Morocco
Trip Start
Unknown
1
4
5
Trip End
Ongoing
Morocco, Morocco
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I missed my connecting plane to Casablanca and when asked why, I proclaimed I’m American isn’t that enough of a reason. I don’t speak your language and I’m ignorant! That only worked with one empathetic Air France service man, he helped me get to stand by, where I sat for the next six hours. Precisely the amount of time my first layover was, obviously it is difficult to traipse Paris, and navigate the subway and have a romantic lunch with a beautiful man in six hours
Rabat
. Note to self. I arrived in Casablanca late in the evening, and I quickly took notice I was the only blond single traveler in the airport. Others took note too. I positioned myself against the wall, and waited for my late ride to pick me up. A man got into an argument with one of the hired car drivers and pushed him, and he flew right into my direction, minutes later another man got into a fight with the security and this altercation also took a physical turn, likewise right next to me. I felt my body tensing up a smidgen.
When my ride finally showed up, we took the long roads to Kenitra and ended up at a club. This flickering dimly lit place had shreds of worn rusty colored carpet, tucked under bocce and pool tables. Out back there was patio furniture crookedly set on top of a base of plum sized rocks, my heels didn’t navigate. If a customer so wanted a bar was situated in between the door and some of the entertainment, which sold cans of soda and the barkeep would make a cup of tea if so desired. This had the feel of a basement I frequented in high school, a homemade bar, and a can of warm soda with a tiny red straw. Most of my days in Kenitra were spent at the beach, where seemingly everyone else in the city spent time too. Cigarette butts, garbage, and pieces of broken glass fought for their right to coat the dark bodies just as the sand did. The waves were lengthy and the masses flocked to them for a bit of adrenaline. Small children flocked to me to ask for money and other handouts, I couldn’t deliver, or understand. A man attached to a camel brought his prize along the beach to seek out the tourists, and they thoughtlessly ran to collect pictures and perhaps a chance to perch themselves on the hump with an exotic looking hat. In the evenings I went to dance clubs, sweaty bodies united with the loud electronic music beneath many layers of Marlboro red residue
Morocco nights
. Drink choices were limited, I partook in the bottle of whisky the group adhered to in the VIP area. At the exit we were met by rose vendors, and the smell mixed with humidity, whisky and so much sweat, men were ringing out their shirts. This didn’t smell like home, and that excited me. My host’s mother more than satisfied my gurgling stomach every day. In the mornings she would produce sweet fresh squeezed orange juice, and delicious not too sweet homemade pastries. Little trinkets filled with dates or figs, and always fresh fruit. In the afternoon we would have lunch, it was the biggest of the meals, and we would take this into the formal dining room. Move the table up to the couch that outlines the room in a way it seems like the room was built around the couch. I always wonder how much thought and measuring has to go into the furniture store visit. The food we had in the more formal atmosphere was nothing less than amazing. We had a range of local delicacies like lemon chicken, that was so tender it would fall of the bone if you just looked at it too long, a local white fish baked with fresh herbs and vegetables. To whet my palate a cold soup was served, it consisted of fresh orange juice and finely grated and muddled carrots. little dishes of olives and french fries were perched next to every glass of coca cola. On fridays as is tradition couscous is served, also in a large dish with cooked vegetables, much tastier than the friday fish fry I am painfully aware of in Wisconsin. Everything was served family style, and although I was given a plate and american utensils I opted for total immersion and ate with my hands
I'm posing.. He's not
. The chicken was hot, and the couscous got under my nails. At the end of lunch a tray overflowing with vine ripened fruit was the center of attention, it was a vision of cornucopia. Figs became my best friend, and I usually anticipated their arrival throughout the whole procession. Melons of every color, and oranges fought with the figs for a little mouth time, I ate what I didn’t know and found some equally delicious region specific delights. Dinner was a little more than an evening snack. This usually consisted of crepes, eaten with hands and dipped in honey. Often there were very white cold sticky noodles, also eaten with honey. Different breads and varying carbs were set on the less formal table, we sat around and consumed many types of sugar. It was at these evening mealtimes that I fell in love. On my second night I was given a small cup of tea, it was hot and minty, very sweet, with a slight woodsy taste. My tongue was so excited I wanted to stick it into the tiny glass and let it dance. Of course I too enjoyed the formalities of the tea service, and the beautiful silver pots and trays and the etched glasses it is served it. This tea isn’t steeped in a filtered paper bag and served in a plastic gas station mug, oh no, it is sparkly, and shiny, and bubbly, and aromatic, and very, very sweet. Upon my departure from Morocco I was given hand embroidered tea napkins, a small tablecloth and tea pot mitt to prevent scalding my hand on the intricate handmade silver pot I already had stashed in my suitcase
Fez
