Monday, March 15, 2010
Morocco
Morocco, in no particular order.
Don’t be scared to run headlong into wrong. You will be ok.
11:14pm : The kefta was mediocre at best, the tea, lukewarm and tasted as if the barman had emptied a sac of sugar into it. The table was sticky and I imagined little dissolved particles of sugar having nowhere to go, seeping through the glass and plastering themselves onto the table to act as a natural fly/elbow trap and to help keep the napkins from blowing off of the table. All eyes seemed to be locked on me, the only girl in the joint. Or maybe I was being self-conscious because I was after all sitting in the line of view of the blaring television, which portrayed vivid images of striking snakes that caused large furry animals to topple down, stunned or dead. The dull thud of the animal hitting the ground as the venom took action coincided with my first bite of dinner, of my first meal that day, as I had spent a large portion of time on cheap airlines whose cost effective structure provided only the basic necessity of carting people from point A to point B and in my case from Point A to B to airport and carrier change to C, finally landing me in Fes, Morocco.
Before getting into long tales of 20 days in Morocco I would first like to thank the following individuals (by first name and in order of appearance) for providing me with lessons, advice, problems, criticisms and experiences in the fields of finance, anthropology, sociology, economics, history, psychology and many other applied interdisciplinary subjects derived from the ever so academic school of life:
Mohamed, Mohamed,
Abdul, Mohamed,
Rachid, Abdullah,
Yousef, Said,
Omar,
Mohamed, Mohamed,
Yousef,
Omar,
Abdulatif, Said
….oh and Jimmy (my dromadaire)
According to an extensive Google search, there are 3 types of Berber: Nylon, Olefin and a Nylon Olefin blend. According to this definition a Berber is a rug, which is not altogether inaccurate. Although the weave is a little more complicated than that.
According to Moroccans there are 3 types of Berber: Tarifit, Tachelhit and Tamazight located in the north, south and centre of Morocco respectively. Each of these groups is not only differentiated geographically but by dialect as well. These Berbers do make rugs, carpets and blankets, both knotted or woven on a vertical (rug) loom or horizontal (blanket) loom. These rugs and blankets are made with different types of wool (camel and sheep) and also with satiny cactus silk.
Cactus silk. Apparently there is a certain kind of cactus that has hair-like fibers inside. So when the green flesh is cut open, thin white hairs are found. These are spun into thread. Part of this process occurs in the narrow streets of the city’s medina. When the newly made thread is ready to be wound around a spool, the individual in charge hooks one end of the thread at about eye- level to anything sticking out of a building in the narrow street, like a nail or piece of wood or a sign. He then walks, and walks and walks, pulling the thread along intermittently hooking it onto something else jutting from the buildings. He passes windows, doorways, bikes leaning against the wall and donkeys parked at the side of the road, and continues for a few hundred meters. Then, when it is time, he stops, turns 180 degrees and loops back doing the same thing. It’s funny how a tourist can walk up and down such threaded streets and does not notice this fine silk strung along, dwarfed and hidden by the ornately adorned outer walls of the shops with shoes, jewels, instruments and rugs. The poor little thread just hovers there, like a gargantuan empty spider web gone colourful and abstract, waiting for the unsuspecting tourist to take a turn into a doorway and get upwardly tripped. Perhaps it’s the thread’s call for attention. However, after having been explained about the significance of cactus thread, I was able to admire it’s unimposing, yet threatening nature. The cactus silk is later woven into beautiful, glossy, multicoloured pieces of fabric; machine washable too!
Back to Berbers, it is important to note that Berbers are not Arabs. Well, they make a firm point of differentiating themselves from Arabs. Even before a Berber introduces himself by name, he will indicate that he is a Berber and not an Arab. Is this clear? Berbers are not Arabs. According to the Berbers, the Arabs are bad. I have not yet quite figured out why. Then there are the Arabs. According to the Arabs, everyone is nice. Arabs don’t feel the need to introduce themselves as Arabs. This is just the assumption since they believe that Moroccans are Arabs by default. I sense the existence of a historical underdog here: The Berbers. Now was I able to tell the difference between them? Not really. Overall tooth-count was generally sparse in both categories, both had typical olive complexion, distinct cheekbones and dark eyes. Some of the Saharan Berbers that I met during my camel trek seemed to be more tanned, but this could have been a direct result of trotting around with camels in the desert every day. This confusion led to some uncomfortable situations because in my attempt to be welcomed by the Moroccans I learned a few Arabic words and a few Berber words. Unfortunately I often applied the wrong word to the wrong individual, which resulted in a “That’s Arabic! Not Berber!” or vise versa.
