Today(last Sunday) "tarabut Hussein" , down one person lost to stomache trouble, boldly headed off to the bigger city of Azilal. We were dismayed to be unwhole, but determined to discover this new side of Morocco. The journey to Azilal began at about 8:15, with a 5km trail walk winding and rolling through fields of bright green timdeen (wheat) and zitune (olive) trees. Sprinkled throughout were poppies glowing neon red in the hot sun. Occationally we would pass a farmer with his donkey and share salutations: sSalamu allakum, wa allakum ssalam, labas, la hamdullah, kulshi bixir?, nkshrt irbbi, mamnk a tgit? Meanwhile the donkey pushes you off the trail with his saddlebags filled with wild flowers. Impolite, but still a lovely bouquette.
About 40 minutes later, we arrive in our hub town where we intend to get a taxi. From our last experience getting a cab in Ouzoud, I know that groups of taxi drivers use one "boss man" like a pimp of sorts to find fares and fill taxis to various destinations. I have also been told that I should not give money to taxi drivers until I arrive at my destination, and that I should negotiate a price in advance. Confident and flush from my morning trek, I approach the "boss man" that I recognize form previous experience. I say hello (reference above salutations) and say that 4 of us want to go to Azilal. He seems to understand perfectly, but directs us to another boss man who tells us we need to give him 72 dh now so that he can find a 5th person to go with us. Being the skeptical Americans that are, we say "ojo" (no), not till we get to Azilal". He tries a few more times and then goes off looking for another passenger to Azilal. Meanwhile a group of 6 men gather to go to Marrakech and we observe, to our chagrin, they all give their money to the boss man in advance. Now we are pretty sure that this boss man is on the up and up and we are willing to give him our money, but have we lost our chance? Luckily, an old man emerges from the crowd who is headed to Azilal, and we are once again told the price followed by a requesting open palm. This time we retort with 100 dh and happily recieve our change and hop in the cab. For a while, there was a definite mutual distrust. We wondered if we should be mad at him for trying to take advantage of us, or thankful for trying to help us get to our destination. Conversely, the “boss man” was surely wondering if we where trying to get out of paying or if we even had the money. When we finally gave him the dirham and got in the cab, all was forgiven and we were fast friends with many well wishes and handshakes. We even ran into him on our way back through town and were hardily greeted. Lesson learned and another friend made.
In Azilal, we joined a large group of fellow volunteers from various sites sharing stories and comparing adventures. In the interest of being less conspicuous (if that is possible for an American in Morocco), we redistributed ourselves into groups of 5 or so and tackled the thin market streets. This was not a souq. Souqs occur in all bigger towns and cities, but only on certain days, usually once a week. Souqs are madness. The colorful alley shops we visited, are laden with bright hanging dresses, scarves, and jalabas, mounds of wound yarn, slippers and shoes, candy carts, local grocery products, hardware items, and kitchen appliances; but in these streets there is order and ease that does not exist in the souqs. These shops called T’Hanuts are permanent community fixtures, and with the fixed walls come fixed prices. Prices for most items in Morocco are generally known and But’Hanuts (shopkeepers) ask a fair price and do not haggle prices in less you are a complete stranger to the land and seem like an easy target. While shopping for a skirt, Amber offered to pay 20dh for a skirt for which the But’Hanut had quoted 50dh. The But’Hanut was clearly embarrassed and taken aback by the proposal and awkwardly insisted that the price was 50dh. On the other hand, later that day, our friend tried to by a similar skirt and was quoted a much higher price. Knowing what Amber paid, she refused and offered 50dh which the But’Hanut quickly accepted. It seems that as soon as you prove that you are local by speaking the language or by knowing the appropriate prices of things, a fair price is offered and it should not be negotiated. Conversely, in Souks, everything is negotiable. Look forward to more blogs on that issue later.
