Travel Stories

Travel Stories >> Morocco

Morocco, a land of mystery, wonder, and languid beauty…

Early September 1994

Let me tell you a little about Morocco, at least a little seen through the eyes of someone who is so new to the place...

Morocco is a marvelous place...dark, sexy, hot, dusty, bright. The traditions run deep, much like they do in my beloved Spain. The colors mean things, the meals are real and hardy, the handiwork is a prideful thing, and the history is powerful and violent.

Casablanca is a busy, industrial port, and even though it is no one's favorite place to visit in Morocco, I rather like it. Maybe it's the enormous Mosque recently constructed on the coast. Any monument to mortal man simply pales in comparison... it is breathtaking. The Muslims. Every morning and every evening you can hear the call to prayer throughout the city. The entire city. The song is beautiful and the muezzin's voice is sweet yet mournful. There is a funny fatalism about this place. Inshallah. Like the Spanish, "Ojala". If God/Allah wishes it to be so. (This is most evident by the way they drive)

It is hard to relate the sounds and sights. Like any city, the movement and life is constant. Our little hotel, the Toubkal, is NOT the cookie-cutter Holiday Inn or the Hyatt, and quite frankly, I don't miss the pool, nor the indifference of the staff. The Toubkal (named for one of the Atlas mountains, I'm told) is a less fancy, more traditional inn, the staff doesn't speak much English but they are devoted, and kind, and a pleasure to see day or night. Although there is cable, it is really only CNN International which I could give or take, TVE (Spain) which I love, MTV (groan), a German station which plays more porn than anything, a bad French speaking station and a really bad Arabic speaking station, as a result I am watching no tv except for the evening news from Spain. I brought some great books with me and am reading right through them, Proulx's, The Shipping News, Mason's, Feather Crowns, both magnificent.

The weather has been nice, so I sleep without air-conditioning, and with the window open. I like to hear the traffic, and the pedestrians talking, and the occasional holler of someone who has been cut off in traffic, or who sees an old friend. The busy city streets are teeming with people, men and women in their brightly colored robes and pixie shoes. At first glance to a westerner it looks a little like a city of people who've just gotten out of bed and had to flee into the streets still in their bathrobes. Women walk together and men walk together but there are few mixed groups. When you meet up with someone you know you give an air-kiss by each cheek. When Ana's family met us at the airport, they kissed each others' cheeks without end, back and forth, one side then the other and back, over and over again, squeezing each other's shoulders. And they did the same to me, someone they had never met in their lives, over and over, perhaps making sure I wouldn't feel left out!

As a woman, the men all seem threatening, the deep, dark eyes glare and stare, and follow you wherever you go, it is scary. I have the overwhelming feeling that they are looking right through me. I understand this is an unfounded fear. But I better understand why my friend, Peg was really slow to "get into" the culture. She had the overwhelming feeling that the Moroccans were all out to take advantage of her, get what they could, etc. I can understand how one could feel this way, I can't describe it, but I understand it. When Patrick (the project's European Marketing specialist) is having a bad day, he bitches about how the Moroccan men are sleazebags, and how they treat their women like property and are all just a load of hypocritical ignoramus. Leah Humpal described how difficult the young American teachers had it here, the women, anyway. They wanted to go out and enjoy themselves, but since the Moroccan men believed that American women were loose, they were harassed continually. So they either went out in groups or were lonely all the time.

I suspect that, like in most cultures (since in most cultures the women are oppressed), women have found ways around the oppression to express themselves, and to communicate with each other about most things. The young women get temporary henna tatoos on their hands and ankles - gorgeous pieces of work, intricate designs that wrap around a finger or trail up a leg. When Souad (our Office Manager) returned from vacation (she has just gotten engaged) her hands were covered with beautiful henna designs and her left ring finger sported an enormous diamond, an odd mix of old and new traditions. I wonder how much power the women have in the family structure. I mean, I understand that in most families the men are served by the women, and that polygamy is very common, but I wonder what happens within the family structure.

