Bin el Ouidane and Ouzoud Falls

After disembarking the train in Marrakech at about 15:00, starving and roasted, we hurried back to Mike's apartment, dropped off our belongings, mounted the motorcycle and sped off toward the French Embassy.  As Mike has citizenships in both Morocco and France, he felt obliged to vote in the presidential election this year. Nicolas Sarkozy and Francois Hollande are the unlucky fellows running for presidency at this pivotal point in French history, and socialist Francois Hollande has pulled out in front of conservative Sarkozy after the first round of voting. The second round of voting on May 6th will determine which candidate secures the presidency. 

French people talk about politics a lot. A lot, a lot. I don't understand much, because they get very excited, talk very quickly, and forget to translate. Whenever I hear the name, "Sarkozy", I assume that I won't understand much of what's happening for the next half hour or so.

After Mike finished his fine act of democracy, we drove over to the souk to grab a bite to eat. As the souk was all out of mechoui (hate it when that happens), we ordered a tangia for two. Mike had warned me about the incredibly greasy quality of this culturally famous dish, but I was still somewhat surprised when I saw the 1/2 inch of oil pooled in the bottom of the clay pot. 

Mike did not enjoy tangia at all. I found the flavor flawless, but the oil... the cup of oil dredging everything was a bit hard to stomach. 

Tangia

One of Mike's cousins owns a vacation house in Bin el Ouidane; a breathtaking bit of land in the heart of Morocco where wealthy French and Moroccans have built weekend-getaway houses. The lake is manmade, but that definitely doesn't detract from the beauty of the area. The pastel colors, the wind rustling through the golden grass, the serenity, tranquility, and the general happy mood of people on vacation made this place feel like a little paradise. When I bought my plane ticket for Morocco, I didn't really have a lot of expectations (I'm a little lax on the research aspect of traveling), but I never could have imagined getting to spend a night in a place as stunning as this. 

Bin el Ouidane was another world. 

This felt a little bit like a scene from "The Gladiator". 

Mike's cousin's son, Jonas. Cute enough to get away with absolutely everything. 

Moroccan pancake

After a splendid omelet breakfast, we donned our swimsuits and clamored aboard the house speedboat for a morning of wakeboarding and surfing. I'd attempted to wakeboard in Yosemite when I was fifteen or sixteen, but it was only one quick face-plant and I haven't done anything since. Hence, I was a tad apprehensive about wakeboarding with this group of people, as they're all quite experienced and I felt more than a little intimidated. Although traveling makes one look like a fool more than anything else I've experienced thus far in my nearly 23 years, I'm still not incredibly fond of looking like a complete dunce. However, Mike's cousin and friend were very clear at explaining the mechanics of the wakeboard, so I gave it a try. My goodness, it was a blast. I got up out of the water on my second try, and even managed to make a somewhat difficult switch before I lost my balance and was sucked into the lake.

A new kind of surfing. The boat creates a wake that allows you to surf the way you would in the ocean -- no rope required. 

Me, Mike's friend, and Mike

Mike and I took a slight detour on the way back to Marrakech to see Ouzoud Falls, the tallest waterfall in Morocco. The hour and a half stop meant that we'd have to drive back to the city on a suicidally dangerous road in the dark, but we both agreed that the waterfalls were worth potential injury/death on the return trip.

Ouzoud is the Berber word for "olive". The falls are surrounded with ancient olive trees, belonging to local families who make their own oil. 

Each tree has a mark like this adorning the trunk. The color signifies the owner of the tree. 

How a tagine cooks

Moroccan monkeys! People feed them lots of fruit and bread, so they're not exactly wild. One approached a man with bread and tugged on his pant leg, begging for crumbs. 

Our guide. When you visit a tourist attraction in Morocco, there's always an abundance of guides nearby, all trying to convince you that you need their services. This man offered to show us the waterfalls for 100 dirhams. When he found out that Mike was Moroccan, he said, "Whatever you want to pay me is fine." I love how Moroccans really stick together. I also love that I get to experience Morocco with a Moroccan. I'm getting a unique, insightful of experience of Morocco that I could't have gotten any other way. 

