Marrakech to Mountain Kasbahs

As our train pulled into the Marrakesh station I overheard the taller of the two American guys standing in front of me turn to his friend and say, “This will make 22 countries we’ve visited.”

“22 countries and all the continents,” his friend added.

The man in front of them turned around and said, ”I’ve been to 107 countries.”

The tall American commented, “You either have more time, or money than we do!”

But, hey, have any of these guys been to the Vortex Theater?  Today’s Jeopardy question is: If the short man with the olive green pack slung over his shoulder has been to 107 countries, how many hasn’t he seen?

Marrakesh doesn’t have the closed-in feel of Casablanca or Fes.  Wide sidewalks along wider boulevards, and spacious modern buildings in pastel colors had me thinking for a moment that I was in Phoenix.  We gormandized on a lavish, decadent French dinner that cost 400 Dirham (40 bucks).  But we’ll have more time to explore Marrakesh when we get back from the Sahara and the sea coast.

This morning we met Ali, our driver.  Young guy, probably in his early-thirties.  Pleasant fellow, not as taciturn as our Volubulis driver who verged on being mute, and not a non-stop information machine like the man on the train to Fes who was bent on having all his friends show us around.  Ali showed up in a comfy white Toyota Land Cruiser and soon we were leaving the lowlands and taking the winding road into Atlas Mountains.  Forget Phoenix, now it seemed like we were climbing colorful yet barren geological strata similar to what we found in Big Bend National Park.  

Pretty soon we were up high enough to enjoy the cool air and come across some Berber settlements where the square stone houses clung to the mountainside on top of each other like a Mesa Verde cliff dwelling.  

In the village of Telouet, Ali stopped at a famous 19th century kasbah where at one time inside his fortress house, the pasha, head of the powerful Glaoui clan, ruled.  

Gazing past some of the crumbled ruins at the entrance, I saw a sign on the gift shop and had to do a double-take:

I felt pretty relieved having left my dg (doppelgänger or demented guide—not much difference between them) trying to hotwire a Picasso back in the parking lot outside of Fes.  But now, seeing the painter’s name on the sign in front of me at the kasbah in Telouet was too much of a coincidence.  And sure enough, as Rashid, our Berber kasbah guide, was explaining how, back in the glory days, the pasha had 85 wives, I heard a whisper in my ear, “So, Mr. Hotshot American, what do you think of that?  How many wives did Elvis have?  Or Frank Sinatra?”  

We moved on through the small rooms of  the pasha’s former love nest with Rashid pointing out how the tiny windows and tall ramparts of the kasbah were meant to protect from the Evil Eye.  (The first “The Hills Have Eyes” movie  was shot in Morocco.)  I could smell the sickeningly sweet mint tea on the breath of my dg as he whispered, “Mr. Hotshot American with the big plate glass windows!  You turn your living room into a big screen TV for the Evil Eye to watch.  You might as well leave a bowl of popcorn outside.  With salt.  The Evil Eye loves salt.”  

So, okay, dg, I admit it!  We Americans talk about how we treasure our privacy all the time, but compared to Moroccans we’re exhibitionists.  Reality TV should have brought the wrath of the Evil Eye down upon us long ago.  Or maybe it already has.  That’s as good an explanation of what’s going on as anything else.