[Note: Pictures to come soon!]
This weekend’s adventure took us to Marrakech, Morocco. Of all the journeys I’ve ever taken, planned, or even considered in the imaginative corner of my mind, this was preceded by the most apprehension and excitement. Going in only with the knowledge imparted to me by Maeve, Emily, and our nervous student coordinators at the Fund, I was ready only for a stereotype: camels and turbans. What I would findand how I would be received, however, both surprised and delighted me.
When we arrived the Hostel Manager, Khamel, was waiting to pick us up. He was wonderfully friendly and from the get-go led us on the first of our adventures. Our cars drove us from the airport into the chaotic and car-unfriendly Medina (the area inside the walls) of Marrakech. Much like driving within the walls of Toledo, no ride is conceivable without near accidents, heightened acuity of one’s surroundings, and general sense of surprise when you arrive at your destination unscathed. We parked in Jemaa El Fna, Marrakech’s main square, whose very atmosphere conjured treasured memories of Aladin and Abu. Snake charmers, monkey trainers, and story-tellers were awed at from afar as fruit vendors and shop owners sought to charm my friends into their stores, calling them “Beautiful Girl” and “Princess,” a far cry more gallant than the epithets used by their Spanish correspondents.
Getting to the hostel itself, or more accurately the Riad, a 15th Century home turned Bed and Breakfast, was quite unnerving the first time around. First you a walk away several hundred meters from Jemaa El Fna, through alternating areas of covered and uncovered marketplace, then turn down a street rife with impatient motorcyclists until you find an archway. At the archway we turned into a labyrinth of alleyways, unlit tunnels, and turns we thought impossible to remember. It was pretty sketch to the recently arrived eye. Everything seemed somewhat run down and ill kept; second thoughts plagued all. However, those were dashed as soon as Khamel opened the door to our weekend home. The light of the sun shone into the open-air patio crowned in the center by stone water pot and some beautiful plant life.
The real joy of the Riad, however, was infused by Khamel and his boss, Hassan. As soon as we got in, they didn’t ask for our money or personal information: they asked us to drop our things, sit down, and enjoy a cup of traditional Berber Tea with them. We were apprehensive at first because everyone says not to drink the water in Morocco, but we realized that this water would have been boiled first, so we took our chances. It was a great decision. The tea, whose dominant flavor is mint, was fantastic! They proceeded to give us all the practical information we needed for the weekend, from beautiful sights to haggling strategies, and most of all to acquaint ourselves with all the “mysteries” nestled within the walls of Marrakech. Mystery being my favorite word in the English language, I knew this would be a wonderful adventure.
After settling, Khamel showed us back to Jemaa El Fna so we could find our way later. Once there we were free to eat, shop, and observe per our fancy. Our first visit was to one of the city’s old palaces. Inside, the orange trees, flowers, courtyards, and Arabic craftsmanship awed us and provided ample photographic material. Afterwards, we ate a late lunch on a terrace overlooking the frenzy below us. The highlight of this experience was hearing the afternoon call to prayer cried out from speakers all over the city. A large group gathered in the middle of the square to praise Allah and renew their commitment of faith. It was quite powerful to see prayer in such a public forum and with such public support.
Unfortunately, my couscous was quite dry and expensive, but seeing as the rest of my meals would be delicious that was ok. More to come on the food when we get there. After lunch I decided to take a picture with a monkey. Taking Hassan’s advice, I said from the get go that I would only pay 5 dirham (Moroccan currency: 1 Euro = 11 dirham). The trainer agreed and before you knew it I had a monkey on my arm. The monkey was clearly a grandmother, because only several seconds into our photo session she was pinching my cheeks. You’d be surprised how strong monkey’s hands are. As I am no Maureen Penders, i.e. an absolute animal lover, this was quite a new experience for me, and altogether joyous one.
