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.”

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.

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.

Nor, would that piece of paper be necessary here, or do me any good if it were. This palace official was the real deal and I was up for taking on whatever project was on his mind. I was escorted around the people waiting (did I love that, or what?) and directly into his beautifully furnished office. Minister Sinaucer was wearing an, obviously expensive,  navy blue suit and just the right red tie for it. The first words I uttered were ”my apologies for my appearance, Mr. Minister. I had little notice.” I remember him saying, in his most gracious manner, “Mr. Taylor. I am in my work clothes and you are in yours. Please, have a seat and let us proceed. Would you like some tea or coffee?”, as it was already being served. I thought about kicking back and putting my feet up on his table….Just kidding

THE MISSION:
UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) was having a photographic exhibition in the lobby of the United Nations, in NYC, in three months. The purpose was to show the need for the restoration of the medinas (old cities) of Fez and Marrakech. Concerned that photographs of the decay, as large as they were, would not attract enough attention. UNESCO requested I add my museum collection of Moroccan textiles and artifacts to the exhibition. This was unprecedented, as no items, other than photographs, had been exhibited in the building. Permission for the exhibition was granted by U.N. Secretary General, Butrous Butrous Ghali, as a courtesy to King Hassan 2nd.  My wife, Judi, and I had organized a number of museum exhibitions on Moroccan textiles, over the years, but the United Nations is not just another museum. It’s the parliament of man.
For exhibition purposes, this was a pinnacle.

My key to the front door was U.N. Under Secretary General, Ambassador Joseph Verner Reed. Ambassador Reed was a former ambassador to Morocco who maintained a close friendship and with King Hassan. Joseph and I met in Aspen and became close friends years before, so when I got my assignment at the U.N. he paved my way through the door all the way to the General Assembly floor. Joseph Reed has been with the United Nations many years and to walk through the lobby with him is like being with royalty. If someone in the world is worth knowing, for global benefit, Ambassador Reed knows them…and they him. When the metal detector went off as Judi walked through, the guards stepped forward. A voice said “she’s with Reed.” They stepped back and smiled while she passed. I tried to walk into the general assembly room to listen some speakers while wearing running shoes. A guard told me soft shoes were not allowed on the General Assembly floor. Another voice said “he’s with Reed.” All the guard said was “headset, sir?” The most exciting thing I received from the UN, besides the assignment, itself, was a security pass to go to places in the building where most others could not. It’s like a city behind those walls.

Blast off:
Aspen Colorado.

I had no trouble lining up volunteers to go to New York and the UN. A lot of the Aspen ski bums hung around my store. A large German fellow named Ollie, my musician friend Michael Meadows and his girlfriend, my sidekick for exploring Morocco, David Arnold and I loaded a truck with our finest Moroccan treasures and headed east. Judi was to fly in. This put five of us in a truck with a seat for three. Two guy’s, who were musicians, offered to ride in the back on top of stacks of rugs. fifteen hundred miles of guitar practice in the back of a closed truck spells hard core musicians. “knock three times on the window for a pit stop, and knock hard. Those rugs are expensive.” If one could overlook the claustrophobic aspect and the prospect of bladder explosion, the back was probably the most comfortable place to ride. I drove the whole distance. To relinquish the wheel would feel like giving up my captainship.

NYC
like no place in the world:

Seeing the New York skyline come into view (for those of us up front) excited us beyond words. I had been there many times and had even organized a couple of parties for Moroccan dignitaries there, but this was different. I was about to one man stand up the United Nations. Two things concerned me…driving a 28 ft. Ryder truck around in Manhattan, and where would we park it at night, without concern of theft. I knew only a portion of the mountain of material we brought would be used for the exhibit and the rest would be left in the truck. Navigating the truck through the city was like riding an elephant through a grocery store. Everyone hated me for it. I wasn’t to fond of them, either, but I stepped on no groceries. I talked to a local about the truck safety issue and told him one of us (namely me) would volunteer sleep in the front seat in the motel parking lot, for security. He assured me, that if they wanted the truck, my being in it wouldn’t even slow them down. I said I had a Club steering wheel lock, to which he answered, “If there is a street light near the truck, thieves remove the plate at the bottom of the pole, tap into the electricity and saw through the lock, all in a matter of minutes. Crooks, in more of  a hurry, who don’t mind being sloppy, take a hack saw and saw through the steering wheel.” Thanks, that made me feel much better.”

What made me really feel better is Ambassador Reed had made arrangements to relieve my second concern, in spades. They opened the compound gate around the UN building and had me pull the truck inside and around to the side entrance. There, we parked it right next to the twenty four hour a day bomb squad truck, where the bomb squad and their dogs gathered. They were very nice gentlemen who, along with their dogs, became our friends. They even got a kick out of how some of my crew spent a couple of nights in the truck. It was that or another two hundred dollar hotel room. For the entire three week period I had the safest truck in New York, or possibly the world.

