Another Chapter

<--The glass pyramid outside the Louvre Museum in Paris


Well, it's been a very packed 10 weeks. I'm pretty tired and ready to be back "home" I suppose.

The last 2 days of exploring Paris were nice enough but as impressive as Paris is for its grand architecture and high culture, I'm reminded that European cities aren't my thing. I wanted to at least see Paris but I don't enjoy museums or crowds so I just wandered around to get a sense of the city and tried to stay away from the hoards of tourists. I was dumbfounded at the lines for all of the attractions, particularly for climbing the Eiffel Tower.

It was good to have the affirmation that I'd rather be in South America or Africa on a dirty, rusted out old bus filled with chickens and goats, lurching down a pot-holed road, sweating my butt off than in a museum or 1000 year-old cathedral with sculptures of dead white saints. ha

In any case, yesterday, I wandered by the Eiffel Tower and hung out for awhile inside Notre Dame cathedral. Today, I ventured out to a big bookstore in Montparnasse to buy a book by a French Gnawa scholar I've been wanting to read. Then I wandered around the grounds and garden of the Louvre Museum, down towards Place a la Concord and further on. I spent about 8 hours or more on my feet and it felt like half of the day, I was searching for a toilet, only to turn around and spend $6 or more on a cappuccino.

Looking back on the 10 weeks, I packed it pretty well: the big wedding in Casablanca; four weeks in Tetouan studying guimbri and Arabic, and three lilas with a trip to Asilah and Tangier to meet more ma'alemin; 5 weeks in Essaouira for the Festival and for studying more guimbri, beginning to learn how to sing and play the songs on the guimbri, as well as general Gnawa concepts; meeting several people in Essaouira who changed the direction of my Gnawa research (Zilabidin, Laraby, and of course, Sidi); various trips to Sidi Kaouki, Aourir (the village near Agadir), Diabat, and Imessouane for lilas; hanging out at Ma'alem Seddik's house and spending more time with all the guys there, learning so much about various perspectives on Gnawa; attending the Hamadcha mosseum and developing my teacher/student relationship with Sidi; studying French in my free time.

I feel very satisfied with my trip and hope that I gave myself enough rest time, too. I guess I'll find out when I get to Boston. I am really craving nature right now. Except for my trips to various beaches here, I didn't get to see the mountains in Morocco, which are magical. I'm very much looking forward to nurturing that need in Colorado when I spend 2 weeks with mom. It will be good to be "home;" the only real home for me right now, I suppose. I am so glad I went back to Morocco as even 10 weeks there really made a difference for how I will approach the next 2 years of my Master's program in Ethnomusicology.

Now, my questions are very different and I'm curious to see how I will approach the ideas of music in trance and possession. A part of me feels like I need to go do some research in Niger or West Africa and experience West Africa vodou or NE Brazil. Who knows. Right now, I'm looking forward to a big hug from mom, a home-cooked meal, iced tea on the patio, and soon after that, the Colorado mountains.

I'm waking up at 4:30 AM tomorrow to get to the airport in plenty of time so I'm going to sign off now....

I leave you all with a beautiful practice I learned in Morocco: before you put anything in your mouth, liquid or food, and before you walk through the door to someone's home, take a moment to give thanks. The Moroccans say, "Bismillah" which means, "In the name of God." It is a way to remember what a gift it is to eat and drink and to have a home. At this very moment, although we are more sheltered from it in our Western society, there are so many people going hungry, thirsty and living on the streets.

For every bit of sustenance that passes your lips and blesses your life, give humble thanks.

After Midnight in Marrakech

<--the photo I took of Sidi in 2009 of which I gave him a copy





















My long journey leading me back home began when I left Essaouira for Marrakech on Sunday afternoon. Hassan has a friend there, Munir, whom he wanted to see and who offered to put me up, too.

It was surreal to leave Essaouira and still hasn't really sunken in that I won't see that place for awhile. I did get a chance to say goodbye to Ma'alem Seddik Sunday morning, but not really anyone else since I ate some bad mayonnaise (or something) on Friday and was sick most of Saturday. In any case, I managed to squeeze out enough energy to make some copies of pictures for the guys at Seddik's so I could at least leave behind some nice memories.

After cleaning up the apartment and giving back the key, Hassan and I left Essaouira and arrived in Marrakech around 10 PM. My first impression of Marrakech back in 2008 was pretty negative and I hadn't really been looking forward to going back, especially in the miserable heat of summer where it was hanging around 45-50 degrees Celcius. However, it was the only way to split up my journey back to Casablanca into sane segments and even more important, it was a way to see Sidi again, the Gnawa ma'alem/guru I previously wrote about.

The first order of business was getting a taxi to Munir's house, which as a tourist in Marrakech, even for Hassan, is already a test of patience and nerve. Within minutes of arriving, Munir presented the tajine he had prepared for our arrival. As a side note, Munir told me it was rabbit meat after I had begun eating it and once he did, I had a hard time continuing; I always had rabbits as pets as a kid. Anyway, Munir decided to join us in our rendezvous with Sidi, which was helpful since he knows Marrakech so well.

Sidi met the three of us out in the street near his humble apartment. We followed him that up steep and narrow concrete steps into a one-room, concrete studio. He has throw rugs on the floor which double as the sitting and sleeping area and another small, steep staircase leading to a fridge on the first landing and the kitchen above that. Unbeknownst to us, Sidi had actually reserved us an apartment when we told him we were coming to visit him so we felt guilty that we had to break the news to him that we were staying with Munir and only visiting for a night. However, I was very moved by the gesture.

After a bit of small talk, Sidi set about making us the most amazing tea I think I've ever had which is saying a lot here in Morocco: it had a touch of the famous Moroccan mint but also two other herbs that I couldn't place. The prepration of the tea took him about 40 minutes so I didn't ask for the recipe.

Sidi put on a video of him playing in the 2009 Gnawa Festival which was a perfect segue into one of the small gifts I had brought him: a stunning picture I took of him at that very concert. He also put on other old videos of Gnawa performances and began talking. Munir and Hassan occasionally translated into French for me. I asked Hassan to ask Sidi if I could come back and study with him, and to tell him that I am going to seek a grant or some other form of money to come back and study with him.

When Hassan began translating his response, Sidi reiterated that I needed to study with a single ma'alem and really focus and think clearly about the decision to come back and study. He also said I would need to forget everything I already know about Gnawa as if I've never heard of it before: I need to be a blank slate in a way. This makes sense to me for all the scattered stories and mixed up “truths” about Gnawa that currently exist. And from what Sidi is saying, it sounds like a great deal of what is already written about the Gnawa is also not on target. I agreed with all he had to say. At one moment, when I thought we were still talking about what I would need to do, he turned to me and said, “Wakha, lalla, Wakha” Okay, madam, okay. “Lalla” is a very polite form of address from what Hassan told me and Sidi's voice was sweet and delicate when he said it, lit up by his bright smile.

Most of the discussion that evening was somewhat of a continuation of the evening he spent at my apartment in Essaouira: how much Gnawa has changed and how it really was in the old days, what *really* is the tradition and the meaning. He also recounted a fascinating story about the first time he met Viviane Paques, one of the most highly-regarded scholars of the Gnawa. After hearing his story, based on what he recounted of Paques, I had another wave of feeling like a chance to study with Sidi would challenge an enormous amount of previous Gnawa documentation in perhaps a very controversial and yet dynamic way.

Sidi talked until 2 in the morning and would have kept going if Hassan had not urged us out the door. The three of us were exhausted, except Sidi. I had brought Sidi a pair of the traditional leather men's pointed shoes or babouches and I picked up a natural brown color since all the men typically already have yellow, the traditional color. He seemed pleased but I got the feeling that Sidi doesn't really need or want much at this point in his life. Even when I handed him the picture of himself from the 2009 Festival, he smiled at it and started to hand the photo back to me when I said to him, “No, it's for you,” and then he thanked me and posted it up on his wall near some other tattered and faded posters of his performances.

