South south south

Driving through snow-capped mountains to desert, past muddy rivers or clear rivers, take your pick, cacti and date palms, as thunder storms collide with sun sorms, a crystal clear ying yang in the sky; greens and reds or yellosws and dust: but then there was that one village surrounded by every color. Where am I?

Driving to the beats of Dave Matthews and K-Os, to Digable Planets and Morsheeba, throw in some Third Eye Blind and some Cannonball Adderley, merge into Talib and take a sharp right towards the hardest core jazz as each IPod takes a spin, a song or two or three. Our driver is very sick of our music, no doubt, but too polite to say a word, so the Beatles keep on jammin.

We drove for hours and hours on that "100 km" trip from Marrakesh to Ait Benhadou: from central Morocco south east into the land on the edge of the Dades Valley. Definitely not 100 km. But I loved it. As we drove, I forged memories and connections, music to landscape: oddly or not, the relationship-- between music and memory-- is incomparably foreboding for me. I don't remember nearly as much of the sights from Xi'an to Chengdu three years ago as the Two Points for Honesty that carried me rythmically along on my overnight train. Music may in fact be reflection of self, maybe reflection for self, Mr. Mathers.

We arrived at Ait Benhadou around 4pm. Due to the rain storm, unexpectedly freezing weather (I have been perpetually cold every night since arrival in the south, I am not mentally prepared for such shivering conditions, and am now scared to death to return for Boston winter if I am this cold in October/November in Morocco) and insupressable exhaustion that consumed me, despite a day of doing nothing but sitting on my butt in a car, we went to our hotel and spent the night there. A miniscule town, Ait Benhadou consists of one main road along which I noted a few local supply shops, a hanut, a large lopsided hand-painted sign for a resteraunt offering "Berber dining"(illustrated by a picture of a Mexican-looking old man staring intently at a tagine), and small homes large enough only to partially conceal the literally unbelievable gem that the road runs next to: the Kasbah at Ait Benhadou, dare I say the best preserved and most magnificent kasbah in all of Morocco. For a quick vocab reminder, a kasbah is essentially a fortified palace or castle in North Africa. This past week, our itinerary has entailed exploring the ins and outs of Morocco's "kasbah and oasis country" from Ait Benhadou along the road of 1000 kasbahs to Ouarzazate and Skoura, and from there on to Tinehir and the Todra Gorge (from where I now write to you).

Anyways, back to Ait Benhadou, the morning after arrival we awoke around 6:30 am to throw down a quick Moroccan breakfast of hubs (bread) and jam/butter/honey (identical to my breakfast every morning for the past month and a half) before heading across the main road to the kasbah. Lit up by the rising sun, a breathtaking sight beheld us, and in lieu of descriptions I will try to find a picture to post here soon.

Running out of time, as always.
Lauren