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Date: Tue, 10 Dec 1996 14:58:40 GMTServer: NCSA/1.4.2Content-type: text/htmlLast-modified: Wed, 23 Oct 1996 21:16:12 GMTContent-length: 11551<html><head> <title> Reflections on Morocco </title></head><body><b>Reflections on Morocco</b><p>September, 1994<p>Daniel S. Weld<p><img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/brain.jpeg" ALIGN=left>Morocco is a cultural mosaic --- a curious mix of Arab customs, Berbertraditions, and French sophistication. Moroccan cuisine, for example, makesfresh bread, jam and cafe au lait the standard petit dejeuner, but a dinnerof tagine (an exotic vegetable stew) is always followed by supersweet minttea (jokingly called ``Berber Whiskey'' in the strictly Muslim nation).While driving on the excellent system of (colonially created) roads, one isas likely to see a nomad herding camels as one is to glimpse elaboratelyveiled women at a well or men approaching their mosque.<p>We sampled this mosaic in an all-too-brief trip in September `94. After anexpired passport debacle in which we were barred from flight and thusmissed our connection, we flew from Seattle to NYC to London to Tangier toCasablanca to Marrakech. Two days in this exotic but much touristed citywere enough, so we rented a tiny Renault 4, crossed the high Atlasmountains, braved a sandstorm in the Sahara, and arrived a week later inFez where we spent our final few days. Before our trip, many travelers hadwarned us of the numerous hassles --- insistent and unwanted offers fromwould-be ``guides'' who wouldn't understand ``No.'' Although we saw a bitof this in Marrakech, our net experience was a far cry from the warnings--- people were {\em really} friendly, much more so than in any country I'dvisited before. In almost every town we visited, someone invited us totheir house for dinner or to spend the night. The trip engendered manywonderful memories, but my favorites stem from walking the labyrinthinesouks of Fez and participating in an incredible Berber wedding.<p><p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/woman-weaver.jpeg" ALIGN=right>The wedding took place in Ait Oudinar, a small village at the end of thepaved road which follows the Dades river upstream from the rocky desertflatlands. We'd been crossing the Sahara for three days when we came to theDades oasis --- an astonishing ribbon of green fields with almond andwalnut trees shading gardens from the searing sun. Perched high on cliffyknolls were picturesque {\em kasbahs}, adobe fortresses with thick wallsand slitlike windows; built centuries ago to defend the agricultural wealthfrom the raids of camel-bound nomads, many are still occupied today. Thesurrounding landscape, rugged slopes of scarlet rubble, provided unrealcontrast to the verdant, irrigated valley floor. The gorge walls werepainted in an astonishing range of colors --- salmon, saffron, carmine, andvermilion --- but the harsh illumination gave the land a frightening air.Even Margaret, a diehard sun worshiper, mentioned that some clouds mightbe a nice addition to the cobalt sky.<p><p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/boy-by-door.jpeg" ALIGN=left>We gave a teenage hitchhiker a lift to his house at the paved road's end, and liked his happy-go-lucky nature so much that we later asked him to be our guide for a hike into the hills. As we climbed, the vistas grew ever more stupendous, but the mountains seemed so bleak, I couldn't imagine anyone living in them. But our guide Mohammed was right, and we soon came to the summer camp of a family of Berber nomads. The woman was off tending the sheep, but the man invited us into their smoke-blackened cave, sat us down on a fine kilim carpet, boiled some water on a small twig fire, and served us syrupy sweet mint tea. Meanwhile his young daughter and two small sons watched us shyly from the deeper recesses of the cave. Mohammed translated our questions from French to Berber and relayed back the responses. Every other morning the family gathered water from a distant spring, using a donkey or camel to transport drums of the precious liquid. We saw the backstrap loom where goat hair was woven into tent fabric for their winter accommodation. On Sundays they would take a few sheep or goats to the village market, far below, and trade fresh meat for sugar, vegetables, and clothing. It was clearly a hard life, but one which had been followed for generations. <p><p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/berbertent.jpeg" ALIGN=right>After thanking the nomad for his hospitality, we continued our hike.Eventually we descended to the Dades river and followed it downstream to anarrow gorge. Wading through the refreshing water while gazing up attowering orange walls reminded us of Escalante, Utah. During the walk,Mohammed had explained that his sister's wedding was that night and invitedus to attend. Berber weddings occupy three (or more in the case of veryrich clans) days of feasting, dancing and celebration; tonight was day twoand the family of the groom was host. <p><img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/bucket.jpeg" ALIGN=left>After cleaning up from our hike, wedrove our Renault to Mohammed's parents' house where half the town hadassembled in the street. The women were especially well dressed withvibrantly colored robes, gaudy amber necklaces, bright yellow scarfsdangling with beads and small silver squares, hands freshly henna-ed. Thecrowd was tense and expectant, chatting excitedly. A group started singingand drumming. Finally, the door opened and Mohammed's father emergedfollowed by his daughter, adorned in bright red, and fully veiled. (Whileveils are common in the towns and cities, women