leaving figuig

Dust and smoke layered beneath a bluing sky as we made our way out of Figuig. Preparations for the day's Fantasia— a fabulous, macho horse riding and rifle show— were underway, with horses awaiting their turbaned riders. I have yet to attend a Fantasia, but hope to see the one near Rabat this year.



We headed towards Oujda, a city on the closed border between Morocco and Algeria, the road generally smooth and marked with camel crossing signs. Mirages lined the horizon as the temperature climbed, and clouds began to move further and further away from us.

chanting and the chopping of hands

It was the birthday of the Prophet Mohammed that had given me the extra day off work for us to make the nine hour drive to Figuig. Unbeknownst to us, the sleepy oasis town at that particular time of year transforms into a major festival, with the few available hotel rooms booked weeks in advance— we were so lucky to have found a place to stay!

Figuig's little streets were bustling with ladies wrapped in white, men flooded the cafés, and there seemed to be several important celebrations to attend. After dinner on our second night, we decided to take a walk into the centre to see what we could see. A large white tent had been erected just past the cafés, which drew my curiosity as I saw women flocking there in large numbers. Pedro was unable to follow me inside, so he went off in search of a mint tea.



Women of all ages filled the tent and its surrounding area. I found a spot to stand on the right outer edge of the tent, by one of its supporting poles. Colourful fireworks lit up the sky, while elder ladies in white gathered closer to each other in the centre, their eyes lined dramatically in kohl, with red headbands decorated in silver encircling the tops of their white hijabs. A sweet incense scented the air, while some women began chanting softly.

Encouraged by the selfie-snapping and recording that was taking place around me (all by Moroccans), I tried filming the chanting that was building, but within minutes the lady in light blue standing in the above picture made a gesture to indicate that she would chop off all our hands. This caused some embarrassed giggles from my fellow photographers, which made our hand chopper break out into a wide grin.

Once our cameras were safely away, a brazier with glowing coals was brought to the elder women in the centre, one of whom began to heat the skin of a large, flat, circular drum. She beat it with wrinkled hands from time to time, and once it had reached a tone that pleased her, the chanting began, accompanied by a mesmerizing rhythm. The only words I could understand from their lips were Mohammed and Allah. Later on Pedro and I met up to return to our guest house, where the melodic chanting from a gathering of men crept in through a pipe in our bathroom, going on deep into the night.

a welcome respite

There's something so calming about deserts, whether they're made of the finest grains of sand or the roughest rocks. The quiet, the radiating heat and cool nights, the colours... I have loved deserts since I was a child, since my family left California for Dubai in the early 80s. There's a vivid, clinging memory in my mind of watching a snake move across the yellow sand past the wall of my primary school, the scent of oleanders on the breeze.

The peace I found in Figuig's surrounding desert was a welcome respite after a hectic time in Rabat. Work routines need to be broken by little adventures. It's good for the soul.

dining in the oasis

Have you ever seen anything like this? This glorious feast for more than the just belly is simply called trid, after the thin, transparent sheets of dough that line the plate. Trid is a flour dough that is rolled into little balls, spread onto a flat surface until thinner than paper, then fried on a flat pan. The trid is then rolled and layered to create petals on a plate, topped with fragrant chicken, fried almonds and sultanas, with some hard-boiled eggs for good measure. The dish is communal, and eaten with the hands (always the right hand!) by pulling a petal of trid and rolling it toward the centre of the plate to fill it with a little bit of everything delicious. Not only is it ever so tasty, it's fun to eat too! We shared our trid with some fellow guests at the auberge we were staying at, and an older gentleman with quite the sense of humour.

As Figuig is an oasis of palm trees— once an important stopover for many Moroccans on pilgrimage to Mecca— there were of course, plenty of dates to delight in. I have had all sorts of dates from various parts of the world, but the ones I had this night were undoubtedly my favourite. I was told that they were "fresh", which I took to mean that they were in the early stage of ripening— hence their beautiful golden colour:

This was one of the most memorable dining experiences I have had in Morocco so far. I loved the sweet and savoury combination of the chicken and sultanas, with the soft trid and crunchy almonds— and of course, the dates were gorgeous! Sharing food with fellow travellers and locals alike made it all the better.

Figuig was turning out to be one of my favourite places in Morocco...

tunnels of mud and concrete

As temperatures can rise to a maximum of near 40º in Figuig with an unforgiving sun, the older part of the town is a small labyrinth of narrow alleyways that are often covered, forming cool tunnels of relief. More modern homes and walls are made of concrete, but it seems that mud was traditionally used, casting a familiar orange glow when struck by light— the orange of the earth.



Though there isn't much to Figuig other than the palmeraie and humble homes, I was quite taken by the little town. It just felt good— people were warm and kind, the atmosphere was relaxed, and the bleak surrounding landscape is something that appeals to me. Thoughts of returning danced around my head before I even left...

where the palms lie

In a far corner of Morocco near the Algerian border lies the town of Figuig, a little pocket of green palmeraie surrounded by rocky golden desert.