Voices along the way
originally posted on March 18th
I couldn' sleep all night and today in this heat and fighting with the hordes of tourists I couldn't stop thinking about Mark. I heard German being spoken all the time. And I had over all this weird background, the calm, soothing tune of " Just a Perfect Day", that so calmly projects simple images of little pieces of happiness in shady parks. And I searched a place to pray. Somewhere where I am actually allowed. Sometimes this ban of entrance becomes terribly infurianting. We are all the same facing death, we are all the same humans, prone to the same feelings and downtimes.
++++
So many things have happenned in this couple of days, and when I arrived yesterday at the net café I was eager to put some of them here. Yesterday when I tried to call the States and the phone card didn't work, when I was lost in my confusion, and people kept coming to me and giving me Marlboro or hotel offers, I was afraid I will burst into an angry state of mind. But the contrary, I walked back the streets of Marrakesh not only being dettached, but being aware that Morocco has nothing to do with it, and I shouldn't redirect my negative energy towards it.
To escape this negative energy, I will do a catharthic overview of the last days.
The last time I wrote, it was about the train to Meknes, the imperial capital of the Alaouites. Less harrassed, I discovered a very silent answer to Fes, with large squares, very large, with people selling random merchandise, basking in the ardent sun. It is hot, but I wear long sleaves and long jeans, as doing otherwise is seen as a proof of disrespect to the culture. Somebody should tell that to the (much too many) tourists on the streets of Marrakesh, that seem to be on the beach with their very summerish outfits. I found this reflection of one the guidebooks I read ( and I have to confess, I got so much from the Routard and Lonely Planet, so many inside scoops, they even indicating the presence of some menacing individuals in Salé, who appeared at the exact spot as said, which is pretty funny) that I found excellent: The Western European countries ( and the mayor of Rotterdam is a good example) speak sometimes of the need to limit immigration as the European cultural model may be threatened. And there are indeed visas, regulations, etc. that block the access to the paradise-seen above mentioned countries. But what about the Moroccan cultural model and its permanent exposure to this huge masses of tourists in skimpy outfits, exposed shoulders and legs, things that make an orthodox Muslim very uncomfortable. I am really thinking whether a certain "official recommendation" about dress would be needed. Of course, there is the freedom of expression, and dress is a form of expression ( not to get into the very fascinating Cartoons discussion), but as the French government made the UN admit, there is and should be an exception to liberalism: the cultural exception. France has made the international organisms accept its quotas on French music ( considered before as anti free trade regulations, thus against international regulations), and has institionalized the cultural exception, claiming that this should be the place where free trade shouldn't be allowed, as there are forms of culture vanished to perish in a globalizing world, being "not rentable", but very culturally relevant. Could the traditional way of dress in Morocco be considered a form of cultural good in need to be protected? Most European countries have placed their traditional folk costumes into museums and have uniformicized the dress style. Should governments be allowed to defend the cultural exception on the model of French music?
But going back to Meknes, after purposefully getting myself lost in a cavernous labyrinth of cave-style housing with kids playing football under the medieval walls that let almost no fresh air nor light infiltrate, three kids offered to let me out of the labyrinth and took me out to the light. I told them about the existence of a country called Romania ( Rumania as they say it here) in the exotic, snowy North.
I got to eat into this family kept place, on a side street, a really nicely restored house, with mosaics and all. The server , this guy about my age, had a perfect French accent and told me as to this French couple that arrived at the same time with me that is our home and we should feel free to move around the indeed homelike furniture. Eating this great "Moroccan salad" ( and I've eaten by now in Morocco three totally distinct "salade marocane", with totally different ingredients and raisons de vivre, talk about consistency..), I started talking to the French couple, who were two very nice 50 year old from Nantes. " Yes, Morocco is nice, but oh , there are things here so backward that we feel we're in the sixteents century"; " we've been here and saw that, and oh, it was so poor... the poverty here is fragrant... not to mention the garbage everywhere. I suddenly felt so, so uncomfortable, as they were talking very loud and everybody in this house probably understood French. I tried to contracarate, saying " But what a great culture one can find here, what spectacular artistic things one can see", at which, I couldn't believe it, the lady made this face and said " Hmm... It's not that.. It is so backward here". I felt like I'm turning red, and at this time, suddenly there was loud music coming from the place our waiter was. I got the hint. We talked about Sciences Po, Paris, about their future travel plans. I ate my tagine, and when the couple left, and then a very arrogant Italian man left as well, behaving very impolitely with the waiter, I felt like I really wanted to say something.
And I did, in my traditional, never shut up tradition.
I said " Please excuse me for the conversation". He answered " There is no problem, you are here like in our own home". I added " No, I mean the content of the conversation. We seem to have had very distinct ideas of Morocco, the couple and I..."
