I Have Been to the Mountain Top...

So, after leaving the internet cafe that night, my friend and I ate dinner then prayed the sun-down prayer at the main mosque that's in the town square of old Chefchawin. I decided to make salatul istikhara about the whole visiting Sidi Masheesh thing because I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. Then my friend did a little shopping in the market and we went back to the hotel. I asked another person working there (not the hashish smoking one) about going to see Sidi Masheesh. Him and another guy who was just sitting there told me to go down to the new city to the place where the large taxis take people to Tetouan and ask the taxi drivers there about going in the morning and how much they would charge.

So we took a small taxi down to the large taxi stand and a very informative gentlemen gave me an idea of the ballpark figure, but basically told me that every driver could ask a different price and that I should come in the morning and talk to who ever was there. I make a mental note that i like the new city of Chefchawin more than the old city because i see real Moroccans walking around, and don't see as many tourists or hashish.

The next morning we leave the hotel early and opt for a small breakfast near the bank where i change some money in anticipation of the taxi fare. I kind of made a decision to pay whatever they asked because in the grand scheme of things it would not be so much as to break me financially and how stingy could i be to my soul to rob it of the chance to visit the spiritual mentor of Imam as-Shadhili?
We go to the taxi stand again and tell them where i want to go. They say "oh you know you will have to pay to charter the entire taxi" I tell them that i understand that.
A guy comes up and tells me he will charge me 500 dirhams to take me. I say what about 400, this is closer to the real price i discussed with the man last night. He is adamant about 500 and i consider it a sale price off of the original 700 the first driver quoted me the day before. I agree. We get into his taxi and drive for an hour and a half through mountains. Scenery so beautiful and rare that my friend begins to cry again. I ask the cab driver about the growing of hashish and he says that until last year a lot more used to be grown, but the government has begun cracking down , he points out a few fields of it here and there and yes it does look like grass. He says that the people who live in the mountains have lived for centuries herding goats, but they are no longer content with just getting by and that few other crops will grow for them. But he adds, growing and selling hashish is unequivocally haram.

We near the final mountain top where Sidi Masheesh is buried and stop at a little spring. The taxi driver says the water is healing and is especially good for kidney stones. We drink from the spigot and fill up a small water bottle had. The water is cold and full.

We round the mountain to Sidi Masheesh and park the car. The taxi driver says he will wait for us. We can only spend an hour or so visiting because the only bus with seats left to go to Fes that day leaves at 1 pm and it is 10:30 am or so when we arrive at the burial site.

We walk nervously up the wide white stairs to get to Sidi Masheesh. Along the way groups of men and women press us for charity, we give what we can but realize that we forgot to bring enough small change. As we reach the site at the very top of the mountain two men start yelling at me to take off my shoes. I didn't realize it until they said it, but in the space around the site, cork-tree bark has been put down over the rock, at at this point you are expected to take off your shoes.

After making my ablutions, I am directed to sit in front of a group of Quran reciters, they recite for us while people douse us with rose water and women continue to approach asking for charity. Then we get up and pay our respects to the grandchildren of Sidi Masheesh who are buried near him, the man in charge of the site comes to say a prayer for us and another man douses us with rose water. Then on to Sidi Masheesh. We pay our respects, give our Salaams, read the Fatiha and Hizb al Bahr. More and more people come up to him and bend down to look at the actual grave site which is enclosed by a wall with a barred window that allows you to look in at it. They whole time that we are there, there are people sitting in groups, some reciting Quran , some calling on God by reciting one of His names in Arabic which means The Subtly Kind One, Ya Lateef over and over again, some sitting pensively.

We know that we are running out of time, so we say a few more prayers and just take a few minutes to drink in and breathe in the beauty of the place. The man in charge of the site offers for us to spend the night if we want. We say no we can't, we are in a hurry, and walk down the wide white stairs to the car where the taxi driver is waiting. We race down the mountain and get to the bus station literally 5 minutes before the bus to Fes pulls up. We take our seats and try to process the last few hours , all the while the words of the Salatul Masheeshiyya which i heard some men reciting at the grave-site goes around and around in my head.

