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.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Sunday, May 02, 2010
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.
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.
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