Big and deficient, at least in overt gestures of the decorative accoutrements I’ve become accustomed to, Casablanca appeals to me. It is a biased affection, bread from the closest thing to anonymity I’ve experienced in any city here. Big as it is, few people try to sell to me here –hard or soft.
Part of it, also, is that this city gave me my first impressions of Morocco. Greeted at the train station by taxi drivers hell-bent on making a quick buck, that image was soon washed away by people in the market (I’m unsure which one) who helped me order food, in my lack of French and Arabic. One man even bought me Moroccan pastries, not to ease me into a sale but to say “welcome, have a nice visit here”.
Returning to Casablanca, I relaxed…a little. Still harboring the reflex of ignoring greetings because they are followed by persistent and sometimes rude sales pitches I was embarrassed today. While gazing at tide pools on the banks of the Mosquee Hassan II, a man greeted me as he came toward me. I instinctively looked down and answered, “no, shokran” (no, thank you) when all he was trying to do was walk by me. That speaks to Fes and Marrakech, but the man in the tea shop who smiled as he gave me directions, and the man in the phone shop who did the dame…all without expecting anything but a “thank you” in return…they are my Casablanca.
Everything I read before coming here says get out of Casablanca as soon as you can. They lament the absence of anything worth seeing beyond that breathtaking mosque…and maybe there isn’t. but travel isn’t just about amazing photos. Of course a big part of why I travel is about seeing something I’ve never seen before –but the other part is about experiencing something…preferably pleasant. And so for me, Casablanca is beautiful in that right.
Tonight, I walked a short ways from my hotel and ended up on a street full of snack shops – schwarmas and paninis all under 30MAD. The night was bustling with Moroccans grabbing a meal and haggling with sidewalk vendors over the price of shirts or kiss (the scrub mitt used at the bathhouses). It wasn’t ancient ruins or awe-inspiring desert but…I was a part of the city…and that is the point of travel too.
May 30, 2010
Asilah, Morocco
Food fantasies have subsided for me here. What began as palpable anticipation has faded into a mechanical routine; something required of me but not for the joy of it. It isn’t that I haven’t had any good food, only that the good food I’ve had has been in remote pockets. Random and inconsistent like a shooting star or a baby born with teeth. isolated. (BushDiva: “it has not faded it has been beaten out of me like a civil rights’ protester.)
My return to Marrakech was short. Time enough for a hammam to wash the sahara from my body and to grab food to stave off hunger during the overnight train. I considered more medina food – mass produced for the weary tourist- but was irritated by the constant haranguing as I walked by, the rudeness if I declined to buy whatever was being sold. So I succumbed to BushDiva’s utterly ridiculous suggestion.
McDonald’s.
She’d already gone over to the dark side – health nut that she is. The anti-everything…anti carbs, anti butter, anti sugar…she had a happy meal our first night in Meknes. In truth, she did look happy. I couldn’t bring myself to do it then despite my persistent disappointment.
Fast-forward past several overpriced under-flavored tangines en route to the desert and I found myself staring up at the bright colorful menu board at the McDonald’s attached conveniently to the train station. I studied the board carefully. If I was gonna do this, it was still going to be a cross cultural moment.
I settled on the Big Tasty, a mechoui burger (roast lamb). It was between that and a burger served on flatbread. With fries and a drink it came to 54MAD (about $6).
In some ways it felt so typically American, but I got over it.
Yesterday found me in Asilah in the north of the country on the Atlantic ocean – just south of Tangiers. The flavor of Spain peppers the architecture, the medina, and the food. Signs are in Arabic, French, and Spanish. Dishes range from couscous to calamari to paella in equal measure.
I dared not hope again.
Lunch was overpriced mediocre paella. Not bad, just not a spectacle for the tongue. But dinner, dinner provided fodder for hope. At the suggestion of someone I met we ventured to a friendly little place away from the water with reasonable prices. My shrimp tangine was just ok but BushDiva’s calamari and fish were delightful – fresh and crispy.
