Adam caught a cold in Fes, which I managed to avoid until the stress of our abduction caused my immune system to fail long enough to get genuinely and truly sick myself.
Just a common cold, although today I have been feeling really miserable. We've decided to stay on in the Sahara until I get better, as our next move is some trekking through the Atlas Mountains. Today I moped around the courtyard of the beautiful Nassar Palace attempting to invite as much sympathy as possible. I look as terrible as I feel, so it hasn't been too difficult. Right now, Adam is out with the Berbers at the little shop by the camel pen, the Berbers instructing him to buy milk, Halls lozenges and cinnamon. Apparently they are going to boil it all together and put me to bed with it in order to sleep it off and sweat it out.
Already I've tried sniffing salt water, to no avail. An American from Montana gave me some decongestants, which did absolutely nothing. The problem is that I have a runny nose that simply will not stop running. If I don't wipe it every minute or so, it will simply run all over the table. Terrible, really.
Then Hassan came out and asked if I wanted to try a Berber remedy. Why not? And then he headed out in the direction of the camel pen and returned with a tuft of camel wool and a towel. He told me to put my head under the towel, set the camel wool on fire and breathe the smoke. I didn't want to offend him - he has been a good friend to us. So I ducked under and began burning the wool, at which point the little tuft began sizzling and pouring out thick camel smoke.
Camels smell bad. Burning camel fur smells worse.
I began coughing so hard that I thought my ribs would break. Adam and Hassan were laughing but Hassan swore to me as I choked that this is what his mother has him do whenever he is sick. After a few more minutes of coughing and spluttering I asked for a kettle of hot water and put in some Burmese Tiger Balm and slid back underneath my towel to inhale the steam. I emerged again 20 minutes later after simultaneously burning the tip of my nose and spilling boiling water on my leg. By this time the entire hotel staff and most of the guests were coming by to see if any treatments had made improvements, and everyone was disappointed. Time for milk boiled with cough drops! they yelled. Hassan went off to the kitchen.
The Berbers are beautiful men. Haven't sen much of the women, but they have tattooed foreheads and chins and wear necklaces made of coins. The Berbers are genuine desert people, a mixture of native Moroccan, Algerian, Mauritanian, Malian, Spanish, Arab. As a result they all look different, even from each other. Some are mulatto looking, like Hassan, tall with grey eyes and white teeth. He has a beautiful shy smile. Some are small and dark, black black lashes and startling blue green eyes. Some are very Semitic looking, Mediterranean, sharp featured. The men working here are mostly my age, and they all speak Berber and French and Spanish fluently, and can make themselves understood in English, German, Italian, Japanese. All from tourists. We spoke Spanish together. When we first arrived as a group of six, we were the only guests and we sat with the mend and they played the drums and we smoked together under the stars late into the night. Yet although they speak European languages and spend most of their time with the many travelers passing through, it seems that their hearts are here in the desert.
Hassan has visited Barcelona, and he speaks of it as if it were Delhi or Shanghai. The desert is so quiet, he says. And we have to agree. We planned to stay here only two days, and now it is already double that. It is quite, life is slow. The men here, in our guesthouse, but blue jeans but djellabas on top band the customary half turban is bright blue or orange against their brown skin. And they no longer want to follow the old Berber customs, but they are also not willing to leave the desert. I am a camel man, Hassan says.
We asked about Berber marriage. The women are kept hidden away and are not allowed to make contact with the young men, not even allowed to see them. The fathers of the girl are the ones to arrange the marriage, ensuring that the daughter is a virgin. They can ensure this because the girl has always been under the watchful eye of someone or other. When the match is made, the couple has still not met, not until their wedding. At some point during the wedding, the marriage is consummated and the bed cloth is then paraded around to prove the virginity of the girl to all present. She is usually fifteen or sixteen years old. Hassan and Ahmed want nothing to do with the tradition, telling their fathers that they will never marry a girl they haven't met. Then do however, go husband scouting for their sisters.
The boiled milk arrives, and it tastes more like chai than lozenge. Within seconds my body temperature rises, and Adam tucks me in to sweat it out. I feel better in the morning.
