Fino al deserto
13/02/2023 – Roma, Italia
Deri and I are going on an adventure. My favourite kind, where absolutely nothing is planned in advance other than our arrival and departure dates. Everything in between will come to us. Simone, our FlixBus comrade radically phones the FlixHQ to make his complaints about his inexistent seat number heard while we marvel over the Tuscan mountaintops that our muscle memory still winces at. Some eight hours later we were in the capital, revelling in the once all-conquering empire and the relics it left behind for us to prance past on our way to buy chocolate biscuits from Pam. Each one of Deri and my travels together prepares us for the next, and after too many life-threatening excursions without any nourishment, we've gotten extraordinarily wise about packing one (1) snack for the road. The new Italian golden age is one of Ichnusa pints and and people watching, so we do just that. Sleepinginairports.net warns us that Roma Ciampino airport locks its doors overnight to keep any sleepy voyageurs from profiting off of the luxury of icy metallic flooring and fluorescent medical examination light fixtures, so we spent the last hours before closing time gambling on braving the night at Termini Train Station before flipping a coin and opting to try our luck at Ciampino instead, attaching our hammocks between armrests and refusing to budge. We encounter Youssef at the airport, who invites himself on our road trip and offers us anything we may need in all of Morocco anywhere and at any time, plus, of course, his WhatsApp. Flashes of Benguerir come running at me in high definition. He comes to knock on my hammock cocoon shortly after midnight once we'd been assured that we were safe from the scrutiny of the night patrol to ask for my 4G hotspot. I respect that. Our next disturbance was at 3:40 in the night when the shifts switched to destroy our hammock setup with absolutely no appreciation for our creativity in having set up camp. "Svegli la tua amica." Vabbè. We brush our teeth at the gate and board our 15 euro transcontinental Ryanair flight, sleeping the entire 3,5 hour journey to the African continent. Familiarity sprouts in unexpected places and my ten Darija vocabulary words from the World's shortest Erasmus three years ago resurface. Ana smiti Yasmine. Mtcharfine habibi. Funny how this country can be so foreign yet so familiar.
A home that never really was.
Marvel at our creativity. Hammocks. In. The. Roman. Airport. Caesar himself used to often say, "I came, I saw, I hammocked in Ciampino." Questa è la vera Italia.
To our surprise people keep asking if they can travel with us (we are very popular). The prerequisite, however, is being able to match your outfit colours to those of your mode of transport.
Marrakech, Morocco – 14/02/2023
Maybe it's me who has changed, but the chaos of this city seems to have dissolved into grace. Maybe it's because my original barely-twenty-year-old apprehensions have been erased. The World and I are better friends now than ever before. An enigmatic love affair that keeps on growing. How fortunate, to live a life where the years make us kinder. Indigo blues and dusty rosebud reds. Simmering tajines, men in djellabas, little girls running after us to play football, little boys that ask to star in photoshoots, grey skies reminiscent of that fateful day three years prior. Solidarity with the mayhem.
“I believe that Marrakech ought to be earned as a destination.
The journey is the preparation for the experience.
Reaching it too fast derides it, makes it a little less easy to understand.” ― Tahir Shah
Three years ago I rolled my eyes at this quote, thinking that my worn and weathered little traveller shoes outweighed my youthful arrogance and inexperience. The red city's beauty can be just as bold and impressive as it is unapologetically daunting and overpowering. Mine and Marrakech's romance is brewing.
16/02 – Direction Ouarzazate
Sitting in la Villa Verte in 2020, Maria and I concocted the perfect road trip that would lead us with poise, day by day, to the heart of the Sahara desert– Merzouga. The pandemic wildly disagreed with us and our once glorious road trip blueprint was laid to rest in that infamous brown leather journal. Skeletons and all. Today, we unbury it. Deri and I walk until we reach Route de Ouarzazate. Our thumbs are raised and our hopes are high. And we wait. And wait. And wait. Not even the taxis can be bothered to slow down and ask us where we're going, even though, there is, quite literally, just, one, road. But then came Jalal. Jalal, the reason we are still alive today. His car was fancy, his music taste pleasant, and he was just as happy to sit in silence as he was to foster a conversation. It was perfect. Ottimissimo some may say.
