MOVIES Part Three

Highly opinionated comments on movies that have some aspect of camels or desert. Continued from MOVIES Part One and MOVIES Part Two. You know you can click on those links, right?

The Sheltering Sky

Debra Winger and John Malkovich seek isolated places in the Sahara to find? avoid? remedy? their hollow relationship. I never liked Malkovich but he's bearable here, till he gets typhoid and takes far too long to die. She ‒ restless, dazed, possibly nuts ‒ wanders off, meets a camel caravan and one mishap after another. Appropriately acclaimed for its gorgeous cinematography, it's Bertolucci-directed, but Paul Bowles' aimless existentialism and characters leave me cold. Partially filmed in several Morocco locations.

Babel

OK, 'fessing up. Only watched the one-third (or so) that takes place in Morocco (and actually filmed there in studios I visited in 2017). A sad, harrowing tale of little boys playing with a gun and how far the consequences reach — in a random universe, we all have a degree of connection to everyone else. Brad Pitt does a more than creditable job; it was agony watching/waiting for Cate Blanchett to die.

Sahara

Pure treasure hunting good fun, and camels! Mathew McConaughey performs as Clive Cussler's action hero Dirk Pitt in an improbable story of a search for a missing Civil War-era iron battleship, supposedly sunk upriver in what would be Mali(!). Great camaraderie interaction with supporting actor Steve Zahn. Penelope Cruz plays the trusting wench, albeit a humanitarian doctor; no one dies except the bad guys. Yes, some filming in Morocco, more in Spain, 2005.

Sand and Sorrow

George Clooney's activist side narrates (and produced) this documentary of the humanitarian crisis in Darfur - a province in Sudan - largely being ignored by the rest of the world. Government-directed genocide of "non-Arab" civilians, millions of people still displaced and unsafe even years after the doc was made (2007). Killing and burning. Very difficult to watch.

P.S. I loved you once, George, but I can't forgive you for the Nescafé ads. 

The Story of the Weeping Camel

Oh — what a slice of life in rural Mongolia! Absolutely enchanting. This 2003 docudrama is available online. Of course it's the Gobi desert where, in the midst of their daily life, a nomad family tries to save a baby camel rejected by its mother. The effort requires special attention with traditional customs and music. Deeply moving and joyful.

Letters from Baghdad

A documentary of 2016, Gertrude Bell's letters speak to her adventures and British service in Arabia prior to and during the First World War. As much or more than the more celebrated T.E. Lawrence, Bell helped shape Middle East alliances and policies. Less attention is paid to her archaeological accomplishments and her founding of the renowned Baghdad Museum. Produced and voiced by Tilda Swinton as Bell, the film is rich with archival footage and Bell's own photographs, with contemporary commentary from the many historical figures she met or worked with. Extremely well done.

The Little Prince

Aside from unable to grasp the wispy little voices of child characters (uneven sound?) half the time, I could not make much sense of it. Maybe because it's so French? Same trouble with the book, moi, long ago. This new adaptation (2015) includes a darling little girl who, in searching for the Little Prince, sees the worst of grown-up behaviour, assisted by the incredibly ugly but kind Aviator. The Sahara makes a brief appearance along with an enigmatic fox and a snake. The Little Prince himself did not impress me. See with your heart seems to be the message, but it's enough to know that the twinkling of stars means happy laughter.

Cairo Time

A romantic side of Egypt, of Cairo (2009). Juliet arrives in the city to meet her husband who remains absent in Gaza until the end of the film. Husband's good friend Tareq escorts Juliet in sightseeing, a mutual attraction building. Ultimately, consummation is thwarted. Flimsy story, but the scenes of Cairo are wonderful, so many places I've been. ... I know he's acted in Star Trek and Syriana and numerous films or stage productions, but why can't we see MORE of hunk Alexander Siddig who played Tareq?!

Keep those movies coming ...

© 2019 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Mountain Villages, Morocco 2017

A major part of the joy in travelling with the "Texas camel corps" is the off-beat itinerary and impromptu daily contacts. From Marrakesh, we take a day trip into the High Atlas mountains. On a good road we wind and switchback higher and higher. At a viewpoint we briefly browse the crafts for sale, and Doug never misses a chance to talk camels and saddles.

