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.
Showing posts with label Morocco. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Morocco. Show all posts
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
up where they stay all day in the sun
Dinner with the Basha was, well, filling.
Rewind to the day before. Will's host brother, Mohammed, invites us to have breakfast the next morning. Will declines for the sake of sleep, and suggests lunch instead (dinner is booked with the Basha). I am not nervous at this point. Although every meal we've eaten with a host has been unending and completely stuffing, I figure I can handle a lunch and dinner out on the same day. After all, I'm a Stewart. We foodfest well.
The next morning, in accordance with the plan, we sleep in. At about ten, Will teaches us how to make non-lumpy crepes, and we eat them with peanut butter and dark chocolate.
Then, not in accordance with the plan, Will's middle-aged female neighbor drops by. She is upset that she hasn't been granted a meal slot with the visiting sisters, and she insists that we come over. Will explains that we have a lunch date with his host family. She persists; assuring us she simply wants to feed us a bit of couscous. Fine.
We trek on over and discover that, no it is not just a bit of couscous; it is a three course meal. Will hasn't taught his acquaintances much English beyond "What's up" and "Not much" (useful, eh?), but she asks him how to say "Eat," and spends the rest of the time commanding us to do so when we look like we're slowing down.
After the final orange is consumed (all the meals end in eating about two or three oranges each), we get up, exchange kisses and gratitude, and walk straight to Will's host family's house for our next lunch. Will assures us that if worse comes to worse, he will explain our first lunch hijacking, and we won't be obligated to eat. This explanation, of course, never happens.
Meals with Will's (ex) host family generally take about three to four hours. We sit along the walls on large cushions (a majilis), talk a bit, and then engage in communal T.V. watching. The ancient (great?) grandparents are sprawled on the cushions along the right wall, sleeping away. The rest of us: Will's host brother and sister, sometimes the mother, are seated along the left wall. The T.V. is partially obstructed by a large heater. The temperature inside the house is colder than outside – designed to cool down for the 10 months of incredible heat. (Will says during the summer he sleeps on the roof and pours buckets of water over himself throughout the night).
The movies playing are a bizarre variety of B movies, Sci Fi, and unknown sequels (Fay Grim?). All of them are dramatic and involve death or torture. They are thankfully in English with Arabic subtitles. Am and I later discussed how the selection probably affects their view of America. Or at least American taste in television.
**
We finally finish the lengthly lunch at the host family's house. Will's host sister asks him how to say something in English. He writes it down for her and she turns to us and says "Would you like to come with me to see our big garden?" Adorable, but unfortunately a useless phrase for anything except inviting people to view large gardens.
She leads us out the back door, through the door in the back garden wall, and down a path. Emma is throwing her Egyptian Arabic nouns at her, and they laugh as they try to communicate through body language and bits of language. I linger back, lost in thought, leaving the shady path to walk in the sunlight. Our time in Morocco is ending, and I'm not looking forward to the return. In the tourist trap cities, the distractions made it easy to switch into vacation mode, but in Tinjedad we have lots of lounging time; time for my mind to wander. If there was a way to sell vacation brains to use on holiday that left all the everyday stuff behind, someone would make a killer profit.
We hit the "large garden" and it turns out to be rows of fields where old women are sitting on the ground working with the crops. It is not beautiful by conventional garden terms; there are no bursts of flowers, no trees, no variety. But it is real, it is honest, and it is Morocco. Dusty, dirty, warm. We kneel on the ground to greet the women with the customary kisses, and one of them grips onto me as I pull away, jerking me back into a prolonged hug/kiss thing.
**
It is about 4:30 when we join Will for his lesson at the Basha's house. The Basha has decent English, and excellent French which he often switches into and asks me to translate. He says "Hello" to us with such strange tones/stresses ("Halloooo") that I almost laugh, thinking that he's making fun of the language. Nope.
There are cakes and cookies and tea set out for us. After our late breakfast and two huge lunches, we aren't exactly peckish, but we consume the obligatory few to be polite.
He is very friendly and inquisitive, writing down every other sentence we say to study later. (I'm very grateful my friends don't do this to me.) He asks us what we do, where we've been in Morocco, and how it has met with our expectations. Will isn't talking much; he has been feeling sick for a little while.
After an hour of chatting, the Basha turns to Emma. "So. Are you very hungry?" Will has told us to say yes to this or we will be in his house for hours and in the restaurant for more.
