Samira, a beautiful, reserved, 18-year-old Moroccan girl, was introduced to us on our second day in Essaouira. She was the daughter of Aziz, the jaunty, crazy man who sold us necklaces and stories on the beach. Aside from money, he was interested in exchanging goods for his jewelry.
"Do you have a mobile phone or a bikini? My daughter would love a bikini. The quality here is very bad," he made a face.
I was confused. "When would she wear a bikini? Not here." I gestured toward the ocean.
"No no. When they go to the bathing hole. Just women. Then she can wear it. But it is bad, the ones here."
We didn't end up trading bathing suits (awkward) with him, but Emma grabbed a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt from the hotel room, and offered them. In return, he gave her a vividly blue necklace – a very important one which had secretly come over a border with him – which he claimed to be one of a kind and of great value. We later saw the exact same necklace sold in shops throughout Ouarzazate. Fair enough; it was still a good story.
After chatting a while and asking him questions about his three wives and many children, he suddenly became really excited.
"You can meet my daughter! She owns a store in the village. Come, come."
Emma and I looked at each other. Essaouira is a beach town, known for a music festival, "the Moroccan Woodstock," which attracts hippies. Apparently Jimi Hendrix had visited in the '70s and made quite an impression. Still, its biggest attraction (and the reason for our visit) was the beach which meant we had lots of free time for meeting the random daughters of quirky, multilingual salesmen.
"Okay." We agreed, not knowing what to expect. My mother later told me that this was the part of our journey where she worried the most. Will sent her a text telling her that "the girls are fine, they're just going to the village of a man they met on the beach."
He led us beyond the large square and down several streets and alleys, chatting the whole way about our surroundings. We finally arrived at a tiny, unobtrusive grocery store, tucked away on a quiet street. It was a typical Moroccan mini store, filled with packaged crackers, cookies, candy bars, cooking supplies, plastic household supplies, etc. Samira was behind the counter, smiling shyly, wearing a headscarf and a long sleeved top over jeans.
She did not, as her father had claimed, speak more than a few phrases in French. Aziz smiled hugely, introduced us, translated back and forth, and then left to continue his beach sales. Emma and I sat down on dirty plastic chairs, and we all communicated through hand movements, body language, bits of Arabic, English, French, and laughter. Lots of laughter.
We fell in love with Samira, mostly because she was affectionate and adorable, but also because we were excited to meet a girl our age, communication issues or not. That night we took her out for dinner, and Emma brought my notebook so that we could talk through pictures. We drew a picture of our entire family, and she did the same for us. I then showed her some of the old pictures we had drawn on our trip. This included a drawing of all the characters in
Gossip Girl. I don't think she ever fully understood that particular sketch, despite my effort to explain to her that it was on T.V. by drawing a little box with an antenna. (Okay, maybe I forgot the antenna). I can only assume she thought they were our attractive extended family.
At some point in the evening, I noticed that she was wearing an engagement ring, and what looked to be a wedding ring.
"Vous etes mariee?" Are you married? I asked in French, pointing at the ring.
She looked at it and nodded. Crazy.
Later on we asked if her husband would miss her while she was out with us. Or rather, we drew a picture of a man behind a window in a house crying. We then drew the three of us girls far away from the house.
"Won't he," I pointed to the ring, "Be sad that you're out?" I pointed at the picture.
She shrugged. Later, we spoke to her father and he told us that she was engaged, not married. She must have thought we were really, really weird.
**
Ouarzazate, the next city we visited, is known for being a popular Hollywood film location.
Lawrence of Arabia, Star Wars ('77), The Mummy, Gladiator, were all shot in Ouarzazate. So was
The Hills Have Eyes 3, or so we were informed by a friendly young shopkeeper. Part of his front wall was filled with pictures, all containing himself posing with a movie star.
He dropped names of directors and actors that he had driven around for the movie company he worked for. We steered him towards information about the megastars he had met.
"When Leonardo Decaprio was here, he was scared of the people. He only went from his trailer to the set. But Ridley Scott made him wave to the crowd one day."
And what about Brad?
"Brad Pitt was good. He was walking out around here, you know. We were told not to bother him."
"How was Julia Roberts?"
"Julia Roberts!" His eyes lit up. "She was so nice. So friendly. She told them she didn't want a body guard, she just needed me to walk with her and translate."
The picture of him with Julia Roberts is in the bottom left corner of the photo collage. She looks casual; no makeup, hair pulled back, but her famous smile stretches across her face and she is radiant.
