Maroc writings page

site design: soulless
copyright: Tangents 2008

Sketches of Morocco
by Clara Hsu

Sahara photos by Aoki Kensuke

Tour Home

Philosophy

Itinerary

Accommodation

Fine Print

Testimonials

Writings

A Cosmic Symphony
(excerpt from Barbouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches)

D'jemaa Elfna,the pulse of my heart. Your air is perfumed with incense mixed with the smell of grilled meat. Motorbikes criss-crossing pedestrians, blind beggars' sing-song among flowing robes and snake charmers' circular arm motions bring me to you. On hot sunny days, you stall me with a line of giant burgundy carts, with oranges stacked full in wire baskets. A young man in white shirt pours me a tall glass of orange juice.

Lizards, scorpions, oils, bones and dried animal parts in translucent skin of camel's kneecaps are the playthings of blue turban Berbers. Let me smell the burning sage and muse at your aphrodisiac Berber Viagra. Let me see the henna patterns you carry in your hands, oh women of D'jemaa Elfna, and watch out for your needle pumped full, ready to squeeze a design on my arm.

Late afternoon cookout, plumes of smoke rise from pots of boiled lamb heads, spiral shell snails and spicy harrira soup. Arm grabbing men with menus run down the list: fish, shrimp, calamar, beef, chicken, mixed grill, tagines, pastilla, aubergine, salad, and free mint tea you know Moroccan Whiskey? Come come sit down sit down right here big welcome.

D'jemaa Elfna I'm mesmerized by your circles of people, the passionate speeches of men and acrobats somersaulting on hard grounds. I'm drunk after a cup of hot ginger tea that softens my stiff Chinese upbringing and lets me dance. Dance to the relentless drumming, to the rhythms of Africa, in the center of the universe where life is a cosmic symphony that goes on without end.

Barbouche Impromptu
(excerpt from Barbouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches)

I'm wearing the pointy toed, fuchsia pink, soft leather Moroccan slippers and feeling the rush to d'jamaa elfna. Mohammad standing next to rows of colors: eggplant, pomegranate, indigo, grasshopper, egg yoke, orange and walnut looked rather dull in comparison to his line of merchandise. He's the bee working for the flowers, getting tourists like me to salivate over the rainbow selection, feeling the soft goat skin, marveling at the inlaid, where at the end of it all his pot of gold may be fattened.

How much of "the gold" goes into his pocket, and how much goes to the bland faced workers in Mohammad's little one room factory next door? Maybe they're his family, you know, uncles, nephews, aunts who can't speak English but have been making babouches since the beginning of time. They work under a couple dangling light bulbs, punching holes and hand stitching the slippers, surrounded by the pungent smell. It's not the leather smell, but the dye that soak the skins, turning them into brilliant colors. Put the slippers close to your nose and you'd puke. Imagine the tannery where cow urine and pigeon droppings are the main ingredients. How much is a pair of babouches? Less than ten dollars. Mohammad with his white cotton shirt and black pants is immaculate and patient, explaining the different styles: round toed Berber, pointy toed Moroccan and curly toed Aladdin. I giggled. Oh yes I can see myself in this and in that. Rubber bottom for outdoor and leather ones for indoor. I want to take them all with me, Mohammad.

The Forbidden Fruit
(excerpt from Barbouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches)

Sheets of red and purple granites jab at the blue sky. The Ameln villages strung along its foothill. From a distance the houses look like they are carved out of the cliffs. We entered the first village from the highway, walking past palm groves, cacti, almond, olive and argan trees; and desert flowers blossoming in lilac and crimson hues. Water troughs and pipe lines fertilize the vegetation. A plastic cup tied on a long string dangles from a trough. The sparkling mountain water is for all to drink.

Climbing to the cliff dwellings, looking into partial walls and stepping on crumbling bricks and stones, we realized most of them are ruins. Cement houses painted in rose color would be inhibited by people, but we barely saw a villager after an hour of wandering.

The sun paused its late morning shadow under a jade green tree, warming the blue and white metal doors, soft baking the walls of mud and stones. It waited with us, until a man came down the dirt path with his little girl on a donkey.

A Shepherd leaned on a rock watching his black and brown goats climbing up and down, nibbling at an argan tree. An old man sat in the back of his house shelling argan nuts with a heavy rock. They smiled their leather-face smiles. Deep set eyes that could see for miles, pink tongues hidden behind a few smoke stained teeth, thick finger and toe nails, their dark-brew coffee skin wrinkled like the trunk of the argan tree. Timeless men. How the Anti-Atlas toughened and twisted their forms in its bowel until they become unmistakably part of the landscape.

I'brahim and Aisha
(excerpt from Barbouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches)

I'brahim and Aisha went into the Chigaga region of the Sahara Desert with Youssef and two camels. Two days before it rained. The sandy floor had turned into a mud plain. The sun baked the earth into clay and the thin brittle surfaces cracked under their feet. Youssef in his black turban, light blue long tunic walked in a relax manner leading the camels on a leash. He told I'brahim and Aisha to walk in the camels' shadows so they wouldn't be scorched by the sun. I'brahim put on a dark blue turban, the color of nomad. It covered his head and face, exposing only his large eye glasses. Aisha draped on her head a yellow turban , the color of the sun. She trailed behind her companions with her dainty steps.

Hours and hours they walked, crossing deserts of black and blue stones, crossing small shrubs and flood plains, crossing sand dunes. Youssef made lunch under an Acacia tree: a Berber salad of tomatoes, onions, green peppers and cucumbers with sardine fish; and saucy cumin chicken. I'brahim and Aisha rested in the shadow of the tree and drank strong sugary green tea. They were too tired to move. While they napped, Youssef washed all the dishes and packed them away.

On and on they walked. Aisha's delicate ankles began to hurt. She didn't complain but Youssef wisely put her on the camel. Aisha could see from the hump the camel's small fuzzy brown ears sticking out between his head. His long neck curved downward and up, rotating at the end as his powerful thighs moved back and forth.

At night they made camp on the sand. Aisha and I'brahim gathered dried sticks and made a small fire. Youssef sang and played drum on a large green water can.

"Dance, Aisha!" he commanded.

Aisha, barefoot in her white djellabe with black thin stripes got up and danced, clapping her hands to the drum beat, lifting her head to the stars. I'brahim pulled out his mini recorder and stopped the show.

"Ok. Start again," he said after he pushed the "record" button.

That night Aisha saw the moon three times, each at a different angle as she slept and woke. I'brahim woke to the gurgling sounds of the camels and found them sat facing each other necking.

Visit Clara Hsu's website for her books and recording.
http://www.clarahsu.com
poetry to be read and enjoyed