A Moroccan Road Trip: Part 4 of 6

Note: It’s been a good while since I posted. See earlier stories here.

The sun grew hotter as I pulled into the dusty non-oasis that is M’Hamid.

In M’hamid the tourist game was more obvious; front men and wranglers for local hotels and tours sit in their cars in the mid-afternoon sun waving down tourists as they drive into town. There was only one road in or out, making them unavoidable.

The technique is not subtle; they just blurt out whatever it is they sell in the hope you haven’t made plans for; accommodation, camel rides, dune buggies, camp-stays, or 4WD tours or whatever else comes to their mind.

I ran that gauntlet and found accommodation online to try and avoid being molested by their scatter-gun sales approach.

The review saying my hotel was ‘the last place in town before the desert’ sounded menacing enough to get me in.

Earlier stories

True to the review it was an auberge set amongst the outskirts of M’Hamid, beyond the sealed road and feeling very edge-of-civilisation.

In parts like this the delineation between road, path, public and private property, is a bit haphazard. Not chaotic, just loose.

It was hard to tell how the hotel came to be placed where it was, relative to the road, but it was apparent it was on one corner a grid pattern with mud brick homes behind it.

But that grid pattern itself broke down on the edges, like a rug of stitched squares with the outermost squares fraying and falling apart.

The innermost houses and the auberge retained their integrity, but the frayed edges were roofless remnants of homes, occasionally serving as open air, earthen walled pens for camels.

Beyond the homes and pens stood baked landscapes of sand and stone earth, with barely a shrub or weed to be seen.

Small children roamed freely, adults made their way to tend camels or move around their neighbourhood.

I wandered that patchwork of home and camel pens on my first afternoon, occasionally stopping to take photos, greeting whoever would pass my way.

One of those greetings resulted in an invitation join a family for tea in their open air, bare earth courtyard.

There were three adult Berber men and three Berber women, who were wives, sisters, I never really found out. All six Berbers were sitting together on mats and rugs in their traditional dress.

But there was one other Moroccan man, sitting against the wall of the courtyard, who was dressed western shirts and pants, more like Moroccan men I saw in Marrakech. Let’s call him ‘Jacque’, because that’s how he introduced himself, even though his real name turned out to be Ahmed.

Never a good sign when someone introduces themselves as someone else.

It wasn’t Jacque that invited me into the courtyard, but it was he who directed me to sit on the dirt and not the mats, a rude gesture quickly overturned by the Berbers.

He laughed like it was a good joke. I sat on the edge of the mats near the men; there was a clear delineation between where the men and women sat.

I had barely taken my seat when Jacque made the gesture for money (rubbing your thumb and fingers together).

“Hmmm, you get invited in for tea then asked for money” I thought. “Is that your hospitality?” I asked out loud.

Later I learned that he was visiting from Marrakech, a distant family friend of sorts. I didn’t know that at the time and assumed he was part of the family group living in the M’Hamid.

Tea was served and we sat around in each other’s company communicating as best we could, Jacque being the most vocal.

There was a combination of broken English and translated Arabic between us, with Berbers and me alike curious about each other.

The Berber’s were friendly and hospitable, the youngest coincidentally worked at the Auberge I was staying in. That set me at ease a bit.

But Jacque…Jacque had a strange sense of humour that was borderline confrontational and rude but just as easily dismissed as misfired humour. His manner was in stark contrast to the open friendliness and curiosity of the Berbers.

“Where are you from?” they asked.

“Australia.”

“Ahhh, kangaroo!” they laughed.

“Yes, kangaroo” I laughed back. Not the first time I’d heard that in Morocco, along with “Ali Baba”.

At one point Jacque’s ham-fisted banter resulted in him holding up his fists, boxing-like, in some sort of challenge, maybe? I couldn’t figure out exactly what the game was; he was laughing and speaking in Arabic, the Berbers were laughing as well.

So, I held up my fists and gave him the Morpheus-from-The-Matrix ‘come on’ gesture with my hands, with a raised smile and uptilt of the head.

“I’ll give you kangaroo” I thought to myself.

The Berbers rushed to tell me he was playing but by this stage he was well and truly irritating me, so I play-seriously held up my arm in an arm wrestle pose, issuing a clear challenge.

He didn’t back down but negotiated a right-hand wrestle and not left-hand, which was my stronger arm.

He was about my age and height; wiry, hard labour type strong. He reminded me of a carpet layer I one met back home who had built his sinewy, steel cabled physique from long daily hours of carpet carrying induced muscle-under-tension.

Thankfully Jacque wasn’t built as much as that guy, but it was clear early it wasn’t going to be a quick and decisive win. He also had a slight advantage, his body position being slightly more elevated than mine, giving him both strength and body weight to use against me.

I decided quickly I had to hold him out, wear him down. A war of attrition.

Jacque had a different strategy; he wanted to distract me and throw me off by baulk head butting me. He did it about three or four times. Proving, beyond doubt, Jacque was a dick.

I didn’t flinch once, much to my own surpise, keeping my eyes fixed on his. This clown would have to earn his win.

He pushed a few times in a true effort but couldn’t break me, nor I him. I don’t know how long we wrestled but eventually he gave in and withdrew, which was a relief because I’m not sure I had the strength beat or outlast him if he was really committed.

If he knew how to use his body weight advantage, he would have had me.

I graciously said it was a draw since I was the guest and wanted to remain civil. Inside I wanted to tell him it was me who just put his arse in the dirt!

We all had more tea and eventually the eldest Berber allowed me to take his photo. This was a bit of a victory and once the others saw the result, they also wanted photos.

I drifted off not long after this, giving gracious thanks for the tea, promising to send their photos via the Berber who worked at my auberge.

I think back now and ponder how bizarre the whole scene was; some strange foreigner walks into your back yard, you offer him tea, next thing he’s arm wrestling your relative.

Moroccan Arm Wrestle