November, 2000:

Ouarzazate, Morocco. It has been two weeks since my arrival in the most unique place where I have ever set foot. From the moment before my plane landed in Casablanca, I have been filled with an unexpected surge of serenity and liberation. Geof arrived one week before me and, despite the fact that the trip resulted from his employment with a film production company, this will surely turn out to be the rest and restoration getaway we’ve been dreaming of. Geof’s assignment involves drawing storyboards for Mark Lasoff, whose special effects work gleaned him an Oscar for Titanic. This production centers around a verbatim version of The Bible’s New Testament gospels. One can imagine our delight when, five weeks after his arrival, Geof was informed that his services would be required for an additional ten days.

The sun blooms and blooms here from dawn until early dusk, when the sky turns cool for the duration of the night—most suitable for rich slumbers. As a result, I have been able to work on my first play, Saint Francis of Esplanade, with the same focus I might expect from being whisked away to a private writer’s colony. In fact, we have both been gleaning some impressive creative mileage here. Regardless of our choppy-accented Québec French—my Canadian-Irish accent particular cause for amusement among the Berber locals—the Moroccans’ European French enables immediate comprehension, no having to dig one’s way through any Abitibi-smudged syllables.

An aura of mystery has surrounded this voyage even before it started, accompanied by a sense of being protected. This was all preceeded by a palpable premonition placed in our path back on September 5th, when Geof and I walked into a west end Montreal café we were visiting for the first time. An unoccupied table caught my eye and as I walked towards it, I spied a tiny metallic object on one of the chairs. When I picked up the item and noted the flat open palm, I gradually recognized the Hand of Fatima. On the back of the silvery palm were the words, Fait en Maroc.  I showed it to Geof and thought, how strange, before placing it in my wallet.

Nearly two months later, on the last Saturday in October we were clearing lunch dishes when the phone rang. “Are you available for a three week storyboarding assignment?”

Geof recognized the voice of local cinematographer Pierre Gill, with whom he had worked on Allan Moyle’s Exchange the previous spring. “Of course,” he responded.

“By the way,” continued Pierre, “I’m calling you from Maroc!”

Certain this was one of Pierre’s off-the-cuff jokes, Geof chuckled.

“It’s true,” pressed Pierre, “and let me tell you, it’s so sunny and beautiful here, you will love it!”

“But…”

“Just email me some recent storyboards so I can show the director your work and—we will need you here yesterday of course!”

Despite the fact that it was an unseasonably cold day, we headed over to a nearby private academic institution—wrapped in gloves, hats and heavy coats—to play some tennis on their deserted courts. My mind was still whirling in a multitude of different pies, creative and otherwise, to which I’d committed myself over the last six months. There was my unfinished play, essays and poems; small to large editing assignments and publishing goals. Louis Dudek’s last poetry collection was at the printer’s: before my departure, I had instructed them to send Dudek the interior proofs.

How could either of us afford to uproot such tight schedules, drop everything and head off to some distant, alien corner of the world? Too sudden, too sudden. But Geof needed the new assignment. Within less than half an hour, having given up on lobbing tennis balls into the freezing wind, our minds were made up. We raced back home so that Geof could zoom his storyboard samples to Pierre.

Early the following morning producer Luc Campeau called to rave over Geof’s work and ask if he could get on a plane the next day. Curiously, with each passing hour, I found myself increasingly warming to Morocco, as if a resuscitative flicker had taken root inside my burned-out perception. A quick internet trek revealed a myriad of revelations, from warnings that most Moroccans are illiterate to a full description of the hotel in which we would be staying.  The Berbère Palace was nothing less than a luxury hotel complete with swimming pool, restaurants and garden paths leading to private rooms. Ouarzazate itself had the distinction of being an oasis as well as a former French Foreign Legion outpost.
Monday morning arrived at the speed of a cyclone. The first order of the day: Geof’s  immunization shots. He managed to acquire half of them at a shiny new downtown medical clinic inside Place Montreal Trust (which we jokingly refer to as the Klingon Palace due to the building’s greenish hulking exterior). He then raced over to a travel clinic on Rue Saint Denis for an anti-typhoid and another shot. Before heading off, he had contacted his old high school chum Steve Pickford, whose travel agent savvy had secured us many a cost-effective voyage. There was no question that I would be joining Geof on this trip of a lifetime.

The film people would be taking care of Geof’s itinerary. At one p.m., a frustrated representative called to notify Geof that his flight had been cancelled due to yet another air-traffic workers’ strike in Paris. Not as bad as it sounds, I told myself, this will give us another day to cover loose ends. Meanwhile Steve Pickford called to confirm my ticket. I would head for Maroc the following week: the gap would not only ensure a better price but provide me with time to clear up various projects, as well as any detail Geof might have forgotten.

“Look at this,” Geof remarked when my faxed itinerary arrived. “The route takes you from Montreal to NYC, then directly to Casablanca with a tiny plane hop to Ouarzazate—our final destination. This is far more direct than that Montreal-Paris-Casablanca route the film company arranged.” A few quick phone calls later and the film people agreed to switch from their travel agency to Pickford’s. No Paris strikes to worry about, never mind the legendary chaos of Paris airport itself.

The following afternoon, I drove Geof to Dorval (now Trudeau) Airport and walked him from the entrance to the exceptionally long corridor that would eventually thread us both to Morocco. This would mark the lengthiest time we had been apart since Geof started working for Marvel Comics back in 1983. To my surprise, I would actually appreciate the isolated, impromptu holiday, during which I would indulge in light gourmet dinners and late night meanders along Rue Catherine Street. There was also much to clear up before I could set foot on that OZZ (suitably mystical luggage tag initials for Ouarzazate) carpet.

I stocked up on my own immunization shots the day after Geof’s departure, and was informed that the antibodies would take seven days to kick in. Hopefully, Geof would make it through those first six days without any attacks on his immune system—especially after some of the details I had read about the water and food warnings associated with travel to Morocco. So far, Geof’s travel had progressed without incident, aside from some slight achiness from the typhus shot. Given the $4.50 per minute charge for phone calls to Morocco, we made immediate and frequent use of free on-line Messenger services, exuberantly chatting via keyboard. Despite jet lag, he had immediately plunged into the work at hand, drawing up an avalanche of storyboards. He was impatient for me to arrive and witness this incredible place for myself, describing the surrounding landscape as “various shades of brown”. He did have one warning: “It’s not as warm as you think, especially at night,” and reminded me to bring a couple of extra sweaters.

The day before my take-off, Geof called with an unusual request: Mark needed a then-popular Mac i-book of which there were none to be found on the entire North American continent. However, Pierre’s girlfriend, trolling the internet, had managed to track one down in a local Montreal computer store. Would I be able to purchase and bring the laptop to Morocco?

“Why not?” I replied. Happily, the coveted i-book, last of its kind available in Montreal, did indeed turn up in the stock room of a Bleury Street store. While I was picking it up, a thought occurred to me: my own assignments required a computer, and I have always felt uncomfortable asking others for the loan of anything, particularly anything mechanical. Geof had mentioned having to cue up in order to use Mark’s machine in the office. So I made a few phone calls and discovered a west-end store that would be willing to rent us one. Once there, I changed my mind when I saw the actual rental cost. Given the store’s price reductions on last year’s models, it would be far more expedient to purchase the machine. Within three hours, the proprietor had introduced me to the world of laptops and sold me a fresh-out-of-the-box IBM Thinkpad. This new acquisition would turn out to be more useful than I imagined.

Wednesday November 8th, 2000: I am sitting in the Azur Iris Hotel which faces a breathtaking picture window view of the roiling Atlantic. After eating lunch in the dining room of this circa-1960s building, I took a stroll along a boardwalk composed of eerily aging bars & cafes whose tattered exteriors echo, some more forlornly than others, the glory years of long discarded decades. As I strode along the wooden boardwalk, trying to find a way down to where the waves came crashing in, I encountered several friendly cries of “Salaam!” and “Ohhh, Alloooo!”—all from males of course—to which I smiled and replied, in my best if whimsical attempt: “Salaam, aussi!”

But what am I doing here in Casablanca? As fate would have it, chaotic old New York had tossed a wrench into the travel machinery.

My father and brother Stephen had driven me to the airport. When he spotted my single piece of carry-on luggage (I was also hauling a shoulder bag containing my new laptop and a beaten plastic briefcase containing Lasoff’s iBook), my father, despite his own efficient nature when it comes to packing, raised his eyebrows: “Is that all you’re taking for three weeks?”

“Believe it or not, that’s it,” I replied, smiling down at my packed-in cotton skirts, tops, sweater, ankle-length black dress and a pair of Mephisto sandals (before that company started making shoes that cater more to fashion than comfort). All squeezed between writing and drawing pads, pens, notes, computer disks and other creative paraphernalia. I was wearing a pair of black jeans, short-sleeved top, scarf, a long sweater, overcoat (hat and gloves stuffed in its pockets) and black loafers.

The preliminary flight from Dorval was late, and yet, I wasn’t in the least bit irritated; perhaps this was because I found myself immersed in a sweet hypnosis induced by the setting sun, a massive orange ball imbued with violet subtones. Not to mention the fact that I had managed to clear most of the assignments on my work table. It is time to let go, I intoned to myself when I opened my eyes that morning, leave everything behind and completely immerse yourself in this experience. Once the Royal Air Maroc jet arrived at JFK Airport, however, the hourglass seriously started to falter.

Many, many minutes passed. I happened to be seated next to an older Quebec man named Jacques Legault whose family, as he relayed in wispy, intense yet audible French, hailed all the way back to the early 1600s. This was a charming enough divertisement, even if he was rather quirky and despite the fact that he had taken possession of my window seat. Because he seemed unusually frantic about the plane’s taking off, I decided not to quibble if his sitting next to the window would help appease his dread of flying. Besides, here was an opportunity for me to test drive my conversational French. This was also the first time I had travelled in a double decker jumbo jet, complete with tiny winding staircase that climbed to the business and first class sections.

Due to a runway backlog, the JFK Airport delay totalled one hour, forty five minutes. Passengers were ushered from the plane to a windowless, waiting room with taupe-coloured walls whose every corner was quickly crammed with irate passengers. During part of that time, I managed to shut my eyes and catch a wink or two. After a while, I remembered the bottle of Johnny Walker packed in my carry-on luggage (due to having been informed that tracking down liquor could be a challenge in Muslim Morocco). I made my way to the lavatory area, squeezed myself and bulky carry-on into an immaculate, glinty-tiled stall, opened the bottle and consumed three capfuls of the brisk gold, eyes closed in languid appreciation. Back in the waiting room, passengers’ faces had given way to exhaustion and extreme irritation.