Impressions -- ONCF

I’m starting this post from my second-class seat on the oncf train from Casablanca to Marrakech. The air inside the car feels as if it’s been inhaled and exhaled far too many times already, and the humidity is giving me that hot, claustrophobic itch just under my skin. My armpits are sticky, I have the awkward, telltale dark line around my chest that all overly endowed girls experience when things get a bit too warm. The trip is three hours total, but Mike and I spent the first 40 minutes or so sitting on the floor in the bumpy compartment between trains where folks lucky enough to have gotten seats keep their luggage. Folks who missed out on the seats don’t give up their luggage to the racks, though. They prefer to use the precious bit of cushioning to ease the pain in their asses that the mad jangling of the train engenders.

After the stop at the first main town we reassessed our situation. We were happy to find that passengers who had disembarked the rumbling beast had left a few empty places behind.  We were able to scramble into a couple of the still-warm seats before the next throng of people boarded, desperately bumbling around the narrow passages in search of seats of their own. Second class differs from first class in that the company limits the amount of first-class tickets it sells. You know, actually limits it to the number of seats it provides. There is also air-conditioning, and in Morocco, air-conditioning is very much appreciated. Second-class seats are just as good, but it’s a “fend for yourself” environment, and the company sells far more tickets than it can provide seats for. It’s very much like a metro in this regard. A three-hour, hot, clammy metro ride.

I enjoy looking out windows in trains. I also enjoy looking at the tops of heads poking out over the tops of seats. The top of the head in front of me is covered with the olive green hood of a djellaba.  Djellaba The arm of a small girl extends up over the seat and the fingertips tense out and curl under as she tries to stretch her cramped spine. The top of her hand is covered with brown marker in an attempt to mimic the henna art seen so often in Morocco. Henna The olive hood turns every now and then, and I glimpse the elaborate braiding adorning the sides, and the copper skin of the Moroccan man inside. He seems to enjoy looking out windows nearly as much as I do.

Seated opposite of the Moroccan girl with the navy blue sleeve and the amateur henna is a serious looking man wearing a black and white striped turban. His eyes are closed and his head has sunk down to his broad chest in either fatigue or heat stroke. Two black earbuds are inserted into each dark ear, and he seems to be very much resigned to his fate of spending the next hour onboard an overcrowded, delayed oncf train.

“I’m going to die,” Mike mutters uncomfortably as he flips through his solar installation instruction manual for the nth time this trip. 

A boy sits next to the man in the striped hat. He wears a blue, white and black baseball cap splashed with English words that I can’t quite make out without appearing to stare. I like to look, but I never like looking like I’m looking. The boy leans up against the window and cradles his left cheek in his left palm, covering his eye and shielding his face from the hard, hot train window. He tries to sleep, but appears to be very unsuccessful in this endeavor as he keeps shifting his sit-bones uncomfortably every couple minutes or so. His left eye is covered by his cradling hand, but his right eye is closed underneath the heavy shadow cast by the boy’s very prominent black brows.

The train is moving again. Each stop takes an unreasonable amount of time, because many of the doors are jammed. People can’t exit properly and the aisles are hardly wide enough for one to pass through at a time. Add the luggage and the size of the average Moroccan (sugar and bread and couscous doesn’t do much for the figure), and you have a traffic jam of colossal proportion.

We have one more hour.

A Muslim family sits across the aisle from the boy up against the window. A small boy stares at me with his curious brown eyes as he leans up against the armrest of his green and dirty brown striped seat. He will be an exquisitely handsome young man when he grows up, with his sparkling eyes, his happy mouth and his already strong jawline. He switches between staring at me as I write and sucking on his fingers. His blue coat is quite becoming, and I enjoy the grasshopper green color of the belt that keeps his jeans firmly secured to his thin waist. I smile at him. He continues to stare. Perhaps he’s making notes like mine in his mind. “A girl with short hair and a Moroccan scarf is sticking out her lip (I always stick out my lower lip when I write) and giving me strange looks. I wonder what she’s writing about.” He raises his eyebrows and creates four deep wrinkles in his forehead.