The Moroccan people are a mixture of Berber and Muslim. The Berber are better liked by the West because they are more progressive, more of them speak English, they are, in narrow Western terms, smarter. The Berber treat their women better, according to most. In the office, Said (the beautiful accountant) is Berber. Not only is his English good, but he has a wonderful sense of humor and a twinkle in his eye. He could make anyone feel comfortable.

The highways and byways are a constant danger. The little mopeds, or mobilettes as they are called here, line up in front of the traffic at every traffic-light buzzing like huge hovering bees. When the light changes they pull out first but are always quickly overtaken by the larger, faster cars. The number of accidents involving mobilettes must be incredible, no one wears a helmet, they weave in and out of traffic, they ride along the lines between the lanes of traffic, and they frequently do all this with two or more to a vehicle! The highway traffic is a race, again, much like Spain, the only rule being, whoever gets there first wins, with a sub-rule which decrees, if your car is bigger and faster, you can race by everyone, honking, and flashing your lights to discourage others from entering your lane. My favorite road sign is a simple white triangle with a large exclamation point in the middle. Sort of says it all, doesn't it?

The highway between Casablanca and Tamara, where Bill (the Ag Economist on the project) and his wife have their beach house was a long dusty stretch. We passed a couple of casbahs, which prompted Patrick to tell us about the one he wants to buy once the project is over. He is torn because I think he loves it here and wants to stay, even though he can be so irritated by the people sometimes.

The weekend house on the coast is worth a mention, located right on the beach, about twenty houses from the Princess' house (!). Apparently most of the houses along this stretch are actually squatters, according to Bill, even the house they rent. The land belongs to the crown (which is a BIG deal here) and people have beautiful places built all along the shoreline. The water was cool but delightful, and everyone swam. There is a large coral reef about 200 feet out which parallels the beach. At low tide (which occurred mid-afternoon this weekend) you could walk out to the reef, not even wetting the hem on your shorts, and wonder at the sea anemones and sharp spiny urchins living in the crevices. Moroccans deal with the beach like the rest of the world, stripping down to basically, well, the basics.

And the Moroccan's adore their king, S.A.R. (his royal highness in French) Hassen II. His picture is required to be hung in ALL business establishments and public places. We have one in the project office, here, of course. The thing that tickles me is that they must have taken over a billion pictures of this man because, well... in the office it's a picture of him in a business suit in an office, in the travel agency next door it's a picture of him boarding a plane, in the squash club, a picture of him playing squash, at the country club, a picture of him playing golf, eating pasteries at the bakery, riding in a vehicle in the car dealership... you get the picture. He may be a man who puts his pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of them, but he's still the king. Coming back from lunch with Melissa and Patrick the other day, we watched as the police stopped the three lanes of traffic in both directions in the middle of the city to allow a couple of royal vehicles by, and into the Hotel Safir (where we'd eaten). The country is simply lousy with Mercedes and BMWs, they are everywhere - why, the taxis in front of our offices are all Mercedes. BUT, the royal "fleet"?.... dark blue Ford Tauruses.

A few days ago, I spent the entire day, basically, on the road with Anna and Rodrigo (Rodrigo is our Agribusiness specialist), and their 5 month old child, William (Wills). We drove through Rabat, Meknes, and onto Fes. This northern countryside is a little like Spain, although very dry and dusty this time of year. So many good foods come from Morocco. They have a very health agriculture: tomatoes, onions, strawberries, olives, cornichon, capers, artichokes, a variety of fruit (pears, oranges, etc.), even a booming grape/wine industry. And yet the countryside today is like a desert. In any case, it is stunning, and the towns we travel through are beautiful. They are low flat stretches of bundles of whitewashed homes, some with Moorish entrances (a stunning one in Meknes), like an Islamic arc d'triomphe. Every town has a minaret growing out of a mosque. Each one is different, and each one is beautiful.

