A New World Opens

“Jam Session” 25 July 2018, Café Clock, Kasbah, Marrakech

        What an amazing find!  A hip place in the southern section of the kasbah (the older part of the medina) – new juxtaposed against old.  Trendy music in a funky ambiance.  A cozy downstairs courtyard and seating, and a shaded terrace upstairs.  Vegetarian and vegan fare or meat, whatever your preference.  Activities every night.  Tonight, I’ll have dinner and take in a jam session.  I will come back tomorrow for a cooking class and maybe stay for evening storytelling.  I took a cab here driven by a fellow named Ahmed.  We talked in Arabic for the whole 20-minute ride: I told him I’m American; I am in Morocco studying Arabic; in America I teach English; my husband and daughter are in America; and I’m 54; he told me he is 46, that he has two boys – Elias and Hamid – and one daughter – Hima – and that his wife is expecting their fourth child (to which I replied, mabruk! Congratulations!), that his wife is Amazigh, that his wife and children are visiting the mountains now, that it is hot here in Marrakech, that I should teach English here in Morocco, and on and on.  I understood and was understood, and it was thrilling.  It is as if a world has opened to me.  Now, I watch the activity in the kasbah from this terrace and feel its light breeze as the sun begins to set, and wait as my dinner is prepared. 

 

“Cooking Class” 26 July 2018, Café Clock, Marrakech

Cooking class today with head chef Mohammed began with coffee and a discussion of the menu.  We chose Zalouk - an aubergine (eggplant) appetizer, Harira soup, seven-vegetable couscous, and a dessert of macaroons.  Then, we went shopping in the medina souks for our herbs, spices, and vegetables. 

While out, I tried some fresh buttermilk made from goat’s milk – ladled from one of the two storage containers on the back of the seller’s motorbike into metal cups later rinsed in a bucket of water on the ground.  It tasted sour, like yogurt, but not bad.  Mohammed showed me the butcher shop, with its carcasses hanging in the open air and cuts of meat bloodying the counter.  Live chickens were pulled from cages at the other shop and placed, squawking and flapping, into a basket against the counterweight on the other side of the scale.  Unrefrigerated eggs are purchased loose from carton flats.  Cats slink by, trying, like us, to avoid being hit by motorbikes or donkey-drawn carts.  All of this must be accepted, and my American sensibilities suspended, to proceed. 

We return, and I am offered Moroccan spiced coffee for a short break before we begin.  It tastes like the chicory coffee from Café du Monde in New Orleans.  We take our items upstairs and begin.

First, we wash all and chop the herbs and onions.  We boil tomatoes and roast the eggplants on the open burner.  We prepare the soup stock with onions, tomatoes, herbs and oils and prepare the flavorings for the eggplant, which is all finely minced and re-heated on the stove.  Meanwhile, the couscous is prepared with water to rise and then with salt and oil.  Finally, the soup ingredients are added (chickpeas, tomatoes and water) up to the rim of the pot and left to boil while the couscous is steamed over boiling vegetables.  To add flavor to the couscous dish, we caramelize sliced onions with raisins.  We take a leisurely break for a banana yogurt drink, and then, as the food is finishing, we mix date paste, butter, sugar, and coconut with a little baking powder and roll the macaroon balls in powdered sugar to bake.  All the while, I listen to the music and the voices rising from downstairs and the sounds of the kasbah outside.

Mohammed serves the meal.  He joins me as we each spoon the vegetable couscous into our mouths from a shared serving dish, and he pours me tea with the cookies, which we share with a group of young French students at the next table. I am ready to try out my new cooking skills and language on others.  I am becoming like a local.

“Dinner with Friends” 1 August 2018, Jemaa el Fna, Marrakech

        Tonight, I was to meet my teacher Saida at the Carre Eden mall for a lesson.  Instead, she and her friend and fellow teacher, Fatima, met me outside the Koutoubia Mosque, and we spent our evening in the Jemaa el Fna market in the medina.  The market was packed tonight, and we had to fend off hawkers with "la, shukran," (no, thanks) over and over among the crowded evening souks to get to the specific destination to which I was leading my friends.  I introduced them first to my soup-connection, Abdoul.  He was quite delighted to see that I brought friends and ushered us to a place of honor on the benches and tables arranged around the giant soup pots, taking my bowl from the young worker to serve it to me himself, with a hand to his heart in gratitude.

         The soup was so hot, served that way, like tea or coffee, to encourage taking time to eat slowly, savor, and talk with friends rather than rushing on.  That is one of my favorite things about Moroccan culture.  So much about the daily routine is intended to make people stop what they are doing and be human beings, to take them out of their attention to tasks and encourage attention to inner self and community.  Though the sun had set, the temperature was still so high, and I patted myself with my scarf again and again.  I didn't need the soup, really, and it just brought about that much more perspiration, but I couldn't resist.  It was as delicious as usual, and I feel that I could return there day after day.  

           After, I led Saida and Fatima on another quest.  This time, I brought them to my favorite spot for cooling off and watching the activities from the edge of the marketplace: Cafe Argana.  We walked all the way up to the third floor for the best view.  The entire market was lit up with thousands of lights like the fireflies I miss from home, abuzz with the life of seller and buyer, snake charmer's flute and musicians' drums and singing.  The cafe was also alive with conversation and the clinking of glasses, the waiters in their crisp, white shirts and black aprons hurrying back and forth.  We chose ice cream and cool water.  There, they helped me practice my Arabic by narrating the goings-on, teaching me new words, and quizzing me on what I have learned.  Saida had to do double-duty as translator since Fatima speaks little English.  We laughed and ate and lapped up our ice cream like teenage girls at an American Friendly's restaurant.  We took many giddy "selfies" and looked out on the market from the balcony.

          Finally, we meandered through the market and stopped to listen to a group of desert musicians.  An elder from among them placed a traditional hat on my head and led me in a dance while my companions laughed and filmed us.  I thanked him with a few coins, and we stayed awhile longer, laughing, clapping, and dancing together until it was so late that I knew I had to find a taxi or I would have trouble getting one willing to take me all the way to my neighborhood.  Our final walk through the crowd and the souks out to the taxi stand was a slow one as we did not want to part.  They each made the sign of a heart with their fingers to let me know that they have a big, big love for me.  I feel the same, and that is the reason I am here: to connect with other people, to love one another, to make peace in this world.