As we pursue the road to higher altitudes we're met with the first signs of winter. Not really signs, but blaring red flags. Snowy mountain peaks and dreary clouds that would hold us hostage for the whirlwind of the next twenty-two hours. The road ahead is blocked off so we stop for clay-fried berber omelettes. Jalal's treat. We continue onwards after lunch, headstrong into a raging blizzard that had engulfed the Atlas mountains. Jalal's car is designed for Tangier traffic, not the darkest depths of a Canadian-esque snow storm. Full stop. We push the car uphill; hands pressed firmly on the rearview window, summoning of all our force to gain one metre, sometimes two. Our most innovative strategy is one of taking the mini carpets out from under our feet to trick the tires into acceleration, guiding them forward, one centimetre at a time. Deri takes a go at driving, with nothing but a slushy mix of powder to align her eyesight. Nothing. Not a budge. The darkness arrives on time, but now not only are we soaking wet and blindly pushing a stranger's car up a mountain with the occasional aid of a pack of men three times our size, but we're doing so in the dead of the night. Sub-ottimo. Jalal keeps the window open during his Mohammed-style sequence of two-minute phone calls. Freezing. We briefly consider ditching our dear driver for someone with a more powerful engine, but that would be cruel, so we accept our fate and opt for some shut-eye to awake sometime later to a panicked Jalal who had fallen asleep at the wheel with the windows closed and the motor still running to defrost our bones – petrified that in his fatigue he'd accidentally poisoned his sleepy hitchhikers with carbon monoxide. To his relief, we are alive. F r e e z i n g. Four years in Canada did not prepare me for this. The car in front of us saved a puppy from being swallowed by Mother Nature's wrathful vengeance. Time is passing with more consistency than our vehicle. We make it to a shop in the early hours of the morning where a woman fills our pockets with sweets. What was she doing there? We doze off again, until six men in slippers come to PICK UP and displace our car a few metres to the right with their bare hands and superhuman strength to make room for a snow plower. It's all a bit fight or flight, sink or swim, life or death, but at our tortoise rate of progress it all just feels surreal. The stream of phone calls inside the car continue with the same frequency as the hail outside. Deri and my efforts to provide any sort of help cease to be entirely and Jalal is the sole person entrusted with bringing us to the light. At 5 in the morning, he does, somehow, reach Ouarzazate. Ice cold and dewey eyed with rumbling stomachs, but alive. We sleep (motor turned off) in a parking lot until the sun rises for a grand total of 22 hours spent in Jalal's car. Our own little sanctuary/hell. We kill time sipping on sugar water (with a side of tea) until he awakes to say a proper goodbye to this kind stranger with whom we narrowly escaped our collective demises. He gives us a brief hug, with zero acknowledgment of the trauma we just surmounted together and goes off on his way. We will never see him again, but we will remember those 22 hours for the rest of our days on this Earth.
We're met with torrential downpour in Ouarzazate and it feels like no matter how badly we want to reach the Sahara, the Earth is not going to give it to us without putting up a fight, first. After drudging through splashing waters we finally cozy up next to a space heater with some day old bread and la Vache Qui Rit in a hostel that we choose to hibernate in for the time needed to regain feeling in our fingers.
We're alone in the hostel except for a Swiss-German girl who tells me that she's studying on Erasmus in Rabat, in the same faculty that my friends and I were thrown into years ago. She shares a desk with the Prince, but most of her friends are international: from Barcelona, Zurich, Montréal, and Paris. She doesn't know why I'm smiling, but I know that it's because I'm the time traveller in the room.