When we left, Sidi said he'd walk us to a place where we could find a taxi. We must have walked 15 or 20 minutes until we reached Djemaa El Fna, the famous large square of Marrakech. I was taken aback by how charmed I was by Marrakech after midnight. It was incredibly hot, probably in the 90s even at that time, and I was flashing back to my travels in West Africa, the only other place I have felt that hot. The streets were nearly deserted but there were still some stragglers in the narrow market streets: boys hanging out around shop fronts and street sweepers. Somehow, in the heat and emptiness, Marrakech grew on me. I asked myself if I could live here for awhile, which would be a given if I come back to study with Sidi. I suppose I could. I suppose I could learn to love Marrakech for its chaos.

This time, Sidi's goodbye was a touch more encouraging. He had made eye contact with me a bit more than before, something that I guess is just part of the culture of him being an old man and a teacher and probably never having had a “young” female student before. Although I realize it's probably a form of respect, it's still challenging when the guys are talking, rarely acknowledging that I'm there, and little eye contact is made. At the same time, Sidi is a sweet old man and so I know it's not some form of neglect. In any case, his goodbye was warm and we piled into a taxi back to Munir's house. It was so hot it was hard to sleep but I managed to doze a couple hours before catching the train at 9 AM for Casablanca.

Soirée in Imessouane

The guys during the soirée with Ma'alem Seddik in the green/center. Not sure who the guy in the blue is. He just showed up in costume. A Gnawi wannabe I guess.

Last Friday, Ma'alem Seddik had another Gnawa gig in a very small and relaxed beach village called Imessouane about 2 hours south of Essaouira. Although it was being called a “lila,” this one in particularly was absolutely not a lila. The event was at an auberge, run by a large, busty Moroccan woman with bleached kinky hair and dressed in sexy European attire. Ma'alem Seddik wanted to be there for the sacrifice, which would be done early, so we left Essaouira at 7 AM and arrived a little after 9. There was a little bit of stress with the departure when Najib didn't show up and some of the other guys were late. Najib caught a taxi later, though.

In the end, the sacrifice was really just the butchering of a female sheep who cried and cried when she was drug over to be inspected by the woman. That was tough for me and it really did nothing for the ceremonial context of the Gnawa.

After being served breakfast, most of us went for a walk in the port and burned time drinking coffee and wandering around, followed by a fresh, grilled fish lunch in the port. By early afternoon, the clouds had cleared and it was warm enough to go swimming, including Ma'alem Seddik. I sought out a smaller, less frequented beach with Hassan because I didn't feel super comfortable getting into bathing gear in front of all the guys. We stayed until close to 5 PM when we found everyone else back at the Auberge, relaxing on the terrace.

We all got a last bite of dinner to eat before the music started at 8 PM. I made the mistake of smothering my dry sandwich in mayonnaise which the guys warned me about after I'd eaten most of it (and sure enough, the next day was rough).

The beginning of the concert, before loads of people showed up at the auberge drinking, was the best. The energy and singing between the guys was fantastic; there was great energy and clarity in the chorus. However, once the “sacred” songs began that call the spirits, it just started feeling weird. The atmosphere felt blasphemous for a music that is intended to be spiritual and healing.

I had brought special incense for Moulay Abd el Qadir Jilani again and tried dancing but it was very difficult to “go deep” into the music and concentrate on the dance. Whatever momentum I had going was interrupted by a guy from Essaouira who showed up drunk and started stomping out of rhythm next to me. That really killed the feeling and I sat down.

I became quite saddened watching most of the rest of the “show” and tried following the power of the music; I tried dancing again to Moussawine when Ma'alem Seddik pulled me to my feet (one of his prodigies was giving him a break on the guimbri so he was acting as a moqedm of sorts) but I couldn't hold the feeling; the atmosphere was just too weird. The large woman seemed to not be too fond of me either since I was traveling and hanging out with the musicians. Maybe she thought she was going to have to pay for me, too. But Hassan told me, “You are one of the group now, we aren't leaving you behind,” so I didn't need more of an invitation than that.

When the music finally ended and most of the clients had gone to bed around 1:30 AM, the second best part of the day, second only to the swimming in the ocean, followed: sleeping on the terrace under the stars. Although it was a bit breezy and cool, the stars were amazing. I saw a few shooting stars before I fell asleep.

When I awoke in the morning, I had a pain in my stomach and felt nauseous: the bad mayonnaise was taking hold and it stole most of Saturday from me.

Maalem Seddik

Soirée With Friends

Left to right: Hassan, Ma'alem Seddik, Mohammed Sherrif, and Amin

Nuksha

The guys begin the Nuksha series of the Gnawa Bambara repertoire

Dancing by the light of the moon

Najib, Petit Sayd, Souhail, and Hassan at our gathering among friends last weekend

Ayah Sidi!

There is a grand ma'alem (master) of Marrakech who several people had been telling me I needed to meet and spend some time with. Even as far away as Tangier, Gnawa talked of him as being one of the only “real” masters still living. I will call him “Sidi.”

Sidi is a noble and handsome man of about 70 years old; his eyes sparkle and his smile is so bright and joyful, it made me want to giggle. I have rarely met people in my life with such a light in their eyes and it's clear that this gentleman is someone who holds secrets of many generations.

Sidi speaks no French so Hassan and I had talked of visiting him together in Marrakech; Hassan wanted to spend more time with him after meeting him last year and could translate for me. However, for various reasons, we hadn't made it to Marrakech yet and then found out that Sidi was coming here, to Essaouira, for a visit. I started dreaming big: perhaps we could have him over for a tajine and tea and maybe he could even stay in the spare room off the terrace of my apartment. People of his stature don't stay in hotels and he has many friends and fans here so I knew that I whatever time I had with him would be a real gift.

Before his visit, Hassan had called him several times to try and arrange a meeting and I offered him the spare room if he needed a place while in Essaouira. He stayed with friends the first night, and his plans kept changing while he was in town so we just patiently went about our business and told him to come around when and if he wanted. The second night, he came around at 11 PM. We were already in the process of making a tajine at my place so the three of us had a grand meal of chicken tajine, and food he had brought: grilled fish and salad.

After dinner, Sidi began talking. It was not really a dialogue, so there wasn't much chance to ask questions, but he recounted fascinating stories of the Gnawa. Every now and then, Hassan would turn and try and translate a nugget for me but Sidi hardly ever paused and I could see that Hassan was also working hard to catch everything. From what I visually and aurally observed, the stories were rich and engaging and most of them, pretty mind-blowing and paradigm-shifting. Both Hassan and I knew that Sidi is the guru of Gnawa and we needed to drink up as much as possible even while it was almost too much information for him to grasp and then translate for me.

At 2 AM, Hassan began looking at the clock and I could tell he was getting really tired and overwhelmed, as if his head was already full. I was hanging onto Sidi's words, hoping I would understand something here or there. I caught a few things and jotted down notes of words he used frequently or basic concepts so that Hassan could recount the details later.

At 2:30 AM, Hassan said, “Ma'alem, aren't you tired?” but Sidi responded, “Nah, I slept yesterday!” and continued recounting stories and facts about the Gnawa for another 2 hours. Finally at 4 AM, we were all tired and he went up to the room on the terrace to sleep. The next afternoon, after a bit of time together in the morning, he went back to Marrakech.

Since then, I've been nagging Hassan to recount all that Sidi spoke of. But as I sensed, he was overwhelmed with the magnitude of the reality, of what Gnawa really was and what has been forgotten. He now talks of quitting Gnawa music himself. There's a whole ocean of knowledge that he's not sure he wants to dip his toes in, particularly the side that deals with spirits and communicating with spirits. However, little by little, he is assembling for me what Sidi talked about that night.

The basic underlying topic of the 5 hours with Sidi was that the Gnawa today are mere shadows of what used to be. So much of the written and oral history is unknown, and almost no one even knows the truth anymore. He said that the interviews I conducted last year are next to worthless for this reason. No one really has the truth anymore. Laraby, the older man I met with here in Essaouira of similar age, told me the same thing.

