Goodbye Essaouira, Goodbye Morocco...

My Essaouiran family

From left to right: Mohammed (one of the older guys who doesn't show up much), Ma'alem Sadik (loves making the peace sign in every photograph), Mohammed Sherrif (the one who has always been so sweet to me), Khalid (when he smiles and laughs you can't help but do the same), Yassin (the guy whose name I could never remember- but it finally clicked a couple days ago.. ha), and of course, on the far right, Hassan, Mr. Beautiful Dimples (who told me later that he's making the “surfer sign” with his hand. ;)

My god I'm going to miss these guys.... they really have become my family here. While I didn't get a picture of the other young Mohammed yet and a few of the other guys/men I see regularly, I am just thrilled to have a picture of the main gang I've been hanging out with the last 6 weeks.

A favorite photo...

Looking back over the months, this photo of me and Hassan in Imswan is one of my favorites because it captures so much of the joy I've experienced here.

And despite the fact that my back had gone out, man, I still look pretty happy, eh?

A north wind is blowing....

Interesting that the wind really started blowing hard today from the North. It's been so calm and warm here for weeks now. But there was a shift today.

I was on my way to the post office with my guimbri strapped to my back to send home when I got out of the medina and the wind coming off the beach suddenly hit me. The first thought that went through my head was, "the winds of change.... the wind is blowing south, nudging me to Mali..."

It was bittersweet wrapping up my guimbri to send home. It was a hard decision whether to leave it here and come back for it or to send it now. Despite wanting to maintain ties here to Essaouira, past experience has taught me that life can shift drastically in a short period of time and it might be good have all "loose ends" tied up here in case I don't come back for whatever reason.

I spent about an hour carefully and lovingly wrapping it in bubble wrap, foam and cardboard. The security guard at the post office took interest in me and what I was doing and came over to sit and chat with me (in Arabic) while I packed it. By the time I was wrapping it in foam, he joined in to help. He even got down on the floor with me to help wrap it up. As we were about to start rolling the guimbri into the foam together he said, "Mismila" which is a blessing; he was blessing my guimbri on its voyage.

That moment when this total stranger- this security guard of all things!- was on the floor with me, blessing my guimbri, recognizing it as a sacred thing, totally choked me up. What a beautiful snapshot moment of human connection.

I've got two nights left and I plan on being at Ma'alem Sadik's both nights. I don't know how I'm going to explain that I shipped the guimbri home to him or to Hassan. Because I have the intention of returning to Essaouira and have spoken about it, they will be surprised to hear that I sent my baby home. I guess I'll have to fall back on the "insha' Allah" concept again. As much as I love Essaouira and am not finished here, I think I need to leave this place with a free spirit, nothing "left behind" so that if I come back, it's for the right reasons.

This morning has been somber. Lots of tears shed. But I know that I need this gradual goodbye process... I need to spend the last couple days slowly adjusting to the idea of leaving.

And now my thoughts go to Hassan and how on earth do I say goodbye in a situation like this? I don't know if I'll ever see him again... and yet our meeting has been one of the most beautiful blessings that has come into my life.

The Power of Nuksha (and Irish Dancing to Moroccan music on Christmas Day)

About a week ago, Hassan mentioned that we would go to a big birthday party for a friend of his on Christmas night, at a house owned by a French guy in some village “in nature, about 20 minutes away.” I was a little hesitant about agreeing to go, especially when he told me to bring a sleeping bag.

If someone tells you to bring a sleeping bag to a party back home, you can bank on quite a crazy night. I started picturing some kind of rager of a party so I warned him, “I do have things to do the next day, Hassan.” And he reassured me that he did too and we'd be back in the morning.

So when he showed up at my door with a tent, the rager party image in my head changed back to just question marks.

When Hassan comes up with an idea for us, it basically means I am pretty much giving up all control, completely trusting him with everything, which is fairly counter-intuitive for me when traveling solo in a foreign country. But it's just too arduous to go over all the details together and I get the feeling that drilling him about what exactly we're going to be doing wouldn't translate well. He's never given me any reason to doubt him so I figured, “oh, why not?”

Just leaving town is often part of the adventure. He leads me around by my hand, almost dragging me through various alleys and back streets and back and forth between cars and taxis and other transport options while he organizes how we are going to get to said place.

After 15 minutes of this the other night, I finally asked him, “So are we taking a taxi or what?” He told me it would be a “public car” and then, out of nowhere, in his accented English he grabbed my hand again and said, “Come on, baby,” (which sounded like “Kim un, behbeh”). I almost bust a gut laughing.

Anyway, I figured out why we needed a tent and a sleeping bag when the “public car” dropped us off on a dark road almost an hour outside Essaouira (so much for the 20 minutes) and we began walking down windy, dark country roads, seemingly heading into the Middle of Nowhere. After maybe 20 minutes of wandering down roads in the dark- and after I'd pulled out my headlamp (#1 piece of gear I've used on this trip!)- we had, to my great entertainment, the quintessential and inevitable male/female, boyfriend/girlfriend conversation.... but in Arabic:

“Hassan?”
“Yes, habiba?”
“Do you know where we're going?”
“Yes, kitty cat.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But if not, we have a tent, we have whiskey, we have water and food. There's no problem.”
“Okay.....”

There was no one to ask for directions in the Middle of Nowhere so we were able to avoid that part of the inevitable conversation. Besides, how can I argue with someone whose pet name for me is 'kitty cat,' ('imsheesha' in Arabic)? Nevertheless, I took his less-than-reassuring answer to mean that we may or may not find the party that night. And now it made sense why we had camping gear: even if we found the house, there was no way we'd find a taxi back to Essaouira from this place at night.

As an important side note, I'd been fighting one of the worst sinus infections and colds I'd had in a long time so I was feeling quite fatigued and walking slowly. I was so tired that I was reminding myself about mountain climbs back home and 2 AM “alpine starts” to convince myself that I could muster the energy to keep walking.

When we actually arrived, having climbed over a couple rock piles and backtracked a couple times, I was thrilled to find that it was no rager party at all. There was a very modest, stucco-like house with a big dirt “patio” where two men were already playing djembe and dundun in an unmistakably West African style. There was a big, open fire pit and the 10-15 people, about a third of them French, were all just visiting and listening to the music. It was quite “tranquillo.”

The birthday boy was a guy by the name of Sayd, who is now down in my book as one of the sweetest, most lovable guys I've met, period. He's all smiles and sweetness and is quite a Gnawa ma'alem as well. Not long after arriving and listening to music, there were huge plates of chicken couscous brought out, followed by wine, birthday cake, birthday songs and presents.

And then, the most amazing part of the night began- the part that will be with me for the rest of my life as totally unforgettable: the music.

This was different than Ma'alem Sadik's. These were old buddies jamming, friends coming together to sing and play Gnawa music in a most chilled-out and yet very connected way. Hassan took the qraqeb and Sayd took the guimbri and the other guy, Redwan, joined me with the clapping, all four of us singing. It was heavenly. These call and response songs that originate from Mali and the Sub-Saharan region are just blissful.

A little later, someone picked up the banjo and another guy picked up the djembe. They played some kind of amazing fusion of Berber, Gnawa and other music that, quite interestingly, reminded me so much of Ireland that I suddenly got a huge rush of energy and had to go dance. I took the floor and did some Irish step dancing and jigging with a made-up a fusion of other styles. I don't know where the energy was coming from but somehow, after barely being able to walk down the dirt road earlier, I was now kicking my heels up in the air for a good thirty minutes, reliving my life in Ireland 7 years ago. When I finally sat down, sweating profusely, I was beyond exhaustion... but that's when the good stuff really started happening.

I leaned up against Hassan, closed my eyes and the guys continued to sing Gnawa songs. In my uber-exhausted, infection-ravaged state, the music took ahold me and I almost felt like I was getting a sense of the trance that happens in a Gnawa lila. Hearing Hassan's voice in my ear and feeling it through his ribs while Sayd pulled blissful songs out of the guimbri, sent me flying. And I wasn't even taking cold medicine!

And then they played “Nuksha.”

I don't know how to explain this song; but let me say that there have been a few times in my life where a particular song, just for the beauty of the melody alone, has made me weep. Nuksha, a Gnawa song, leaves all the rest in the dust.

Nuksha, to me, is the quintessential “Cry of Mama Africa” song. The way you must throw your voice in this song over and over is like a cry in itself. In this song, there is a feeling of both triumph and anguish, of love and loss and just about every other emotion that has the quality of aching and yearning. I feel my own heart ache and yearn in this song; the flood gates open and I find myself in a puddle of my own tears.

So when Sayd and Hassan sang Nuksha, and there I was in my exhausted, altered state, it was like all my ties to the physical world had been cut free. I felt like I was inside the ribs of Mother Africa, surrounded by these men throwing their voices, surrounded by the trance quality of the qraqeb rhythm and Sayd's magical guimbri playing. I was flying and I was crying and I was feeling more alive than maybe I've ever felt.

And after that song, after that experience, I had the feeling that my nasty sinus infection and cold was leaving my body. I had this sense that I'd just crested the apex of the illness and I suddenly felt more energy.

Back in the tent, after everyone else had gone to bed, Hassan and I had an incredibly philosophical conversation to the point where we both were shocked that we pulled off such a conversation in our dialect of Eng-Arab-ench. He named my Nuskha reaction “a douche of the heart” (although 'douche' in French is simply 'shower,' not what we consider it to be back home, mind you). And he nodded knowingly about my Nuksha reaction, having experienced the same thing many times.