After the shopping, we were enticed to visit a café labeled as a creamery. As of yet, Morocco has been lacking in two major areas; dairy and ice. The concept of ice cream seemed like a far away dream so we were not too surprised to find that this creamery did not have ice cream. What they did have, were simple refrigerated glasses with a mysterious white substance that the man at the counter called “danon” (yoghurt). I ordered a glass of this chilled dairy with a pain au chocolate and an apple soda (Poms), grabbed a plastic spoon from the counter, took a seat at one of the outside patio tables and tried what is probably the freshest yoghurt that I have ever tasted. Still not ice cream, but in the land of unrefrigerated boxed milk and laughing cow cheese, it’ll do as a treat. At the creamery we came across Brian, a current PC volunteer who has been in country for just over a year. We chatted with him for a while before heading over to the “pizzeria” which serves mostly chicken and no pizza. Brian once asked the café owner if he could order a pizza to which he responded “if you bring me all the ingredients and then come back the next day, I will make it for you“. Now volunteers just call the place “chicken man café”. To be fare, the food at Chicken Man is great. Amber and I got an order of lentils and small plate of fries each with more bread than a football team could consume for 9 dh each (that’s about a dollar). As we left the café, Brian exchanged friendly banter with some neighborhood children in our target language Taslheit. Seeing this raised my spirits like nothing else in Morocco has. To witness an American just like me or you casually talking with Moroccans without having to flip through a reference book or ask them to slow down and repeat what they say only to end the conversation with “urfhmg” (I don’t understand), was a boost of confidence. I still get frustrated and feel like I am pursuing an impossible task, but now I have visualized the possibilities and it seems that much more probable. Thanks Brian!
So now we have to get back home. Where was the taxi stand again? I think this is where we were dropped off, but they don’t always drop at the same place they pick up? And we’re going back the other direction. Should we be on the other side of the street? This is nothing like what I’m used to. Oh look, a crazy woman has come over to help us. She’s saying hello in 6 different languages and telling us in French to follow her to the bus station. Seems like a bad idea, but we’ll follow along for a little while until we see a better solution. I’m looking at her eyes and I know she’s a little off, plus it’s obvious she’s a black sheep with her tightly permed black shoulder length hair bouncing with each exuberant step instead of a head scarf, and a tight shirt and revealing pants instead of a jalaba or dress. But standing out works for her because within a minute or so, a cab pulled up ready to take us home. Still trying to decide if this was a scam, we pile into the cab and observe the cabbie give our crazy friend 2 dh for her trouble. Is this a trap? We make it a few blocks down the road and our cabbie stops to talk to a man in the middle of the road. Seems like just a friend, but we’re alert to say the least. On we go and out of Azilal, things are looking up until we pass a man lying under a tree. Without provocation, the taxi swerves to a stop and the driver gets out and walks back to the man under the tree to exchanges a few words. Now I’m concerned. This must be where the trap sets in. But how is the guy under the tree involved? Soon however, the taxi driver is back in the cab speeding around curves and tailgating like he should be, and I am put at ease when he reaches over my lap into the glove box, fishes out a cassette tape, pops it in the radio, and looks at me with a grin as he bounces his pointed finger at the tape deck. American Euro-techno is blasting from the speakers and he knows I understand the words. Maybe he noticed my unease and thought it would make me feel at home. Maybe it did.
About 40 minutes later, we arrive in our hub town where we intend to get a taxi. From our last experience getting a cab in Ouzoud, I know that groups of taxi drivers use one "boss man" like a pimp of sorts to find fares and fill taxis to various destinations. I have also been told that I should not give money to taxi drivers until I arrive at my destination, and that I should negotiate a price in advance. Confident and flush from my morning trek, I approach the "boss man" that I recognize form previous experience. I say hello (reference above salutations) and say that 4 of us want to go to Azilal. He seems to understand perfectly, but directs us to another boss man who tells us we need to give him 72 dh now so that he can find a 5th person to go with us. Being the skeptical Americans that are, we say "ojo" (no), not till we get to Azilal". He tries a few more times and then goes off looking for another passenger to Azilal. Meanwhile a group of 6 men gather to go to Marrakech and we observe, to our chagrin, they all give their money to the boss man in advance. Now we are pretty sure that this boss man is on the up and up and we are willing to give him our money, but have we lost our chance? Luckily, an old man emerges from the crowd who is headed to Azilal, and we are once again told the price followed by a requesting open palm. This time we retort with 100 dh and happily recieve our change and hop in the cab. For a while, there was a definite mutual distrust. We wondered if we should be mad at him for trying to take advantage of us, or thankful for trying to help us get to our destination. Conversely, the “boss man” was surely wondering if we where trying to get out of paying or if we even had the money. When we finally gave him the dirham and got in the cab, all was forgiven and we were fast friends with many well wishes and handshakes. We even ran into him on our way back through town and were hardily greeted. Lesson learned and another friend made.