Sadly, the lila, the heart of the tradition of the Gnawa, is a shadow of what it used to be. The “ma'alemin” of today don't understand what they're singing about and have confused the words. The moqedma rarely understand the power of what they're doing and how to properly invite, contain, and manage spirits or possessed people. Everything has become a melange, no longer pure. Sidi went on about infinite number of details which have been lost. Even the sacrifice alone is a huge ordeal that demands a great deal of spiritual knowledge and experience, consisting of very specific protocol. It's not just about killing an animal for food. These days, almost all of that knowledge has been lost.

In essence, the tradition is gone. What remains is just beautiful music. It's no longer spiritual “medicine” and profound as before. Much of the “trancing” that I've seen that takes place now is “cinema” or fake. People act out to get attention. Sometimes it's real but often it's not. It used to be that trancing or possessed people (not necessarily the same thing, as I trance but I am not possessed), would be cared for in very specific ways at the lila. It's not like today where someone can just start “freaking out” and dancing in front of the musicians.

During the time we sat and talked with Sidi, he rarely looked my direction or made eye contact with me. However, a couple times when he glanced my way while talking, I detected that he had something to say about my love and research for the music. The first night we saw him briefly, he had already sensed the confusion in my heart and my feeling lost about how to approach my research. He sensed that I found Gnawa at a time in my life when I was struggling and depressed. I asked Hassan to ask him about Moulay Abd el Qadir and if he knew why those songs are so powerful for me and why I “trance” in general. He didn't answer directly, as I have often found with wise elders here, but he did say, “It's something in her heart.”

Sidi told me that I need to study with a single master and not try and work with more than one or I will become confused. I agree with him, as I have already begun to find that on my own: every ma'alem has a different idea, a different history, a different “truth” and trying to integrate it all is crazy-making. After I choose one teacher and stay with him for awhile, then later, if I decide it's not working for me, I can look beyond.

When Hassan translated this, I asked immediately, “Can I choose him?! Can I be his apprentice?” Hassan didn't ask him directly but I will keep this possibility on the horizon. It is clear to me that Sidi is the person I need to study with, if at all possible. He is the guru. I have less than a week left in Morocco now but insha Allah, if and when I can come back, I will seek him out, as well as a top-notch translator.

I feel so moved to have had the grand pleasure of meeting, hosting, and spending time with Sidi. There are really no words to describe what a magnificent gift it was. After he left, it was like a dream: “Is it true? Did I really get to spend 5 hours with Sidi?!”

While the truth he conveyed about the Gnawa isn't what I was hoping to hear, and while it derails much of my previous research and ideas, nonetheless, I am grateful to have found a more clear path so that I don't waste any time going down other roads. I trust what Sidi tells me: he has spent his life with the Gnawa before it was popular and a money-making trade. He does not play lilas anymore because it's not the real thing anymore, just like Laraby told me as well.

Insha Allah, I will have more opportunity to learn from him. Right now, I have many questions and wonder how I will proceed with my research without him. If the real Gnawa are gone, if the tradition is gone and what remains now is a sacrilegious shadow of the past, how will I find my way through that forest?

I suppose all I can do right now is to be patient and keep following the feeling that brought me here in the first place: a passion for the music, even if that's all it is anymore.

Mwedid

His special attire for the sacrifice

Among Friends

From left to right back to front: Souhail, Hassan, Ma'alem Seddik, Petit Sayd and in front Mwedid and Sherrif. The white guy jumped in the picture at the last moment and I didn't really want him in there.. :) Najib and another young Sherrif had not yet arrived


















The past 10-14 days have been so rich with new experiences and learning that I have felt paralyzed about writing: when I start to think about how to begin, my thoughts spiral away and I give up trying to find a way to put it all into words. I find myself staring off into space quite a bit, trying to digest and assimilate all that has happened.

In brief, Ma'alem Seddik and the usual cast of characters decided to hold a lila between us all. We all pitched in for the cost and the effort and although we called it a "lila," we all approached it more as a spiritual soirée between friends. We didn't follow all of the typical lila protocol but the things we did do were done with intent. Ma'alem Seddik bought a goat for the sacrifice and although it was more as a way to feed everyone than for spiritual reasons, the sacrifice was done according to modern day lila protocol.

We held the lila in a village outside of Essaouira, which was a relief as it meant less chance of the Moroccan style of "party crashers." We arrived at the host's home in the country around noon and began the preparations. The sacrifice took place right away so that the food preparation could also begin. I told myself that I needed to really see a sacrifice done humanely since I'd also seen the opposite. Mwedid, a friend of Ma'alem Seddik's who I've come to know well, specializes in the work of sacrifice: he knows what he's doing so that the animal suffers as little as possible and that everything is over quickly.

The afternoon was spent lazily, with the various dishes from the sacrifice coming one at a time. I decided not to ask what part of the animal we were eating at each moment since I already knew that *everything* would be eaten, except for the gall bladder.

I played with some of the local kids during the afternoon and strolled around the village. There were just a few other foreigners who came, friends of Seddik's and it was a small, intimate crowd.

I had brought a special incense for the Moulay Abd el Qadir Jilani series of songs and presented it to the altar during the set, then I took my place on the floor and danced through the series. I don't remember too much of it except that I danced vigorously and was so exhausted afterwards that I had trouble holding myself up so I leaned against a wall for several of the following series.

The lila passed almost completely without a hitch except for one drunk man who did show up: a local from the village. At first, he was just obnoxious but when he saw my recording equipment he started demanding questions of me. I let Hassan take over the situation and I left my spot there. When I went back to see what had taken place, the discussion was quite heated. The man had threatened to break my equipment and apparently Hassan offered to take the discussion outside and finish it in a couple seconds. Eek. Thankfully, he eventually left although I was confused why the host did not kick the man out. He was clearly upsetting and threatening people. In any case, almost everything else went well.

Later on, I danced again for the series that I usually am too timid for. Being amongst friends made it very comfortable and safe so I gave into the urge.

Later I had a chance to talk with people and I was told that my dance for Abd el Qadir was fierce. Hassan chuckled and shook his head, "Wow... Whatever spirit was inside of you is now very happy!" I wish I had a video of it to see what I did.

The lila lasted until about 8 AM the next morning. By the time we all walked back to Essaouira (there were no taxis that early in the morning in the sleepy village) it was 9 AM when I crawled into bed: a full 24 hours without sleep but somehow, the music must have given a lot of energy. I didn't feel all that tired.

I recorded the entire lila and the recordings turned out quite well. In the end, the full "lila" was 6 hours of music which I gave to Ma'alem Seddik on CD last night. :)

Recovering

Last Wednesday, I got word of Moktar Gania playing a lila Thursday night in a little town (or a big village) about a half hour on the Essaouria side of Agadir. The Gania family are quite well known in Morocco and Moktar is the youngest of the brothers who are all Gnawa ma'alemin. I had heard him play at the 2009 Festival and was quite interested to see his lila. We had planned on traveling to the village with him but it turned out that there wasn't space in the van after all so Hassan and I went together, taking a bus. It was a long haul of close to 5 hours on a crummy old bus but it was all part of the adventure.

It took us some time to track down the lila in the village and then there was a lot of waiting involved. It seemed most appropriate and comfortable to wait with the other women in the womens' room (away from the men) but since the men are the musicians, it was hard for me to miss out on musical discussion, preparations, and so forth. This is one of the challenges I've had an anticipate having in the future with researching Gnawa music as a woman.

In any case, I ran into another female American researcher (researching Gnawa from the artistic side) and her friend so I visited with them quite a bit. The lila got going around 10 PM. The ma'alem took long breaks between the series of colors and at one moment, someone mentioned that it was five in the morning and we still had 5 families of colors to go. I took quick naps during the breaks in the room where some of the others had passed out sleeping, too, including Hassan who had begun joining the musicians, playing qraqeb but resigned to sleep by the early morning. I managed to see all the families of colors and the lila finally ended around 10 the next morning, a solid 12 hours since it had begun.

At one moment, it occurred to me, "Why is it that two of the most profound pursuits of my life--mountain climbing and studying Gnawa music--both involve major sleep deprivation and physical discomfort?" Just like with climbing, I am rarely ever physically comfortable at the lilas, squashed between people or always in the way of the dancers, getting stepped on. With mountain climbing, at least the big glaciated peaks which I love most, it's often crucial to start the climb around midnight in order to get the safest conditions. However, at least with Gnawa music, no one's life is in danger during the period of sleep deprivation. At least not that I've seen yet except for the dangers of flailing dancers. I did manage to get my eyelid scratched when my face happened to come in contact with someone's fingernails.