Later reaching a fork, the route on the right will take us to Ouikaimeden, our high destination. But first, the cops sitting in their car at the fork stop us. Our driver Mohamed is told to get out of our vehicle and go to their car. Eh?! Lengthy conversation takes place; finally Doug gets out to see what's up. Back and forth to our van for paperwork. Phone calls ensue. We are resigned to a potentially new twist in our agenda.

However the police were only checking out the rental contract for our van. Some of us suspect they were merely bored sitting there all day with next to no traffic. Having been stopped occasionally before, the big difference here – Mohamed grins at this – no baksheesh changed hands.

We're heading to the snow line, more hairpin curves, the road becomes one lane, then ultimately fades away into a sheep path. The highest mountain in Africa, Toubkall at 4,167 metres, is just beyond us; we are at about 9,000 feet elevation. There's a ski resort here but it's spring, season over. Flocks of sheep feasting on green grass. Heather goes off to a shepherd hut to commune with her new Berber self.

Seasonal homes dot the mountainside above the road. Tagines are bubbling at a nearby outdoor restaurant; lunch time. We share beef, lamb, and goat. A man selling bracelets and necklaces comes, persisting, but otherwise it's all pretty deserted. The royal gendarmerie next door looks semi-abandoned.

On a new route, we follow the course of a steep-sided river to come down from great heights. Lots of kids playing along the way; it's a school holiday.

The road runs along one side of the valley, carved out of the mountainsides; people live on the opposite side of the river. Their homes are connected to the road side by crazy foot bridges, some in better shape than others. Their balancing skills must be excellent.

 

Courtesy Mark Charteris

The lower we descend, the more the scene turns into a sort of endless restaurant row: patios facing the river with umbrellas and plastic chairs. Often the rocky river bank is the patio. At times when we stop, enterprising youngsters appear out of nowhere, ready to sell us souvenirs. We park at Ourika village, today very much catering to the holiday crowd; horse and camel rides are available.

Mohamed and I drink coffee while the others shop along the village street. It's a market atmosphere, congenial crowds.

Courtesy Heather Daveno

Just as darkness falls we are back in Marrakesh. We split up for dinner, spreading out from the main square, Jemaa el Fna. I only mention this — quite unconnected with the mountain villages — because the vin gris on the dinner menu amuses me. Well, it's not actually grey. It's much like a dry rosé, a good accompaniment for many dishes. Vin gris is unique to Morocco and a perfect companion for ending a very fine day.

© 2018 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Ouarzazate, Morocco 2017

Wending our way from east to west, skirting the Sahara, we arrived in Ouarzazate, the premier film-making region of North Africa. We hired Mohamed, a local guide, to explore the town's impressive Kasbah Taourirt that has featured in so many desert movies. Not to be confused with Mohamed, our travel companion and my other son. Mohamed chatters enthusiastically about his own participation as an extra in many past movies.

Taourirt the Kasbah is immense ... we clamber up, down, and through dozens of interior stairways and passages. Without Mohamed we would still be wandering in the maze of over 300 rooms. It was a workout and well worth it. The harem, guest apartments, family rooms ... paying attention to the intricate carved cedar ceilings wherever we go.

Built in the nineteenth century, Taourirt housed an extended family that controlled trade routes in the region. Some of it now deteriorated, UNESCO has funded partial renovations for public viewing.

We discover an artists' gallery, oh good! Some of them are working on site, by a balcony overlooking the main courtyard. Plenty of mementos here to choose from.

Back on the street, across from the kasbah entrance is the finish line for a long distance runners' competition. An orderly crowd is applauding them; local police acting as marshals seem superfluous. Doug is kindly carrying my heavy bag for me as we near our vehicle. When I reach to retrieve it, he jokes, yelling "Help, police! Thief!" A cop on the corner immediately turns and starts toward us. Much nervous hilarity, Doug goes over to talk with him; another friend made.

Then ...

