhausted the potential of my little Minolta and feeling like I wouldn’t have the enthusiasm to take more photos later, I agreed to sell it to the hotel owner. He accepted the unreasonable price I offered—so much so that I ended up giving it to him for less, on my own initiative. Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for business. Still, it turned out I sold the camera for more than I’d bought it for!

In the end, it wasn’t just stories—when they told us goats climb trees, we saw it happen multiple times. On the other hand, I didn’t expect to call Morocco "the land of plastic bags"—they’re everywhere, carried by the wind, unfortunately. Some of those opaque bags were even used to hide bottles of alcohol, obviously...

Just before heading back, I went back to the shop in Marrakech to pick up my onyx egg. The young seller was both stunned and amazed to see me keep my promise. I left heavily loaded but with a clear conscience.



Since the return flight couldn’t be with Corsair due to technical reasons, we were graciously upgraded on Royal Air Maroc, in a less shaky plane. We were seated right behind Marc Lavoine and his princess at the time, who loved relaxing in this country. At one point, a woman gathered her courage and asked him for an autograph. I’ve always wondered what quirk of the human brain makes us ask for someone’s signature just because they’re famous. Doesn’t that somehow diminish our own value?

In my opinion, memories of beautiful trips are among the most precious things in life. As I always say: "No one can take that away from us anymore."

I dedicate this unusual travel journal to all the censors, the humorless, and those who reject us as soon as our boldness exceeds theirs. And hey, there’s so much worse in this world!

Thanks Jojo, this is a unique and magnificent travel journal you’ve shared with us—it goes down as smooth as camel’s milk and ends in the most beautiful way. It’s exactly the kind of retro/introspective journal that overflows a bit from political correctness that I love, both in style and spirit. I followed it with so much pleasure, whether from here in France or to spice up my long trips on India’s roads. And if it inspires a few VF survivors to create some "retro journals," maybe it could give this nearly brain-dead forum a little boost—though I don’t have much hope for that anymore. Thanks again to you!

Thank you from the bottom of my heart. If anyone deserves to receive, it’s those who have given so much. And you’re one of them.

Thanks for sharing! I followed you all the way through, even if I didn’t chime in as much as I did at the start of your travel journal—our paths kind of diverged... Though, come to think of it, my first big "initiation" trip was to Senegal... Morocco is Africa too, right?

Hello

Thanks for this travel journal of "time passed"—careful, I didn’t say "bygone times"— And then seeing that dear Kasbah of the Oudayas again, where I took my very first steps as a baby, back in the day, on Sunday afternoons... Morocco, it must be said and repeated, is one of the most beautiful countries in the world... along with so many others! Thanks again

A huge thank you for this original Moroccan travel journal that I read with great pleasure! Françoise

Thanks for these chapters from this awesome retro travel journal. The first part was a great trip down memory lane—many of us could relate to those shared memories. I would’ve loved to learn more about that first American stay.

I also really enjoyed the section(s) on Morocco for several personal reasons: first, because Morocco was my first solo trip (1977), how formative it was! And my wife (whom I met in London the following year) was born there and spent her first twenty years in the country. She’s taken me back to discover her Morocco several times, especially her Casablanca (the last time with our three daughters was in... 1995, of all years!). Since then, I’ve become an expert in mint tea, I’ve been wearing yellow babouches since 1979 (this is my seventh pair!), and I can make a decent pastilla. Next up, I’m tackling gazelle horns...

Is there more to come from this retro journal?

Thanks anyway for the support... from start to finish ;)

Okay, considering all your comments over time, you must be the person I’ve brought the most joy to on VF. And well... it was a pleasure 🙂

Thanks Françoise, a kind word is always appreciated. It doesn’t look like it, but the writing took some time.

Thanks for these chapters from this awesome retro travel journal. The first part was a great trip down memory lane—many of us could relate and shared some common memories. I’d have loved to hear more about that first American trip.

I also really enjoyed the section(s) on Morocco for some personal reasons: first, because Morocco was my first solo trip (1977), and what a formative experience it was! Plus, my wife (whom I met in London the following year) was born there and spent her first twenty years in the country. She’s taken me back to discover her Morocco several times, especially her Casablanca (the last time was with our three daughters in... 1995, of all years!). Since then, I’ve become an expert in mint tea, I’ve been wearing yellow babouches since 1979 (this is my seventh pair!), and I can make a decent pastilla. Next up, I’m tackling gazelle horns...

Is there going to be a follow-up to this retro journal?

Glad you enjoyed following this journal—I love it when it resonates with fellow VF travelers. Feels like I’m doing a good deed!

As for the U.S., it was only 10 days, and let’s be honest—part of it was to see that young woman again... Those were my first flights, and I went all out: Luxembourg/Reykjavik, then Reykjavik/Chicago, and finally Chicago/Oakland. My ears were killing me after that last landing.

In Chicago, the flight to Oakland was delayed, and a well-dressed man struck up a conversation with me in the waiting area to pass the time. At first, I was wary, but it turned out he was one of those super-friendly, laid-back, and generous West Coast guys. In the end, he drove me from Oakland to San Francisco, let me crash at his place for free all week, and even handed me the keys to his house. There really are some amazing people out there.

There won’t be a follow-up to this retro journal. That said, I *could* have done one on the Eurockéennes festival—I went regularly from 1990 to 1996 and took a ton of photos. You’d barely remember your own name an hour after arriving (the party started the second you parked the car in the field). But hey, I can’t subject some readers to *that* many wild anecdotes. Too much is too much!

I vaguely remember Jamiroquai, Midnight Oil, and Jean-Louis Aubert, who had a phenomenal success, racking up encores and forcing the organizers to drag him offstage so the next acts could go on.

As always, it was better to go in the first 3 or 4 years, while it was still relatively low-key. Once M6 did a report on the Eurocks, the whole laid-back vibe was ruined...