I slept deeply Christmas night to the sound of the ocean, feeling healed by my musical/dancing trip back to Ireland, set free by Nuksha and totally accepted by this beautiful man whom I can barely speak a language with but to my amazement, understands things about me that I'm not sure any other soul in my life has.

Merry Christmas... Peace!

Making the peace sign was his idea. :) Ma'alem Sadik and me, Christmas Eve.

A Rockin' Christmas, Moroccan Style

Christmas Eve, my apartment: me in my "holiday outfit," my new djellabia and Moroccan slippers (thanks to Hassan) with my guimbri.

Christmas Eve With My Favorite Elf (and dimpled cutie)

<--- (Ma'alem Sadik is in the middle of the word “newww,” while saying in careful English, “Haaaappy Newwww Year.” I didn't tell him he had the wrong holiday. He really does look like an elf in this picture.)

I hadn't really planned anything for Christmas Eve but I'd been out shopping for CDs, trying to stock up before leaving Morocco. On my way home, I ran into Hassan in the street so went to my place for tea. When we got there, out of his backpack he pulled a “Bon Noel” gift: a beautiful sky-blue djellabia (a woman's djellaba) and Moroccan leather slippers. The idea of receiving gifts this year hadn't occurred to me so to receive such a beautiful gift of traditional clothing, picked out for me, was very special.

After music and tea, we headed to Ma'alem Sadik's; I wore my new outfit, just as I might have dressed up on Christmas Eve back home and Hassan was also dressed in traditional garb so we must have looked like quite the pair walking down the street.

It was a pretty mellow evening but I brought a little whiskey to share with Hassan and the ma'alem. There was just a little music and most people left by 10:30 so Hassan and I sat with the ma'alem for another hour or so while he told stories. At one point, I was startled to understand a part of a sentence that made me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants: Between what sounded like “blah blah blah blah” to my ears, I caught the words, “he has toilet breath” and after that, the rest of the story gave me a belly ache from laughter.

In the spirit of Christmas Eve, I thought it was time I share a funny story with the ma'alem, getting a little help with translation from Hassan who has figured out my charades and now speaks the Tamara Dialect (Fre-rabic? Arab-ench?).

I told him one of my family's favorite stories that often gets retold on Christmas Eve:

One Christmas eve, maybe 15 years ago, my sister almost burned down the church when, during the candlelight service, she let her candle get too close to her paper program and it went up in flames. Of course, I was using lots of charades, acting out the tranquil scene, my mother's warning to my sister, my sister's disregard, and then the program catching fire, my mother's alarm and then my sister just casually blowing out the flame.

I was cracking up and so was Hassan but the ma'alem was looking at me with his wrinkled nose. So Hassan translated again. Still nothing. I guess since my story didn't involve someone making a complete idiot out of himself (I've gathered that his stories are mostly of this sort) that he didn't find it nearly as funny as we did. And that too made me laugh. He didn't pause long before launching into a story about another idiot he knew.

Ah, it was a grand time.

As we were going to leave, I got Hassan to snap the picture above.

My plans for Christmas Day are to have breakfast with my Aussie friend, lunch with my British lady friend and dinner/the rest of the evening with Hassan at some big party in “nature” about 20 minutes from Essaouira. At least this time, he's given me a departure time and mentioned what I should bring! We have made great progress!

Merry Christmas All!

The Dimpled Cutie, Christmas Eve

Recording Hassan

One of the things I really wanted to do before I leave Essaouira was to get some more solo recordings of Hassan. I was thinking of just recording his voice solo, without guimbri, but I guess that would have been really strange for him. It was awkward enough for him to record these songs without other singers and qraqeb players to the point where after a few minutes into the recording, while the recorder is going, he starts eyeing me in a way to say, “start playing the qraqeb part, come in on the chorus here.” I don't really know the words to these songs but I gave it a shot.

What resulted is not just a pretty decent recording of him but also a couple short and sweet duet sections of us. 

Once you put a microphone in front of Hassan, you can count on at least a 20 minute recording; this one turned out to be almost 30 minutes so I have split it into two AAC recordings, which should download nice and fast, too.

HERE'S PART 1

HERE'S PART 2

I'm glad to finally have some good samples of his vocal style and playing.

Whenever I hear him throw his voice in the high registers, as he does a lot in this set of songs, I'm taken back to Imswan as he was cooking up my octopus tajine and bursting out into song in this same way:  "Whoooah, yea! Whoooah yea!"

I get a warm but choked up feeling about this picture of him, sitting on my couch with the headphones, listening to his voice in stereo; you can just see the corner of the recording device in the bottom left of the picture. For him, it was a thrill to be able to have these recordings of himself. For me, it was an incredible gift to share the music with him.

To call it a 'win-win” situation is a huge understatement.

Preparing for the next chapter...

Despite wishing I could avoid it, I am slowly mentally and emotionally preparing to leave Essaouira, to catch my flight from Casablanca to Bamako on December 29th. I'm not particularly enjoying the feeling of gradually moving myself mentally and emotionally towards a new chapter of this grand journey. I am quite happy here, I feel as if I've found everything I was looking for in Essaouira and yet, I know that if I didn't have some kind of end in sight eventually, I might start to get restless, looking again for the bigger picture.

I know that there is much to look forward to in Mali, too. And I know that the fact that my heart hurts when I think about leaving is an indication of how wonderful life here has been. It's just like with falling in love: if it's particularly beautiful, it's gonna be particularly painful at its end.

I console myself with knowing that I can return after Mali if I want to. My ticket is round-trip, due to plop me back in Casablanca in mid-February. I really don't feel "finished" with Gnawa music either. I haven't had my fill yet and I feel as though I could never get tired of learning this music. 

At the same time, February is a long way off and a lot can happen in a couple months. Maybe I'll love Mali even more than Morocco- who knows? Everything is “insha' Allah,” after all.

But part of the anticipation is that I also think Mali is going to be a work-out. Life has gotten pretty comfortable for me here and I am expecting a pretty big adjustment period in the coming weeks. When I start thinking about all the goodbyes, even if they're temporary, I get really choked up. I'm realizing just how attached I have become to this place, to the people I love here, to the spirit of Essaouira. Let's face it: I have fallen in love: with Essaouira, with my friends, with Ma'alem Sadik, with everything here.

I have no idea how I'm going to say goodbye to all these people. Like Ma'alem Sadik, especially. And Pat, and Tessa and Nishan and Rachid and H2 and Mwedid Mwedid, and Djawed and the two Mohammeds and Khalid and the guy whose name I can never remember and all the other men and guys who I hang out with every day. And I wonder how they're going to feel about seeing me turn into a puddle of tears.

Still, I keep reminding myself to breathe in deeply and give thanks. Essaouira has been a huge gift.  It has been the nurturing soul food I needed; soul food I'd been craving longer than I can remember.

And Hassan. My talented, dimpled cutie, side-kick and companion. I don't know how I'm going to say goodbye to him, either.

It was one afternoon when Hassan and I were hanging out at my place that it really started to sink in about the beautiful connections I've made- and how hard it is going to be to say goodbye. As we were sitting on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, he started recounting the “Journey of Tamara.” With a fair amount of charades, and the typical mélange of Arabic, French and English, he told the story of how I came to Essaouira and how we came to meet.

He recounted how one day I got on a plane from America, and landed in Morocco (and by this point in the story, he was acting out my part, pretending to be me) how I had a good time in Tetuoan, in the Atlas mountains, and in Marrakech but how I thought that maybe there was something special in Essaouira. So I got on a bus to Essaouira. And then I met Pat and then Djawed and one night, I walked into Ma'alem Sadik's house.

And then he recounted his thoughts when he first met me. “Shkoon hadi? Men zhita?” (Who is this woman? Where has she come from?) He also remembered, to a tee, several little things I'd said and many of our conversations from over a month ago. Nothing had escaped him. And then after recounting all the laughs and good times we've had, he made a gesture of our two paths diverging again and got a resigned look on his face.

All of this was the sweetest “Once upon a time...” story I'd ever heard and by the time he was done, I had tears streaming down my cheeks. When he saw my tears he said, in Arabic, “Ah, it's life, habiba. Crazy life.”

Then he uttered this phrase which he'd been saying to me for weeks but the meaning of which I hadn't yet learned. Finally, I decided to ask him what it meant:

“May Allah protect you. May Allah protect you for me.”

Gulp. 

If my heart hadn't already been hurting, it certainly was then.

But he's right.

This is life.
Crazy life.
El hiyat hamka.
C'est la vie.

El Hiyat Hamka: Crazy Life

One of the things that still tickles me about Morocco after four months is that you can often just “hang out” with famous musicians here, as long as you have one contact who can get you in the door- and sometimes, you don't even need that. Not all Gnawa ma'alems accept visitors or students but a surprising number are quite accommodating to interviews, lessons and just chilling out.

Over the years, as I've collected names of Gnawa masters in order to look out for their music and with the thought that maybe I could catch a glimpse of them while I was here. One of them is a Ma'alem by the name of Omar El Hiyat; his last name means “life.”