Emma answers jokingly saying she's always hungry. He doesn't quite understand her – maybe "always" is tripping him up. So she gets more dramatic. "I'm always hungry," she waves her hands, "If you don't stop me, I'll eat that and that," she points at objects, "and this cushion," she mimes eating the cushion.
He laughs at this. "You will regret that," he teases. We don't quite know what he means, but we all laugh.
He then asks me if I am really hungry and if we should go to the restaurant. "Really hungry." It would be one thing to agree to being kind of hungry, or reasonably hungry, but to say I am really hungry when I'm considering launching a career in bullemia – well it seems a bit dishonest.
I squirm and shrug. "Whatever you all want to do."
Will, pale and sweaty, is not happy with my answer. "Just tell him you are," he mutters. He doesn't look so hot.
The Basha is also not satisfied with my answer. "No. You must tell me if you are very hungry."
I shrug again. "Yeah let's go to the restaurant." I am a liar. But I'm lying to save my brother's health and rescue ourselves from hours of methodical, repetitive English discussions.
We trek off to the restaurant. It is extremely nice, and I am delighted by the sit-down toilet stocked with both toilet paper and soap. I recommend it to Emma.
Our starters are thick round loaves of Moroccan bread and olives. The Basha tears off a huge piece for Emma, the girl who is "always hungry." She smiles and eats it.
We discuss the practice of polygamy in Morocco. He says it's not very common anymore because the Koran commands the husband to treat all his wives exactly the same which is impossible. Technically I suppose it is, but this seems to be an odd interpretation. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to treat all your kids equally, but that doesn't mean down to the number of cornflakes in the breakfast bowl.
He seems surprised when we tell him that polygamy isn't practiced in the States because it's illegal. I'm surprised that he doesn't know this. Will tells him that men might have a girlfriend on the side, but they wouldn't marry more than one woman at the same time. Also, many people divorce and then remarry.
He insists that these amount to the same thing. We argue otherwise. I cannot help myself and throw in that Moroccan women aren't allowed more than one husband and this is unequal. He says it's very fair because they can easily get a divorce.
Looking back, he had a reasonable point: in both countries people have difficulty sticking to one spouse.
The rest of the meal passes fairly uneventfully except that my body is angry at me for forcing it to expand. Also, the Basha finds it terribly funny to keep adding food to Emma's plate. Five pieces of chicken. Extra bread. It all piles on. "You said you're always hungry." Ah, yes. Emma is stubborn, and always up for a challenge. She digs into everything, declaring that it tastes really good. Occasionally she tries to put food back on the main plate but he stops her.
I am becoming increasingly irrational – or rational – and have decided that I don't care about protocol, I refuse to continue stuffing myself. This results in a plate of half touched food.
"You told me you were very hungry," the Basha says, eying my plate.
"I lied, sir. I was stuffed. We wanted an early night so we told you we were ready to eat in order to wrap things up." These were not the words that came out of my mouth. Nope. I came up with: "I guess I was wrong." He doesn't understand. "Je n'ai pas..." I can't remember how to say right. Raison. I point to my brain and shake my head. "I was wrong." This is probably good practice for future argument resolutions: "I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong."
He's not buying it. "But you said you were very hungry." At this point someone jumped in and changed the subject. Or the waiter came. Either way, Emma and I learned our lesson. Don't tell someone you're very hungry when you're very full.
Rewind to the day before. Will's host brother, Mohammed, invites us to have breakfast the next morning. Will declines for the sake of sleep, and suggests lunch instead (dinner is booked with the Basha). I am not nervous at this point. Although every meal we've eaten with a host has been unending and completely stuffing, I figure I can handle a lunch and dinner out on the same day. After all, I'm a Stewart. We foodfest well.
The next morning, in accordance with the plan, we sleep in. At about ten, Will teaches us how to make non-lumpy crepes, and we eat them with peanut butter and dark chocolate.
Then, not in accordance with the plan, Will's middle-aged female neighbor drops by. She is upset that she hasn't been granted a meal slot with the visiting sisters, and she insists that we come over. Will explains that we have a lunch date with his host family. She persists; assuring us she simply wants to feed us a bit of couscous. Fine.