Fes was like a trip back a few hundred years. I got to see the "energy source" of a real hammam: it comprised of a small doorway off the main dirt road of the medina, big enough for a 5 year old to pass through. I bent down and passed through it. My feet found themselves padding on something cushiony. Wood chips, lots of them. I looked up, mountains of them. To my right was a big, big, big furnace, and squatting in the valley of woodchips was a very small, very wiry old man. Looking straight ahead, smiling a toothless smile, he rhythmically grabbed hand full’s of wood chips and threw them into the hot mouth of the furnace. And this is how they heat the water in the traditional hammams or bath houses. What a dose of reality. I wonder if the little man was paid daily, or by temperature maintenance, or by wood chip usage or by launch accuracy into the furnace. Hmmm. Well, he did not have comprehensive benefits like dental coverage.
Round 2 in Fes consisted of being adopted by a Moroccan family. Farhana and I met Abdellatif on the bus from Marrakesh to Fes. He was sitting behind me and I had asked him if he didn’t mind if I leaned my seat back. One thing led to another and before I knew it I had lined up a couscous dinner invitation at his mom’s the following day. I refused to confirm the date because of the sorry Moroccan track record that I had had; even in my 3rd week I was still having difficulty deciphering the difference between genuine kindness and business kindness. I trusted no one. Taking the safe route after having been ripped off probably more times than I know or would care to admit, dinner invitations set off red alarm bells. How much would I have to pay him? Would he try to rope me into a poor family sob story? So, I thanked him, confirmed a 7th time that I did not intend to pay him for anything and said that he could meet with us in the morning if he wanted to hang out (no pay).
Upon arrival in Fes, Abdellatif helped us find a hostel because my prime choice was “complet!” *slam door in face*. We wearily and warily followed him hoping he wouldn’t spring an invoice on us. He didn’t. The next morning, we found him waiting for us in the lobby. After a wonderful tour of many corners of the medina that I wouldn’t have braved without a local guide, Abdellatif said “time for lunch, let’s go!” So we agreed.
Out the medina, up a hill a very big hill, to the right, through a door, up some steep winding stairs and we were there. A steel door was opened by a small but bosomy woman in a hijab. We were immediately covered with hugs and kisses and it wasn’t until a moment later that I realized she was blind. Abdellatif told us that she was so happy to see us because we reminded her of her estranged daughter living in Paris. Abdellatif’s mom navigated her way stealthily through the small apartment that was decorated in many shades of floral velour. Out crept a thin but handsome young man fully clad in adidas and puma. Said, Abdellatif’s brother. He had a smile that could charm even the hardest heart but somehow when the corners of his mouth curled upwards, out seeped a feeling of mischief that was confirmed by his wink. The two brothers: Abdellatif was the worker in the family, repairing air conditioning units for hotels. He was also the traveler, and had visited Europe. Said was the philosopher, the armchair theorist. He preferred to study and to learn everything that books could offer from engineering, to chemistry and physics, to sociology and psychology. He was a certified gourmet chef too. But he was fearful of the outdoors and was content exploring the world through text. He was so thin perhaps because he religiously followed the Prophet’s word. The Prophet said to fill the stomach with 1/3 food, 1/3 water and 1/3 should be left to breathe. I’m not sure how Said was measuring his 1/3s, but I think he was short changing himself. Mom hustled about preparing the mid-day meal as Farhana and I sat, tucked into a Berber blanket, on the Moroccan couch.
Out came la piece de resistance. We were ready to eat. What an amazing couscous. We sat around the communal bowl and started from the perimeter where the food was not so hot and used jhoobs (bread) to pick apart the carrots and squash. There was a little dish with salt and cumin in it for dipping. Meat was to be eaten last as we worked our way to the middle. It was sheep. Very tasty meat. Then there came the special part. Mom held up a piece of meat in her hands and placed it up to my mouth. It’s smell wafted towards me and I was almost knocked out on the spot. This was not normal meat. This was not any particular sheep bit that I was familiar with. She pushed the meat in the air in motions that brought it closer to my mouth. Abdellatif said, “she wants you to eat it, it’s the best part”. Just as the words were leaving his lips his brother’s mischievous smile appeared. “The best part huh.” The meat was whitish and when broken apart as it was in mom’s saucy fingers, I could see a spongy curdled looking inner texture. The smell encroached on my nose again. I smiled weakly and let mom put the piece in my mouth. I bit down on it slowly chewing and trying to ignore the fumes entering my sinus cavity. Tears started involuntarily squeezing out of my eyes, even they wanted out. I looked around the table frantically, mouth full, trying to find an olive or something to add to the mix. I found one and popped it in my mouth but this did not prevent the gag. Oh god. “So, how do you like it?” “HRmmmmmph” was all I could manage with a very pathetic looking smile. Chew Antonia chew. It’s all in your mind. It’s psychological. If you were starving in a desert you would eat this…NOT. After much retching, smiling and gurgling, the piece made its way down my esophagus, amylase chasing quickly after it to help break it down before it reached my stomach. “Hmmmm, Interesting. What was it?” I asked suspiciously. I knew already but didn’t want to admit it to myself. The boys laughed and said it would help me to make lots of babies. Great. I was right. Mom had just given me a sheep testicle in hopes that I would provide her with many healthy grandchildren. My imagination created an image of many curly haired little children running around singing baaa baaaa baaa. Mom beamed and put her hand to her bosom, with the other hand she dug around the platter feeling for more testicle. “Would you like some more?” Abdellatif asked. “Oh, thanks, I wouldn’t want you to waste the best part on me, you go ahead”.