The United Nations building
The Parliament of Man
One mission….Peace

When we turned the corner and saw the row of flags in front of the building, there was a collective intake of air in the front seat. How could anything in my simple career be more exciting? Ollie was quick to point out the German flag. We were all talking at once. After the bomb squad pups made their rounds through the truck, we were told we would have to clear, even the slightest pin, through security, which couldn’t be tighter anywhere. This presented another problem. The General Assembly was to convene in two days and the exhibit, which took up a good slice of the lobby, had to be completed by then. UNESCO already had one of the walls covered with large photographs of the medinas in ruins. To take in the rugs, costumes, pottery and artifacts at the speed security demanded would take forever…plus, it would be maddening. One more time Ambassador Reed came to my rescue and introduced me to the head of security, as his friend. I was given a key to the side sliding double door and told we could work through the night. Carte Blanche at the UN. I wondered if this would help me get my high school diploma.

A couple of beautiful Moroccan costumes, complete with gold belts and exotic jewelry, on loan from a moroccan museum, were already displayed on mannequins in the exhibit area, which took up a large portion of the lobby. There was also a table covered with pottery from the different areas of Morocco.
We brought in rugs from the High and Middle Atlas mountains and antique coin silver jewelry from the Saharan tribes in hand wrought silver treasure chests. We draped antique embroideries and silk textiles over leather poufs (hassocks). We showed the finest examples of primitive Moroccan art and textiles ever assembled in this country. We had planned on including our religious artifacts, but they were being exhibited at The Bnai Brith Klutznick National Jewish Museum, in Washington D.C. at that same time (another story). It was the most fun night any of had experienced (working) and when we were through, we had created Moroccan splendor at the United Nations.

But, to not get ahead of myself…. Michael Meadows had set up a video camera to record our installation night. Later, at the room, we reviewed our performance. Everything went smoothly until it showed us bring in these two long wooden crates that were so heavy a cart was a must. It was our antique gun, daggar and sword collection and we started setting them up for display. Just as the last crate was being emptied, the video showed me jump about three feet straight up and put both hands on my temples and scream. Everyone started scrambling like the camera was in fast motion. It was no more mister nice guy for me. I was in full panic mode. It had occurred to me, the only piece of permanent art at the U.N. is a huge bronze on the patio, of a pistol with a knot tied in the end of the barrel. The whole creed of the U.N. is to feed people and abolish weapons. True, an antique flintlock could do little more damage than a hard cane but swords and daggers do not lose their effectiveness with time. A terrible newspaper headline jumped into my imagination… “The prime minister of somewhere or another was stabbed in the U.N. lobby by a hundred year old dagger….but you should see Alf’s pretty rugs.”

The guards made their rounds every thirty minutes or so. They were use to us and had done little more than waive. I knew, if they saw our arsenal had made it into the building, they would do a little more than waive. If packing them up was supposed to be a twenty minute task, we cut the time by seventeen minutes. Antique or not. etched gold or not, fragile or not, we took no time to wrap even one piece. We stuffed our death instruments in the crates like they were made of cheap plastic. Then, loading one crate on top another, we rolled them into the night and into our truck. Now, the thought that was going through my mind was, two days before my fiftieth birthday it was quite possible I had inadvertently and successfully smuggled more weapons in and out of the United Nations than any other living human…It was exhilarating.

The exhibition lasted three weeks and, in that period of time, I was privileged to escort heads of state from countries all over the world on a tour of MOROCCO AT THE U.N.

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. 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. 

 
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.

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. 

                                             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.

 
In 1789, our president, George Washington, made an appeal to Emperor Mohammed the third of Morocco. President Washington said our ships were being fired on in the Mediterranean, by Tunisia and Lybia, and asked the king to intervene. The president said,  “We greatly regret that the hostile disposition of those regencies toward this nation, who have never injured them, is not to be removed on terms in our power to comply with. Within our territories there are no mines of gold or silver, and this young nation, just recovering from the desolation of a long war, has not yet had time to acquire riches by agriculture and commerce. But, our soil is bountiful and our people industrious, and we have reason to flatter ourselves that we will gradually become useful to our friends.” The president went on to propose a treaty of peace and friendship with Morocco.
 
Emperor Mohammed replied, “In the name of God, the merciful. There exists strength only by God. From the servant of God, Mohammed Ibm Allah, may God help him-to the president of the United States of America. Salvation be upon him who follows the righteous path. We received your letter in which you propose a peace treaty. Our intention is also to maintain peaceful relations with you. We have also contacted Tunis and Tripoli regarding what you solicited from Our Majesty and all your requests will materialize, God willing.” As a result of these correspondences, America’s peace and friendship treaty with Morocco, The Treaty of Marrakech, signed in 1787, is our longest standing treaty.
 
