The Wheels on the Beat-Up-Overcrowded-Moroccan-Van Bus Go...

This has been such a fascinating ride to Ouarzazete.

Steep, rocky, narrow roads that weave through the mountainside. Colorful, but not the way Marrakech was.

Shades of brown from dull, pale to deep red hues, grassy golden tones, bright green patches flow throughout the landscape. Then cubist cliffs streaked with orange. Rolling hills polka-dotted with puffs of strubbery. Monochrome, smooth, dark mountains in the distance.

Jangling Arabic music. Bump bump.

We're in a van that reminds me of my dad's catering van for the restaurant. No sesame chicken here though. Just loads of Berbers coming and going and two bewildered Americans in the back.

It would seat about 14 comfortably. About 20 uncomfortably, not including the kid on the roof with the luggage or the guy hanging out the side from the open door.

Dust flows in from the open windows. Clouds of dirt season the dates, bread and almonds we're snacking on. I wrap my scarf around my head like a traditional Arab woman to keep the dusty breeze out of my hair.

Dan wonders what they must think of us. This is not a common tourist route.

What would we think if we saw a couple of Berbers on a regional bus on the back roads of small town Texas? If one threw on a cowboy hat out of nowhere? If they kept mumbling something that resembled "Thank you very much...it's two expensive...thank you very much...it's too expensive" (the Arabic words we keep practicing with one another)?

Whoa. Suddenly we stop and hear the sound of someone coughing, vomiting. It's the woman crammed in front of us...we think. It's hard to tell when we're all so tightly packed.

Somehow I'm not grossed out. I like this place.
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