Morocco -- Out of the Desert
Day 6 saw us leaving camp on a rocky lake shore early, in the cool of morning. We had our longest single ride ahead of us – 5 hours – and there’d still be much to do when we reached its end at the farm in Meknes where we’d set out nearly a week earlier. I was worried. Kurt was in a lot of pain, his lower back in full revolt. I’d begged him not to ride but he insisted on trying. Rena assured him there were spots along the route where he could quit the ride and be picked up by the truck, but I knew, if he mounted, he’d not stop until the end.
Our ride started much as other rides had, with canters through fields to the foot of a mountain. But, as we began to ascend this particular mountain something felt different. Instead of climbing toward a stony summit, we hugged the mountain’s shoulder. As we worked our way around it, a fertile valley opened below. We carefully descended a steep slope of recently plowed dark brown soil to find a stream. The horses dropped their heads and drank thirstily then chomped on the leaves of the reeds growing at the stream’s edge.
We rode a trail tracing the stream toward the thermal spring that is its source. Often the reeds crossed over our heads creating a tunnel of cool, green shade. As we climbed toward a village, the reeds were replaced by hedges filled with ripe pomegranates, lush figs, orange trees with fruits still a deep green. Here olive trees grew not amid stones but with a carpet of bushy pepper plants at their feet.
Soon, instead of the peaceful gurgling of the stream there was the industrious sound of pumps sucking water. Farmers called greetings from the fields as they moved hoses; dispensing the apparently abundant supply of water from the spring.
Perhaps on Day 1, this stream would have appeared just a muddy rivulet. Perhaps on Day 2, these reeds would not have looked so verdant or these crops so sumptuous. Perhaps on Day 3, these farmers would not have struck me as energetic. But this was Day 6 and we’d crossed a bloody desert, come through Dead Valley, passed Bone Village. This was the prettiest valley I’d ever damn seen, and my heart swelled with joy.
Morocco is a land of continuously shifting perspective. A breeze swirls the dust making you sneeze; it stops and you float on a cloud of orange blossom fragrance. You walk through a souk loud with the honking and chuffing of motorcycles; you duck into a courtyard and there is only the gentle splash of a fountain. The sun sears your skin; it drops behind a mountain and the air feels like cool silk. This is perhaps not a land of striking beauty but these shifts in perspective create a sense of profound well-being. There is nothing quite as nice as this bit of shade, as refreshing as this glass of mint tea, as lovely as this single blossom amidst the stones.
There is a saying, ‘when the important things come easy, we make unimportant things seem hard.’ Perhaps, in our modern lives of physical ease and mental tension, where our needs for water, food, shelter are easily met, we can become a bit fixated on stupid things like the challenges of managing technology, the irritation of traffic, the cost of Netflix. It becomes hard to appreciate all the simple, good things that wait all around us. It seems silly that folks like myself – wealthy first-worlders living high speed lives – might have to come to places like this and subject ourselves to intentional hardship to find contentment and gratitude. But, I guess I’m not the first one who has had to spend a little time in the desert eating locusts and wild honey to find themself.