At last, we were ushered back on board. The plane wasn’t full by any means—about four-fifths capacity, by my estimation. Still, dozens of frayed tempers continued on their collapse courses. My previous night’s lack of sleep weighed on my eyelids and before I realized it I clicked into a sweet slumber.

Moments later, I was awakened by a barrage of eighty-mile-a-minute Arabic interspersed with English. A woman passenger five rows behind me was shouting at a man who was standing about ten feet in front of me in the center aisle.

“You insult me!” she cried, “how dare you speak to me like that?”

The nonplussed target of her rage said something in what sounded like deliberately subdued Arabic, which only triggered further fury. “I speak five languages!” she shouted.

“That is lovely,” he replied in that slow-smiling, antagonizing tone, “I speak seven.” Another grenade. Now her shouts were erupting into screams. Given that my seat location was 53H, she must have been somewhere in the vicinity of 58. Heads turban-, scarf-, fez- and fedora-topped, shifted their eyes back and forth from the woman to the man. Before long, a security guard came marching up the aisle.

As he approached the woman, he demanded that she leave her seat and accompany him to the front of the plane. “Why do you blame me?” she shouted and waved her arms. “That monster is the culprit!” The guard cast a glance at her target, who rolled his eyes as if to sigh what-can-you-do-women-are-emotional, followed by a plump smirk. Within thirty seconds, the woman, who appeared to be about thirty years old, extremely harried and wearing a flowery blouse, was firmly escorted to the front of the plane.            

All of this triggered Jacques, who had also been pulled from his slumber, to slip into a nerve-wracked ramble about the negative impact being trapped in a plane can have on certain individuals. Eventually, Jacques drifted back to sleep. As the familiar passenger rustle resumed, my serene anticipation came floating back. Finally the plane took off: at least I hadn’t exceeded the two and a half hours’ wait my father had endured during one of his recent New Jersey business trips. I shut my eyes, tuning out the mesmerizing whir of jet engine and passengers’ voices. No more delays, I thought, I’m back on course. Casablanca bound. I drifted back to sleep for what may have been ten or twenty minutes.

When I opened my eyes the lights were turned down and a movie was underway on dozens of compact screens that had descended from the ceiling. As the countenance of Tim Roth, one of my favourite actors, came into view, I regretted feeling so sleepy. Why couldn’t the entertainment team have picked some D-rated flotsam instead? As the title 1900 appeared, I wondered why I had never heard of this film. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the film’s shipboard images began to integrate with my own vague dreams. At one point, Roth’s character hunched over a grand piano, completely enraptured by the music he was playing as the ship tossed and turned through a storm. He continued to play even as the piano slid from one end of a glossy mahogany shipboard ball room to another until it finally crashed through two spectacular glass-paneled doors. Powerless against the urge to sleep, I was pulled back into my dreamy whirlpool.

When I opened my eyes the movie had ended, the lights were back on and savoury odours were wafting through the air. Jacques, already awake, began to ramble about the quality of airline food he had been forced to endure throughout his adult life. His increasingly detailed commentary only intensified the rumbling in my stomach—and no doubt, every stomach within hearing range. Gracious stewards wheeled heavy steel carts down the aisle, stopping to bestow steamy trays with calm and efficiency. As I lifted the warm lid I realized that here was a feast worth the wait, a stellar opposite to the airline fare I had previously tasted. Bright, buttery gold cubes of chicken glistened elegantly in a velvety curry sauce atop a bed of delicate jasmine rice. Jacques exulted when seafood allergies induced me to offer him the shrimp accompanying my salad of white beans and tossed greens. Within the next forty minutes, trays were collected, lights were dimmed and I drifted back into a nourishing slumber.

When I opened my eyes again, daylight illuminated the cabin and, as the plane soared high above Morocco, I was overwhelmed by an unexpected infusion of something I can only define as pure serenity mingled with glimmers of elation.

We landed in Casablanca at 8:50 a.m. Morocco time—precisely the take off time marked on my connecting flight to Ouarzazate. How could I possibly make the flight? Would Royal Air Maroc, by some miracle, manage to hold up those planes on which their passengers hoped to connect? Slowly, incredibly slowly, the passengers stood up, yawned, stretched, opened luggage compartments and gathered their belongings before lumbering toward the front of the plane, chatting and shrugging, juggling water bottles and blankets. By the time I began inching my way down the aisle it was 9:20 a.m. Ahhh, I thought, rolling my wheeled carry-on bag along a raised rubber-textured floor, I almost forgot about Customs. According to Geof’s account, Customs would be a breeze.

A breeze? The Customs area was clogged with at least six lines’ worth of weary travellers, each line comprised of at least fifteen people. It was about 10:10 a.m. when I made it through that traffic jam: when I reached his cramped wicket, the Customs officer paged through my passport in less than twenty seconds, stamped it and handed it back to me with a smile: “Welcome, Canadian!”

I smiled back, wondering what would have transpired had my nationality been Syrian, Kenyan, Russian, Chinese. From what I had had ample time to witness, I would in all likelihood have been asked to walk across to a small interviewing room where I would be kept for an extended period. I wandered through the cavernous terminal until I reached the glass exit doors where a sea of anticipatory faces was scanning for familial and other waiting faces. Nobody there for me, I thought, anxiety over my connecting flight still nipping at my perception. After another spate of walking made all the more challenging by the weight of the baggage I was carrying—one hand pulling my wheeled bag, the other gripping the iBook I’d picked up for Geof’s colleague, nicely camouflaged in its bashed gray plastic case. Slung from my shoulder was the flowery tote my mother had given me for the trip, in which was concealed my own new laptop among personal effects.

Ahhh, Departures, I gasped, longing for sleep yet propelled by that persistent awareness spurred by being in transit. “What’s this?” the agent behind the ticket desk puzzled over my boarding pass. “According to this, you have missed your flight.”

“Yes,” I nodded and mentioned the New York airport jam and Customs clearance. “But when is the next available flight?”

“7:05 this evening,” he replied curtly, adding that I should consider myself extremely fortunate as Wednesday was the only day that featured two flights to Ouarzazate.

“But what will I do in the meantime?” Visions of lying down the length of four or five airport waiting room chairs, counting the minutes  between anxious patrols of my luggage, began to bombard me.

He heaved a sigh: “Go downstairs to the Royal Air Maroc kiosque and they might give you a voucher for a hotel and taxi.”

Oh? I hauled myself back across what felt like the endless miles of that second floor, bumpety-bumping down the escalator, my wheeled bag nudging my ankles—and on, as far as one could see, to the other end of the first floor. I recognized several passengers from my Montreal flight clustered around the RAM kiosque. Each one was leaning across the counter, making demands in a variety of different languages. Some were shouting and all appeared to be disgruntled.

“What do we do now?” yelled two women in unison.

“You make us miss our flight!” gruffed one very tall African gentleman.

“This is your fault. Fix it now!”

Another woman in long flowing purple who had struggled with air sickness back on the plane was kicking her foot impatiently against her luggage. “Why does this happen?” she wailed, “Who is responsible?”

The excruciatingly calm clerk was doing his best to pacify everyone while filling out small blue pages from a tear-off pad and juggling passports. I decided it would be wise to be as patient as possible. After a few minutes, a little voice began nagging in my mind: what if the bag you checked is lost? Unable to shut off this nuisance, I trudged all the way back to Arrivals and asked the uniformed officer if I could go back inside to retrieve some luggage from the carousel. He nodded impatiently and in I went, once again to another farthest corner of the terminal.

The carousels were still revolving, a handful of unclaimed bags making their sparse, lonely rounds. I decided to approach another uniformed officer—the like of whom, crisp, officially-attired members of the military, were teeming through the entire Casablanca airport. When I explained the situation, the soldier kindly asked me to have a seat inside the adjacent office, where he took my airline ticket and passport and clicked the information onto his computer. “Your baggage was supposed to go straight through to Ouarzazate,” he announced. When I asked him whether it would be transferred directly onto the 7:05 flight, he tilted his head in puzzlement. I then asked him whether it might be a good idea to take the bag with me— just in case. He smiled and said, “I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

A while later he reappeared and announced in a voice so jubilant, he might as well have just have produced Mohamud’s sandals: “Here is your bag, Madame!” Relief. Even though, in retrospect, I now wonder how I ever managed to haul such tonnage around—from that moment on, I was thankful not to have lost it in transit. Ever so arduously, despite my limber arms and legs, I succeeded in hiking all the way back through the terminal to the Royal Air Maroc kiosque. Surprise: the babbling, angry crowd had melted away to a manageable three passengers. Jacques was there, nervously gesturing and smiling—he had missed his connection to Tangier. In fact, almost every passenger had missed his or her flight to a wide variety of destinations.

Another waiting stretch ensued. I was learning firsthand what might well serve as Morocco’s number one rule: be prepared to exercise more patience than you have ever exercised in your life. At last, I presented my defunct boarding pass to the beleaguered agent. With no argument, echoes of the upstairs-agent’s warning that maybe I could secure a voucher ticking in my brain, the man, perhaps exhausted from relentless arguing with hordes of angry, vociferous Africans, automatically took my passport, tore a prized blue sheet from his nearly-depleted pad and began to fill it out. Amazing, I thought, a free ride into legendary Casablanca, complete with hotel and lunch. Meanwhile that third piece of baggage was feeling heavier and heavier, forcing me to seriously consider re-checking it at the upstairs departures wicket. The minute the man handed me my precious blue voucher, I thanked him and immediately began to haul myself and baggage back towards the upstairs escalator.

“Madame! Madame!” I ignored the urgent cries behind me, thinking, why on earth would somebody be calling me? Nobody knows me here.

I felt a fervent hand on my shoulder, turned around and recognized one of the men from the Air Maroc wicket. “Please,” he gasped, you must go back! The bus is leaving!”

“That’s okay,” I replied, “I just have to check this bag and—”

“No no, Madame, you don’t understand! They won’t begin to process the evening flight until five! Please come now or you’ll have to wait a whole hour for the next bus!”

At this, I stopped—and proceeded to accompany the man who graciously seized my two heavy bags, intent on portering them all the way back to the exit doors. When I first glimpsed those glass doors a half hour earlier, I’d had a fleeting urge to drop everything and float out into what was the most tantalizing morning sun I’d ever seen; to sit on the edge of one of those sand-coloured, palm-filled plant holders and devour the exotic splendour. Now those doors were opening with all of the mystery and anticipation of that tiny door leading into the lush garden of Alice in Wonderland, my blue voucher the equivalent of the ‘drink me’ flask that would enable me to enter this North African dream. The bus was waiting, packed to the brim with men, women, children, babies and at least as many bags. There was a single seat available toward which I yanked myself and my baggage and into which I miraculously managed to squeeze. As I shoved one bag under my seat and the other onto my lap, I noticed that the two children in the seat across from me were using the two foot wide aisle as a playground.