Credit: Mark Charteris

On we go to Atlas Film Studios not far away. Countless well-known movies have been wholly or partly filmed here: Ben Hur, Cleopatra, Kundun, Alexander, Gladiator, The Man Who Would be King, Game of Thrones, even some of Lawrence of Arabia and Queen of the Desert, always something in the works. Much to my surprise, also The Way Back (escape from a Siberian gulag), a most excellent under-rated film. Presently a mini-series called Tut is in production. We are waved away, "no cameras, no cameras." Enormous Egyptian sets and replicas are everywhere, although it would take more than a few hours to cover its twenty hectares!

We walked through a biblical-era market village, passed the site of Cleopatra's milk bath, admired an abandoned shipwreck, posed on temple steps, mingled with mounted tribesmen, and, before enjoying a leisurely, quiet lunch by the pool of the studio's Oscar Hotel, Heather snagged this fabulous photo of two extras:

Our afternoon was devoted to the nearby UNESCO site of Ait Ben Haddou, a fortified village (ksar) on a hillside. A "traditional pre-Saharan earthen construction habitat" and good example of southern Morocco architecture. Seventeenth century buildings likely grew over older ones since caravan times. Families still live here, making it difficult to monitor conservation and repair.

First we head down the hill from the tourist-built town to the Mellah river. After crossing the bridge our little group splits up for different directions and paces. This is a town where people have lived permanently for centuries but I'm not surprised to see a few vendors on the upward, narrow thoroughfare. I am tired and decide not to huff my way up to the top to see a tower. A vendor (another Mohamed) of snacks and drinks lets me park on a chair. He has a little English.

An older man with some English from a shop across the way comes to chat even though I am asleep with my eyes open. He gets my not wanting to climb the hill and says "asthma" pointing to himself. He tells me his inhalor is empty; somehow automatically I say I always have mine with me. His unspoken question hovers ... I ramble on about doctor's prescriptions, uneasy with the thought.

Mohamed's place is more than snacks and drinks; now that I'm awake again I am eyeing some nice dresses and scarves within/without his shop. And next door. And of course across the way. Many locally-made products.

Eventually I can't resist browsing the merchandise. Older man is helpful. OK, my conscience leaps and I ask if he wants to use my inhalor. Brisk nodding of the head. He shakes it and takes three very deep satisfying puffs. In gratitude, he grabs a scarf and winds a turban around my head with Mohamed nodding approval.

So I decide it behooves me to sit out front and give the patter to passing tourists like "Come inside ... many colours ... nice gifts ... I make you best price."

Doug shows up a little astonished at the tableau. Another one of those Moments.

© 2018 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Marrakesh, Morocco 2017

Redux. Again, finding myself here, twelve years later. Some things were familiar!

The name Marrakesh has long conjured the essence of exotic faraway cultures. Many hippies of yore found a congenial stay here, some permanently. There is a considerable long-time ex-pat contingent among the population. While still the same city at its ancient core, certain elements have learned to cater to tourism ... to be expected. I have to say: unlike the lesser-known and relatively unspoiled city of Chefchaouen (an earlier post). 

The drive into Marrakesh from the southwest was a hellish traffic maze. It's the third largest city in the country with 900,000 population. First we had to find the right parking place in the medina, cruising streets so narrow I was sure our vehicle would get stuck between buildings. From there we walked to the riad, missing it on the first try; the GPS on Doug's phone did not work perfectly in the medina confines.

An elegant, pampering riad for two nights! Each riad we stayed in seemed to prove more special than the last one. Tucked away in the back streets of the medina, Riad Adriana was a serene rose-scented oasis. Literally. Fresh rose petals scattered in bed and bath greeted us.

We were completely entranced with our lodgings and its exquisite appointments — the interior design; the obligatory fountain and a mountain of oranges piled nearby; the textiles, mosaics, lanterns, chandeliers; the gleaming brass sink and fixtures in the bathroom; lovely munchies awaiting. I was appointed to the "Bordeaux" ensuite on the main floor; all rooms entered from the courtyard or inner balconies.