One day on our way to lunch, Hassan wanted to pop in to see a friend and ma'alem (it seems like every third person In Essaouira is a ma'alem). We stepped into the ma'alem's little wood shop where he was doing some inlay work. I saw the pictures on the walls of his tours, listened to them chat (and actually understood most of it!) and tried to contribute a little to the conversation, though I didn't catch the man's name; I think they just called each other “brother” or something similar to that. We didn't stay long but after we shut the door behind us, Hassan said, “He's a biiiig ma'alem... very biiig, like Ma'alem Sadik, like Abdellah Guinea.”

“What is his name?,” I said.
“Omar.”
“Wait- Omar El Hiyat?!”
“Yeah.”

Christ! I had just met Omar El Hiyat and didn't realize it!

After missing my opportunity to adore and admire him, I resolved that another day I would pop in to say hello. But that never happened because a couple days later, I ran into him on the street three times in one day: once with Hassan #2 (the Other Hassan) and twice with my Hassan, the dimpled one.

Ma'alem El Hiyat is a very jovial, upbeat man and he recognized me the first time with Hassan #2. We chatted briefly about my Gnawa studies, about Ma'alem Aarafa in Tetouan and Ma'alem Belkani in Marrakech. Then he asked me my name again. When I told him, “Tamara” he said, “No, your Moroccan name.” So I said, “Oh, I don't know... Fatima?” “Yes! Fatima! Welcome Fatima!” and he got such a kick out of all of this.

The second time I ran into him that day, with dimpled Hassan, he gave me a friendly but hard slap on the shoulder, “Oh, Fatima!! Kulshi bekhir? Kulshi mezyen? Labas?;” the usual greetings. Then he asked me, “Do you know MY name?” “Yes, Ma'alem El Hiyat. You have the name of life.” He leaned back and let out a big, hearty laugh and Hassan joined him- which I took as a good sign that I'd said something funny-ish or witty or maybe both. Either way, it seemed to go over well.

I shake my head with a chuckle when I ponder the fact that I'm now greeting Ma'alem Omar El Hiyat in the street as an old buddy with slaps on the shoulder and hearty hand-shakes. Of course, he just knows me as “Fatima.”

Ah yes, crazy life.

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

My home away from home: Essaouira

Here's wishing you all a very happy holiday season, wherever you are!

Although I try to imagine the snow, the holiday lights, and the festive mood that must be going on back home, I have a hard time believing that it's December, much less Christmas time. With weather like you see in the above picture, it just doesn't seem like the holidays. The only thing that really hints of the holidays is that I've seen a few plastic, cheap-o, miniature Christmas trees for sale on the streets.

Therefore, it doesn't feel like I'm really missing out on anything. I'm keeping quite busy and happy with my life here. 

I'm not sure what I'll do for Christmas yet. Maybe I'll go have more Mexican food like I did on Thanksgiving. Maybe I'll go to Hassan's granny's house. Maybe I'll hang out with Tessa, my Aussie girl friend here or Pat, the sailor-mouthed English lady. Whatever I do, it will probably just be another “normal” day for me here, which in and of itself, is quite a wonderful gift for which I am profoundly grateful.

Sending my love, hugs and warmest wishes!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
Tamara

Excruciating Back Pain Has Never Been So Enjoyable!

The trip/”date” to Hassan's village that I mentioned in a previous entry eventually did happen- only it wasn't really his “home” village, but a village where he lives, works and surfs during the summer. It's a tiny little village called Imswan (or something like that) with pink houses perched on cliffs and near several phenomenal beaches with gorgeous, picture-perfect waves. Even not being a surfer, the spectacle was incredibly inviting.

The trip to the village took place just a couple days after having dinner with his family and we hadn't really perfected our charades and “thinking on the same wave length” telepathy quite yet so a lot of the trip came as a surprise to me, like when he showed up at my apartment unannounced that day with his surf board and said, “Are you ready to go?” There were many other things too like how we would get there, what to bring and all that but I just realized that this is part of the fun of hanging out with him: all these miscommunications make for some entertaining adventures.

He had wanted to teach me to surf but the winds were too strong. However, we spent a fair amount of time watching other people surf. I got such a kick out of listening to him cheer them on, curse and get emotionally involved, just as men do when watching football. Naturally, it was all in Arabic and I just found it really cute to listen to: “Swim! It's good! It's good! Go! GO!” and then if the surfer caught the wave, he'd smile, nod and say, “Saha!” which is one of the words here that's difficult to translate but loosely, it's like bestowing a blessing on the person, saying, “To your health!” or “May this bless and benefit you.” I find it such a sweet part of the culture here.

What made things really take a turn for the 'strange and interesting' was that not long after arriving, my back went out. I tried to tease him that it was his fault for playfully kicking me in the butt earlier because I had felt my back spasm when it happened. It was some of the weirdest pain I've ever felt, too. The muscles started cramping down my leg to where my calves and foot were burning. The pain got so intense at one point that I started remembering stories of the muscles' ability to crush bone under certain circumstances. But at least I had a gorgeous place to curl up in the fetal position and listen to the ocean! Of course, not knowing how long we would be gone, I hadn't brought any pain killers or anything of the sort.

From my fetal position and grimacing and gasping, it was almost comical trying to explain to him what was going on; these aren't the times when you feel like pulling out a dictionary for “excruciating pain” but he seemed to get it and went into care-taker mode. He only left my side to cook me food and he had decided that exactly what I needed was an octopus tajine. His charades told me that octopus was really good for muscles. I was skeptical but I left the room long enough to watch him beat the crap out of the octopus on the rocks below the house, which he later explained was the way to pulverize it before cooking. I must say it was by far the best tajine I've had since being in Morocco- better food that his sisters made.

My Aussie girl friend here cracked me up when later she said, “Well, if that doesn't DO it for you, Tamara, I don't know what will- watching a man grasp a slimy octopus, beat it to a pulp, cook it up into a phenomenal tajine and then serve it to you! Was he flexing his muscles all this time, too?”

Curiously, even with the excruciating pain, it was still a “fun” and relaxing excursion/date somehow. The few times that I managed to drag myself out of the room here and there, and to distract me from the pain, we played a little music together, having brought my guimbri. The scenery and sound of the ocean was unbeatable, the home-cooked food amazing and especially unforgettable was the fact that he would often just break out into song at the top of his lungs, especially while cooking up my octopus. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'd hear, “Iiii ay yay ay ay! Iiii yay ay ay!” a call from one of the songs that is unmistakably Sub-Saharan African for its emotionality. Although I know I'm a little biased, he really does have one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard (I keep telling him we need to get recordings of just his voice singing these songs) so really, life could have been worse. I kept reminding myself that: “Even though I'm in unbearable pain in the middle of nowhere, the scenery is gorgeous, the sun is shining, and I have a handsome personal chef and care-taker who will serenade me while I watch the ocean.” If you could call this a first date, it sure was out of the ordinary.

The taxi ride home, sitting for a couple hours in a painful position, took a lot of inner focus to get through. He kept saying to me in Arabic, “Eveything's okay, Tamara... Everything's okay... Hamdoli Allah” (thanks to Allah, it could be worse). 

After we finally got back and I found my Aussie girl friend for tea, I started to tell her how I'd gone to this village called Imswan and she said, “Oh, I know.”

“What do you mean you know?”
“I asked some guys if they'd seen this American girl who lives here and is studying Gnawa music and they said 'she went to Imswan with Hassan Laarousi'.”
“Who are these guys? Do they know Hassan?”
“I don't know, they're just guys I know here. I guess word got around Essaouira.”

In a way, it was kind of reassuring to know that people pay attention to the goings on, especially of Westerners and that if I'd disappeared for some reason, apparently the whole town of Essaouira knew where I was and who I'd gone with.

In any case, it was one of the strangest and, in hindsight, comical ways to try and 'get to know' someone on a little excursion together. And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if a complete stranger approaches and asks me, “So, how was Imswan?”

Mwedid Mwedid

There are so many characters who show up at Ma'alem Sadik's house on occasion that I could write an entire book just on the personalities and happenings that go on there.

But one of my favorites who has a special place in my heart is a little older man everyone calls Mwedid Mwedid and who deserves at least a short introduction.

Mwedid Mwedid is a tiny little man, a good six to eight inches shorter than me; he's bald except for gray stubble on the top of his head and his best friend, companion and love of his life is a beautiful dog who looks like a small German shepherd.

Mwedid Mwedid is deaf and doesn't speak much other than a few words which he uses as sound effects along with an elaborate yet personalized style of sign language which the other men all seem to understand and can answer back with. Since there have been a few times I haven't seen him with the dog, he must get around okay without it but usually, the dog is right at his side: a “hearing dog,” I'm guessing.

Mwedid Mwedid, from what Hassan told me, chose that name for himself because in his own vocabulary and limited amount of sounds he can make, he thought this was a beautiful sound and that it works for all things beautiful. I've mentioned how Ma'alem Sadik is quite an animated character with his storytelling but Mwedid outdoes them all.

I am embarrassed to say that the first time I met Mwedid, I thought he was drunk because of how animated and excited he is. I've since learned that Mwedid is just a hyperactive, spazzy little man who, when he is telling a story, will be jumping up and down from his stool, waving his arms wildly in the air, gesturing wildly, and using these breathy sounds and made-up words to describe things- “words” that the other men seem to understand but which I think are Mwedid's own language built on consonants and noises.

One of the most touching things has been to watch his interaction with everyone else- he is not just one of the gang like everybody else, but clearly he's loved by all the other men, too. Despite being deaf and mostly mute, he's usually the center of attention when he's around. He's so incredibly energetic and passionate and often bouncing off the walls that you can't help but love him and want to engage in his stories.