With a dyspeptic growl, the small bus gradually bumped its way from the airport terminal toward the main highway. As we groaned onto the highway, I strained my eyes through the blurry bus window for my first visual taste of Morocco. What more subversive way to become acquainted with this other world? Casablanca itself is located about twenty miles from the airport, and the bus ride took over twenty five minutes. The scenery literally unfolded, causing me to feel at one with the daily flow of commuters and yet, constantly propelled by awe as my visual field filled with reminders that I had entered a zone that encompassed the distant, even archaic past.

The roads are paved with the same modern components as North America’s—and yet, are visibly brimming with elements of a culture that spans over two thousand years. There were mules pulling two-wheeled, rickety carts piled to the rafters with paraphernalia, high atop the often undulating edges of the highway, whose desert dirt and rock were continually being blown into curving slopes, in turn causing loose stones to rumble precariously onto the highway. There were prayerful bearded men in lengthy robes, ambling gracefully along the side of the road as if it was a country lane. There were meadowy patches adjoining the highway where young boys frolicked between herds of munching sheep. There were groups of fastidiously-wrapped women and the occasional chic-suited businessmen striding along, each appearing strangely out of place alongside the speeding gleams of contemporary vans, limousines and other luxury vehicles.

Despite its age and scars, the bus was clean and, I noticed, had even been recently re-upholstered. As it neared its destination, more and more buildings began to appear. Most of these were single or double-storied structures, which I couldn’t help thinking would enhance one’s feeling of being as close to the earth as possible. Sepia and sand-coloured walls often clumsily sprawled around those properties they were protecting. Within moments of our arrival at the Azur Iris, the hotel desk clerk was besieged by the same gaggle of passengers who had hounded the Air Maroc agent. I managed not to laugh as the repeat performance took off. After about thirty seconds of vehement multi-voiced, multi-lingual babbling, the clerk snapped in French: “If you people don’t mind, I would like a little decorum around here. The more you shout at me, the more time this will take.” Almost instantaneously, the babbling was replaced by a hush and the moving thicket even retreated a couple of inches.

Decorum or not, I knew it would take a while for the clerk to sort out everyone’s needs. I more than patiently waited my turn, leisurely gazing up at the cramped, curiously-shaped lobby. I estimated that the hotel must have been built during the early 60s and had obviously not been renovated for some time. The geometric foil wallpaper cried out for an update and various other details, including clusters of ceramic tile, some of which were shaped into inset, decorous niches, tended to make certain areas, especially the lobby to hallways, appear more cramped.

After depositing my baggage in the airy room to which I’d been assigned, I discovered that the telephone didn’t work. Reaching Geof was a priority, so back down the labyrinthine stairs I went, this time relieved of my cumbersome baggage. I tried to conceal my anxiety when the receptionist told me it take a miracle for her to dial out because the phone lines were in a precarious state again.

Miraculous though it may have been, there was a click and within a minute, I managed to make contact with Geof. Although he  worked hard to disguise it, he was obviously feeling rather anxious himself after having gone to pick me up at the Ouarzazate airport only to watch every last passenger step off the plane with nary a sign of me. As he relayed that morning’s frustrating, even frantic turn of events—kind crew members had driven him to the small Ouarzazate airport—he was relieved to know I had landed safely. Even moreso, that I would be spending the day in mythical Casa, instead of having to wait it out at the airport. After letting him know that I would be on the 7:05 flight that evening, I trotted back upstairs—the elevator was broken—in anticipation of a bath or hot shower topped off by a wink or two of sleep.

The water was, unfortunately, extremely cold—and remained that way. So I skipped the shower and dropped onto the soft comfortable bed in the quiet hotel room whose black-framed window gazed out on the roiling, turquoise ocean.

Two hours and three wake-ups later (my subconscious on alert, ticking, don’t miss that return bus!), I headed downstairs and discovered that the dining room would be closed at 3 p.m., which gave me a mere thirteen minutes to eat my lunch. Despite his obvious irritation, the waiter served me a plate of crispy salad, a sweetly-broiled chicken with french fries and all the fluffy, whole wheat bread one could want, followed by fruit salad and a peach-flavoured soft drink. As I stared at that tantalizing salad, the on-line travelogue’s warning blared in my mind: “Avoid all salad, raw fruits, raw vegetables and buffet food, especially devilled eggs.”

After about ten seconds, caught up in all the exuberance of being in Casa, I decided, to heck with it. Besides, the two or three remaining patrons, languidly sipping their coffee and mint tea, appeared sufficiently unscathed. Thus, I dug in to the crispy dark lettuce, cucumbers and (gasp) the fresh, creamy deviled egg adorning the tangy green salad. Four days later, when one considers my history of precarious allergic reactions, I am very happy to report zero negative responses to any of the food I have consumed here. As I polished off my little feast, the waiter smirked as if to say, bet you thought that was included with the voucher-meal:  “That will be 10 dirhams for the coffee you ordered.”

“That’s fine,” I smiled. “Do you have change for a 50-dirham bill?”

When I made my call to Geof, the hotel clerk had changed my $100 Canadian dollars into 710 dirhams, which helped clarify my transition to the country’s currency. After paying the waiter his 10 dirhams, I left a 20 dirham tip (approximately. $2.00 US) before rallying my way back through the lobby and across the road to the beckoning ocean-front café strip. The boardwalk was a melange of Salaams and calm strolling tourists amidst isolated late-50s cafés. I took some photographs during what turned out to be a forty-minute ramble that included the vacant strip of cafés, night clubs and terraces, as well as a stroll up a residential street branching from the main road, then back around to the hotel. Within an hour, as I sat on the edge of the bed and tapped out a letter on my new laptop, there was a knock at the door. It was time for my bus ride back to the airport.

As I was winding my way back down the corridor, every inch of muscle catching up with the weight of the bags, a smiling father and his two sons asked me whether I would like to share the cost of a taxi back to the airport. Apparently, the bus had already reached its capacity.

Why not? I smiled back and replied: “Oui.” As I walked towards the waiting cab with the trio I dubbed “Three Musketeers”, I learned that the father and sons ran a camel tour operation in fabled Zagora and were returning from participating in the New York Marathon.

As I commented and asked questions, I noticed a soft yet persistent, growing chorus of chuckles resonating between the father, his sons and the taxi driver. Finally, the father turned around to face me: “That is a most unusual accent. Is it Canadian?”

“Oh, my accent?” I laughed, realizing that my mother’s Irish accent had even succeeded in traversing my Quebec French. So that was why they were so amused! When we reached the airport, the trio mentioned that they were also heading for Ouarzazate, so we all arranged to sit together on the fluttering, tiny plane.

The night sky was pervaded with an extra starry intensity following my day swathed in full Casablanca sun. The flight lasted maybe twenty minutes, during which a thick-jowled man across the aisle momentously announced that Gore had lost the election to Bush. At that moment, I experienced a sickly tug in my abdomen, a sharp premonitory stab. How could Bush have won? What would the next four years yield? The father and his sons soon picked up the next thread of our Quebec-Berber-Irish accented French conversation and before I knew it, the wheels were touching down. Ouarzazate. As I walked inside the compact airport there was Geof, beaming along with two colleagues from the movie company.

“You’re finally here!” he shouted.

“You bet,” I grinned back.

Because the sun had set back at six pm, my first glimpse of Ouarzazate was nondescript. As we entered the lobby of the Palace Berbère, my perception was inundated by the high ceilings, plethora of marble, ceramics, gold and other luxurious details. The desk clerk seemed puzzled when Geof requested the key to Room 115 in Quebec French: “Cent cainze?” After further back and forthing, the clerk finally shook his head: “Ahh. Ce n’est pas KAYNZE, c’est KAHWNZ,” delivering the quinze in its original, proper, European French diction.

Our check-in completed, we padded our way along lamp-lit garden paths until we reached our room, the night sky enhancing the soft, muted air. My luggage finally deposited in its correct resting place, we were free to adjourn to the spacious, opulent dining room, L’Oasis, for a late buffet dinner. Surrounded by all manner of sweet, savoury and rich savours, we filled our large white, warm plates and indulged until my travel-sleepy head began to tilt. We walked back to our quiet, garden-level room where the water was hot and plentiful enough for me to indulge in a warm bath before my head descended gratefully onto the fresh pillow.

***

Morocco continueS to resonate with the kind of mystery and beauty that feels like “somewhere else indeed.” It is without a doubt the most fascinating place we have ever visited. The atmosphere is unexpectedly laid back, the language infused with soft-spoken Berber syllables. The Berbère Palace might as well have been built as a set for one of the many blockbuster movies filmed in Ouarzazate over the decades, from Lawrence of Arabia to Gladiator.

Its appearance precisely matches one’s vision of a dream-holiday.
Originally constructed as a fortress for the French Foreign Legion back in 1928, it is basically a vast, walled-in garden whose labyrinth of tiled paths is lined with numerous compact cottages, some consisting of two storeys (each of which serves as a separate apartment). There are cats galore—the hotel staff are content to let these elegant-natured kitties roam the dining room and pool areas at will. This tolerance is no doubt due to the felines’ invaluable hunterly capabilities.

All but one of the cats is relegated to the garden with its constant deluge of tidbits from hotel guests. The exception is a yellow-furred tough who has been given absolute free rein of the Berbère Palace. On the one hand, he appears to have survived many life-threatening battles, joints stiff, eyes fiercely squinting, tail stumpy as he patrols the lobby. On the other hand, undercurrents of regality mark his every move. It is no wonder we named him the Berber King within minutes of meeting His Majesty, who kindly acquiesced to two generous chin scratches and several back rubs from his newest guests.

There is a huge decorative pool filled with water so icy—apparently not so cold during the summer months, when temperatures here typically soar to above 45 Celsius—that more than one seasoned swimmer absconds after five torturous minutes of brave butterfly strokes. There are tennis courts, a mini-gym, large and two small restaurants. My food bills were covered by Geof’s employers, including a sumptuous buffet breakfast at L’Oasis that included massive bowls of fresh-cut fruit and personally-prepared crêpes complete with whipped cream and hot, dark chocolate syrup.