" Yes, this happens so very soon. They notice only the bad sides of Morocco; And this type of discourse, yeah, it is especially the French that have it." And we started talking, " You know sir, I also study political sciences and...", and we talked until I had to run catch a train, him occasionally going arounf to serve other people ( !) . We talked about colonianism and the French's always present cultural superiority complex, and how Morocco has shown increasing pro-American support as a method to respond to the French continuation of nearly colonial looks on Morocco. The King supported the American actions in the Middle East, for the outcry of France and the Arab world. But this king traves his lineage to the prophet... A surprising pro-Americanism. Then we passed to Western Sahara, about which, he bluntly said " This shouldn't be in Morocco. We speak a different language, we are different people, it is a mere occupation". unfortunately I had to run...
Morocco is not a good place to look out to the landscape in trains or buses, as people invariably initiate a conversation with you. So, in the train to Rabat, this man sits next to me and , of course, starts talking, asking my CV and telling me he is going to his job in Sidi Kacem. I asked him, I don't remember how we got to this, which memory is darker, of the French or of the Spaniards ( who had the region of Rif, Ceuta and Mellila, and ruled from Tetuan, now to be found as major square in most Spanish cities I've been...). And he said " the Spaniards came in and left, leaving nothing. Nothing. No schools, no doctors, no roads." " With the French is another story.". And this is the truth- the modern cities of Fes, Meknes, Rabat are all French affairs, luckily built far away from the Medina to let it be preserved today ( only the one in Rabat is a continuation of the medina, by an actually very ingenious, flowing plan). Schools, hospitals, railroads. The French protectorate has both destroyed the Moroccan classical structures, undermining its economy with the influx of French goods and the death of artisanat ( later resucitated by tourism), and created modern Morocco, with post offices and French high schools, railroads and tree lined avenues.
Rabat is a wonderful case study of this, and I have to confess I absolutely loved this interesting city, that very few tourists (compared to Marrakesh) choose to see. A very elegant French period center, a bustling medina, a splendid mausoleum for authoritarian kings Mohamed V and Hassan II , the first two kings of a post French Morocco, the complete opposite , conservative and time unffected twin city of Salé ( capital of the only pirate state in history...), an amazing, Greek Island style kasbah, and a great beach, full with youth coming back from school, me being the only alien among them, and feeling bad I was intruding. Some kids were playing the guitar with English lyrics, some others were surfing, this was all very Rabat, very modern capital like.
In Rabat I had this weird urge- I said I really wanted to check it. To see it. To feel it. The ultimate postmodern Moroccan experience. The end of all things. The but, the goal. It was standing there, with its golden arches. It's called McArabia.
So I entered the establishment, full of people, with a smile, very outsized, on my face. I took it, I smiled again at the surprised server, I took photos of it with the backround of this old woman in traditional dress savoring a fresh cheeseburger.
Leaving Rabat meant another train ride, this time in a full compartment consisting of the old woman who doesn't speak French, the 40 year old smiling worker, the 40 year old elegant woman whose cell was ringing every 5 minutes and she spoke with this curious mix of French and Arabic " Oui, je suis dans le train. Je vais *** à Marrakesh à 8 heur. µµùù$$ù**ù Oui, je te dit! Mais il n'a pas àç_ç_mùù ? oh, et moi, qui j'ai crus que mùpççè_è-è_ Ah, quel horreur! Il faut décidément qu'on *ù*^$_è!!", the 25 year old suit dressed, freshly out of job interview very funny guy who was convinced that my real goal to visit Morocco is to please my Moroccan girlfriend in Paris, and two young women, one veiled, one not. The young guy broke the ice, but the elegant woman said something in Arabic, everybody laughed, and then he took his gul out saying " You see, she said I am disgusting. Yeah, women, what can you do with them... You know, the king changed the Mudawana, to make women equal in rights with men. They were always the masters, anyway...". The conversation the followed, dotted with outbursts of fights between the woman and the young guy, all in French, was explosive, , rather esoteric at times, with passionate interventions from one of the young women, who said " What kind of image do you create to our friend here about Morocco, with all the crap you say..."? He got off the train, making the elegant woman start talking about how she is sure he is not going to get the job, as he is so misbehaved, and all that matters in life are good matters. Educated at a liberal arts college in Colorado (!), with her daughter now in classes prepa in paris, she said that there are so many opportunities in Morocco and doesn't understand the young people's desires to leave the country. In fact, the young guy just came from Canada where he finished a masters in engineering, but he wanted to give it a try in Morocco. The conversation turned in a whole compartment affair, even with the old woman interfering in Arabic, very passionate.
And then I got to Marrakesh by night, finding a fairy tale landscape of dancers , cobras, bbq smoke, hordes of people, and a sad, sad email.