We trek on over and discover that, no it is not just a bit of couscous; it is a three course meal. Will hasn't taught his acquaintances much English beyond "What's up" and "Not much" (useful, eh?), but she asks him how to say "Eat," and spends the rest of the time commanding us to do so when we look like we're slowing down.
After the final orange is consumed (all the meals end in eating about two or three oranges each), we get up, exchange kisses and gratitude, and walk straight to Will's host family's house for our next lunch. Will assures us that if worse comes to worse, he will explain our first lunch hijacking, and we won't be obligated to eat. This explanation, of course, never happens.
Meals with Will's (ex) host family generally take about three to four hours. We sit along the walls on large cushions (a majilis), talk a bit, and then engage in communal T.V. watching. The ancient (great?) grandparents are sprawled on the cushions along the right wall, sleeping away. The rest of us: Will's host brother and sister, sometimes the mother, are seated along the left wall. The T.V. is partially obstructed by a large heater. The temperature inside the house is colder than outside – designed to cool down for the 10 months of incredible heat. (Will says during the summer he sleeps on the roof and pours buckets of water over himself throughout the night).
The movies playing are a bizarre variety of B movies, Sci Fi, and unknown sequels (Fay Grim?). All of them are dramatic and involve death or torture. They are thankfully in English with Arabic subtitles. Am and I later discussed how the selection probably affects their view of America. Or at least American taste in television.
**
We finally finish the lengthly lunch at the host family's house. Will's host sister asks him how to say something in English. He writes it down for her and she turns to us and says "Would you like to come with me to see our big garden?" Adorable, but unfortunately a useless phrase for anything except inviting people to view large gardens.
She leads us out the back door, through the door in the back garden wall, and down a path. Emma is throwing her Egyptian Arabic nouns at her, and they laugh as they try to communicate through body language and bits of language. I linger back, lost in thought, leaving the shady path to walk in the sunlight. Our time in Morocco is ending, and I'm not looking forward to the return. In the tourist trap cities, the distractions made it easy to switch into vacation mode, but in Tinjedad we have lots of lounging time; time for my mind to wander. If there was a way to sell vacation brains to use on holiday that left all the everyday stuff behind, someone would make a killer profit.
We hit the "large garden" and it turns out to be rows of fields where old women are sitting on the ground working with the crops. It is not beautiful by conventional garden terms; there are no bursts of flowers, no trees, no variety. But it is real, it is honest, and it is Morocco. Dusty, dirty, warm. We kneel on the ground to greet the women with the customary kisses, and one of them grips onto me as I pull away, jerking me back into a prolonged hug/kiss thing.
**
It is about 4:30 when we join Will for his lesson at the Basha's house. The Basha has decent English, and excellent French which he often switches into and asks me to translate. He says "Hello" to us with such strange tones/stresses ("Halloooo") that I almost laugh, thinking that he's making fun of the language. Nope.
There are cakes and cookies and tea set out for us. After our late breakfast and two huge lunches, we aren't exactly peckish, but we consume the obligatory few to be polite.
He is very friendly and inquisitive, writing down every other sentence we say to study later. (I'm very grateful my friends don't do this to me.) He asks us what we do, where we've been in Morocco, and how it has met with our expectations. Will isn't talking much; he has been feeling sick for a little while.
After an hour of chatting, the Basha turns to Emma. "So. Are you very hungry?" Will has told us to say yes to this or we will be in his house for hours and in the restaurant for more.
Emma answers jokingly saying she's always hungry. He doesn't quite understand her – maybe "always" is tripping him up. So she gets more dramatic. "I'm always hungry," she waves her hands, "If you don't stop me, I'll eat that and that," she points at objects, "and this cushion," she mimes eating the cushion.
He laughs at this. "You will regret that," he teases. We don't quite know what he means, but we all laugh.
He then asks me if I am really hungry and if we should go to the restaurant. "Really hungry." It would be one thing to agree to being kind of hungry, or reasonably hungry, but to say I am really hungry when I'm considering launching a career in bullemia – well it seems a bit dishonest.
I squirm and shrug. "Whatever you all want to do."
Will, pale and sweaty, is not happy with my answer. "Just tell him you are," he mutters. He doesn't look so hot.
The Basha is also not satisfied with my answer. "No. You must tell me if you are very hungry."
I shrug again. "Yeah let's go to the restaurant." I am a liar. But I'm lying to save my brother's health and rescue ourselves from hours of methodical, repetitive English discussions.