Marrakesh was insanity on wheels. 2-wheels. Noisy little black smoke spurting moped wheels. If I haven't contracted preliminary lung cancer from the lack of smoking laws in Hungary, I definitely did in Marrakesh inhaling the moped exhaust. At least I'm still alive to tell the tale because those little buggers held no regard for any traffic law, correction, any law whatsoever as they maniacally and egotistically screeched through the small winding streets creating a fine line between the terms hit & miss and hit & run. Not to complain further, but there was also the noise pollution that those things created. They sounded like an amplified flight of the bumblebees 24 hours a day. UGH! Otherwise, Marrakesh was splendid aside from every second person trying to rip us off. Oh wait, no. I got a lovely case of food poisoning not from the snails, but from the orange juice at Djemaa el Fna. This is the main Marrakesh plaza that comes to life at night with hundreds of food vendors coercing tourists in any number of languages to choose their food stall for dinner. Bustling with people the waiters yell “HolaGuapaHelloBonsoir” If that doesn’t work they try German, or Japanese or Russian. Moroccans are able to communicate aptly in so many languages. It’s quite incredible. It’s also incredibly annoying because I can’t pretend that I don’t understand them as they out-verse me every time! So, between trying to escape the multilingual waiters chasing us with laminated menus, dodging the seated musicians or rather their cobras in baskets and avoiding eye contact with the henna ladies who were just as aggressive as the waiters, I decided a refreshing stop at the orange juice stand would be nice. How wrong I was. The next day (Christmas eve) was spent between the hostel toilet and the hostel owner’s computer as I vomited and finished a macroeconomics paper on the labour force in France.
Essaouira, along the coast was a paradise, a cat paradise to be more precise; a gorgeous fishing city where everything was painted blue and white. It looked a little like a Muslim Greece. And there were cats everywhere. Calico, Tabby, Siamese, Persian, mixed, meowling constantly and dominating the land and the people. These cats were not your typical mangy strays. These were aristocatic cats (pardon the pun). They were fluffy, clean, borderline overweight and kings of manipulation. They just loitered around looking fearfully cute and if they didn't win the heart of one fisherman, they at least scored all of his left over fish bits. If the cat didn't get fed there, he would wind around the legs of the restaurant vendors in the open-air barbecue tents, and would earn cooked fish bits there. The tourists only aided the situation by feeding these cats right off of their plates (yes I'm guilty, but they were soooo cute!). Everywhere you looked there were cats, curled inside the for sale woven baskets, stretched out on the Moroccan rugs in shops, sitting on the couch in my hostel, in the shade of the blue fishing boats, jumping across rooftops. If only the rest of the cats of the world knew about this place. There would be no need for the humane society. I'm never telling Mila about what I saw. She would get depressed with her Science Diet and bird-less courtyard.
On the road to Merzouga. Politics. While riding along through the mid Atlas Mountains in our tour van destined for Merzouga at the border of the Sahara desert, I gazed out the window daydreaming and half listening to the 8 song lone cd that the driver insisted on playing continuously throughout the 14 hour journey. On one of the hills I saw a strange geological phenomenon: white squiggly lines running the girth of the hill. It was raining outside and I wiped the fog from the window to take a closer look. The squiggles had transformed into Arabic script. I asked the driver what it said. He replied: “First Islam, then the Nation, then the King”. How noble, I thought. People believe so much in their religion, their country and their monarch that even the mountains call out this vision. The driver mumbled something under his breath. “pardon?” I asked. “Well it’s not really like that. In reality it is actually ‘First the King, then the Nation and then Islam’. Whatever the King says, goes.” The driver explained to me that although he was not allowed to say it, he and many others did not agree with the King’s politics. “Corrupt” was the word he used. The king had at least one palace in every city in Morocco. I thought it would be in my best interest to not produce any opinion on that front.