For lunch we followed the book and another suggestion. A chi chi spot with a view of the indigo waters that was overpriced and under-flavored. We didn’t even wait a few hours; instead we headed back to the previous evening’s spot and ordered a repeat – crispy hot calamari.
It looks like dinner will be a variation on a theme.
May 27, 2010
Merzouga, Morocco
We are herded. Like the sheep on the side of the road – the young girl prodding them forward gently and then more aggressively when they strayed. Hers were headed to pasture, we were headed to Moroccan culture (or a timely and affordable facsimile).
I tend to shy away from organized tours. They have their place and this wasn’t my first…but they aren’t my favorite way to travel. Something about throngs of people, cameras in hand (just like me), clambering for that perfect shot (just like me), before being herded back to the crowded bus to await the next 10 minute or 2 hour pit stop on a whirlwind glimpse at…insert location here (just like me).
Ten years ago i did one through southern and eastern Africa. Every day our truck played tag with a half dozen other trucks. We’d yoyo between who got there first; who was lucky enough to be able to take their requisite photos without having to crop tour vans and sunburned heads out of the picture. Truth be told, i saw a lot of amazing things that way: the okavanga delta, the namib desert, the zambezi river. But my favorite thing was a place whose name i can’t for the life of me recall.
What i do remember though, was being the only truck there, i think it was Namibia. Climbing up rocks that formed high ochre colored formations to find a place to watch the sun set, feel the heat slowly being released from the stone, count the brilliant stars as they appeared like glitter overhead.
And in Egypt, despite the awesomeness of the sprawling ruins of Karnack and the magnitude of the pyramids of Giza, my favorite thing was sleeping in the valley of the whales – full moon throwing my shadow across Saharan sands. Me and a friend – no other tourists anywhere.
This trip, after following the throngs of tourists that trail between Fes, Meknes, and Marrakech, I joined a tour where a good portion of those same tourists drive through the Dades valley and camel trek into the desert. We assembled in a van at 7:30am, a hodgepodge group from America, Canada, Brazil, New Zealand, Japan, and France (plus we picked up two random people from Columbia and one from Germany).
The first day, of our three-day excursion, was quiet. We chatted with those we knew. The few people travelling alone talked quietly together. We drove for hours. The guide didn’t speak English, despite being told otherwise when I booked the tour. And even after enlisting one of the French guys to translate to the best of his abilities, the guide still declined to provide much commentary on where we were, what we were seeing, or what we should expect from the day. Even so, every few hours we’d pull over to a scenic spot where we inferred we should be taking pictures…a beautiful mountainscape here (the atlas mountains), a sprawling oasis there…
We didn’t discover tour lie number two (the first being the French speaking guide) until we stopped for the night, a cute little spot where we were supposed to have single rooms. By single, they really meant double. And so we squeezed in two to a room and speculated what else would prove untrue.
Driving toward the desert, our humor took a sardonic turn, having bonded over broken promises and lowered expectations. We finally arrived at the edge of the Merzuga desert (on the fringe of the Sahara, 18 miles from the Algeria border). Here we mounted one humped camels and began a winding trek across impressive sand dunes. An hour or so later our procession stopped. The camels were dropped to their knees and we dismounted.
There, in the midst of desert with no proof of civilization anywhere around me, I was humbled and marveled at the magnitude…at the beauty. The desert guides, pointed in a general direction over an enormous sand dune, and then descended with the camels leaving us to find our own way to camp. Hours later, after I fell asleep over the warmth of the sand and beneath that of the sun, I struggled to the top of the tallest neighboring dune (with the help of my kiwi buddy Mike) to watch the sun dive beyond the distant horizon.
The night was filled with “Berber whiskey” (mint tea!) and tangine poulet. There was dancing and singing beneath the full moon. But what I only stole a sliver of but coveted more than anything was time beneath the massive full moon casting shadows all around me.
Briefly, I sat with my legs pulled under me, looking up at sky so bright that most of the stars remained invisible. I listened to the wind whip through clusters of desert grass – long and wispy like camel eyelashes – rustling like crumpled paper. I listened to sand lightly hitting sand as my footprints were erased. I listened to the soft noise of a desert night.