But Doug was consulting with local guide Wafi and we hurried away since it was mid-afternoon. Our route to and from the riad only became familiar by the end of our stay. It consisted of navigating a few residential streets, then into the meat and produce section of the medina that eventually took us out to a parking area by the city wall. "Turn left at the barber shop," Doug reminded us if we should get lost. As if we would find the barber shop! Wafi had a heavy accent and as far as I could hear, had little to say; he was not a personable guy.

 

We drove, not far, to Majorelle Gardens, recently owned by Yves St Laurent who is venerated there; gay visitors (and others) pay homage at his memorial. Labourers were re-paving the entire street with bits of brick. We were lucky to bypass the queue stretching all the way along the block. Lovely place of tropical/desert plants, but crowded with tourists. A small museum showcases historical Berber dress and jewellery (collected by the original Majorelle owner, not YSL). Every piece was chosen with meticulous good taste, but alas no photography allowed inside. An elegant gift shop provides expensive souvenirs if you are so inclined.

Dropped off at Koutoubia mosque, we crossed the busy street to enter Jemaa el-Fnaa, the famous main square of the medina. But we had other purposes before joining the wide-open throng. We strode endless streets of souks following Wafi as he pointed out brass hammering, furniture making (a bridal chair!), weaving, wool dyeing; we saw the interior of an ancient fireplace bakery, a historic madrasa. and he steered us to selected merchants (always part of a tour guide's agenda). Wafi also ushered us into an argan emporium where we buy nothing. We nix the carpet seller. He was getting disappointed we were not buying from his selected souks. It was definitely a good tour but charmless Wafi displayed a certain air of bored superiority - for us or his job, we weren't sure.

Purchasing became a do-it-yourself project even though Wafi was supposedly there to assist. He sneered at the exorbitant price Catherine paid for a couple of scarves even though he silently observed the process. He disappeared when he saw me eyeing a colourful Berber dress. I persisted in a deal mutually satisfactory to buyer and seller. He, Wafi, then reappeared to steer us to an expensive dress salon of quality clothing. Nope, no interest from us. In his eyes we were irredeemable. Wafi apparently believes the myth that all tourists are exceedingly wealthy and have terrible taste. We saw the last of him not a bit too soon, all agreeing he had the personality of a cornered cobra.

We headed into Jema el-Fnaa for dinner, crossing part of the square. It was still daylight. I'd forgotten how much it caters to tourists — all the snake charmers, trained monkeys, trick performers, and so on. Surprising how many sad people were begging with signs claiming "Syrian refugees" ... Morocco has not been a known host to them. The famous water-sellers were absent at the time. Down a side street we went to Restaurant Riad Omar, climbing to the fourth floor dining terrace. Great view of the street and its bedlam below with the square in the distance, as twilight came. Best harira soup ever! Pastilla again, so big it has to be shared. Weariness sets in.

Thanks to Mark Charteris

The others stayed to stroll the square while Mohamed took me home. Crossing the suicide-traffic street to Koutoubia again, he took my hand protectively. A Casablancan, he told me he doesn't care for Marrakesh. I can understand why. The square is the iconic heart of the city, full of life night and day where you can seek out little gems of authentic interaction; but it is also like a hustler's paradise teetering on the verge of frenzy. After the short drive we got a teeny bit lost in the medina between the barber shop and the riad but someone helped us. We were grateful in many ways to have Mohamed with us. Doug calls him my brother. Since I'd dubbed Doug my son, now Mohamed is my other son.

We returned to Jemaa el-Fnaa next evening after a gorgeous day in the mountain villages. Three of us found a restaurant outside the medina where we could enjoy some wine. Grey (gris) wine on the menu amused me but it's pink, not grey ‒ mindful of a rosé. I learn later it's a product exclusive to the well-regarded Moroccan wine industry. An unexpected floor show added an aspect of social culture, although (dance critic) the belly dancer was too slim and dispirited to be truly authentic. The woman dancing with candles on her head was inexplicable: you had to be there.

Marrakesh, a city of contradictions, mixing tradition with tourism to the nth degree. It's busy and can be fun, exciting, but watch your wallet. In view of so many new places we'd seen outside the general tourism box, I have to agree with my other son.

© 2017 Brenda Dougall Merriman