my article has been published also in the beutiful travel blog by Maria Kritsiligou Goseeleave
I started going through the bracelets, cheap
imitations of the traditional Tuareg bracelets made with fine layers of silver
and ebony wood. These ones had black lines painted on them instead. I looked
out at the scenery. We were stranded in a bar while trying to cross the Atlas mountains as the heavy snow got to us first. ''It's
not that heavy said a guy from Sweden''.
Looking at those mountains covered in snow I felt I could trace the origin of
the inspiration of these bracelets as the snow set on the layered rock
formations of the mountains creating a zebra like surrounding. Ancient rocks, proudly
confronting winds, snow, heat and passer bys for centuries.
I picked up the one I had liked right from the
start. It was shinning as if worn not long
ago. One round circle decorated with 4 spring like tubes and bulky silver dots creating
4 crosses and tiny in size. My hands are small and ''if it fits'' I think to
myself ''it was waiting for me and it's mine''. I squeezed it through my hand
and as it slid on my wrist I felt that familiar ''I muuuust have it'' feeling.
The guy in the shop came up:
- silver, he says
- it's not silver
- Berber silver, he replies without insisting. It's
antique he continues and that I believe.
Berber silver is a base metal, silver in colour but
made mostly of zinc mined in the north part of the country.
- How much?
he types 280 on a calculator without speaking
- are you crazy?!
he points at the figure again without speaking
-100 Dirham I say
he points at the figure again without speaking
- common! it's not even silver! 120...
he points at the figure again without speaking
I take the bracelet off, let it down and move
toward the open door to look at the snow fall.
I sigh... the rule here is that you loose I admit
to myself. They win
But I still want that damn bracelet! I go back in.
120 I tell him. he types 250. well that's a start I suppose but he's obviously
tough since he knows I can't go anywhere in the snow and that I'm craving for
it. A guy walks in with a dark brown djellaba (the colour symbolising that he
is a single man) rasta hair and sunglasses moving lightly t for his size and
you can smell his mischief under his funky appearance . He looks like the big boss of everything there so I turn to him
instead and shout ''150 Dirham''. He waves ok with his hand, I give the money I
take it and wear it I m happy. A little victory I feel.
I join the others from the group. They seem angry
with the driver and the guide who has suddenly decided to reply only by saying:
''I don't understand English''. No one is suggesting a way out of here, it's
been 6 hours now, we have had sweet mint tea, cakes and soup, we have bought
stuff we have listened to the drums and played on them and now we need a way out.
When some voices are risen they give us a solution that feels it could have
happened 6 hours ago: we either pay more to take a long11 hour drive round via
Agadir in order to reach the Todga Gorges or we go back to Marrakesh, miss the whole 3 day trip and with
no guarantee of getting back the money. We all agree on the first choice, they
win...
I wore my bracelet all the way into the Merzouga Desert while seeing a burning red
sunset. I wore it and all the way up to Fez
through a beautiful snowed vast scenery that felt like being on the moon... but
meeting monkeys along the way instead of aliens.
In our room in Fez I see a poster of a girl covered in
bracelets just like my one and it makes me instantly forget the labyrinths of
this amazing city and the dizziness it took to find the hidden gem of our Riad.
The next day Abdul approaches and self employs
himself as our guide through the leather dying factories. The worst job you get
to do there is wash the skins in a stinking watery mix of pigeon dunk. You
stand in the pool with the water up to your knees. A working day is worth 10
euros, it starts at 5am and finishes at 5 pm between the horrifying odour of dead animals, dyes,
pigeon poo and vinegar.
Abdul notices my bracelet. ''My mother has many of
these bracelets, women used to wear them for self protection. That's why the
have bulky decorations on them so it hurts if they cross your face''. He adds
that his mother smokes more hash than him.
I can't help
but imagine the woman who wore this piece, small in size like me. Full of these self
defence ornaments, it makes me feel strong.
In Chefchaouen the beautiful blue gem of the North
I meet Mohamed, a young boy with eyes the colour of fresh wild honey. He
cultivates hash, breeds white travelling pigeons and speaks in a mix of Spanish
Arabic and English. He explains to me that the bulky beads on my bracelet are
seven to symbolize the seven days of the week and the springs are four to
symbolize the seasons. I just nod, hypnotized by his eyes and I let myself fall
in love for as long as this conversation may last.
In my last day in Marrakesh
before flying back to Europe I see a shop
seller who suggests I sell him my bracelet. how much did you buy it for. 150
Dirham I say. I ll buy it off you for
200 he says. Not a chance! This bracelet has been my guide to explore this
culture. It reminds me of what travelling really means: of finding new things,
inspiration and knowledge of loosing your patience and money, of wasting time
and chances,. It reminds me of this beautiful loop around mainland Morocco, round,
rough and shiny like my Berber bracelet.
I spotted it between a bunch of many bracelets,
most of them I had seen before, nearly on every jewellery selling stall in
Marrakesh; cuffs with their open ends filed in different shapes and larger in the
middle as if creating a mountain peak. The highest peak in Morocco is Toubkal of the Atlas mountain range
that rises at 4,167
metres. I used to think that the largest warm desert in
the world would just be sand dunes till I realized that the highest Sahara peak
reaches 3,445 meter
in Chad.