Our exploration of the square was soon cut short by ominous drops of rain. Although I’m sure many in the city weren’t privileged by Mother Nature as much as we, she waited until we got inside to unleash her storm—and what a storm it was. Granizos (Hail!) soon made their parachute-less free fall from high above onto the Marrakechi streets. Combined with the lightning that accompanied them, the air temperature plummeted just as quickly as the thimble-sized hail. Thankful we came in when we did, many of our group took the opportunity to nap or at least put on an extra layer.
When we finally went out for dinner, we could hardly have known what to expect back in Jemma El Fna. Armed with some advice from a friendly, middle-aged Brit staying the hostel, we entered the marketplace turned restaurant stand looking for a booth not where tourists were eating, but locals. As you walk through the rows of dinner tents, courtiers from all sides vie for your business. Among the best lines we heard was, “It’s not KFC, but it’s a-finger lickin’ good!” Eventually we decided on Tent #97, and never looked back. For seven people our meal cost 235 DH, about $3.85 per person. For me this meal consisted of delicious bread, traditional Berber soup, and Chicken Tajine, a local favorite…also a good portion of Emily’s lamb skewers which she couldn’t finish…I love having no shame! Aside from the fantastic price and incredible taste the coolest part of the meal was something Maeve pointed out. St. Augustine was a Berber! Oh, Berbers are the indigenous Moroccan population, if I haven’t already mentioned that. So yea, I was probably eating a meal consumed by the great Latin Doctor before inspiring his community with a stirring sermon or composing a prayerful defense of the Faith.
After dinner, we made our first entrance into the markets. There there are no prices, items are only as cheap as you can haggle them. I apparently have a knack for this. Since we would be heading to the mountains the next day, I wanted one of those authentic Berber sweaters to keep warm. The first guy I went to I got down pretty far, but I didn’t quite like the jacket so I kept that price in my head to use at another store. When I found one that fit well and I liked I dug deep into my long lost acting skills, to gradually let down the price. Choosing to speak in Spanish, the salesman and I went at it for quite sometime before his 450 DH sweater was 200, just 20 above the other, which was of a worse material, so I didn’t mind the extra 20. Among my best tactics, which I encourage you to utilize: when they go down by just a few, call them out and say well what’s another 20 or 30 DH; walk out at least once; patience is key, at one point I offered him some of my water because I could see he was flustered; and put them on the spot in front of their coworkers, I used the guy’s boss to get my final drop from 240 to 200. Cha-ching. When I went shopping with Maeve the next night, we went back to their store, and had a good laugh with each other about the night before, but that didn’t stop me from getting him to drop her price from 250 to 200. She didn’t end up buying from him, but it helped her at another store. So yes, haggling is great, especially in other languages.
Day two was a wholly different experience. Two drivers picked us up at seven in the morning, ready to lead us through an unforgettable immersion into the heart of Morocco. Our driver told us, “If you can drive in Morocco, you can drive anywhere,” he was right. Our plan was to drive through the Atlas Mountains and visit two Casbahs, or Arabic strongholds, one from the 11th century and the other from the 17th. The drive was magnificent. We stopped every now and then at picturesque spots to soak in the beauty and sacar photos for those times when our memory can’t quite conjure the immensity of what the senses once observed. The greatest part of this 12+ hour excursion was its erasure of my Moroccan preconceptions. As I said before, I thought Morocco was just camels and turbans, to speak somewhat flippantly. However, like the first real conversation you have with a friend, where their story speaks to you and their heart unveils itself, Morocco showed itself to us a country of rich legends and varied landscapes. To be honest, I only think I saw three camels and zero turbans. I can’t even begin to describe what I saw. Hill country, lush valleys, snowcapped mountains, and arid desert were among the different terrains we encountered in this small sampling of one country’s beauty.
