portrait of a salesman

This gentleman bullied Pedro and I into buying a beautiful cactus-silk carpet in Meknès that we didn't need. I figured he owed me something in return...

It really is a pretty carpet!

in the old city walls

The old city walls of both Meknès and Rabat are riddled with holes. These holes, which were created by the wooden scaffolding used during the construction of the walls, have eagerly been taken over by starlings, Jackdaws, and pigeons in both cities. Meknès however, has a special little bird that Rabat does not...



The Lesser Kestrel.

animalia

Towards the center of a fine zoological mosaic, I spied my favourite of favourites: the fierce Little Owl, Athene noctua.

where there are ruins

...there are birds.

little stones

The combination of black and white tiles remind me of the cobblestones of Lisbon...

volubilis

The remains of the ancient city of Volubilis lie scattered within the agricultural patches of land outside Meknès. Founded in the 3rd century BCE, it was once a Mauritanian capital before becoming Roman. Volubilis boasts some of the finest mosaics I have seen in situ, with many depicting scenes from mythology, animals, and abstract patterns.

mausoleum

The Mausoleum of Moulay Ismail in Meknès is the final resting place of one of Morocco's past rulers. The building which houses his and his family's tombs is beautifully decorated with tiles arranged in dizzying patterns, yellow pointed arches, and intricately carved plaster.

hot water

When hot water pours so easily from a tap, we tend to take it for granted. Having lived in places where hot water (and water itself) is not a guarantee, I'm delighted and grateful each time the shower provides me with warmth. Hot water is a beautiful luxury, especially if you happen to have a bathtub. Our last three homes have had standing showers, so whenever Pedro and I come across a tub while travelling, we feel like we've hit the jackpot!

As in Turkey, Morocco has a hamam tradition— one which I am curious to experience, as I hear it's quite different. While in Meknès, we were charmed into having a guide take us on a morning tour through the labyrinth of alleyways in the old medina. As I stopped to take a photo of a bright green doorway, our guide explained that this was the entrance to an old hamam. "Come," he said. "I will show you something."

We followed him to another doorway, a simple and unremarkable entrance to a dark space that smelled of burning. Inside, a man in a woolen cap sat in a pile of sawdust, diligently tossing the dust into a hole in a cement structure that breathed flames with each new offering.



This is the man who feeds the fire which warms the water for people to bathe in; his eyes narrowed to tiny arcs from years of caring for the flames. He never looked at us, never paused, never said a word. When I asked if I could photograph him, he gave a slight nod of acceptance while continuing with his work.

slivers of sky

and sharp shadows.

twisting metal

This scene of a man tirelessly twisting metal into curls reminded me of a photo I took nearly three years ago in Şanlıurfa of two metalsmiths cutting rods with a hammer and clippers:



A dusty hole in the wall, the smell of metal, the force of muscle. I am drawn to all things made by hand, no matter the material— but there is something about the twisting of metal that has always intrigued me.

giant carrots, pyramids of olives, and the camel butcher

couscous friday

There's this marvellous thing that happens on Fridays in Morocco: couscous. A staple of kitchens across the Maghreb, couscous is crushed semolina that is steamed to a delightfully fluffy consistency and served with a stew of meat and veggies. Highly labour intensive, couscous typically happens on Fridays, the holy day in Muslim tradition, when families get together after prayers to enjoy a meal together. Pedro says it's very much like Sunday lunches with the family in Portugal, which no doubt is Christian in origin.

During the past six months in Morocco, I've been sampling couscous when I can get it, and what I have noticed is that it can vary considerably in flavour depending on who is making it. It can be bland or overly buttery, and it might be served with cinnamony caramelised onions (my favourite), or dried fruit— a happy discovery made at a restaurant in Meknès.



Couscous is often served with a glass of leben, a sour-tasting buttermilk. The idea is that drinking water will expand the couscous in your stomach and cause you unwanted distress, whereas the leben will aid in the digestion of all that goodness you just ate. Whether it expands or not, you are guaranteed to feel full and slip into what is lovingly referred to by my colleagues as the Couscous Coma. Try teaching a classroom of eighteen sleepy kids after a couscous lunch on a Friday, when you yourself could just curl up for a nap!



Well at least there's always a glass of mint tea to help wake you up.