I couldn' sleep all night and today in this heat and fighting with the hordes of tourists I couldn't stop thinking about Mark. I heard German being spoken all the time. And I had over all this weird background, the calm, soothing tune of " Just a Perfect Day", that so calmly projects simple images of little pieces of happiness in shady parks. And I searched a place to pray. Somewhere where I am actually allowed. Sometimes this ban of entrance becomes terribly infurianting. We are all the same facing death, we are all the same humans, prone to the same feelings and downtimes.
++++
So many things have happenned in this couple of days, and when I arrived yesterday at the net café I was eager to put some of them here. Yesterday when I tried to call the States and the phone card didn't work, when I was lost in my confusion, and people kept coming to me and giving me Marlboro or hotel offers, I was afraid I will burst into an angry state of mind. But the contrary, I walked back the streets of Marrakesh not only being dettached, but being aware that Morocco has nothing to do with it, and I shouldn't redirect my negative energy towards it.
To escape this negative energy, I will do a catharthic overview of the last days.
The last time I wrote, it was about the train to Meknes, the imperial capital of the Alaouites. Less harrassed, I discovered a very silent answer to Fes, with large squares, very large, with people selling random merchandise, basking in the ardent sun. It is hot, but I wear long sleaves and long jeans, as doing otherwise is seen as a proof of disrespect to the culture. Somebody should tell that to the (much too many) tourists on the streets of Marrakesh, that seem to be on the beach with their very summerish outfits. I found this reflection of one the guidebooks I read ( and I have to confess, I got so much from the Routard and Lonely Planet, so many inside scoops, they even indicating the presence of some menacing individuals in Salé, who appeared at the exact spot as said, which is pretty funny) that I found excellent: The Western European countries ( and the mayor of Rotterdam is a good example) speak sometimes of the need to limit immigration as the European cultural model may be threatened. And there are indeed visas, regulations, etc. that block the access to the paradise-seen above mentioned countries. But what about the Moroccan cultural model and its permanent exposure to this huge masses of tourists in skimpy outfits, exposed shoulders and legs, things that make an orthodox Muslim very uncomfortable. I am really thinking whether a certain "official recommendation" about dress would be needed. Of course, there is the freedom of expression, and dress is a form of expression ( not to get into the very fascinating Cartoons discussion), but as the French government made the UN admit, there is and should be an exception to liberalism: the cultural exception. France has made the international organisms accept its quotas on French music ( considered before as anti free trade regulations, thus against international regulations), and has institionalized the cultural exception, claiming that this should be the place where free trade shouldn't be allowed, as there are forms of culture vanished to perish in a globalizing world, being "not rentable", but very culturally relevant. Could the traditional way of dress in Morocco be considered a form of cultural good in need to be protected? Most European countries have placed their traditional folk costumes into museums and have uniformicized the dress style. Should governments be allowed to defend the cultural exception on the model of French music?
But going back to Meknes, after purposefully getting myself lost in a cavernous labyrinth of cave-style housing with kids playing football under the medieval walls that let almost no fresh air nor light infiltrate, three kids offered to let me out of the labyrinth and took me out to the light. I told them about the existence of a country called Romania ( Rumania as they say it here) in the exotic, snowy North.
I got to eat into this family kept place, on a side street, a really nicely restored house, with mosaics and all. The server , this guy about my age, had a perfect French accent and told me as to this French couple that arrived at the same time with me that is our home and we should feel free to move around the indeed homelike furniture. Eating this great "Moroccan salad" ( and I've eaten by now in Morocco three totally distinct "salade marocane", with totally different ingredients and raisons de vivre, talk about consistency..), I started talking to the French couple, who were two very nice 50 year old from Nantes. " Yes, Morocco is nice, but oh , there are things here so backward that we feel we're in the sixteents century"; " we've been here and saw that, and oh, it was so poor... the poverty here is fragrant... not to mention the garbage everywhere. I suddenly felt so, so uncomfortable, as they were talking very loud and everybody in this house probably understood French. I tried to contracarate, saying " But what a great culture one can find here, what spectacular artistic things one can see", at which, I couldn't believe it, the lady made this face and said " Hmm... It's not that.. It is so backward here". I felt like I'm turning red, and at this time, suddenly there was loud music coming from the place our waiter was. I got the hint. We talked about Sciences Po, Paris, about their future travel plans. I ate my tagine, and when the couple left, and then a very arrogant Italian man left as well, behaving very impolitely with the waiter, I felt like I really wanted to say something.
And I did, in my traditional, never shut up tradition.
I said " Please excuse me for the conversation". He answered " There is no problem, you are here like in our own home". I added " No, I mean the content of the conversation. We seem to have had very distinct ideas of Morocco, the couple and I..."