. My host, his friend and his mother and I all went to Rabat to see the oldest Mosque in the world apparently and the oldest city. We saw where the king was buried and then his son. The architecture was old, decrepit and very precise. Tile and white rock formed the background. A woman was practicing the art of henna on her door step so I delved into it, I secretly never wanted it to come off it was so free, whimsical, liberating and pungent, like soaking leather and leaves. While I was waiting for the mud to dry and crack on my hand we sat down my the river and drank some tea and pastries. I got my picture taken in one of the winding alleys with some men playing a tiny guitar like instrument in an Aladdin-esque hat, I was taught how to make the tassel swing to the rhythm. I was invited to Fez for the day, a very hot city with air that hangs, and brass as an export. We stopped at a hotel for a cup of tea, and to see how proud they were of the brass adoration they created. The soft golden metal was virtually everywhere, inlaid in the ceilings, the tables and chairs, and every piece of decor hosted that same warm tone. When we got to the market we followed the windy alleys to more and more, often we would have to quickly squish ourselves against the side to let a donkey full of silver or leather goods pass by. The path was barely big enough for the large animal with glassy eyes and a warm protruding tongue. At one store I stepped out to let the guys negotiate a better price for the handful of souvenir jewelry I was hoping to claim, the surrounding men were very vocal about my new freedom
Photo op
. I cozied right back into the store. The markets are filled with so many different items it is a wonder what you might find around the corner, dvds and cds nestle up to silver and leather workers. “Authentic” Dolce & Gabbana and Louis Vuitton are riddled with flies due to the neighboring date and fresh fruit stands. Large, heavy, dusty rugs hang from sturdy erected shop walls, and in the corner sits a man turning silver to make a tea pot or a tray. It feels old, gritty, and a little unsafe. I hoped to carry the smell and dust gripping my hair and skin home with me. My host left me with his mother for a day of female bonding, she took me to a hamam, or a bathhouse. He told me I would wear my swimsuit, I later realized men have no idea what happens behind the wet walls of the hamam. Hakima drove me to a small entrance off a busy street, she gave a woman at a counter just past the entrance a few coins. To our immediate left is a open room outlined with a built in bench swathed with blue vinyl overstuffed cushions. In her non english tongue she tells me to get naked. Then follows that up with “don’t be shy” Shy I’m not, upset that my host didn’t tell me to take out the two strategically placed stainless steel barbells that stake claim to my nipples I am. I can’t take them out, I have no time, or privacy or place to hold them. I try to be discreet. She has a beach like bag full of little bottles and scrubbers and two thin yoga like mats. We go to the furthest of the two wet tiled rooms, and sit on our limp mats
henna
. There are a total of three faucets in the two rooms, one in our room and two in the other all at the same height, twenty four inches from the ailing floor. Hakima fills up two buckets and floats a red bowl in one, then she pulls out a small jar with a substance that looks like molasses, she tells me it’s Moroccan black soap and starts to rub it on my back, arms and legs. After I’m worked into a lather she rinses me with the red bowl, she pulls out a few more bottles and jars and washes my entire body, then she does her own, filling up the bucket one more time. We carefully walk to the other room, where many women are laying, some on mats, most not. We lay in the corner and wait for our turn. The whole place is sopping wet, there are a few women working and one can distinguish them because of their seemingly work issued black swim bottoms and sagging breasts. Perhaps the brood of likewise clothed children playing in the water, toeing the mildew and running to her at intervals. At last this working mother came to me and with a cloth that boasted abrasion like the hard side of velcro she scrubbed me like a potato, manipulating my body to get into all of the crevices, I watched rolls of dead skin make mush of the surrounding puddles. We communicated via charades, and unsurprisingly that only intensified the foreignness of the experience. In broken english Hakima motions she is going to stay to shave and I can use her razor, or go get dressed. I say I am freshly razored. She stands to wrap a towel around my body, at which point I have to raise my arms and pretend she hasn’t already seen the shiny steel balls squeezing my mammary glands
Morocco Summer
. She tells me that I am very beautiful, and tightens the pale pink terry cloth against my chest. I step over clumps of black long hair, and newly extracted skin cells in search of dryer ground. I feel like a swaddled toddler ready for bed time, I resist the urge to hug her. Departing Morocco was bittersweet, it was a beautiful trip full of many one of a kind experiences, I was encapsulated into a wonderful family and I loved being a part, I didn’t want the love fest to end, but I was flying back to Paris for a evening with Nelson, and that tugs at other parts of my body. We drove to Casablanca and caught a glimpse of the city before making it to the airport. At the outskirts of the city is a very culturally different area, families are living in small shed like contraptions, goats and donkeys take on the family pet role and in many cases the mini van role too. Kids were often seen riding in a cart being pulled by the animals, navigating the garbage and many objects strewn in the roads and paths. Persistence took us into the heart of Casablanca, a city with large buildings, flashy lights, boutique stores and great restaurants. A complete change from the outskirts just a few miles away. At last we arrived at the airport, and I had to depart. The passport control man asked me what Arabic words I leaned while visiting, I tell him only two shokran, thank you, and coolie, eat, learned from Hakima. I thought it inappropriate to tell him the swear words I learned by mimicking from my host and his friends. Some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen, both inside and out reside in Morocco, and them along with the wonderful food and delectably sweet tea made me a forever fan and repeat visiter. All of my senses can’t wait to go back. 