So what’s happened in the couple of centuries since, Mr. President? The United states has become a world power.  Our military is made up of the most dedicated men and women in the world. They move, without question, to assignments around the world, where they risk their lives to protect total strangers, at the behest of the United States government. They re-define bravery. As a force, we are lethal beyond human comprehension. Whenever any country suffers a natural disaster, politics are set aside and the United States is first to offer assistance. We feed more people around the world than any country, with our consideration of repayment. We house and protect the parliment of man….. The United Nations
 
Our space program is second to none. We fly around in the stars so frequently the American public, as a whole, pay’s little attention. Thanks to our scientists and laboratories, modern medicine is keeping people alive longer than ever. The quality of our lives in our later years is enhanced, as well. We are the innovator’s of the computer world and still lead in development and technology. Ours is a society that thrives on new ideas and inventions. The list of things this industrious nation of the United States leads in is endless. I am, and always will be, proud to be an American….with a few exceptions.
 
Tell me, President Washington, please. Do you think, with all of these accolades, we may have come too far too fast? Have we spread so much confusion around the globe, insisting others adopt our values, that we are now looked on as conquerors instead of liberators? Can we slow our pace if we tried? Do we have reason to flatter ourselves that our new administration will lead us back onto a righteous path and away from that of worldwide confrontation and inevitable destruction? If  not now, when? The eyes of a world, whom we have fallen out of favor with, will be on the first moves of  President Of the United States, Barak Obama. Please be worthy. God speed, Mr. President.
 
Let me move you a few thousand miles across the Atlantic, to a country that I have been blessed enough to call my second home. Like other countries situated close to the equator, Morocco’s progression is different, as is their pace of life. Warmer climates are more conducive to living naturally and less demanding for basic survival. When I first went to Morocco, in 1975, I was shocked at what I considered third world backwardness. For an American city dweller to see animal drawn carts mingling with auto congestion, a bit of shock is understandable. As I fell in love with the country, I learned to appreciate the harmony that allows this to happen. It works. People, carts, bikes and other traffic move along in sort of a groove of mutual respect. The general attitude of the Moroccan people follows the same trend. In general, they believe, if no good can come from something, do not do it. For instance, if someone takes something from you, no good can come from hitting them for it. Then, on the other hand, William Shakespeare said “men are not hung for stealing horses. They are hung that horses shall not be stolen.” 
 
Thirty some years later, Morocco is no longer this sleepy little Kingdom, catering to a few tourists and making their lives miserable while trying to enter and leave the country. No more packed highways, if you could call them that, dotted with road block check points and guards, with their paranoia. There’s no more wondering if your room reservation would be waiting, or clean, if it was. For years Morocco was at the bottom of the list of countries re-visited, because it just didn’t have it together. Today, things are different and people who visit once, generally are excited about someday returning.
 
Morocco is thriving. The paranoia is gone. King Mohamed the sixth has invested a fortune into  cleaning the cities spotless and creating jobs and commerce. He has commissioned beautiful garden laced avenues and parks. Super highways and toll roads now connect the major cities. Casablanca’s new Mohamed Sixth Airport is modern and gorgeous. Their passenger rail service is modern and non smoking. The train is a wonderful way to see Morocco’s countryside. Beautiful five star hotels are being built in every direction, each booking full as soon as they open. The biggest ski resort in Africa is almost completed in Okaimden. Marrakech has a new Royal Theater that looks like a palace. The shops are packed with tourists from around the globe lapping up Morocco’s treasure chest of handicrafts. Europeans, Saudis, Katari’s, Omanis, and, of course, their best friends and shoppers, the Americans. People come from around the world, all eager to play, whether it’s on one of Morocco’s many beautiful golf courses, hiking or skiing in the Atlas Mountains, or basking under Moroccos’ blue sky, on one of the hundreds of  miles of beaches. You can have the best, most exciting time of your life in this gracious, hospitable kingdom. My gosh! I sound like I’m selling tours.
 
Permit me to repeat myself:
Morocco has progressed more gently. They are an inspiration in change
You would be proud of these friends you made for us, President.Washington
 

Governor Alf Taylor
November 2008

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.

MOROCCO—AN INSPIRATION IN TOLERANCE

Even though my religious convictions do not extend much farther than the golden rule, which I try to carve in stone, I have always been fascinated by the different practices. Morocco’s tolerance of all religions is a thought process that is used in their every day lives.  Like religion, issues such as people’s skin color or financial status are not fodder for casual discussion. Business, family, and things like the weather, the tourism, or the modernization of Morocco dominate the sidewalk cafe conversations. So, I watch but don’t speak.

The following story begins with my passion for collecting religious artifacts, both Judaic and Koranic, and ends in a wonderful celebration of tolerance.

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.

This night, I was on foot, and had been for longer than I cared. My Moroccan brother, Sarmi Latif, was leading me on a special mission and had taken me further into the souks than my casual bike rides had gone. If he left me now I would sleep in a doorway before I would wander. I thought he was calling the man we were going to see, “the dad”, but found out later he was saying “the dead.” Because everything this man sold was so old the maker had long since gone to meet  their own maker. My quest was for an ancient torah scroll that I heard the man had. I had found some pieces of old torahs but had never seen one in it’s entirety. The Scrolls are on two spools. They are hand printed on leather and have to be completed without mistakes. This one was reported to be  undamaged,  and was complete with it’s original cover and small silver reading hand. No matter how few less rugs I would get to buy this trip, I was ready to spend some serious money to capture it.

