Sunset Tree

A recent weekend camping trip (yes, me, camping) gave me an opportunity to see a remote part of the Everglades and experience this area in a very different way.

On the southwest coast of Florida there are small islands reachable only by boat and populated mostly by mangroves and racoons. The trees are twisted and weathered from exposure to hurricanes. The night skies only show the remotest glow from the far off city lights and the stars seem close enough to touch. Sunrise and sunset was an amazing time -- sometimes with so much color that is seemed someone had cranked up the saturation in photoshop.

This photo from the trip has been selected for exhibition in the 2009 Boca Raton Museum of Art - The Art School Exhibit from March 3 through April 10, 2009. Needless to say, I am very pleased!

Windows, Doors and Diamonds

While there are still stories to tell, this post just revels in a few of the doors, windows and random colors that captured my attention....

Terra red walls and leather

Stained glass reflections




Through sunset colored windows



Diamonds and stars

Moroccan Travels

The car takes us only so far and then we follow a gravel road on foot toward a collection of quonset huts; mud and rock walls roofed with bits and pieces of tin and plastic. A young girl quietly falls into step with Fazia, our guide. Chickens and roosters scramble at our approach to the first hut. The door sits slightly askew in its makeshift frame and on the roof, a small solar panel is angled to catch the sun. It is perhaps large enough to power a few electric lights. There is no electricity in this village, no water and no sewage.

A broad smile lights the face of the woman who opens the door and calls a greeting. She speaks no English so our communication is through Fazia. Despite the language barrier, her openness, her smile, her eyes welcome us. Aicha is dressed simply and functionally; her age is hard to determine but she seems an easy leader. She manages the project that brings us here.

Other women join our little group as we climb a small steep hill that forms the buffer in front of the village. We reach the crest of the hill and, in the distance, I see the source of their building materials – the city dump of Ifrane, a wealthy resort town in the Atlas Mountains.

Modernization, climate change and the continued desertification has affected each of Morocco’s citizens differently. This group of Berber shepherding families less able to survive by their traditional means has squatted here for access to that which the rich discard. When combined with shepherding services, the dump’s assets provide basic subsistence; however, without something more, they will never break the cycle that holds them in the last century.

At the base of the other side of the hill, is a group of huts that represent hope and the future of this village. Building on the knowledge and skill of a few of the women, the village has become the site of a hand loomed wool rug making cooperative. With the help of the local university and donations from Morocco, the US and Canada, primitive looms have been built, wool sourced and the women of the village trained to weave rugs and other small items for sale to tourists and through outlets that specialize in hand crafted items. A chicken moves from its roosting place next to one of the wooden string looms as we enter the first hut.

I bought a sweater once in Piccadilly Market in London – it was a wonderful gray and white Irish bulky knit. Handmade by Irish lasses of yarn spun by Irish spinners from the sheep shorn by Irish lads after grazing on rich Irish lands…. I loved it. I loved the thought of it and especially the feel of it – the yarn had a rough texture with the slight feel of the lanolin still in it. And, it was a bargain, to boot! I held it to my face in the cold outdoor market and it had a rich, sweet, earthy smell that I still associate with warmth.

Ducking through the doorway into the hut in Tarmilat, I smell the same warmth. The only light comes from the doorway and two openings in the roof farther in the room. From behind the looms, the women begin to bring out their designs – some masterful, some more primitive –all beautiful colors and each with a tag identifying the woman who wove it so that when it sells, they know who gets the proceeds.

Soon there is a pile of rugs of every size, bags, purses, and runners strewn on the dirt floor in front of us. Each is tagged with a price in Moroccan dirhams. I pick up a bag of a rich brown and blue pattern with cream fringe and convert the price to about US$8.75.


I had determined not to buy anything while in Morocco (no room in the suitcase) and certainly nothing wool as there is more to my Piccadilly Market story: I was scheduled to leave London the day after buying my lovely Irish sweater. I somehow stuffed it into my duffle that night but I was already developing buyer’s remorse. Indoors and without the benefit of a brisk cold breeze, my sweater smelled a bit stronger – like the sheep might still be attached to it.