Chefchawin and bargaining to visit Moulay Mashish

Chefchawin

After a four-ish hour bus ride we make it through gorgeous mountains to the town of Chefchawin. And yes it is charming with all of its postcard views of the turquoise blue streets.

We make it to our hotel in the old city (with some assistance of course) and then try to come up with a plan. We are close to the burial place of Moulay Abdessalaam ibn Mashish, the man who was Imam Shadhili's shayk ( may God have mercy on them both). So I came with the intention of visiting him. That means taking another one and a half hour ride out in a chartered taxi. A friend who has been out to the site gives me the number of a driver who has taken him. I call him from my room as the hotel manager sits in the courtyard below my room smoking hashish out of a pipe. We are in hashish country here, it is grown and smoked throughout the region and the smell is ever present in the streets ( and apparently also inside the hotels)of Chefchawin.

I get the taxi-driver on the phone and he tells me that it will be a whopping 700 Dirhams to drive us to the burial site of Moulay Mashish and bring us back. To put that in perspective the bus ride from Fes to Chefchawin was only 80 dirhams. I am in shock and try to talk some sense into him, he is willing to go down by 100 dirhams, but says that what he quoted me is the going price, take it or leave it.
Masha'Allah. We decide to think about it a bit, I try to talk my friend into driving a rental car there ourselves but she is put off by the windy mountain roads and the aggressive way Moroccans drive. We decide to go for a walk around the town, get some second opinions and then figure it out inshaAllah.

We go for a casual walk through the town through the town-square and down the steep streets of the old city. My mind's eye notices the religious comportment of the shop keepers. Many are obviously practicing and some posses a certain spiritual air to them. I walk past a shop where one man is sewing and other older men in Moroccan jilebas are sitting around him. One man is reading from a book. They look as if it is a spiritual discussion. Later we walk past them again and I hear them talking about different Sufi brotherhoods, tariqas in the area.

In looking for a cyber cafe, we come upon a fruit seller and accidentally interrupt his dhikr ( remembrance of God) to ask him the price of grapes. He puts down his prayer beads carefully, so as not to lose his place in order to talk to us, and when we ask if we can taste them before buying , he breaks off two grapes then runs to the back of the shop to wash them off before handing them to us with a "Bismillah."

So now off to dinner and to figure out how to get to Moulay Mashish and how not to get contact "highs" from the ever present stench of hashish.

Peace

A Little Note from the Ramparts of Fes

I write this post in an internet cafe as the sound of a wedding procession goes past. Today was one of those day when my friend and I did a little tourist walk along the ramparts of the old city. The old fortifications that rise above the old city and give you a clear view of old Fes. Its one of those things tour books say you should see and the starting point of a lot of tours.

So we took a cab up and then walked around through the rocky terrain until we made it to the Merinid tombs built in the 14th century and where a lot of old Sultans are buried. There were only a few people out in the mid-afternoon sun. We took in the views, gave our Salaams to the people buried there, and took a few photos of the hills beyond Fes. Its funny that some of the most well-known bad neighborhoods are now the neighbors of these great historic ruins, and so i try to take in the site while also wondering about being mugged.

After being cooked by the sun, we go search for a taxi to take us somewhere where there are cool beverages. We have a belated lunch at a cafe overlooking the Bou Inania madrasa, then go to pray Asr there ( which means we get out of paying the 10 dirham fee to go in as tourists,) because congregational prayers are still held there.

Next off to the tailors where my friend is having Moroccan jilebbas and kaftans made for her before quickly she goes back. She tries on the clothes, they make alterations and then we head for the bus station to buy tickets for a little excursion to the turquoise mountain town of Chefchawin we are planning to take tomorrow God willing.

Peace

Before Fes Leaves Me

There is a saying about making the annual pilgrimage to Mecca that goes, " Leave Mecca before it Leaves You," meaning once you have completed the rites and rituals of the pilgrimage, don't hang around too long or else the sanctity of the place will start to become normal to you and you the reverence will seep from your heart.

