Tetouan II

Emerging into the morning sun, I was lost within ten yards. But, as ever, there was someone to help! Who had a line on some great kilims within a few feet. Ugh, I thought, but anyway went to look at the shop. The first floor was mostly cheap souvenirs, but upstairs were stacks of kilims, with mint tea and a minion or two to perform the ceremony: pull out the kilims, unfold, and display them, as they did in Istanbul and in New York. All were all natural dyes, I was assured, even the bubblegum and neon green ones What's more, they were made from silk and cactus fiber: yes, the opuntia I had noticed growing on the bare mountainsides. And the cactuses also yield cream, nuts, and . . . something else. But, but...some were very lovely, and I eventually bought two. When I said I'd carry them with me, the owner threw in another one, and the minions rolled them up so tightly that they, too, fit into my luggage, despite its other problems.

Now the tout suggested that he could be my guide for the day, no charge, no obligation. Since it was obvious that I would wind myself in small circles without a guide, and I had a good feeling about him in spite of the way we met, he became my indispensible companion for the day.


Bhilale and I walked and walked all day around and around the medina. It was a maze of narrow passageways punctuated by wider areas crammed with market stalls: the ones in the middle of plazas or streets were like counters or slabs of plywood mounted on wheelbarrow or cart wheels, with handles on one end. The goods were arranged on the counter, and at the end of the day, were tied down with tarps and bungee cords and wheeled away. More permanent market places were in the ground floor of the permanent buildings, with the proprietor and family living above.

  Since it was Ramadan, there were heaps of gemlike sticky sweets in glass cases; also in the cases were many trapped (benign) wasps after the honey. Shops sold food and goods of all kinds, and there were a number of craftsmen in these shops as well: leather workers, weavers, tailors, carpenters and cabinet makers, guys who could repair any sort of small appliance. There were huge piles of special Ramadan pastries, chunks of limestone and ground limestone to be used for the whitewash that was ubiquitous, and pots of pigment, and . . . the suitcase repairers.

cafe break while waiting for suitcase repairers to open

negotiating about my suitcase

Here, Bilale earned my undying gratitude by making two separate attempts to get my suitcase wheel replaced within a few hours, and then when that wasn't possible, found a used one the same size for 15 Euro.  Bhilal also helped me to find Ras Al Hanout, a local spice mixture I wanted to try.

baker and flatbread oven

leather worker with stone work surface

weavers

 We walked through an area the size of a school gym covered with clay or plaster irregularly shaped sinks or tubs sunk into the ground the created an otherworldly landscape-- almost as hallucinatory as Gaudi, but more random. They were used for curing and then dyeing the leather-- a stinky affair.

outside leather vats

 In late afternoon, Bhilal invited me to his home to meet his family: wife, son, a young woman of about 20, and other assorted family members who dropped by as the time wore on. I sat in the living room with the women, who were friendly but we had no language in common: we communicated a bit with gesture and smiles, but mostly I played with the son, Issam. He drew and painted in my journal: a picture of his madrasa, with the Moroccan flag on top; and we burned through a whole pad of Post-it notes making pictures and words in Arabic and English while the TV played Cartoon Network in Arabic. The women in their homes were different-- far more talkative and animated, and wearing tight jeans and t-shirts, with nothing covering their gorgeous masses of black hair. They were preparing little cheese pastries for the feast that night and offered me some as they came out of the oven, but didn't have any themselves.  Once they stopped in to say hello, the men disappeared to somewhere else, including Bhilal.

Soon enough, it was time to return to the Riad Dalia, and Bhilal dropped me there with a promise to pick me up in the morning to get me to the bus to Cueta-- I was trying the other route back to Spain. But! the hotel wanted to be paid in cash, even though I had given them my credit card information to make the reservation. I was not prepared for this: I had to find my way through the labyrinthine medina to the modern city where ATMs resided, and get cash. A 20 minute walk wound up taking much, much longer. I found that many streets were closed even to pedestrians because of the king's visit. I was a bit hungry, but noticed that only men seemed to be sitting in the cafes dotting the squares, so I pressed on . . . through produce markets where I bought a bunch of small apricots. Then, I saw an old man with a cart handing out warm garbanzos in broth, ladling them into bowls kept in a bucket of murky water. Once someone finished, he dropped the bowl in spoon back in the water. But they seemed so just right, and in fact were wonderful: creamy, nutty, salty, sweet. Must be context, I don't picture myself swooning over a small cup of garbanzos here! My cup slipped into the water and I continued winding around, being passed from person to helpful person, seeing parts of the medina that were new to me, and eventually got back to the hotel, to the welcome cool sheets and quiet noises there.