The architecture of the Moorish lands is much like that of the Alhambra, which I realize now, is a good representative example. In a culture like the Maghreb where the world outside is hot, dusty, violent and not much to look at, the world inside should be cool, quiet, loving and exquisite, and it is this way. The buildings are very plain from the outside, although they are usually painted slightly different variations of whites and pinks according to the town. Marrakech is a peachy red, Meknes is a bluish white, Fes is a pinky red. But inside these homes and restaurants, the traditional interior architecture is stunning. It can be described as a trio of mediums. The traditional Moroccan ceiling is made of cedar wood, (say: "tweea) and is painted in ornate designs: flowers and geometric shapes in yellows, whites, pinks, oranges, and light greens and blues. The backgrounds are deep blues, greens, browns, and black. The second medium grace the doorways and columns which are carved stone, also into intricate design. The third medium is the tile, and is expressed either on the walls or on the floor (sometimes both). Mosaics of small cut tiles are placed in geometric patterns. The result, of course, seems almost too busy with color, contrast and design. They obviously don't hang things on the walls over the tiles, but even in homes where there are no tiles, they hang nothing on the walls.

The artisan community is enormous, and Morocco is a first rate place to buy all kinds of quality handicrafts. The cedar wood is shaped into bowls, trays, boxes, frames for pictures and mirrors, and is sanded smooth and oiled which gives it a delightful glow. Out of the Atlas mountains come fossils and imprints of fossils, jurassic-like bugs and snails which are funky, and which are bought in great measure by foreigners who have young sons waiting at home for a gift from far-away. There are two main types of clay, red, and white, which are used as the basis for pots, bowls, ashtrays, pencil holders, and mugs. All painted white with delicate floral and geometric designs in blues, greens, and yellows. Finally, there are rugs. Perhaps not of the world famous Persian variety, but of very good standard, woven finely or roughly, or wool, silk, or a combination of the two, but all with glorious color and design. It is hard to leave Morocco without an extra bag full of trinkets, boxes, bowls, or a carpet.

As I mentioned above, the food in Morocco is abundant and delectable. They use all my favorite spices, cilantro, mint, saffron, and GARLIC (I know, that's a vegetable, but I list it as though it were a spice). I had never eaten cous cous that moved me like you find it here. It is made with either vegetables or meat or both, and even the broth has just a light touch of spice. Besides cous cous, there are a lot of stew-like dishes with meat, potatoes and veggies in a thick broth, called "tagine"s. Oddly enough, we had to seek out good Moroccan restaurants because, like we find in the US there were mostly "ethnic" restaurants, and their versions of Italian, Chinese, and American (grease, salt, and sugar) foods were like we get at home. Although Morocco was a French colony for a long time, there is little French food evident on any menu (the cream puffs, and rich dairy based recipes are just inappropriate in an environment like the Maghreb).

The Moroccans are always pleased to meet an American, and I was told repeatedly that although many speak Spanish, I should speak English because people liked the Americans. Moroccans will tell you that theirs was the first country to formally recognize the US in 1776 when we became independent, and that the US was, in turn, the first country to formally recognize Morocco's independence from France. They really feel a warm bond with us (hell, the King owns a large chunk of beautiful, rolling, horse farms in Northern New Jersey) and will proudly say so. In any case... it has been a wonderful trip, better than last year's which was so work-oriented that I barely had the chance to see and feel what was around me. I understand I may go back next July, and quite frankly, I can't wait!

A grand Moroccan welcome….

Late August 1994:

It is 10:30pm on a Sunday evening, and I am writing from the Hotel Toubkal in the heart of Casablanca. I love coming back to the Toubkal because the dear gentlemen at the front desk always greet me as if I was their long lost little sister. I haven’t slept in two days but I am energized by the mere sight of their outstretched arms. I feel like I am coming home.

But this story really begins in Madrid where I had to layover before the final leg here. I arrive into Barajas without incident to find my dear old friend, Javier Morocho waiting, having just driven in from Salamanca. It was great to see him, we laughed and hugged, and walked out to the car - drove to the exit of the parking garage to discover that you had to pay for the parking INSIDE the airport (great system.). So I sat in that hot car - GOD it was a blistery hot day in Madrid today, and Javi walked back into the airport to find out where to pay, and paid. It took us two tries to find the hotel where United Airlines had reserved a day room for me. We left the bag in the day hotel, and went into the city. I really like Madrid, and am embarrassed to say that I just don't know it like I should after three years in Spain - I realize that I spent all my time in places like Salamanca and Merida.

