Wedding Bells… Not! - Part V
I married well known Czech photographer, Werner Forman, on a dark rainy day at a registry office in London, largely because my mother, who had a crush on him, insisted. Her feelings for Werner, her desire to keep him in the family, were what led to his proposal of marriage and everything that followed.
THIS IS PART 5 of a NINE-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
Photo: Sergey Pesterev
I would be remiss to write about my “honeymoon” in Morocco without mentioning a dramatic, even possibly dangerous, incident that occurred during the trip. Werner, whose overall goal was to present the mystery and beauty of Islamic cities that had been rhapsodized in Scheherazade's A Thousand and One Nights, was determined to photograph a certain fountain he’d read about. We searched all over Marrakech for this fountain, but couldn’t find it. So Werner decided to hire a guide, something he almost never did. The guide was a heavyset young man whose name I don’t remember. He, too, couldn’t find the fountain, but suggested we visit a small town in the Atlas Mountains that had interesting architecture -- he could take us there that same afternoon.
We started our journey after lunch. The town was about an hour outside Marrakech, and for most of the journey the road was good. But then we turned off onto an overgrown dirt side road too muddy to negotiate without getting totally stuck. That didn’t make too much difference, however, because the road ended abruptly. All that was left was a trail, and beyond the trail, a distant view of a steep mountain slope with what looked like a beautiful town etched into the side of it.
That, of course, was the town we wanted to get to, but between us and it was difficult terrain: a raging creek filled with slippery rocks and boulders, a steep, perilous climb over more rocks, a dangerous-looking, deadly approach up a naked mountainside. No way we could get there without killing ourselves.
Photo: Lauren George
Before we could say anything, however, a group of young boys appeared with horses for us to ride. How they had known we were there, was a question I asked myself later.
We mounted the horses, Werner clutching his camera bag, and started our journey across the raging stream. Even for me, who’d ridden most of my life, it was a scary ride; but for Werner, who’d hardly ever been on a horse, it was petrifying. He hung on for dear life as the horses moved through the water. One wrong step and we were both goners.
The horses actually had to negotiate a series of slick, slab-like, stone steps to get through the gates of the small, walled city. At the top of the steps stood a man in Beduoin-style clothing who beckoned to us.
Cover photo: Issy Bailey