Later that evening there's a pounding on the door, then on the windows. We huddle together from the fear of what could be on the other side. Alas, we find ourself confronted by a middle-aged Spanish couple, one of which, supposedly, plays in the Casa de Papel. A star struck Mohammed, our host, demands we all take a photo together in the rare case the man in front of us is, genuinely, Pedro Alonso (to be confirmed). We, instead demand (ask politely) for a lift to Ait Ben Haddou.
Selfie with our supposedly very famous actor-hitchhiking-driver. If he really is a celebrity, someone please tell us his name. If he lied, don't tell us.
Ait-Ben-Haddou
A village built in clay: how many rainstorms can it withstand? How much pressure can it take? We drag our backpacks to the summit of this town that could very well be straight out of a painting, wondering how we ever possibly carried them across half of Tuscany and Emilia-Romagna. Saffron and tea leaves. The rays of the sun are our best friend. We feast on Coca Cola Zeros in glass bottles, two pieces of bread, and, of course, the country's national cheese delicacy: La Vache Qui Rit (again). We squeeze ourselves into the back of a car with three Moroccans jamming along to Berber tunes – the melody of the empty road ahead. Lughah then drives us to the opposite end of the city. We sat beside her little boy who was too timid to tell us we were blocking access to his school bag. She left us with her contact, stressing that if we ever need anything at all, to call her immediately, which always feels more genuine and more comforting coming from a woman. There, we waited for so long in front of a petrol station that I started to wonder if the desert was secretly sending us a message. I began replying to emails to pass the time as Deri and I swapped turns holding out our thumbs to the sky. Finaaallly someone stops, and then another someone, followed by another someone who kindly brings us on a full tour of the Gorges de Dadès, all the way to the endlessly winding Ferrari advertisement road. A snaking racing circuit built into the mountains for the sake of an Italian commercial. We're nauseous and in-awe at the same time. We head off on our way, relieved to be on the serene side of the storm. We sip on mint leaves and sugar cubes and marvel in the ridges nicknamed after Monkey Fingers.
While walking we hear a certain 'Salam Salam!' from up above, as if Elham was rescuing us. A family summons us into their home and we rise to the occasion, climbing the stairs into their living room. A banquet of fresh bread and dates and marmalade awaits us.
The matriarch of the family formally adopts us, re-baptising us Touda and Aïssa. Vabbè. They smother us in hugs and affection, a photoshoot ensues. We can't leave until the bread basket is empty. 'Maman' tells us that she used to have three children, but now, including us, that number has grown to five. We fall asleep swaddled under seven blankets. It's just us, the Atlas, and our new family tree.
The air is fresh and our bones ache for the warmth that the Sahara promises.
We take a public bus the next morning that ushers us aboard for free, charmed by our auto stopper charisma. Guilt. We should have paid. We're left to cross the village by foot until our next driver, Moustafa, stops for us. The three of us sing our hearts out to Bella Ciao. I'll never know all the lyrics, but the song somehow feels like it's mine. Following me to Amman, to Paris, following me to the Sahara. An ever flickering flame. Cathartic in its familiarity. It plays for us, for me.
The next drivers invite us to tea. We're closer than ever to our destination and communication is getting more challenging as the deeper we drive into the backcountry, Darija and French are replaced with Tamazight. Once again we find ourselves with a family, that, despite our language barrier, treats us as their kin. Unfettered kindness. Once again, the tea is poured for us, accompanied with an array of medjools and oil soaked bread. The mother begins to list off nationalities and when we nod enthusiastically at 'italiano' she yells back 'CLAUDIA!' Claudia? Claudia. Naturally, we've stumbled upon the only Italo-Berber speaking village in the entire World. A woman, Claudia, from VENETO (no ma daiiiii), has been living next-door to them in the middle of nowhere for the last twenty-odd years. Non ci crediamo. She comes over sprinting, having heard about the two lost Italian speakers that showed up to her corner of the desert, overjoyed to indulge in discussion in her native tongue with people who will know what she's saying. Claudia's mentality is rooted in Neo-colonialism, as she affirms that her two decades in the middle of Morocco have not changed her, inhabiting a mansion while her neighbours struggle to send their kids to school. Rather than learn the local languages, Claudia has, instead, opted to coerce the village into speaking italian. We are bewildered by her delusion. Under what circumstances do we lose our empathy? The village echoes her key phrases, shouting "ciao!" "come stai?" "bene" and "mangia!" as she walks past, convinced that Italian is the universal language and the Berber family instructs us to mangiate, mangiate, mangiate. We comply happily, wondering how it is possible for such apathy and such generosity to live adjacent to one another.