I realized the other day that this saying applies to me and Fes. Fortunately, my friend is visiting me here and it is her first trip to Morocco after years of wishing she could visit. Yesterday we walked to the neighborhood vegetable market and she marveled at the stall after stall of fresh tomatoes, beets, grapes, etc. Everything was stacked in nice piles and plentiful. As we walked towards home with out sack so full we each held a side, she spoke as if she had been really moved by the experience. "Wow," she said " REAL food, healthy food that's fresh, and it doesn't cost a million dollars." We stopped and got half a kilo of fresh sardines. (Have you ever had fresh Moroccan sardines fried with garlic and cilantro paste? Delicious!)

Then a final stop at a small farm to buy a bunch of mint leaves. The farmers take note of my friend bending down to point out to me the little eggplants growing on the plants in the field. She admires their farming skills, she can never get eggplant to grow in her garden at home.

And then I take her to the Qarwiyin to experience the sun-down prayer in the open courtyard mosque with all of its fountains, and chirping birds and majesty. We sit after the prayer to listen to them recite Quran and put blessings on the Prophet, on him be Peace and Blessings.

As we walk out of the mosque and I point out some other things to her in the old city, there are tears in her eyes. She is trying to respond to my talking, but she is overwhelmed. All of this, this Morocco, has touched her, yet I feel my own heart shut-off and I think of that saying I heard about Mecca, and I think that it must be time for me to leave Fes.

The Morocco That Still Is

It was and still is the tradition of Moroccan King to travel around Morocco, going from region to region, royal palace to royal palace based upon the necessities demanded by the political climate or the holiday season, and I would even guess, the weather.

I am writing this post from inside a cyber cafe in the old city of Marrakech. I am thinking a lot about the King, this one and former ones (who used to go by the title of "Sultan," but they thought that "King" sounded more "modern")and about the general state of Morocco, because just before I began my trip here to Marrakech, and as while riding the trains, I have been reading this book called Morocco That Was by a British man named Walter Harris, who lived in Morocco in the late 1800s and early 1900s. He was a private citizen, but served as a consultant to both the British and Moroccan governments, and was a friend of the late Sultan Abdul Aziz.

The book is has a lot of information about the social and political state of Morocco in those days and gives a lot of insight into the "why" of why did Morocco get colonized by the French? I haven't finished the book yet, but it is definitely one of the best books about Morocco I have read in a while, and good books about Morocco (meaning they handle the topic sensibly and without exaggeration) are hard to come by in English.

The book talks alot about the goings-on of the late Sultan Abdul Aziz in the years just before the French colonization of Morocco and talks a lot about life in the Palaces of Fes and Marrakech. I am here in Marrakech with a good friend who is visiting Morocco for the first time. There is such comfort in being in a foreign country with a person who has known you for more than a decade. And yes although i can "fit in" in Morocco and speak the language, I have begun to feel more foreign here. It is combination of the irritability that is brought on by the heat,and the fact that my time here , at least for this trip, is slowly winding down. It is mostly a feeling of annoyed disappointment with Moroccans especially when I read about the piety and good works of their ancestors, or visit the structures that were built and thrived under their ancestors, but are abandoned and presently decay.

My friend and I are staying in a low-key riad in Marrakech.There are no signs from the outside that it is not just a regular home. But it is a traditional house whose rooms are rent out mostly to foreign tourists. The people who run it are quiet and kind and I feel as if I am staying with a family and not at a hotel. Outside of our room is a balcony under which is a courtyard and above which is the blue sky. After taking advantage of the morning coolness by walking to the Ben Yousef madrasa, we came back to our riad and had a simple lunch of black olives, plain yogurt, fresh bread, water, and grapes. All things we had bought along the way as we walked through the market. There are few other guests in the riad, because the heat makes this the low season.
So we ate alone on the roof, the traditional domain of Moroccan women, and we felt free to loosen our scarfs and relax. The few men who came to the neighboring roofs to "do something" quickly lowered their gaze and went inside when they saw us.

And then to the traditional afternoon nap before going out to enjoy the old city in the cooler afternoon, with my friend encouraging me to be grateful for the goodness that there is still in the Morocco that still is.

Oh the Slaves? or Don't Stop a Dark-Skinned Morrocan from Making His Money

I have been thinking about writing this post for a few days now. Two things have hindered me. The first being that my laptop died on me and I have been running around trying to get it fixed and basically dreading the thought of re-entering the world of Moroccan cyber cafes with all of its over-heard Skype conversations. There is such a thing as having too much personal information about a stranger.