" Yes, this happens so very soon. They notice only the bad sides of Morocco; And this type of discourse, yeah, it is especially the French that have it." And we started talking, " You know sir, I also study political sciences and...", and we talked until I had to run catch a train, him occasionally going arounf to serve other people ( !) . We talked about colonianism and the French's always present cultural superiority complex, and how Morocco has shown increasing pro-American support as a method to respond to the French continuation of nearly colonial looks on Morocco. The King supported the American actions in the Middle East, for the outcry of France and the Arab world. But this king traves his lineage to the prophet... A surprising pro-Americanism. Then we passed to Western Sahara, about which, he bluntly said " This shouldn't be in Morocco. We speak a different language, we are different people, it is a mere occupation". unfortunately I had to run...
Morocco is not a good place to look out to the landscape in trains or buses, as people invariably initiate a conversation with you. So, in the train to Rabat, this man sits next to me and , of course, starts talking, asking my CV and telling me he is going to his job in Sidi Kacem. I asked him, I don't remember how we got to this, which memory is darker, of the French or of the Spaniards ( who had the region of Rif, Ceuta and Mellila, and ruled from Tetuan, now to be found as major square in most Spanish cities I've been...). And he said " the Spaniards came in and left, leaving nothing. Nothing. No schools, no doctors, no roads." " With the French is another story.". And this is the truth- the modern cities of Fes, Meknes, Rabat are all French affairs, luckily built far away from the Medina to let it be preserved today ( only the one in Rabat is a continuation of the medina, by an actually very ingenious, flowing plan). Schools, hospitals, railroads. The French protectorate has both destroyed the Moroccan classical structures, undermining its economy with the influx of French goods and the death of artisanat ( later resucitated by tourism), and created modern Morocco, with post offices and French high schools, railroads and tree lined avenues.
Rabat is a wonderful case study of this, and I have to confess I absolutely loved this interesting city, that very few tourists (compared to Marrakesh) choose to see. A very elegant French period center, a bustling medina, a splendid mausoleum for authoritarian kings Mohamed V and Hassan II , the first two kings of a post French Morocco, the complete opposite , conservative and time unffected twin city of Salé ( capital of the only pirate state in history...), an amazing, Greek Island style kasbah, and a great beach, full with youth coming back from school, me being the only alien among them, and feeling bad I was intruding. Some kids were playing the guitar with English lyrics, some others were surfing, this was all very Rabat, very modern capital like.
In Rabat I had this weird urge- I said I really wanted to check it. To see it. To feel it. The ultimate postmodern Moroccan experience. The end of all things. The but, the goal. It was standing there, with its golden arches. It's called McArabia.
So I entered the establishment, full of people, with a smile, very outsized, on my face. I took it, I smiled again at the surprised server, I took photos of it with the backround of this old woman in traditional dress savoring a fresh cheeseburger.
Leaving Rabat meant another train ride, this time in a full compartment consisting of the old woman who doesn't speak French, the 40 year old smiling worker, the 40 year old elegant woman whose cell was ringing every 5 minutes and she spoke with this curious mix of French and Arabic " Oui, je suis dans le train. Je vais *** à Marrakesh à 8 heur. µµùù$$ù**ù Oui, je te dit! Mais il n'a pas àç_ç_mùù ? oh, et moi, qui j'ai crus que mùpççè_è-è_ Ah, quel horreur! Il faut décidément qu'on *ù*^$_è!!", the 25 year old suit dressed, freshly out of job interview very funny guy who was convinced that my real goal to visit Morocco is to please my Moroccan girlfriend in Paris, and two young women, one veiled, one not. The young guy broke the ice, but the elegant woman said something in Arabic, everybody laughed, and then he took his gul out saying " You see, she said I am disgusting. Yeah, women, what can you do with them... You know, the king changed the Mudawana, to make women equal in rights with men. They were always the masters, anyway...". The conversation the followed, dotted with outbursts of fights between the woman and the young guy, all in French, was explosive, , rather esoteric at times, with passionate interventions from one of the young women, who said " What kind of image do you create to our friend here about Morocco, with all the crap you say..."? He got off the train, making the elegant woman start talking about how she is sure he is not going to get the job, as he is so misbehaved, and all that matters in life are good matters. Educated at a liberal arts college in Colorado (!), with her daughter now in classes prepa in paris, she said that there are so many opportunities in Morocco and doesn't understand the young people's desires to leave the country. In fact, the young guy just came from Canada where he finished a masters in engineering, but he wanted to give it a try in Morocco. The conversation turned in a whole compartment affair, even with the old woman interfering in Arabic, very passionate.
And then I got to Marrakesh by night, finding a fairy tale landscape of dancers , cobras, bbq smoke, hordes of people, and a sad, sad email.
posted by Gruia Badescu at 4:57 AM
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