We turned down an alley that was so dark I stopped and  let Latif go ahead. He had been there before and could feel his way to the door. He knocked ,and moments later, what looked like an eight watt light bulb went on. When I got to the door, it was opened a crack and  half of this old face peered out. Whatever Latif said, at first, didn’t cut much ice here. “Imshe. Imshe” is what I heard the old face say. I knew imshe meant “go away”  from what you say to all the kids who bother you to be your guide. Latif kept talking until the old man opened the door and allowed us to step inside, but just to stand there. He went away and in a few minutes returned with a tray with a teapot and three glasses. Mint tea (usually overly sweetened), besides being the national drink of Morocco, is a definite sign of welcome to my home. I was in. We went through the usual casual talk (mine always through my interpreter brother) but my mind was fixed on how soon I would get to see what I came for. I glanced around the room and saw why they call this man by his nickname. Not only was everything cluttering the room obviously ancient, it looked like they hadn’t been dusted since ancient times.
“How’s business, pop?” is what I was thinking. I didn’t need this scroll, I only thought I wanted it badly. When the old man went away and returned again, he was carrying, in both arms, a towel wrapped object, which he set on the table in front of us. As if to torture me, he took his sweet time clearing a space to unwrap it. When he took the top away I saw this beautiful green, almost felt like fabric, cover. It was embroidered with a gold metallic thread. The fabric seemed to float more than drape from its softness. The only thing better than finding a treasure is finding a treasure wrapped in a treasure. I was holding my breath without realizing it. When my breath came, it melted into a sigh of disappointment. The old man had told Latif the object was not for sale. On top of that, we couldn’t see it out of the cover, though he said it was in perfect condition.

We left and I was all over Latif. I asked why the old man showed it to us if it wasn’t for sale. He replied it was for sale but not just for money. Along with a tidy sum, the old man was searching for his own treasure. I don’t know if it was for him or a customer, but he wanted a blunderbuss. I had never seen one outside of a pirate movie but I knew they had a trumpet barrel and could shoot nails or whatever you stuffed in them. Latif said he told the old man he thought he knew the whereabouts of one. Latif stopped surprising me about what he can find years ago. I sometimes think he has his own magic lamp to extract the treasures I seek. We found a petit taxi that was navigating the tiny streets at about half of our walking speed but hopped in to head for home. I wake up early, but you can’t always beat a man who gets up at four to pray. I awakened  to cafe au lait and a row of hot svenges (deep fried doughnuts)…and no Latif. He either really did know the whereabouts of such a weapon or had gone to rub the ”magic lamp” that he seemingly posses’, to never let me down. A few hours later, up rode Latif on his motor scooter. Over his shoulder hung one of my beat up duffelbags that have carried my rugs away so many times. The shape of the bulge told me he was successful. The gun was shorter than I had imagined, but I couldn’t place where I had even seen one, much less, know it’s size. I hoped it was the right caliber of nails. I looked it over quickly, as guns aren’t my thing. This one had no special craftsmanship, but it filled my every expectations in it’s menacing appearance. Adding the asked amount of dirhams to our gun running excursion, which is unusual in a country where bargaining is expected, Latif zipped back into the street and off toward the souks.

In less than an hour we were examining our prize on top of one of the many long sofa seats that run along the walls in Latif’s house. Spirituality aside, the scroll was the holliest thing I had ever seen. We unrolled enough if it to know the old man was on the square about it’s condition. The rules I brought from home were that I was not to let it touch the ground or take it into smokey areas or a bathroom. On the airplane, I let the cabin attendant have a peek and she switched me  next to an empty seat, and overlooked the nothing in the seat during takeoff rule. She also told her associates of my find, and made me quite popular across the Atlantic.

Washington, D.C.
The Bnai’ Brith Klutznick
National Jewish Museum
1992

Dr. Ori Soltes was the museum director who dropped what he was doing and greeted me on my unannounced arrival to the museum. It could  quite possibly have been due to  what I was openly carrying under my arm.   Mae West said, “Those who shock easily should be shocked more often,” and I wanted to make my entrance with full shock value. I showed him pieces and pictures of my religious artifact collection. I had even brought some old Koran scriptures, to which he said he had never heard of such in a Jewish museum. Dr. Soltes was young and full of adventure. He spoke a multitude of languages, including several African dialects. We spoke of Morocco’s history of religious tolerance and Kings Mohammed the Fifth and the then king, Hassan the second’s protection of the Jews exiting Europe. We decided, on the spot, to have an exhibit of religious artifacts from both faiths. Ori, as he insisted I call him, took out his scheduling book and picked a date a little more than a year from then. The next opening in his schedule was for how quickly he could zip off to Morocco with me. Shortly thereafter, we were off on the first of our two trips together. The thing that stuck in my mind is how he picked up everything around him, from magazines to empty boxes, and read every word. Touring the synagogues and Jewish burial grounds with Ori gave me an insight into Judaism some people would do anything to get. Though most of the historical facts went either over my head or in one ear and out the other, I reveled in his brilliance.