Lying in the enormous tent that night, I listened to the wind pick up and hurl sand against the blanketed walls as if demanding to be admitted. It was a strangely soothing sound, not unlike rain on a tin roof late at night.
In the morning we began the trek back through the desert well before dawn, our camels bleating their disapproval as we mounted them, and continuing their disapproval even as we rode them. But the morning wore on, and eventually the sun stepped lightly from behind the golden dunes. Full circle in the desert, sunset to sunrise.
Back at the fringe of the desert we dismounted, more friends than adversaries fighting for the same photo, and began our 10-hour drive back to Marrakech. The valley, a sepia photograph with a ribbon of green highlights running through it, whisked by the window as I slept and dreamed “what next?”.
May 25, 2010
Marrakech, Morocco
Hope is both guiding light and cruel tool. Marrakech, an ephemeral dream of possibilities, met me at the end of a seven-hour (and delayed) train ride from Fes. Older and more crowded than every other morocco train ride so far, this one included 18MAD sandwiches (expensive at just over $2 but unnecessary for me since I’d packed my own!) and a man whose breath was so noxious that I could smell it even while sitting beside him, the stench curling into my nostrils encouraged me to hold my breath. A futile defense as breathing is ultimately essential.
Still, once arrived, the hotel was inexpensive, conveniently located, and pleasing to the eye. Things were looking up, but hunger had set in. after getting a recommendation from the hotel and following the directions to a little spot tucked away in a busy corner. A sign on the door, handwritten in Arabic with the exception of the date cemented the deal.
So now it is close to 5pm and my sugar levels are low. More than that, tourist friendly (and tourist bland) places all around mock me. We stopped and asked a friendly guy where he would eat…which lead to the obligatory sell on his family’s riad and a walk through the maze of streets and shops until asked if he expected payment. The yes ended that search for food and I was left to my own devices.
Desperate, I sat down at one of the shops that appeared to have at least a few Moroccans inside. It wasn’t bad…not glorious but not bad. And then before my eyes, I watched as people busily began to assemble tables and stoves for the night’s market. hope ignited anew as I wandered through the medina looking for anything I hadn’t seen before. The search yielded indigo and actual sandalwood (I’d never seen either in their natural state), a man bent over a foot powered drill of sorts making impressive chess pieces.
Later that night I emerged into the transformed square, now brimming with identical brightly lit stalls with men hawking their identical wares. The rush of hope filled me as I meandered.
Irritation quickly replaced it.
The sell was as hard as it gets. “hey rasta, rasta, here. Obama, right here obama. California. New York.” All normal stuff, except it was followed by a man standing in my path, stepping in front of me so that I couldn’t pass. Or a hand on my arm or shoulder firmly pointing me in the direction of a particular stall. And when I nodded my head “no” or said “not right now” it was often followed by mumbled foul language, and at one point, “f&$k suck f&$k suck sex sex.”
It caught me off guard.
I actually stopped and turned around – instead of steadily walking away. It was a quick look back as I walked away. Shocked because it is vile anywhere but it felt especially heinous in the context of this place. This place where women often cover most of their bodies- sometimes veiling their faces.
I finally settled on a place to sit. It really didn’t matter much – it was all the same. The shrimp and squid were mild, the olives vinegary, the bread uneventful. I paid and then wandered around for a little while – mindful of the clusters of people listening to music and stories because they are the haven of Marrakech’s notorious pickpockets.
I still wasn’t wowed. I’m not sure what it is I was expecting but this wasn’t it. Wednesday I am headed into the Atlas Mountains, into the Dades Gorge, and into the desert at Merzuga. Hope, though not eternal, springs again.
Hope is both guiding light and cruel tool. Marrakech, an ephemeral dream of possibilities, met me at the end of a seven-hour (and much delayed) train ride from Fes. Older and more crowded than every other morocco train ride so far, this one included 18MAD sandwiches (expensive at just over $2 but unnecessary for me since I’d packed my own!) and a man whose breath was so noxious that I could smell it even while sitting beside him, the stench curling into my nostrils encouraged me to hold my breath. A futile defense as breathing is ultimately essential.