Merzouga Sahara desert.
After a 14 the hour bus ride through the Atlas mountains listening to a mix cd playing early 90s pop hits including “I’m the Scat Man” – listen to it 13 times and you will feel my pain – , we arrived in Merzouga. This is the edge of the great Sahara desert where a signpost reads 52 days to Timbuktu (by camel I’m assuming). It was raining. Apparently this does not happen so often in the Sahara, so I tried to consider myself lucky although it felt as though I was right back in Vancouver. It was time to meet our camels. I will say right now that Moroccan camels (well actually these were Algerian dromadaire's living and working in Morocco) are worse for the wear than their Israeli counterparts in the Negev desert. Had I known this earlier I would not have signed up for the trip. I was introduced to Jimmy. She had a ripped nostril; probably a result of an attempted caravan breach where the nylon rope looped through her nose must have torn the skin. The Israeli camels I remember had a more humane bridle that resembled a horse’s bit. Jimmy also had an aggressive streak and a flatulence problem. This was not worse than the camel behind her though, as she would lap up Jimmy’s urine as she peed (makes me wonder what the hump is for).
The rain let up just as we were saddled up and ready to go. The ride into the desert was very thrilling. I was entranced by the feet of the dromadaire in front of me. It had these round cushiony feet with a cleft in front creating two toes. These soft looking feet ever so slightly changed shape like squishy brown marshmallows as they padded along on the sand. I supposed they didn’t fare so well on rocks. As the caravan went deeper and deeper into the Sahara, the lights of Merzouga began to disappear and twilight was upon us. The dunes loomed over us like great shadows. Stars began to freckle the clearing sky. I inhaled the cool fresh air and then suddenly the peace was broken. Simultaneously, my dromedaire farted and the Berber guide’s cell phone broke into digital song. So, the Sahara was not as far from civilization as I had thought.
About 30 minutes into the ride I noticed that I was shifting more frequently in my seat. I had on my hiking bag and somehow the momentum of the dromadaire's gait resulted in my inching forward on the saddle (or hump cushion rather), so much so that I had to place my hands in front of me on the cushion, lift and reverse myself so as to sit back in the proper place. I had to repeat this process every 2-3 minutes. Then the pain started, my back, my hips, my pelvic bone my legs. My tendons and ligaments were screaming and my muscles were cramping. How long was this ride going to be? I began to feel less sorry for poor Jimmy and more sorry for myself as the minutes wore on into hours. Finally after 3 hours we arrived at camp. I would not have noticed this as it was pitch dark by that point and on my own would have bypassed the camp altogether. With shifting dunes, the path never the same, navigation is really dependant on the stars (not that I could have found my way anyways).
After a wholesome chicken couscous served in the Berber tent and a visit from a desert scavenger cat in search of chicken bits, the music began. Berber songs and amazing drumming accompanied by rhythmic castanets (I learned the basic rhythm and brought a set home with me) filled the tent. We drank mint tea and once we had our fill of music and laughter, decided to trek up the dunes to see the stars. I made it ¾ of the way. Excuses: It was a big dune and the couscous was sitting like a bowling ball in my stomach. And my legs hurt from the dromadaire ride over. After a short rest I trekked up the rest of the way and lay on the peak of the dune. This was the most amazing feeling ever. Meditation came automatically in this environment and I felt so at peace until one of the Berbers grabbed me by the feet and bounded down the dune dragging me screaming behind.
The long day had tired me out so off to bed I went because I knew I would have to meet Jimmy and the hump cushion again at dawn the following day. I fell asleep under the Berber tent, under a Berber blanket and had a peaceful sleep. I dreamt that I was eating sand. As it turns out, it was not a dream.
Don’t be scared to run headlong into wrong. You will be ok.
11:14pm : The kefta was mediocre at best, the tea, lukewarm and tasted as if the barman had emptied a sac of sugar into it. The table was sticky and I imagined little dissolved particles of sugar having nowhere to go, seeping through the glass and plastering themselves onto the table to act as a natural fly/elbow trap and to help keep the napkins from blowing off of the table. All eyes seemed to be locked on me, the only girl in the joint. Or maybe I was being self-conscious because I was after all sitting in the line of view of the blaring television, which portrayed vivid images of striking snakes that caused large furry animals to topple down, stunned or dead. The dull thud of the animal hitting the ground as the venom took action coincided with my first bite of dinner, of my first meal that day, as I had spent a large portion of time on cheap airlines whose cost effective structure provided only the basic necessity of carting people from point A to point B and in my case from Point A to B to airport and carrier change to C, finally landing me in Fes, Morocco.