The Moulay Abd el Qadir set of songs took me on a voyage again and I "tranced" for most of the set. Afterwards, someone helped me over to the women to relax and another woman fanned me, which felt heavenly. I had some sweet interactions with the women there, including one "trancing" woman who embraced me and danced with me and didn't want to let go. Her friends had to persuade her to let go of me, as she held onto me like a child to her mother. Later, another trancing woman took my hands and danced with me. I helped protect her from falling or hitting her head when the trance came on stronger. When she did collapse, I helped her to the ground and protected her head so no one would accidentally kick or step on her. Later, her husband came around to help her up. It felt like an honor to help this woman and connect on such an intimate level, although we never shared any words.

When the lila was over, Hassan and I thought we had a ride back with the musicians but again, it turned out that there was no space in the van so we caught a series of taxis back to Essaouira. By the time we got home, it was close to 6 PM and I had been awake, more or less, over 30 hours. The exhaustion and dehydration caught up with me and I came down with a cold Friday night so I spent the weekend resting. Although I'm not yet at 100%, I'm on the uphill side.

It was nice to get out of town for a bit, see a lila, and have an adventure. I'm grateful to also have a cozy place to recover and relax.

In remembrance

One of the difficult but important realities of being in Morocco is how much more visible human pain and suffering is. Life in general here feels more “in front of my face” in a way that's difficult to describe. There is something about the way the Western world is kept “tidy” that can lead one to believe that they shouldn't have any problems, or that no one else has any problems, or that because of the great amount of material wealth, we shouldn't suffer like others who have less.

But here, for me there is a feeling of openness in a way that ugliness and suffering is visible as well and in this way, there is a sharp pang of living life and seeing it fully, for all its wonder and tragedy.

There are the little old men and women and children who beg in the streets and I wonder where their families are. There is one man here who is quadriplegic but sitting in his special, equipped chair, he paints stunning postcards with his mouth. There are too many stories and visions to recount but they are those situations that demand pause.

Yesterday, I remembered the 7 year anniversary of my dad's death, which was very tragic for our family. I've thought about all that has happened these past 7 years. When I think of my own struggles, I remember the people I've met here who also have extremely painful stories. I've cried with some of these people over our losses and yesterday, I shared time and tears with a friend here who also has a lot of pain with regards to family losses as well. Sharing our pain despite the huge gap in our cultures and lives was a deep reminder of human vulnerability.

Life is messy. It doesn't matter how much money or stuff you have or what country you live in or what set of beliefs you subscribe to, life is sure to deal out its pain. That is all the more clear here, and I struggle to know how to deal with it without getting overwhelmed and without shutting my heart down for fear of emotional overload.

Somehow, in all of that pain, there is a shard of togetherness, of being simply human and being fragile, and simple.

Wise Old Man

Even at 74 years old, Laraby works the night shift as guardian for a parking garage in Essaouira. He has deep-set, incredibly kind and round eyes that echo his wisdom and a short, round stature that makes him look warm and approachable. His laugh is sweet and light and endearing and I want to adopt him as my Moroccan grandpa.

I had the honor to have tea with him the other day. Laraby spent the majority of his life with the greatest Gnawa ma'alemin and musicians of Morocco although he no longer attends Gnawa lilas or really has much to do with Gnawa anymore.

It was also a pleasure to meet Laraby because I had heard about him before, only I didn't know his name. Hassan had told me a story about him when he was still young and that story even wound up in my 34-page paper I wrote on the Gnawa last year: when Hassan was still new to Gnawa music and was working at the Artisana Cooperative one day, he began to sing a spiritual Gnawa song. Laraby, who happened to be there at the time, told him to “skut!” or basically, “shut up!” because those songs were not meant to be sung outside of the lila. That day and age passed a long time ago and now, these sacred spiritual songs are sung in public, on CDs, and at festivals but back then, they were reserved for the sacred settings.

Hassan and I made an appointment to speak with Laraby and recounted this story to him. He indeed remembered it and chuckled, responding, “I really only said that to protect myself because had Hassan continued singing that song, I would have fallen into trance.”

Laraby stopped particpating in Gnawa lila quite awhile ago. He said that the “real” lilas are long gone and he can no longer go to lilas, seeing how much it has changed, and how the respect has been lost. He echoed what another ma'alem recently said, “The real masters have left (died). The real tagnawit is gone. Now, it is just music, there is no more tagnawit (trance).”

Truthfully, it was a bit sad to hear him recount how the Gnawa were in those days, what the music was like, and especially what the ceremonies were like. As many as 20 years ago, the change started taking place. It really made me wish I had found this music long, long ago or been born 20 years earlier.

Laraby has known Hassan for a long time and was friends with his late father so there is quite a history there. Hassan ended up interpreting for me, which was kind of comical considering that my French is actually better than his at this point. However, I recorded the entire conversation so that I can have someone later help me translate the dialect. I understood a great deal but some of the details are lacking.

I asked questions about trance. I explained some of the experiences I have had and asked what that was all about. “If the real trance is gone, what am I experiencing?” Laraby clarified that trance still exists, but the real masters who knew the trance, who knew how to give and work it, are gone. There are only a few masters left living. Those masters still living are the few ma'alemin with whom one can experience trance and, interestingly, one of those two ma'alemin he mentioned is indeed the ma'alem with whom I experienced my greatest, “supernatural,” if you will, trance experience; or in other words, the deepest and most profound trance. The other one is in Marrakech and I have been in phone contact to have an interview with him.

Laraby spent 2.5 hours with us. He really had a way of boiling down Gnawa to its purest core, most of which, he said, has long past and is no longer with us in Morocco. For all my detailed questions, there was an overall sense of, “But that's not really what Gnawa is about...” and somehow, I felt like I was absorbing information nonverbally.

Although I left feeling a little sad like the real Gnawa is no longer there for me to experience, I also realize that I just have to go with what I have in front of me and make the most of it. Every age will say that “the good ol' days were better.” It also sent a pang through my heart to think of this dear 74-year old man working a night shift as a guardian but at the same time, he seems content.

When it was time to go, Hassan gave him the traditional greeting for elders, something I love seeing and have a great deal of respect for: he took Laraby into one of his arms, holding his head with the other arm, and kissed the old man on the forehead. I shook his hand and inside the palm of my hand, passed a “baraka” or blessing of money, what is often a day's wage here, about $10.

More evenings at Seddik's

Ma'alem Najib and Ma'alem Seddik marching and playing in the Gnawa Festival procession

Whenever I don't have something planned in the evenings, I'm still going by Ma'alem Seddik's regularly. Last night I went by again and thought about how much it has changed since I lived here six months between 2008 and 2009.

Back then, I was always a bit in the background, recording and listening in on conversations but more of a friend and studious observer. The regular guys showing up to play are no longer there and now that I can get by with French, I'm making conversation and trying to participate more. But the most noticeable difference which I most enjoy is that while the guys are busy playing Dominoes in the wood shop, I non-chalantly walk back to the music room and pick up one of Ma'alem Seddik's large guimbris to practice on: the feel and sound is quite different from my small one.

Last night I did that very thing. One of the older men, who goes by “Sherrif” came back into the music room to chop kif because the usual places to sit were taken. I had a feeling he was also curious to listen in but he acted like he wasn't listening to me fiddle around and play. I am getting more and more brave, less and less timid about my mistakes in front of the men. Then I began trying to sing with my playing, which is the next step and requires the most amount of coordination. I saw Sherrif nodding his head at one point, which made me smile but also made me screw up. At one point, Hassan came back into the music room and I asked him to help me sing the call and response and work the transitions. Sherrif joined in, too. I started screwing up more but enjoyed being able to be more part of the action going on there and for the guys there to see me making an effort.