Morocco is a delight for the senses in both the historic and geographical senses. Although Geof devoted the greater part of each day to storyboarding—with a bit of costume and set designing—he also couldn’t help feeling immersed in a holiday aura. We almost immediately did a bit of exploring around town. The residents were warm and friendly, their conversation and mannerisms infused with a jovial sense of humour, so that their presence enriched our every amble around the block. All of this, despite the fact that the quality of life here is considered ‘third world’. As soon as one left the hotel grounds to venture through the back parking lot of the building commandeered by the movie production, one came face-to-face with a constantly smouldering garbage pile in the adjoining alley. Children galloped, danced, frolicked and played with whatever makeshift toys they could scavenge from the junk heap.

Director Jakob de Boer and Mark Lasoff were glad to have Geof aboard. In all, he came up with five ideas that would not only prune costs, but translate efficiently onto film. For example, the image of John the Apostle’s hand inscribing a parchment, from close-up on the parchment to travelling along the parchment until it dissolves into a closeup of the desert sand on a road leading to distant horses and riders. At one point, we were invited to watch filming in the stunning, desolate Flint Desert location.

Quite separate and distinct from any third world classification was Othman, a nineteen-year-old who charmed Mark into giving him a temporary position as Geof’s assistant. The rap music enthusiast who insisted on calling as much attention to his six-foot-six-plus frame by wearing neck-to-ankle, blazing yellow track suits, happened to be the son of one of Ouarzazate’s wealthiest residents, owner of an upscale restaurant who was currently building a hotel.

Geof and I immediately tagged Othman “The Fresh Prince of Ouarzazate”. He insisted in advertising his primary talent as ‘Casa middleman’ with the ability to track down “absolutely anything on earth for the lowest price”—from hot-off-the-shelf Nikes to electronics. Numerous movie personnel would partake of this talent, which in turn elevated the tall teen’s status to an even more glorious heights. Following each triumphant “business trip” his posture took on a more distinct peacock-like resonance; his chin tilted high, his mouth jutting with pride. Othman immediately volunteered to be our chief tour guide, having spent part of his life in, among other places, picturesque Zagora, a three-hour drive away. All of which spurred travel plans for a weekend desert trek, preferably from a camel-top vantage point.

One Saturday evening, Othman insisted on inviting us to his father’s elegant eatery, where we enjoyed a top-notch, multi-course Moroccan meal. From the Lamb Tajine, brought to our table in a traditional cone-topped clay cooking pot, to the Chorba soup, singing with fresh vegetables in light, fragrant broth, and the Pastilla, whose ground chicken and herbs were wrapped in a dessert-like baklava pastry, sprinkled with icing sugar, accompanied by a bottle of Moroccan wine, we felt like privileged royalty. When we prepared to pay, Othman shook his head and stated that this would be an insult to his father. At least Geof managed, after some finagling, to insist that the waiter accept a tip.

Berber and Arabic being the most commonly-used languages here, Morocco is a comfortable environment in which to brush up on one’s French. The weather is cooler than one might expect: the average daily temperature of 30° Celsius and dips to an average of 5°C at night. Sunday morning, just as Othman informed us that it hadn’t rained here in over four years, it did just that, to everyone’s amazement. The arid ground renders any precipitous absorption a huge challenge—puddles abound—but the air smells quite fragrant, with hints of water-on-stone.

It is after 11 p.m.—we polished off yet another bountiful buffet of almost every foodstuff one can imagine. Once again, I delved into salad, devilled eggs, chicken, fresh fruit, and cold potatoes. It didn’t take long for me to establish a daily schedule culminating in a mid-afternoon perch at a table overlooking the pool. Sketch pad, play or letter at hand, I slowly imbibed a fresh Cappuccino while the waiters, ever laid-back, always insisted on bringing bowls of fresh almonds, peanuts and creamy-sharp cubes of cheddar-like cheese. Even the cheese tasted quite unique: this is especially noticeable when ordering a pizza and finds that the cheese exudes a pale, almost patient texture in comparison to North America’s more pronounced offerings.

By four p.m., when the sun would begin to sink, ever so gradually, the sky would take on a deep, spellbinding hue. At which moment I forgot all else and focused on that hue until I achieved a floating, meditative pinnacle. As each day passed, I found myself wishing I could simply stay here and lose myself in that incredible forever calm.

It is invitingly hot in the desert sun, yet one quickly chills down in the shade. We thought we would have a peek at the tennis courts and were greeted by Mustafa, the lone guardian. He smiled: “Why not have a game now?” So we did and felt unreasonably spoiled, especially when the lanky Mustafa insisted on picking up as many of our tennis balls as he could get away with chasing. During Ramadan, Mustafa exhibited more endurance than any other Ouarzazate resident. Nary a bite of food, nary a sip of water throughout many long days: regardless of which, he insisted on playing his all-out, vigorous best on the courts against anyone who will take him on. No camel could have been more stalwartly.

The sun shines here practically every day, although we did experience a taste of home during my second week when the wind whipped up a sandstorm, something we had never witnessed. I filmed the Atlas mountains—a most unusual, pale and silvery pink—as they were being invaded by the gritty winds. Before long the storm had battled its way in. The air became thicker and thicker with dust, to the point where the dry, microscopic particles seemed to infiltrate every pore, regardless of how assiduously I wrapped my scarf around my head. The sky grew overcast, the air cooled to 5°C and it actually rained. I was amazed how quickly my body responded to the change in temperature: within minutes, I was shivering as I pushed my way back to the hotel room to put on as many layers as I could. Because I had left my fall jacket at home I pulled a light corduroy jacket over a long-sleeved sweater plus windbreaker, socks over my normally bare feet and (thank goodness I remembered to drop it in my carry-on) a red cotton beret.

One glance at the bed however, and before I knew it, I lay back, shut my eyes and fell into one of those perfect, rolling slumbers. Grateful for the extra sweatshirts I had carted along, Geof completed his assignments earlier than usual so that, come tea time, we could indulge in a visit to the hotel’s fireside salon, the Cintra Bar.  Our waiter pals were as happy as everyone else to be in out of the gloom, serving us our Cappucinos with those familiar generous bowls of nuts and fresh cheese. The glorious fire roared and crackled as we lost ourselves in opulently-upholstered armchairs. The cheese and almonds were more savoury than usual, our appetites enhanced by a combination of having escaped the chill and being enveloped in the warmth emanating from the fireplace.

Our Moroccan idyll exuded an even more dream-like ambiance, given the presence of the film people who hail from all over the globe, including some of England’s finest classically-trained actors. We enjoyed dinner with a different fascinating individual almost every night. One afternoon by the pool, we met Londoner Anthony Styles who has been slated to play Judas. Brave disciplined soul, he is only one of five people who dared venture into the icy terrain of the swimming pool, which was gorgeous to look at but whose water was almost literally freezing. Incredibly, he continued his swim for a good half hour.

One afternoon his compatriot Ron, who portrays James the Elder, ventured in with a splash, turned to Geof and I, shouting, “Come on in! It’s not as bad as you think!” The trick is, apparently, to bake oneself steamy under the noon sun, then rush right in before one realizes one is being attacked by what feels like 2-degree water.

Yet another staunch Brit snapped during one languid Saturday afternoon: “Bunch of sissies. It’s not that cold, I’m going in!” His foray lasted about 30 seconds: following a heartfelt splash to the deep end, he came barreling back before leaping out with a noisy splash. “You’d have to be a bloody penguin or polar bear to swim in that!” He gasped as he gathered his towel around him and collapsed on the nearest hot yellow chaise cushion.

However, when documentarian Jack Zolov, a most serious and sturdy swimmer—and who lived, as it turns out, a mere two minutes away from us back home in Montreal—tested the waters, he noted that all his muscles seized up within seconds. “Not good at all,” he muttered, forced to exit the ice bath after three minutes. A week and a half ago our dinner companion Donald Pelmear was bemoaning the fact that he had to cut his well-nurtured beard to play the role of a judge in a recent British documentary about a Siamese twins case. “Because you know, judges do not have beards in England,” he explained. Wouldn’t you just know it, his very next call would be to play Nicodemus. He talked about the theatre, how much he loved playing Shaw, found Beckett terrifying yet challenging and enjoyed Pinter’s compact dialogue.

Saturday November 18th: we finally succeeded in renting a white Fiat, a far cry from the brawny jeep we’d envisioned for a road trek that has induced shudders in more worldly drivers. After hearing streams of breathtaking descriptions from those who had been fortunate enough to venture there, we were determined to go to Zagora: hopefully hop aboard a pair of camels and set our own eyes on those splendid gorges. As we reached the outskirts of town, a policeman—or someone uniformed like one—hailed us down. When Geof rolled down the window the cop leaned in and began rattling off a series of questions in French. Something told me that somewhere along the line this man was going to ask us for a sum of money. Geof argued back: we aren’t breaking the law, we legally rented this car and are going sightseeing.

As the cop spun off another barrage of questions, his eye caught the sheet of paper taped onto the dashboard that stated the driver was connected with The Visual Bible Movie production. Something about the note obviously threw him off balance, although the cop fought to maintain his irritated, officious stance while slowly backing away from the car. As Geof rolled up the window the cop shouted “Where are you going?” and “Stop!” Ignoring his shouts with some difficulty, we were on our way again.

Before long we found ourselves surrounded by desert country, heading towards a distant stand of blue-silver mountains. The road was extremely narrow, rather bumpy, wide enough for perhaps two Fiats but not for a truck or bus in combination with any other vehicle. Geof quickly learned to shift off onto the minuscule shoulder whenever we saw a bus or truck approaching. However, due to the lumpy road conditions and constant pauses, we realized that our progress was far slower than expected. We had been told by one friend that it takes two hours to get to Zagora; yet another warned three hours. At the rate we were going, I was beginning to think it would take at least four or five.

Glen the screenwriter had put off accompanying us on our mini journey because he had gone on a tour of the Atlas Mountains a few weeks before Geof’s arrival. Another movie representative relayed that he had found that journey harrowing, even terrifying, due to the precarious road conditions. Well, I wouldn’t have called this road terrifying, but it wasn’t unusual for the shoulder to consist of five feet or less, between our Fiat and an often steep drop at the bottom of which, twice along the way, we spotted the crumpled wrecks of a dark station wagon and another Fiat: those who hadn’t made it. Along we twisted and swerved—whenever we spotted an always unexpected, oncoming bulky, usually white truck, Geof would squeeze our Fiat onto the shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t give way. It wouldn’t, thankfully, but visually-speaking, I felt as though there were perhaps two inches between my door and the drop. We did manage to get in some decent mileage, taking note of the remarkable scenery around us. We were both thinking, hmmm, at this rate we’ll reach Zagora in the late afternoon—no wonder people end up sleeping over in that town. Still, Geof pressed on, both of us holding our breaths as we pushed around the next sharp curve and came face-to-face with the inevitable tour bus or truck.

