Morocco Tour Part 3: Rollie, safi!

“Safi” in Arabic means enough, or OK, or stop – derived from the French “ca suffit” (it’s sufficient).  Of all the words on my 3 pages of Arabic phrases, this was most useful.  It meant I was full, the taxi should stop, and irritating men should leave me alone, among other things.

I counted down the kilometers to Fes, about a 5 hour drive, and was finally able to ditch Driss, my over-attentive driver.  Tired and not wanting to leave my very nice hotel room, I decided though, that a little walk and search for a light dinner was in order.  Just across the street is the Fes medina (old city), with streets only wide enough for a few people.  Horses, loaded mules, carts, and motorcycles all wove through the constant pedestrian traffic.  I was surprised to find mostly Moroccans doing their day-to-day shopping, and not too many tourists.  Wearing sunglasses in the shadowed paths helped avoid unwanted eye contact or haggling by shopkeepers with a glance at their wares that spilled out onto the street.  Children, just out of school, ran through the alleys yelling out to friends; old matriarchs shopped for spices, nuts, fruit, and whatever else was needed for the next day’s lunch.  As carts and mules came through, everyone took a step into a store or flattened themselves against a wall.  Most storekeepers would cry out to attract attention.  They often began with English to me, then would switch to French.  The Arabic comments I was glad to not understand.  Daunted, I just kept walking and began to turn into quieter, narrower and darker side streets to get away.  I passed several groups of boys who began to tell me “it’s closed” as I walked by.  I ignored them but realized I hadn’t seen any women or girls for a few streets and was wondering if I was coming upon a red-light or prostitution district, or maybe some Turkish-like baths where only men were permitted.  A boy of about 10 finally got me to slow down.  He asked if I was looking for the big medina door, and I conceded that I could probably use a guide to get me out.  He spoke French well and was very sweet, telling me his name, some restaurant suggestions, asking my name, where I was from, and “non monsieur?”.  The older boys followed, trying to get me to go with them, but I stuck with this little one.   Approaching the medina door, I gave him $3, which made his day.  However, passing through, I realized it was the wrong exit and I was terribly lost!  Two hours later I returned to my room with a few cherries and a bit of bread, and pulled out the walnuts Rachid’s mother gave me in Imlil.  I was getting tired of eating alone.

Even with 12 hours of sleep I wasn’t much in the mood to venture out into Fes again the next day.  I missed Rachid – someone that I could just follow around and who’d make me feel comfortable with the Arabic swirling around me.  The hotel didn’t have a simple map of the medina, but I did still want to do a bit more shopping:  I was interested in finding a little dress I saw another tourist wearing, possibly buying a simple ring, trying for another pair of shoes, and getting henna done on my hands or feet.  Dennis & Judy had given me the number of an American artist in Fes, Jeff, and his wife Nina.  I was too overwhelmed the night before to get a calling card and figured it would be rude to call them with only one afternoon left in Fes to meet them.  John, who’d arranged my Moroccan adventures, was in an office just down the street and had invited me to come in once I made it to Fes.  John was great and gave me a medina map and train times back to Casa for the next day.  Casually mentioning that he’d heard I’m an artist, he then pointed to another guy who’d just walked in the office.  “He’s an artist as well.”  No phone card necessary!  Jeff invited me over to his house for dinner with his family that evening! 

In the medina, feeling more lighthearted, I bought some wonderful hand-tooled leather shoes for $15 in a boutique that wasn’t pushy, then saw the dress I was interested in.  “80 dh” the young tailor told me.  “50” I countered.  “70”.  “60” and I gave him a big smile.  He conceded, had to go next door to get change, then invited me into the little shop to sit with him and his older brother.  Asking me if I wanted some “Moroccan whiskey”, he left the shop for 10 minutes and returned with an extremely hot glass filled with mint leaves and tea.  Watching them sew elaborate trim on small white suits for boys to wear on special occasions to the Mosque, I was fascinated that all this was still done by hand and how quickly they worked.  I saw a beautiful ring on his finger and complimented him on it.  He pointed to his brother and said it was from him, then took it off and put it on my finger (right hand!) and said it was now a gift to me.  (Jeff later told me that Moroccan culture stipulates that a compliment on anything tangible:  jewelry, clothes, items in the house, etc, was to be given to the person making the compliment – I felt like an idiot taking from someone who had so little compared to me.)  Soon they closed up for lunch and invited me.  We’d already established, between my pathetic Arabic and their meager French, that I wasn’t married and neither was the younger one.  As we walked through the twisting little side streets to their house, he took my hand but put a finger to his lips to tell me to be quiet about it. 