We took a break later and ate some fried fish with the ma'alem and chatted. Our conversations are often the kinds of memories that I laugh about years later. Last night, as we were eating the fish, the conversation turned towards the effect of fish on one's bowel movements. I thought he was just joking around with me but his face was serious. Nobody else was chuckling except me but Hassan flashed me a smile. I changed the subject by talking about the pictures in my apartment: the aparment I'm staying in belongs to a friend of Ma'alem Seddik's so there are actually a few old pictures of Ma'alem Seddik and Najib hanging on the walls: pictures from one of his Italian tours.

There was also talk of lilas since this is the time of year to find them. I mentioned that I'm focusing in on Moulay Abd el Qadir and the ma'alem said I will need to buy a white chicken to sacrifice for Moulay because the animals sacrificed for him are always white. Insha Allah, there are some rich experiences coming.

The Eel Tajine

CD man vs. Tamara

The CD store man continues to test my sanity with playing the same Rokia Traore songs on repeat for hours at a time. I begged Hassan to have a word with him and this afternoon he finally did. I stood there trying to smile a little but also reflect the real amount of internal angst that is going on. As I told Hassan, I will do just about anything if he will stop playing Rokia Traore. I used to really like her, but not after listening to the same two songs for several hours a day for the past week. I asked Hassan for the translation later and it went something like this:

“My friend lives here and she's going to flip out over Rokia Traore.”
“Because she likes it so much?”
“No, the contrary! Brother, you only play two songs for an entire day!”
“But that is the single CD that brings in the tourists. That's why I play it so much.”

In the end, Hassan said the guy would try and ease up on the Rokia Traore. However, as I'm writing this, he has just begun playing the same damn song again (I have intermittent internet connection in my apartment from an unknown nearby source).

I paid for 2 more weeks for the apartment today and I hope I can last that long...

Dinner Party at Tamara's

If there's one thing that all Moroccans can agree upon, it's that the two greatest Gnawa masters who ever lived were Ma'alem Sam and Ma'alem Boussou. Even with all the controversy regarding authenticity between the Gnawa, those two ma'alemin, both no longer living, are never questioned. I recently met a man here in Essaouira who spent quite a bit of time with the both of them and who has followed the Gnawa for the majority of his life. For 28 years, he's been making guimbris for Morocco's most renowned ma'alemin and is also a ma'alem himself. I met him through Hassan and had him over for a large fish tajine, discussion/interview, and to record part of the Moulay Abd el Qadir set of songs.

Yesterday afternoon, after we could not find octopus (one of my favorite dishes), Hassan helped me pick out a big eel in the open fish market, which is called a “conga” in French although I'm not sure of its English name. It looks formidable and buying it was half of the adventure. I let Hassan prepare the tajine since he's quite a chef. I watched him prepare it and he told me that the head was the most delicious and his favorite part, including the eyes. I told him, "It's yours, no problem" but when the tajine was set down and we started digging in, it turned out that the head was in front of me and I had already started eating it (it was buried in veggies). I gave what was left to him and tried not to think about whether I had eaten the eyes. In any case, it was outstanding. I bought a box of little desserts to have later with tea as well.

Most of my questions were about the significance of Moulay Abd el Qadir and his association with the color green in the Gnawa lila since I am particularly moved by his set of songs. There is something pulling me to learn more about him and study this set of songs. As it also turns out, my apartment is across the street from the Moulay Abd el Qadir Zaouia, something like a shrine. I asked all my questions in French and was extremely pleased that I understood so well during the entire interview. There were only a few vocabulary words I did not know, but I could gather the meaning by the context. Comparing this to last year when I had to hire a translator, I am so happy for my progress. Occasionally, he would break off into Arabic with Hassan but they would give me the translation in French.

Before the interview, I asked Hassan to help control the amount of "side discussion" to keep us "on topic" according to my experience last year: if there were more than two Moroccan guys in the room, a big discussion or debate would often develop and I would be left sitting there for 15 minutes twiddling my thumbs. For the most part, this was not a problem this time, especially since I didn't have a translator there to add to the discussion.

After an hour or two of eating and questions, he played some and then passed the guimbri to Hassan. Then Hassan passed the guimbri to me and I was put on the spot. I don't yet know an entire piece from beginning to end without stopping so I played sections. Although I was embarrassed, I got the ma'alem's approval that I'm on the right track and that although I'm missing some coordination and technique right now, I'm “a lot further along than some people who have been around the Gnawa 20 years and wanted to play the guimbri.” I think that means that already being a musician, I can keep good time and, as Hassan put it, “you have the cadence, you have the feeling.”

It was a delightful evening with a good ambiance and the ma'alem was both direct and frank about whom I should be spending my time with and getting interviews with and who would be a waste of my time (even a ma'alem whose music I like). He provided a good, focused idea on which avenues would be the most fruitful for me. We had some good joking and teasing as well. I was tired but hung on until he left at midnight.

I've taken to sleeping in the room off of the terrace the last few nights so after the full evening, I happily settled down to the sound of the wind, seagulls, and ocean as well as the fresh air blowing through the room.

Bonfire, Beach, Starry Sky, and Gnawa Music

I went to another one private Gnawa "soiree" for some paying tourists last night. It was in a giant traditional Berber tent on the beach a ways away from the small village of Sidi Kaouki. Another friend of Hassan's, Omar, had taken some French tourists on a one-day, one-night quad and horseback excursion and to finish off the night, he hired Hassan and two of his players come do a live Gnawa soiree. I was drawn to go by the idea of it being in a tent away from the village with a bonfire.

Hassan invited Aihmed and his nephew, Forad, to play castanet (qraqeb) and the four of us left town together. I enjoyed walking on the beach by myself while the guys talked. When it was time for the music to start, I ate with the Omar and some of the other staff. The tourists weren't very active or animated and poor Aihmed had a hard time getting them to dance or clap. The small amp that we had brought wasn't working great and gave the guimbri a distorted crackle much like an electric guitar with distortion. I could see Hassan struggling to keep the momentum going, having to adjust the cords every few minutes.

From an academic and ethnomusicology standpoint, it is interesting to visit these "tourist" situations to see how Gnawa music is presented and consumed in this context. Often, the tourists know little to nothing about the music or the tradition and since I've been fortunate enough to witness the music in its traditional, spiritual form, it's also quite interesting to see it presented as entertainment. I'm often disappointed by the way the music is received by the tourists, which is not surprising I suppose. I'm just struck by how un-curious they usually are.

I feel badly for the guys. There's a strange kind of dynamic going on and although it's not really my business, it's an unpleasant sensation for me: the French really wreacked havoc on Morocco and its traditions, with reverberating effects to this day. Fast forward to 2010 and you have struggling Gnawa musicians entertaining French tourists as they lounge in a traditional Berber tent, drinking their Rosé wine, and yawning.

After awhile, I needed to get away from that dynamic so I stepped out of the tent and found a solo place by the big bonfire, looking up at the starry sky, hearing the rumbling of the ocean and the Gnawa music in the background. Now *that* is a heavenly combination!

The Reality We Expect, The Reality We Don't Expect, and Staying Awake

One of the things I love about Morocco and traveling in general are the small "random" things that happen that I are out of my world of "normal" reality with which I grew up. No matter which culture we grow up in, we get accustomed to the status quo and to seeing, hearing, and smelling things which are "normal." Traveling is a wonderful way to wake up the senses and step into a different reality of sorts where things that are "every day" to someone else become memorable moments for us. It's also a good reminder that as easy as it is to fall asleep in our own reality with which we are accustomed, keeping our senses tuned in, no matter where we are, is a way of staying awake and living life more deeply.

There are moments that jump out at me that tickle me such as traveling through the countryside near Essaouira yesterday and looking out the window to see goats up in the trees. I'd expect to see birds but I was shaken "awake" when my brain processed a white goat perched on a branch. Later that day, as I was at the beach with some musician friends, a camel was hanging out and grazing near us (another moment when I was tickled-- not something that I'm used to). And there was another time a couple weeks back when I was staying in another part of Essaouira and came home later at night by taxi to see a cow wandering past the front door, headed toward the mosque across the street. While 0ver time, someone could "get used" to seeing things like this, it's a delightful feeling to have that shock of, "Well, THIS is something I'd never see at home. A cow wandering freely through a neighborhood of houses."

