boar2Here’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. Some would turn a hundred and eighty degrees back toward the pack of farmers who had driven them in our direction. Instead of destroying the  farmers food, these guys were going to become it. Some were zig zagging and bumping into each other, others were running in circles of all sizes and all directions, and some just sat and complained. But all were eventually going to come within feet of the rows of stands. The Americani was so totally out of place and time….and was wearing a red shirt. 

 
What followed was chaos meets carnage in the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. Guns were blasting from every direction and people were yelling the Moroccan equivalents of  “Let’s git ‘em, boys.”  The rule set forth a couple of minutes before the hunt, forbidding shooting toward the animals who made it to the area between the stands, didn’t stand up under palace rule. Now  we had two legged animals going nuts, some firing and ducking at the same time. By this time, I was prone to get prone. Even some of the pigs who supposedly earned their serpentine badges by making it past the stands were shot from ,and in, the behind.. Lalla Amina was using a shotgun. Prince Moulay Abdulla had some sort of automatic rifle.  There were large and small boar rifles, even a few hand guns. Someone was even using a Kalashnikov. The gunfire, combined with the smoke, topped off with the squeal of wounded animals, couldn’t be duplicated by Hollywood writers without some help from a bad dream. Someone told me to not get down off the stand, that the wounded animals would try to kill me (if the guns didn’t). I wonder what would make them behaive that way.

 
Rabat, Morocco
The previous day
 
First of all, I’m a guy who typically doesn’t hunt for anything more dangerous than another rug customer. I also am a guy who has never even seen a wild boar except in the zoo, and those are no longer wild. But when a Moroccan princess asks me to go somewhere,  I’ll say yes before I know her plan. Lalla Amina was the youngest sister of His Majesty King Hassan 2nd of Morocco. It is said she was born in prison, in Madagascar, when the king and his family were in exile. Lalla Amina held a special place in the king’s heart. She couldn’t have been more unlike the fairy tale princess image one might have. Lalla Amina was a no nonsense woman who’s life was centered around her dogs and horses. She didn’t just jump on the horses and ride. She fed, groomed  and tended to all of their needs. Attention from people because of who she was only bothered her. For some reason or another, the princess took a liking to me, even though we never attempted to communicate much verbally. Mostly, she would say “Americani, come . We’ll go.” Then we would visit her animals. I had written a book and dedicated it to her brother on the thirtieth anniversary of his throne. Word of he book and my  acceptance by the king, along with my work for her country, spread around the palace, which led me to a friendship with her. That’s the closest I came  to being a lackey since my first marriage.

The Hunt: 

My close friend, Mustapha Raguigue, who was like family to the royal family, said Princess Lalla Amina invited me on a hunt. The governor of a province was hosting a party for her in the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains. Now check this out. I stumble into Morocco, broke, looking for a beach and get into a business that has me riding on animals and sleeping outside, when I’ve never even liked camping. Comfort be damned, I was having the time of my unfettered life hunting for rugs and other treasures.  Now, a party with a princess. I’ve come a distance.

 The princess was in the first car (all Mercedes) with her driver and one security guard. I’m in the second with three other, non English speaking, bodyguards. With a big smile, I said, ”Hey you with the Mac nine. under your coat.  Hand me another one of those oranges and be quick about it, and don’t forget, I’m Lalla Amina’s guest, or I’ll have your job.”  I love it when they can’t understand me. Behind us are thirty or forty cars carrying other palace members, cooks and waiters, snake charmers, musicians and acrobats. I noticed they gave a falconer, with his two favorite sidekicks flying loose, a car to himself. In front of us are four big black, very menacing looking BMW motorcycles with matching men… extremely armed. These gentlemen are driving straight down the center of this two lane blacktop, clearing everything from donkey carts to semis out of both lanes, over to the shoulder so we could follow them. It was comforting to know a hundred and forty on their speedometers was only eighty something in miles per hour. It was also comforting to know if one of the trucks made a bad move, the little newspaper article about me back home would say where I was and who I was with. It ain’t Omaha. 
 
I remember passing through Casablanca and by the CTM bus station. In a younger, more adventuresome time I had spent many nights outside waiting for a morning bus to my airplane home. I would just sit on the sidewalk and pull the hood of my wool Djallaba (traditional Moroccan floor length robe) over my face. Other than my Reeboks sticking out the bottom, I looked just like the fellows around me. I never left Morocco until I didn’t have a dime. In the words of W.C. Fields, ” I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.” Still, I doubt Mr. Fields pulled any sidewalk time in North Africa..
 
The Pre-Hunt Party:
 
We pulled up to  three beautiful Moroccan ceremonial tents, twenty feet high and sixty some feet long. They were white canvas on the outside, circled with blue lamp designs. Each was held up by three poles, each topped with the five pointed red star on a green background Moroccan flag. The interior walls were lined with Moroccan Haiti’s (gold metallic thread wall hangings with prayer rug mirhab designs). Hand woven Moroccan tribal rugs were layered on the ground so not an inch of dirt showed.  Hand carved cedar tables, stretching the length of each tent, were covered with silk and lace embroidered tapestries, no different from those that guards protect in my museum exhibits. The tables were laden with sparkling brass trays of dates, figs and nuts. Elegant china pitchers filled with fresh squeezed juices and  home made yogurt graced each table.  Morocco’s favorite bottled waters, Sidi Ali, with carbonation, and Sidi Harazem, along with the Moroccan favorite sweet mint tea,  were being served by exotic women in full regalia. As with every Moroccan dinner, king size bottles of warm Coca Cola, Sprite and Orange Crush were abundant. The Sahara desert climate produces a wide variety of grapes and melons, and this party had them all. Everything was pre-sliced, pre-diced or peeled. The only thing missing were nubian girls to drop grapes in my mouth. I should talk with Lalla Amina about that. And, all of this was served on dinnerware so elegant your mom wouldn’t let you touch it. Returning home to picnics of hot dogs and watermelons served on red and white checked, plastic tablecloths wasn’t going to be easy. Lalla Amina wanted me to sit beside her. I had the camera, plus it’s not good to let her court jester stray.