After a wonderful hot lunch, the tailors were returning to the store but encouraged me to stay with the women.  Of all the days to leave my Arabic notes in the hotel!  I was introduced to the older tailor’s wife, their sister, the sister-in-law, the grandma, other relatives, and several young children, mostly girls.  They, too, quickly established my single status, and grandma said I was very pretty and would be married soon.  They pulled out the wedding album of the tailor to help establish family titles and ask about my family.  Having quite a bit of trouble pronouncing my name, “Rollie” was the best they could do.  Finally I threw my hands up and told them simply “Fatima”.  They couldn’t stop laughing!  I’m still not sure if this was because I’d renamed myself or that I was the farthest thing from Mohammed’s daughter that they’d ever encountered.  Anyway, the afternoon was filled with laughing, as well as an offer to do henna.  Needing to leave to meet Jeff and Nina for dinner, I established that I’d come to the store (I could never find the house on my own) the next morning to do henna, then they were going to prepare a special lunch of couscous for me – even if it wasn’t Friday!  Returning to the hotel that evening, I laughed.  I’d been given everything I wanted:  the dress, a ring, shoes, henna, Moroccan company, and not having to eat anymore meals alone.

I ended up sitting in the tailors’ store the following morning, watching them work and the rest of the world go by outside in the medina.  The younger was very interested in me and kept mentioning us getting married.  I laughed and finally caved in to telling him we could be engaged just for the day.  He persisted, even though I said it was ridiculous.  I told him I’m 35 and he replied that he was 23 but we were still within the accepted ages for marriage.  I thought he was so sweet so I took Jeff & Nina up on their offer to stay over (they knew I’d never escape the family by 4 to catch the train to Casa) to go out for a few hours with the young tailor.  I hadn’t been out in any city in the evenings, except little Imlil with Rachid, and I was looking forward to the escort.  So the “marriage” conversation continued with me telling him that my father would be upset if I stayed in Morocco (actually, I think I would literally kill my father with the news that I was marrying a 23-year-old Moroccan tailor) and finally asking him what we would do after we got married.  “Well, I’ll work in the store and you can stay home, cook, and maybe do your painting if you want.”  I lied and said I wasn’t a good cook, but again he wasn’t phased:  he’d eat lunch in the medina…  What about visiting America?  (I was thinking he could make big bucks in Beverly Hills hand-tailoring suits.)  He had no interest in leaving Morocco.

The couscous was fabulous as was the afternoon spent with the women watching videos of the marriages.  “Are Moroccan or American weddings more beautiful?”, my hostesses wanted to know.  Well, the obvious (and true) answer was Moroccan!  The tailor’s wife had 6 different wedding dresses and 3 different tiaras to wear for the 4-day ceremony – and this for a low-income family!  My Arabic cheat sheets had been bolstered by a few phrases Jeff gave me the night before (I wanted to be clear about my travel schedule of returning to Casa then off to France).  The older tailor’s wife did beautiful henna on my hands and feet, then they served tea and the cookies I’d brought them as a little last-minute gift.  The sister came in later in the afternoon and presented me with a beautiful jalaba (the caftans they wear) of green and white and orange.  I just couldn’t keep up with the gifts they gave me, but I think I also made their week by being there the two afternoons.  By evening, we took lots of pictures which I promised to send them.  I felt so sad saying good-bye.  The tradition is to kiss once on the left cheek and twice on the right, but more if you were really going to miss the person.  Grandma gave me four kisses.

After work and getting my luggage, my date and I grabbed a taxi to Jeff & Nina’s.  We weren’t communicating well about the evening’s plans, but I figured Jeff could do a bit of translating before we went out.  They hit it off and began a long conversation in Arabic while I phoned Dennis & Judy about my change in travel plans.  Hanging up the phone and returning to the animated conversation, Jeff stopped and looked at me before beginning to translate.  I knew immediately.  I really was engaged.

I’d done everything wrong!  While many marriages in Morocco are no longer arranged by the parents, dating isn’t customary.  Once a young couple establishes mutual interest, marriage is assumed.  By sitting in the tailor’s shop and paying attention to him, I was sending the message that we could get married – hence the conversation we’d had all morning.  Jeff also found out he had big plans for the evening.  Instead of us walking around Fes a bit, grabbing a coffee or beer and maybe a bit of food, he was going to take me to his parent’s house.  I could ask them anything I wanted:  establish his good character, that he was going to take care of me, and whatever else one discusses in these meetings.  I told Jeff, who was still interpreting all this with the superb Arabic he’d learned in only a year, that I’d already met his mother and had spent two days with his family.  Then Jeff found out that the older tailor was “like a brother” and in fact wasn’t related to him at all!  I had Jeff tell him I was Christian – no problem; he’d still marry me.  He even was going to give up smoking if that was a deciding factor.  He continued to plead his case to Jeff as if he were my father.  Meanwhile, I was stunned.

Jeff finally walked him out.  Nina and I talked about the whole situation, as women like to do, while she made me a little dinner.  I couldn’t believe that I’d been so stupid and culturally inept.  I felt terrible for the whole mess and could see that he was really upset.  Jeff took a picture of us before he left, and comparing it to the ones I took of him that morning in the shop showed how serious and disappointed he was.  Getting ready for bed, I still felt like I was in a parallel universe, that this was some weird dream, that it was a big joke.  And that night, for the first time since I’d arrived in Morocco, it rained.

 

Fes