The final car
Back on the road. A police man stops. Youssef. Direction: Merzouga. It feels, at this point, although only a handful of days had passed, like we had dedicated our lives to trekking through every possible Moroccan landscape to end up in Youssef and his brother's car. Private chauffeurs to bring us off roading and into the endless land of sand and more sand. The promised dunes of gold. The men's cousin have a camp site in the desert and will let us stay. Deri grabs the aux cord to play Lou Reed.
From Andalusia to Merzouga, it follows me.
Magic is real, magic is a place, magic is a feeling that we've unearthed.
19 February 2023, 18:31: The magic of Merzouga is ours.
We are living in a symphony.
Walking on the wild side
Holy (Deri & Léna) came from Miami, F.L.A. (New York and Glasgow)
Hitchhiked her (their) way across the U.S.A. (Morocco)
She says (They say) hey babe (ciaaaao raga)
Take a walk on the wild side (Il nostro progetto è rendere l'Italia più aperta all'autostop)
The desert of southern Morocco is one that has saturated my daydreams. It offers infinite contrasts between dark and light, harmony and cacophony, movement and lull. The euphoria of taking it all in. This moment of absolute wonder was reserved for us to bask in. Just us. We are in harmony with the Sun's timing, as she sets over the apricot hills the moment we step out of the car. The beauty of the Earth is revealed to us in layers throughout our lives: through every emotion we learn to name and every ray of light that mixes with hues of magenta, through brushing our fingers in lavender bushes and tucking flowers behind our friends' ears and plunges in new seas and first kisses and heartaches and fresh fruit and tight hugs and butterflies in our stomachs and enormous smiles and thousand year old trees and moments of absolute splendour, like when you set your eyes on the Sahara for the first time and let your toes sink into the sand with your best friend's hand in yours. Ephemeral and sublime. From the blue twilight to the blazing dawn, the magic is now, the magic is here. All alone amongst the immensity of the dunes. Mother Earth inflames our spirits and we're overcome by giddiness. We feel so tiny. We did it. Glittering gold. We are so lucky. I jump up and down and up down and up and down and up and down again to commemorate our updated list of antics. Hitchhike the length of Bulgaria? Check. Accidentally go on a 130km hike? Check. Get all of Padova to cook us dinner for two weeks? Check. Hitchhike to the Sahara desert? Check!
Eating msmens and smoking shisha. We place the auto-stop crowns on our heads and fall asleep beneath Orion and Cassiopeia. No one knows where we are but us.
We spend the next days in a sun soaked trance, climbing dunes to hold onto the daylight a little longer than we're allowed. A reverie realised in the form of golden shadows that dance to the commands of the light, to the rhythm of our curious hearts, making the infinite appear ever tangible. And each time the night fell, we stayed up counting constellations. Bellies filled with couscous.
Bending the rules until they form waves of sepia.
Deri filled a bottle with sand to bring back to Italy.
I do the same with this feeling.
The background song talks about a first summer after graduation. But waiting for our imminent graduation to arrive before embarking on an adventure is boring, so here we are chasing after the Sahara in slow-motion with half-written theses saved on our respective Google Docs.
Vai! Vai! Vai! Vai! There's no time to wait.