Chapter 12
T he trip to Fes was eleven days of hard riding. Most days, they set out early to avoid the brutal midday heat, resting for a couple of hours by a stream when they could and then continuing until nightfall. In the beginning, the terrain was mostly flat, fertile farmland, but the mountains in the distance whispered the promise of a more challenging ride to come.
By the third day, they had left the lush lowlands and started climbing through rocky outcrops and low hills. Goats, sheep, and camels roamed the landscape, though it wasn’t always apparent to Melody what they were finding to eat in the parched, red earth.
The conversation had started to wane as the journey became more arduous. By the fourth night, Melody was sick of eating tagine and drinking mint tea. What she would have given for a cup of coffee. The soreness that she had felt after that first day of riding had morphed into a constant, dull ache in her legs. As uncomfortable as her makeshift bed in the tent was, she collapsed into it every night and was asleep almost immediately.
Increasingly, Rat was grateful that he had adopted the local costume. The robe was comfortable and cool during the day, and the tagelmust both shielded his head from the sun’s rays and could be pulled across his nose and mouth to protect against the dust kicked up by the horses. He had never been as comfortable riding a horse as Melody and spent most of his days clinging on to the reins and hoping that nothing spooked his steed; he wasn’t ready for a gallop.
Omar, Mustafa and Fatima’s men seemed to take the journey in their stride. During the sporadic conversations during meals, Melody had learned that while Omar and the other men were Berbers, Mustafa’s family were Arabs. The adult men would often talk together in a language that Mustafa didn’t understand and which she assumed was their Berber language.
“I selected the Berbers from amongst my staff to come with us,” Fatima had explained on the first night as they were preparing for bed. “The deeper we go into the country, and particularly once we are in the Atlas Mountains, the people are mostly Berber. The tribes are semi-autonomous, and the Sultan’s authority is nominal. We are much better off surrounding ourselves with Berbers for this trip, even if they are from other tribes.”
This explanation made total sense to Melody, and yet again, she found herself surprisingly grateful for Fatima’s presence on the journey. The further they had travelled from Casablanca, the more the other woman had ceased to remind Melody of the unpleasant London socialites with their veiled barbs. Would that all change once they reached Fes? Was the difference from when they were in Casablanca that there was no Alessandro to display for?
As their journey took them through villages, Omar would ask about the caravan of men ahead of them which included Alessandro. From what he could glean, they were maintaining a good enough pace that the Pasha’s men were no further ahead than they had been. That was some consolation, at least.
Melody could sense an increased tension in the group. Pulling her horse alongside Rat’s, she whispered, “Is there something going on? All the men seem on edge.”
“I am not entirely sure, but Omar mentioned that we are entering the tribal lands of a particularly insular Berber group who are very suspicious of outsiders,” Rat explained. Seeing the concern on Melody’s face, he hastened to add, “Omar says that there is nothing to be overly worried about. As long as we are just passing through, they will not interfere with us. However, we do need to be on our guard and ensure that there are no incidents that might be perceived as threatening.”
Melody wasn’t sure what Rat’s last sentence meant. What might they do that could be so perceived? Looking more closely at Omar and Fatima’s men, she realised that their rifles were no longer on display and assumed that this was part of their adoption of an unthreatening posture.
At some point, Melody noticed that the terrain had become rockier and more uneven. She was grateful that her horse seemed to know how to pick its way carefully as the path became narrower and more treacherous. Omar explained that they were entering the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. The air felt cooler, which was a pleasant change from the usually brutal afternoon sun, but did portend a chilly night if they had planned to camp out. As they climbed through the Middle Atlas Mountains, the vista became increasingly dramatic and quite awe-inspiring, with the highest mountains in the distance still snow-capped.
On day seven, as they broke for their midday meal and rest, Omar said that they should plan to ride to a settlement in the lowlands past the Middle Atlas Mountains, Sefrou. While it would require them to ride for a little longer than they usually did in a day, there was a riad where they could get shelter for the night, and the town’s souq would give them the opportunity to stock up on supplies. The idea of spending even one more hour than usual on horseback was enough to make Melody groan in anticipation of even more sore than usual muscles. Counterbalanced to her stiffness was the possibility of a real bed for the night and a meal that was something other than khlii tagine and bread. Shivering against the crisp mountain air, Melody was glad that they would have shelter in Sefrou for the night.
As the afternoon wore on, Melody was unsure how much longer she could stay upright on her horse. Because of the coolness in the mountains, they had not had to stop for their customary afternoon rest, and so she had been in the saddle for five hours without a break. Just as she was determined to ask Omar and the men to stop, if only for a few minutes, they came over a ridge and saw a village nestled in the verdant valley below. A clear river snaked through the village, its water sparkling from the late afternoon sunlight. There were fields of crops surrounding the village as well as clusters of trees, which Omar explained were primarily olive and palm trees. Even from this distance, they could see the minaret of the mosque.
The horses had come to a standstill as the group surveyed the village. Omar pulled his horse up next to Melody and Rat and explained, “Every village must have four things: a mosque, a community bread oven, a well, and finally a market, or souq as we call it.”