We drove around a little, but Javi took me to a cafeteria owned by friends of his, near the Plaza Mayor. The Plaza Mayor in Madrid has really shaped up over the last ten years. I remember a deserted, dusty square. Not anymore! It was teeming with people, cafes, and artists (remember, it's Sunday, nothing is open in Madrid except places to eat). We wandered around and saw some really neat things - and I actually bought a magnificent oil painting of a bullfight. We then walked through the Rastro. Remember the Rastro of Madrid? It's Spain's biggest flea market - wonderful - all kinds of stuff, leather, ceramics, clothing, pots and pans, artists, etc, etc. etc... and of course, lots of pick-pockets and what the Spaniards call, "chorizo" (not a nice name). We meandered through the crowds, and enjoyed ourselves, no one stole anything from us which had been as much a goal as anything! We strolled back to the Plaza Mayor, sat and sipped lemon soda and talked.

Anyway, after the Plaza, we walked back to Javi's friend's restaurant and had the comida - Gazpacho, jamon serrano, melon, etc. all delicious. I am so whacked out by sleep deprivation at this point that I can barely manage a decent conversation, and it has to be in Spanish, ugh. We return to the hotel after this to nap - and we both died upon hitting the pillow. The reception rings us at 6pm, we are up, faces washed, off to the airport so I can catch the 8pm to Casablanca.

I am in line at the Iberia terminal - which handles the strange foreign airlines, like Royal Air Maroc, and this drop-dead beautiful young woman comes up and asks me if this is the line for the flight to Casablanca - I answer affirmatively, and we are instant friends. She is a Maroqui, 23 years old, and running two (basically "gray market") businesses in Barcelona - in electronics and jewelry (shade of New York’s, Times Square). Her boyfriend, a Spaniard from Leon runs a restaurant, also in Barcelona. She has long straight thick black hair, she is dark skinned with light green eyes - just striking. Her Spanish is fantastic, and apparently her Italian and her Catalan even better, and being Maroqui she is a native Arabic and French speaker. Her name is Bouchra Benkraou but she tells me that in Spain she goes by "Ana", so Ana it is.

We have a cold drink in the expense, miserable cafeteria at Barajas, head for the gate... laugh, talk, and exchange stories. We get to the gate, and are waiting for them to board so she pulls out her cellular phone to call her parents to tell them when the plane will be arriving in Casablanca... I come to quickly realize that not only does she sell all these electronic toys, but she utilizes them in her daily life. She is my height, weighs about fifteen pounds more than I do... has on a tight mini skirt and a halter top - for a chick returning to her muslim homeland for a visit, she's a living paradox... Very bubbly and intense, streetwise yet naive at the same time... We have a delightful flight (two hours which is a drop in the bucket compared to the nightmare of the night before)... the sunset during the flight is one of the most striking things I've ever seen. We spend time exchanging our views on life, well, mostly about men (about whom she has some very definite ideas!).

By the time we get to Casablanca, she has insisted that her parents will take me to the hotel, that it would be ridiculous to take a taxi. Rabat-Casablanca "Mohammed V" airport is SCARY at night. I notice the guards who are supposed to watch the x-ray machine, are instead rifling quickly and surreptitiously through people's carry-ons while the bags owners argue with another guard who is checking their passports... I watch pesetas and dirham disappear from the carry-ons... I'm very happy that all my money is on my person.