Before getting into long tales of 20 days in Morocco I would first like to thank the following individuals (by first name and in order of appearance) for providing me with lessons, advice, problems, criticisms and experiences in the fields of finance, anthropology, sociology, economics, history, psychology and many other applied interdisciplinary subjects derived from the ever so academic school of life:
Mohamed, Mohamed,
Abdul, Mohamed,
Rachid, Abdullah,
Yousef, Said,
Omar,
Mohamed, Mohamed,
Yousef,
Omar,
Abdulatif, Said
….oh and Jimmy (my dromadaire)
According to an extensive Google search, there are 3 types of Berber: Nylon, Olefin and a Nylon Olefin blend. According to this definition a Berber is a rug, which is not altogether inaccurate. Although the weave is a little more complicated than that.
According to Moroccans there are 3 types of Berber: Tarifit, Tachelhit and Tamazight located in the north, south and centre of Morocco respectively. Each of these groups is not only differentiated geographically but by dialect as well. These Berbers do make rugs, carpets and blankets, both knotted or woven on a vertical (rug) loom or horizontal (blanket) loom. These rugs and blankets are made with different types of wool (camel and sheep) and also with satiny cactus silk.
Cactus silk. Apparently there is a certain kind of cactus that has hair-like fibers inside. So when the green flesh is cut open, thin white hairs are found. These are spun into thread. Part of this process occurs in the narrow streets of the city’s medina. When the newly made thread is ready to be wound around a spool, the individual in charge hooks one end of the thread at about eye- level to anything sticking out of a building in the narrow street, like a nail or piece of wood or a sign. He then walks, and walks and walks, pulling the thread along intermittently hooking it onto something else jutting from the buildings. He passes windows, doorways, bikes leaning against the wall and donkeys parked at the side of the road, and continues for a few hundred meters. Then, when it is time, he stops, turns 180 degrees and loops back doing the same thing. It’s funny how a tourist can walk up and down such threaded streets and does not notice this fine silk strung along, dwarfed and hidden by the ornately adorned outer walls of the shops with shoes, jewels, instruments and rugs. The poor little thread just hovers there, like a gargantuan empty spider web gone colourful and abstract, waiting for the unsuspecting tourist to take a turn into a doorway and get upwardly tripped. Perhaps it’s the thread’s call for attention. However, after having been explained about the significance of cactus thread, I was able to admire it’s unimposing, yet threatening nature. The cactus silk is later woven into beautiful, glossy, multicoloured pieces of fabric; machine washable too!
Back to Berbers, it is important to note that Berbers are not Arabs. Well, they make a firm point of differentiating themselves from Arabs. Even before a Berber introduces himself by name, he will indicate that he is a Berber and not an Arab. Is this clear? Berbers are not Arabs. According to the Berbers, the Arabs are bad. I have not yet quite figured out why. Then there are the Arabs. According to the Arabs, everyone is nice. Arabs don’t feel the need to introduce themselves as Arabs. This is just the assumption since they believe that Moroccans are Arabs by default. I sense the existence of a historical underdog here: The Berbers. Now was I able to tell the difference between them? Not really. Overall tooth-count was generally sparse in both categories, both had typical olive complexion, distinct cheekbones and dark eyes. Some of the Saharan Berbers that I met during my camel trek seemed to be more tanned, but this could have been a direct result of trotting around with camels in the desert every day. This confusion led to some uncomfortable situations because in my attempt to be welcomed by the Moroccans I learned a few Arabic words and a few Berber words. Unfortunately I often applied the wrong word to the wrong individual, which resulted in a “That’s Arabic! Not Berber!” or vise versa.
Fes was like a trip back a few hundred years. I got to see the "energy source" of a real hammam: it comprised of a small doorway off the main dirt road of the medina, big enough for a 5 year old to pass through. I bent down and passed through it. My feet found themselves padding on something cushiony. Wood chips, lots of them. I looked up, mountains of them. To my right was a big, big, big furnace, and squatting in the valley of woodchips was a very small, very wiry old man. Looking straight ahead, smiling a toothless smile, he rhythmically grabbed hand full’s of wood chips and threw them into the hot mouth of the furnace. And this is how they heat the water in the traditional hammams or bath houses. What a dose of reality. I wonder if the little man was paid daily, or by temperature maintenance, or by wood chip usage or by launch accuracy into the furnace. Hmmm. Well, he did not have comprehensive benefits like dental coverage.