I love wrinkles. Footprints of the face.

I can see a hand and the Taguia of the man (I assume to be his father) sitting next to the sparkly-eyed boy. The hand is pale (for a Moroccan) and bulging with green veins. It rests gently on beige linen pants, and I get the impression from the relaxed fingertips that this lucky fellow has actually managed able to drift off into sleep. I could be very happy for him, but the selfish side of me just hates him a little for being able to escape the perils of riding second-class oncf. His taguia is white with green and gold embroidery encircling the footstool shaped hat. The top has an intricate green design that comes together to form some sort of flower, but I’m not sure what.  His face is full of wrinkles. Deep wrinkles that seem to be raised skeptically even in sleep. I wonder what his dreams are like.

A woman sits across (I assume the wife and mother), but I can only glimpse a black leg, the bottom of a long, brilliant blue shirt, and a black headscarf with just a bit of dark brown hair shyly peaking through. Her phone bursts into a sharp, obnoxious ring, and she answers quickly enough to avoid accruing accusing stares from nearby passengers. Her voice is quiet and soft, and I catch a few words in French before she hangs up the call.

Okay. Enough impressions.

Mike and I are on our way back from a relaxed, family oriented trip to Casablanca. The last time we were here, business was the main purpose, and we didn’t get to spend a whole lot of time with his friends and family. This time, I was able to meet his mother, his cousin, his nephews, and spend an evening with Sebastian and two of Sebastian’s friends from work. Sebastian’s family owns a jewelry shop called Azuelos in the famous Morocco Mall. The friends from the adjacent shop worked at Louis Vuitton.

Have I mentioned just how nice this mall is?

Outside the mall

I had interviewed Sebastian at the Sofitel Hotel in Marrakech, and he seemed to enjoy and support the project. So when Mike and I arrived at his bijouterie yesterday afternoon, he immediately set up an interview with one of the employees at Azuelos – a beautiful young woman named Virginia. The interview was fast, fun, and she told me that the process was “therapeutic”. This is something I love to hear.  I was also able to interview Mike’s outgoing, good-hearted mother this morning before we left for Marrakech, so that makes nine interviews in Morocco thus far. As my goal is to record one interview per week, I already have all the interviews I need from Morocco. The more the merrier, though, and Mike has promised me an interview with a friend of his (the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen) who teaches Tai Chi and voice at a nearby art studio. After interviewing Kenza, I’ll probably contact a couple more couchsurfers and see if I can generate any interest.

The final note for today’s post: At the restaurant where Mike and I joined Sebastian and his Louis Vuitton friends for an after dinner glass of wine (we'd already eaten at a kosher grill), I was told, “You have to use the restroom. But make sure to ask for the ocean view. This is very important.” When Mike told me to ask for the ocean view, part of me just expected some ocean painted wallpaper, or that the theme of the bathroom would be “ocean.” You know, with shell-shaped soap dispensers and sea-foam hand towels.

Nope. I took a pee whilst looking out at the Atlantic through sliding door sized bathroom windows. I never knew sitting on a toilet could feel so romantic. The tea candles helped. 

Mimouna and Mechoui -- Marrakech

While Jews all over the world celebrate Passover with varying degrees of religiousness, only the Moroccan Jews celebrate the end of Passover. They welcome bread back into their lives the day after their abstinence ends by covering their tables with the previous week's forbidden treats of sweets and pastries and Moroccan pancakes. They then throw open their doors and invite the rest of the neighborhood Jews to partake in their sugary extravaganza. Mike and I stopped by Gad's family's house for a few prayers, some kosher wine, and an abundance of saccharine goodness. 

I believe this was an orange blossom almond cake. Sure wish I could've tried it. 