We trek off to the restaurant. It is extremely nice, and I am delighted by the sit-down toilet stocked with both toilet paper and soap. I recommend it to Emma.
Our starters are thick round loaves of Moroccan bread and olives. The Basha tears off a huge piece for Emma, the girl who is "always hungry." She smiles and eats it.
We discuss the practice of polygamy in Morocco. He says it's not very common anymore because the Koran commands the husband to treat all his wives exactly the same which is impossible. Technically I suppose it is, but this seems to be an odd interpretation. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to treat all your kids equally, but that doesn't mean down to the number of cornflakes in the breakfast bowl.
He seems surprised when we tell him that polygamy isn't practiced in the States because it's illegal. I'm surprised that he doesn't know this. Will tells him that men might have a girlfriend on the side, but they wouldn't marry more than one woman at the same time. Also, many people divorce and then remarry.
He insists that these amount to the same thing. We argue otherwise. I cannot help myself and throw in that Moroccan women aren't allowed more than one husband and this is unequal. He says it's very fair because they can easily get a divorce.
Looking back, he had a reasonable point: in both countries people have difficulty sticking to one spouse.
The rest of the meal passes fairly uneventfully except that my body is angry at me for forcing it to expand. Also, the Basha finds it terribly funny to keep adding food to Emma's plate. Five pieces of chicken. Extra bread. It all piles on. "You said you're always hungry." Ah, yes. Emma is stubborn, and always up for a challenge. She digs into everything, declaring that it tastes really good. Occasionally she tries to put food back on the main plate but he stops her.
I am becoming increasingly irrational – or rational – and have decided that I don't care about protocol, I refuse to continue stuffing myself. This results in a plate of half touched food.
"You told me you were very hungry," the Basha says, eying my plate.
"I lied, sir. I was stuffed. We wanted an early night so we told you we were ready to eat in order to wrap things up." These were not the words that came out of my mouth. Nope. I came up with: "I guess I was wrong." He doesn't understand. "Je n'ai pas..." I can't remember how to say right. Raison. I point to my brain and shake my head. "I was wrong." This is probably good practice for future argument resolutions: "I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong."
He's not buying it. "But you said you were very hungry." At this point someone jumped in and changed the subject. Or the waiter came. Either way, Emma and I learned our lesson. Don't tell someone you're very hungry when you're very full.
we actually flew, and killed a pirate or two - but we're home, of that we're very glad
In Morocco, everything felt closer to nature. Depositing your excrement into a hole in the ground. Heating water over an open flame and then pouring it over yourself as a shower. Using blankets as a new heating system. Watching a skinny, grinning butcher cut your beef off the hind quarter of a cow that he has hanging. Drinking orange juice from actual oranges.
**
When you meet someone, you shake hands (opposite gender), or are violently attacked (same gender) with kisses on the cheek. We couldn't figure out the kissing methodology – sometimes it was one on each side and then two on the other, sometimes it was only two, sometimes it was four...
After you shake hands in greeting, you put your hand to your heart. I liked this. If something is good, you can say "Zwayna," and curl your figures and flick them out like a twinkling star motion. "Keef keef," (same, same), had its own hand motion.
**
The avocado juice was a special moment. After our first day in Marrakech, we met up with Anna and Jessie, her visiting bubbly, fairy friend. Jessie had a guide book – what a clever idea – and was packed with information from an article she had read before arriving. Her guide book, The Lonely Planet, had a lot of useful information, and occasionally attempted a witty comment. One restaurant was recommended – with the caveat that "the avocado juice is best avoided."
Amadeus and I found this hilarious: when wouldn't avocado juice be avoided? It sounded vile. As it turns out, it's a big drink in Morocco and can be found at all the juice stands. No problem; I could use it to practice my no's. And then Will started texting us about the concoction, insisting that we try avocado almond juice at Cafe Amsterdam in Ouzazete. First we ignored his texts. So he called and insisted we that we try it. Am and I discussed it, and decided we would halfheartedly look for the cafe – and we couldn't find it.
Will called again with very specific directions. At this point we debated to simply lie to him and tell him we tried it. No. That wouldn't be a fun bedside confession. We went inside Cafe Amsterdam and ordered one to share.
It was the most unbelievably wonderful, fresh, milkshakey creation. The almonds add a delightful nutty flavor, and the avocado taste was present, but not overwhelming. Our fears had been groundless.