The opening night
October, 1993
Formal, you say?

I didn’t know anyone at this most prestigious event other than the museum staff, Albert Aflalo, one of Morocco’s leaders of the Jewish community whom I had introduced to Ori, and my good friend from the Moroccan Embassy, Ambassador Mohamed Belkahayat. One of the faces I definitly recognized was Andrew Azule, the adviser to King Hassan. Since this exhibition was in honor of King Hassan and his father, Mr. Azule’s presence was omnipotent. In three or four museum rooms, along with my now seemingly paltry collection, were beautiful cabinets full of incredible metal and textile objects from both faiths.  These were on loan from various Moroccan museums and private collections. The exhibit didn’t have the color or sparkle of my usual Moroccan textile exhibitions, but ye of little faith, stand back.

I hadn’t realized a party had been planned at the Ambassador’s residence for certain guests (numbering 200). When my wife Judi and I arrived, I noticed our place cards were set a few tables apart. I was aware of this being standard procedure at formal parties, but, protocol be damned, I’m not going to be robbed of sharing this night with my love, so, I switched them and sat beside her. I’ll never be back, so what’s the difference?  By now my part in the gig was pretty much over and I was just another guy noshing down on the Ambassador’s food and wine. The speeches began with the Ambassador’s welcome and thanks to certain people, including myself.  Dr. Soltes and several others took their turns giving thanks to the kings and Morocco, the museum, and so on. While they were talking I started daydreaming back to the first day I walked into the museum in my scuffed up tennis shoes and worn jeans, carrying the Torah. I looked over at Judi. I said, “Honey, the Jewish and Muslim community are celebrating together, maybe for the first time in this city, and I made the call that made it happen.”  A squeeze on my leg was her “Not now, Honey. They’re  talking” signal.  So, I went back to daydreaming.

Organized religion aside, tonight I was having the time of my life…thanks to a little help from “the dead”.

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.

I arrived at the Marrakech railroad yard as early as they told me the man in charge of packing, Hassan, would be there. Being a get up at four AM guy, I was almost ready for lunch by the time he got to work, at eight. The first thing that hit me (in a figurative sense) when I came into the yard was a huge fork lift coming my way, trailed by a cloud of dust that would make a Kansan take cover. The chugging beast looked like something out of the movie Transformers. Pulling my tee shirt over my nose, I stepped out of harms way and took in the show. On the end of my forty foot container, it said gross weight 77,000 lbs. Although the containers and the ships can support that weight, very few  load more than 44,000 pounds, the maximum legal weight for trucks to pull. The man behind the wheel picked up container after container and adeptly placed them on top of one another like he was setting cups on saucers. Other than the scraping from the tongs between the containers, as he backed up, there was barely a noise. He hypnotized me. What is it they say? “Little girls come out saying mama and dada but boys say vrooom.” For nine dusty hours, small Toyota pickup trucks full of, cardboard wrapped fountains arrived. Each truck had five or six young gentlemen who moved the concrete and tile fountains like I move small rugs. Due to the nature of their construction, stacking the fountains was out of the question. Hassan and his pro’s slid, tugged, grunted and roped my booty down in the container until not a square inch of flooring showed. Any rugs that I could score could be thrown on top.

Here I am on Latif’s patio surrounded by more rugs than I can possibly afford. These aren’t like the stacks of rugs you see in the rug markets of Fez and Marrakech. Most of those stores are supplied by weaver’s, working in regimented situations or weaving co-ops. These beautiful, more formal, city rugs are exported around the world. Like their Oriental counterparts, they are bought and sold by the square meter. The work is controlled, successful for all concerned, and the lifeblood of the Moroccan weaving industry.

These rugs I’m sitting on, around and under, however, are what make me tick, and have since nineteen seventy five. These are the colorful creations of the Atlas mountain Berber tribespeople. These women use the finest hand spun High Atlas wool and weave one of a kind rugs and flat woven kilims, strictly by hand. In the Middle Atlas kilim flat weaves, they use traditional designs and symbols.  The High Atlas weavers use traditional and non-traditional patterns and figures to create one of a kind, hand knotted, works of art, that we call rugs.

Many of the Berber people are pastoral. They live and set up their loom in tents, in the mountains, during the summer and migrate to the desert pueblo’s in the winter. As a whole their weavings, depict their lives, less structured and nonconformist. The Berber’s call themselves the Imazgin, which means “the free people.” The Romans gave them the name, Berbers, for “Barbarians”, because they fought their invader’s so fiercely. Go figure.