The second being that I wanted to ask a few of my Moroccan friends about the subject of this post so that it could be informed and well rounded God Willing.
So the other day while walking home from a cyber cafe that I had to go to in order to Skype the computer company to figure out how to fix my computer from here in Morocco, because it is still under warranty, I passed a banquet hall where a wedding was going on. Sitting at the front gates of the hall were two dark-skinned Moroccan men dressed impeccably in cream colored traditional Moroccan clothes , their heads crowned in red Fez caps.

Now granted, I was already a little annoyed after my talk with the computer company, but seeing the men there really bothered me. Why? Because it is a tradition especially here in Fes, but probably in other parts of Morocco too, to have a dark-skinned man at the door of a party. I once heard two Moroccans talking about racism in Morocco and one said to the other, "it's just like how people from Fes like to have a dark-skinned person at the door of the wedding... " When he said this, a lot of things clicked in my head. I suddenly recalled all of the dark-skinned men i had seen at the entrance to weddings. I had not realized it was a trend, or that the guy at the door had to be dark-skinned.

Do not get me wrong, Moroccans are incredibly tolerant and what I know of racism from the America experience does not exist here. The idea of "race" is not as ingrained here. People here freely associate and marry across the color line, and people are not regulated to certain neighborhoods or jobs because of their skin color. Except of course, the men at the doors of weddings.

So, I decided to get to the bottom of this " phenomenon" and ask a few friends what was reason to having the dark-skinned man at the door.
The first woman I asked told me that the practice of having the dark-skinned men at the door is only something really "high-class" people do, to show off their wealth and that people believe the men are a protection from the evil eye. She said it is a reminder of a former time. To which i said " of slavery" and she said yes. She said that she did not agree with the practice, but that i should not stop the man from making his money. I asked her how much she thought he made per party, she said probably around 200 dirhams (about 25 US dollars). I told her that that amount would not be enough for me to sit there like that, and she said quite seriously that I was not dark enough anyway, my skin color is reddish brown, they prefer the really black guys. Well, that's a relief.

So, then later the same day I asked another friend. I said to her " what's the deal with the dark-skinned guys who sit out front of weddings?" Her immediate first reaction was " oh the slaves?" I was in shock. I think she sensed my shock. " They actually call them slaves," I asked? Yes, she said, its just supposed to be a throw back to the old days. I told her I thought it was bad practice, she agreed but was kind of resigned to its existence. It's a job for the men, she explained , they greet the wedding guests and show people to their seats.

Still later the same day I asked a third friend. She just kept saying "it's a tradition" I could tell it made her uncomfortable to talk about it. I asked her if she had it at her wedding and she said no. Its a tradition, the men are kind of like decoration, she said to me. If I wanted to know more than that I would have to ask someone who knew more about it than her she said.

Why is this dark-skinned men at weddings bothering me so? I think it is because it goes against all that I have experienced of the beauty, considerateness, and tolerance of Morocco. It just doesn't make sense to me. Also, as a dark-skinned person myself (but not dark enough to work the door of a wedding apparently), I find it to be extremely humiliating. I literally feel nauseous now when i see it.

I read an article about slavery in Morocco and the legacy of dark-skinned Moroccans and it spoke about how people believe that dark-skinned people have baraka, spiritual blessing and light-skinned women often ask dark-skinned women to breastfeed their babies or to pray for them. I guess that is a refreshing break from racist stereotypes of Black people in America. Better to be considered a person of spiritual blessing than a genetically inferior criminal.

I think that I am also in shock with the pride by which people want to be associated with the era of slavery. I am certainly not used to this in America, where slavery is a touchy subject for White Americans, and the people I know whose families actually owned slaves are generally too embarrassed to ever speak of it, especially in front of Black Americans.

All of my Moroccan friends with whom I spoke about this seemed to think that the dark-skinned men at the door thing is a kind of benign practice, done out of ignorance to show off the families wealth, but nothing I should waste too much time thinking about. Yeah, i should get back to worrying about my laptop.