Still, once arrived, the hotel inexpensive, conveniently located, and pleasing to the eye. Things were looking up, but hunger had set in. after getting a recommendation from the hotel and following the directions to a little spot tucked away in a busy corner. A sign on the door, handwritten in Arabic with the exception of the date cemented the deal.
So now it is close to 5pm and my sugar levels are low. More than that, tourist friendly (and tourist bland) places all around mock me. We stopped and asked a friendly guy where he would eat…which lead to the obligatory sell on his family’s riad and a walk through the maze of streets and shops until asked if he expected payment. The yes ended that search for food and I was left to my own devices.
Desperate, I sat down at one of the shops that appeared to have at least a few Moroccans inside. It wasn’t bad…not glorious but not bad. And then before my eyes, I watched as people busily began to assemble tables and stoves for the night’s market. hope ignited anew as I wandered through the medina looking for anything I hadn’t seen before. The search yielded indigo and actual sandalwood (I’d never seen either in their natural state), a man bent over a foot powered drill of sorts making impressive chess pieces.
Later that night I emerged into the transformed square, now brimming with identical brightly lit stalls with men hawking their identical wares. The rush of hope filled me as I meandered. Irritation quickly replaced it.
The sell was as hard as it gets. “hey rasta, rasta, here. Obama, right here obama. California. New York.” All normal stuff, except it was followed by a man standing in my path, stepping in front of me so that I couldn’t pass. Or a hand on my arm or shoulder firmly pointing me in the direction of a particular stall. And when I nodded my head “no” or said “not right now” it was often followed by mumbled foul language, and at one point, “f&$k suck f&$k suck sex sex.”
It caught me off guard.
I actually stopped and turned around – instead of steadily walking away. It was a quick look back as I walked away. Shocked because it is vile anywhere it felt especially heinous in the context of this place. This place where women often cover most of their bodies- sometimes veiling their faces.
I finally settled on a place to sit. It really didn’t matter much – it was all the same. The shrimp and squid were mild, the olives vinegary, the bread uneventful. I paid and then wandered around for a little while – mindful of the clusters of people listening to music and stories because they are the haven of Marrakech’s notorious pickpockets.
I still wasn’t wowed. I’m not sure what it is I was expecting but this wasn’t it. Wednesday I am headed into the through the Atlas Mountains, into the Dades Gorge, and into the desert at Merzuga. Hope, though not eternal, springs again.
I hate being a tourist. I hate to see so many folks herded together to take the same photos and hear the same stories. To buy the same crafts and eat the same food. It is the sameness…the sameness and the impossibility of intimacy.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand hustle. I know that my visit to any given city other than my own, has potential to make someone – lots of someones – money. The meal I eat, the art I buy, the taxi I take. And if it were just that…if it were just me buying what I need or want and someone selling me those things it would be fine but…instead…instead there is a falseness.
If this reads deflated, it is because I am.
Fes, and now Meknes, have dimmed my Moroccan elation. I’ve been privy to the hard sell and soft sell…voices and faces stern, sweet tea and talk of friends respectively…and they both tire me for different reason. The hard, because bullying is never appealing and the soft, because I love to connect with people and the soft is saccharine without substance.
Being here reminds me of Kandy, Sri Lanka. There, warned about touts, I was “befriended” by a helpful man who refused to take any money after guiding me around town and to the show I wanted to see. Later, I trailed after him as he took me to the market “right before it closes for the week” (yeah right) and the best place for spices and silk. By the time we were done it was dark and deserted and suddenly money was what it was all about. After the soft came the hard sell, and in the dark empty streets I relented. Sadly, that is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Sri Lanka. The friendly guy and his business partner who took me snorkeling and cooked me an authentic Sri Lankan meal (he was a chef) and never expected a dime, begins to balance the scales but the bad came first…its taste lingers.