We wait for the suitcases... Ana is here for a week and yet she's carrying four huge cases, perhaps full of gifts. We go outside and have to wait only about ten minutes before the ENTIRE FAMILY appears and much hugging and kissing ensues. This is truly the return of the prodigal daughter - everyone is overwhelmed by Ana, it is obvious that they all ADORE her. Mom and three younger sisters and then the uncles and brothers hug and kiss me and through Ana (all of this is in Spanish because I certainly don't speak Arabic and they speak nothing but) ask me things. They are so excited to meet an America, she informs me. We get into a TINY Renault - nine of us. I protest, I can take a taxi, but no one will hear anything of it. Ana tells wildly animated stories during the whole trip, which is difficult although she manages all the hand and arm motions regardless of the position into which she is squeezed into the center of the back seat of this vehicle - on one else talks (there was no room for any more talking!)

We drive the half an hour it takes to get from the airport to the city and are stopped twice by national police. Two days ago three Spaniards were killed in Marrakech by Algerian terrorists and the highways are all a panic. (the highways, Hell, they won't even let people waiting for plane arrivals to come into the airport! We reach the city after some delay, and Ana says she hopes I don't mind if we stop by her home first so she can see the rest of the family - no, of course not, Christ, what am I going to say? I can just about hear my mother thinking, WHAT ARE YOU DOING! Maybe that's not my mother, maybe it's the other side of my brain.

We drive through a billion little dark Arab neighborhoods, and finally arrive in a very dark, not poor - but not much more - neighborhood. People flow out of the nearby unlit building like a waterfall, yelling, laughing, hugging, everyone wants to see her... and they ALL give me an obligatory smile and hug and three kisses on the cheeks. I can't even say, "charmed, I'm sure" in Arabic, and suddenly feel incredibly ignorant and ridiculous. They are charming. It is a small apartment, two big rooms and a kitchen. Both rooms are furnished only with a wall sofa that snakes around the ENTIRE circumference of each room. They are constructed of material that is a hard brushed velvet with designs in gold or silver thread. They’d be really tacky in any other setting, but they fit just right there. In each room, two huge chandeliers, and two low round tables in the center. There is much ado about Ana, and of course, I can't "chat" with anyone so when Ana is not in the room at any given moment there is a weird silence and people smile a lot and try their bad french - which is even more ridiculous because I can't even get by in that! It's awful.... I can understand some French after I've been in Morocco a number of days, but the first night? On two days of sleep deprivation... I feel like some exotic bird on display.

Her mother asks if I'm married, Ana translates, I say no and smile weakly, her mother laughs and tells me not to bother - to stay single, to live. This is a curious thing because it is evident that she and her husband love each other. Her husband is obviously adored by his children mostly Ana (the only pictures she has in the apartment are of him, framed in each room, one on the television, one on a shelf in the bedroom, etc.), and it is evident that he is a big tease. It is all very comfortable - these people are magnificent, and this all makes me even more miserable not being able to communicate with them. For an extrovert - this whole scene is just cruel. I am served the sweet hot minty tea of Morocco (which I just love) and sweet cookies... everyone has tea, and Ana tells more stories replete with screams, laughter, and violent hand motions. They touch a lot when they talk - lots of touching - I like it!

Finally, my body is beginning to implode, it is 9:30, and without the sleep I just can't manage. I ask Ana if they would excuse me. They won't let me take a taxi, and God forbid only one of them drives me - oh, no.... six of them including Ana and her mother pile into this tiny car and proceed to the Toubkal (which, I swear, seems twenty miles from wherever we are). We are packed in cheek by jowl, and four blocks into the trip the radiator overheats. So we pour into the street (three people trying to drag my suitcase - which rolls pretty easily for one - they won't hear of letting me pull it!)... and we spend fifteen minutes trying to hail a cab in what I am sure is the remotest neighborhood in Casa. We get a little cab - and four of us squeeze in, two others walk home... they leave their car sitting there, it doesn't seem to be a big deal. They won't let me pay the cab, and I am bound, at this point, to dine with them tomorrow evening - I am really bummed about the language thing.