Round 2 in Fes consisted of being adopted by a Moroccan family. Farhana and I met Abdellatif on the bus from Marrakesh to Fes. He was sitting behind me and I had asked him if he didn’t mind if I leaned my seat back. One thing led to another and before I knew it I had lined up a couscous dinner invitation at his mom’s the following day. I refused to confirm the date because of the sorry Moroccan track record that I had had; even in my 3rd week I was still having difficulty deciphering the difference between genuine kindness and business kindness. I trusted no one. Taking the safe route after having been ripped off probably more times than I know or would care to admit, dinner invitations set off red alarm bells. How much would I have to pay him? Would he try to rope me into a poor family sob story? So, I thanked him, confirmed a 7th time that I did not intend to pay him for anything and said that he could meet with us in the morning if he wanted to hang out (no pay).
Upon arrival in Fes, Abdellatif helped us find a hostel because my prime choice was “complet!” *slam door in face*. We wearily and warily followed him hoping he wouldn’t spring an invoice on us. He didn’t. The next morning, we found him waiting for us in the lobby. After a wonderful tour of many corners of the medina that I wouldn’t have braved without a local guide, Abdellatif said “time for lunch, let’s go!” So we agreed.
Out the medina, up a hill a very big hill, to the right, through a door, up some steep winding stairs and we were there. A steel door was opened by a small but bosomy woman in a hijab. We were immediately covered with hugs and kisses and it wasn’t until a moment later that I realized she was blind. Abdellatif told us that she was so happy to see us because we reminded her of her estranged daughter living in Paris. Abdellatif’s mom navigated her way stealthily through the small apartment that was decorated in many shades of floral velour. Out crept a thin but handsome young man fully clad in adidas and puma. Said, Abdellatif’s brother. He had a smile that could charm even the hardest heart but somehow when the corners of his mouth curled upwards, out seeped a feeling of mischief that was confirmed by his wink. The two brothers: Abdellatif was the worker in the family, repairing air conditioning units for hotels. He was also the traveler, and had visited Europe. Said was the philosopher, the armchair theorist. He preferred to study and to learn everything that books could offer from engineering, to chemistry and physics, to sociology and psychology. He was a certified gourmet chef too. But he was fearful of the outdoors and was content exploring the world through text. He was so thin perhaps because he religiously followed the Prophet’s word. The Prophet said to fill the stomach with 1/3 food, 1/3 water and 1/3 should be left to breathe. I’m not sure how Said was measuring his 1/3s, but I think he was short changing himself. Mom hustled about preparing the mid-day meal as Farhana and I sat, tucked into a Berber blanket, on the Moroccan couch.
Out came la piece de resistance. We were ready to eat. What an amazing couscous. We sat around the communal bowl and started from the perimeter where the food was not so hot and used jhoobs (bread) to pick apart the carrots and squash. There was a little dish with salt and cumin in it for dipping. Meat was to be eaten last as we worked our way to the middle. It was sheep. Very tasty meat. Then there came the special part. Mom held up a piece of meat in her hands and placed it up to my mouth. It’s smell wafted towards me and I was almost knocked out on the spot. This was not normal meat. This was not any particular sheep bit that I was familiar with. She pushed the meat in the air in motions that brought it closer to my mouth. Abdellatif said, “she wants you to eat it, it’s the best part”. Just as the words were leaving his lips his brother’s mischievous smile appeared. “The best part huh.” The meat was whitish and when broken apart as it was in mom’s saucy fingers, I could see a spongy curdled looking inner texture. The smell encroached on my nose again. I smiled weakly and let mom put the piece in my mouth. I bit down on it slowly chewing and trying to ignore the fumes entering my sinus cavity. Tears started involuntarily squeezing out of my eyes, even they wanted out. I looked around the table frantically, mouth full, trying to find an olive or something to add to the mix. I found one and popped it in my mouth but this did not prevent the gag. Oh god. “So, how do you like it?” “HRmmmmmph” was all I could manage with a very pathetic looking smile. Chew Antonia chew. It’s all in your mind. It’s psychological. If you were starving in a desert you would eat this…NOT. After much retching, smiling and gurgling, the piece made its way down my esophagus, amylase chasing quickly after it to help break it down before it reached my stomach. “Hmmmm, Interesting. What was it?” I asked suspiciously. I knew already but didn’t want to admit it to myself. The boys laughed and said it would help me to make lots of babies. Great. I was right. Mom had just given me a sheep testicle in hopes that I would provide her with many healthy grandchildren. My imagination created an image of many curly haired little children running around singing baaa baaaa baaa. Mom beamed and put her hand to her bosom, with the other hand she dug around the platter feeling for more testicle. “Would you like some more?” Abdellatif asked. “Oh, thanks, I wouldn’t want you to waste the best part on me, you go ahead”.
