TRAVERSE 60
My family is here.”
Watching another farmer, it was hard not to be caught examining his tools. His plough, a simple construction, its handles worn smooth by generations of grip, its blade notched and reshaped countless times. There was no brand, no serial number. Only time. He said his father’ s father had used it, and when the blade cracked last year, he fixed it using a piece of railway track and some wire.
“ It’ s not beautiful,” he said,“ but it’ s honest.”
In Aït Benaddou, a town cradled by sandstone peaks and ragged hills, the buildings whisper rather than shout. Here, I found myself captivated by the small things; the way the windows were framed with chipped tiles, each pattern carefully placed, how doorways arched with carved lintels that bore not just decoration but silent blessing. There is an artisan’ s fingerprint on nearly everything in Morocco if you’ re looking slowly enough.
One morning, I came across an old man chiselling into a chunk of limestone outside his home. His fingers were bent with age, but his precision was surgical. He was restoring a corner of a window frame that had crumbled slightly. When I asked why he didn’ t just replace it, he shrugged.
“ You don’ t throw away what you can still fix. The stone just needs reminding.”
Later that evening, I wandered into a small workshop where cedar shavings blanketed the floor like snow. Inside, three generations of a family; grandfather, son, and grandson, were making intricately carved boxes. The tools were rudimentary, but the results astonishing. The boy, maybe twelve, showed me how he had carved a camel into the lid of his latest piece.“ He’ s carrying dreams,” the boy said seriously.
On a road north that we neither learned the name nor wondered where it would take us we stumbled upon a town that felt more in ruins than anything else and yet the artistry was plentiful.
A middle-aged man with callused palms, motioned us to take a look. The ruins of some great building hid gems from a bygone past. He invited us to stay for tea. A simple gesture that generated warmth beyond just a conversation. We sat on wooden chairs, not the traditional low cushions and shared laughter over my inability to sit cross-legged.
“ You ride bike all day,” our new friend teased,“ but cannot fold your legs?”
What struck me most, above the landscapes, the food, the craftsmanship, was the relentless
TRAVERSE 60