Going solo
Sometimes you know you’ve taken a step, something isn’t as it was, but it’s hard to put your finger on what’s changed. So it is with me. I haven’t been completely immersed in grief for a while but maybe another level of acceptance that my son’s life was short and that the time I had with the love of my life was brief, has happened.
My son would have been 40 a couple of weeks ago and my husband died 6 years ago on 11th May. In my next blog, I’m planning on writing about ways in which I will have remembered and honoured them but for now I’ve been reflecting on my recent travels in Morocco and wondering whether, as I found my travel legs, so too I found an inner confidence, allowing me to stand more fully on my own two feet, in my authority as a solo woman. It’s possible I will revisit this in another blog or two, but for now I’m simply going to give some shortened extracts from my daily log of the first week of my journey.
Day 1 – on the plane
Through the window, it looks as though a layer of dust hangs in the air above the land. But for a few cultivated areas it appears to be desert as far as the eye can see. Hard to see how anyone will live and thrive here in the long term.
Day 1 – Marrakech
My driver, whose family still live in the Sahara, drove me splendidly, ‘Moroccan style’, from the airport to the Palais el Bahja, my hotel. It’s far from a palace and the young man on reception was grumpy, but it is the last day of Ramadan, and I guess he’s not eaten since before the sun rose…..
Met our colourful Berber guide (one of the very first women to become a guide here in Morocco) and the group of 10 women, 9 of whom I will be walking with. They are all 20 – 40 years younger than me, several from the States, a few from Europe and a couple from the UK…
Breakfast is at 7am so it’s time for sleep. I imagine the journey, the land, the villages and the food, the culture and the climate will all be part of these pages but for now I am glad to be here.
Day 2 – Bou Tharar, 1800m
I am staring at dust. Sandstone rocks surround me, sandstone buildings, dusty road. Beyond and below the road is the river, either side of which is a small strip of green, surprising against the red earth. On the way here in the minibus, ruined kasbahs emerged from the earth as if carved from the hillside…
My eye is beginning to acclimatise to the redness. Sometimes I don’t see the houses, camouflaged as they, until my eye picks out a straight line, horizontal or vertical…
The sun must have set – it’s hard to tell surrounded on all sides by high mountains -because the call to prayer is echoing along the valley from north and south. However poor the villages, there’s always a mosque. Our guide tells us you are born Muslim before Moroccan or even human. She doesn’t agree.
Day 3 – Agouti
Today we have walked through the village where we’d stayed, greeted by children in special dresses with henna painted on their hands, and by women with black sparkling cloth draped over their shoulders. It is Eid and cause for celebration. We forded the river many times, enjoyed the silvery rustle of poplars, the green of fig trees and sweetness of birdsong. In April and May the valley will be clothed in pink and the scent of damask roses will fill the air. They will be harvested and made into rose oil, often by women working in co-operatives. It has been a joy to see cherry trees covered in pink blossom and small fields of barley thriving.
Day 4- Amejgag
Highlights of today: watching the mules being loaded up with our gear and food this morning; watching a huge mixed flock of sheep and goats come down from the mountainside to drink in the shallow river; eating grated deep fried potato crisps for a tea time snack on arrival at our gite; the mosques lit up across the valley; the warmth of my shower – first time it’s been warm!; the silence falling over us as we huddle together on the terrace, broken by an occasional giggle
Day 5 – Issoumar
I have been in tears. I am not the only one. I have walked 23 km today in intense heat. We left at 7.30 this morning and arrived at our gite at 5.30pm. I am so proud of myself. A week before I left England, I could barely walk around my house. We have supported one another, up the mountainside to 2200m and down again, backwards and forwards through fast flowing gorge water up to our knees; we shared our clementines and snacks for a final boost of energy this afternoon and all arrived in one piece if with some tears, as we landed in this rough and ready gite. There are 8 of us lined up like sardines in my room – lots of chat, lots of tenderness.
Lunch was in a Bedouin cave, cooked for us by the two nomad women who travel on the mules before us. They made us stone bread, placing corn dough on top of very hot stones, setting light to some twigs and passing them over the dough to cook the top. When it was ready they beat off the ash, removed the stones around the edge and loosened the dough. Delicious.
Day 6 – Bou Tharar – again
I made it! 40 miles over these 4 days. Good for me!
Highlights of today: the little children in the school we visited and on the paths: “Bonjour. Salaam”; the shady spot where we ate lunch, the river running by as I lay down full and comfortable, warm and safe; connections with some of these beautiful women as we move between each other; conditioning my hair so it no longer feels like straw; listening to birdsong at the beginning and end of the day.
Day 7 – Marrakech
We said goodbye to the High Atlas mountains, the M’Goun valley, Bou Tharar, the men who have sung, drummed, carried our bags on their mules and waited on us at table; and to the nomad women who accompanied and cooked for us. Hour by hour we have re-entered a world of commercialism.
Back at the un-palatial Palais, we did a quick change and then walked a long way beside traffic of cars and vans, taxis and horse drawn carriages, beyond the stunningly beautiful Koutoubia mosque to the Medina, the walled heart of Marrakech; on past a pro-Palestinian protest, into the main square, Djamaa el- Fna, where street hawkers were selling gadgets and others the opportunity to pose with their monkey doing tricks and wearing a nappy. We entered a souk which sold a rainbow of slippers and spicy samosas, locally made pottery and ten thousand scarves, where scooters zigzagged between pedestrians; and finally, footsore and ravenous, we made it to the Jewish quarter to a friend of our guide, to be greeted with mint tea and crisp cookies and later dinner.
Three plump ladies in long mauve velveteen, drummed and sang loudly, songs of the Love that is big, and raucous songs teasing their men, while a neighbour hennaed our hands, all of them cackling as women do the world over.
Day 8 – Marrakech
Before leaving the city and onto the next part of my adventure, I chose to be pummelled by a Moroccan woman in a local hammam, who deluged me with hot water, scoured my skin and bent my arms and legs hither and thither like a bendy doll. I laughed and I am clean!
I loved those women I walked with, feisty, gentle, sassy, brave, funny, strong, generous – oh so generous, with everything from snacks and rehydration tablets to kindness and understanding. For one short week, we came carrying our stories and our backpacks, being present for one another through our challenges and successes. It occurs to me it was a microcosm of community. We were none of us competitive, we were there for ourselves and celebrated each other. Over the time as we’d change walking partners and room buddies, we’d share our fears of Trump (god bless those American women) and hopes of a greener future; our love for our families, our animals and our men (two women were going home to be married) and our grief for lost beloveds. Through it all we walked up red, rugged mountains and through steep sided river gorges, encouraging one another and developing a trust in our resilience.
I had been anxious it would be too much for me, afraid I wasn’t fit enough, strong enough, young enough, simply, not enough. I was, I was plenty. And I want to remember, I am always enough: my love, my life, my heart is always plenty.
The next part of my adventure was alone, some of it in another part of the mountains, some in Marrakech. A whole new set of challenges and victories to explore…another time.
With my love
Nickie
NEWS
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