Tree of Goats

You probably think this is a random posting title meant to grab your attention. But no, it's quite literal. On the three-hour ride from Marrakesh to the seaside town of Essouira, I suddenly punctuate the silence by yelling out, "There are goats in that tree!" One person behind me calmly translates this into French for his wife, and a couple people on the correct side of the bus look out the window with some mild interest. Meanwhile, I am lunging from across the bus to get our camera from the overhead rack and end up cursing my husband (and not silently, mind you) for not responding to this photo op with the same sense of urgency I feel. Except I don't say it quite that eloquently. I am now completely appalled that a) I have just seen a tree full of goats and have no photo of it and b) nobody else seems nearly as amazed by this as I am. What the hell is wrong with these people? How many trees full of goats have they seen? And I don't just mean goats around a tree, goats near a tree, or flocks of goats eating low-lying tree-like bushes. I mean something that looks like a child's drawing of a tree absolutely dotted -- from the bottom branches to the top -- with goats. It's like an apple tree, or an orange tree, except it's a goat tree. It's as if somebody has photoshopped a flock of goats onto a tree. Do you get the picture? Good. Because I don't!

To explain: my father worked for Kodak virtually his entire career, and we actually referred to the Eastman Kodak Co. as the Great Yellow Father. Cameras, photography, and getting the picture (or in this case, getting the f***ing picture!) are rather important. We might have just had major surgery and be limping with crutches while still partially under the influence of anesthesia, and the next second will suddenly be scaling a mountain to the get the right angle for a shot.

Here is the obligatory family photo of another family member taking a photo. By family law, there's one taken on every trip; in this case, of P taking a photo of the Green Wok Thai restaurant sign where we eat dinner once when we break down and give in to the girls who cannot handle one more night of cous-cous tagine.

I am profoundly disappointed about this missed goat tree photo all afternoon, and it doesn't help that we end up having a dreary, freezing outdoor dinner. By now, cold and completely dispirited, I am having a "bad traveler" moment, until we decide to walk to the fishing docks. The universe works in mysterious ways, indeed, because it is at this point that I suddenly stumble on what may be my favorite non-desert photo of the entire trip.

Cheered up rather considerably, I resume my normal enjoyment of the trip, and of taking photos, which sometimes means wresting the good camera out of Anthony's hands. Here's the same shot the next day, when I return to the scene of the crime, and others of the docks.

 

 

And some of the town's famous blue doors:

 

But it's not just the missed shot of the goats that gets my goat. It's also the fact that so many of the Moroccans don't like to be photographed. This is especially true of the more traditionally-clad folks -- women in burkas and men in djellabahs -- who are, of course, the ones I most want to capture. So it becomes a sort of personal challenge to get my camera ready, then try to look like I'm talking to Anthony or the girls, and surreptitiously take a photo from the hip. Usually, the results are not what I'm dreaming of:

 

 

 

I have better luck if I can take the photo before they look my way and notice. Just after the click, I get scolded frequently. I have yet to figure out why this young man is offended that I take a photo of his bread. It's bread.

 

 

After days of playing my personal game, I am finally rewarded with one not-award-winning-but-at-least-acceptable, from-the-hip shot of a burka-clad woman. Anthony calls me culturally insensitive, but given what I said to him on the bus, I can hardly claim offense.

A few days later, on our return bus back to Marrakesh, you better believe that I ride the whole time with a camera in my lap. Of course I don't really expect to see the tree of goats again; lightning doesn't strike twice. But unbelievably, there they are -- trees of goats. It turns out they love the argan trees here, and they climb up to munch. Whether the leaves taste better up there, or they just enjoy dinner with a view, I don't know. I can't ask them; they're goats. And so, while it is shot from a moving bus and may not be the best photo I've ever taken (heck, it's not even the best photo on this page), it is one of the most satisfying. Anthony asks, when he sees it, if I'm disappointed there's a tourist in the photo, taking pictures of the goats. And I can honestly say I'm thrilled both to have the picture and to see that there's at least one other person out there who thinks a tree full of goats is one unusual and memorable Kodak moment!

