The next morning, I head to a billowing canvas tent the size of a circus big top where the festivities are just beginning. According to one legend, the Brides' Fair originated when a pair of star-crossed lovers, a Berber Romeo and Juliet from warring tribes, were forbidden to marry. When they cried so long that their tears formed two nearby lakes, tribal elders gave in. The fair was created to allow men and women from different tribes to meet one another and, if all goes well, to eventually marry. Inside the tent 20 couples, already engaged to be married, are waiting their turn to sign marriage contracts before a panel of notaries. The prospective grooms, wearing crisp, white djellabas, lounge in one corner while the young women, in brightly colored shawls, sit separately in another. Many engaged couples wait until the Brides' Fair to sign marriage agreements because it's cheaper. (Normally, a contract costs $50 per couple; at the fair it's just $12.)
Wandering around the sprawling harvest market, I peer into tents filled with dates, peppers and pumpkins. Teenage girls with arresting green eyes are dressed in dark indigo capes and head scarves tinkling with mirrored sequins. They inspect stands of jewelry and flirt with teenage boys wearing baseball caps emblazoned with Nike and Philadelphia Phillies logos.
Although traditional Berber weddings can last up to a week, such events are closed to outsiders. Brides' Fair organizers have devised a tourist-friendly alternative. In the nearby village of Agoudal, a 90-minute version is open to all: relatives, friends and tourists. On the way to Agoudal, I pass lush fields of alfalfa and potatoes. Small children hold up green apples for sale, and women bent double by loads of hay tread along on dirt paths.
In the middle of the village square, an announcer narrates each step of the marriage ritual. The comic high point comes when the bride's messenger goes to the groom's home to pick up presents on her behalf. As necklaces, fabrics and scarves are piled on her head, the messenger complains that the gifts are paltry things. “More!” she demands, jumping up and down. The audience laughs. The groom adds more finery. “Bring out the good stuff!” At last, head piled with booty, the bearer takes her leave.
Finally, the bride herself, resplendent in a flowing red robe, rides up on a mule, holding a lamb, representing prosperity. A child, symbolizing fertility, rides behind her. As women ululate and men tap out a high-octane tattoo on handheld drums, the bride is carried to the stage to meet the groom. Wearing a red turban and white djellaba, he takes her hand.
After the nuptials, I drive 180 miles southeast to the Merzouga dunes near Erfoud for a taste of the Sahara. What greets me is more than I bargained for: a fierce sirocco (windstorm) pelts hot sand into my mouth, eyes and hair. I quickly postpone my sunset camel ride and go to my tent hotel, where I sip a glass of mint tea and listen for the wind to die down.
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An hour before dawn I am rousted out of bed for an appointment with my inner Bedouin. Wrinkling its fleshy snout and casting me a baleful eye, my assigned camel snorts in disapproval. He's seen my kind before. Deigning to lower himself, the beast sits down with a thump and I climb aboard. “Huphup,” the camel driver calls out. The animal jerks upright, then lumbers forward, setting a stately pace behind the driver. Soon I am bobbing dreamily in sync with the gentle beast's peculiar stiff-legged walk. The dunes roll away toward Algeria under tufted, gray clouds. Then, for the first time in months, it starts to rain—scattered droplets instantly swallowed up, but rain nonetheless. Ten minutes later, the rain stops as abruptly as it began.
It was Orson Welles who put essaouira, my next destination, 500 miles to the west, on the cultural map. It was at this Atlantic port city, where caravans from Timbuktu once unloaded spices, dates, gold and ivory bound for Europe, that Welles directed and starred in his 1952 film version of Othello. Today the city is a center of Moroccan music and art. The four-day gnaoua (West African trance music) festival in June is one of the few cultural events in the highly stratified country that brings together audiences from all social classes. In the city where Jimi Hendrix once composed psychedelic hits, the festival sparks wildly creative jam sessions among local gnaoua masters, high-energy performers of North African rai music, and experimental jazz pioneers Randy Weston and Archie Shepp.