Kingdom of the West - day 4

                                                        31st of March

The last day of March brought with it so many stories on our journey. But the most wonderful one was the desert. I always thought of the desert as a dry nothingness of sand, with a sun so close that you do not breathe air but the sun itself. The road was enclosed by it like a child’s sand castle built on each side. We drove on until there was not a road anymore and until there were no more houses dropped on the hills and until we arrived. Until we finally arrived in the Sahara desert. There were no more paths and alleys, no more thoughts: there was just the desert, silent. 

But of course there is no desert without camels. We were welcomed by an old Nomad man with two camels, thirsty and tired. There were no words between me, my friend Ionut and the Nomad man. He could not speak any language that we could have understood, not even a word of English or French or German. But he offered us a smile that told us more than words could: a smile that came from the heart of the desert, that traversed dunes after dunes, that knew of too much heat and thirst; a smile that brought with it a warmth from the core of the earth, underneath the orange sand that seemed endless and unmovable. And so we left, slowly, slowly, each small step drowning in the sand. The Nomad was pulling the camels in front, his bare feet leaving trails of our way, quickly stolen by the wind. 

There are stories. The desert has stories written all over itself, words carved on the dunes. Not only written stories that I read as a child, about ceaseless journeys in the desert, about people who wandered and never came back; not only those, but also wordless stories. In such a still place, where the only sound was my breath - in and out - there is energy: life dissolved in silence, life flickering on the horizon, life fossilised into the rocks and into the small traces left by crawling insects. As we went in further and further, I listened how the sun was pervading through the sand, I listened to the absolute silence.

Then there was laughter that filled the spaces of that silence. We started laughing, and the Nomad joined in laughing at this unspoken joke that was lingering in the air. Everything became amusing as the camels got tired and increasingly uncomfortable, the thirst was accentuating and the sun was getting closer as it started to set. The journey was near its end as we arrived back. We thanked the Nomad man and just before I left, he struggled to ask me something in a language that had no words, but sounds. After five minutes of trying to decode his signs - he was rubbing his index fingers together, pointing at me then pointing at him - I realised that he was asking me to marry him. I laughed. I laughed - in that moment, I could have married a Nomad, leave everything, all my life here, my studies, my family - I could have left everything behind and go; live in the desert, walking camels and listen to the silent life there, wrapped up in scarves and djellabas, only my blue eyes revealing a hint of the girl behind all those colourful materials. 

But of course, I laughed again and left - unable to offer him a mimicked answer that he would understand. 

***

Night came but this time it did not bring sleep, but another story. As I left the desert behind, the sun was now almost gone, painting the sky purple and reflecting a red on the edge of the horizon. But the beauty was exhilarating - I could not drive past with ignorance, unable to absorb the air through the glass windows. And so I stopped on the top of a small village that seemed to me forgotten by this world and even by God. As I watched the sunset melting over those small houses, I understood how the people lived there, I understood how sadness was unable to penetrate the broken orange walls. Living like that, with a sunset of beauty and sunrise of hope every day, they need nothing more. All life was concentrated there, with the mountains on the right watching over their village and the desert on the left offering an immediate escape, a vastness of freedom and warmth. 

The sunset drained us completely, but just as I was ready to leave, a woman walked towards me and Ionut. She pointed to the sky and then told us that we are watching the sunset from her land: that was her place. But we were welcomed and we offered her a bag of Moroccan tea that we bought as it was all we had to give her. Overwhelmed by our kindness, and us overwhelmed by her, she invited us inside her house in the heart of the village. I was welcomed by twenty small children, all hiding behind their mothers’ and sisters’ legs, watching us with shyness and uncertainty. Then we were offered tea made from the leaves that we gave her and biscuits. Everyone gathered around us, silently, their eyes marvelling at my white skin and bare feet. Next to me stood a girl whose name was Shayma, a girl no more than five years-old, with hair falling into perfect curls and dark skin burnt by the sun and caressed by the ceaseless Moroccan summer. She was watching me with her huge eyes full of words and curiosity. I did not know the Moroccan rules when it comes to children, but I could not contain myself: I took her in my arms and embraced her, feeling her warm cheeks touching mine and small fingers clutching my back. Her mother looked at me and smiled and gingerly, the other children gathered around me too. I loved all of them, some were older and their hands were already bruised and scarred from work, others were young and fearful. 

As we drank the tea, we were told stories from the village. Stories about women beaten by their husbands who left them, stories about children with no parents, stories about illness and death. And yet, in all the sadness embraced by those stories there was happiness and hope. For us, the stories seemed frightening, but for them, the stories only meant life. 

The time was now for us to leave them. A long journey back to Ouarzazate was waiting for us, and so we said goodbye to them. I embraced Shayma, and told her that I hope to come there again. Ionut opened her small palm and placed a pair of small earrings that he bought from Marrakesh. Shayma had no words as happiness shaped her red lips into a smile curved on her face and her eyes thanked us enough. Then we gave Fatima, the woman who invited us into her house, a jar of honey that we bought on the way there. Her eyes were almost in tears, and she hugged us tightly. 

And so we were once again on the road, leaving behind twenty beautiful souls that were waving at us earnestly, their hearts yearning for our return. I prayed for them and for the village which might have been forgotten by God, but where God was not forgotten; the village with no name where a most beautiful young girl was keeping a pair of silver earrings inside her heart for a long time. 

***