Finally we found ourselves on a straightaway and were sailing along as I continued to cajole my camcorder. The cassette had recently developed an annoying tendency to jam during mid-recording. “What’s that?” Geof asked. Up ahead there was a man waving his arms and walking directly towards our white Fiat. We stopped as the young, not too tall man hurried up to Geof’s window. In Berber-accented French, he begged: “Please help me, I’ve been waiting three hours and all the other cars are too full to take me. My car broke down and I need my mechanic.”

Geof and I were inundated with a more than sizeable dose of suspicion. “Please?” the young fellow implored as his eyes picked up on our suspicion. After a precarious minute during which we silently weighed the situation—there was an unmistakably innocent flicker behind his frantic irises—we nodded “okay” and Geof motioned him into the back seat. Within fifteen minutes we learned that the young Berber lived with his family in a town called Agdz, directly up ahead. “Do you know any Berbers?” he asked. I mentioned that we had befriended a few of the Berber waiters at our hotel and that one in particular, Bouzou, was exceptionally friendly and knowledgeable.

As our conversation continued, our passenger’s ruffled disposition gave way to relaxed joviality as he introduced himself as Mustafa. “Please let me thank you for your generosity,” he said, “by giving you a tour of the Draa River Valley. It is a very special, very sacred place.” I had spotted that name somewhere in Moroccan travel literature, but couldn’t specifically recall the context or any details. When I mentioned that we were headed for Zagora he shook his head. “No, that’s so touristy and it will take you long to get there.” Okay then, I thought, realizing full well that attempting to continue our crawl to Zagora would easily devour the rest of the day. As we entered the dusty, archaic and sprawling town of Agdz, where there were more signs of third world conditions, I wondered whether it would be wise for us to stop there.

Mustafa was so insistent, so extremely thankful for being rescued that once we were within the town limits, he directed us with hectic enthusiasm to the nearest garage. As he and the mechanic shook hands, Mustafa quickly explaining the situation. the mechanic immediately arranged for a tow truck to go back to where we’d picked up Mustafa. We parked our car in an extremely dusty, rather grimy alley next to a strip of storefronts overbrimming with carpets and brassy curios. A gritty-eyed teen lolling nearby kept repeating that he would keep an eye on our car. He was obviously waiting for us to hand him a dirham or three for this special service when Mustafa broke into impatient, stern-toned Berber, stating something that induced the plucky teen to back away with a shrug. With a triumphant grin, Mustafa told us our car was “better than safe” and walked us into his father’s tiny emporium, whose walls were so packed with carpets the interior emitted an all-encompassing muteness.

In a proud tone, he introduced us to his father Said, who welcomed us with wide arms and multiple choruses of “Insha’allah!” (“If it be God’s Will”) and, motioning us toward carefully rolled Berber, Nomad and other precious handmade rugs placed on the floor: “Sit down, please, sit down!”

Said motioned a second time. Within minutes, Mustafa hurried away and returned with a silver tray containing a matching, filigreed pot of mint tea surrounded by the traditional cylindrical, equally-filigreed mint tea glasses. Delicious! “But you must join us!” proclaimed the demonstrative Said, “for a Berber feast complete with music. Then you will come on a Caravan where you will sleep in a Berber tent and experience true Sahara life!”

“Well, thanks,” replied Geof, “we’d love to—it’s just that I have this job here and...”

“Nonsense!” laughed Said as he hurried out of the carpeted doorway and came back in a flash, his arms swathed in a whirl of fabrics. Before he realized what was happening, Geof was asked to remove his hat. Within seconds, Said joyfully wrapped a regal, silky blue scarf around Geof’s head. He then whisked a voluminous, matching blue smock over Geof’s clothing. “Now,” he smiled, “you are a true desert wanderer! Welcome, welcome, Fellow Berber!” At this point I had managed to get the camcorder going, fervently hoping nobody would order me not to take any pictures. However, it was then my turn.

Within two minutes, Said had wrapped me in a traditional Berber woman’s smock (black with infusions of bright wool flowers throughout) and plain black desert head-scarf. “Do you realize that you are standing in what is called the Gateway to the Sahara?” Said looked at us as though we had just been visited by Mohamud himself and were not aware of this extraordinary event. We sat back down to sip our tea and Said relayed that he had just returned from a traditional five-month commercial trek into the desert, where he bargained and traded for handmade carpets, jewellery and other artifacts. “Tomorrow, after you have a good sleep, we will give you a rich breakfast and you can have a camel tour into the entrance of the Saha-ra.”

At that moment, I realized that I needed to visit the bathroom.

“No problem!” Mustafa leaped to his feet and led me through a café/snack shop two doors away where locals were milling around over tables, in the aisles and doorways. I hoped that they wouldn’t pay too much attention to this tourist in traditional Berber outfit as Mustafa slipped a 1-dirham coin to a teen with an amused grin sitting at a broken table in the hall that led to the bathroom doors. As I stepped inside the cranky doorway and entered the strange, grimy space, I realized that this was the farthest cry from a Ritz loo one could imagine. The grey-tiled, dank and smelly chamber contained an inset porcelain square complete with blocked drain, about one inch deep, in the center of the floor. Two rusty pipes protruded from the wall adjacent to this square.

“When you are finished,” I was instructed, “fill one of the two plastic buckets with water. Slosh all over the inset square. Rinse your hands (forget about paper or any towels!).”  And make your exit, I added to myself, wondering why I shouldn’t, following such acrobatic inclinations as were required to make proper use of this unfamiliar toilet, consider joining the circus.

Said had bowls of hot Harira waiting for us when Mustafa ushered me back inside the tiny carpet emporium. Even though I wasn’t particularly hungry, the velvety caraway, ginger and saffron scent of that traditional Moroccan soup immediately engaged my senses. Before long, Geof and I were delving into a gleaming array of lentils, chickpeas, vegetables and herbs. Said continued pouring the mint tea while we continued our dialogue, each bemused by the other’s oddly-accented French: my Irish-consonanted diction, Geof’s down American, down South undercurrents, Said’s and Mustafa’s Berber inflections. For example, their version of sable (sand) became “sabble” instead of the familiar “sabl”. Finally, Mustafa stood up. “It is time for our tour!” he smiled and clapped his hands.

Like any typical concerned father, Said insisted that Mustafa be back in time for dinner before we revved off with our tour guide, who by this time had wheedled Geof into surrendering his battered brown Tilly hat. To Said’s amusement, Mustafa pressed the hat down on his head, placed his hands on his hips and proceeded to pose like a cowboy from an old John Wayne film. En route, we stopped to pick up his eight-year-old cousin Hassan, who brought along two cassettes of traditional Tuareg tribal music. Our soundtrack.

As we veered closer to the turn off in the road that would take us to the Draa River Valley, we were suddenly hailed by a policeman. Not again, I groaned to myself. How long would this take and would we end up parting with a pocketful of dirhams? Mustafa, however, had the situation well under control, hailing the cop with a familiar shout. At first, the official maintained his stern distance. When he peered into the back seat, however, and spied Hassan’s playful grinning, the cop tilted his head back and erupted in sudden laugher. “I see, I see!” he tried to catch his breath before finally motioning us on. “Have a very pleasant tour, then!”

Geof, becoming increasingly familiar with manual drive, veered our Fiat onto the dirt road that led to yet another distant mountain panorama. We ended up going on an excursion that few people have the privilege of experiencing (the only other vehicle we saw during our tour was a huge white Mercedes whose rolled-down driver’s window revealed what appeared to be the thickly-gloved hands of a bodyguard). Hassan handed Geof a cassette and soon the car was filled with the strains of traditional Berber folk songs. “Sing, come on, everybody knows this song,” urged Mustafa. Amid chuckles, Geof and I picked up on the tune as best we could and mouthed our way through unfamiliar words. Which in turn induced reams of giggles from our youthful tour guides.

As our earnest if uproarious sing-along continued, I remembered to pull our fickle camcorder out of its bag, hoping I could encourage it into functioning for the duration of this rare occasion. At least the batteries were holding—and would continue to do so for the remainder of our voyage. However, as soon as the red light came on, the cassette jammed. It would take me seven or eight attempts, from shutting down the power to slapping the side of the camcorder and re-inserting the tape, for me to rattle the device into compliance. Finally, success: I pressed the record button and the cassette began to advance.

We drove through many desert villages. As Said had mentioned, five tribes co-exist in this pre-Saharan region. Most villagers smiled and waved at us. Others, however, appeared to be annoyed by the sight of the camera. Whenever this occurred, I immediately stopped filming, making sure that it was clear I had turned off the camera. One group of teens, however, was incensed to the point where one boy picked up a sizeable rock and hurled it at the car. “He threw a rock!” exclaimed Geof.

“No, no he didn’t throw a rock,” Mustafa attempted to down-play the situation. As he finished his sentence, there was a loud thud as another rock struck the Fiat’s back bumper. The irritated gang disappeared into the dusty distance as we proceeded toward our next point of interest.

As we drove along, there were some hilarious sights, including a donkey munching from a large bucket atop a flat-roofed house. While children spun and wheeled in play, women hunched over the banks of diminutive streams with their laundry, patiently mashing and pounding out each garment in the midday sun. Some men milled around while others continued with their daily duties, hauling bundles of lengthy palm fronds, buckets of milk and water, riding atop mules laden with more work-related paraphernalia. Ancient-looking wells comprised of carefully-fitted stones had been fitted with roped tires sliced in half: one would pulley the tire to the well’s bottom, wait until it was filled with a sufficient amount of water and haul it back to the surface.

As we passed one village, Mustafa pointed to an unexpected sight: overhead electric poles and wires. “These were only installed last month,” he explained. “It will mean big changes, changes that will happen very quickly.” The presence of modern-day technology within near-prehistoric conditions was startling, and brought to mind an incident relayed by Pierre, the film production’s accountant. Because he and his family would be staying in Ouarzazate on a longer-term basis, he had arranged to rent the large home of a doctor who would be away for the winter months. A local woman was hired to take care of the laundry, cooking and cleaning. Although her wages were rather on the too-reasonable side, the near-desperate need of Ouarzazate’s residents for employment meant that the woman’s family would have at least some financial breathing space in the year ahead.

Before he and his family arrived, Pierre ordered a dishwasher, a washer and a dryer in order to make the daily workload more efficient. When the woman set eyes on these alien contraptions, she immediately shook her head, refusing to touch or go anywhere near them. Finally, Pierre’s wife insisted that she at least give the machines a try. When the woman witnessed the “magical” speed at which both dishes and laundry (no further need to drag the clothing out to the nearest river bank for stone-pounding), she was immediately converted. Within the next few months, she even became intent upon acquiring a dishwasher, washer and dryer for her own home.