One of my sweetest memories of Mwedid Mwedid is a day that Hassan, me, Mwedid and his dog were walking down the street. Hassan and Mwedid were talking about me in Mwedid's special language of gestures and made-up words. There's this hand gesture in Morocco that's used to express yourself when someone has a special place in your heart. I saw Hassan make this gesture and point at me and then Mwedid quickly nodded about ten times, looked sweetly at us and pointed energetically to his dog, making some of his sound effects and breathless noises, making that same hand gesture, to more or less say, “same same!”

Djawed

Djawed is another very entertaining fellow here. He was introduced to me by my sailor-mouthed British lady friend, Pat, who lives here. Pat had recommended him as the perfect chaperone, should I ever need one. She told me (while he was sitting there), “He's a little out of it and sometimes goes off into the clouds but he's harmless.” I don't think he understood her, thank goodness.

At first, I would have described Djawed as endearing and cute in the way that you'd use “cute” when you feel sorry for someone. But after knowing him for a month now, while I no longer feel sorry for him, he's become a much more fascinating and three-dimensional character.

I haven't quite figured him out completely. However, my theory is that he just lives on a different plane than most everyone else or is tuned into a different station than the rest of us. I really wonder what it would be like to speak Arabic fluently with him because I can't entirely tell if he's really that mentally checked-out much of the time or if it's just his English, which is pretty much impossible to follow.

He has this ability to construct phrases that really SOUND like they should mean something to the point where I feel like I'm going crazy when I can't understand them. It's partially strange combinations of words, partially tenses and verb conjugations that don't agree, partially just phrases that don't really translate well which I think he's getting from Arabic but largely just that his sentences are made up of a bunch of unrelated thoughts- at least from my perspective.

He'll start a phrase and I'll think to myself, “okay, okay, I'm getting it...” and then the words that follow have nothing to do with where he started. And he really loves to talk. One time I sat with him in the cafe, he talked for 45 minutes and I don't think I understood more than maybe two of his sentences. It was nuts.

What's also hilarious is that he often adds the words, “Not clear?” at the end of his sentences when I think he's trying to really say (as we would in English), “Do you know what I mean?” So he'll construct these sentences that make absolutely no sense to where I'm pulling my hair out trying to follow him and then he ends it with, “Not clear?”

I was trying earlier to memorize bits of his sentences to give examples but it's difficult to approximate. It reminds me of that magnetic poetry game: imagine just randomly assembling words- his English is very close to that. I think one sentence went something like: “Good time Moroccan friends? Maybe make different, father good, mother good but maybe America life different? Maybe no happy because big house, good thing? Not clear?”

This is where I've just learned to nod and say, “Fehmt” (“Yes, I understand”). One night when he was especially talking my ear off at Ma'alem Sadik's house, I made the mistake of whispering in a pleading way to the other men,“I can't understand his English!” (“Mafemtsh Ingelisia dialo!”) and they all chuckled knowingly. I think someone must have later said something to him like, “Tamara can't understand you, Djawed. Give it a rest,” because since then he's started asking, “Not understand my English?”

Groan....

He has a very gentle and sweet demeanor so as he's saying all of this in a soft voice, he's bowing his head a little, looking out of the tops of his eyes, using his hands a lot. I really wanted to understand him in the beginning but I really started to feel like I was going crazy trying. So now, I've resorted to just humoring him and kind of spacing out when he's talking to me, making sure to say, “uh huh, really?” every now and then. It's the nicest way I can think of handling the situation without losing my mind.

I've been noticing with curiosity and humor that he spends the entire evening bumming cigarettes off everyone. But what's especially funny is that he asks them for the cigarette which they are in the middle of smoking, too, not just one from the pack. I've heard the other guys rant about this before.

Ever since he took me to Ma'alem Sadik's that first night, about a month ago, he's started showing up every night, too. This means he's part of the entertainment each night, especially after I got over my frustration stage. Despite the fact that he claps off the beat (you can often hear it in my recordings), the men are quite patient with him and are open to letting him learn as well.

At any rate, he's a trip and it's clear that he means well and has good intentions. He's very kind to me, always asking me if I'm okay. He has (I think?) referred a couple times to why I don't come by the shop to see him or have coffee anymore. I felt kind of bad about that but I still see him every night and sometimes bring him cigarettes as a friendly gesture.

I'm sure I'll miss him too when I leave.

“Sometimes Tamara is Big Crazy;” The Universal Language of Laughter

While I've savored these last four months on my own and found that I can never have too much alone time, there is something nice about hanging out with Hassan: having a male chaperone, a guide of sorts and a side-kick. Not only can I let my guard down quite a bit but I finally get to see what it's like to not be noticed so much on the street. It really is fascinating to me that when I'm with him, it's like I have a backstage pass to everything and I feel a bit more invisible as well as accepted somehow. I can relax while he does all the bargaining and transport arranging and so forth. It's kind of a nice change from having to be the assertive and ready-to-react-at-any-moment Tamara.

The main thing that I want to share about Hassan is how much I've learned with regards to human communication from hanging out with him; it has been a source of some great- and quite beautiful- realizations.

For starters, it's pretty amazing how much we are able to communicate with our melange of French, Arabic and English. Both of us use all three languages in any given sentence which is often quite goofy-sounding. And since neither of us are fluent in a common language, charades have proven to work amazingly well- although at times, when the ideas are more complex, you might classify them more as skits.

These elaborate skits that we put on for each other in order to communicate complex ideas have become a great source of entertainment. In the rare case that a skit or our language melange isn't doing the trick, we'll often just collectively declare that it's not important (“meshi muhim”) or make a joke out of not understanding each other.

And if we get tired of all that, our great fall-back is to sing or listen to music together. Sometimes I'll play him “American” music; getting his reaction to things like John Denver or Patsy Cline is a hoot. Other times, we'll just enjoy the company in silence- although, I've found it kind of funny that if the silence goes on too long we've taken to asking each other, “What are you thinking about?” (in Arabic: “Wesh 'arrefti?”) which then often begins another mix of words and charades.

It hit me the other day that even with all the charades and broken Arabic, French and English, it's surprisingly easy hanging out with him- to the point where there are times I forget about the language differences and I rattle off a long sentence in English only to get a puzzled look and, “What?” from him. He does the same with me; however, I'm so accustomed to not understanding more than a chunk of what's said around me that it doesn't frustrate or bother me. I shrug and smile.

The skits are one of my favorite things, though: it's always bound to get us giggling. It's been particularly striking to me that I laugh as much with him as I do with any of my other friends back home. Our high proficiency in being able to laugh together is largely the whole reason why we hang out to begin with. It must look quite funny from the outside to watch a few hand movements, a few words here and there, more gestures and then we both bust up laughing.

At the end of the day, the most moving to me is the realization that sharing the same vocabulary (much less language) isn't the most important part of human communication. Really being able to connect and understand another person is first about an equal desire to communicate and secondly, about being on the same “wave length” with someone: the ability to tune into each other.

So much gets communicated without words. Not being able to use words in the usual way forces you to use other means of communication or just be a lot more observant and perceptive.

For only knowing me a few weeks and for all the language barriers, he teases me and observes things about me almost identically to my friends back home. In that vein, one of my favorite comments so far is, “Sometimes Tamara is big crazy!” (not that it took great powers of observation to tune into that, though). And the kind of advice he's taken to giving me is also pretty hilarious. It often involves a lot of pointing and waving his finger at me, like when I walk around my apartment with no shoes on and he's essentially saying with a few words and his expression, “This is why your back is bothering you, Tamara. Trust me, I know this.” And of course he's right so I make a face and stick my tongue out at him.

But as well as the laughter and joking and goofiness, we've also navigated how to talk about 'deep' things. Again, charades are very useful but it continues to stun me that we have conversations about spirituality, Allah/God, the meaning of life and our mutual love of music and its healing power, our families, and difficult things in our pasts.

In any case, the whole thing has been an eye-opening and startling reminder of a basic human connection that surpasses language. Communicating with another person isn't always about words; often an expression, a look or a gesture is equally, if not more powerful.

It doesn't mean that it wouldn't be nice and useful to be fluent in a common language. It doesn't mean that words aren't important. But nevertheless, it has blown me away to realize how much- and how such profound things- can be conveyed with so few words.

So Much to Love

It hit me the other day just how at home I have come to feel in Morocco. Aside from the very annoying male attention which was worse in certain places and the “bad energy” I felt in Marrakech, I am very happy here, particularly in Essaouira. Even when things are chaotic, it doesn't seem to phase me; on the contrary, the chaos just feels like raw, uncensored Life and interestingly, I find myself responding on the other end of the spectrum: I feel grounded when chaos is unfolding around me.

There is so much here I've come to love about Morocco in general and particularly about Essaouira. I have friends here, an apartment, a purpose, a schedule, a music teacher- kind of like a "normal" life! There are too many things I love in general about Morocco to list off but aside from the spectacular mountains, ocean and music, once you get underneath all the tourist crap and male attention, the hospitality and generosity here are quite incredible.

Of all of these things, my life still revolves around Ma'alem Sadik and I have come to just adore and love him in a way that makes me tear up. He is so easy to love- such a sweet, crazy, animated, nutty little guy with a huge heart. I don't quite know how to capture Ma'alem Sadik in words but I'll try...