The designs in the Berber tribal rugs (kilims, specifically) all over Morocco represent the only written language of a people who’s origin remains’ a mystery. In one kilim, from the Middle Atlas tribe of Azrou, we found symbols (letters) from the Ogam alphabet. These were the Celts who were run out of Ireland for practicing sorcery. The Celt language and alphabet was composed of different arrangements of five digits across from five similar digits, so they could, essentially, speak with their fingers. This Azrou kilim had these digits woven into it. The director of the Folk and Craft Museum, in Los Angeles bought it from me many years ago. In the library of Dublin, there are books that tell of Berber raiders who attacked and took twenty boatloads of women, when they left. In the Atlas mountains you will still see red haired, blue eyed people, today. Once, outside of Tucson they found the Ogam alphabet scratched into the rocks. It was translated to say ”the natives are not friendly.” That leaves room for the imagination of what insued.

Four mountain merchants had answered my call and had spent the week gathering all of the nice tribal pieces that they could find, and brought them to latif’s house, where they carried them three stories up to the roof. All of these guy’s knew me and also know I my funds are always limited. Each merchant wanted to tempt me as much as possible. And tempted I was, as I  pawed through sixty or seventy beautiful primitive pieces, frustrated because many of them would have to stay behind… hopefully, until my next trip. Not many visitor’s to Morocco have access to these independant dealers and vice versa.  Most tourist’s are escorted to the larger stores, where these types of rugs rarely surface. My selection made and my pockets empty I stuffed my three duffelbags full and planned to throw the rest on top of a few tons of concrete and tile the container. With that, I bid farewell and, hopefully, good storage to the runner’s up.

Tomorrow would be a dull day after I packed the last of my goods and put the lock on my container. Meeting with shipping agents, custom broker’s and the other officials who make small time exporter’s do the hoop dance, to the tune of their choosing, is not my cup of tea.  I was expecting the various variables that, invariably, hit on the day before departure. But, as I mentioned before, if it was easy everyone would do it.

                                                   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.

At the entrance to the Marrakech madina is the most famous tourist spot in Morocco. The square, Djemma El Fna covers about one half square mile. It is the gathering place for anyone who has something to sell, be it a product or an act. Shaman’s from the Sahara bring their powder’s and potions, looking for someone to cure of something. Story tellers and koran reader’s hypnotize their Moroccan audiences with koran readings and tales of mystical times and events. There are men with trained monkeys, who go so far as to put the monkey’s on tourist’s heads until some coins are extracted from them “for the show.” You’ll see men wearing colorful cloaks and big red hats, carrying goatskin bags and belts adorned with ancient coins and shiney brass cups. The watermen of Morocco get the water from the well, mostly for locals needing a drink. They ring brass bells that dangle from their belts so, all within earshot would know there is a drink nearby. But, the main source of the watermen’s income is from taking pictures with the tourist’s, none of whom in their right mind would drink the water. Stands selling fresh dates sit next to stands selling the most delicious fresh squeezed orange juice and other’s selling cookies, baked in the homes, only hours before. Nut venders peddle pistachios from boxes, hanging around their necks and are followed by other’s with urns of hot tea. Hot grills bearing rows of goat heads are in the alleys leading to the square, so consumption preferences for the locals, wouldn’t be a turnoff for the tourists. And everything in the square is fair game for purchase. They might walk up to you and touch your shirt and ask “how much?” If you say it isn’t for sale, They will ask again “how much?” this time meaning how much did you pay for it.

Djemma El Fna stands for square of the dead, from the old day’s when men, who broke the wrong laws, wound up with their heads on poles at the square. Every tourist who visits Morocco usually winds up visiting the square. Young boy’s taunt you into hiring them as guides to show you around without cost to you. If they take you to a place and you buy something, a commission is given to the guide. These little rascals know how to ask the right questions, to sell you something, in a dozen different languages. Morocco has their official government guides, a job that puts them in a position of great reward. The guides, as well as the government frowns on the young boy’s activities, so they skulk.

Morocco has some interesting system of laws. If you park your cars in the wrong place, the police, who carry pliers, take your license plate off and you have to pay the fine to get it back. Crude, but effective. If any of the boys get caught selling hashish and arrested, the first thing they do, before a trial or court is discussed, is shave their heads. It tells everyone what they were arrested for and makes them a hot potatoe to deal with. embarrassing, but effective. People don’t tend to resist a policeman in Morocco. The country, on the whole, is too submissive for that. But, once I saw a man try to struggle with two policemen who were trying to remove him from his car. One of the policemen reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a ball point pen. He then inserted the pointed end of the pen into the strugglers nose, with his right hand and held the back of his head with the other.  The man followed without further resistance. Painful, but
effective.