Among the “drive time” highlights were: stopping in the mountains, getting over my carsickness, stopping to photograph a random herd of sheep we found crossing the “road” aka tire tracks through the desert that led to the first Casbah, and of course, the two Casbahs. The mountains, as per usual, were quite cold. Thankfully, at one picture stop we were able to get a cup of tea and warm up. I felt really Berber in my sweater drinking tea in the mountains. However, as you will see in one of the pictures, the roads were incredibly windy; thus, I was approaching carsickness. Fortunately, one of our cars soon encountered some technical difficulties so we had to stop. We picked a nice little hotel/restaurant as our stopping point. Behind it lie tall hills, a dry river way, and small brook running parallel to its ailing older sibling. Here the soft breeze and gentle babbling of the brook returned us to equilibrium as the hard science of banging rocks on an engine was applied to fix our vehicle…no pasa nada.
Continuing on, we crossed the aforementioned “road” to get to the first Casbah. On the way, we encountered a large herd of sheep minding their own business in our desired path of travel. This being a foreign sight to us and mildly humorous, bajamos (we got out) and took some photos. I never got quite the shot I wanted, but nevertheless a great experience. The most profound moment of this encounter though occurred when their shepherd appeared, somewhat out of nowhere, and whistled to them. In an instant they began running to him. “When he has driven out all his own, he walks ahead of them, and the sheep follow him, because they recognize his voice. But they will not follow a stranger; they will run away from him, because they do not recognize the voice of strangers” (John 10: 3-4). If only I could respond to Christ’s call as such.
The first Casbah, Ait Ben Haddou (Ait, son of Haddou), is named after Marrakech’s first Pasha, or warlord. To get there is an experience in itself. After crossing the arid, desert road, you have to cross a small river on horseback or donkey. “Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Shout, Daughter of Jerusalem! See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey”—kind of an appropriate passage when your approaching a warlord’s stronghold (Zechariah 9:9). In this village, there were lots of cool rooms to go in and a breathtaking view. From the watchman’s outpost you could see for about 40 km in any direction. Also, besides being a really cool village and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, Ait ben Haddou boasts a prominent film credit. In Gladiator, it was the site of the African combat arena where Maximus first earns fame as Spaniard.
Lunch was delicious. I got try another Berber specialty—their omelet! With the dominant flavor being tomato, it wasn’t anything crazy or off-putting, instead it was simply delicious.
When we completed the snaking and guardrail-less road to the second Casbah, the sun had drooped somewhat and what romantic sentiments the fortress would inspire were sure to be multiplied. At the request of our guide, a friendly man from the town brought out the most legitimate key I have ever seen. Nearly eight inches in length, and inch in diameter, and possessing the typical hole-at-one-side and two-teeth-at-the-other shape, this key was probably a replica of the original that opened the main door of the Casbah. Though the Casbah was a bit run down, history still vivified its walls. From the west-facing window of dining room there were breathtaking views of the almond trees and village below us.
As great a note to end our tour of Morocco as this was, it was also the most heart wrenching. As we were leaving this village we were hounded by the local children, eager for a taste of the bourgeois life whence we come. This was obvious when Emily shared her water and cookies with them. Sent into a frenzy by these gifts, they ravaged and horded instead of thanking and sharing. It was hard a sight to withstand without being overcome by emotion. It was evident though, that their lack of resources and education did not damper them from living joyously. While this certainly no reason to settle and be complacent in the battle against poverty, it is a reason for us to take a deep breath sometimes and realize that sainthood has no requisite social status. Poor, rich, or somewhere in between, all are called to don the same garment of spiritual bridehood that prepares us for union with Jesus in the Eucharist and in Heaven.
Sadly, Maeve, Melissa, and I had to catch an early flight out of Marrakech on Sunday, so that was the end of our adventure. However, it was quite a jam-packed 48 hours—two days exploring the mysteries of a land heretofore shrouded in them. However, as with all mystery, scratching the surface only exposes another set of mysteries to contemplate. The mystics all say this about God. The more we get to know him, the more we realize we know very little. In one of the most difficult times of my life, a good priest emphasized this point to help me through my struggle. God will always be a mystery to us and this is what we must love about Him. He always wants to keep searching, to keep listening for his voice as we find our way home.
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