a magical carpet ride through morocco
Morocco has long been heralded as an exotic destination in northern Africa and it’s not hard to see why; the sweeping sands of the Sahara Desert tug at your inner Bedouin, the souqs of Marrakech lining the winding paths of the old Medina entrance you with their colour and texture, and the stark, blue Atlas Mountains stand resolutely in the unwritten novels that unravel themselves in your mind.
This magical journey, embarked on with my dear mother, began in Casablanca, a heaving metropolis of classic North African and Arab buildings, followed by a train ride to the alluring Marrakech, and finally a trip to the Ourika Valley. Morocco is an interesting mixture of worlds; while the thriving tourism industry has led to the mass production of arts and crafts and inspires consumerism on an alarming scale, there is also the authenticity of local life which seems like it hasn’t changed much over the years. These were the places I enjoyed the most, seeing people lay out their wares of fruit or spices or meat in the brisk morning air, their weathered faces looking out from behind their deep cloaks, the fluency of Arabic and French a continuous melody, and the young men sitting in rows at cafes, overlooking the bustling streets while drinking their morning coffee. People do not like to have their photo taken though, and sharp fingers and tongues are produced at the sight of a camera, leaving avid photographers with a selection of still life objects, turned away faces and stolen glimpses of life in Morocco.
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