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.
In my thirty some years of exporting from Morocco, mostly rugs and exotic textiles, I never dreamed of exporting fountains. First of all, most of the fountain makers prefer to make fountains “on command”, their way of saying custom order. Second, these babies are made of tile and concrete. Does the word heavy come to mind? And third…You don’t need a third. Heavy should be enough. Then, there’s obtaining a container, gathering the goods and arranging for shipping. But, hey! If it were easy, everybody would do it.
I knew it would take two trips to Morocco to get this together. One, to line up enough artisans to produce enough fountains. That requires working with artists from Fez and Marrakech, and a second trip to figure out how to gather the fountains into one place to load them for shipping home. At least I’m in a country full of willing laborers so the heavy factor won’t apply…until I get them to the states. I had made the first trip seven months prior and arranged for my Moroccan brother, Sarmi Latif, and his son Joseph, to keep me apprised of the artisan’s progress. The Sarmi family helped me get started in business in Morocco when Latif’s grandfather took me into his home and his family. I couldn’t be in the Moroccan import business without the Sarmi family’s participation.
10-08
The Arrival
After thirteen hours in the air and six in airports, I landed in Marrakech, where Latif and Joseph were waiting. It was early morning but Latif’s wife, Najia, was already preparing lunch, which is their big meal of the day. Ordinarily, after landing on a long flight, I feel like kicking back for a few hours, but not this time. I had waited so long and sent and received so many correspondences regarding my new treasures, that I wanted to see them immediately. The Marrakech artisans are located in different parts of this sprawling city of three million, and the Fez artisan’s had brought their pieces to town. It took us four hours of driving to visit them all but I wouldn’t have cared if it were ten. I was into it. About seventy five gorgeous fountains and inlaid tabletops awaited me (make that, awaited my money).
I had requested the artisans use as much tile from Fez as they could find. When they tear down one of the structures that could be hundreds of years old, the tile is collected and saved. Fez is one of the older Moroccan cities, hence the older tiles. This tile is then chiseled into hundreds of pieces, using only small hammers. The pieces are then arranged, upside down in the dirt, into beautiful patterns. Some fountains are made of more than five thousand small pieces. After the patterns and colors are selected, the pieces are re-arranged into concrete, or in some cases, into a hard resin backing, creating fountains that can be moved by hand. The fountains are built to recirculate the water so installation requires no more than filling them up and plugging them in.
We arrived at the Sarmi home about one thirty where Najia had prepared a luncheon feast. Typically, when you have dinner at a Moroccan restaurant or in someone’s home, there is a hand washing ceremony. One of the family or kitchen help will come around with a kettle of warm water and a catch pan. Each person washes both hands or just their right, which is used for eating, in lieu of implements…which are available for the less traditional. A variety of small salad dishes are placed around the table. These aren’t salads as we know them, but more dishes of soft blended vegetables, herbs and spices that people dip into throughout the meal. Small bowls of a dessert of blended oranges, carrots and rosewater are at each setting, for consumption when you desire. Bottles of Sidi Harazem water without gas, and Ulmas water with gas, are placed in the center of the table, along with king size bottles of Coca Cola and Sprite. Sometimes it will be Orange Crush. Moroccan meals are usually eaten out of a center main dish, with each person using their bread to scoop from a section similar in shape to a piece of pie.
Today’s meal consisted of two roasted chickens (that had been running around that morning) soaking in an oven hot tajine dish of olive oil and spices. The chickens were surrounded by carrots, tomatoes, a couple of vegetables that I didn’t recognize, and Pomme Frittes (skillet french fried potatoes). Every vegetable had come from the farms around Marrakech that same day. As I eat in Morocco, I always think about the younger people in the U.S. who don’t really know what a tomato is suppose to taste like. Of all the foods that we have processed, I think tomatoes have lost their taste more than any. The round loves of bread that were being broken apart and passed around had been fetched that very hour from the local bakers. Many Moroccan families mix their own bread and take it to the bakers to bake. Moroccan cooking involves a lot of spices and a long time in preparation, but no spices with a hot or spicy sting are used. Lastly, fruits and melon slices from one of the many types the Sahara produces were brought out, with coffee a lait and the traditional Moroccan mint tea.
After the meal, the wash kettle is again taken around, this time with soap. All in all, it’s a very civilized way of eating. However, the Sarmi home is more like family to me so ceremony is set aside. We go into the bathroom, wash up and dig in. When tea and “thank you’s” are over, it is the time to really get civilized. Everyone naps. At three PM, the city reawakens. Banks and stores re-open for the late shift, which usually extends until eight or nine. I’ve always like the way the Moroccan’s turn one day into two and have you rested to begin the second day.
At three o five, I had Latif and Joseph in the car heading for the artisans. Paying each person and arranging to get the fountains centralized was far more complicated than my rug business and took that day and the next. To add to the complications, my rug contacts are set up for bank cards so payment to them isn’t a problem. But these artisans are not big business men and they require cash in Moroccan Dirhams, only. I had brought a great deal of traveler’s checks with me, which usually aren’t a problem. This time, however, the bank crisis was happening in the States and the Moroccan banks were more than a little wary of these amounts. Thanks to emails from my bank, this problem was solved in a couple of days. I was prepared for hours or days of waiting and delivery disappointments. The Moroccan’s tend to put a great deal of their decisions, and schedules, into the hands of fate or God’s will, unlike westerner’s who feel more responsible for their own actions. To my surprise and delight, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Over the next few days everyone showed up at their arranged time, and, after nine extremely dirty hours in the railroad yard, the container was packed.
By nightfall the second day we had enough deposit in the hands of each artisan, that we could be sure they would rise to the occasion. We scheduled delivery and full payment for two days later because I wanted to take a day off and go to our country home in Ourika Valley. Tonight I am certain that I will dream in complicated little patterns of colored tiles.
