La Paloma Blanca

Tétouan // Morocco

By Lauren di Matteo

Making the most of the unusually clear and cool weather, an old beat up pinto-esque, taxi whisked us away from the city, as the sun began its initial decent toward the mountain-studded horizon. Peter and his Moroccan friend were hot on our heels in a yellow taxi of their own, racing up the base of Mt. Boanan, dodging traffic and the men and women in strange (yet oddly stylish) robes who were effortlessly weaving between cars and traipsing across dusty, vacant lots. The town was abuzz, with everyone making—what I assumed to be—their post-work pilgrimage home.

My first day in an Arab country was drawing to a close, and I’d yet to shake the ‘is this a dream?’ feeling, doing all I could to keep from rubbernecking every time a grown man in a flowing robe passed by me. As I gazed out the dusty window, my attention drifted from my futile attempts to track with the Arabic conversation between Rachel (my American cohort) and the cab driver, to the ethereal-like glow that had begun to blanket the city. Surely, this is what had beckoned so many artists before me. Unreal.

Two-thirds of the way up the mountainside, the pavement ended, and the taxis came to a screeching halt. We climbed out, finally able to take in the full beauty of Tétouan. Peter made his introductions, and Brahim smiled and greeted me kindly. It was Friday and, as per tradition for the men, he was dressed in white from head-to-toe—white robe (or djellaba), white pants, and white leather slippers.

View over Morocco's 'La Paloma Blanca' or 'White Dove'

“Hardly hiking garb,” I snickered to myself, as we ventured up the rocky pathway. Brahim and our American companions traversed the terrain effortlessly, as I stumbled along behind, finding it difficult to keep up while capturing the breathtaking view of the city. Thankfully, it was a short walk to the overlook, which offered a sweeping view of the entire Martíl River valley and Riff Mountains.

Instinctively, I motioned to my new friend and he graciously hiked to the boulders jutting out from the mountainside. The sun had bid its final adieu, causing the warm tones along the horizon to soften and fade seamlessly into the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. A cool breeze blew through the valley, Brahim’s robe gently swaying to its rhythm as he stood stoically, gazing out over his city. After several minutes of depressing the shutter, I had to consciously stop. I climbed out onto the rocks, sat, and let myself fully inhabit the moment.