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.

I had given each of the guests at his party in D.C. a copy of the book, and when I returned home to Aspen, Ambassador Belkahayat called. He said His Majesty was very pleased with my participation in Washington and asked if I would come to New York, for the king’s party, the following day, again with my book. Make that four hundred copies, via FedEx? Ouch! When I arrived at the Plaza Hotel, an understandably disturbed bell captain told me I had fifteen cases of books in his office that he really didn’t plan on. I explained they were for tonight’s reception and said I would pick them up as soon as I “freshened up a bit.” He must have had me figured out when he saw me take my bag into the John. So, here I was, straddling a toilet and dressing like I was going to trial. My tie, which had been pre-tied by Judi, was the final touch for my “disguise.” As far as bathrooms for changing in go, the Plaza’s must be the closest of any as a utopian situation. Even the gentleman passing out towels, who watched my act from the get go, treated tonight’s invader like an honored guest. My choice of six colognes? First time for that.

My mind wandered back through the chain of events that brought me here tonight. A lot of it was due to a map of Morocco I had printed in my book that was influenced by my first trip to Morocco. My route to tonight’s event actually began in 1975 when I got off the boat in Tangiers and made my way to Marrakech. The country seemed so peaceful, I had no idea there was a war going on further south in the desert. The contention was over the ownership of the Western Sahara. It was desolate territory and wasn’t given much significance by any country, other than Morocco, until the wealth of the phosphates became apparent. Situated contiguous to Morocco and inhabited by Moroccan nomadic tribes, Morocco’s claim was natural. Algeria and Spain also laid claim, as well as Maurotania. Years of fierce fighting between Morocco and Algeria had produced nothing other than the loss of life on both sides before the dispute moved from the trenches into the jurisdiction of the United Nations. There, it was decreed that ownership would be determined by mass population of the area.

The first day I was in Marrakech was the beginning of an event that would be followed around the globe.. King Hassan had asked for fifty thousand volunteers to board busses, drive cars or take animals, but to make their way south to the Western Sahara. There were so many people who wanted to support their king that application forms were being sold instead of handed out. A total of three hundred and fifty thousand Moroccans, many without applications, left for what would, up to this time, be the biggest peace march in the history of the world…The Green March To The Sahara. On the day of departure, every where you looked were vehicles filled with men wearing green turbans, heading blindly into a vortex known as the Sahara Desert….most of them waving the green, with a red star, Moroccan flag and shouting praises to Allah and Viva Hassan Tani. It was thrilling to be in the midst of an historical event of this magnitude. By the following morning, all of the cities busses and trucks that were commandeered for the trip had left, and Marrakech, one of the most buzzing, happening cities in the world, was hauntingly deserted.

It wasn’t an easy trip for the volunteers going down to the Sahara. Many took truckloads of sheep or goats and every available square inch in and on top of every vehicle were crammed with provisions. Those less prepared with their own foodstuffs found them in trouble as supplies dried up in towns and oasis’ along the way. Contrary to what one might think, the desert produces of a food…especially melons, dates and citrus. The natural tendency of the Moroccans to help each other out became the savior of many. Some just couldn’t make the trip and had to turn back awhile others found places to wait, in hopes of hitching a ride back, when the march was over. All in all, the Green March to The Sahara was impetuous, heart felt and poorly planned…..and successful.

With their mission accomplished, and Morocco recognized as the legitimate owner of the territory, the heroes of Morocco returned home, in a most arduous state. This time there was no assistance from Morocco’s local transportation, which had long since returned to the cities. Word of the UNs decision spread through the streets of Marrakech like wildfire. This not only meant Morocco owned the territory, but also the soldiers, who had been battling over it so long, could come home. Days of feasting and celebration followed.

My departure from Morocco coincided with the end of the event as closely as my arrival was to the beginning. My friend Jane and I were on a charter bus to Tangiers, where we would ferry across and catch another from the south of Spain to Frankfort, Germany, to our flight home. Just outside of Marrakech we slowed to a stop in a crowd of hundreds, if not thousands, of discouraged marchers trying to make their way home. They were packed down the middle of the highway and as far as we could see in front of and behind us. The bus was only about a third full. All of a sudden people were rocking the bus back and forth and crawling up the sides to get to the roof. As the rocking became more intense, I asked our driver why we couldn’t open the door and let a few in. He assured me if he opened the door they would never stop pushing to get in, and I would surely have the air squashed out of me. One thing I learned over the next couple of hours was there isn’t a living human that will not move out of the way for a slow crawling bus. The whole scene had displayed desperation without violence. That, in itself, speaks for the attitude of Moroccans. They believe you should not do anything unless some good will come from it. And what good could come from smashing up a bus and some old rug merchant and his girl?

Back to the Plaza Hotel, where I’m departing my eight square foot dressing room for the Grand Ballroom, which provided more perspective for my mental portfolio. King Hassan had flown in his chefs and gilded dinnerware from Rabat, and even the Plaza, who is famous for putting on spreads to equal any hotel, was shocked at the opulence of tonight’s dinner. As instructed by the manager, the staff had placed one of my books at each place setting. Just inside the entrance standing to receive his guests were King Hassan, his two princess daughters, and the kings uncle and Minister of State, Moulay Ahmed Alaoui. As I reached His Majesty, he took my hand. Not the brief handshake his guests in line in front of me were getting, but a good firm hand hold. He thanked me for writing the book and being such a good friend of Morocco. He said I would always be a welcome guest in his country. However long the king was going to talk to me, I wasn’t about to pull my hand away. The king was especially pleased that my book was the first one published that displayed a map of Morocco which included the Western Sahara. Minister Alaoui said, “Mr Taylor. Your passport may be American, but your heart belongs to Morocco.” You know? I think he may have something there.