rarely wear them in themore practical, rural areas.) Cheering, the crowd surged for the road.Mohammed ran for our Renault, we packed seven people (including hismother!) inside the tiny vehicle, set the hazards flashing in the gatheringdusk, pressed hard on the horn, and eased thru the procession ofwellwishers in an oozing traffic jam that slowly rolled thru the streetstowards a monumental party, which was assembling at the groom's house. Bothlanes of the road teemed with the parade of cars, bikes, donkeys, andpedestrians. Each truck had a dozen youths clinging to the outside. UnderMohammed's eager hand, our horn blared a jaunty tune which was adopted bythe other vehicles. Infectious excitement washed the caravan as we churnedslowly towards the groom's house. While we never actually went inside,later in the evening we were able to watch an hour of dancing from the sideof a jam-packed courtyard which served as the dance floor. A dozen menlined up facing a similar row of women, and they swayed and turned in timeto drums and a chanting beat. To be honest, the dancing was a bitanticlimatic after the day's other experiences, but maybe things heated uplater in the program --- it didn't end until 5 am, long after we left.<p><p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/window.jpeg" ALIGN=right>My other incredible memory was the medieval city of Fez, dating from 800A.D. The buildings were fascinating: gurgling fountains with bright tilemosaics, ancient green roofed mosques, steamy Moorish baths, exquisite{\em medersa} (Koranic schools) with finely sculpted plaster ceilings andelaborate lathed cedar latticework. Encased by huge defensive ramparts, theold city appears to have swelled up to the walls and then buckled under thepressure of centuries of vibrant life. The narrow alleys twisted and turnedin bewildering confusion. Crude bamboo mats, hanging from above, bluntedthe sun to create a murky dappled shade that accentuates the exotic locale.<p><p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/weaver.jpeg" ALIGN=left>Tiny booths and workshops lined the crowded, winding streets; because of guilds, each specialty is clustered together. Cobblers, tinsmiths and other artisans sat on the floor of their small shops, practicing their traditional methods amid a display of work in progress. Coppersmiths crafted huge, shiny kettles for village feasts. Jewelers tapped delicate geometric patterns on silver plates. A pair of burly blacksmiths prodded the glowing charcoal in their fiery furnace, removed a red hot iron shaft and alternated hammerblows until it cooled. One could smell the tannery from a distance, but once inside the courtyard the stench intensified disgustingly. The whitewashed yard was honeycombed with fetid vats, and stupified workers stood thigh deep in the filthy pools, hauling the dripping goat hides from one trough to another. The shadowy looms of the weavers district exuded a more tranquil atmosphere; the hushed clatter of a wooden shuttle hurling across the warp scarcely broke the silence. Nearby slipper shops were piled high with stacks of shoes nested one inside the other; inside, wrinkled men stitched thick leather soles to supple tops with long needles and tough fingers. In the dyer's souk, men with soot-blackened faces lifted skeins of yarn from steaming vats of dye and wrung out the excess pigment before hoisting the colorful wool to sun dry in a rainbow display. <p> <img src="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/sawer.jpeg" ALIGN=right>Far from the lane of cabinet makers, we found a cluster of alcoves where carpenters crafted spindles, bellows, couscous sifters and other small items. Small shops sold pottery with elaborate designs glazed in traditional ``Fez blue.'' Other shops held smoothly polished carvings of sandalwood, lemonwood, or fragrant cedar. Still others displayed silk scarves, brocade and Koranic quotes embroidered on azure squares of velvet in lush gold thread. Onealley was packed with butchers in white tiled alcoves, illuminated with a naked incandescent bulb and fenced with hunks of red meat hanging from hooks. Nearby, country women sold vegetables, squatting by blue tarps piled high with produce. Some shops specialized in olives --- we counted over a dozen varieties in one stand. Figs, dates, sweet pastries, nougat and fresh fruit were plentiful. The aroma of the spice market was intriguing, and the pharmacist sold dried hedgehogs, live terrapins, mineral shampoo, black Berber cosmetics, henna, candles and prayer beads. <p><p> <imgsrc="http://www.cs.washington.edu/homes/weld/photos/morocco/shopkeeper.jpeg"ALIGN=left>Each night, at dusk, the streets flooded with a tide of people. Crowds eddied about charcoal braziers sizzling with fresh kabobs and roasted corn. Veiled women dragged children through alleys surging with crowds and Margaret and I were separated several times by the unpredictable current. There seemed only one rule to the roads, and that was the urgent cry ``Balak, balak'' which warned of an approaching donkey, heavily laden with firewood or perhaps with fresh hides, dripping from the tannery. It was an important language lesson, and one we learned quickly. <p>While the overwhelming variety of exotic sights and smells were fascinating, we came to realize that Fez's true magic was time travel. The walled city provided a glimpse back to the medieval ages, to an era of unchanging craftsmanship and simple, practical technologies passed on from father to son for generations. Alas, our time in Morocco was too short, and the return journey home was a sad one. <p> </body> <address> weld@cs.washington.edu </address> </html>⌨️ 快捷键说明
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