Hello world!

Hello, this is Alf Taylor. Welcome to my first blog! Pictures from my recent trip to Morocco!

 

MOROCCO’S BUM RAP

Many years ago I saw a Hitchcock mystery film with James Stewart and Doris Day called The Man Who Knew Too Much. (1956). At the beginning of the movie an American man comes stumbling across the square Djemma El Fna (Square of the dead) in Marrakech, with a knife in his back, and collapses into Stewart’s arms and dies. His
face was painted dark as if he were undercover posing as an Arab. It was a Paramount production but, like MGM and other Hollywood studios, it portrayed Arabs as knife wielding sheiks, to be feared by all. In short, Hollywood gave them a bum rap long before any disruptions in this country occurred. This decision was, no doubt, brought on by Hollywood’s heavily Jewish influence. I’ve been hanging around that square, which is one of Morocco’s top tourist attractions, off and on for more than thirty years and have never seen any crime worse than a pocket picked or a camera stolen. Story tellers, snake charmers, acrobats, water sellers and food vendors, who have permits issued by the government, ply their trades in the square for the tourists and change.

I’m not saying a certain part of the Arab world is not something to be wary of. Our own nine-eleven tragedy taught us there is an enemy out there that must be dealt with, but Moroccans are different. Gentler. For the most part the poorest Moroccan would rather have nothing than attack someone and take what doesn’t belong to them.

I asked my Moroccan brother, Latif, if he had ever heard of a bank being robbed in Morocco and he cracked up laughing. He said “If someone ever pulled a gun and tried to rob a bank here, everyone would want to be the first to jump on them and save the bank.” Morocco is a small, tightly governed country where people tend to stay close to home. It’s not like the US, where someone could commit a serious crime in Chicago and scoot off to Texas, in a flash, to hide. Moroccans pay attention to what is going on in their country. I think it’s the kingdom mentality. Some years back five Algerians came to Morocco and planted a few small explosions in places where American interests were concerned. Two of them were caught and arrested immediately and three got away. Weeks later some Berber tribes people from Ourika Valley (where I have a little country home) found the other three in hiding and brought them in to the police, themselves.

Moroccans are nice people who keep life simple. I wouldn’t have written a book (A Treasure Hunter’s Guide To Morocco) encouraging people to visit if it was dangerous. By the way, if you would like to receive a free copy of the book you can download it for free by visiting my site, www.alftaylorsmoroccanrugs.com. The law and religion are separate so the typical strict codes of conduct that you may find in other Arab Countries do not apply. The young are taught the Koran in school. After that, they are left alone to pray in the mosque, at home, in the street or not at all. They, and the tourists who visit them, can dress as they wish and, other than tourists in the mosques, go where they wish. If a Moroccan Muslim wants to have a drink of alcohol they get no resistance. They are simply considered to be lesser Muslims than those who don’t. Mole hills do not tend to become mountains in Morocco.

Moroccans welcome everyone to visit their country, especially the Americans. Along with the fact that our longest treaty of friendship is with them they have things to say such as. “The French come here and buy a dress, some scarves or a gown for their, already dressed beautifully, ladies. The Spaniards like to buy a leather jacket or belt, even though their own leathers are superb and the Germans shop carefully for knick knack souvenirs. The Americans buy ten rugs in one afternoon.” American tourists are the shoppers of the world.

Don’t get me wrong. Accidents or incidents can happen anywhere. But, last year, in Tucson, Arizona, the Dunkin Doughnuts where I sometimes have breakfast suffered five bullet holes from a random drive-by, four AM, shooting. The police investigating it brushed it off quickly, saying the same thing was happening all around town. Nobody
was hit but this would NEVER happen in Morocco…Never. Nevertheless, no matter who you are, where you are, or where you’re going, whether you’re eating a doughnut or couscous, I’ll quote myself from my book…”the word beware derives from be aware.”

 

DINNER WITH THE KING? WHAT SHOULD I BRING?

Four hundred copies of my book was the answer

NEW YORK CITY
PLAZA HOTEL

Someone once said, “Perspective, use it or lose it.” That being the case, what I was going through at the moment was a far cry from losing perspective. I’m in the lobby bathroom of New York’s elite hotel, in a toilet stall, struggling out of my jeans and Nikes and into a three piece suit. Sitting isn’t an option, any more than dropping one of the many articles of apparel I found myself juggling around. My plane had landed only hours ago and in a few minutes I would be shaking hands with His Majesty, King Hassan the second, of Morocco. The other end of tonight’s perspective lesson. I had been saving the God awful hard sole black shoes I was pushing my feet into without bending over for my funeral Pire, but tonight they were necessary for a still alive Alf. Other than by dressing accommodations, this was a repeat performance from a few days before in Washington, D.C. I had written A Treasure Hunter’s Guide To Morocco to honor His Majesty on the thirtieth anniversary of his ascension to the throne…and the king was pleased.