The return flight from the UK is numbing and I’m sure I didn’t give my Irish sweater another thought until I opened my bag on my bedroom floor and gained overwhelming respect for the plight of a shepherd. Unzipping my bag, I was met with the odor of what was surely a whole herd of woolly creatures. My wonderful bargain and everything else in my bag was redolent with the smell of sheep. Many launderings eventually dulled the smell and it still hangs in my closet as a reminder against romantic shopping notions.

So, I wasn’t initially inclined to buy until, as I picked up each piece, I saw the reaction of the women and children that watched me judge their work. There was pride, there was appreciation that I was there, and there was hope.

In the close, still air of the hut, I held a wool panel made by the oldest woman in the cooperative to my face and breathed deeply – no sheep, only warmth.

Fazia and the oldest member of the cooperative

I came home with several pieces, wonderful memories of meeting these women and a deep admiration for their determination.

Moroccan Travels... Donkeys and Diesel

Through passport control in the modern Casablanca Airport we descend an escalator into masses of swirling white robes in baggage claim. We reach the bottom as three robed women pass hurriedly by and I catch the scent of roses that lends to my impression of being amid a host of angels. Men and women are distinguishable mainly by their head dress. The women, with white scarves wrapped securely over their heads, mostly veiled but some not, sort and search through baggage. Men, heads topped with white round close fitting caps, look regal and important as they talk seriously and with animation to airline employees. I don't understand Arabic so I assume it is the universal “lost baggage” query. Despite the guide books and internet research, nothing has prepared me for the uniformity of dress that surrounds me as I stand expectantly by the baggage carousel. I pray my bags show up.

As I listen to the cacophony of voices around me, I wonder why I am here. Southern Africa has come to feel a bit like home to me – when I step off the airplane I can feel and smell the difference in the air. It is familiar and evokes a sense of evolution in me. I am never ready to leave. I wonder if I’ll come to feel that kind of connection with the northern end of the continent over the next two weeks.

From the onset, I am struck by the contrasts.

On the way from the airport to Fez, the car radio plays a mixture of 70’s disco – Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff”, “Night Fever” by the BeeGees and other artists I haven’t heard for years. Disco is interspersed occasionally with a Moroccan tune. I find it strange; our driver doesn’t understand. Soon Sayeed interrupts our drive and conversation about his passion for American movies, TV and his budding acting career. We pull into a very modern looking gas station to rival anything seen along US expressways. It offers petrol, restrooms, a convenience store, a fast food restaurant and a prayer room to accommodate the devote in their call to pray that comes five times a day. We “rest”, Sayeed prays.

We drive on and pass donkeys and camels dragging wooden plows through fields making slightly ragged patchworks on the hill sides.

Over the next two weeks these low tech plows are a regular sight. Then, out of the blue, John Deere will loom on the horizon amid fields manicured to perfection by a combustion engine.
Still, donkeys are the Ford F-150’s of Morocco.



From the rooftop of our riad, I can peer onto a neighbor’s roof and watch her squat next to a flame fueled by a small bright blue tank of propane gas. A steaming pot perches above the heat balanced on a flimsy metal stand; garlic and onion waft my way. The robed pot watcher stirs the ancient vessel with a coarse wooden spoon and speaks rapid Arabic into her hot pink cell phone replete with camera. Oversized satellite dish antennae attached to the highest part of the roof seem to watch her as she cooks as her grandmother did while enjoying the best of new communication technology.

In the market, sides of meat and a sheep’s head hang in the open air stalls unprotected from flies while in the background sit huge stainless refrigeration units.

All over I am met with the juxtaposition of modernity overlaid starkly on the last century.



Scantily clad images peer down from billboards that tower above groups of Muslim women covered from head to toe. Only their eyes visible as they wait for the traffic light to signal them across the street and away from the tasteless advertising for a western product.

Nikes and espadrilles peak from beneath djellabas, the caftan like garment of many Moroccans. There is a plethora of western brand names….


And products available...



Yamahas wait by ancient gates…


Boys in jeans and leather jackets slip past traditionally dressed contemplative men in the markets. No apology, no defiance – it is simply a world with one foot planted firmly in this century and another, seemingly, in the last.

As the time passes, I am struck, too, by the warmth of the people, the mysterious glimpse we are allowed of their complex culture, the colors, the foods... so, more stories to come.