 George and I still write each other on a somewhat regular basis. In one of his recent e-mails, he mentioned in jest that he had "arranged a race for me." While I've never been remotely interested in Nascar, Gad told us that the race atmosphere was really great and that we should try it out. After struggling through bumper to bumper (or tail to tail) traffic, getting stopped by a cop for no reason whatsoever, and wandering to and fro in search of the elusive ticket vendor for half an hour, we gave up the idea and enjoyed a cup of coffee from afar.

Sorry, George. Wish I could've taken better pictures for you.

Between all my yoga, cooking, adventuring with Mike, attending Jewish festivals, meeting up with couchsurfers, and writing short plays, I've been devouring a book by Paul Bowles called, “Up Above the World.” Paul’s first creative pursuit was poetry, but Gertrude Stein ended up telling him that he was absolute crap, so he tucked his tail behind his legs and moved on to composing.  But composing confined the chronically itchy-footed artist to New York City, so he abandoned composing and took up writing. After his wife won some brilliant prize for a book she wrote, that is. Either poor Paul couldn’t stand to be outdone by his partner, Jane Bowles, or she inspired him to take up the pen himself. Paul and Jane had an excellent marriage, regardless of the fact that both identified themselves as homosexual. Their marriage was one of convenience and of fast friendship, but definitely not romance. Bowles’ writing seems a bit reminiscent of Joseph Conrad, with the claustrophobic webs of panic and anxiety he weaves. As a reader, I feel terrorized and trapped and am not at all sure why. This confusion makes the terror even more acute. Brilliant writer. Paul Bowles is very famous in Morocco because he spent a great deal of time writing in Tangier, and gained an abundance of inspiration from the city and lifestyle of Moroccans. His book, “The Sheltering Sky,” is based in Morocco, and I will order it off of Amazon.com as soon as I get back to the states.  Word.

My last few days have been perfect. I’m living a fairytale life in Marrakech right now, swear to god. Of course, my idea of fairytale life might be a bit different from the average fellow’s.  Chowing down on some heavenly Mechoui in a dirty souk stall, for example. Dipping greasy chunks of fall-apart lamb into bowls of cumin and salt, hands dripping with the fat and juices. Mechoui is lamb that’s been smeared with butter and slow cooked for hours in a pit in the ground for nine hours or so. The stall owners place the sheep heads on display (to be both gazed upon and eaten) atop pots of Tangia, and hoist the dripping carcasses out of the pits with long wooden sticks, serving the thronging hungry tourists and Moroccans alike.  I make a general habit of staying away from throngs, but this stuff is worth thronging for. It is even better than Maria’s pork belly crackle, and that’s saying an awful lot.

Sheep head, anyone? I didn't attempt to eat the head, but I did try the sheep balls. I made the mistake of waiting until I'd finished the rest of the sheep to eat the balls. Not a good taste to leave with. 

The green stamps mean that this is superior quality meat. I think this customer appears rather skeptical, though.

The hole in which the Mechoui cooks. Anything that foreboding has got to be amazing. I felt like Indiana Jones just looking into this oven. 

Dafina is another bit of heaven one can chance upon whilst in Morocco. I mentioned this meal in an earlier post when I described the Saturday lunch typical Jewish families enjoy.  Here’s a link to a Dafina recipe – if you have 24 hours to wait for lunch, go for it: DAFINA

Tangia is something I will try very soon, and I will make sure to carefully document its deliciousness.  A close relative of the tagine, the tangia is much oilier, cooks in an urn-like container, and requires more time to prepare. Six hours of cooking in the ashes of your local hammam, give or take. This dish is another Jewish invention, and like the Dafina, it is the product of the "Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy" commandment. I'm now convinced that the only reason God asked the Jews to refrain from lighting fires on the Sabbath was so that they would be forced to get very creative with their cooking. Leaving a meal in the ashes of a hammam for hours and hours? Thanks be to God for the amazing incentive he gave the Jewish people. All in all, I hear that Tangia a very simple stew made superb by the length of time it sits in the hammam and the prodigious amount of spices used – parsley, ras el hanout, saffron, salt, cumin, tumeric, ginger, pepper, preserved lemon, garlic – does it get any better?

I think not.