Old/New, Right/Left, Whatever

The cliché would be to say that Marrakesh is a land of contrasts. And the truth is that in a city that's been around and evolving for almost a thousand years, there's bound to be some old against new. These photos below kind of say it all. But I'm going to say more anyway.

 

An example of the ancient: the El Badi Palace which, frankly, would be more awe-inspiring if Moulay Ismaïl hadn't plundered virtually everything but the mud walls themselves at the end of the 17th century. The holes in the wall come from inserting the scaffolding in the mud as they create the walls. Then they leave the holes so that future renovations can use them. Generously, Ismaïl did not abscond with the holes.

An example of ...the ancient. When was the last time you saw so many (or any?) pay phones?

And more of the legitimately ancient... In this case, Bob is not your Uncle, but rather the way you pronounce "Bab" which means gate. The mid-12th century Bab Agnaou is the prettiest of them, leading into the Marrikesh medina, but the most fun to say is Bab er Rob. The Bab Agnaou gate leads you in right next to the beautiful Saadian tombs, which were built in the 16th century, walled-in, and then subsequently lost until World War I pilots spotted them from above. How you lose something this big, in the middle of a populated city, is a mystery; it's not like it's a Mayan pyramid overtaken by the jungle.

And here, a view of the 12th century Koutoubia minaret in the center of the old city, with a colorfully-clad Berber water-seller in front of it.  

My personal favorite of the old sites: the Ben Youssef Medersa. Built in the 14th century, it is no longer the largest Koranic university in the Maghreb (Northern African region containing Morocco, Mauritania, Tunisia, Libya, and Algeria), but it remains just as stunningly beautiful as it ever was. The former students' rooms are small but look out onto this gorgeous courtyard. I've seen worse places to live in 21st century Paris.

Here you can see the embodiment of the national dyslexia. This sign clearly point to the right and say that the Majorelle Gardens are 200m to the left. Around 75% of the people we've asked for direction through the country have pointed right and told us "left" or vise versa. I actually looked up how to say these words in Arabic, thinking perhaps it sounded similar in a confusing way. But no, "left" is yaminan in Arabic and gauche in French and "right" is shimalan in Arabic and droit in French. So we have no explanation for this pervasive phenomenon.

The place itself is something of a contrast -- a garden first built by French artist Jacques Majorelle, then purchased and revived by Yves Saint-Laurent, who also opened a fashion musuem here. It's a haven from the honking and hubbub of the streets. Other than the swarms of tourists inside, that is. Very refined with an Occidental sensibility (it feels a little like being in a Monet painting) yet distinct Moroccan influences.

Naked Family Togetherness

On our last day in Marrakesh (also spelled Marrakech [officially, especially in French] or  Marrakesch [German]. It's the Hannuka/Chanukah of Moroccan city names), all G wants to do is visit a hammam. Traditionally, these are like the Turkish baths, and there are public ones all over the country. The problem with these is that the men and woman are always separated. The other problem is that while there may be some lovely, huge ones somewhere in the country (I'm hoping/assuming even nicer than the one I visited in Paris), the local public hammam is small, dingy, and generally smells/feels like a gross junior high locker room. With more naked parts sharing the same benches.

So after a little looking around and making the decision to fork over tourist prices (around 200 dirham [20€] per adult and half that per child, instead of 15 dirham [1.5€] at the public hammam), we end up at the Koutoubia Spa, where they start us off with the ubiquitous, obligatory sweet mint tea. Then, up in a small room on the rooftop, we all get naked and, in turn, a woman uses black soap to scrub us down for our gommage, then coats us with a light layer of mud and has us sit till it's our turn to be washed off. Clearly, to work here the women must be modern Muslims, since our lady is scrubbing Anthony's naked body along with the girls and me. The scrub is on the edge of painful, but the good thing is that it does get all those dead skin cells off. She must go lighter for the children, because they don't complain. Or maybe I'm a wimp.

Then we are wrapped in big robes and towels and brought downstairs where there are three massage tables. The girls share a table, and a masseuse, who can do each tiny back with one hand. They rub argan oil -- the local tree extract that's increasingly touted in Western beauty products -- and give us  lovely massages. By the time the lights come back on at the end of our half hour, little P is snoring away on her table, much to the amusement of all. It's just so darn cute.