 

A Faux Paux at the Parliament of Man

July
1993

I wasn’t properly dressed for a meeting with Minister Sinaucer, at least not compared to the line of men sitting in his office waiting room, wearing their Sunday best, for, what would probably be the only time they would ever meet with him. His time was too valuable. When I was summoned, I was in the mountains in the eastern portion of Morocco, looking for Beni Ouarain snow capes (another story). My jeans were worn and my tennis shoes were shabby.
I had worked with Moroccan Ministers before, on projects involving tourism and handicrafts, but Cultural Minister Allal Sinaucer flew above the others in the palace circle. He was known as “Mustasha” advisor to His Majesty King Hassan the Second. He knew of me from my work and my visits with King Hassan, in the states (yet, another story) and he knew I was a dedicated friend of his country. I had been given a “white card” from Minister of State, Moulay Ahmed Alaoui, who was also uncle to the king, for my work with their tourism, that  permitted me access to all of the museum private collections and places of worship, typically off limits to outsiders. The exception being the mosques, other than when Ambassador Ussery escorted me through the Grand Mosque, in Casablanca, for photographic purposes. The card also got me through road blocks and other official situations quickly, simply by certifying I’m a friend of the country, sometimes with a kiss on the card or a salute. The  white card gave me super power in Morocco, but once I hit JFK, I couldn’t get a discount on a cup of espresso, with it.

 

A boar hunt with a princess

Here’s a question: If you’re standing on a ten feet. by ten feet. concrete platform, five feet high, on dirt, how many charging wild boar would it take to make the platform tremble?  I was crouched so low behind Princess Lalla Amina, who had just scolded me for wearing a red shirt to a hunt, that I couldn’t count them,  but there were enough. Hundreds of them charged us at full speed, and few, if any, were coming straight on.

 

MOROCCO… AN INSPIRATION IN CHANGE

                                                                                 

                                             Thank You President Washington

 
The second law of thermodynamics states “whenever you do something, the universe gets more random.” At no time in the history of mankind has this been more evident than now, and for no more reason, ever, than the Internet. Because of today’s easy access to any information on anybody or anything, the world is changing at a rocket ship pace…and, sadly enough, not all for the better. Being a product of the fifties, I remember when the US was where “opportunity abounds” and “the streets are made of gold.” and everyone looked up to us. I look around and see no gold. This article is about a place where change has moved at a slower pace. A gentler place. A place where lives are fashioned around need instead of greed and people help people, locally. In Morocco, they told me their religion teaches that you should give something to someone every day. Even if it is a grape. Nice thought.

 

An Inspiration of Tolerance

Alf Taylor: Souks, Morocco

The souks (back streets of the old city) of Marrakech are a labyrinth of miles of winding, common walls. Even after more than thirty years of navigating them via foot and bike, I still sometimes get hopelessly turned around. There is no east or west. Just circles of brick and adobe. I love the souks of Morocco. Venturing into them, day or night, is your ticket to a time tunnel.

 

Sarmi Household

Sarmi Household, Marrakech

The third floor roof patio
of the Sarmi household
A full moon overhead.

I’ve always believed in a not letting my mind dwell on the past any more than necessary. My thinking is, the mind is like  another set of eyes and allows you vision in one direction at a time. Time spent pondering the past is time lost for planning for the future and robs you of the omnipotent present. Still, these are only my two cents rattling against one another. There is one guru who said “people have been meditating for years. They just called it day dreaming.” Who’s to say? Still, I don’t want to cheat myself out of going over what an interesting day I had today. Since I have bad rapped looking back, I’ll file this reminiscing under business review time.

 

Marrakech

                                                   Marrakech

Most people would say a guy my age, who’s favorite past time was riding a bicycle through the madina of Marrakech, is a little weird. But, hop on and folow me for the time of your life. Each city has an old city called the medina, usually in the center of a modern city. The medinas have no north-south or east-west direction. Every street winds around like a maze. Even though I’ve been coming to Marrakech for more than thirty years, I still get hoplessly lost within the first half mile in. That’s precisely why I love it. It’s like going back in time. You’ll stumble on shops selling herbs and spices from around the world, that people use as their pharmacy. Other stores that sell anaconda skins, some fifteen feet long and longer, Zebras, crocadiles, leopards, all the skins that are indigenous to africa seem to make their way across the Sahara to Morocco. The only things along that nature that can’t be brought into the states are crocadiles and Cheetas.

 

Ourika Valley

Mosaics In Morocco

Ourika Valley Morocco

Whomever coined the phrase “getting there is half the fun” might have been inspired while taking the forty five minute drive from Marrakech to Ourika Valley. I am one of the lucky ones who has a picnic home in this lovely little Berber village. We were no more than twenty kilometers west of Marrakech when we saw the first snow blanketing Jeb Toubkal, the highest mountain in Morocco. 14,000 plus feet. I remember, more than thirty years earlier when I heard there was skiing on the mountain of Jeb Toubkal, in Okaimden, I went to see for myself.

 

My Quest for Mosaics in Morocco

MY QUEST FOR MOSAICS

 

It’s impossible to be in Morocco for a day and not notice the beautiful tile and inlaid mosaics. As soon as you deplane into Casablanca’s Mohamed fifth airport, you are greeted by a myriad of colored tiles, in patterns inconceivable to the western mind. In Morocco forty two percent of the population is involved in the handicraft industry so each day in the country you can find beautiful hand made handicrafts and, possibly, some ancient artifacts. The majority of Moroccan homes are built around a center open courtyard. Beautiful tiles and carved stone pieces are used and there is almost always a wall or centerpiece mosaic fountain. Nothing gives a nicer feeling, especially in a desert atmosphere, than the sight and sound of running water.