“Are you sure we will be welcomed here?” Rat asked nervously.
“Indeed. We will make our way to the riad of my mother’s cousin, Aksel, a wealthy trader.”
The horses began to pick their way down the rocky path down to the village. From what Melody could see, Sefrou was a modest settlement, its flat-roofed, clay-brick houses blending into the earthy tones of the surrounding hills. It was hard to imagine that more than a few hundred souls lived in the village. And if that was the case, then every single one of them was out on the streets that afternoon. The streets were bustling with people, donkeys and the occasional goat.
Their caravan was an interesting enough sight to cause some glances, but most people were too busy going about their business to care about the strangers. Melody had noticed that the women they had passed on their travels, much like the ones now in Sefrou, were dressed quite differently from those in Casablanca. In the city, there hadn’t been many women out on the streets, but when they had been, they had been dressed all in black. Here, the robes were embroidered with colourful threads. Many of them had veils over the lower part of their faces.
As they rode through the village's streets, Melody and Rat marvelled at the souq stalls. One had colourful rugs, another copper pots, and next to that, a stall selling olives from large vats. Delicious smells of freshly baked bread, roasted almonds, and rosewater hung in the air. Smelling the bread reminded Melody how hungry she was. She hoped that they would be at the riad soon.
The caravan stopped at a rather ramshackle wooden building. This couldn’t be the riad where they were hoping to stay, could it? It didn’t look much better than staying in a tent for the night.
Perhaps anticipating Melody’s concern, Fatima explained, “This is called a caravanserai. It is where we will leave the horses and my men for the night before we proceed on foot to the riad. The boy will stay here with the horses.”
The idea of getting off the horse and stretching her legs, even for a few minutes, was very appealing. Five minutes later, Omar, Fatima, Melody and Rat proceeded on foot through the village. It wasn’t long before they arrived at quite a plain-looking building that had a rather magnificent wooden door with a huge brass knocker. The building had no windows. Remembering Omar’s home in Casablanca, Melody realised that it was likely that the spartan exterior masked a far more comfortable, lavish interior.
When Omar knocked on the door, a small, wiry-looking man opened it. His eyes lit up when he saw Omar and a huge grin suffused his face. The man burst out into a joyful stream of a language that Melody couldn’t recognise, but that didn’t sound like Arabic; she assumed it was a local Berber dialect. The man gathered Omar into a bear hug.
A few more words were spoken and then Omar turned to them and said, “This is Mansour. He has been with my family since he was a child. He now runs my cousin’s household.”
They followed Mansour down a short corridor, which led to an open-air courtyard bigger and even more lavish than Omar’s. The walls were decorated with elaborate, colourful mosaics, which also served as the decorative background for a large fountain built into the building's rear wall.
As Melody looked around, she marvelled at the intricate carvings framing each doorway and the top edge of the walls and arches.
“It is made of egg white and marble dust carved in place,” Omar explained. Melody couldn’t get over the beauty and craftsmanship of the engravings.
Large, colourful silk pillows were scattered around the courtyard, and Mansour gestured that they should settle themselves. Before they could take a seat, Omar suggested that they wash their hands and faces in the fountain. After the dust of the mountains, the cool, fresh water splashed onto her face felt delightful to Melody. After washing, they sat on the cushions.
“Mansour will bring us tea and tell my cousin that we are here.”
Melody hoped that there would be something to eat to accompany the tea. She breathed a sigh of relief when Mansour returned with a silver tray with the customary teapot and glasses on it but also a plate laden with a variety of biscuits. Mansour placed the tray on a low table and raised the teapot high over the glasses before pouring tea into each one.
They had seen tea poured like this before, but now Rat wondered aloud, “Why does he hold the teapot so high when he pours?”
Omar laughed. “If someone does not do that, then they are showing you how unenthusiastic they are for your visit and making clear that it should be of short duration. By pouring the tea from a height, and causing all those bubbles in the glass, Mansour is indicating that we are welcomed guests and that he hopes our stay will be long.”
The tea was a welcome balm to their parched throats, and the biscuits were delicious. It was a curiosity of Moroccan cuisine that Melody had noted that while savoury dishes could be quite sweet, particularly the tagines, filled with prunes and apricots, traditionally sweet items, such as biscuits, often had far less sugar than they did in other cultures. However, the mint tea here was served as tooth-achingly sweet as elsewhere in Morocco.
They had been sipping their tea and nibbling on the biscuits for a few minutes when a large man burst into the courtyard. His resemblance to Omar was obvious, but this man’s stomach was even rounder and his moustache even more extravagant. It was clear from the rich fabrics of his clothing that this was their host. His djellaba was made of fine cotton with richly detailed embroidery around every edge. On his head, he wore a bright orange silk turban.
On his entrance, everyone stood, and Omar went towards the men. They hugged warmly.
“As-salamu alaykum,” Aksel said.
“Wa alaykum as-salum,” Omar replied.
Omar then turned to Melody, Rat and Fatima and introduced them. Melody had wondered if Aksel would speak any English, but his greetings made clear that he spoke it well enough.
“You are blessed guests. Anyone my dear cousin brings into my home is welcome.”