He's kind of a small man with wavy hair and big, playful, expressive eyes which bug out when he's talking passionately about something. I'd guess that he's in his 50s. He has a pinched, nasal little voice, is missing some teeth on the top row and looks a little elfish in ways. Most of all, he is just incredibly animated. Perhaps my favorite little characteristic about him is that he completely scrunches up his nose and squints his eyes when he's thinking hard or isn't sure if he likes an idea. He has all kinds of funny sayings and habits and regular sound effects that he makes to describe things to the point where even when I don't understand the vocabulary, I can often tell what he's talking about by how expressive his gestures, eyes and tone of voice are. And even if that fails, just watching and listening to him cracks me up. He's simply a comedian without meaning to be.

A few nights ago, I laughed harder than ever. The ma'alem was quite tipsy and a friend of his who everyone calls, “Meknesi,” who was quite drunk himself, stopped by to (try and) join the music. Meknesi is either a General now or was in the past; he kept standing at attention, snapping his heels together and saluting us. At one point, he had sat himself next to the ma'alem and kept reaching or leaning over to kiss Sadik's arm or hand adoringly. He speaks a little English but it was so slurred from the drink that he might as well have been speaking Arabic to me.

Anyway, the ma'alem and Meknesi really were a hoot to watch. At one point, Sadik was trying to talk to me and Meknesi was strumming something awful on the guimbri and “singing” (more like drunken moaning) some kind of song. The ma'alem looked over at him once or twice and then gave him a hard slap on the shoulder like, “stop it!” Hassan finally had to take the guimbri away from Meknesi for it getting so obnoxious. Later on that evening, the ma'alem and Meknesi were trying to make a duet out of clapping; rather than clapping with their own two hands, they were hitting each other's hands and giggling like little kids. Such silliness.

All of this goofiness is just hilarious and yet, I've been seeing how much The Drink is having such a detrimental effect on so many lives here that even though I can laugh at the ma'alem, the whole alcohol issue is quite depressing. With the availability of alcohol being so foreign to the culture and history, it's understandable that few people know how to handle it. Technically, it's forbidden in Islam.


In any case, everyone I've talked to about Ma'alem Sadik seems to agree what a dear, sweet man he is: when I've mentioned that I hang out there every night, I always get a big nod of approval. He's also the only ma'alem here in Essaouira who has an open invitation policy; technically, if you know where to find him, anyone can show up. Most ma'alems only have people in their home by invitation and you have to be someone important or “in the circle” to be invited.

He always makes me feel so welcome and at home. He speaks both French and Arabic particularly slowly for me to make sure I understand. One night when he was especially crazy and I really thought I was going to bust a gut from laughing about his carrying on, it really hit me how much I adore him. He was also a bit tipsy that night and was bowing his head to me so much as I was saying goodbye that I took his head in my hands, kissed the top of his head and said in Arabic, “Oh, Ma'alem Sadik, thank you so much. It's always so wonderful here.”

Kids, Couscous and Kissing Hassan's Sister

Although Aid el Kebir was Tuesday, even on Friday there was still celebrating going on. I guess it makes sense considering that most families have an entire sheep that they need to eat while it's fresh; that means lots of gorging for days and days afterwards. Most of the shops were back open by Thursday but the streets were still emptier than usual.

I was quite pleased that I'd been invited into a local's home (Hassan #2, the young kid) for dinner on the main day of celebration but when Hassan (the dimpled one) figured out that I didn't have plans to eat sheep for all the days ensuing, he invited me to join him the following day for a big meal at his sister's house here in Essaouira. At least this time in attending a meal, my presence had been announced so that the family knew to expect me and I was able to bring something instead of show up empty-handed.

I've mentioned how the greetings go between friends and between the opposite sexes with all the hand shaking and heart touching and so forth. But when women greet each other, such as the situation I was in of being greeted by all the women of Hassan's family, there is a lot of kissing involved. It's a bit like in parts of Europe where you lean in and sort of half kiss the air and half kiss the other woman's cheek- first on their right and then on their left side.

But according to family or region or something else I haven't figured out yet, sometimes it's one kiss on the right and two kisses on the left; sometimes it's two right then two left then two more on the right. Basically, this means that I always screw it up. More than once, I have pulled away at the wrong time, thinking the kissing was over only to find myself being kissed more. Even more embarrassing is when I've misjudged the direction from which the next kiss was coming and thus missed my “target.” This happened with one of Hassan's sisters: I caught her on the edge of her lips.

Soon after we arrived and I was getting to know the kids (always a safe bet when you run out of things to talk about with the adults), Hassan got up to go somewhere and was gone an hour or so. I suspect maybe he was going to visit the men of the family who were, perhaps, eating and visiting separately. I had seen a few men drop in to the sister's house but then they soon left. Maybe he was only joining the group of women to accompany me- I don't know.

When Hassan left, the women sitting in the kitchen motioned for me to come join them. We had a few introductions (they pronounced my full name, Tamara Turner, as “Tumahduh Toon”) and then they continued chatting and passionately debating whatever it was they were talking about (I didn't understand), more or less ignoring me. I didn't mind, though. Sometimes it's just easier to be ignored so I can simply watch and observe and not be on the spot. But I do find it fascinating since if I had a guest back home in the US, I would be trying to speak to them and include them in everything. Usually here, I'm totally ignored by the women except for the occasional offer for tea.

It was equally interesting to observe the different women and their reactions to me. One of the women who arrived later was always watching me when I looked up but had such a sweet smile on her face that I took it to mean that she found me fascinating or something. Her toddler had tried to take a bite out of my bare foot earlier so we'd had a good laugh together. One of Hassan's sisters and his aunt were especially warm with me, too; not by talking to me but just by the sweet faces they'd make at me if we made eye contact.

Once again, I was happy to play with the kids. Two of them, Salma and Abdul, both about 7 or 8 years old, took a real liking to me which was not just adorable but a nice way to win over the family. Salma kept coming over to cuddle up against me and grin up at me then say, “Nti zwin!” (you are pretty) to which I would say, “No, YOU are pretty, Salma” and then she'd answer, “No, YOU are pretty;” this went back and forth for much of the afternoon. I played the same game with Abdul but instead of “pretty,” it was “crazy.”

When Hassan got back, the kids tackled him and spent the next hour climbing all over him and singing songs with him which I tried to learn too. Then, finally, after a couple hours had passed, it was time to eat the first course: mutton couscous. Most often everyone eats from the same big platter in the middle of the table. Instead of using a spoon as I was offered, I decided to try and do as everyone else was doing and eat it with my right fingers; no silverware involved.

That turned out to be much harder than it looks. I was quite relieved that the women had sat Hassan and I at different tables so that he didn't have to watch the disaster unfold. Despite observing the other women and thus trying to make a little ball of couscous in my hand before bringing it to my mouth, it would inevitably fall apart all over the table and my lap before I could eat it; there was as much couscous on the table in front of me as in my belly. I apologized to his aunt who was sitting next to me and she reassured me, “oh, no problem! no problem!” and indicated that everyone else had made a mess too, which really wasn't the case.

To add to the adventure, my entire right hand was now coated in couscous. One of the sisters motioned to me to just lick everything away. So, as I was licking my palm, fingers and most of the back of my hand too, I tried not to show my embarrassment, hoping to god that Hassan wasn't watching.

Two more courses of food were brought out: an almond and prune tajine with mutton and then something like angel hair noodles with raisins and mutton. Finally after the third course and after about four hours of being there, Hassan asked me with his expression if I was ready to go which I was, feeling that I'd embarrassed myself enough for one day. Saying goodbye involved another round of kissing all of his sisters and aunts again.

We had a nice long walk on the beach after all the hours of eating and I tried to adequately express my gratitude. The food was by far the best I've had since being in Morocco. I also confessed to him and apologized for having accidentally kissed his sister on her lips. He found it very funny.

I'm not sure what he had told his sisters and aunts about me, but he relayed that his big sister said, “Tamara zwin;” in that context, it generally means I passed the test. I gathered that he was impressed by the effort that I'd made to embrace the traditions because, much to my humiliation, he imitated me licking off my hand, all the while laughing but patting me on the back.

I suppose I deserved that one after laughing at his “Free Hell” shirt.

We finished off the day with wonderful night at Ma'alem Sadik's.

A Sheep Stomach Sandwich and Other Holiday Festivities

Tuesday December 9th was Aid El Kebir, the day that all Moroccan families, if they can afford it, slaughter a sheep in remembrance of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son to Allah who then told Abraham, “Never mind- I was just testing you. Here's a sheep instead.”

As I'd mentioned previously, for a few days beforehand, you could see people carting around tranquilized sheep (at least they seemed unusually calm) and Ma'alem Sadik had one tethered in his wood shop. I asked the ma'alem what the sheep's name was. When he didn't have an answer, I proposed, “How about 'Delicious'?” har har

I was vegan for many, many years and really don't eat meat that much but I've really made an effort to participate in the culture, which has at times included eating mutton. Ugh. The texture of it just makes me gag and more than once, I've had to talk myself through the swallowing process as to not offend anyone: “Tamara, you are going to swallow this. It's not that bad... swallow... swallow!”

The apartment where I live is right above a small, common plaza with a fountain where kids often play soccer, all the locals fill their buckets, socialize, occasionally do some wash, and, as I found out Tuesday morning, roast sheep parts over a big open fire on the morning of Aid el Kebir. Plumes of smoke were billowing up to my windows as families were gathering around the same fire to cook. It was quite amazing. It sure did remind me that I'm in Morocco.