Let the games begin. For the next two hours  singers were singing and acrobats were acting, chanters were chanting and the guy with the snakes was simply charming. All sorts of colorful objects were being tossed through the air between the jugglers…a considerable distance from the princess. My, self imposed, assignment was to take lots of pictures of the princess and her guests.
 
Next came the quarter mile or so walk to the hunting stands where, as I said, I found a low spot to squat. after the hunt I thought we would be going home. Instead, we returned to the tents where a feast awaited us that would make a viking jealous. Whole roasted chickens sat in the middle of each table. Huge platters of cous cous were covered with chunks of pit cooked lambs, seasoned to perfection.  Olive soaked beef tajines were served in the bowls straight out of the oven. kabobs and steamed vegetable plates were piled high with every conceivable earth tone colored food. Pastilla, a pigeon pie with a sugary crust, was served at each table, but chicken was substituted for pidgeons. A brick oven had been constructed for the event to not cheat the Moroccans out of their traditional fresh baked bread. The meal ended with a dozen or so kinds of fresh baked cookies and the traditional, over sweetened, Moroccan mint tea. And the only one not chain smoking cigarettes was the guy in the red shirt.
 
After the feast, complete with a constant stream of performers, there was one more assignment for “Americani” and his camera. Lalla Amina, the rest of the hunters and I,  walked around behind this small barn like structure and my knees went weak. A few hundred of the dead prey had been lined up and stacked, facing forward, into this huge, grizzly, pyramid. Thirty or so on the bottom row, then twenty nine on top of them, and so on. Most of the pigs eyes were closed but a few were open. Let one of those Hollywood directors check this out for realism. Everyone wanted their picture in front of the stack of boar. All I wanted was to be out of there before I saw one of them move.
 
The Return to Casa:
 
Mr. Raguigue told me Lalla Amina was going to go somewhere with her friends and that her personal driver was going to take me the almost hundred miles back to Casablanca. What I thought was royal treatment turned out to be the royal shaft. When the princess said “her driver,” she didn’t mean her car. I piled into one of North Africa’s last running Simcas. Not to be pushed around by specifications, the driver managed to get six people into a car that was built for four, and five of the six had no shortage of cigarettes. I was smushed into the back seat between two not so skinny gentlemen, their backs pushed up against the doors blocking the small opening at the top of each window,  their necks forced into a praying position and their legs squeezing mine. They were talking directly over me, both at the same time. My self pity was quelled slightly as I watched the poor guy in the middle of the front seat straddling the gear shift and having to raise up the many times the driver had to shift, just to keep us moving. Night had fallen in the kingdom and somewhere along the line, I had fallen out of the royal loop.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, we hit what at that time was  Morocco’s version of a main highway. They now, have beautiful interstates. Three lanes were used where two are available. If you’re passing a car when another is coming at you, the two of you  scootch over to the shoulders of the road and the oncoming car or donkey cart goes between you. The first time they do that, it’s horrifying. But after that, it gets worse. Our little overweight car swayed back and forth with each minor swerve. Morocco doesn’t seem to have laws on tailgating, so everyone hugs each other’s back bumpers at every speed. Factor in a driver who thinks he is invincible because he drives for the princess, and you have a death defying experience that makes Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride seem like a merry go round. But, why should I worry about that? The ciggarette smoke will probably kill me. 
 
Half way to Casablanca we passed through the capital city of Rabat. “Blete! Blete shwea,” I said, with contrived frenzy.  I knew a few Moroccan words. I had  the greetings down and I could apologize or show my appreciation for the hospitality Moroccan’s are famous for. If I needed to get someone out of my face, I knew a half dozen menacing expressions, but my trying to put words into sentences was remeniscent of Tonto talking to the Lone Ranger. “Blete” means wait and “Shwea” means little. I was saying, “wait little.”  All that was missing was “kemo Sabe” The repitition and volumn of these first words spoken by the outsider, plus my waving my arms, sent a small shock wave through the vehicle and made everyone, who were usually all talking at the time, go silent. The driver pulled over like something was very wrong. He was correct. One of the gents let me out of the car, in God knows where, and I leaned in and told Ahab Andretti “Shokron” (thank you) and “Safi” (enough). Then I quickly turned away from the five puzzeled faces and started hoofing it toward a group of lights that looked like a service station. Even walking the next sixty miles would be an improvement. 

 
A Petite Taxi took me to the Casablanca train station. Trains in Morocco are great. They’re clean, inexpensive and the first class compartments, being a couple of dollars more, are almost always available. The one I wound up in was empty, so I would be able to slip off my shoes and stretch out. The Balima hotel, where I stay, was just across the street from the Rabat station so I was essentially home free. As I walked into the station to wait for the next Rabat train, Dolly Parton was coming over the the loud speaker singing “I Will Alway’s Love You”. An hour later, when I deboarded and walked into the Rabat station, Dolly was singing the same song. God, I love this country.  
 

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