Maroc: Volume One

المغرب

I watched the driver, to see what he found interesting. He liked the music in the square. There was a man singing and playing the fiddle with his soul, stomping his feet on a board of metal while another drummed and another made wave-like motions with his hips. It was all locals around this umbrella in the large clearing where the monkeys did tricks on leashes and snakes were charmed, henna drawn. Another group of men gathered around some papers. The driver was not interested in what they were doing but I was. We walked around, me following him, too confused to stop or to buy. Through a little park of orange trees and a salutation to cigarettes we sat on a bench in front of a wall for a break. I saw the men look at the beautiful woman and her friend with the round bottom. I saw young women wearing the hijab, walking with men comfortably, amicably. The driver took my hand when we crossed the street and I made sure to drop it when we got to the other side, unsure of what it meant to touch in public. He knew, because he asked, that I am a mademoiselle and not a madam. His teeth were rotting at the gums. He took interest in the black woman with the fake eyelashes in the short skirt. It took me a moment to remember how taboo her skirt was in such a place, and I wondered if she was a hooker like I had read about. I wanted to buy some street meat, but didn’t want to stop the driver on his tour. There were delicious looking dishes of well oiled food. Squares of nuts. And dates! Boxes and boxes of dates, of every assortment. Spices piled high in perfectly poised cones of red, yellow and brown. And teas, open, flowery, herbal. Many many stands of orange juice.

The driver stopped at a plastic cooler and took a drink from the communal blue cup which sat on top of it . We walked on towards the car, time to pick up the girls at school. Cats, kittens, scarfed down mystery chunks that they found on the streets, shooed constantly from the textiles that sat on the ground in plastic sacs. It smelled of cigarettes and citrus and the row of chickens entering the afterlife.

Snow in Oslo

I was welcomed

with love

and a

sweet reminder

I bought shampoo. I knew it was going to be a mistake. Not the kind of mistake that I would regret, but the kind that I knew would not get me what I wanted, which, in this case, was clean hair. The booths-man told me and the driver, in English, that it is what the Moroccan women use. All natural. Add hot water and work into a lather. He also showed us natural lipstick by wetting a red stone, magic lipstick that looked green but turned red, and a mascara dip of ashes. He sold normal looking shampoo, with the famous Moroccan argan oil in it. The driver was going to get me both. I pointed to the flakes and said, ‘only those’. The flakes did not lather so much as disintegrate into a mush that made a mess, a mess on the dead grasshopper in the shower, a mess on the floor. It was the first time water had escaped my small cleansing area and it was black and gritty. The man had told me to leave it on my hair for 10 minutes but I rinsed it after 2. No part of me thought that I was going to love it but I was excited to try and am still happy I did, except that my drying hair still feels greasy. There was a moment when I wondered if it would dye my hair a dark color, like the women of Morocco, like he said. I can still see the blonde although it is not dry yet.

editors note: I have since purchased PertPlus with mint and am on my way to clean hair-dom.

I stay here. At the Pépinière Casa Botanica, Route de Sidi Abdellah Ghiatt km 3,5 Marrakech

In the night I made dinner by candlelight, not because I had to but because I wanted to.

We went to lunch at Lynn’s house. Forty-five minutes away, Sadek entertained the four girls with tongue twisters on the drive. It was past the castle and into the mountains. Her house was beautiful and I said so to her parents, several times, because I knew those words in French. I was thankful for the impromptu yoga session where the cat sat on my lap for deep breathing, for the meal of salad and raviolis, the space heaters and most of all for Tin Tin. Yoko, little boy brother and Maya.

Maya, Lynn and Lila

The Atlas Mountains on a clear day.

A magazine, by Angela Mulligan