So it is with morocco. Every time I meet someone it inevitably becomes a sale – a pitch – a transaction of sorts. Friendly conversation becomes, “my uncle has a place in the desert, not like the tours that gouge you, he’ll take care of you. Let me show you pictures” or “that is not a good place to buy silver, here follow me.” Today, in Moulay Idriss, after visiting the Roman ruins of Volubilis, I peered over the wooden bar across the entrance mean to bar non-muslims from entering. Beyond it stretched a beautifully tiled courtyard leading to the green roofed mosque.
A man stepped from the crowd, chatted with my driver and then began to speak to me about the view from above and what amazing photos I could get. “conbien?” in inquired, how much? “nothing,” he answered. Wearing and knowing better I rephrased, “libre?” free? And he answered of course.
Up I followed him, 150 heart pounding, asthma attack inducing steps. The view was nice – not the best I’ve seen but I appreciated the color he added, pointing to points of interest. Then, spiraling back down again, he stopped off at Morocco’s only circular minaret. Interesting but again, not the most impressive thing I’ve seen here. At the bottom, I began rummaging for change – thinking to tip him for his kindness. The 10 MAD I offered was rebuked and a demand for 50 MAD followed it. I argued, reminding him that he’d said free – silly me, the view was free, he was not. I gave him 20 MAD and huffed irritably back to the car.
If only it had stopped there. My driver, when handed the 300 MAD we’d agreed upon for the day’s drive, countered with 500 MAD. When pressed he argued that the time was long, that the trip to Moulay Idriss (5km from Volubilis and roughly 30 minutes in total) was 200 MAD. Already exhausted, I handed him an extra 100 MAD and again, huffed myself irritably up the hill in search of food.
And so it has been…pretenses behind almost every smile. And it pains me because I long to know more about Morocco. I want to know where the women go to socialize (the tea shops are filled exclusively with men, all facing the street behind little round tables), where to find food that isn’t tasteless couscous (worse than American) and dry chicken, and what it is like to live a modern life when flanked on all sides by ancient buildings and fortified remnants of times long gone.
And I get it…tourists are endless. Explain to one, open your heart or home, and that person is gone…another filling the space she left. Who has the time…who has the patience? Still, I’ve been spoiled by previous travels. Spoiled by longer stays – removed from places tourists frequent – so that people are less fatigued and don’t think of me in terms of profit (mostly).
Tomorrow I’m off to Marrakech…I hope for less and better…less hassle and getting over, better food…
Tags: me-ness, morocco, observations, travel
Once I got over the naked part the rest was easy.
I took off my shoes, put on my flipflops, and smiled from my perch on the blue and white benches. Women, those who worked there and those there for the hammam (bath) themselves, watched me with bemusement. One of the stewards brought over a bucket and a plastic bowl and placed it at my feet. She stared. I stared. Finally I pantomimed taking off my shirt and she nodded her head and smiled.
So I took off my shirt, and the rest of my clothes, wrapped myself in my thin orange and red lapa, and carried my bucket of stuff through the closed white door.
Steam embraced me immediately and my eyes began to adjust to the dimmer light. Moving through the antechamber I entered into the first tiled room filled with women, each in front of two faucets, in various poses of sitting or squatting. Some were naked, others clad only in underwear. Most were scrubbing vigorously with one of the rough mitted cloths sold everywhere in town. The next room was the same, and beyond it, I could see yet another reflection of the same thing.
I surveyed the scene and then filled my bucket with water, squatted, and followed suit.
Women chatted together in twos; the woman beside me scrubbed a chubby baby that smiled up at me. After I’d scrubbed and rinsed a few times the woman beside me – now free of baby – offered to scrub my back (in French or Arabic I’m not sure but I managed to get the gist of what she meant) and so she took my mitt and black soap and scrubbed my back for me.
I don’t even know her name, and as she was with a friend there was no need to reciprocate.