This morning, the CD store man woke me up with a smooth jazz pan flute CD. Of all the places in the world to be listening to a smooth jazz pan flute CD, this is bizarre. The funny thing is that next to heavy metal, this is my least favorite kind of music but considering it's a NEW album after he's been playing the some one for the past four days, I am almost relieved.

I continually tell myself when I'm traveling to try and maintain the level of awareness of my environment, seeing things as new, when I return back home but the reality is that we rarely have the energy to stay that awake and live fast-paced lives at the same time. Slowing down and living in a kind of meditation with the moment is the only answer that I have found.

Learning a New Piece. . .

In my apartment, practicing

Losing Track of Time

Interesting couple of days... not all good, but nothing big. Had some really violent and disturbing dreams the other night, followed by a funk. Then a local foreign lady who lives here freaked out at me over nothing but based on her past behavior, while it caught me off guard, it isn't completely shocking. At the time, I was having coffee with Hassan and a local Gnawa ma'alem and after she had approached me in the cafe to give me her verbal lashing, to which I did not have time to respond, the ma'alem said to me, "I've seen her around for a long time and have never liked the looks of her. She has a mean face." We left the cafe at that point.

My meeting with the ma'alem was the good side of the last few days and got me thinking about new possibilities. He's a very warm man whom I met through Hassan and when Hassan broached the subject ahead of time, he answered, "I am happy to share with her everything I know." After our 2-hour coffee meeting, we went for lunch: fresh grilled sardines, hot bread, and an amazing cucumber, tomato, onion salad.

The guy with the CD shop below my apartment has almost driven me nuts with his playing the same song on repeat for 3 days straight but thankfully, is now branching out to playing maybe 3 different CDs in an entire day. Apparently, he's also a Hamid El Kasri fan as that's the only Gnawa CD he ever plays.

I'm trying to balance my studies here (French, guimbri, interviews, and Arabic) with also having some fun and relaxing, knowing that starting this Fall, I won't have much of a vacation for 9 months. Little things like hand washing all my clothes on the terrace, studying up there with a pot of tea, and visiting Ma'alem Seddik's house regularly give me pleasure. I am losing track of the days and just realized late yesterday that it was July 4th. I love being so in the moment that the dates don't matter anymore.

The Beatles at Seddik's

Not much Gnawa music at Ma'alem Seddik's house last night, but we sat around talking. Actually, I did most of the listening, trying to catch the conversation and occasionally asking for a French translation for particularly dialect vocabulary.

It was nice to see that the CD player I gave Ma'alem Seddik last year is still in good working order and being used regularly. Apparently, someone made him a bunch of copies of old American music as when he put on a CD, something smooth jazzy and definitely from the 80's, and I asked, "Who's that?" he said, "I don't know," and handed me a stack of CDs. I flipped through them, seeing everything from Supertramp to the Beatles, most whom he had never heard of. I picked out the Beatles and said, "This one is good. Try this." It was surreal for me to be sitting in his wood shop listening to the Beatles but nice to hear English and completely understand. I translated the lyrics into French when the guys asked me what McCartney was singing about.

I was able to give Najib and Sidi Mohammed their CDs and both lit up when I did so. It gives me such great pleasure to be able to do something nice for the guys/men there. Then later, towards the end of the evening, I went back into the music room and started playing around on the guimbri, Hassan showing me a couple licks and tricks. At one moment, during a song, I heard Petit Sayd chuckling and peeking around from the workshop room to watch me play. "Ma'alema Tamara!" he said. When I left, Ma'alem Seddik gave me some nice encouraging words about my playing. I don't feel shy playing around just a few of the older men there; in fact, it's probably good for them to see me trying to play, even if I'm still a debutante, so that they know I'm serious and not just coming there to hang out.

Sidi Kaouki Soiree

<--From left to right, Amin, Hassan and Aihmed

This morning, I got back from another small soiree last night in Siki Kaouki Beach, about 30 minutes South from Essaouira along the coast. Amin, Hassan and Aihmed played a Gnawa soiree for a handful of Belgian tourists who were finishing up a week-long horseback randonee through the Moroccan countryside. The guide is a good friend of Hassan and Amin's and I went along for the party.

The night was full of laughter and joking, so much so that the joking would often turn into dares and bets. At one point, to get even for an earlier joke, Hassan announced that I would be playing the guimbri while Amin accompanied me on qraqeb to which the entire group jumped on board with daunting enthusiasm. I had a difficult time getting out of that one and later in the evening, when most of the group had gone to bed, I did succumb to Amin begging me, in English nonetheless ("Pleeeease, Tamara...") and in order to settle a second dare with Hassan. I was nervous but played one of my favorite songs. I crashed there with the rest of the group and this morning, Amin was calling me, "Ma'alema Tamara" (a ma'alem is someone who has mastered the guimbri). ha

My projects over the next few days involve contacting ma'alemin here in Essaouira for low-key "interviews." I've so enjoyed hanging out in my apartment. Funny enough, there's a CD store right below my apartment that usually blares Gnawa music, which is no problem for me. The last two days, however, the guy has been obsessed with Rokia Traore and playing one particular album on repeat. Rokia is a Malian singer and coincidentally, Alou my calabash teacher whom I've written so much about and posted pictures of, toured and recorded with her for nearly a decade and he played calabash on pretty much all of her albums up until a few years ago, as far as I know. Therefore, for the last two days, I've been hearing Alou's calabash playing non-stop. I actually talked to Alou on Gmail chat the other day and told him so. He's currently in London and feeling pretty exhausted, naturally, now in the 5th month of constant touring.

Anyway, I'm off now to start my day!

Opening Ceremony, procession of Gnawa Groups

Festival Recordings

<--Hamadcha of Essaouira, playing in Essaouira

While at the Festival this year, I got some good recordings, carrying around my compact Roland Edirol recorder. Ma'alem Seddik had recently commented on how good the CDs are that I made for him last year and asked if I could do more for him. Although filming and photographing are forbidden at the acoustic concerts, the staff made an exception at Seddik's concert for a documentary film crew so I took that as permission to record as well. Yesterday, I was able to give Ma'alem Seddik two complete CDs of the concert.

I had also recorded quite a bit of Hamadcha, a Sufi brotherhood of Morocco, and two of the men who spend a great deal of time at Seddik's, including Najib who is Seddik's wingman for Gnawa, also play Hamadcha music. Last night at Ma'alem Seddik's house, I mentioned to Najib that I could also make him a CD of Hamadcha that I recorded at the Festival and his face lit up with excitement. Another man there, Mohammed (whose family name I can't recall) also plays in the same group and I offered to make a CD for him, too. It is such a great feeling to be able to do something for the guys here.

In other news, I went to a small gathering of friends the other night for Gnawa music and a big fish tajine. It was mostly Hassan who played the guimbri as he was clearly the most accomplished there and so everyone naturally deferred to him. At one moment, however, while all the guys were talking, I picked up the guimbri and started fiddling around very quietly so that the sound was almost inaudible. Then at one moment, Hassan started clapping with the beat and singing and the rest of the guys joined in. Before I knew it, I was playing in front of people for the first time. I tried to keep it going but got embarrassed and stopped, but receiving a big applause. That was a delightful moment. Later, Hassan urged me on: "Don't be timid! It's good for you to practice playing in front of others."

Last night at Ma'alem Seddik's, while the guys were talking and I assumed they weren't listening, I started fiddling around, only to find once again that they were indeed listening in; when I stopped, one of the guys broke out in applause. It gave me a little more confidence to keep up the practicing.

Gnawa of Tamanar, Festival 2010

Ma'alem Seddik and Petit Sayd, The Opening Ceremony of the Gnawa Festival 2010

Gnawa Festival 2010

<--Me and Ma'alem Omar El Hiyat after his performance at the Gnawa Music Festival in Essaouira

Once again, I found a little piece of paradise in Essaouira. It's interesting how so much of an experience of a place has to do with one's mindset; when I first got here in May, I felt stir crazy and uninterested in being here. But now, perhaps because the timing is right, I am really happy to be back. With the sound of the ocean, the seagulls, the perpetual sunshine and beautiful white and blue medina, it's just what I need.

