By Nicole Bergman
Fall 2013 Kaplan Award Winner
Yet again, I find myself sitting in a 1970s four door Mercedes without air conditioning. The interior is ancient and the seat upholstery is worn; the dashboard is covered with fast food wrappers and Styrofoam coffee cups. I am submerged in a heap of crap while obnoxious vibrations of Chaabi music is pumping solely out of the right speaker. The amateurish pop music sung in Arabic assaults my eardrums and shoots sporadic nerve impulses through my brain. My already throbbing headache intensifies as the driver’s body odor and an unrecognizable stench of spices encroach on my olfactory senses. The agglomeration of smells is enriched with whiffs of gasoline from the leaking engine. I crank the window down in hopes of escaping such a sensory beating. Crisp, sea-salt air with a lingering scent of fish wafts in through the cracked window and slowly flushes out the odd smells of the taxi compartment. The penetrating wind reminds me of the week I just spent in Taghazout, Morocco.
* * *
I can see skinny little Albert at the bottom ready to film me with his GoPro camera; I need to be flawless. I take one last glance over my dirt-encrusted feet that stand terrifyingly close to the edge of a cliff. As I did with the water slide, I count slowly down from three. Each time the number goes down, I take a breath that expands deeper and deeper into my chest.
“Don’t be scared, let go,” a man with a heavy Arab accent comforts me. He is standing behind me with wings spread, tall and bony. He is known as “the caretaker.” He watches over Paradise Valley, specifically the pools of water that when unmonitored are known to engulf its victims; the endless depth births a shadow that masks the logs and jutting rocks that lay beneath the water’s dark surface. The Caretaker knows where the pool’s death-dealing natural formations lie, what ledge to follow along the rock-face, and the proper form for surviving a descent of this magnitude. His eyes shimmer in the light while the shadow, cast from his large upper lip accentuates his un-brushed teeth. Without warning, the Caretaker steps past me and dives headfirst, his six-foot wingspan gliding effortlessly down to the bottom. I am ready now. I push with every muscle in both feet and try to make eye contact with the GoPro lens as I descend thirty-six feet. The adrenaline burst through my veins and I feel godly.
* * *
After landing at the Marrakech Menara Airport, my mate from high school and I are greeted by the humid eighty degree weather typical of an evening in March. The bone-shaking taxi ride to our hostel is approximately forty-five minutes from Agadir, a town with a population of 615,229; it is a two and a half hour bus ride from the capitol, Marrakech. Jess and I, sleep deprived, ignore the seat belts and sink into the leather cushions as we endure the last bit of traveling before we arrive in the small fishing village of Taghazout.
At the hostel, the rooftop terrace is erected on grey tiles hidden under sand and breadcrumbs from the morning’s breakfast. Shabby, built-in couches line the powder blue walls, which change shades with the sunlight let in by the oversized windows. Areas of the wall chipped and aged by the number of travelers coming and going, are concealed with photos of Kelly Slater and traditional tapestries. The robust balcony at the end deserves my closer inspection. Outside my gaze is greeted with rustic vermillion clay buildings glowing of ember in the sun’s bright light. The ocean shore’s rich blue mass runs along the top of the view, with a light cloud cover above. Clay houses lay stacked on top of each other below.
Today, a Tuesday, is my last morning to enjoy the freshly baked bread that is served on the terrace. It is my last morning to stand outstretched on the decadent balcony watching the sun gain energy as it rises above the buildings. It is my last morning to admire both the feelings of righteous indignation and rapture this community stirs in me. A closer inspection of the town reveals decaying rooftops covered in rusting satellite dishes and clothing lines. Children without shoes play soccer in the town plaza. The hill to the left is garnished with bits of plastic and tents assembled with tarps. The poverty that shapes life in this town is masked by nature’s pulchritude.
* * *
Rachid, one of the few employed locals, works at Adventurekeys Hostel. Days before our last, he mentioned a place known as Paradise Valley. Most travelers passing through the surfers’ hideaway of Taghazout only hear rumors of such a place. I was unlike most travelers.
“Gurls! Gurls!” Albert, a dainty surf fanatic from Brazil, calls to Jess and myself as we lay aground on the balcony. He is curious to know our plans on our last day and is disappointed when he finds out we intend to nap and tan. “Gurls! You come with me, Marco, and Kiwi to Paradise Valley,” he says. One of the more mellow Italians I have encountered, Marco, lingers in the background along with Hamish (Kiwi), a New Zealand farm boy following the surf; they seem anxious to hear our response. After some persuasion, they succeed and we pick up a few more people before setting out on our uncertain adventure. Paradise Valley is hard to find without the help of a local. To get there we will need to bribe the taxi drivers, but we agree it is worth finding paradise. On the main road, actually the only road, a group of chatty, rugged-looking men who reek of hash are gathered. The taxi drivers eye us as we approach.
* * *
Finally, a group of tourists (I imagine them thinking). They would better get in my car. The boys look foolish with their long hair and hairy faces, and look at their clothes; they wear women’s shorts. The women, I find delicious. I want to run my fingers through their long hair and down their bronzed, exposed bodies. I want to rip those little tank tops off and get my hands up the blonde’s nice wavy skirt. I want to drag my lips along their skin and taste the salty delicacy gathering between their breasts. Good, they are American. I’m always hungry for Americans. I raise my voice in Arabic and exclaim that the group of tourists are my customers. Aziz and Jaul object, they begin to yell at me. I already made money off yesterday’s customers. My friends find it to be unfair, but the girls are mouthwatering and I want them.
