In general, patience not being tried

On the bus, en route from Marrakech to Casablanca

Friday, March 12

4:25 pm

I’m slowly realizing that the top line of the scene setting at the top of posts really takes any thunder I might have to begin the post.  I can’t say “Here I am on the bus again from here to there” because you already know that.

I’ll do a quick rundown of the less eventful sights from the past two days before I get to the good stuff.  Also, if you’re not into reading long posts and you generally skim once you’ve gotten through the introduction, this is my chance to tell you that when I was going through some pictures I saw bunches that didn’t relate to anything I’ve written about (yes, believe it or not, I have left things out), so once I’m all done I will go through the pictures to find those little side stories and get shorter, illustrated posts up for those.

The past two days – or as that time period is known among us, The Day With the Rain and the Bus – have been in and out of Marrakech.  We went to the postcard-ready Menara Gardens.  That’s the place with the small white menzah (pavilion) and the green roof that reflects in a, um, reflecting pool and there are mountains in the background and an olive grove and whatnot.  It looks like the type of place where you might want to sit and be contemplative but the truth is that the history is just not interesting enough to inspire contemplativeness.  It was built by some sultan as a place to have picnics.  Apparently there is a historical rumor that the pool was built to teach swimming to the soldiers that were going to Spain.  Apart from that, it’s just kind of there.  The water is brackish and poses better for pictures the further from it that you go.

We went to the Menara Gardens.  The Gardens refer to the peaceful olive groves surrounding the main attraction, which are a 19^th century menzah (pavilion) and the reflecting pool that lies in front of the menzah.  Behind the menzah sit the mighty snow-capped Atlas Mountains which while striking are camera shy and elusive to the average wannabe amateur quasi-photographer such as myself.  The Gardens were built by a sultan as a place to hold picnics, whether for just the royal family or for all Moroccans I am not sure.  Regardless if his original intentions of exclusiveness, modern Moroccans continue the spirit of his picnic motivation as there were enough families lounging in the shade of the grove to show that the place is popular for that use but not overcrowded (although it was a Wednesday).  There were also families by the pool feeding the fish in the pool (or whatever aqua-monsters are in there) and enjoying the view.  The combination of locals enjoying both the touristy part of the view (the water, the menzah) but also enjoying the non-touristy natural part (the groves) reminded me of in DC when tourists are filing from monument to museum to monument and locals are there too but probably to enjoy not only that stuff but also the Mall or the paths near the reflecting pool.  That is a pleasant combination.  It was nice to be able to enjoy a site simply for its beauty and simplicity, and not feel like enjoyment and appreciation were being shoved down one’s throat because of holiness or historical significance, which is an unfortunate phenomenon of other sites, particularly when being shepherded like a flock of sheep.

The more observant may notice that the last two paragraphs were different accounts of the same visit.  I wrote most of the first one in earnest.  I reread it and wondered why I sounded so bitter.  I wasn’t sure of the answer so I decided to begin another version of the same story with a different attitude.  It only took a sentence or two to not only feel better but to realize why the first one has the tone that it does.  The reason is that I let myself be affected by the whirlwind nature of this trip.  I wanted to digest the experience in a cocktail of a couple factoids and a couple pictures, which is as impossible as learning the entire energy and healthcare debates in a 30-second sound bite (oops!).  I knew our time there was limited as it is in every place we go, and I don’t mean in a grand existential way.  I had to look, appreciate, and get on the bus.  Next!

Appreciating late is better than never appreciating, but it’s not the same.  I’ll be back.

Saadian tombs, Museum of Dar Si Said, Badii Palace: 30-second tourism bites.

We went to the Koutoubia Minaret.  While we were there the call to prayer was made.  It was the first time while here that I had heard the whole thing, and I was focused on trying to pick out words that I recognized (which is a voluminous collection of three or maybe four words).  Later, when I heard the entire call two other times, I heard the difference in the cadence of the imam making the call (not to conjure up images of a quarterback on the line or anything, although I’m sure you could go somewhere with that metaphor if you chose).  The first time I heard it, the guy sounded bored, or at least tired.  He cleared his throat into the microphone before he started, then took a long pause, then began speaking the way a 5^th grader says the pledge of allegiance: I know I gotta do this but I’m just doing it to cross off my to-do list, let’s go.  The second time the guy sounded more enthusiastic: Hey! God is great! Time to pray! Up and at ‘em! I’m a ****ing imam!  I wonder if how the imam registers on the enthusiasmometer during the call affects or is an indicator of the mood of the forthcoming prayer.  I guess it’s probably no more or less so than a pastor’s or rabbi’s effect on services, but I think that if I were being called to prayer five times a day over a loudspeaker I would want (or need) it to be enthusiastic.  Of course, theoretically, going to pray, regardless of how many times a day you do it and how energetic the customer service representative of your religious establishment of choice is, should at all times be a privilege and a fantastic thing if you truly embrace your religion, but that is a discussion for another time and probably another blog altogether.

We went to the Ourika Valley to visit a supposedly authentic Berber house.  My cynicism stems not only from genetic predisposition but also from experiences when I was taken to a supposedly authentic rug-maker or marble-cutter or basket-weaver or what have you and the truth is that I was just being taken.  In fact, I had already had several such experiences on this very trip, sort of like a refresher course.  Third world dwellers are no dummies.  They know that we westerners want to feel like we’re seeing the real deal, the hard life, the real life, that we’re fixated on finding authenticity and are willing to pay for it, so they do, as they should.

So when, after we had been to strings of these photo-op manual labor shops “cooperatives”, we were being told that we were going to the house of a Real Berber family and be shown a Real mint tea ceremony and be served Real homemade food, some of which was derived from a Real Berber cow, little bitty nagging alarms were alerting my highly sensitive skeptic nerve.  We were told that it was going to be Real neat because the Berbers are so poor but they’re so traditionally hospitable that they would bring us into their home to show us around, etc.  I wondered how a family that was so poor could fit 80 of us into their house much less give us all food and drink, but what do I know.

