Open Letter to the Muezzin of the Mosque near Hasna Hotel, Marrakech

I like you.  I do, and that means a lot, coming from me.  I dont like to be woken up at 4:45 am, or even 9 am, and definitely not both, not ever, let alone every day.  So you may understand that when I say that I like you it is a big deal. 

Over the past month I have traveled to many cities in your country, from the northernmost Tangier to the edges of the Sahara desert.  Thats 30 days, give or take a few.  30 pre dawn wake up calls, 30 morning announces, 30 afternoon warbles, 30 evening chats, 30 moonlit conversations.  You, Meuzzin of the Mosque near the Hasna Hotel, Marrakech, you are my favorite. 

Perhaps it is because you are next door to the only church I have seen in Morocco that you are so good.  Maybe you feel the pressure of competition or the need to prove yourself to the psalm singers.  This I do not know.

All I do know is that at 4:45 am it doesnt matter what language you speak; I will not understand.  This is good considering that you speak Arabic and I do not.  However the gentle singsong of your voice is greatly preferable to the harsh guttural calls I have heard elsewhere.  Also, you keep it short and, I imagine, to the point.

I am told that to be the meuzzin of the Koutoubia Mosque is the most prestigous in all of Marrakech.  I dont know if this is true, but if it is I think they should consider letting you try it out.

Money, stylo! Money, stylo!

At some point during the oppressive, energy-draining, unseasonably unbearable heat of the past few days Jon looked over at me, sweat beading down the sides of his face, sighed, and said, "You'd think we were in Africa or something."
That's how it has been here: one minute you are driving down the street next to a shiny BMW or Mercedes and the next you are being cut off by a dirt bike carrying a family of four or a donkey laden with bags and carrying his owner side-saddle; one evening you have pizza and the next you are downing brains; one morning you wake to the sounds of birds squawking and the next it is the call of the muezzin from the nearest mosque. I won't say its easy to forget where I am, but perhaps more that the blend of cultures is more surreal than I expected. European culture, especially French, is everywhere, but with a flair that makes things distinctly Moroccan.

We are impressive to the Moroccans as well, especially those removed from the city.  Of late, one of the more interesting adventures has been driving around in the Water by Nature van, a huge 16 seater covered with rafting decals and usually pulling a sizable trailer.  Between Marrakech and the river the van must drive through miles of countryside and numerous small towns that rarely see tourists.  The kids spot the van from a distance and come running to the road, some to wave so hard it looks like they might dislocate their shoulders, some to smile shyly and then yell "Bonjour!" as we are almost out of earshot, or, my favorites, to run next to the van yelling "moneystylomoneystylo" in a refrain that is at the same time demanding and hopeful.  It makes me want to stop the van, to empty my pockets of change and my purse of pens just to reward their persistence, but there are just so many of them.  They come out of everywhere.  Sometimes we drive for miles without being able to see houses, even with the rolling hills providing what appears to be a plain view, and still there are people everywhere, selling melons, or waving, or gaping at a big rig chugging up their narrow roads.

Feeling Smarter Already

It may have required a pre-departure glass of wine (or two), but last night jon and i embarked upon a quest of culinary oddities.  It began in the central souks, where overzealous waiters tried to hustle us into their outdoor restaurants.  We were not to be distracted though, and did not sidle onto a barstool until we were certain the establishment had what we were looking for.   Looking for indeed, as bellying up to the bar entailed our food to be looking back at us as well, at least as much as dismembered  goat (sheep?) heads can look back with their char-grilled eyes and their teeth hanging out of their mouths. 

No, it was not for those with weak stomachs, and a quick peek around showed no other foreigners present.  We ordered up the house specialty: a mixed plate of brains, tongue, and something unidentifiable.  First glance proved the brains to be soft and kind of smushy, while the tongue had a sinewy quality. 

To my surprise, nothing tasted quite as horrible as i expected, although it was different to separate mind from matter with the cook extracting choice cuts of other patrons right in front of us.  The brains were slimy and almost nutty, while the tongue tasted more clearly of meat.

We followed this up with a trip to a snail stand and got served a heaping bowl of snails to share.  Unlike my last snail experience, these snails had little faces.  They almost looked like cartoon characters, and so it was eerie to put them into my mouth.  I did though, and was pleased with the way they were spiced with nutmeg.

In the end nobody even got sick. 

I've got plenty of pictures to post, both from this and other adventures.  I'll do that soon.

Rockin the Kasbah

Made it to Morocco!  Thankfully the volcano ash didnt interrupt my flights, although it did cause quite a lot of confusion over the past few days, both in the states and here.  Because of the multitudes of people stranded in Morocco, I wound up getting a driving tour of a pretty large portion of the country in my first 72 hours here.  My initial thoughts were surprising...the diversity of scenery between dry Marrakech through the rolling hills of the greener port of Tangier to the lush foothills of the blue walls of Chefchaouen has disillusioned my expectations for the country.  It certainly has been a whirlwind of travel.  I will definitely be posting pictures as soon as I get organized a bit more.

There hasnt been much time yet to immerse in any one place, but I have been struck by both the beauty and the chaos of the market stalls, or souks.  Despite a cultural taboo of women showing too much skin in public you can always tell where granny panties are for sale by the large crowd of women pawing their way through them.  The souks specialize in anything you could possibly want, from sombreros to ace bandages to dollar store trinkets.  It does leave me to wonder how one gets into the business of selling toothpicks, or zippos, exclusively.  There is, however, an immense richness of local crafts, and I think it will be quite difficult to avoid decorating the apartment in the Moroccan style.

We are heading to the river tomorrow for my first rafting trip ever.  I am letting it be known here that Jon has promised not to intentionally tip me into the water.

More soon.

I know, I know

It has again been awhile. Here is a video of the Pau Carnaval celebrations to make up for it. I'll be back in the US in about 10 days.


Pau-Carnaval from ali on Vimeo.