I stand on the side of a dirt path with my grandmother, who I call Gigi. We are waiting our turn to cross a bridge made of logs and hardened bags of concrete which spans the width of a small creek. Waiting for us, on the other side of this makeshift bridge, is the Ourika Valley’s Berber Market. 

We are situated at the base of the high Atlas Mountains about one hour outside of Marrakech, Morocco and the landscape here is beautiful. Sharp mountains reach miles into the sky around us and touch white clouds thousands of feet above. By squinting my eyes, I can just make out patches of land divided into neat squares near the peak of the mountains, revealing evidence of farming on slopes at high elevations. Mountain-sides shine green with life as plants thrive in the nutrient-dense soil which is rich in iron, and a deep red in color. So red, in fact, that the fur of cats and dogs, once white, turns pink. 

It is spring and each day the temperature climbs along with the sun as it rises higher in the sky. Mornings and evenings are pleasant, and nighttime is mild. Every evening, Gigi and I crack open our windows to let cool, fresh air wash over us in our sleep. Along with the air comes the sounds of the Ourika Valley at night: cricket chirp, dogs bark, donkeys bray, roosters crow in the early hours of the day. 

The villages of the Ourika are small and dispersed, connected by narrow dirt roads, paths, and bridges. Homes are built with clay and stones that come from this earth, red in color and appearing to rise out of the very land itself. The people living in these villages are Berber, or Amazigh which translates to “free people.” For thousands of years, they have inhabited this land, learning to adapt to unforgiving terrain, harsh winters, and scorching summers. It is this harsh environment precisely that has helped the Berber people preserve their cultural identity for as long as they have. This place is hard to reach to the rest of the world. 

Every Monday, in the small village of Tnine, which happens to translate to Monday, Berber people travel many miles from their villages, by foot, bike, or donkey, to attend this market, as has been done every week, on Monday, for hundreds of years prior. This market serves as a crucial gathering of community and a vital resource helping sustain the Ourika Valley and beyond. 

So here we are, Gigi and I, standing on a small dirt path awaiting our turn to cross the bridge that would act as our gateway to the Berber Market. We are the only foreign faces in a crowd of men dressed in djellebas – loose-fitting, long, hooded robes that come in a variety of colors and patterns – each man wears a hat atop his head to protect from the sweltering sun above. The hats are either brimmed and made of straw, or tight, small, and fitted.

Suddenly, a man’s voice comes from behind us, speaking French. 

“D’ous viens-vous?” Where are you from? The voice asks inquisitively. 

I turn to see a middle-aged man dressed in loose-fitting blue jeans, a long sleeved blue collared shirt, and a brown baseball cap. He stands out from this crowd of djellebas. 

“Les Etats Unis.” The United States. I answer, “C’est ma grand-mere.” This is my grandmother. I point to Gigi, who turns around to give a polite smile and wave. 

“Ah genial! Et comment vous appelez?” Oh great, and what are your names? The man in the cap asks. 

“Moi, je m’appelle Sophia.” My name is Sophia. I tell him with a smile before turning my head to Gigi. 

“Et je m’appelle Margaret.” And my name is Margaret. Gigi says. 

“Je m’appelle Abdoul, enchanté.” My name is Abdoul, it’s nice to meet you. Abdoul says. 

I repeat his name back to him once, eager to ensure that I heard him correctly – I did. We continue on with polite conversation about who we are. Abdoul lives in a village not far from here and is Berber himself. He has children and a wife at home in his village. He asks us how we like Morocco and I tell him it’s my second time here, my grandmother’s first, and we love his country. Its true, Morocco has a special quality to it. Something unexplainable, but you can feel it.

Once there is enough space on the bridge, the three of us cross together among a much larger crowd of people who I did not meet. 