* * *
A racing heart, fast breathing and energized muscles lead to an all to familiar fear. The taxi drivers of this small fishing village have the same look of hunger in their eyes, as did the ones in Agadir. When we arrived to Marrakech, Jess and I took a bus ride to Agadir, the closest you can get to Taghazout with public transportation. Unfortunately, we arrived late at night; we were the only two girls out on the street and the men’s eyes inspected our every move. We came across a group of taxi drivers similar in size to the group I stood in front of in Taghazout. The dark, vulgar men of Agadir towered over us college freshmen with eyes gleaming of starvation for two youthful, female bodies. However, Jess and I find ourselves accompanied by five guys, so the fear dissipates. Many of the taxi drivers are arguing with one another in unfathomable Arabic. James, with his unreasonable short shorts, arranges for two drivers to take us to Paradise Valley. He has been living in the area for a while and knows how to fix a price for the excursion.
* * *
The petit taxi now races up the mountain backdrop of Banana Village. While Hamish, Jess, and I regret not figuring out the seatbelts in the back seat, we silently pray Aziz won’t drive off the edge. The road winds its way along the exterior of the historic, natural formation. The vista reveals miniature, run-down farms and desert shrubs scattered along the cliff’s edge. Near the top, we stop at a small pullout. The taxi drivers force us out and shout, “Picture time!” We are confused. There is literally nothing in the area I can see that I want to have a picture of. Aziz points to something behind me. Down below in the valley, groupings of green palm trees collect along the edge of a body of water. “That my friend, is Paradise Valley,” Aziz says as he admires the oasis in front of us.
* * *
We split into two groups as we leave the village of Taghazout. The unfinished roads and fast driving made for a bump-filled ride. Fifteen minutes passed, then our taxi came to an abrupt stop. The car in front, filled with the other half of our friends, had stopped in the middle of the one-way street. I stuck my head out the window and saw their taxi driver step out of the car to pick up a pack of cigarettes and some bottled coke from a shady store only a few feet away. Ten minutes later, he returned to the car and we were off again. Apparently, this was a typical occurrence. Parking your car was not an option in that neighborhood; there was a narrow, cemented path for taxis and mopeds to drive on, but no place to park a car. But, this is not a problem for the people of Banana village. Few vehicles drive through that neighborhood anyway; people there cannot afford expensive commodities, such as a car.
Still, waiting in a 1970s Mercedes without air conditioning and only open windows proved more uncomfortable than I anticipated, even if it only lasted ten minutes. In Banana Village, properly disposing of waste and other litter is not a high priority. The smell of pollution, sewage, and god-knows-what-else fades in and out at the most unexpected moments. While stopped, I spot a nearby outdoor market. The drainage grates at the marketplace have a curious, thick rubber flap that covers their openings. Later on, I am told that this keeps things from getting in to the sewer, but it doesn’t keep the stench from getting out and scaring off the tourists.
* * *
The cream-colored rock formations staggered above me are smooth with shades of orange and red in bold designs, resembling psychedelic marble. The pools of water that form below are transparent, exposing the bedrock underneath. We are hiking along the ridge: Shamus, Elliot, Marco, Albert, Hamish, Jess and myself. The skin on my shoulders stings from the week of repeated sunburn due to surfing without a wetsuit and tanning without sunscreen. Deeper into the valley, I find myself surrounded by the cool shade of a palm tree forest. The ground is muddy and wet from the heavy rainfall experienced last week. Wearing cloth sandals was a poor choice. The pools of water appear frequently and run deeper the longer we walk. Through this unfamiliar territory, we have our trusted taxi drivers as guides.
* * *
Aziz and Jaul lounge in the shade with coke bottles and cigarettes while mocking James’ flailing arms and limp upper body as he makes his way down the natural water slide; the rock is smooth and sloping with a zigzagging channel down the middle that carries an acceptable amount of water. I am up next. I lay down on my stomach headfirst, and then I arch my back slightly while trying to keep the rest of my muscles relaxed. Three. Two. One. The water gently cradles me as I flow downward, crashing into the pool below. The cool freshwater that has gathered in the heaps of stone greets my salt-crusted, dread-like hair that has not been washed in six days. “There! She’s got it!” Aziz, Jaul, and the caretaker of Paradise Valley shout proudly. Even from a distance, I can see Jaul’s few teeth poking out from his wide smile. Gazing up at them, so casually perched on the rocks, was a moment. There they are sharing a few cokes on a hot afternoon, laughing in delight, and treating me like I was one of them. Two taxi drivers that spend their day taking orders from tourists and competing amongst their closest friends to make enough money for a decent meal were still able to enjoy the simple pleasures of their job. During my stay in Morocco, I found Aziz and Jaul to be some of the kindest people; they were amusing and lovely to any outsider, character traits not always shared by Morocco’s taxi drivers.
* * *
As the taxis pulls up underneath the departure sign of the Marrakech Menara Airport, I survey each random passerby. There are a group of Brazilians to the left, one of them almost as skinny as Albert. To the right a Moroccan father’s luggage is caught on his djellaba; a long, loose, hooded garment with full sleeves. Sitting criss-cross against the wall straight ahead is a homeless young teen. Every one of them live a life as vivid and complex as my own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness. They are part of an epic story that continues invisibly around me like a colony sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that I’ll never know existed, in which I might appear only once, as an extra person sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, or as a tourist roaming the land of paradise.