Marrakesh was insanity on wheels. 2-wheels. Noisy little black smoke spurting moped wheels. If I haven't contracted preliminary lung cancer from the lack of smoking laws in Hungary, I definitely did in Marrakesh inhaling the moped exhaust. At least I'm still alive to tell the tale because those little buggers held no regard for any traffic law, correction, any law whatsoever as they maniacally and egotistically screeched through the small winding streets creating a fine line between the terms hit & miss and hit & run. Not to complain further, but there was also the noise pollution that those things created. They sounded like an amplified flight of the bumblebees 24 hours a day. UGH! Otherwise, Marrakesh was splendid aside from every second person trying to rip us off. Oh wait, no. I got a lovely case of food poisoning not from the snails, but from the orange juice at Djemaa el Fna. This is the main Marrakesh plaza that comes to life at night with hundreds of food vendors coercing tourists in any number of languages to choose their food stall for dinner. Bustling with people the waiters yell “HolaGuapaHelloBonsoir” If that doesn’t work they try German, or Japanese or Russian. Moroccans are able to communicate aptly in so many languages. It’s quite incredible. It’s also incredibly annoying because I can’t pretend that I don’t understand them as they out-verse me every time! So, between trying to escape the multilingual waiters chasing us with laminated menus, dodging the seated musicians or rather their cobras in baskets and avoiding eye contact with the henna ladies who were just as aggressive as the waiters, I decided a refreshing stop at the orange juice stand would be nice. How wrong I was. The next day (Christmas eve) was spent between the hostel toilet and the hostel owner’s computer as I vomited and finished a macroeconomics paper on the labour force in France.
Essaouira, along the coast was a paradise, a cat paradise to be more precise; a gorgeous fishing city where everything was painted blue and white. It looked a little like a Muslim Greece. And there were cats everywhere. Calico, Tabby, Siamese, Persian, mixed, meowling constantly and dominating the land and the people. These cats were not your typical mangy strays. These were aristocatic cats (pardon the pun). They were fluffy, clean, borderline overweight and kings of manipulation. They just loitered around looking fearfully cute and if they didn't win the heart of one fisherman, they at least scored all of his left over fish bits. If the cat didn't get fed there, he would wind around the legs of the restaurant vendors in the open-air barbecue tents, and would earn cooked fish bits there. The tourists only aided the situation by feeding these cats right off of their plates (yes I'm guilty, but they were soooo cute!). Everywhere you looked there were cats, curled inside the for sale woven baskets, stretched out on the Moroccan rugs in shops, sitting on the couch in my hostel, in the shade of the blue fishing boats, jumping across rooftops. If only the rest of the cats of the world knew about this place. There would be no need for the humane society. I'm never telling Mila about what I saw. She would get depressed with her Science Diet and bird-less courtyard.
On the road to Merzouga. Politics. While riding along through the mid Atlas Mountains in our tour van destined for Merzouga at the border of the Sahara desert, I gazed out the window daydreaming and half listening to the 8 song lone cd that the driver insisted on playing continuously throughout the 14 hour journey. On one of the hills I saw a strange geological phenomenon: white squiggly lines running the girth of the hill. It was raining outside and I wiped the fog from the window to take a closer look. The squiggles had transformed into Arabic script. I asked the driver what it said. He replied: “First Islam, then the Nation, then the King”. How noble, I thought. People believe so much in their religion, their country and their monarch that even the mountains call out this vision. The driver mumbled something under his breath. “pardon?” I asked. “Well it’s not really like that. In reality it is actually ‘First the King, then the Nation and then Islam’. Whatever the King says, goes.” The driver explained to me that although he was not allowed to say it, he and many others did not agree with the King’s politics. “Corrupt” was the word he used. The king had at least one palace in every city in Morocco. I thought it would be in my best interest to not produce any opinion on that front.
Merzouga Sahara desert.
After a 14 the hour bus ride through the Atlas mountains listening to a mix cd playing early 90s pop hits including “I’m the Scat Man” – listen to it 13 times and you will feel my pain – , we arrived in Merzouga. This is the edge of the great Sahara desert where a signpost reads 52 days to Timbuktu (by camel I’m assuming). It was raining. Apparently this does not happen so often in the Sahara, so I tried to consider myself lucky although it felt as though I was right back in Vancouver. It was time to meet our camels. I will say right now that Moroccan camels (well actually these were Algerian dromadaire's living and working in Morocco) are worse for the wear than their Israeli counterparts in the Negev desert. Had I known this earlier I would not have signed up for the trip. I was introduced to Jimmy. She had a ripped nostril; probably a result of an attempted caravan breach where the nylon rope looped through her nose must have torn the skin. The Israeli camels I remember had a more humane bridle that resembled a horse’s bit. Jimmy also had an aggressive streak and a flatulence problem. This was not worse than the camel behind her though, as she would lap up Jimmy’s urine as she peed (makes me wonder what the hump is for).
