atlas iii

atlas | atlas ii

Over the soothing bass of the engines, I can overhear two women talking animatedly in Italian; they've been to Ouarzazate before, and are planning to make an excursion or two to cover the areas that they missed during their previous and all-too-brief soujourn in the desert town. I spend much of the flight with an arm hooked over the back of my seat, chatting to them about all that there is to see and do in the area; I won't be disappointed, I am promised, and if I love eating as much as I say I do, then I'm in for a treat. Not half.

Outside, the lights of Casablanca have long receded from beneath us, and all is an inky sea of black as we pass across the range of the lower Atlas. The occasional point of light hovers into view, nothing else around as far as the eye can see; I can only think of some lonely boat lost on the vast expanse of an ocean, this, my only means of rationalising such a tremendous degree of solitude, so heavily inhabited are the lands that I roam.

We touch down in a rare sea of twinkling lights, a 737 with an airport all of its own, and are taken along quiet roads to our hotel, which overlooks part of the town. The hotel is made of mud. I am over the moon; as far as I am concerned, this isn't just any mud, this mud is five stars. I fall into a deep sleep to wake, early in the morning, a little disorientated ball of me, like some blurry-eyed hamster newly out of hibernation; I reassert my masculinity, stretching for a spell, and eventually walk out to find that the heat has been turned up a good ten degrees or more; though the temperature will fluctuate between 35 and 45 centigrade over the next few days, it is so dry out here that it remains bearable provided, of course, that one has enough to drink. Aha.

Exploring the streets is a leisurely business; people are few and far between off the main thoroughfares, and are consistently dressed with greater modesty here than the more cosmopolitan crowds of Casablanca; the men wear long cotton djellabyas with embroidered hems, some wrapping their heads in layers of silk or cotton to keep the sun out of their eyes, while others sport trousers and t-shirts, much as anywhere else. The women show a little more flair, draping colourful shawls across their shoulders, some covering their heads, some not, but almost all are in simple, attractive dresses.

You can spot the tourists by their shorts; whatever the locals might wear on the street, bare arms, bare heads, they don't seem often to bare their legs, but even if they did, they'd have to attack themselves with bleach, peroxide and polish before they could achieve the fleshy, glittery radiance of the untanned, north-European leg.

Prior to lunch, a local kasbah happens upon me, the Kasbah de Taorirt; having never seen one outside of the world of celluloid, exploration is a must, and it is a good hour or so before I emerge from the veritable maze of cold, winding passages, shady rooms decorated artfully with beautiful scriptures, and "Oww, fuck - I didn't see that!" low rafters in all the right places. In minutes, I find myself at Erraha, a street café, sat in front of a bowl of freshly baked, unleavened bread, crumbly goat's cheese, and a plate of nutty zeit zeitoun - olive oil - a perfect first meal.

Things are happy enough before the young, amused-by-the-foreign-stranger waitress emerges with a tagine, steaming lightly from beneath its pyramidal clay lid. With a little flourish, she lifts off this covering, nods a smile, and walks away. Oh, divine sumptuousness! Oh, heavenly lamb köfte stewed to perfection in a rich, spicy tomato sauce! Oh, bizarrely conceived fried egg, capolavoro of this masterpiece-for-one! Mmm, yum ...yes Mr Matris, wonderful, wonderful; I pass out in good spirits.