Thank goodness the festival is over and most of the tourists and Moroccan visitors have emptied out. It was difficult just to walk through the streets and I heard many stories of thefts as well as knife fights, 50 Moroccans injured, and two killed. Thankfully, the main problem for tourists is (just) the extremely bold thieves who will grab a camera direct out of someone's hands unless it's attached to its person. I was able to get ahold of a special VIP badge again this year through personal connections which allowed me to enter a restricted area just in front of the stage. Even so, a great number of other people also had badges through friends so although it was safer, it was no much less crowded.

The opening concert of the festival was by far the best, given by Hassan Boussou, the son of one of Morocco's greatest ma'alems ever, and a grand master himself. The following night was excellent also as I saw an acoustic, intimate concert given by Omar El Hiyat, another reputable ma'alem from Essaouira and one of my favorite ma'alems with whom I had an interview last year while living here. Ma'alem Omar reminds me of my dad for some reason and he's particularly animated, with a round face and twinkling eyes. It was a delight to see him play a small venue. The third night, I went to a similar, acoustic concert given by ma'alem Seddik and I was tickled to get to see him perform and “support” him as a kind of student of his.

I had some difficulty finding a nice play to stay until just yesterday when, through a previous contact here, I was able to rent a beautiful apartment in the medina with a private terrace from where I can hear the ocean and sit in the sunshine. Because the patron is a friend, he gave me a good price. Hopefully, I will be able to stay here for some time. It is such a relief to once again have a secure, private place to stay where I enjoy hanging out. Since I arrived in Morocco in May, I haven't had much space or time completely to myself so I have been yearning for peace and quiet and a place where I can shut the door and not be disturbed for an entire day. El hammdolilah. And although I haven't minded the cold bucket baths while squatting over a hole in the ground, it is a treat to have a "real" hot shower again, too. That's one of the wonderful things about being here; you come to appreciate the very simple, basic things which give great satisfaction.

Petit Awisha

My small guimbri next to a "normal" to large sized guimbri at (Ma'alem Seddik's house)

Essaouira Part 2

El Hammdolilah, the overnight train trip from Tangier to Marrakech went well and I actually slept decently. I hadn't bought my ticket from Marrakech to Essaouira in advance but went straight to a bus office nearby. There was a bus leaving right at the moment but I was told it was full and I would have to wait to see if there was space, if someone didn't show up. I was suspicious of this line but I stood there and made small talk with the guys working the luggage and so forth. They got a kick out of my speaking some dialect with them and that I had my small guimbri (instrument) with me and after a few minutes of chuckles and smiles, one of them said, “Okay fine, you seem nice, we'll let you on the bus.” Turns out there was several free seats so I'm not sure what the story was.

I've spent the last few days relaxing, walking on the beach, sitting in cafes in the sunshine, and spending the evenings going to Ma'alem Seddik's house and catching up with the usual characters here. I keep running into Amin, who is one of my favorite of the guys who I met at Ma'alem Seddik's, for his gentle personality and striking eyes, and it tickled me that he told me in French, “Hey! You speak Arabic now!” During the 6 months I lived in Essaouira, Amin was always one of the guys who acted like a brother to me and who looked out for me. I always thought he should be on that old Beverly Hills 90210 TV show because of his preppy charm.

During the last few days, Hassan helped me get a custom-made sack for my guimbri that cost me all of ten dollars. Then yesterday, after we picked it up, and were walking in the streets of Essaouira, we ran into Hamid El Kasri, one of the most famous Gnawa ma'alems of Morocco. We stopped and he introduced me and the whole thing was a bit surreal.

Ma'alem has a new kitty named Mimis and I am enjoying cuddling her when the guys break off into a subject I can't follow. It's been fun to see them all again and feel like my being there is "old news" so I can do my own thing. Then two nights ago, after spending time at Ma'alem Seddik's, there was news of a lila going on. It was a “lila” sponsored by a German group of journalists so not the most traditional lila, but still quite good and enjoyable to watch.

I'm looking forward to the festival which starts this afternoon, although as usual, Essaouira is packed with tourists. I bought tickets to see Omar El Hiyat tonight; he's a well-known ma'alem whom I got to know back in 2008 and 2009 and whom I had an interview with. It will be a delight to see him play.

Last Days in Tetouan, Hallucinating in Asilah, and Passing Through Tangier

I ended up staying in Tetouan longer than I had planned. At the most, I had thought of staying only as long as the third lila, the 10th of June, but I wanted a few more lessons with Arafa. Then, two days before I was going to leave, I thought I overheard Arafa and moqedm Aziz talking about some kind of music coming up. I asked Arafa about it the next day and he explained that it was not a lila, but a kind of spiritual event in Asilah, a smallish coastal town about 2 hours from Tetouan. There would be music and an animal sacrifice and afterwards, he and Aziz would be visiting two of the local ma'alemin. I didn't quite catch all of the details but I cautiously asked if I could come along and he said it would be no problem. I was tickled to go since Arafa had already mentioned these two ma'alemin in Asilah.

I met Aziz and Arafa the next morning and we caught the bus to Asilah along with a family of women from Tetouan, a grandmother, mother, daughter and aunt, I guessed. When I realized that the event was a private blessing, I felt a little awkward about having asked to come but the women all were welcoming to me and didn't seem to mind my being there. On the way to the mosque where the blessing would take place, I grabbed a yogurt drink to tie me over until a real meal. After waiting inside a mosque-like building for the “moqedma” and qraqeb player to meet us, we proceeded outside to an open area by a well where it was decided we'd have the blessing.

There was just a touch of lila tradition, with incense, and the sacrifice of four chickens, one for each family member, by Aziz, acting as the moqedm. There was some sacred music repertoire played by Arafa and a qraqeb player with a moqedma standing by, Jamilla. I just tried to stay out of the way and observe but by the end of the blessing, I was not feeling well at all. The yogurt drink, I suspect, was rancid and I had to excuse myself to the toilet several times.

After the ceremony, the Tetouan family went home and it was just me, Aziz, Arafa, Jamilla, a sister to Jamilla, Chaimae. But by then, I was in bad shape. I felt embarrassed and frustrated about being sick and tried to first fight it off and just keep it to myself but I soon realized that the frequent trips to the toilet were going to need an explanation. I couldn't eat lunch, despite everyone's urgings, and I had to keep jumping up from the table to go outside the restaurant with my plastic bag to vomit. The heat wasn't helping since I couldn't even keep down a sip of water.

I tried to keep it together and it was another moment when I thought back to my mountaineering experiences to try and find some kind of inner reserve of strength. I thought back to all those times in the wee hours of morning when I would be exhausted and sleep-deprived but had to force myself to stay focused and functional. I tried to conjure this same inner reserve to get through the day.

From the lunch stop, we walked to the home of a ma'alem Mahmoud and within minutes of meeting him, I had to run out his front door to vomit in the gutter, to which the guys responded by handing me a pair of shoes and showing me where the toilet was. I finally accepted that I needed to lie down. On top of my stomach revolting, my head was pounding. I asked the women if I could lie down on the sitting benches in the adjoining room and they brought me hot mint tea but again, one sip sent me jumping up to the bathroom. I must have laid there several hours while the men all watched a comedy TV program and smoked and the women were upstairs cooking. Food was brought down at one point, as well as more tea, but I refused everything. That yogurt drink must have been pretty darn rancid as I had all kinds of trippy, hallucinatory “dreams” and my head was spinning. Every now and then I would wake up and remember where I was, feel embarrassed and worried about how I was going to travel the 2 hours back to Tetouan, but then I would go back to sleep.

Finally, three or four hours later, I finally sat up and my stomach felt somewhat stable. Moqedm Aziz was packing up to head back to Tetuan and it seemed like Arafa might stay longer so I said that maybe I would go back with moqedm Aziz; but then Arafa had another idea that maybe we could take a little walk around Asilah and go visit one other ma'alem together, then all go back to Tetouan together. Having felt like I had spent my whole day in Asilah lying on the couch, I thought this might be a nice redeeming effort and fresh air was sounding good.