**
I also ate sheep liver and possibly stomach, while avoiding brains and other organs. This was a less charming experience.
Will, Jeff, Am, and I were all invited to dine with a local cafe owner, an older man who knew Will. The invitation went something like this: we had just arrived and Will, Am, and I were pulling our luggage down the street. We passed a large cafe/restaurant, and a man called out to him. This was not his first shout out – in Tinjedad, he is a rock star, and half the town shouted greetings as we walked. But this man insisted that we come over and have tea and bread with olive oil. We dragged our bags up and stuck them in a hallway which led to an outdoor seating area at the back of the cafe.
The man's teeth were black, and his face was middle aged – 40's? – and very animated. He started to raise his voice, speaking loudly and quickly at Will in Arabic and gesturing unhappily. Will argued back, smiling, protesting and shaking his head. In between bouts of contention, he explained that the man was saying something like "shame on you for ignoring your friend." He wanted us to eat dinner with him, but Will had told him we were fully booked with his host family, and the basha, the appointed government official in Tinjedad. Finally they settled on a dinner date that evening.
Which is when I discovered couscous with sheep's innards.
"Try it! They'll love you!" my brother was encouraging me into a sort of food prostitution. However, this was some love that I could refuse – except that I was a little bit curious. Hence the tiny piece of liver and stomach.
**
I listened to the audio version of "Three Cups of Tea" a few years ago. I don't remember the exact story behind the three cups of tea in Pakistan, except that I think it equates to some sort of friendship: share one cup, you're acquainted; two, you're friends; three, you're bosom buddies.
Morocco was more about five cups of tea. (Takes a longer time to build relationships?) Or As Many Cups of Tea As We Can Convince You To Try. Moroccan tea is incredibly sweet (they like sweet things), and it is unfiltered. It is poured from about eight inches above the small glass cup. When you don't want any more, you say "Al humdillah" ("Praise God") and shake your head smiling.
After five cups during the afternoon, and several more at dinner, I asked Will about the caffeine content. He shrugged.
**
When you meet someone, you shake hands (opposite gender), or are violently attacked (same gender) with kisses on the cheek. We couldn't figure out the kissing methodology – sometimes it was one on each side and then two on the other, sometimes it was only two, sometimes it was four...
After you shake hands in greeting, you put your hand to your heart. I liked this. If something is good, you can say "Zwayna," and curl your figures and flick them out like a twinkling star motion. "Keef keef," (same, same), had its own hand motion.
**
The avocado juice was a special moment. After our first day in Marrakech, we met up with Anna and Jessie, her visiting bubbly, fairy friend. Jessie had a guide book – what a clever idea – and was packed with information from an article she had read before arriving. Her guide book, The Lonely Planet, had a lot of useful information, and occasionally attempted a witty comment. One restaurant was recommended – with the caveat that "the avocado juice is best avoided."
Amadeus and I found this hilarious: when wouldn't avocado juice be avoided? It sounded vile. As it turns out, it's a big drink in Morocco and can be found at all the juice stands. No problem; I could use it to practice my no's. And then Will started texting us about the concoction, insisting that we try avocado almond juice at Cafe Amsterdam in Ouzazete. First we ignored his texts. So he called and insisted we that we try it. Am and I discussed it, and decided we would halfheartedly look for the cafe – and we couldn't find it.
Will called again with very specific directions. At this point we debated to simply lie to him and tell him we tried it. No. That wouldn't be a fun bedside confession. We went inside Cafe Amsterdam and ordered one to share.
It was the most unbelievably wonderful, fresh, milkshakey creation. The almonds add a delightful nutty flavor, and the avocado taste was present, but not overwhelming. Our fears had been groundless.
**
I also ate sheep liver and possibly stomach, while avoiding brains and other organs. This was a less charming experience.
Will, Jeff, Am, and I were all invited to dine with a local cafe owner, an older man who knew Will. The invitation went something like this: we had just arrived and Will, Am, and I were pulling our luggage down the street. We passed a large cafe/restaurant, and a man called out to him. This was not his first shout out – in Tinjedad, he is a rock star, and half the town shouted greetings as we walked. But this man insisted that we come over and have tea and bread with olive oil. We dragged our bags up and stuck them in a hallway which led to an outdoor seating area at the back of the cafe.