Upon entering the market, the first thing that catches my eye is a shaded table that sits below a blue tarp with white stripes. An older man sits behind the table with a small blue hat decorating his head and a gray djelleba running the length of his body and arms. Every inch of his table is full of small vials that look to be filled with oils, and containers that hold herbs and spices. An energetic group of about ten men surround his table from all sides. They speak over one another in Arabic, Berber, and French, each attempting to capture the old man’s attention before the man beside him does. Some of them wave money in the air, a desperate attempt to catch the old man’s eye. The old man doesn’t seem to pay the chaos any mind. He works patiently and takes his time serving one customer at a time. 

Gigi and my gaze lingers on this scene as we walk past, attempting to make sense of it but struggling to do so. We make guesses among each other as to what might be happening at this table and Gigi speculates that perhaps the men are gambling – the Nevada in our blood always shines through. 

I turn to ask our new friend Abdoul, “Qu’est qu’ils font?” What are they doing? 

Abdoul explains to us that the man behind the table is a medicine man, a healer, and those gathered around his table are seeking his advice. He heals using natural properties of plants in the form of spice, herbs, and oil. Everything on his table possesses some type of medicinal property. And within himself, this old man carries knowledge that has been passed down for hundreds of generations before him. He serves an important role in his community, and for many of the men gathered around his table, this is the only time they’ll be able to seek trusted medical advice until next Monday. 

As Gigi and I continue on, Abdoul begins offering us more information about what is happening in the market around us. At this point, Gigi and I are at a crossroads: either we continue engaging with Abdoul and agree to let him give us a tour of the market which he will expect payment for, or we set off on our own to discover the market for ourselves. As Gigi and I discuss our decision, Abdoul waits patiently nearby. Gigi initially is hesitant to let this man give us a tour of the market, which I understand. It is important to have your guard up when traveling, there are a lot of people out there who will take advantage of travelers that know no better. But it is also important to know when to let your guard down. 

I take a moment to analyze our current situation. We are about to enter a market made up of winding narrow paths that seem to make their way through this space like a maze. And from what I can tell so far, I am hearing much more Arabic and Berber than I am hearing French – these are two languages that neither Gigi nor I speak. I watch as groups of market-goers pass us by and I don’t see a single other foreign face. This market is not made for people like us, it serves a purpose and Gigi and I do not fit into that purpose. 

We end up agreeing to let Abdoul give us a tour of the market, and turn back to him with smiles and both nod a little “okay!” Without speaking explicitly about anything, we all silently enter into a contract. Abdoul steps ahead of us, taking his role as guide seriously, and we both fall in line behind him. 

We begin our journey in the poultry section of the market. Vendors display yellow chicks, chickens, and roosters in crates and pens all made from repurposed materials – small yellow chicks peep around in cardboard boxes that once held fruit, while larger birds are corralled into spaces with patchwork fencing of scraps of cardboard, metal, and plastic all stitched together. Some vendors don’t have pens or crates to contain their animals so they bind their chickens and roosters by their wings and feet and set them on the ground on their bellies, immobile. The vendors sit on crates and small boxes  near their animals and discuss business in Arabic and Berber with prospective customers. 

We pass about twenty men selling farm birds and at the end of this line is a metal crate packed full of rabbits. Upon reaching this point, Gigi makes an insightful observation: there are no women. I look around us, not having realized this yet. Sure enough, every vendor, every buyer, was a man. Of the forty people or so in our direct vicinity, Gigi and I were the only women. 

“Abdoul, pourquoi n’y a-t-il pas de femmes?”Abdoul, why are there no women? Gigi asks. 

He explains that in the Berber culture, it is the man’s job to earn money and provide for himself and his family. This market plays a major role in helping men fulfill the role of provider. They will bring home food, supplies, and income to their wives who will use these items to feed and care for all members of the family, immediate and extended. Next Monday, the husbands will bring home more food, income, and supplies, and the pattern will continue. This has been the way of life for hundreds of generations prior, and this cultural custom remains strong and intact to this day. 