As we pulled up the guide reminded us that we would be swarmed with vendors and that they would be persistent and that we shouldn’t engage them and that oh look, here they come, running down the hill! They were in fact running to descend upon the gazelle herd, camel knickknacks, shoe keychains, and mini tagines clanking around wildly.  I assured myself that this was a sign that we were going to a Real poor Berber house; maybe the Berbers were so poor that they could only afford mini tagines, not normal-sized ones, and these guys were their faithful suppliers.

The house was on the side of the mountain. It was several levels.  We were herded upstairs to the deck, which was as large as my apartment.  There were stools and benches with cushions set up for us, which is where we would see the tea demonstration.  The lower level had a rudimentary kitchen setup with various pots simmering over contained fire pits.  Several women were tending to the kitchen as a few children scurried about.  No man behind the curtain down there; that was the real deal.

On the deck, we were wrapping up snapping pictures of the mountains when matriarch of the house trotted out.  I don’t recall her exact age but she was around 80 years old.  She proceeded to make the tea one step at a time; steeping the tea, shoving into the teapot several bunches of mint, followed by an alarming piece of sugar which she can cut off of a large sugar cone (see pictures), adding some sage, and doing a little taste testing.  Once she was satisfied, she poured tea for everyone by pouring it into each glass in an expanding arch, beginning with the teapot close to the glass then raising it higher and higher.  And she did it with a pot in each hand.  At the same time.  It’s a Moroccan thing.

Tea wouldn’t be tea without nibbles.  We were served homemade bread for dipping into homemade butter (from the Real cow out back), homemade honey, and homemade olive oil.  They were all equally delicious.  Fatima and I scavenged for uneaten bread and dips within our arms’ perimeter to make sure no one was offended by having leftovers.  Wouldn’t want to make anyone feel bad.

At this point most of the group had gotten up to wander around the house a little more or to face the feeding frenzy on the way back to the bus.  The casual mention had already been made that perhaps, if we felt like it, maybe we might be able to make a small donation to the family on our way out.

I’m still not sure that those people really live in that house.  They might.  After all, who knows how property is acquired or transferred or retained up in the mountains of Morocco.  That didn’t matter though – I wasn’t auditing them.  I’m not sure that they don’t make a profit off the little gift shop they had set up.  So what.  I’m not sure that they don’t host multiple tourist groups a day whose interest – real or imagined – they exploit to promote their own well-being.  Good for them.  What I am pretty sure of though is that they live in the mountains, they have very little, that despite those things they seemed genuinely happy, and that they were extremely welcoming.  I also knew that they could use my money much more than I could, so I gave them something for me and for someone else who said that they wanted to give but didn’t have the cash on them.

Note: I’m not telling you this to stroke my own ego.  Like the religion comment, the existence of selfless acts is a topic for another time and forum.  I have to explain what happened because it’s the cause to the effect that really makes the story important.

One of the women asked Fatima if she could exchange dirhams for some US dollars that someone had put into the donation basket.  Fatima didn’t have much on her, so I offered to do it.  Then the woman brought me Euros, then GB pounds, then more dollars.  I ended up giving them very nearly all of my dirhams, and at a good exchange rate – they have no idea what the exchange rate is.  They completely trusted (or at least had enough faith to let them have hope in) my honesty in exchanging with them.  That was an unusual feeling.

So I changed a lot of money for them.  I went to the middle level to take some last pictures of the backyard when one of the younger women grabbed me.  She took me downstairs to the matriarch.  The matriarch thanked me then something to me in Berber that I of course didn’t understand.  So I responded in French, which she didn’t understand.  The younger woman chimed in with Berber also, then we all just stood there.  Finally the matriarch motioned for me to follow her, which I did, and she took me into a back room and pointed to a traditional stove that was fired up and boiling water for tea and other pots.  I made some appreciative noises and she started talking in Berber.  I finally figured out that she wanted me to take a picture, and she posed next to the stove.

I didn’t want to go crazy so I took just a couple (not to mention everyone else had already gone back to the bus and I knew they were probably waiting on me).  I thanked her profusely as we walked away from the stove back to the entrance, and she took me back up to the middle level to where their little gift shop was (which we were not instructed to go check out as a group, surprisingly).  She picked out a metal piece that was a hand with an eye in the middle, the Muslim charm for warding off the evil eye, a charm of protection, and gave it to me.  One of the Moroccan faculty members from our group was in the same room talking to someone else, and she saw what was going on.  I asked her what I should give the matriarch for the piece, and she said that I could give something if I wanted to but it was intended to be a gift.  Berbers are healers, she said, and this is a sign of protection and goodwill.  That meant a lot to me.  

It’s weird to try to thank someone when you’re not really able to use words but you’re not really supposed to physically embrace them either.  I did manage before I left to shake her hand and abuse by repetition one of the few Arabic words, choukran (thank you), that I could remember.

We stopped at a roadside business that produces and sells argane oil and related products like argane oil butter, argane oil acne cream, argane oil hand lotion, argane oil soap, and argane oil.  I’m not really sure what an argane is, but I saw some women cracking nuts open and crushing the oil out of them, so that was neat.  I didn’t buy anything but tried some of the oil and paste they had out to try on bread.  It tastes like peanut butter.

We went to lunch at a hotel up in the mountains.  It was overpriced but the view was nice.  I had rabbit tagine which was very tasty. 

[Note: this was not the end of the day but I’m stopping because in real life the trip is over and I can go over the rest in a catch-all wrap-up.]