The man's teeth were black, and his face was middle aged – 40's? – and very animated. He started to raise his voice, speaking loudly and quickly at Will in Arabic and gesturing unhappily. Will argued back, smiling, protesting and shaking his head. In between bouts of contention, he explained that the man was saying something like "shame on you for ignoring your friend." He wanted us to eat dinner with him, but Will had told him we were fully booked with his host family, and the basha, the appointed government official in Tinjedad. Finally they settled on a dinner date that evening.
Which is when I discovered couscous with sheep's innards.
"Try it! They'll love you!" my brother was encouraging me into a sort of food prostitution. However, this was some love that I could refuse – except that I was a little bit curious. Hence the tiny piece of liver and stomach.
**
I listened to the audio version of "Three Cups of Tea" a few years ago. I don't remember the exact story behind the three cups of tea in Pakistan, except that I think it equates to some sort of friendship: share one cup, you're acquainted; two, you're friends; three, you're bosom buddies.
Morocco was more about five cups of tea. (Takes a longer time to build relationships?) Or As Many Cups of Tea As We Can Convince You To Try. Moroccan tea is incredibly sweet (they like sweet things), and it is unfiltered. It is poured from about eight inches above the small glass cup. When you don't want any more, you say "Al humdillah" ("Praise God") and shake your head smiling.
After five cups during the afternoon, and several more at dinner, I asked Will about the caffeine content. He shrugged.
Monday, January 17, 2011
knowing I'm on the street where you live
"We like big women here...like onions," Aziz said, gesturing a large curve with his hands. "You know, we feed them couscous to get big." He went on to tell us that girls buy pills at the store to help them gain weight. I'd like to write that infomercial.
**
"You want space cakes?" The man was pointing to dubious looking brownies, sandwiched between various other goodies. "They will give you 15 minutes of happiness."
**
"I will give you the entire store for one kiss." This was a younger man. I was starting to wonder if all their English was sales terms and pickup lines.
We politely declined the offer, claiming a boyfriend and a husband. He figured out the husband was fake when Emma tried to switch her ring to the proper finger in front of him. The boyfriend he didn't seem to find problematic.
**
Will's apartment is on the side street of a row of nearly identical looking unfinished cement buildings. He says the stretch of buildings occasionally gives him a surreal "am I in a video game" feeling sometimes. As we arrive outside, pulling our two suitcases, backpack, grocery bags, bulky coats and ukulele, he stops us before we enter.
"I have a no dirt policy," he says, staring at the bags we have dragged through the dirt and rocks for the past ten minutes.
"Seriously?" I want to laugh at this point. The idea of fighting the all consuming dust and dirt of this country is...laughable.
"Yes," he is barely listening to me, staring at our suitcases and working out the problem in his head.
"What do you want us to do? Hose them down?" Emma says. She is joking.
He looks at her thoughtfully. "Maybe something similar."
Em and I go inside and leave him to figure it out. It has been a long, hot day. Our morning was spent shopping for groceries he might not have easy access to: peanut butter, tapenade, corn flakes, etc. Then we rushed around town looking for the grocery store we had actually meant to use, hurriedly asking locals in French and then following their hand gestures (their replies got a bit complicated for my rusty language ability).
Deciding to split up and save time (needing to make a 3.5 hour busride; only one a day), Em went on to the store while I went to pack and check out. 20 minutes later, she returned, out of breath, to where I stood at the front of the hotel.
"You have the key, I couldn't pack," I informed her.
"You have the money, so I couldn't buy anything," she returned.
Fail. We went into fastforward mode and completed our errands, making our bus with 20 minutes to spare, and managing to not lose the everpresent ukulele.
The uke was a Christmas gift to Will that arrived two days after Christmas; one day after his departure from Sweden. Our holiday turned into a quest to deliver the ukulele unharmed. After nearly leaving it on several buses and listening to it jolt around on various truck, taxi and bus rides, we finally united it with its owner.
**
"Are you doing your best?
Are you even trying? Your best, Will, your best. Look back at the best you had to give.
And don't forget your sense of humor. Please."
These are bold, black words, printed out and hanging on his wall.
**
As we hopped into a taxi, Will and Emma in front, I in the back with three random women, Will turned around from the front seat with a big grin on his face and enthusiastically announced something to the women.
"What did you say?"
"I told them you were my sisters." Sweet, right?
"Do you know them?"
"No, but I didn't want them to think you were hookers." Less sweet.
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