Marsea at Sea

FINDING BRIDGES TO QUOZ IN MOROCCO
Part One

In the old city or Medina in Fez, you can find a camel’s head advertising the butcher’s wares; huge, white satin, bejeweled thrones for rent for wedding ceremonies; and enormous, gleaming copper pots, also available on loan, to cook the camel for the marriage feast. For everyday meals, there are couscous in different shades and grinds; glistening, sticky dates; sweet, red onions; plump, brown almonds; dusky, purple eggplants; beef carcasses with one testicle still attached to attest to its preferred gender; golden honey flavored with thyme or oranges for drizzling over pastilles; and pastel-colored blocks of ambrosial nougat imbedded with almonds. Moroccans use their favorite foods in enticing combinations of savory and sweet: lamb with quince, couscous with raisins, saffron and apples.

Juxtapositions challenged me at every turn in the Medina. By far the most striking one was myself with this place, this Other, this quoz. For a long time, in my personal dictionary, the definition of exotic has been Morocco. I have fantasized about hearing the call to prayer drifting through a market crowded with donkey carts and shoppers in caftains and jellabas. I envisioned dark narrow alleys, colorful, tiled doorways and soup pots bubbling in street cafes, redolent with the fragrance of exotic spices. And then I was there, inside that dream, trying to take it all in, trying to stay in the moment – smelling, listening, and looking around in all directions. Armed with my new resolve for this voyage, I wanted to live the question of what happens when I am face-to-face with The Other? Do I simply observe or do I want to connect? What relationship, if any, is possible? Are there any ways into the not-me and how will it feel being there?

Fez evoked all my habitual responses: soaking it all in, making photographs and notes to anchor my memories, being curious and asking questions. Although it wasn’t exactly clear to me as it happened, I also found a way in, discovered a bridge to take me from myself to the other. Actually there were two bridges, two people who guided me from myself out into a relationship with this exotic, foreign place and culture. One was the chef for the cooking class I had arranged, but that story will come in Part Two. First, I want to tell you about Thame..

It seems absurdly simple now. Why did I even ask that esoteric question of how to relate to quoz? For eons, when encountering new places or new experiences, people have gotten a guide. I’ve had dozens and dozens of guides over the years, some quite memorable and some woefully inadequate. But Thame (pronounced Tommy) came to me one afternoon in Fez to fulfill that old saying about when you need a teacher, one will come. I felt completely outside of Moroccan culture, as baffled by its ways and mores as tourists are completely confused by the warren of tiny streets in the Medina. I wanted very badly to find a way in.

Dressed in a brown wool jellaba, the traditional hooded robe of the Berbers, and white, crocheted skull cap, Thame guided me and my marvelous, new travel companions, Hugh and Linda Straley, to mosques and Koranic schools, vegetable stalls and fabric shops, elaborately tiled courtyards and bustling squares. We saw very few tourists, possibly due to the cold and rainy weather, but there were many residents out shopping and visiting, coming home from school or work. Around 150,000 people live in the Medina, many of whom work in the new city or European Sector as Thame called it. The hint of disdain in his voice as he said that didn’t seem to be racially based but more like “How could anyone chose to live there instead of here?” How indeed. His love for this place was as crystal clear as the ambiance was dark and dense. And that love was everywhere returned to him.

Thame’s stature in the community was constantly demonstrated. He could hardly move along past a few stalls before someone would call to him. He’d make eye contact and flash a radiant smile of recognition, white teeth in brown face. He’d nod, wave his umbrella or exchange a few words. Older people would fall in step with him and pick up a conversation that seemed to be only recently interrupted. Shopkeepers would call to him, seeming to say “Ah, you’ve got Americans today – very nice, very wealthy. Bring them here to look in my shop.” Thame would greet them but, thankfully, usually keep us moving. We had heard many stories of tourists being relentlessly hassled by touts and “fake guides” here but being with Thame, an officially licensed guide, prevented any of that nuisance. It was like being a visiting relative, shown around town by a well-loved uncle who had lived in that community all his life. Even beggars would greet him with a hopeful smile and he’d respond, inconspicuously handing them a few small coins. One of the five pillars of Islam is alms-giving and Thame was nothing if not a devout Muslim.

Islam occupies a central place in Thame’s life. He lives his religion and its values so vibrantly that I think I began to understand it a little. He made it visible and real to me. His values about money, his family and his community were illustrated in his many stories. His warmth and wisdom were genuine and captivating .Twice during our afternoon tour and once again the next morning when we went out with him, the call to prayer rang out through the old city. Before long we would find ourselves in a carpet workshop or ceramics factory where Thame turned us over to the salesman for a spirited tour ending up in a showroom crammed with products for sale. You’ve all probably been there, standard procedure everywhere, with a commission on the purchases for the guide. Sadly, the Straleys and I are not big shoppers but Thame seemed more surprised by that than disappointed. During these shopping breaks, he would excuse himself, find a spigot to do his ablutions and duck into a quiet, hidden corner to pray. During decades of guiding, he had devised a way to be devout and productive at the same time.

Islam has long been mysterious to me. I know no Muslims well, only a few are acquaintances. In Thame, our guide, I found a bridge not only to this place but also to this religion. I certainly can’t claim anything like true understanding of either. Thame and Lahcen, our cooking class chef (about whom I’ll write soon – check back) made the connections between me and what I had always thought of as not-me. Crossing over those bridges, I found a place, a culture, and a religion that felt more knowable, more comfortable than I could ever imagine. I am truly in their debt. I am also left with the questions: Where is quoz now? And what will happen when I meet it again?