We follow Abdoul as he makes a sharp turn off this main path and begins leading us through spaces not typically traveled by customers. We are surrounded by vendors sitting on crates under tarps seeking solace from the unrelenting sun above. We weave our way carefully through these spaces, muttering quiet “pardonne-moi”s as we pass. Excuse me. 

We make our way through a maze of dirt paths and narrow walkways spread between vendors and their things. And at last, we are spat out in a sea of wool. In all directions, as far as the eye can see, sheep, goats, and lambs are packed tightly together in this space. Shepards in djellabas with straw hats mill about the large space with ropes in their hands attaching them to a handful of animals. Prospective customers approach the shepherds and ask questions, oftentimes bending down to inspect the animal by lifting its head. 

The sheep are all beige with black noses and have a decent amount of harvestable wool on their bodies. I imagine this would be a pretty brutal climate to be a sheep. I have no wool on my body, have been outside for less than an hour, and have already worked up a serious sweat. Goats differ more in appearance, ranging in color from white, to brown, to gray, to black, each with two long horns and scruffy faces. Some lambs mill about as well, young and quite small compared to their adult counterparts. 

We don’t spend much time here, Abdoul is quite excited about the next stop on our tour, so we end up moving on rather quickly

“Viens avec moi!” Abdoul says, “Nous allons regarder le parking!” Come with me, we’re going to see the parking lot.

Gigi and I exchange confused looks. The parking lot? What an odd tour, I am thinking. This whole marketplace is sprawled around us, offering beautiful insights into what life is like here. Yet, we are rushing off to the parking lot. I don’t understand it. Nonetheless, we follow Abdoul as he parts the sea of wool. Animals bray as we walk past them towards a dirt path that runs between two large trucks. This is the first of many well-maneuvered turns we take in this maze of structures, tarps, and sheep. 

Finally, we reach a gate made out of scrap metal which Abdoul pushes open with ease. It opens to an expansive space of red dirt with small patches of green grass. Across from the gate we just walked through is a pink wall that stands about ten feet high. Closing in the space between the pink wall and the gate we just walked through is a gate made of every material you could imagine: old wooden boards, sheets of tin roof, large pieces of plastic. I can’t tell how they are attached to one another, but they are, and together with the gate and the pink wall, there is a fenced in area. 

Held within these makeshift fences, is about fifty donkeys. They bray with excitement as we walk in, “hee-haw, hee-haw!” You couldn’t help but laugh! They wore blue saddles made of rectangular pieces of padding topped with blue plastic. Many have bags of grain tied around their heads, making for easy access to food while their owners spend the day at the market. 

Neither Gigi nor I was expecting this when Abdoul said he wanted to show us the parking lot. I catch him grinning ear to ear out of the corner of my eye, obviously humored by our reactions. He motions for us to follow him into the pen of donkeys. 

“Viens! Viens!” Come! Come! He encourages us. 

Now in the crowd of donkeys, Abdoul concentrates on one in particular which is wandering about near the middle of the pen. None of the donkeys are tied to posts or fences, they wander freely this small pasture amongst one another, chewing on the grass or grain.  

Abdoul stops in front of a gray donkey wearing a blue saddle with two big ears. It has a little patch of gray hair that pokes up in between its two ears. The majority of its face isn’t visible as its buried in a sack of grain, the sack itself obviously re-purposed  on the front of the bag, in Arabic, the word cous-cous is written in yellow letters. 

“Voici ma Berber BMW!” Here is my Berber BMW! Abdoul says joyfully with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye, proud of his joke. 

Gigi and I laugh. It’s a good joke. 

“Viens, je vais prendre ta photo.” Come, I will take your photo. Gigi and I laugh as our photo is taken while we stand on either side of his donkey, whose nose is still buried in the couscous bag. I set my hand on the blue saddle and the plastic is soft and warm from baking in the sun all day. I feel for this animal, this isn’t an easy environment to survive in.