The rain let up just as we were saddled up and ready to go. The ride into the desert was very thrilling. I was entranced by the feet of the dromadaire in front of me. It had these round cushiony feet with a cleft in front creating two toes. These soft looking feet ever so slightly changed shape like squishy brown marshmallows as they padded along on the sand. I supposed they didn’t fare so well on rocks. As the caravan went deeper and deeper into the Sahara, the lights of Merzouga began to disappear and twilight was upon us. The dunes loomed over us like great shadows. Stars began to freckle the clearing sky. I inhaled the cool fresh air and then suddenly the peace was broken. Simultaneously, my dromedaire farted and the Berber guide’s cell phone broke into digital song. So, the Sahara was not as far from civilization as I had thought.
About 30 minutes into the ride I noticed that I was shifting more frequently in my seat. I had on my hiking bag and somehow the momentum of the dromadaire's gait resulted in my inching forward on the saddle (or hump cushion rather), so much so that I had to place my hands in front of me on the cushion, lift and reverse myself so as to sit back in the proper place. I had to repeat this process every 2-3 minutes. Then the pain started, my back, my hips, my pelvic bone my legs. My tendons and ligaments were screaming and my muscles were cramping. How long was this ride going to be? I began to feel less sorry for poor Jimmy and more sorry for myself as the minutes wore on into hours. Finally after 3 hours we arrived at camp. I would not have noticed this as it was pitch dark by that point and on my own would have bypassed the camp altogether. With shifting dunes, the path never the same, navigation is really dependant on the stars (not that I could have found my way anyways).
After a wholesome chicken couscous served in the Berber tent and a visit from a desert scavenger cat in search of chicken bits, the music began. Berber songs and amazing drumming accompanied by rhythmic castanets (I learned the basic rhythm and brought a set home with me) filled the tent. We drank mint tea and once we had our fill of music and laughter, decided to trek up the dunes to see the stars. I made it ¾ of the way. Excuses: It was a big dune and the couscous was sitting like a bowling ball in my stomach. And my legs hurt from the dromadaire ride over. After a short rest I trekked up the rest of the way and lay on the peak of the dune. This was the most amazing feeling ever. Meditation came automatically in this environment and I felt so at peace until one of the Berbers grabbed me by the feet and bounded down the dune dragging me screaming behind.
The long day had tired me out so off to bed I went because I knew I would have to meet Jimmy and the hump cushion again at dawn the following day. I fell asleep under the Berber tent, under a Berber blanket and had a peaceful sleep. I dreamt that I was eating sand. As it turns out, it was not a dream.
Monday, February 22, 2010
So this is what it's like. A clean slate upon which to write. Bearing my soul in type.
That wasn't meant to rhyme but I suppose I still have vestiges of musical notes floating around among my brain cells. I used to sing my soul you see, but that fizzled a long time ago. Now the words stretch out through rhythmically tapping fingers onto my qwerty, or onto someone's azerty, or someone else's Hungarian or Arabic keyboards. The Hungarian one is a qwertz. Cute. I can't read the Arabic one. The symbols look like little worms on the keys.
I suppose I should create a disclaimer. I type what I think. I rarely proofread. I only censor insofar as I see fit for my own prudish nature. In other words. You will read things as I see them. Feel them. From my eyes. Completely egocentric. We all have to start somewhere. If I'm nice, I'll insert applicable photos. If I'm consistent, this may become my religion. Welcome to my head. To my soul, to Issa's Perspectives.
That wasn't meant to rhyme but I suppose I still have vestiges of musical notes floating around among my brain cells. I used to sing my soul you see, but that fizzled a long time ago. Now the words stretch out through rhythmically tapping fingers onto my qwerty, or onto someone's azerty, or someone else's Hungarian or Arabic keyboards. The Hungarian one is a qwertz. Cute. I can't read the Arabic one. The symbols look like little worms on the keys.
I suppose I should create a disclaimer. I type what I think. I rarely proofread. I only censor insofar as I see fit for my own prudish nature. In other words. You will read things as I see them. Feel them. From my eyes. Completely egocentric. We all have to start somewhere. If I'm nice, I'll insert applicable photos. If I'm consistent, this may become my religion. Welcome to my head. To my soul, to Issa's Perspectives.
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