I must say, after that toe curler, that Morocco has one of the best tourist safety records in the world. In my thirty two years of going there, I have yet to hear of a tourist being seriously bothered, physically. That’s not to say your camera won’t get boosted or you might find someone’s hand in your purse, but violent crimes are almost nil.If you are a Moroccan Muslim and you want to pray in the mosque, that’s fine. If you want to pray at home or in the street, that’s fine. If you don’t want to pray, but would rather have a beer, that’s fine too. They don’t mix the religion with the law in Morocco. You’ll see mosques, synagogues and catholic churches in the same area. There are three things the Moroccan government would rather you not talk about. They don’t arrest you, or anything like that. They just consider it to be bad manners. First, you don’t gossip about the royal family…”the king’s sister is gettig a divorce, blah.\, blah”. The second taboo
is the disposition of territory…”Didn’t france use to rule Morocco? and Spain, blah”. The third thing you don’t talk about, and why I think they have kept moderation in their religious lives, is you do not sit and discuss religion. And, brother. If you don’t talk about something, you cannot fight about it. But, there I go talking about it. My apologies.

By far, my favorite of all the Djemma El Fna performer’s are the snake charmers. By Moroccan law, these cobra’s must be de-fanged for the charmer to obtain a permit to preform in the square. However, some of these guy’s are rebels who come from down in the Sahara and, either don’t know or care about the law. Als, cobras grow their fangs back. Occaisionally someone get’s bit. On my first trip to the square, I saw a man sitting under an umbrella with a flute and tamboreen. In front of him was a wooden box with a sliding top. I asked “serpent?”  He reached into his box and screamed. He pulled out his hand and there was a snake (not a cobra) biting down on his thumb. He shook it off, covered it with his tamboreen, then started chanting loudly, while he took his bloody thumb and drew crosses on his forehead. I, being both terrified and super sympathetic, reached into my pocket and, instead of the usual coins donated for the performances, pulled out all of my Moroccan bills (probably amounted to twenty bucks) and placed them, with an overdone compasionate look on my face on  his blanket. The next day, fully expecting to see an empty spot where he was, I went by. There he was with a little band aid wrapped around his thumb. The way he loked at me and smiled, I realized, that although he didn’t want to get bit but, since he did, he took full advantage of it by voodoo scaming some sucker tourist, your’s truly, out of his dough.

Since then, I have learned a lot about the cobra charming. Ont of my best friend for thirty years is Essouini Bouchaib, Morocco’s oldest snake charmer. With each trip tp Morocco, I make sure to spend some time with Bouchaib. I even took him, as a warm up act, on a ten day three band, three city concert tour that I took through Morocco.  His two cobras that he took with us, whom I affectionally nicknamed “look Out’ and “get Back” traveled in a little box under the front seat of our bus. A good wake up question for the band members was “has anyone seen the top to the cobra box?”.That’s another story for another time. Cobra’s don’t strike as fast as rattlesnakes, who hit you at 80 MPh. In hot weather cobras tend to move much slower. They tend to be able to  raise up quickly, that’s where their muscles are, and then let gravity take them toward you. In colder weather they spring forward much more quickly. They also can only rotate their heads about 180 to 200 degrees. To get around any further, they have to shift their bodies. There’s a trick to standing just out of reach and making them look at you. Then, as you move further around behind them, they bring their heads around front to get to the other side and that’s when I jump in to touch the backs of their heads. Really ticks ‘em off. I asked my friend, bouchaib,  if he had ever been bit. He said, while removing the fangs from one of his cobras (a terrifying thought, to me, in itself) one fang scrapped his thumb. He was in the hospital for four day’s fightingfor his life.

At night, the square takes on a different face. The acts and acrobats are moved aside to a smaller space and food stands wrapp around the square. You can buy any kind of food at these stands from lobster to veal. Twenty kinds of olives are available for pennies a plate. Every kind of salads, tajines, cous cous dished and plenty of shish kabob. The government inspects the food stands dilligently so they are clean and safe, so long as you stick to drinking bottled water and using the watermen for souvineer photo’s. Marrakech has always been called “the city of earthly delights” and all of the Moroccan’s who have anything to sell want to go there. It’s like the county fair for them. Today Marrakech is called the Paris of the south because of it’s beauty and worldly splendor. Don’t take my word for it. Make a res. Alf Taylor

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.

They had donkeys pulling a poma rope type of lift to reach as high as they could on the side of the mountain. Now, they are building the biggest and most luxurious resort in Africa, in the same spot.

Morocco is flourishing with tourism from all over the middle east and Europe. The country has remained politically neutral and open to all friendly visitors. They are an inspiration in detente. Americans love Morocco and are still their best friends. America’s treaty of friendship with Morocco is our longest unbroken treaty, signed in 1787. The treaty we value so much was actually derived from extortion. The Moroccan’s captured an American ship named “The Betsy.” It was a gentle capture but the Moroccan King told President Washington they would release the ship, only upon the signing of a peace treaty. George complied. At a different time President Washington also pleaded to the king to help stop our ships from being fired upon, in the Mediterranean. The king complied. A copy of the two correspondences can be found at the end of this message. We are, by far, their best shoppers. In Morocco they say “The French come and buy beautiful scarves, skirts and purses. Whatever it takes to make the ladies, even more, lovely. The Spanish, even though they have their own beautiful leather, Buy bags, belts and other trinkets. The American’s buy ten rugs.”