When we rented the Fiat we had had no intention of doing any rough desert driving. There was therefore some preliminary wincing as we banged along the rough road with its profusion of stones and pings. Geof, however, maintained his aplomb as he chauffeured us along. At one point, an enthused Mustafa exclaimed: “Scorpion of the Desert!”

“Thank you!” exclaimed Geof.

“No—I mean the car,” explained Mustafa.

“No—I meant me!” laughed Geof, seizing on his new nickname. I kept the video camera rolling while Mustafa and Hassan bounced along in the back seat, Mustafa providing a heartfelt travelogue in his best French. Another stop consisted of a visit to a tiny, vivid oasis where Mustafa led the way in a hunt for fresh pomegranates. These were nothing like the oversized, caustically-seedy California-grown fruits I’d eaten before. The Moroccan variety was compact enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand, their interior sweet and nutty, almost the texture of dessicated coconut.

At numerous points, Mustafa motioned for Geof to stop the car so that we could venture out to do some exploring on foot. At one point, we climbed to a craggy, eerie old casbah built atop a cliff. There were children playing inside these precarious walls, many of which featured windows that looked down on sometimes precarious cliff sides. The windows’ once-sharp outlines had been blunted by hundreds of years of wind-driven sand and the casbah’s interior consisted of one broken maze after another. Half-crumbled walls led to dark, windowless chambers and niches, some of whose walls children had indented with rough footholds that enabled them to climb to the second and third storeys.

Another casbah featured a rocky spit whose lumpy contours threatened to slide our feet off one side or the other as we slowly traversed our way  to the farthest as possible point of that outcrop. Inside the ancient structure, Mustafa motioned to a room that featured the remnant of a small, highly-placed window. “This is where weddings took place,” he explained before insisting that he and I participate in a “wedding dance” while chanting one of the folk tunes on Hassan’s cassette player. As Geof filmed, I was overwhelmed with embarrassment, my feet thumping uncertainly beneath that lengthy black Berber smock as I blindsided my way through the Berber lyrics. The typical idiot tourist, tripping her way through a traditional re-enactment, inwardly wincing at the maniacal laughter my performance would induce in anyone who happened to watch our video.

At the end of our grand tour, Geof noted that we had covered a total of twenty-two miles over some of the bumpiest, rockiest terrain imaginable. In retrospect, the camcorder footage turned out to be more detailed than I could have hoped for. Whenever I stopped to take stills with my tiny Canon Elph, Geof would pick up the camcorder to continue our movie.

Back at the carpet emporium, Said was waiting with another filigreed pot of fresh mint tea and four hearty bowls of Harira. As we settled back on our rolled-up carpet recliners, however, Said launched into a sales spiel the likes of such we had never before experienced. Because we had come to Agdz, the proud carpet seller undoubtedly assumed that we must naturally have carpet-acquisition on our minds. After about two hours, complete with a highly-detailed education on the five tribes’ different rug-making techniques, poor Said realized he had met with his worst nightmare: the most penny-pinching tourists ever to set foot in Agdz. No, we intoned again and again, we can’t afford to buy rugs right now.

Said’s persistence knew no bounds, however, as he unrolled one spectacular work of art after another. I must say that, had our financial circumstances been on the healthier side, we would definitely have headed back with one of his treasures. His asking prices were extremely reasonable: the equivalent of $250US for a breathtaking nine-by-twelve-foot wool, silk and camel hair beauty. All we could do was repeat, as clearly as we knew how, that we had not come to Agdz to buy carpets and that in fact we wouldn’t be here at all, had it not been for Mustafa’s car break-down. After a couple of hours, Mustafa couldn’t believe his eyes. Never in his life had he come across two such iron-clad persisters. “Make me a deal,” he implored, “tell me the most you could afford to pay for one of my beautiful carpets.”

“I’m afraid that would only insult you,” apologized Geof, “so I won’t even try.”

Finally, I asked him how much our costumes would cost, which seemed to divert a sufficient amount of his attention. We finally agreed to purchase my smock and scarf, Geof’s headdress (asking price for the blue smock emblazoned with embroidered silk flowers was a trifle high) plus a silver Southern Cross necklace in exchange for a handful of dirhams. The bewildered expression on Said’s face was frustrating but what could we do? Finally, exhausted, he invited us for supper at his brother’s house about half a mile away.

He clapped his hands and following another trip to the archaic bathroom, Geof and I found ourselves with two unexpected passengers: Grandfather, Mustafa and young Hassan. “Where are we going?” I wondered.

“To that Casbah down the road!” sang the affable Hassan. The Grandfather nodded formally and expectantly. Geof and I were beginning to feel fatigued and more than a tad nervous. The prospect of heading back to the Berbère Palace along that long winding mountain road with its steep dropping edges was beginning to loom as large as a nightmare.

Nevertheless we drove the few minutes down the road until we found ourselves approaching an unlit building. Out jumped Hassan with his grandfather; lights blinked on and we were invited into the building, after remembering to lock the car doors. There was a small fig tree growing in the center of the first courtyard as well as the next, off of which was a door whose outline was teeming with lights and activity. Inside, there were three or four children sitting on cushions and sheepskins on the floor of a large, otherwise empty room. The kids were utterly nonplussed by our arrival: one nodded and greeted us while the others fixed their full attention on the television.

The ever-merry Hassan flopped onto what was obviously his favourite cushion, soon joining the others in watching an American movie playing in English on the television perched on the wall. From time to time, Arabic subtitles flashed on the screen.

As we exchanged banter with the children, I peered up at the clock on the wall. 9:30 p.m. Already? My innards were seized by another warning shot of adrenaline. We have to leave. Why was I so assailed by nervousness? Said and his family were friendly, decent people. Yet there was no escaping the fact that there we were, out in the middle of nowhere, a treacherous road between us and Ouarzazate. Common sense dictated that we get moving, regardless of social formalities. I pushed myself to my feet. I still hadn’t perfected manual drive and didn’t want Geof up at all hours traversing those serpentine roads back to Ouarzazate.

When we relayed our plans to the Grandfather as gently and politely as we could, he threw up his arms. “We are making a very special feast for you. You must stay!” Following what quickly descended into an argument during which the Grandfather became increasingly incensed, we managed to make our getaway. The situation was beginning to careen ever-so-slightly out of control, perhaps at least partly due to Mustafa’s unexpected, frantic need to borrow our Fiat. “I must pick up something in town,” he begged, “I’ll be only ten minutes.” Why hadn’t he mentioned this back at the carpet emporium? When we stood our ground, stating that if anything happened to the car, we would be held entirely responsible, he stormed away in a pique and announced that he would use his bicycle instead.

Before we stepped back into the Fiat, Geof remembered to rearrange his royal blue headdress and remembered that Mustafa still had his Tilly hat. He had worn it around town and throughout our tour with such jubilance, Geof finally decided to let him keep it as a thank you for our unforgettable tour. As Geof geared into reverse, some of the children emerged from the house to watch as the Grandfather continued his tirade, in a mixture of Berber and French, aimed at the world and all its thankless people.

Overwhelmed by a mixture of guilt and ever-increasing warning jolts of adrenaline, we sputtered our best intentions to return to visit the family the next time we came to Morocco. The Grandfather’s gesticulations amid the group of children encapsulated our parting vision of Agdz. As we rode back through town, we recognized Mustafa’s furiously-cycling silhouette and silently continued on our way, wanting to avoid any further unpleasantness.

Our relief at having successfully made our escape ensured that the trip back was nowhere near as nerve-wracking as we had expected. There were the inevitable face-on’s with tour buses and small trucks, but Geof had become so adept, he automatically slid over to the shoulder at the first hint of a headlight. We reached the Berbère Palace besieged by hunger and an overdose of relief. In lieu of the glamorous dining hall, we opted for a late pizza at one of the smaller restos, Tablapizza,  gazing out on the now-darkened pool terrace. How succulent that meal was, our appetites glorifying in every bite, all residual jolts of adrenaline erased by the time we sipped the last velvety drops of Moroccan wine.

The desert is mystical, ominous and perhaps most of all, hypnotic. As we jeeped back from Flint with co-producer Luke Vitale (one of many shuttles ferrying actors and crew back and forth, half an hour each way, throughout the day) , I felt as if my mind and body had somehow been directly transferred into the earth, and the earth itself into my consciousness. A strange, unique sensation. I continued to be surprised by how much I gravitated to this place, how much I enjoyed the simple act of being here, the people’s directness. Strangers walk right up to you on the street, say hello and just as those automatic North American “hostile” warning signals go off, you realize that the individual is genuinely smiling and genuinely wishes to shake your hand.

Our “second Mustafa”, guardian of the tennis courts, was such a topnotch player, Geof made their one-on-one matches part of the daily schedule. We also learned that the indefatigable Mustafa played practically all day with Jack—who was burned out by the end of the week and who nevertheless proclaimed that “Mustafa and his tennis were just the tonic I needed.” Ramadan being two days away, I guessed that Mustafa was getting in as much playing as possible, given the specter of no food, no drink (including water) all day until sundown. I seriously doubted that I could attempt to play under such conditions.

As for the rest of the crew, it was remarkable, what recuperative powers the solid sun and swimming pool lounging could provide. Everyone had big smiles on their faces by the end of this afternoon. Tomorrow features Day One shooting on Garbage Cliff (this desert locale is a former dumping area), including that famous biblical scene whereby the demon-pigs are cast out and go flying off that high point. Dummies will be used, of course.

One Sunday afternoon, our waiter-friend Bouzou took us on what turned out to be a fascinating meander during which he shared his aspirations along with snippets of local history. His main goal to be a pastry chef, he studied and received his Hotelerie degree after a three year intensive training course. The  twenty-six-year-old started our “tour” at his home, where he proudly introduced us to his parents. Despite a crippling hip injury, his soft-spoken mother insisted on preparing a full-fledged, homemade Moroccan feast, laying the various platters on the table with a mingling of decorum and straightforward efficiency. I ate several fresh slices of sweet golden melon served with creamy yogurt and noted, once again, the absence of any allergic reactions. Back home, my throat became itchy within minutes of consuming a cantaloupe. Perhaps this lack of allergic cause is due to the fact that Morocco complies with European health rules, one of which includes strict measures regarding use of sulfites.