Just a common cold, although today I have been feeling really miserable. We've decided to stay on in the Sahara until I get better, as our next move is some trekking through the Atlas Mountains. Today I moped around the courtyard of the beautiful Nassar Palace attempting to invite as much sympathy as possible. I look as terrible as I feel, so it hasn't been too difficult. Right now, Adam is out with the Berbers at the little shop by the camel pen, the Berbers instructing him to buy milk, Halls lozenges and cinnamon. Apparently they are going to boil it all together and put me to bed with it in order to sleep it off and sweat it out.
Already I've tried sniffing salt water, to no avail. An American from Montana gave me some decongestants, which did absolutely nothing. The problem is that I have a runny nose that simply will not stop running. If I don't wipe it every minute or so, it will simply run all over the table. Terrible, really.
Then Hassan came out and asked if I wanted to try a Berber remedy. Why not? And then he headed out in the direction of the camel pen and returned with a tuft of camel wool and a towel. He told me to put my head under the towel, set the camel wool on fire and breathe the smoke. I didn't want to offend him - he has been a good friend to us. So I ducked under and began burning the wool, at which point the little tuft began sizzling and pouring out thick camel smoke.
Camels smell bad. Burning camel fur smells worse.
I began coughing so hard that I thought my ribs would break. Adam and Hassan were laughing but Hassan swore to me as I choked that this is what his mother has him do whenever he is sick. After a few more minutes of coughing and spluttering I asked for a kettle of hot water and put in some Burmese Tiger Balm and slid back underneath my towel to inhale the steam. I emerged again 20 minutes later after simultaneously burning the tip of my nose and spilling boiling water on my leg. By this time the entire hotel staff and most of the guests were coming by to see if any treatments had made improvements, and everyone was disappointed. Time for milk boiled with cough drops! they yelled. Hassan went off to the kitchen.
The Berbers are beautiful men. Haven't sen much of the women, but they have tattooed foreheads and chins and wear necklaces made of coins. The Berbers are genuine desert people, a mixture of native Moroccan, Algerian, Mauritanian, Malian, Spanish, Arab. As a result they all look different, even from each other. Some are mulatto looking, like Hassan, tall with grey eyes and white teeth. He has a beautiful shy smile. Some are small and dark, black black lashes and startling blue green eyes. Some are very Semitic looking, Mediterranean, sharp featured. The men working here are mostly my age, and they all speak Berber and French and Spanish fluently, and can make themselves understood in English, German, Italian, Japanese. All from tourists. We spoke Spanish together. When we first arrived as a group of six, we were the only guests and we sat with the mend and they played the drums and we smoked together under the stars late into the night. Yet although they speak European languages and spend most of their time with the many travelers passing through, it seems that their hearts are here in the desert.
Hassan has visited Barcelona, and he speaks of it as if it were Delhi or Shanghai. The desert is so quiet, he says. And we have to agree. We planned to stay here only two days, and now it is already double that. It is quite, life is slow. The men here, in our guesthouse, but blue jeans but djellabas on top band the customary half turban is bright blue or orange against their brown skin. And they no longer want to follow the old Berber customs, but they are also not willing to leave the desert. I am a camel man, Hassan says.
We asked about Berber marriage. The women are kept hidden away and are not allowed to make contact with the young men, not even allowed to see them. The fathers of the girl are the ones to arrange the marriage, ensuring that the daughter is a virgin. They can ensure this because the girl has always been under the watchful eye of someone or other. When the match is made, the couple has still not met, not until their wedding. At some point during the wedding, the marriage is consummated and the bed cloth is then paraded around to prove the virginity of the girl to all present. She is usually fifteen or sixteen years old. Hassan and Ahmed want nothing to do with the tradition, telling their fathers that they will never marry a girl they haven't met. Then do however, go husband scouting for their sisters.
The boiled milk arrives, and it tastes more like chai than lozenge. Within seconds my body temperature rises, and Adam tucks me in to sweat it out. I feel better in the morning.
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