When I left the house to go for a walk on the beach, I walked past several groups of men roasting sheep with the severed heads set aside on the stones. Others already had the severed sheep heads in the fire for roasting. It definitely was a pretty intense, raw and reality-check kind of visual experience.

I happened to bump into a friend of mine (his name is also Hassan but as to not confuse things with the other Hassan, I'll call this guy H2). I mentioned H2 before in a previous entry- he has a little drum shop and has always been really friendly to me, inviting me to come play with him. I used to go to his shop regularly and just somehow have “gotten busy” lately but have been running into him. He's another one of the Essaouiran men who, if a Hollywood producer got a look at him, would rise to instant stardom on his looks alone. Good god. I often feel like I'm walking around on a movie set here. Maybe it's the lack of mirrors here but he's one of the most humble, sweet and unassuming guys I've met here.

Anyway, he asked me why I wasn't somewhere eating sheep and I fumbled around with my words, “oh you know, I'm just walking around looking.” He answered that I was welcome to join him, as he was on his way to his family's house for a meal. I jumped at the opportunity to get an inside look on what goes on in the homes during this big holiday. I got to meet all his sisters and extended family and once again, was extremely grateful for the Arabic I DO speak because it totally won over the women that I could chat with them a little (I got a thumbs up).

H2 took me into the kitchen to see the sheep, who, skinned, headless and footless was hanging upside down from the ceiling. The stomach was spread across the refrigerator top drying (?). In the tiled hallway, one of the younger brothers was roasting its liver over a stoneware, coal stove. He explained that they eat the liver first and that this probably goes back to older times when they had to eat the things that went bad first. When the liver was done, it was brought into the sitting room, where H2 and I were talking and his older sister began chopping it up. She handed me a piece and this was another moment of, “Tamara, you are going to swallow this and smile.”

Then she began wrapping the bite-sized pieces in long strips of the stomach, which looked kind of like cheese cloth and which she was cutting up. Then these pieces were put onto skewers, roasted and stuffed into bread like a pita, complemented by the standard Moroccan tea. I joined in on the meal and interestingly, the meat was actually delicious; quite salty and tender. But simply knowing I was eating a stomach and liver sandwich was really making it challenging to enjoy.

H2 explained how they had the heart for breakfast, and would eat the head (I guess mainly the brain?) for dinner along with the right leg of the sheep. We had a really interesting conversation, too. He speaks outstanding English and explained much about the holiday, including the strict guidelines for how the slaughter is done and how this holiday fits in with the Muslim calendar.

After the stomach-liver sandwich and visiting for awhile with him, I felt I should get going as to let him visit with his family. He was actually readying to leave to go visit friends as well so we chatted a bit more on the walk to the square then said goodbye. He's a sweetheart and someone I will keep in touch with after I leave.

I headed to Pat's house, the sailor-mouthed little English lady who I adore. We sat around, drank tea, and listened to Bob Dylan while she got high. She cracks me up. Her frankness about everything is really refreshing. She's definitely a real character in a way that I often wish I had a video camera and could make a documentary about her. I confessed to her how I'd developed a crush on a Moroccan man here and asked if it was just me or are the men here just the most beautiful and magnetic in the world? In her usual sassy way she cackled and said, “oh GAWD- after living here, I found the men back in Britain to look so pale and pink and splotchy.”

I ended the holiday, of course, with showing up to Ma'alem Sadik's house again as I do every night. I brought my new guimbri for all the guys to play so that it gets lots of love and gets “broken in” with some real outstanding players. Each guy took turns playing on it and I got recordings of all of them: first Khalid, then Mohammed 1 then Mohammed 2 then Hassan. I made CDs for all of them to give them the following night. I love being able to give personal recordings out as little gifts. Not surprisingly, they are all thrilled to have recordings of their playing.

Although the main holiday was Tuesday, the celebrating goes on for days before and after. In the evenings, the men are about the town walking around in their immaculate white djellabas, dressed to the hilt just as we might do on Christmas night after all the eating and celebrating. Even the little boys were dressed up in white djellabas. Everywhere in the street people were in festive moods, smiling and greeting each other especially affectionately. Back in September, I had learned to say, “Ashembroka,” which is used especially during holy times. Every time I've said it to a local, they look quite pleased and respond with something like, “wow, thank you- and to you.”

Regardless of whether I do anything special for Christmas or not, between getting to participate so much in Ramadan and Aid El Kebir, I feel as if I've already celebrated.

Ack! Typos!

I have to publicly apologize for my typos lately. When I've gone back over things after posting them, I've been appalled at some of them- and being such a stickler for that kind of thing usually, it makes me groan when I find them later.

Recording

Not that anyone else cares as much as me, but here is a lovely recording I made last night of Hassan singing and playing guimbri with the other guys answering/singing in response and playing the qraqeb parts on little shaker things. Hassan's voice is the one who begins the call.

HERE

Music, a Man and a Mushsh

Over the weeks, I'd been pondering buying a guimbri despite the fact that I don't really play guitar or any other instrument similar to it- yet. Why let that small detail stand in the way, sensible as it might be to actually learn guitar first? Guimbris are truly beautiful instruments and who knows, maybe I'll find a calling in it.

Sunday night I mentioned to Ma'alem Sadik that I'd like to buy one of his hand-made guimbris. He had already been working on a few new ones which I had watched being stained the previous night. I asked him if I could watch him finish it the next day but he was done by the time I got there. So in less than 24 hours, my guimbri was ready to pick up which I did that night, hoping to also hear some music as usual.

However, that night was the eve before Aid el Kabir, one of the bigger Muslim holidays where every family that can afford to will slaughter a sheep in in remembrance of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son. For days beforehand, I was seeing dozens and dozens of people pushing sheep in carts around the medina. You could hear the bleating all over town. Ma'alem Sadik had a sheep tethered in his wood shop which all of us had been entertained by watching the last few nights. Hassan had been directing his kif exhales towards the sheep to relax the little guy for his last days on Earth.

Anyhow, because of the holiday, I was only at Ma'alem Sadik's about 30 minutes when everyone departed- some for the hammam, others to go see family.

However, in that short time, quite a bit unfolded:

I not only got to pick up my gorgeous new guimbri and hear the ma'alem play it (ahhh) but I also saw Hassan, who was dressed in traditional clothing (common practice around holy times): a djellaba and tagia, the small cap that sits on top of the head. I find the traditional clothing very handsome- much like seeing men in kilts or sarongs- and I was tickled to see that despite wearing his djellaba, he hadn't left out the rainbow-colored scarf.

I sat myself next to him and we “talked” about this and that. I gave him a CD I'd made of his playing the night before. He had been so pleased by being able to hear himself through the headphones at the time of recording that he had played for 22 minutes straight without stopping (that wonderful file is going to take about 5 hours to upload).

As we were “chatting” and interacting, I was overtaken by The Klutzy Stage that possesses me when I really like a guy. Even with previous dedicated efforts to combat this great genetic misfortune and/or curse, and regardless of me telling myself, “Tamaraaa.... caaaaalm dooooowwwwn,” it's just inevitable that I will turn into a stooge.

Within my short visit that night, I'd knocked over my glass of juice several times and spilled it all over the floor- as well as bumping into things and fumbling around with a half-functioning brain. I think it was after knocking over my glass the third time that Hassan reached out to shake my hand as in, “nice one!”

To my disappointment, the Arabic word for “klutz” is not in my dictionary.

Part of why I was turning into a complete idiot was that since I never really know when he's going to turn up, I had decided to make the most of the fact that he was there that night: I got his email so I could send him the URL address when I post my recording of him and then I gave him my email as well as my phone number in case he wanted to “get tea” sometime (the visit to his village hadn't happened yet).

I really pondered whether or not I should offer such information, worrying that maybe giving a guy your digits here more or less tags you as a hussy. I asked Pat about this; she's one of my contacts here, a hilariously-cheeky, 50-something, little British lady with a mouth like a sailor and who speaks her mind about everything. Her response was more or less, “Oh, fer feck sake, why the hell not give him your number, Tamara? We're all prostitutes!” I'm not sure what she meant by that but after weighing everything, I figured that as long as I'm not throwing myself at him, what's the harm in having tea?

So I gave him my number and we walked back to the square together, trying to make small talk, as much as that is possible for us. However, at that moment another emotion washed over me: I was suddenly aware of the childlike sweetness of our situation. Being forced to communicate at such a very basic level is giving the whole dynamic with him a kind of rare innocence to this awkward stage: the raw, vulnerable human quality to our interactions (which can't be covered up by blabbing on about meaningless stuff) bypasses the vast cultural and language roadblocks. We're just two people trying to connect.

As we said goodbye, shaking hands, he said, “So maybe we'll have tea tomorrow?- insha' Allah.” And I said, “Yes, good- insha' Allah.”

After walking home with my guimbri slung over my back, feeling thrilled to have it, I saw a tiny kitten (“mushsh” in Arabic) by my apartment door. He'd been mewing there for most of the day, his mother nowhere to be seen; I had tried to catch the little mushsh earlier to no avail. His cries were breaking my heart so I tried again and this time he didn't run. I scooped him up, brought him inside and heated some milk. As he was lapping that up, I ran out to the medina again and bought some sardines as well as some floor cleaner, expecting to have some kitty 'deliveries' to clean up in the morning.

