Storytelling Sunday - an English girl in Morocco

Aged 20, as part of my degree, I got the chance to join a field trip to Morocco. Amazing! We stayed in a Berber village in the High Atlas Mountains for 3 days during which I danced (badly) to traditional music, ate delicious tagines with my fingers and used the other hand to wipe my bum. A caravan of muleteers took us on a 2-hour ride up narrow mountain paths to the highest souk in North Africa. I had only ever been pony-trekking before this and the nimble mules were not built for comfort, but it was the most amazing journey. However, shortly after we set off it started to snow (apparently almost unheard of in December in this part of the world, and you can see from the picture below what the weather was like before we left) and by the time we reached the souk it was a near white-out. There was no way the muleteers were going to entrust their livelihoods to inexperienced Europeans on the treacherous return journey so we agreed to walk and they led their precious beasts. Halfway down however, as the snow turned to a blizzard, one muleteer took pity on me. He allowed me to mount the mule, covered me completely with a waterproof djellaba( long coat/cloak) and I spent the last hour of the trip blinded and shivering as he led me back down the mountain to the village. Never have an open fire and a hole-in-the-ground toilet been more welcome!.

The last two days of our trip were spent in a 2-Star hotel in Agadir, after we had walked for 3 hours to get back to civilisation because the snow-covered mountain was inpassable for the minibus which had taken us up there. Oh! The joy of a shower and clean hair! Then out into town to explore. At the time, I had long hair and I had left it loose to dry after my shower. Everywhere I went, Arab men would reach out and stroke it, which thoroughly unnerved me, but I did not feel really threatened as it was broad daylight and I was with a mixed group of friends. We wanted to shop, but we were all nervous about haggling. Stopping to examine a tempting display of beaded jewellery outside a small shop , we were ushered inside by the owner. It was lined with beautiful fabrics and kaftans. I didn't even ask the price - I was sure I couldn't afford any of the gorgeous embroidered kaftans, but the owner had seen my interest and insisted on showing me how to wear one.

 I couldn't find a photo of me wearing the kaftan I eventually bought so I will have to try to explain it to you. Remember I was with friends, not alone, and I was wearing jeans, which I didn't take off. The short Arab man, with enthusiastic gestures, tied the ribbons on a long piece of  black fabric with  gold embroidery around my bust. He then took the end and brought it down my body, fed it between my legs and showed me how to put my arms through 2 armholes at the back. I felt throughly embarrassed, and, as no price had yet been mentioned I was worrying how he would react when I couldn't afford to buy the kaftan.
'How much?' I asked again
'How much you have?'
'100 dirhams (about £5) and £10 in English money. We go home tomorrow'. I thought this would sound more convincing. Of course it was not all the money I had. I was naive, but not stupid! And I still didn't think it would be anywhere near enough.
To my great surprise, he agreed without haggling. I must have overestimated the price by some way, but it was definitely worth a lot more than £15 to me., and I was relieved to get out of there without upsetting the Moroccan shopkeeper.
I wore the kaftan to several college formal events after that, and I still have it, but I have put on too much weight for it to look good now. I am keeping it until my daughter is tall enough to wear it. I wish I had a photo to show you.

I scrapped my photos from Morroco when I first started scrapbooking, but I think I might revisit this now and do a new page with more of the story. Thanks, Sian, for encouraging me to get these old pages out. I'm off to visit some more Sunday Storytellers now. Defintely looking forward to some more School Stories from Miss Smith.

Oh, and to make it easier for you, I have turned off Blogger's pesky Word Verification once and for all. (I hope, do please let me know it that hasn't worked)