As we began rounding the mountain curves leading into the valley, the Ourika River appeared on the left. This beautiful rock bottom river originates from the mountain lakes, where the government has built beautiful dams, and from natural snow runoff. There have been many flash floods over the years and hundreds of lives have been claimed in the torrents. For these gentle natured but rugged mountain berber’s, the Ourika River and what God does with it is just a way of life.  More than once, homes, close to ours, up and down the one road that runs through the village, were washed away. Fortunately, our home, which sits right on the river has a natural protective barrier, just up stream. On this visit, I saw where the river got high enough and fierce enough to rip an iron gate off of our patio wall. The river is crossed mainly via rope bridges. Not only must you step between large gaps between the few boards that haven’t yet broken, you have to put your weight from each foot directly over the center steel cable. Countless times I have had to lean to the side and cling to the hand cable, like any other terrified tourist, to allow the Berber children to run past me at break neck speed.(no pun intended). It’s their laughing, all the while, that really get’s my goat.

The dry desert terrain that we left on the other side of the mountain entrance to our valley gave way to lush green pastures and apple orchards, one after another. Fields of tomatoes, corn and every vegetable that it takes to make the food of Ourika so famously delicious throughout Morocco, were all growing in fields on the left side of the road. On the right side of the road, allowing for space to park a small car, is a straight up mountain face, broken up by little enclaves bearing a house or local store or vegetable stand. Young boys sell strawberries along the roadside, that come packed in hand woven and hand sealed baskets. There is so much water in Ourika that it oozes from places in the mountain and runs down the cliffside in sheets. The locals have carved small grooves in the cliff face, under the water sheets, where they cool Cokes and other drinks to sell to the tourists.

If you go the few kilometers from our home to the village center and take a thirty minute hike-climb, you will come to four beautiful waterfalls on top of each other. It’s the hang out for the local swimsuit crowd…understandably so. If you turn south for less than a kilometer, halfway down from the falls, you will come to the Shrine of Sitti Fatima, a Berber Saint. Put religious convictions aside and enjoy the serenity of this small shrine tucked into the side of the mountain. I didn’t have time for a trip to the falls this visit.

But, let me not overlook the most important reason of all for the fame of Ourika food…..The bread of Ourika Valley will go down in the annals of Moroccan history as “unmatachable.” There is a reason. I’ve taken a few photographs of my day in Ourika so the thousand word phillosophy of pictures may further intrest you in our tour. The old, river driven, mill grinding wheel is operated the same way as was practiced a thousand years ago.This mill, itself is older than the villager’s can remember. It produces the freshest flour possible. The stone grinding wheel  can be adjusted up or down, slightly, depending on the size of the grain. The direction of the wheel can be changed by a wooden slat gear type of device, guided by a rope pulled foot peddle. The wheat and other grains are stored in pots, ready for kneading and baking in the mills indoor-outdoor kitchen. The kitchen was old world, but impeccable. The  beautilul, hand pounded silver searving trays and kitchenware made me think about my own kitchen and feel totally uncivilized.

Tour busses from Marrakech come through the valley regularly so the typical camel rides and local tour guides await tourist’s at every stop. Self titled “merchants”, who are mostly runners from the smaller villages up the mountain, walk the streets with cardboard boxes, hawking  hand pounded silver and metal “Alladin lamps” and other jewelry and trinkets. Occaisionally, an old daggar or other treasure can be found in the mix, so I check them all out. Artifacts ancient in the western mind are only used stuff to them. These people were living this same way for centuries before our country was born. It’s a way of life that works for them. Whether by choice or, most likely not, the Ourika Valley Berber life is one of less stuff in exchange for for less stress. I’ve found, in every country, rural people, with a life more concentrated on the basics, are pretty similar. It’s city people who differ so greatly.

My home, Villa Sarmi Taylor, is in an area of Ourika called Akbalou. It’s a concrete structure that was one of the oldest survivors of the valley’s punisher, The Ourika River. There is a front facing salon room, with a much used fireplace, that leads to a patio and down the steps to the river. We used to take the rugs we bought and put them into the river with big rocks holding them down. They washed naturally and the moving water prevented any die runs. We would then hang them on the side of the villa to dry and the tour busses would honk and wave at us on the roof patio. God, I love tourist’s. They’re so happy.

The kitchen, bedrooms and bathroom are located toward the back of the house, which is, actually, the front, looking at it from the street side. I took the first fountain I purchased to Ourika and put it into an entrance hall in the home, where they will decorate around it with benches, pillows and exotic Moroccan textiles.  Outside the entrance, a stairway leads to the roof top, where I spend most of my time. Here I have a good view of what’s going on up and down the river and road. When night falls in the valley and the only lights you see come from the lanterns winding down the mountain side in the hands of the local’s, many of whom are groups of singing children, the stars look almost reachable. The peace I feel at night in Ourika is only interupted by the slightly chilly to downright freezing feeling standing outside at night brings.
Ourika Valley is a special place in Morocco and on this planet.

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.

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.