Marrakech: a henna story

A long journey home from the desert and the desire for a shower and a night's sleep brought them there. Breakfast in the morning, the bill paid, bags in tow—they were ready to leave the riad. But they couldn't figure out how to open the door. As they fumbled with the lock, the woman who had served them breakfast appeared. To help? Not really. "I do henna," she said. So they sat down for an ancient ritual of body art.



It was a thick paste applied through a tiny needle. Cool and muddy, slightly course.



Gently, she eased the thin trail of henna paste into organic shapes: leaves, petals, buds, dots, curls...



After waiting for the paste to dry and then rubbing it off, the orange tattoo remaining made her feel like she fit in...sort of.


[photos by Brett Adamek]