Sandstorm in the City

Our faces are coated with a fine, pink dust. We can feel its grit inside our noses and eyes; it clings to our scalps and whispers in our ears. We cover our mouths with our hands as we walk, buffeted by gusts of swirling sand, thoughts of the rosy silt settling in our lungs. Our raincoats are cinched tight about our necks.

We’re nearly alone in this wild city sandstorm, making our way on foot from the medina to Gueliz for a late-afternoon lunch. We’ve been pent up in the house for a few days and the impending storm, heralded by great gusts of wind that threaten to rip our new tent from its terrace tether, has inspired a sense of adventure. The chaotic streets have an eerie calm that matches the sky’s yellow pallor; its scooters, taxis and donkey carts replaced by swirling bits of trash. The rose bushes in the garden of the Hotel de Ville bend with the wind like elegant supplicants. As we reach the edge of the medina, its arched gate, Bab Nkob, funnels the wind and dust so we are forced to wait for a lull before we can pass through.

This is our first fall storm and the sandy gale has us giddy. It’s not the Sahara, but this is a sandstorm, a real sandstorm! We watch as clouds of pink dust skitter across the sky, covering the limpid sun. Fall’s the best season in Morocco, we’ve been told, again and again, and October its banner month. As the sandstorm gives way to bone-chilling rain, which the weather channel promises will continue for another 48 hours, we’re dubious. Where are the sparkling fall days, crisp and clear? We want sweater weather, not days that demand slickers and rubber boots (though I’ve spied some must-have white Wellies at Marjane!).

The rain and bluster continue all afternoon, and the adrenaline-induced triumph we felt breezing into Café du Livre, tempest conquerors, is replaced by a cozy nesting over burgers and coffee. Coffee, more coffee, idle chatter with the other diners. Now that we’re warm and sated, we’re reluctant to leave; a second dash through the foul weather does not hold the allure of the first. And when we finally do arrive home, the house is cold and wet (still no cover for the courtyard), and the terrace lights explode in a shower of broken glass when the cold rain touches the hot bulbs. We shuttle from room to room across the dark, soggy courtyard, wishing we’d heeded others’ warnings about the need for doors and portable heaters. Certainly we will have lost our bargaining edge with the carpenter who’s done all of our woodwork. He knows we skimped on the doors – damn summertime construction schedule – and he knows, better than us, just how cold it’s about to get. Hamoud . . . help!!!!