Sunday, January 18
Morocco...Blood in the Streets
( I am waaaaaaay behind on the blog I know... Now that we are set up with internet in Guatemala, I can get caught up. But 1st I have to go backward, Eastward... to Marrakech where I left off in December)
Morocco, Dec 9-16.
The day we arrived in Marrakech happened to be the 1st day of the festival of the lambs. Apparently God wanted Abraham to sacrifice his son but his knife was too dull to cut his throat so God said ok forget it, just give me a lamb instead. As anyone who has ever traveled to Marrekech knows, the taxis can only go so far into the medina (the old walled city) before the streets get too narrow. They drop you off and then you make your way through the maze of tiny dusty streets to your riad. So there we were with 2 kids in tow, dragging our luggage through gushing rivers of blood on the day of the sacrificial lambs. Every street had it's pire going, made of a simple box spring, they lined up the sheep heads and made a barbeque. The actual slaughter had occurred hours before so mercifully we were only witness to the aftermath, not the fearful baaing as the poor woolly things awaited their sacrifice. It all felt incredibly, well... biblical. Tallulah toughed it out like a champ as she daintily sidestepped piles of guts and brains. Her only complaint was the smell, and that went on for days - the sickly sweet smell of death, donkey dung and the souks which have a vaguely nauseating yet addictive odor that permeates everything.
The next morning, as we wandered toward the Djmaa al Fnaa (main square), the feral cats were out feasting on whatever bits of sheep that had gotten discarded, so everyone benefited in the end. Nothing goes to waste in the underdeveloped world, which is a great thing to see after living in the land of conspicuous consumption and waste. With memories of the blood bath fading, we threw down a huge lamb tagine without remorse. Sleep comes fast and deep there and then before long a pre-dawn call to prayer draws everyone back to life.
On the whole I would say that Marrakech is not an ideal destination for babies. Kids over 3 will be fascinated by all the noise and smells and intrigue. However, we spent most of our time trying to keep little S away from the flying mopeds, horse carriages, venomous snakes and the inevitable toothless hustler offerign to kiss her with leperous lips. Moroccans are wild for children which is touching except that they show their adoration by swooping the child form out of your arms before you can object and smothering her with wet kisses. Cultural or not but I draw the line with the kissing.
But for a child T's age, having grown up in a clean, well-lit and highly sanitized place like America, Morocco is a kaleidescope of new stimuli and visuals. Every day is spent dodging donkeys, drinking fresh squeezed orange juice from a cart in the square (25 cents, hello!), wathcing snake charmers work their magic, taking caleche rides through the ancient streets and all the while imagining she was about to see Aladdin and Jasmine on the magic carpet (so admittedly Disney is never far away!). The souks held a particular appeal for her as she loved the hustlers pushing an infinite variety of embroidered babouches and sparkly things on us. Even getting conned into a bad henna tattoo was a thrill for her.
Morocco is a land of contradictions. Traditional Islam seems to coexist rather peacefully with the influx of western ideas there. Many of the women stay covered in their hijabs while others dress like westerners in tight jeans and make-up. It's place where each family seems to make their own choices within the Islamic system. Economically speaking there are a lot of oddities too. One night we got a babysitter which cost us $15 for the whole night. We went to the Hivernage quarter (the European neighborhood outside the medina) to have a nightcap at a swanky Arabian nights lounge (kind of pastiche - tacky, like the Vegas version of itself) and one drink there cost... $15. Go figure.
We stayed the last few nights on the outskirts of Marrakech on an organic farm owned by a couple of very cool Moroccans (a lot of guest houses and riads are French owned so they are an anomaly). They let us have the run of the place which was lovely even though the weather was uncooperative so we couldn't swim. We sat fireside indoors enjoying the views of the snow-capped Atlas mountains in the distance and drinking whiskey (hello Islam!). Being a fair drive from town, we chose to dine in which turned out to be a brilliant decision. Isham the owner was a marvelous chef, serving up some of the freshest most innovative Moroccan cuisine we've ever had. If I have a choice for my dying meal, Isham's kefta will certainly be on the short list.
Morocco is an assault on the senses. It's heady, exotic, chaotic smelly and sometimes aggravating, yet it leaves you delirious, exhausted and begging for more. If you haven't been, brace yourself and go!
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