I hadn't been back long with the groceries when my phone rang. It was Hassan. We had a very confusing conversation where I thought he said he was in the square in front of my apartment but in fact he was at a phone booth close by but not visible to me. Thus ensued about 20 minutes of confusion, embarrassment and more confusion but we finally tracked each other down on the other side of the medina.

Being a chilly night with the cafes closed by then, we went to my place for tea. He showed me how to string my guimbri and tried to teach me some playing technique but I got self conscious and klutzy and therefore, diverted the attention back to him by setting up the recording equipment. We got the microphones placed well and then recorded a good hour or more of him playing and singing.

As he was sitting on my couch in his djellaba, playing my guimbri with the headphones on, his eyes closed and a big grin on his face, I had another wave of feeling really grateful. How many people get to hang out with the locals, invite them over for tea and be serenaded with traditional music? Despite my probably-doomed crush, I am just delighted to know him.

During all of this time, I was also checking on the mushsh and other than throwing up (or maybe it was the other end) on one of the mattresses a couple of times (perhaps the sardines were too rich), he had curled up in a ball to sleep.

Afterwards, Hassan and I were actually able to talk about music and my travels. I played him other Gnawa recordings I'd made so far then showed him videos of my family. He complimented me on the fact that I'm really trying to get inside the culture and to my surprise, said completely in English, “Most tourists just come here to snap a few pictures, stay in a hotel and then leave. What you are doing is really good.”

It was a lovely and very polite, “proper” evening with no moves made by either one of us- which was good. I'd only sat next to him on the couch when he was showing me how to string the guimbri and the rest of the time, I sat at the table. The whole vibe of the evening confirmed my hunch that he's a very well-intentioned and sweet guy.

When it started to get late and he needed to get going, he shook my hand, thanked me and said, “I'll see you tomorrow- insha' Allah.”

Back Alley Paradise

Maybe it's time I explain a “typical” night at Ma'alem Sadik's house since it's the highlight of and my whole reason for living here; and because I'm going every night now, it's becoming my home away from home.

Ma'alem Sadik (MS) lives in a little back alley that's a bit like a tunnel off of another back alley close to the main square of the medina, very close to the walls of the city where the ocean waves break. Part of the magic every night begins with the walk to his house because by the time you get there, you really know that you're in the guts of Essaouira and you'd never see a tourist down there in a million years. There are no lights and just a bunch of doors without numbers so you have to know what you're looking for (it's very residential, so perfectly safe, Mom). His door is tucked in the back and when you arrive, you have to give a hard knock and then wait until you hear the ma'alem yell, “Shkoon?!” which is literally, “Who?!” There's never a response, but now that you've announced yourself, you can go in.

As you heave the big wooden door open and it scrapes across the cement floor, you see a set of stairs that branch off in two directions: one up to the main living space where his wife and family hang out and the other which lead up into the wood shop and music room. As you take the left set, you enter his wood shop and see all the guimbris being made, all in different stages and spread out across his craftsman table, strewn around the floor, hanging from the walls or leaning up against stools like the morning after a wild guimbri rave or something.

Once I get far enough into the wood shop to see the men gathered in their corner, all the extended greetings begin. It's important to ask everyone, and with the right protocol, how things are going, especially the ma'alem. In Morocco, where everything moves muuuch slower, it means taking plenty of time to do this.

“Bekhir? Labas? Kulshi bekhir? Kulshi labas? Kulshi mezyen? Kulshi bekhir?” (Good? No harm? Everything good? Everything okay? Nothing harmed? Everything good?). To only ask once, I get the impression, isn't entirely polite. You must sort of insist until they are nodding and say, at least once, “Lahamdoli Allah” (thanks to Allah). I love these greetings- I find them so sweet and charming. It's always such a pleasant way to begin the evening as the men are all really friendly with me and I regularly find myself answering three or four times, “yes, everything's great, everything's wonderful, everything's good, thanks to Allah.”

While I'm going through the verbal greetings, I also go around and “shake” everyone's hand; after shaking each hand (you don't really shake, you just grasp their hand for a moment) you must touch your hand to your heart or kiss your fingers to honor the other person. I haven't quite figured out if the kissing your own fingers vs. touching your heart is more a regional thing (I saw it more in the mountains) or if it's determined on how close you are to the person.

Depending on the night and the vibe I get, I'll either then pull up a stool and try and talk with the older men or if people are already jamming, continue on into the music room.

There are the regulars who show up every night but for the main part, the crew varies from day to day. The older (middle-aged and up) men tend to gather in a circle on stools in the wood shop to drink tea, play dominoes and smoke out, using a big tree stump as their table. At least one of them is always hard at work on the kif, meticulously dicing it into a fine powder using a big butcher knife and a wooden cutting board.

Then there are the ma'alem's students, the younger guys who show up to practice and play back in the music room while he's in the wood shop (listening, no doubt). I spend the majority of my time there hanging out with them since that's where the music happens (the ma'alem might play only once or twice a night) and they're closer to my age. And they're all adorable.

There's Mohammed (I'll call him Mohammed #1), a shy, quiet and very sweet guy who always wears a cap, has a really young soft face and who has actually been the best “host” to me so far, always making sure I have a glass for juice, refilling my glass when it's empty, etc.. Then there's Khalid, a tall, skinny, sort of striking-looking guy, also pretty shy. He's also the one who might think I have a thing for him because of the mix-up when I was asking Mohammed 1 about Hassan. Khalid used to look away really quickly when we'd make eye contact but now he seems more comfortable with me.

Then there's another guy whose name I can never remember because it's not a name I've ever heard before and was difficult for me to pronounce. But he looks particularly young, probably not even 20 yet and is pretty quiet; he usually only plays the qraqeb parts. Then there's Mohammed 2 who doesn't show up as much and he's a total looker in a sort of “Italian Stallion” way: hair product, great fashion sense, a stylish scarf thrown around his neck. Apparently, he recently won the regional guimbri competition for young, aspiring ma'alems and is one of the top young players in town. I've seen him at Famous Bob's shop, too. I get the feeling that he's not quite sure what to make of me- he's the least friendly to me.

I suspect that Mohammed 1 and Khalid are the main students of Ma'alem Sadik- they play the guimbri most often and are there every night.

And then, of course, there's Hassan. If I didn't know better, I would have guessed he was Native American. He has a squarish, broad and soft-featured face with strong cheek bones, dimples, a small goatee. He could pass for having lived in the NW for his fashion sense: casual but stylish. As I mentioned in a previous gush about Hassan, his dark eyes always seem to be twinkling.

Despite the fact that he's one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen (he could be a Hollywood star on his looks alone), I think what makes him stand out most (especially because there are heaps of beautiful men here) is that unlike every other Moroccan man I've met, something about him is more relaxed and at ease and yet incredibly alive. He's remarkably humble with both a soft voice and a soft personality, encouraging and complimentary to everyone else there, jumping in to help teach newbies and generally just really warm with everyone. And what can I say? I never expected it to happen, especially here, but whatever it is about chemistry and unexplainable attraction, regardless of how irrational it might be, he's totally captivated me.

Oh yes, and then there's Djawed (the one who used to be my chaperone) who is there every night and about whom I will have to write an entirely separate entry because he's just a trip. In short, he means well but I think he drives everyone nuts. He's a little “off” but in a way that he can't help. I felt sorry for him in the beginning but less so now. He regularly talks my ear off and I can't understand his English for the life of me. He's also on the shy and demure side but tends to mooch a lot of cigarettes off the other men to the point where I heard the ma'alem ranting about it (and actually understood it).

Those are the regulars. I've seen a couple others show up only once or twice.

The music room is rectangular with some foam mattresses thrown down for sitting and a little coffee table where the drinks and ashtray go. Up on the walls are hanging qraqeb (the metal castanets) and various posters of all the concerts MA has given all over the world, from France to Belgium to local festivals.

Sometimes there's very little music and just a lot of talking, storytelling and silliness; one time, the ma'alem was working on guimbris all night and some of the older men were helping to varnish them while they smoked out and listened to the students play in the back. Sometimes there's a lot of music and it's just indescribably magical. And on a lucky night, the ma'alem will really get into it and play a set or two of songs.

But I love that every night is different. Whatever it is that unfolds each time, I am thrilled to be a part of just hanging out and seeing “every day life,” at least for these men.

An Aussie woman I met who has spent quite a bit of time here reflected back to me just how lucky I am; when I explained to her what the evenings are like, she was amazed and went on about how incredibly fortunate I am to have found my way into this close-knit group because it's very rare for a woman to be able to hang out with men ANYwhere in Morocco in such a casual, safe and mellow environment- and without it being interpreted incorrectly and without any pressure. I explained how they pretty much ignored me for the first week or so and how it was strange but a relief, too.

But of course, now that I have an admittedly impractical “thing” for Hassan, I wouldn't mind a little bit of that typical Moroccan male bravado at least from him (“Don't you want to pester me for tea?!” I want to say as I shake him). However, she reminded me how fortunate I am for this too because the fact that ALL these guys are keeping their distance means that they're quite respectful of me.

I also think that, understandably, my being there is so outside of the cultural norms that they're not quite sure what to make or think of me: a white woman traveling on her own with her own money who chooses to hang out around men all night. I think the one saving grace is that they know I'm there for the music so that seems to prevent any weirdness.