In Azilal, we joined a large group of fellow volunteers from various sites sharing stories and comparing adventures. In the interest of being less conspicuous (if that is possible for an American in Morocco), we redistributed ourselves into groups of 5 or so and tackled the thin market streets. This was not a souq. Souqs occur in all bigger towns and cities, but only on certain days, usually once a week. Souqs are madness. The colorful alley shops we visited, are laden with bright hanging dresses, scarves, and jalabas, mounds of wound yarn, slippers and shoes, candy carts, local grocery products, hardware items, and kitchen appliances; but in these streets there is order and ease that does not exist in the souqs. These shops called T’Hanuts are permanent community fixtures, and with the fixed walls come fixed prices. Prices for most items in Morocco are generally known and But’Hanuts (shopkeepers) ask a fair price and do not haggle prices in less you are a complete stranger to the land and seem like an easy target. While shopping for a skirt, Amber offered to pay 20dh for a skirt for which the But’Hanut had quoted 50dh. The But’Hanut was clearly embarrassed and taken aback by the proposal and awkwardly insisted that the price was 50dh. On the other hand, later that day, our friend tried to by a similar skirt and was quoted a much higher price. Knowing what Amber paid, she refused and offered 50dh which the But’Hanut quickly accepted. It seems that as soon as you prove that you are local by speaking the language or by knowing the appropriate prices of things, a fair price is offered and it should not be negotiated. Conversely, in Souks, everything is negotiable. Look forward to more blogs on that issue later.
After the shopping, we were enticed to visit a café labeled as a creamery. As of yet, Morocco has been lacking in two major areas; dairy and ice. The concept of ice cream seemed like a far away dream so we were not too surprised to find that this creamery did not have ice cream. What they did have, were simple refrigerated glasses with a mysterious white substance that the man at the counter called “danon” (yoghurt). I ordered a glass of this chilled dairy with a pain au chocolate and an apple soda (Poms), grabbed a plastic spoon from the counter, took a seat at one of the outside patio tables and tried what is probably the freshest yoghurt that I have ever tasted. Still not ice cream, but in the land of unrefrigerated boxed milk and laughing cow cheese, it’ll do as a treat. At the creamery we came across Brian, a current PC volunteer who has been in country for just over a year. We chatted with him for a while before heading over to the “pizzeria” which serves mostly chicken and no pizza. Brian once asked the café owner if he could order a pizza to which he responded “if you bring me all the ingredients and then come back the next day, I will make it for you“. Now volunteers just call the place “chicken man café”. To be fare, the food at Chicken Man is great. Amber and I got an order of lentils and small plate of fries each with more bread than a football team could consume for 9 dh each (that’s about a dollar). As we left the café, Brian exchanged friendly banter with some neighborhood children in our target language Taslheit. Seeing this raised my spirits like nothing else in Morocco has. To witness an American just like me or you casually talking with Moroccans without having to flip through a reference book or ask them to slow down and repeat what they say only to end the conversation with “urfhmg” (I don’t understand), was a boost of confidence. I still get frustrated and feel like I am pursuing an impossible task, but now I have visualized the possibilities and it seems that much more probable. Thanks Brian!
So now we have to get back home. Where was the taxi stand again? I think this is where we were dropped off, but they don’t always drop at the same place they pick up? And we’re going back the other direction. Should we be on the other side of the street? This is nothing like what I’m used to. Oh look, a crazy woman has come over to help us. She’s saying hello in 6 different languages and telling us in French to follow her to the bus station. Seems like a bad idea, but we’ll follow along for a little while until we see a better solution. I’m looking at her eyes and I know she’s a little off, plus it’s obvious she’s a black sheep with her tightly permed black shoulder length hair bouncing with each exuberant step instead of a head scarf, and a tight shirt and revealing pants instead of a jalaba or dress. But standing out works for her because within a minute or so, a cab pulled up ready to take us home. Still trying to decide if this was a scam, we pile into the cab and observe the cabbie give our crazy friend 2 dh for her trouble. Is this a trap? We make it a few blocks down the road and our cabbie stops to talk to a man in the middle of the road. Seems like just a friend, but we’re alert to say the least. On we go and out of Azilal, things are looking up until we pass a man lying under a tree. Without provocation, the taxi swerves to a stop and the driver gets out and walks back to the man under the tree to exchanges a few words. Now I’m concerned. This must be where the trap sets in. But how is the guy under the tree involved? Soon however, the taxi driver is back in the cab speeding around curves and tailgating like he should be, and I am put at ease when he reaches over my lap into the glove box, fishes out a cassette tape, pops it in the radio, and looks at me with a grin as he bounces his pointed finger at the tape deck. American Euro-techno is blasting from the speakers and he knows I understand the words. Maybe he noticed my unease and thought it would make me feel at home. Maybe it did.