I get to the Toubkal. This is not the Holiday Inn, for which I am glad. The busboy (who is a fifty year old man) and I have a pleasant "chat" which consists of the ten words I know in French plus the ten he knows in English plus the many I know in Spanish and the billion he knows in Arabic. The whole scene feels like a surreal film (like a Dali painting, only live) – and as he gets ready to leave the room, I realize I have no dirham to tip him. I explain my predicament and I give him 200 pesetas ($1.75) and he slowly, delicately, takes my cheeks in his hands, lowers my head a little and kisses my forehead, wishes me a pleasant stay and leaves. I love this place.

Monday comes after a rich, rich sleep..... it's amazing after nine solid hours of absolutely dead sleep (I mean, they could have rolled me off the roof and I would have slept through it) what the body will do. I head across the street to the office - the Toubkal seems so wonderful today and after a couple of days it is back to being homey. I tell my American team (who reside in Casablanca with their families) about Ana, they laugh and shake their heads. I meet Said, the project accountant who is a Berber, charming, gorgeous, a sweetheart - I'm in love, really. And I begin the interviews for the project workshop sessions. After these, I tell Said that I have been invited to eat with a family tonight, and I was thinking that perhaps some pastries would be a good idea (hell, it worked every time in Spain). He told me this was just perfect and took me around the corner to a place that, apparently, the KING (whoa!) uses for his pastry-buying. Whether this means that quality is better, or they're just more expensive, I don't know, I suspect the former.

Ana picks me up from the Toubkal on the later side of 9:00pm. She is in the car with her sister, Saana, and two guys she says are friends of hers, everyone very nice, they talked very animatedly, and in a couple of paranoid moments I think they are commenting on me. We get back to this little apartment, the whole family is laying around on the long snaky sofas, watching a badly dubbed (into Arabic) Clint Eastwood movie (good grief, this is how the US is slowly destroying the cultures of the entire rest of the world. Fools, and they think it's the CIA, ha!). We sit around and Ana and I talk, and Ana and the rest talk, and we exchange lots of basic information. The women sit on one side of the room, the men on the other, but they do talk with one and other. I can't keep everyone straight, but I believe I am here with a couple of wives and their assorted children. The father is there again, and seems pleased to see me again. His is not a smile, it's a full face grin. I reach forward to greet him - the cheek kisses - and I say, "ahh, le Papi", and everyone laughs, and he gives a big grin, and carefully pats my back. I'm a good ice-breaker, even in the two languages I don't understand. Ana's grandmother is there, and she introduces us, and explains to me that the tattoos on her face are because she is Berber. I like the grandmother and the mother the best. They are the funniest, the most inquisitive, and the brightest. The grandmother was magnificent, I could have sat with her all night (with a translator, of course).

We wait a long time for dinner, and when it's ready, Ana takes me into another room, and she and I eat with each other, the entire rest of the family sets up a long table in the next room. I tell Ana I would love to eat with the rest of the family, and she looks at me and exclaims, "did you see how many there are? No, no, it's much better here, no one will bother you. They are all pests" Oh! If only I could have explained how much I wanted to eat with everyone! And as soon as we sat down to eat, the grandmother came into the room we were in and sat on one of the sofas and watched and "kept us company". I asked Ana if she could join us, and Ana explained that she was just in the way, and to leave her alone (so much for respect for the elderly). We ate a simple stew which was delightful, a chunk of beef cooked tender like Mom's roast beef, with potatoes (dyed yellow from the saffron) and black olives in a light sauce spiced with cumin and saffron, parsley and coriander. Ana's mother said she was sorry she hadn't made cous cous and would I come back to have some on another day. I said I would, but knew inside it would not likely happen. I had lots of Moroccan meals during my stay, but that was the tastiest.

By the time the meal was finished, Ana and Saana's friends were back, honking in the street... they would never come up (they are men). I gave the Grandmother an extra set of kisses and a hug, which she seemed to really like. I don't know how it came to me, but I suddenly remembered that Said had told me that the word, "Shucran" was the Arabic "thank you", so I told her that and her grin lit up her whole face. Ana and her friends take me back to the Toubkal, and Ana explains that she is tired otherwise we’d go out to party. This is FINE with me. It is already 11:00, and I have a long work week ahead of me. .

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