Meanwhile, Bouzou laid out three or four of his mother’s hand-sewn coverlets on the roof top: these maisons are something else, their small, dim cavern-like rooms making one feel as though one is ensconced in a beehive. Next—“So much for those illiterate Moroccans you may have heard about!”—he carried out a medium-sized box containing his favourite books  and cassettes whose contents ranged from the Beatles to Reggae, broadway show tunes and Kenny Rogers. As we lay back on those rooftop blankets under the midday sun, listening to music, an intense calm and elation surged back. We managed to delve into three platters of desserts despite a profusion of flies—a particularly pesky problem throughout Morocco.

As the music played on, Bouzou hauled up another box of “his life” that included hotel manuals and a prized photo album—pictures of he and his friends frolicking on a beautiful beach in Agadir, back toward Casa, as well as other parts of Morocco. An hour or three later, he then took us on a walking tour of the ‘real’ Ouarzazate, beneath current-day facades. He first led us over into fields where crops haven’t grown for a while due to severe lack of rain. Still, no drought could hamper date season: the trees were weighed down by these incomparably rich fruits.

Another curious fact: most of the people here are rarely sick—which seems a bit strange, given third world conditions and the presence of bilharzia larvae, among other entities, in the water. However, another ingredient in the water may explain the people’s general well-being: a profusion of sulphur. At one point, Bouzou scratched a finger while reaching for a pomegranate. When Geof offered him a band-aid, he shook his head, walked over to a tiny trickle of a stream and deftly immersed his hand for about thirty seconds. As he stood up and shook off the excess water, he explained, “My finger is already healing.”

Before we knew it, we reached a small pathway on one side of the field which gradually led to the underground village, Bouzou’s “true Ouarzazate”. The main street was barely wide enough to handle a car—not that there were any vehicles in sight—and was crammed with people. Children played in clusters between creaky tables presided over by hunched men talking or proffering cards. Cramped archaic housing rose on either side of the road, casting a claustrophobic resonance. The occasional face peered down through one of few small windows, each exuding displeasure at the sight of strangers infiltrating their lives. Bouzou, however, exuded an equally-determined demeanour that warded off any potential personal, negative interactions.

On another day, Bouzou accompanied us in Tracy’s Fiat to a body of water that appeared as wide as a river. “Go ahead,” he motioned.

“You mean, drive?” asked Geof.

“Yes, yes, drive!”

“Through the water?”

“Yes, to the other side.”

“But isn’t it deep?”

“No, no, everyone crosses it.” At that point, we looked across to the other side in time to see a small red bus, every inch of which, including the roof, was crammed with people and possessions. Sure enough, the bus began to cross the watery span. Spellbound, we continued to watch until the bus reached our shoreline and lumbered toward the main highway, passengers and possessions in tow.

“You see? No problem,” said Bouzou.

Still, given the fact that we had borrowed the Fiat from Tracy, some problem would likely occur. Either water would somehow lodge in some part of the engine. Or, most likely of all, we would become trapped in the middle of that lake. After a while, Bouzou turned to us. “I have an idea. I will carry you across to the other side!”

“Oh, no, we could never do that.”

“Why not? I am strong.”

At that point, we looked across the lake to see a young boy clambering onto a tall man’s shoulders. Within seconds, the man was walking briskly across the lake, boy perched securely on his shoulders.

“You see? Just like that!” motioned Bouzou.

It took us many persistent minutes to convince Bouzou that we simply couldn’t tax his shoulders or dare to take any chances with Tracy’s rented car. He finally shrugged and we headed for a patch of green located in the village where his parents hailed from. In his calm, informative voice, Bouzou relayed how this minuscule patch represented his parents’ sole income basis during the early years of their marriage. Despite constant draughts, they had succeeded in coaxing a harvest of green beans, peppers, eggplants, potatoes, beets and tomatoes from each diminutive rectangle. As the contemplative Bouzou recounted his parents’ struggles and victories, his expression became more solemn. We continued our walk in silence, cutting across winding paths lined with fruit trees so diminutive we often had to lean down in order to avoid brushing our heads against the leafy, spiky branches.

That evening we had dinner with Donald Pelmear, the actor who portrayed Nicodemos. Although he wasn’t up at all hours like many of the principals, he did have to be on the set by 6 a.m. He doesn’t enjoy the rugged half-hour ride into the desert, but does love his role, the oasis-like setting and the movie itself. At one point, feeling sorry for a poor donkey who was left standing for hours, he slipped it the cake he’d been given during a coffee break (or “tea time” as he chuckled, ever the Brit).

When I was walking over to meet Geof for dinner around twenty minutes to eight this evening, I found him chatting with Anthony Styles and the actor who portrays James. Everyone agreed that Day One of shooting was an immense success. Yet another one of Geof’s concepts had been put to use: this entailed a close up on the desert sand followed by a slow-pan up to Judas’ face, sand texture melding into skin. “What a close up!” exclaimed Anthony, flashing his hands in the shape of a camera directly into my face. “It felt exactly like that! Brrr!”

It was a rare treat to watch the actors interact with one another, and to witness the deep, genuine respect the younger actors have for Donald. Of course, he struck up an immediate camaraderie with fellow Londoner Anthony. The actors hinted that they’d cherish a set of Geof’s storyboards (“Jakob never lets us see them!” they sighed), sorely tempting Geof to figure out a way to slip them a few.    

One evening, the hotel hosted a Lebanese Cuisine convention. I couldn’t have felt more rewarded when I walked up, warm white plate in hand, for my usual buffet feast—and discovered a wealth of new dishes arraying L’Oasis’ tables. This epicurian array came complete with a contingent of representatives waiting to answer any questions one might have about the various Lebanese specialties. After two weeks of Moroccan savours, our taste buds danced into the heavens at this change of scenery. For a meal of this caliber back home, one would easily pay $100 back home.

We hurried back for seconds: feathery-light potatoes smothered in fresh coriander, parsley and garlic. Tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and eggplant topped with tangy swirls of the freshest babaganoush I have ever tasted. Soft white, round, sharp globes of cheddar. Felafel. Succulent crisps of chicken skimmed from a large rotating skewer. Lamb and beef. Followed by a showcase of desserts guaranteed to demolish any dieter’s goals, from slender layered cakes topped with marzipan and poached, pink-tinted pears, to a plenitude of lime-coloured Moroccan tangerines and plump orange segments.

We did our best not to overwhelm Donald with our tendency to mimicry. We learned rather quickly that almost any actor will cringe if one dares venture into any routines with them. Still, we succeeded in making him laugh with, of all surprises, Geof’s Big Apple salesman persona. After a while, Donald admitted to being very puzzled by my accent and finally remarked, when I mentioned my mother’s Irish roots: “I thought it was Irish, I just couldn’t place where in Ireland!” After dinner Geof clarified matters with Donald’s food bill. The actual tally reads 250 dirhams but the price is reduced if one happens to be working with Visual Bible Productions, thus should be adjusted to 150 dirhams. If one doesn’t clarify this with the manager each Sunday when one is paying one’s weekly bill, the 250 dirhams will go unchallenged. Donald will thus take in his record to ensure that his overpayment is refunded.

Two weeks into the voyage, feeling rather starved for reading material and having forgotten to tuck even a poetry volume into my baggage, I performed a little internet digging and, after a while, succeeded in finding and downloading Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure from a superb site that features the bard’s collected works. It took me a good half hour—slow crawling on Mark ‘s Mac back in the office—before I was able to succeed in shrinking the type and packing it into two columns in a Word document file.

That mysterious sense of protection continued to accompany us throughout situations both questionable and wary. Late one night, Bouzou inadvertently came to our rescue while Geof and I were wandering back to the hotel following a trip to a bank machine in the grittier section of town. A car pulled up beside us with near frantic intensity. The driver’s window pulled down and a face emerged: “Quick, get in the car! Now!”

Recognizing Bouzou, we were in the middle of chorusing “Well, Hello!” when he repeated his first sentence, this time pushing open the passenger door with marked urgency. Sensing his apprehension, we hurried inside the vehicle and he sped off. On our way back to the hotel, he implored us to avoid going into town, “especially that part of town,” after dark. After we promised him we would never again do this, we all relaxed and enjoyed a rousing conversation.

Our dinner with Jack Zolov took place at the poolside Tablapizza and was as delightful as we had anticipated. Jack, a former child actor who has directed and/or produced over four hundred documentaries, insisted on paying for the bottle of Presidente Cabernet that accompanied our lighter-than-usual dinner of Berber pizza (we call it that because even though it contains all of the identical ingredients of a typical North American pizza, it has a unique mediterranean undercurrent). During our spellbinding conversation, we learned that Jack had gone to school with Leonard Cohen and clearly remembered the first time Leonard played guitar in his class. Jack happened to be connected with The National Film Board during its heady, roaring start during the early ‘60s. At that time, they permitted forty feet for every one foot of finished film, which Jack considered extravagant even by his own editing standards.

Jack has travelled all over the world, including one rough journey to the North Pole to film an expedition headed by a Bombardier heir who later committed suicide. “Never pin all your dreams on a single solitary goal,” he said. “It is better to entertain a healthy variety of ambitions and pursue these as fully as life itself.”

“That is certainly true enough of Sonja and myself,” chuckled Geof, “even if we haven’t planned it that way.”

Jack, who happens to come from a well-to-do family, could easily have devoted his days to lapping up the luxury life. However, as he put it, “I love travelling too much—and I want to give back some of that, somehow, in a creative way.”

Ah, the difficulties of being the actor who portrays Jesus. One evening, Othman took us to Ouarzazate’s “hottest disco” where we enjoyed sipping drinks and dancing on the mirror and spot-lit, multicoloured floor. Kevin Sage (Jesus) was sitting up at the bar nursing a single beer, quietly conversing with fellow actors, friendly Moroccans and whomever else ventured into his affable, blue-eyed territory. A few days later, we learned that someone had twisted this version of events into something else entirely: there sat “Jesus” drinking beer after beer, swearing and hitting on every woman in sight. There was talk of firing the actor outright. Neither of us could believe that anyone would buy such a lie without doing solid fact-checking. Geof immediately went to inform producers that what they had heard was in fact malicious, unsubstantiated gossip.

We also met Austin Peck, a soap opera actor who prefers to avoid talking about the legendary Gregory, to whom he is related. Not being soap opera buffs, we had no idea of this popular status until after he had left. This was just as well, because none of this impeded the enthusiastic discussions about comic book artists he and Geof engaged in. There was Welsh-born John Cording, quite the fixture in British and European film (“I usually play the bad guy!” he deadpanned) who had me rolling in the aisles with his off-the-cuff mimicry, as well as his willingness to play around with this gift.