The second Gnawa home wasn't far and I was relieved to make there without getting sick. Although I was really wary of the mint tea that was brought to me upon our arrival, I slowly sipped it and eventually found it giving me a bit of energy back. By the time I finished the glass, the excess amount of sugar and mint had allowed me to be able to carry on a conversation with Arafa and the others.

I felt badly that I had missed much of the day and not really seen much of the town since it had such a nice charm to it, and reminded me a bit of Essaouira. I apologized to Arafa and Ma'alem Mahmoud, whom we saw before we left Asilah, and they were all gracious. I felt badly that I'd barely even had a chance to speak with Ma'alem Mahmoud. Later, I was able to see the humor in that perhaps Ma'alem Mahmoud will never forget me as the poor American woman who came to meet him but instead, spent the day sleeping and vomitting.

We finally left Asilah around 10 PM and I got back home around 12:30 AM. I had planned to go to Tangier the next day but in the morning, I still needed recuperation time. The family I was staying with had been planning on spending the whole next day at the beach and had been begging me to go with them to which I had kept saying, “I don't know... maybe.” It turned out that relaxing at the beach and swimming in the ocean felt wonderful and they were so happy that I could go. I ate cautiously. It was a great way to spend the last day with the family, too. I slept in the following day, and we had our usual 1 PM breakfast before I left for Tangier. I was ready to leave Tetouan having spent close to 4 weeks there--the time went fast!

My plan in Tangier was to reconnect with two ma'alemin whom I had met last year, both who have Gnawa “houses” in the medina. I got a room in a typically grungy but tolerable pension near to both of them. I happened to bump into the first of them, Ma'alem Domnati, walking past a cafe so I sat down to chat with him for an hour or so.

Then later, I went on to the home of the second, ma'alem—a very welcoming man-- and spent a few hours there. The men were friendly, especially the ma'alem, but I still felt rather awkward sitting there listening as men smoked, blaring Gnawa music, and chatting. I found myself reflecting again on my challenge of being a female researcher in a male dominated music world, especially in a culture where women seldomly have musical involvment.

While visiting the second ma'alem, a third ma'alem came by. I didn't get a very pleasant vibe from him and immediately sensed that he had no interest in relating to me whatsoever. When I showed him my small guimbri, he nodded and flashed an ingenuine half-smile and said something to the other men about it being a souvenir. Later, he actually tried playing it and changed the strings and tuning completely to where I suddenly was wishing I had never showed it to him. He tuned it much higher and not with the same interval relationship between the three strings where one normally “frets” the instrument and then he played it for only a few minutes and handed it back to me, seeming unimpressed.

Having just recently learned how to change the strings' tuning, which involves completely removing the strings from their secured position at the base, and re-tying them with various knots and tricks, I wasn't happy to have to try and get the instrument back the way I liked it. I'm not quite perfect yet at setting the strings this way. While I sat there, I decided to try and get the guimbri back to how I had it so if I had problems getting the strings tight enough, the others there could aid me.

One of the men commented that he thought the bridge was too tall for the guimbri, which I thought was particularly interesting since in Tetouan, Mohammed Reis and Arafa thought the original bridge was too short and Reis had made me a second one. This was just more confirmation that really, every ma'alem has his own idea and I'll probably rarely find agreement on much of the details.

Today I will wander around Tangier and spend more time with the maalemin until my train tonight leaves for Marrakech. It is a night train and I am hoping to be able to sleep a bit better than I did last night, bombarded with the constant noise of the medina.

The Two Awishas

Arafa and Abdellah try tuning the Hagas and my petit Awisha (small hajouj) in order to play together but they eventually gave up.

Hagas

Moqedm Aziz from the last two lilat here in Tetouan came by Arafa's last night and brought with him a small ngoni-like instrument he has made which he calls a "Hagas." He explained that he calls it a Hagas as a kind of melange between "Hajouj," "Guimbri" and "Souissi," three related instruments.

It has a beautiful sound, very much like a Malian ngoni.

I decided not to tell him what Hagas is for the Scottish.

Lilttle Things

There are so many little things that I had forgotten about Morocco that I both love and am challenged by.

Of course, smells are some of the strongest recollections lodged in my memory. Although it doesn't sound very pleasant, I missed the heavy, woody smell of burning trash; it becamse associated for me with traveling in West Africa over 10 years ago and it flashes me back to both Ghana and Mali as well. Then there is the open meat markets, and walking past stands filled with spices where especially the scent of cumin overwhelms the rest. Though not all of the smells are sweet or pleasant, there is something unique and exotic about them that make me smile.

I missed the regular, symphonic Allah Akbar calls from the mosques throughout the day, certain phrases from the language as well as common gestures that go with them, and the large repertoire of blessings and well-wishes that are involved with greetings. Little things jump out at me, like complete strangers seeing someone hard at work and when passing by, saying, “May God give you strength, brother." Imagine in the US, if we walked by a gardener or street cleaner or parking meter attendant and wished him or her God's help and blessings.... Or when we bought groceries, the cashier responding, “To your health!”

The staring is the one thing I haven't missed as, from what I've gathered, it's not considered rude so many men feel free to gawk without flinching. I quickly develop my keen peripheral vision and with the help of sunglasses, can see who is watching me without them knowing I know. When the stares are accompanied by kissing noises or cat calls, I fantasize about whipping around and scolding them in Arabic. I only had to do that once in Marrakech when I was being followed. I suddenly whipped around and yelled in Arabic and it caught the guy so off guard that he jumped back, and ran off with his tail between his legs, bumping into people as he couldn't get away fast enough. I've asked the family's daughters for their thoughts on what to do or say as they, too, get some of the same attention. Chaimae told me to say something like, “Go find yourself a donkey.” heh heh

I had also forgotten what a skill it is to walk in a medina. There is not a consistent flow of traffic but instead, it requires a consistent adjustment of pace, gait size, and navigation techniques to get around bicycles, donkeys, little old men hobbling with canes, women standing in the middle of the path “window shopping,” and puddles that one would no dare step in. It's a good reminder of patience as being in a hurry or wanting efficiency is pointless. If I start to get impatient, it reminds me how Western culture has seeped into my way of approaching simple things like walking.

Each place has its charm and challenges, and I think I'm close to finishing up my time in Tetouan. I'll probably be heading out in the next few days and based on my energy, stop through Tanger and maybe Fes before reaching Essaouira for the Gnawa Festival which begins next Thursday.

More dancing at the Tetouan Lila (Abdellah)

Hangman

From left to right, Ramla, me and Chaimae

The eldest daughter of the family I'm staying with, Chaimae, is completely lovable and one of the sweest and funniest women I've ever met. Although her English is excellent, I wish I could catch all her witty jokes and sassy comebacks which are often in Darija. While being bright, no-nonsense, and responsible, she laughs so easily and is so fun to joke with. I just adore her. Much of her English she has picked up from movies so she will often come out with phrases and curse words that bust me up laughing. Because she is such a sweetheart, it's all the more hilarious to hear her use street language or slang.

I took her out on the town the other night so we could talk about“guy problems”. We went out to a nice cafe and I got us both milkshakes as she had never had one. The topic at hand came to a head when the guy sent her a text message while we were at the cafe and it visibly irritated her. She kept asking me what she should do. Then she thought for a second and said,“Maybe I will tell him to go f*** himself,” to which I just about died laughing. I asked her if she knew what that meant in English and indeed she does.

To direct our attention elsewhere, I started drawing pictures on the napkins at the cafe. She had commented that the waiter was cute so I drew a caracature of her waving hello to him. This began the game of hangman which I taught her. I thought up words she always says in English and she had me guess words in Darija that I say a lot. She loved the game and really got into it with enthusiasm. Whenever I would guess an incorrect letter, she would let out an evil cackle and take great pride in slowly hanging my hangman. If I got really close to the hangman being complete, she sould say, “Oh, Tamara, the poor guy is going to die! You must do something!” We played hangman at the cafe for about an hour and a half, moving on from our milkshakes to coffee. I've never had so much fun with that game.