Cameras aren't allowed in this -- or any -- hammam, so this is all I get -- a picture of the sign in the alley, next to the entrance door. Even then, I have to snap it quickly, as I walk by, because the person standing in the door doesn't want me to take the photo. Perhaps because it's such a risqué job?

If you're ever in Marrakesh, I recommend this hammam for somebody who wants an interesting cultural experience without having to get too authentic, if you know what I mean. 

All Hail Volubilis

We are staying with a Moroccan family in Meknès -- the sisters of the girls' former preschool teacher, a beloved French-speaking Moroccan woman in San Francisco. We have a hard time deciding whether to stay with her family, imposing all four of us into their home, or to stay in the inexpensive, lovely, and convenient hotel we've booked. Clearly, we would actually be more comfortable in the hotel, especially since we don't know the family that has invited us. On the other hand, while the hotel is guaranteed to be comfortable, the home-stay offers a chance for an interesting cultural experience. And in the end, I know myself well enough to know that I would always regret having passed up this chance. When else will we stay with a Muslim family in Morocco?

 

They are as gracious as can possibly be, but one of the biggest cultural differences we notice is that the TV is always on. Always. They eat to the TV. Their kids are also on school holiday and spend their days in front of the TV. Even our kids, who are practically hypnotized by the cartoons -- even in Arabic -- complain after a while that the TV is boring (Victory!). Eventually, they get the Moroccan kids to go out and play soccer in the streets, and that's probably the favorite half hour our kids spend with them. Our girls also learn that the Moroccan kids have never been more than an hour away from their house. We hope this gives our girls a better appreciation for just how lucky we are.

The kids' names take us the entire day and a half to memorize, and I'm sure I'm not spelling a single one even remotely correctly (well, especially since they'd be written in Arabic): Wizhden, Obdurachmen, Chafsa, and Samya.

The whole apartment is filled with flat couches, which are used as beds by the kids and by us, too. We eat dinner of couscous and chicken off of one large communal tagine. They all dig on from their side with their hands but give us spoons, presumably having heard that Americans are used to using utensils. We are surprised to realize they actually don't speak much French, but we muddle through anyway. I'm the only female over the age of 12 who will show her hair.

  

From their house, we hire a taxi for the day to go out to Volubilis, an almost 2,000-year-old Roman ruin that was at the Southwestern edge of the Roman empire in its heyday. Named after the morning glory that grows there, it is now populated by storks in their huge nests, and is surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with olive trees. It is incredible how much it suddenly feels like being in Italy.

  

  

Pippicus, Goddess of Flowers, and Zinzibar, Goddess of the Hunt.

 

We take over an abandoned home and make stores in each of the rooms. Gigi's store sells bread dough, which we purchase with plant-pod "coins" then take to a bakery to bake in the wood-fired oven. This is how the Moroccans actually do bake their bread, still to this day. The "dough" she is selling in the white plastic bag is the dreaded FFF: Four-day-old Funky Feta -- two lumps of feta cheese we bought for about $5 to use for a picnic, then decided we didn't want, then decided was too weird to give as a thank you to our guide in Fez, then decided was too weird and old to give as a thank you to our homestay family in Meknès, then decided was too funky and old to actually eat. But, it turns out, it is just the right squishy consistency inside three layers of plastic bags to make excellent fake dough.

 

One last stop for the day: a photo-worthy nearby village called Moulay Idriss, so named because it houses the shrine of Idriss I, who founded a dynasty in the 8th century here. As everywhere in Morocco, you can tell where the mosque complex is by the green roofs. A man attaches himself to us for the entire trip there, depsite the fact that we clearly state that a) we do not want a guide and b) we are not going to pay him anything at all. Still he hikes up and over with us and, of course, holds his hand out for a tip at the end. We hold strong, despite his obvious annoyance. It is a picturesque town in obvious ways and one not-so-obvious -- according to our uninvited, unwanted, unpaid, and therefore unhappy guide, this is the only round minaret in Morocco and one of only four in the world.