It was a moment, hell the whole thing was a scenario, I can’t imagine playing out in America. A bunch of women oblivious to their nakedness, scrubbing strangers just because that is what you do not for payment . I watched one woman scrub another woman laying on her side. Her strokes were strong and deliberate, over her sides, across her breasts. They could be the best of friends. They might be strangers.
There is something really beautiful about the hammam. Thirteen MAD – not even two dollars – but it is more than just hot water, or getting clean. As much as I love having access to a hot shower in my home, the ease and convenience of it, I can appreciate why hammams have been around for so long…why at 10pm they are still packed with women washing away the day’s fingerprints.
Tags: health, morocco, observations, travel
I surveyed the rolling hills. They were steeper than they looked. And in the heat of the day, afternoon call to prayer echoing over the browning grass beneath the rich blue sky. We’d already walked up a series of hills in search of Moulay Yacoub thermal spa-scoffing at the 50 MAD price the taxi drivers were invoking for the 2-5 km drive. Up in the bright sun soothed by the persistent cool breeze, only to find the hotel at the top couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help us; back down again. The road was winding-and that much longer for the winding- and so i scanned the horizon looking for a shortcut down to what I hoped…hoped…was the spa.
Success! After descending the endless trail of stairs…stairs steep enough to put a butt on anyone…I was too thrilled to find myself inhaling the faint scent of sulfer, evidence of the healing thermal waters within.
English – the bane of my existence here – was of no use inside. But using limited vocabulary and pantomime I figured out the package I wanted and paid by credit card (realizing too late I’d been overcharged).
Inside, I found myself wandering about with little help from the staff. Finally, a woman behind a counter exchanged my bag for a robe and slippers and, after changing, I shuffled into yet another room to await my first treatment.
This was meant to be a pampering day. A chi chi hybrid version of the traditional hammams (Turkish style baths that are ubiquitos here) and a spa. Chi chi and pampering might have been an overestimation.
The first stop was a Jacuzzi. The water started off pleasantly warm but cold water was constantly flowing in. after about five or 10 minutes it was leaning towards cold. I called out for Hen (the woman who ushered me in) and she finally emerged and adjusted the water. Cold turned to warm turned to hot. I curled my legs up close to my body on the far end in an attempt to escape the intensifying heat. When that failed, I stood. And eventually I got out all together.
I called out again, this time sheepishly. Hen looked les pleased this time and turned off the water completely. A few minutes later it began to drain and shortly after the drain gulped the last drops Hen emerged to lead me to the second treatment.
Treatment two was a powerful saltwater shower – in fact, all of the treatments were salt infused – meant to massage the neck and shoulders. It would have been lovely to wash my hair if that had been the point, but instead I stood in a deluge of saline contemplating how much water I was wasting in the middle of a desert.
I was summoned again, this room was empty except for a metal bar along the far wall and two hoses placed on top of a counter. It looked like the delousing station from prison movies. I hesitated at the door for a moment but the attendant gestured me toward the bar and then motioned for me to turn so that my back faced her.
The stream of water that hit me was so forceful that I braced against it. Water stung my back and legs, and as she moved the stream ever upwards it stung my neck and began to soak my hair. More than anything, vision of the civil rights protesters being hosed – police dogs straining on their leashes – came to mind. It wasn’t relaxing. On its own it was like being beaten repeatedly by wet fists, combined with the association of police brutality I was ecstatic to be finished.
Next up was the actual thermal pool. At traditional hammams there are separate baths for men and women, this place holds the distinction of allowing men and women to bathe (in their bating suits) together. I walked through glass doors into the domed room holding the reputedly healing waters. There were a smattering of people – men and women – resting in lounge chairs along the rim of the pool and idling in the hot water.
In America I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But here, here where most women cover their heads and neck the idea of being in my bathing suit before male eyes made me uneasy. A smiling young man steadily trying to get my attention, “I’ve seen you in the medina in Fes”, added to my dis-ease. Still I disrobed and sunk into the waters – hoping for relief from my allergies and sinus pains. In and out a few times – the heat too much to bear- I finally found myself lolling off to sleep.
The final treatment was a massage. At this point my expectations had been reduced to new depths. Being leered at and hosed will do that. But I was wrong.