In short, I am so thrilled and profoundly grateful for this incredible 'gig' I've got going here- that every night I can show up to MS's house, hang out, listen to music, and speak a little Arabic all surrounded by a handful of handsome, talented young Moroccan men. I feel as if I've really opened up a 'back door” to the culture. My heart hasn't felt this full, I haven't smiled this much and felt so alive in a long, long time. Throw into the mix the sunshine, beach and seagulls and for me, it's a little piece of paradise.

Things Get a Little Weirder When You're Naked...

...in a HAMMAM

Don't be alarmed, this is still a G-rated entry.

I would imagine that for most Westerners, the hammam might be quite a cultural adjustment. We're just not used to the bath being a public place to socialize, catch up, and for spending an entire hour or more dedicated to slowly scrubbing our bodies while we discuss the latest news and events.

Since the shower where I was living (before the apartment) had the water pressure of tiny bathroom faucet and the water temperature was on the cold side of masochistic, I had been treating myself to some really hot water and going to a communal, woman-only hamman. I had also read that a hammam was one of the main places to meet Moroccan women which I felt I needed to do in order to balance the scales a bit.

I've been twice now and I think after one or two more visits, I'll feel a lot less awkward there.

Even outside the hammam, I'm already in a position of needing to read a lot of body language, taking cues from facial expressions, hand gestures and so forth to really understand the culture and the language. So to try and figure all of this out while also being completely naked is pretty interesting although not a terribly relaxing experience for me yet.

For starters, at first there was the question of just how naked to get as well as when and where. Then there's the question of should I be standing while I bathe or sitting on the tiles (and is that sanitary?); should I be joining the other women or finding my own corner?; should I be making any eye contact or smiling at the women or not smiling? Since twice now, someone has offered to scrub my back for me and since I've seen other women helping each other get to those hard-to-reach-places, should I be offering too? And how would I go about doing that?

I'm realizing that I don't have a lot of hammam-specific vocabulary, too. A little old (stark naked) lady came up to me last time, shaking a bucket at me and repeating a word. I thought maybe she wanted help washing her hair so I started to dip the bucket into the water and motioned to help her but apparently, that wasn't what she meant. She got frustrated and gave up. Another lady standing by watching didn't jump in to help so I don't know what that was all about.

I also noticed (by trying to discreetly watch what everyone else was doing) that several of the women had four kinds of soaps, all kinds of creams and lotions and scrubby things and shampoos and pumice stones all laid out on the tiles near them. They were pros. I only had my little wad of slimy soap gel stuff I bought from the market and a poofy scrubby thing so I felt like an amateur bather.

I have been amazed by the time and care the women take to wash just one small part of the body. I noticed that women who were there before me were still on the same arm or foot or leg by the time I was totally done and ready to dry off so I tried to really slow down. Sometimes, I have ended up doing my whole body 2 or 3 times just to use up more time. Back home, our showers are nothing like this.

Of course, I think the women really make a THING of going to the hammam. Maybe this is their one bath all week, I don't know. But despite all the awkwardness and wondering, I really am starting to like it. Eventually, I'll figure out how to spend 20 minutes on just one foot.

And now that I think I've got the protocol figured out, I won't be stripping down in the front room again, only to find everybody else waits until the actual hammam room.

Live and learn.

Is Hell Free-zing Over?

After all my bitching and moaning about the men here, all the relentless cat calls and hassling and the overall exhausting experiences having to do with most things male... I actually sort of have a date.

And with a guy. A human guy.

At least one of my readers told me he was tired of hearing about camels and pack mules and that my story needed some kind of fiery romance to keep things interesting. Well, I don't know about a fiery romance but this should get pretty interesting considering my minimal Arabic and his even spottier English.

But first, the back story:

I had been turning up the last few nights to Ma'alem Sadik's to see Mr. Beautiful Dimples, MBD (and listen to music of course), but the last couple of times, he didn't show. As long as he wasn't there, I thought I'd take the opportunity to find out some informaiton about him from the other musicians. Like his name, for starters.

I asked one of the other musicians, Mohammed, but he thought I was referring to someone else so gave me the wrong name: “Khalid.” Well, then Khalid turned up and I realized we weren't talking about the same person and boy was I glad that I had kept my mouth shut because I really had considered telling Mohammed, “Khalid is really cute. Does he have a girlfriend?” And oh, what a mess that would have been. And so way beyond my language skills to ever repair.

So last night, I had plans to go again. I was working on my laptop up on the patio when a very nice Frenchman who was staying at the guest house the last couple nights came up to chat with me. I wasn't sure I was in the mood for company but he won me over with his measured, slow English: “you seem like very nice person so I come talk to you.” Aww.

We had a delightful conversation that was surprisingly philosophical and heartfelt considering the language barrier. He was born in France but all his ancestors are Moroccan. He talked about struggling with his identity and the challenges of being so privileged when so many of his relatives and family aren't. He talked about choosing his profession in city politics because he couldn't bear to see so many people suffering when he had so much. It was such an engaging conversation that I lost track of time; I had meant to head to Ma'alem Sadik's an hour earlier. I didn't want to be rude by leaving quickly and ditching him (ironically, his name is Khalid) so I invited him to come along.

And of course, when we arrived I saw that MBD was there. I tried to casually convey the fact that Khalid wasn't my date but was just a guy I'd met that day. However, I'm not sure that this necessarily looked any better. Anyway, I strategically plopped down on the floor across from MBD and henceforth, a very wonderful evening unfolded.

Khalid, the Frenchman/Moroccan, totally hit it off with the gang. Despite his European background and being raised to speak French, he still speaks Arabic so he chattered along with all the men, occasionally turning to translate a little. I chuckled as he and MBD were slapping each other on the shoulders like old buddies and giving each other high 5s over god knows what.

I was thinking, “oh great, so finally MBD shows up and you've brought another guy with you who is now the newest member of the Man Clan.” But it was quite entertaining to watch.

I eventually just came right out and asked MBD his name. The truth is, I'd gone looking on Google (oh, the internet stalking has begun!) for the band he's in with Ma'alem Sadik to see if I could find any pictures. I thought I'd recognized a picture of him but the caption under it didn't fit and the name didn't seem right (I thought I'd heard his name some weeks back). So I told him all of this as a seemingly-less idiotic way to ask his name after knowing him for 2 weeks now.

His name is Hassan. Which, funny enough, if you pronounce it a certain way, means “favorite,” or “the best.”' How cute and fitting.

So anyway, during one of the songs, as I'm looking Hassan up and down (conveniently, he sings and plays with his eyes closed and with a grin on his face), I notice that he's again wearing his rainbow colored fuzzy scarf and a knit sweater with English words stitched on it. I couldn't quite make out the words at first because the guimbri was blocking it. When I finally caught all of the letters, I fought to contain my laughter:

Free Hell.

Free Hell?

As in “Set all those damned spirits free!”?

Or that it is free to get into Hell?

Regardless, it hit my funny bone. I've seen a lot of strange shirts in Morocco- it's like Europe sends all the weird, reject shirts here with typos and bizarre combinations of English words; and because the locals usually have no idea what the words mean but it's Western fashion, nobody really cares. Therefore, there are some straaange shirts that often make no sense.

Like “Free Hell.”

In my botchy Arabic, I tried to ask Hassan if he knew what the stitching on his sweater meant. To make a long story short, not only did he not know what “Free Hell” means (does anyone?) but I don't think he understood what I was asking him or why I was laughing so much. He was smiling and looking puzzled and then I thought I better stop before he thought I was making fun of him (I kept pointing at his shirt then laughing) since he didn't seem to be following.

Anyway, there was a lot of great music last night, too. Ma'alem Sadik put on an amazing performance. One of the best I've heard since being in Morocco. I felt blissfully happy listening to it and noticed that everyone else in the room was also smiling, rocking back and forth and seemed to be glowing. It was magical.

Towards the end of the night, it was just me, Khalid the Frenchman, Hassan and the ma'alem. When Khalid finally mentioned he was going back to the hotel, I thought I'd join him since it was almost midnight and I wanted to hear what he'd thought of the evening.

As we were getting up to leave, Hassan asked me something which turned into one of our typical exchanges that go something like: “what? can you repeat that?” “huh?” “where? oh, you live there?” “wait-when?”“can you repeat that?” “What? I don't understand...” and after about five minutes of this, I had gathered that he asked if I'd like to come with him sometime to the little beach village where he lives, just north of Essaouira- that he'd like to show me around. I graciously accepted the invitation for “sometime after tomorrow”- which is all I was able to gather for the language barrier.

Because I know my mother is reading this, I will add that I'm not just going to hang out with him because he's gorgeous and an amazing musician. After two weeks of careful observation (some might use another term), I can tell that he's also a safe, sweet, warm, caring guy and despite the inevitable teasing that I know I've got coming to me, there's really something about him that radiates. Even on just a human-to-human level, there's something special about his spirit.

(yeah, yeah, yeah, laugh all you want)

On the walk back to the hotel with Khalid, he thanked me over and over again for inviting him, said that the evening was incredibly magical and that he felt that meeting me was meant to be so that he could witness that evening. He had really been wanting to connect with his roots again, his Moroccan blood. I was so touched. God knows, I owe the universe some paybacks for all the great things others have done for me so I was thrilled to be someone else's “meant to be” assistant. What a sweet, heartfelt guy. I hope to stay in touch with him.

As for Hassan, this should be fascinating. I've never had to bring a phrase book on a date before.