Morocco: The End

 

We wake up to Yousef calling through the opening of our tent. I pull on my boots and am ready. Outside, the desert is grayish pink and the Berber men all have their faces hidden. We mount our dromedaries with two big lurches and set off as the sun begins to rise. We stop for pictures. This time we are nearly silent save for Mubarak’s occasional “Hold on!” When we arrive at the road again, we are sore, sleepy, and a little sad to say goodbye. We shake the hands that become like the foot of a camel, and they say, “Next time, next time,” beneath their scarves, eyes shining, faces full of unabashed kindness.

Back at the hotel we breakfast on crepes and tea, change our clothes and then hit the road.  I fall asleep with my face burrowed in my big jacket. We stop for lunch, more omelet, more Moroccan salad. Back in the car we all take turns dozing. Its dark when we reach Marrakech. We are sad to depart from the close knit group that has begun to feel like a kind of nomad family, and so make plans to meet up for dinner together after settling in to our respective hostels.

Mom and I are staying at Casa del Sol, a cute little hostel near the Square. We set down our bags and Mom befriends the man working the night shift, Mufasa, who speaks near perfect English. He’s playing an eclectic play list that includes songs from O’ Brother Where Art Thou. I take a quick shower, and, confronted by a lack of shampoo or other cleaning supplies, wash my hair with hand soap. We have tea with Mufasa, and then head into the market to meet with the group.

The Square at night is amazing, it’s own breed of chaos and smells and sights. The daytime orange juice carts are replaced with a maze of white numbered food stalls steaming into the cold night air. Vendors throw up blinking toys into the sky, sell lamps and candles and scarves. Men try and talk to us, asking, “French? English?” and making lewd gestures when they give up. Old women and children alike beg and sell packets of tissues. We decide to head to Stall 42, which Keith had visited on his first day.  On the way we stop for snails. Tomás buys a bowl and blinks as he tries them. “Spicy,” he comments. Mom tries one, too, says it tastes good but shudders, anyway.

The children persist all around her. She smiles and shakes her head at them with sad eyebrows and when she says, “No,” it sounds like an apology. We enter the maze of food stalls and are immediately accosted by dozens of eager shopkeepers, men, of course, spreading their arms wide and gesturing at their food. At Stall 42, a boy in a green robe tries to lure us in, not realizing we’d already decided on our destination. When an older man recognizes Keith, he dismisses the boy and attends to us himself. “Good friend,” he keeps saying. We chose a selection of food from the array displayed in a long row in front of the cooking area, and sit a long table covered in paper, where we are brought bread and dipping sauces.

The food comes continuously, like dim sum, a spicy spinach dish, rice with grilled peppers, fried eggplant, little fried potato patties, skewers of lamb and beef, small fish whose entire bodies have been battered and fried, their mouths agape, a strange cinnamon chicken dish that Tomás says “takes him on a journey.” It’s greasy and delicious, the table is covered in little plates and oil spots. We eat until we’re stuffed and warm.

Behind me I hear, “Sleeping,” and I turn around at the sound of English. The boy in green is laying on a bench with his hood over his face. He pulls it down and grins at me, then covers his face again. “Sleeping,” he repeats. How did peek-a-boo become so strangely charming? As we finish we’re brought mint tea in glasses. A boy with some sort of deformity that bends his legs inwards and a shoe shining kit keeps his gaze fixed on Mom. She can’t stop shaking her head sadly at him. Further down the road, a group of young boys weave and bob unsteadily, sniffing glue in an amoebic circle.

We divide up the bill and pay, and Mom gives into a shoeshine. The boy in green comes up and speaks to Tomás and I in Spanish. He says Argentinians are buena gente. He poses for a picture and then leans on my shoulder to look at it. The older man, who served us comes up and leans on my other side. “It’s good,” they approve. Another boy sees this, runs up to Mom and throw his arm around her for a photo, posing as all Moroccan boys seems to pose—extending one arm out wide, either open handed or with a thumbs up.

As the stalls are being taken down, the crowds disperse quickly. The guys offer to walk us back to our hostel, and we’re grateful as we become disoriented in the now deserted streets. We pass huddles figures sleeping under cardboard in the shadows. I stop to pet a sweet-faced kitty and she follows me for a while, and then spooks and darts away. We say our goodbyes, exchange hugs and promises of photos and Mufasa unlocks the hostel door for us. I fall asleep quickly to the strange, lingering sensation of the moving van in our hostel bunk bed.