Skoura

There are many kasbahs in this oasis. Some are crumbling, but others are vibrant. They can be either quite small or large enough to house multiple families, so that in an earlier time they could function like villages if they were stocked with enough supplies. A kasbah may look like a fortress, but within its walls are gardens of palms bearing bunches of orange dates, groves of olive trees and refreshing pools. Ahmed tells us that in order for a house to thrive, you have to live in it and take good care of it. This includes reapplying mud to the walls when it is necessary. Ahmed has other interesting observations. Moroccans spend a lot of time sitting together and drinking tea. This is their way of solving problems and connecting. If everyone is always in a rush, how can they possibly slow down enough to notice the people and places close to them?

Encampment

We picnic while sitting on soft cushions under an acacia tree. After enjoying chicken kebabs with roasted red peppers and zucchini, we continue on to the tall dunes. White canvas tents have been erected between these gently rounded shapes. Our footsteps are immediately erased by the swirling wind that starts to settle down as the occasional raindrops disappear and a rainbow emerges. Unlike the dunes in New England, we can tromp all over these and they re-form in patterns with stunningly majestic designs.

Sahara

As we drive toward the Sahara, we pass rolling terra cotta dunes with an oasis every once in awhile. A shepherd guides his light-colored desert goats to a river of water. Through the open windows, the wind whips up and all of a sudden there is some sand in our ears and more clinging to our hair and our faces. I begin to understand one of the reasons why women cover their heads. They are keeping out these fine grains of sand and the dirt. A sea of men file out of a mosque followed by a sea of women. A sign by the side of the roads reads: Timbuktu, 52 Days by Camel. When I was a child, Timbuktu was a word used to mean very far away. On this day, we are nearer to Timbuktu in Mali than we are to our home in America. People on the street hear us speaking English and ask us where we are from. When they hear the United States, they exclaim how much they like Obama and how good he is for world peace. Will he be re-elected they ask? In Shala (God willing) they hope.

Marrakesh or Marrakech

With its Berber heritage, this ochre and rose city is the intersection of Arabia, Europe and Africa. Its stucco walls are cooling and its marquetry and mosaics are intricate. Behind each door can be the secret of blooming hibiscus or fountains bathed in sunlight. You can get lost in the alleyways of the souks in the medina, the old city which was the epicenter of the caravan routes. Caravaners stayed at fondouks, inns especially for them as they conducted their business and traded their wares. The Moroccan government has renovated several of these buildings so that metal workers, leather craftsmen and candle makers can have workshops. The haunting call to prayer sounds five times a day. People flock to the mosques clad in a mix of western wear or babouches (soft slippers), caftans and djellabas (hooded robes). We visit an old synagogue and marvel at an ancient Torah inscribed on giraffe skin. We drink tomato and orange juice and taste dates, quince and olives.

From Imlil to Armoud

We trek with Abdul and watch as the red earth changes to gray, volcanic rock and the path becomes narrow with steep drops as we begin to wend our way up and down stone steps. At almost 7000 feet in elevation, Armoud is the highest town in the High Atlas and seems perilously built into the rock. We are greeted with urns of saffron marigolds and lines of magenta, cerulean blue and apple green laundry. We smell cinnamon, turmeric and ginger simmering while we are offered lamb tagine with figs and walnuts and round flatbread sliced into triangles as we touch the woven shawls, silver bracelets and leather sandals that are for sale. We first pass a woman veiled in a burkha and later two young girls in skinny jeans, ballet flats and long fitted tee shirts, quickly donning their head scarves as they get closer to school. Even in this remote spot, the cyber cafe has invaded their lives. They welcome us with Salam Aleikum, which means hello or wishing you peace.

One hour from Marrakesh

The sights and sounds are the clip clop of mules, the braying of donkeys, red dust and rocks, children's voices echoing in the distance, cooling breezes blowing through the argan trees, Berber villages built into the hillsides, the Asni weekly market selling heads of sheep, goats' feet, jeans, coriander seeds and golden raisins. With Mohamed as our guide, we hike to his village, walking on a well-worn path leading us to the edge of a gorge as we view terraced gardens, mountain goats with sleek black coats, women wearing head scarves and long robes wringing their washing by the river while toddlers wrapped in rectangles of fabric are slung across their backs. Mohamed brews mint tea with sugar for us in the house where he was born. There is a satellite dish on the roof and a TV enshrined on an embroidered blanket in the front room as his wife hopes for the day when she can have a washing machine.

Ready

with pocket notebooks and passport, pens, camera and iPad powered, travel toothpaste, purell, lip gloss, cleanser and cover up, hiking boots, walking sneakers, flats and slip ons, leggings, tee shirts, shawls and skirts for Morocco, all the way to North Africa.

About Facebook, I was a naysayer. When I heard about older people being on Facebook I figured that like skinny jeans on fifty year-olds, this was one fad that had already become passé. Individuals my age were trying way too hard to be hip. But then one day I reluctantly signed up and logged on, and a whole new world opened up to me. I discovered a fascinating way to be in touch, to follow the pieces of everyday life, to find out about art exhibits, compelling theatre and political commentary. It is possible to play an active role or to fade into the background. At the very least, you can spy on those who went to high school with your children and notice with surprise that the boy who often brought trouble into your house is married and has children. Day by day, the choice is wide open.