Zenab entered and instructed me to lay face up. She pulled out a spray bottle of argon oil and began to spray her hands and then trailing them, and the oil, over my body. At first her touch was light – too light – I resigned myself to a subpar massage. But as the massage went on her hands became more forceful, more targeted at sore muscles. By the time I’d turned over she was deftly working over my body. I carry my stress in large knots along my spine and in my shoulders. Discovering this on her own, she began to knead the stress with deliberate hands.
They’re still there, she only had 30 minutes. The woman was good but not a miracle worker. But as she finished, she brushed her hands lightly over my back and shoulders and then turned off the light, leaving me to relax for a few minutes. It was a redeeming moment to an otherwise overpriced experience.
After ascending the 90 degree inclined steps back to the taxi rank and riding back to Fes, I prepared for dinner. This was my anticipated joy. I had such high expectations for Moroccan food; and yet thus far it had been pleasant hit and abysmal miss.
The restaurant, also a riad (fancy chmancy home converted into a hotel), was beautiful. Delicate colorful tiles and carved stone in every direction. The ceilings high the lighting low. After munching on olives and nuts and sipping fresh lemonade I moved to the dining area. There I was presented with the first true course. Moroccan salads (cooked): eggplant, cauliflower, potatoes, carrots, fava and white beans, and a few other dishes. None of the flavors were overtly bold but the overall impression was delightful.
Course two was what I’d been anticipating – authentic bastilla/pastilla, made with pigeon and dusted with powdered sugar and cinnamon. It was good, not as dramatic as I had envisioned, not even the best I’ve had…but a solid second course. Next…the tangine. I had low expectations for the tangine. My previous experiences with it were bland and uneventful, and this one came with the added demerit of being served with liver.
Even so, I smiled, asked for white meat, and put my fork to work. It was delightful. The meet was tender and flavorful. The liver added a richness of flavor, without the strange texture I associate with it. The lemon and olives made for more complex and subtly bold experience. I was pleasantly surprised.
The final course was desert. Layers of flakey dough with what I think was milk, rosewater, and almonds, served with orange slices. The flakiness was fun, and the flavor not too overwhelming or sweet. Combined with mint tea, it was a delicate way to end the meal.
Four hundred and fifty MAD later, I wasn’t displeased. I had the best tangine I’ve ever put into my mouth and enjoyed a meal away from crowds of people looking to sell me something- anything.
I still have dreams of delightful Moroccan morsels…I look forward to Meknes and Marrakech to bring those dreams to fruition.
The narrow winding streets of the medina are sheltered on both sides (and sometimes above) by shops; it is an ancient shopping mall of pretty much all things conceivable….living animals waiting to become meals, or their kin already slaughtered, silver, copper being made, rugs, tile. Whatever you need is nestled somewhere between one of the many mosques and just beyond the gaggle of tourists.
Of course nothing amid all this stuff is priced in the American sense. Instead there is a tradition of haggling – especially among the Berber. The haggle, depending on the size of the purchase, can be involved. Folks order you tea and establish a “friendship”. Someone inevitably touched my arm, lightly and quickly, while gazing intently at me, “it is important that we make friends, not just business. You give me your best price, I give mine, if they meet, great. If not, you have your money and I have my things and we part as friends.”
I heard that from a number of people – the Berber rug man that was the first shop we entered today (his first customer too…which is apparently lucky for us both, except I didn’t buy a $200, albeit beautifully handcrafted rug). He, the soft seller of the group, remained friendly enough but his brother muttered bitterly as we dissolved into the crowd beyond their door after sipping tea and admiring their wares.
later, in search of the famous tanneries, where leather is prepared and dyed, we acquired a tour guide of sorts. Part of the “cooperative” not guide we were assured. But we were ushered from leather shop to rug shop to leather shop to Berber pharmacy. The pharmacy held the first successful purchases of the day…for BushDiva that included argon oil. More hustle and bustle and we were heading out of the medina when BD, ever price conscious, noticed argon oil for a fraction of the price (60MAD to the 400MAD she paid).