Inevitably, gastric disturbances paid us their separate visits. When he learned that Geof was feeling too ill for dinner, our waiter sent a special soup to our room, which he instructed Geof to consume in its entirety. Geof loathed the taste, bestowing on it the name “Cobra venom soup”—it was actually a concoction of couscous and ginger—but somehow managed to drink it all down. One hour and a half later, to his amazement, he felt well enough to head back to the restaurant, where he devoured two warm crêpes with chocolate sauce, some Raclette cheese (the waiters here turn a blind eye when we pile our plates with cheeses or desserts to bring back to our room) and a slice of orange. The next morning he was feeling much stronger, still a bit tired but his appetite roaring.

I experienced my own gastric adventure late one night, perhaps the result of having consumed some tainted food. The following morning, I continued to feel weak, dizzy and achy, thus took a deep breath and managed to swallow two 1000mg vitamin C capsules and one container of a special, friendly-bacteria-laden yogurt called BioK. Fifteen minutes later, I felt the dizzy, heavy mass lifting from my body and, most unexpectedly, my appetite came roaring to life. I decided to walk over to L’Oasis, where I managed to eat a normal buffet breakfast, including more fresh fruit than usual.  My sickly symptoms had vanished for good.

During the first day of Ramadan, Geof and I met a wide range of Moroccans whose adherence to this sacred holiday comprised a direct reflection of that segment of society who observe Lent back home. One man, usually polite and jovial, was in a distinctively grumpy mood, snapping “Oui, oui!” in response to our daily greeting. Yet another walked along with his usual leisurely aplomb, an expression of contemplative bliss illuminating his countenance. “It is a beautiful day,” he sang softly, nodding his head as we passed. Many others responded to our questions about the endurance required during Ramadan with an upward roll of their eyes: “What can we do? Everyone must observe this sacred time.” Within seconds of the sunset, families pounced on feasts of sweets and tender savoury dishes prepared well in advance, eating plenty in preparation of the night ahead. The next wake-up occurred far enough in advance of the sunrise for families to eat their fill before the extremely long day began.

On day two of Ramadan, finding the hotel’s dinner fare to be a bit on the uninspired side, we decided to check out the “only French restaurant in town”. Chez Dimitri’s has been a fixture since 1928, the same year France built the fort which is now the Berbère Palace. Dimitri’s even boasts a “wall of fame” filled with autographed, mostly black and white Hollywood photos. Paul Newman, Alfred Hitchcock, Marlene Dietrich, Marilyn Monroe and countless others, all blink wistfully down from that past realm, complete with a great big framed poster of circa-1988 Cannes. We learned that the resto would not open until 7:30 p.m. Unfortunately, Jack had to get back to work editing his documentary, The Making of Visual Bible, by eight. The only other two restaurants in town either happened to be a) closed or b), as Jack so succinctly put it: “I think we’ve all had enough of Chez Nabil’s!”

So back to the Berbère Palace we drove and marched over to the hotel’s intimate little restaurant near the pool. We ordered our now-regular Tablapizza fare along with some Moroccan rosé. Jack’s colleague Tracy, whose ear had been in such pain he finally saw a doctor that day, joined us. “Oh God, what a third world clinic,” he shook his head, “I couldn’t wait to get out of there!” Primitive though that clinic might have been, he was already gleaning relief from antibiotics. I took out the video camera and managed to film Jack as he spoke about editing and his travels. I had been hoping for some “people footage” to go with our Morocco landscape. However, the real action took place when we went back to the office where I plugged my laptop into the internet line.

Producer X arrived back with Jakob and the filming/camera crew, all walking into Jack’s tiny office where he started showing them his documentary to date. He had actually showed Geof and I the day’s rushes back in the early afternoon. I thought the footage of X was superb, from professional speaking voice to relaxed and informative demeanour. I was sitting at the computer as voices murmured in response to Jack’s footage. The voices grew louder before X began repeating, in an increasingly sharper tone: “I don’t look good. I look terrible. It’s disgusting.”

“Listen darling,” Jack reassured her, “you look just fine. In fact you look beautiful!” This only seemed to fuel her exasperation. More yelling ensued. More arguing. Until somebody slammed the door shut and the muffled arguing continued. About fifteen minutes later the door opened and X calmly departed. I had the camera clicking, engaged in an interview with young actor Jason Emmanuelle who plays apostle Simon Peter in this film. It was a pleasure to converse with him as he provided a lively discussion on the merits of stage versus film performance.

As he talked, I managed to flip the lens on Jack who was briskly leaving the office, ruddy-faced but victorious. “He won,” smiled Geof, “X’s footage will appear as is!”

Back from Dimitri’s, Jack’s assistant Tracy shouted: “Anyone need a lift?” It being after 8 p.m. and remembering Bouzou’s warnings, Geof and I made a bolt for the door. We hadn’t bothered renting a car during our stay, choosing to rely on borrowing and/or hitchhiking.

On the humorous side, Geof’s joke about Jesus playing tennis with Mary Magdalene came true. Kevin, who portrays Christ, was off at the Flint Desert shoot (they work six hours a week on location) but Mary (Françoise Robertson) happened to be free for the day. Françoise is an ex-pat Montrealer currently living in LA. “I wish I could have stayed in NDG with my family,” she said over breakfast one morning, “but I had to move to LA to get any real work. Almost overnight I started getting calls and responses.” She does appreciate the climatological aspects of living in California, especially during this time of year.

Geof was playing against Jack Zolov, whose birthday it happened to be that day, and Tracy. Everyone was just whacking the ball around for the fun of it. When Françoise strolled into the court I encouraged her to at least give the game a try and, sure enough, her game picked up within five minutes. Out of the blue, I (who was sitting out the game due to lack of an available good racket, Françoise having borrowed the “kiddie” implement I had been grappling with) couldn’t help slipping into comedic mode, doing a sideline commentary on the game, much to Jack’s feigned chagrin and everyone else’s merriment.

Before either of us knew it, our five incredible weeks had come to an end. Our homeward flight went smoothly. Following a 4:45 a.m. wake-up, I, natural-born night owl, surpassed my expectations by leaping instantly from the bed into my clothes and forward marching down the dimly-lit garden paths to the dining room where the waiters were hurriedly gulping their pre-Ramadan breakfasts. I made myself eat a small bowl of fruit and a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice before we headed off in the mini van with Judas, Mary Magdalene, Pierre the accountant and Tony the insurer.

All of them were stunned to learn that the dining room had actually been open so early. Still the jokes flew between the Brit contingency and merrily we rode along, checked our bags and dodged the persistent porter who hadn’t lifted a bag but was still demanding his dirhams. As we were settling in for coffees and mint teas in the newly constructed mezzanine lounge, I was suddenly aware that Geof was engaged in deep conversation with a man who was waving a paper and pen. Wondering whether the man was a pushy sales rep of some sort, I called over: “Is there some problem?”

Whereupon Geof took the opportunity to announce that the man had chased him down all the way from the hotel and was demanding that we pay a full night’s lodging plus breakfast!

“But we paid in full last night,” I said, digging into my tote bag for the bill. At which point Pierre the accountant stormed to his feet and over to the man with my evidence in his hand, and gave him ninety-degree hell en française. “Come Monday morning,” he huffed angrily, “heads will roll. I’ve had it up to here with you messing with film people.” When the man finally backed away, Pierre relayed an incident that had occurred the week before, while another film company was transporting their weekly rushes from Italy (due to a lack of resources in Morocco, the film had to be developed in Italy or London, e.g.). When the film company refused to pay the 500 dirham bribe, the Moroccan customs rep promptly x-rayed their film, destroying it. Government officials were called in, threats were made (“We’ll never bring work to this town again!”) and sure enough, at least two heads figuratively and painfully rolled.

The plane ride from Ouarzazate to Casablanca was more than slightly on the turbulent side. Pierre the accountant was sitting in the seat across from us and kept up a conversation that was so lively, so filled with picturesque anecdotes, I was compelled to fight waves of nausea in order to relay my assured enthusiasm. Minutes before we landed I felt rather green, my whole body weak and feverish. I looked up to see Françoise’s face reflecting a similar state, while poor Anthony, ever the stalwart, glared ahead, as if to sigh: “You’d think I’d be used to this by now.”

I wanted to remain in my seat until the weakness passed but the stewardess kept insisting: “You must get off the plane. You’ll miss your bus.”

Ohhh jolly, I grumbled to myself, we couldn’t simply walk, could we?  Yet I managed to leap to my feet, hoist my baggage and march ruggedly onto the packed and waiting bus. The minute I saw the preliminary, deliciously cool, deserted and multi-windowed lounge, I knew I’d found my recovery niche. I tumbled into the nearest, coolest chair and managed to sink into about an hour of much-needed sleep. After which I felt so utterly revived, I even nibbled a pyramid of Toblerone chocolate as we lined up to get aboard the jumbo NYC-bound jet.

The seven and a half hours went by more tediously than we expected. There wasn’t much to read between gulps of sleep, and Geof groaned when screens were lowered, lights dimmed and none other than the movie Erin Brokowich began to play. He had now seen this twice, including his journey to Morocco. My chicken turned out to be on the rubbery side. Geof however, had the luck of having chosen a tender beef stew. Wonder of wonders, there were absolutely no delays at JFK airport and we made it home precisely on schedule—3:15 that sunny Saturday afternoon in November.

As weeks passed and we corresponded with the new friends we had made during our ethereal excursion, that sense of protection I had been aware of throughout, the feeling that regardless of what mistakes we might make along the way, that some force would prevent any serious incidents from harming us, came to the fore.

It would appear that from the moment of our departure from the Hotel Berbère, every last pleasant component began to fall away with the momentum of an easily-deconstructed stage set or the transformation of Cinderella’s carriage back into a pumpkin. The weather took a turn for the chillier and most of the waiters were sent home until the tourist season picked up again in the spring. As a result, the grand L’Oasis dining room all but pared of its sumptuous breakfast and dinner buffets.           

One month and a half later, The Visual Bible production was shut down due to financial difficulties, its filmed portions indefinitely shelved in spite of F. Murray Abraham’s arrival. As it turned out, the actor exhibited a serious allergy to the fabric in the costumes: nevertheless, he rallied ahead in his portrayal of Simon Peter.

The magic curtain had descended and yet, the impact of this experience had taken root in such a way that its serenity, liberation and exhilaration promised to remain a part of us forever. Morocco, source of spiritual sustenance, whose people had instilled in us a newfound respect and humility. Morocco, whose desert soul simultaneously astonishes and calms. Morocco, source of hope and renewal.

Fin

© 2009 Sonja A. Skarstedt

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