Back we plunged into the maze, weaving our way to the pharmacy. BD, unsuccessful in her attempt to receive a refund/reduction in price, left her purchase on the counter. We were followed. Another “heartfelt” exchange ensued, to no avail, and so we plunged back toward the exit.
This time we were hailed into a “berber museum” with an exquisitely carved stone ceiling. More tea was had (berber whiskey)– we were auspiciously the last customers of the day (lucky like being the first apparently)– and there was great laughter and camaraderie…until the haggling began. BD went first and her negations, light hearted at first, became more serious as the shop owner accused her of promising to buy the dagger in question. Visibly irked, he moved to me and the purchase of silver and turquoise earrings. Upon my first bid he snatched back the earrings and began speaking…in berber I presume…with animated irritation and I’m fairly sure quite a few explitives.
At this point I became fairly certain that our photo was posted somewhere in the medina branding us as pains in the butt. BD laughed it off but I have to admit, while perusing the silver area, I eyed the charms of a downward facing hand with a blue eye in the palm, meant to ward off the evil eye.
By the time we emerged from the maze, I was exhausted…and hungry. Unfortunately food disappointed today. My dinner consisted of bland couscous with overcooked vegetables and tasteless meat. Not quite what I had floating in my Moroccan dreams – but I hold out hope against hope for tomorrow where a trip to the much heralded La Maison Bleu…here’s hoping for a foodgasm.
Tags: food, morocco, observations, travel
The call to prayer chases itself from one minaret to the next – echoing its multiple births across the Place Boujeloud outside the medina gate. Sparsely populated during the day – mostly students from the adjoining college sharing the shade of a row of mulberry trees dropping ripe fruit – the paved expanse is crowded at dusk. Children play with their own empty strollers, makeshift carnival type games emerge –needing luck or skill I can’t be sure. There is the requisite tea table, and one for nuts, and juices, and meat sandwiches. the assembly of people enjoy the cool evening air. The backdrop of the ancient wall encircling the old city, sharing space with towering metal cranes- like the keyhole doors, juxtaposed against satellite dishes-old and new…then and now.
I adore the seeming ease that the ancient and modern share space; different ways of life blending into a colorful tapestry. A woman in a long jalaba, head and neck covered by a scarf, walks arm-in-arm with her friend, hair blowing in the wind, arms exposed. And I am only a visitor. Maybe this is the simplified and romanticized view…anything possible because for me there is beauty in the possibility.
Still, today impossible washes over me like refreshing evening air. I visited the Medersa Bou Inania, one of the few holy places that allow non-muslims. Gazing around at the details, delicate wood carvings creating immense mosaic-ed doors, intricate engravings in white stone reaching well beyond sight, bright tiles, colorful glass – all melding into a sanctuary of beauty.
I can understand how this place would call people to contemplate God – call them to aspire to more, to better.
Beyond the mammoth bronze doors that separate the medersa from the rest of the medina, I lost myself to the winding paths and endless stalls. Voices called out greetings, “Senegal” “obama” “texas”, and urged me to look inside “for luck” or “for beautiful things”.
Of course my search always involves food and so I found myself – having walked from one of the 14 gates to another across the medina– at a food stall. Poulet something or other – chicken stuffed inside fresh baked bread with Chinese vermicelli, pimento powder, cumin, and some tomato based sauce. Exquisite because I was starving or because it was exquisite, no matter. It was lunch for 10 MAD – a little more than a dollar. Later, at the palais mnebhi, I had mint tea with ambiance – the grandeur of the former palace. Elegant without opulence; high ceilings and mosaic-ed tiles, and from the roof a view of fes spread out before me, fawn colored buildings against a clean blue so sky.
Days wader by me now, each unfolding without solid plan or tangible expectation. Only the assumption that something beautiful awaits me, something full of possibility – like the waxing moon that hangs brightly just over the ancient wall and the crowd milling about the Place Boujeloud.
Tags: arts, food, morocco, observations, travel
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