Having found a travelogue somewhere that discussed the marriage festival in Imilchil (just up the road from us in the Gorge), I decided to expand upon one of the most charming facts mentioned.
“When a bride does give consent, she may speak the magic phrase,” You have captured my liver.” Since a healthy liver aids digestion and promotes well-being, in Berber culture it’s the liver, not the heart that’s considered the location of true love.” Read the rest of this entry »
I finally watched “Out of Africa,” but the ending was absolutely jarring. Not the death of Denys, but the statement, “She never returned to Africa.” What? Searching online, I found this:
“Though she often dreamed of returning to Africa, it was never to be. But it was said that in her study she kept a map of Kenya, and that every night before retiring, she would go to where it was, facing south. Many years earlier, anxious about the droughts and her failing coffee trees, she had written her mother, “I have a feeling that wherever I may be in the future, I will be wondering whether there is rain in Ngong.”
When Karen arrived in Kenya, she was the same age as when I arrived in Morocco, 28. Like her, I fell in love with the country first, and then a man. For me, I can’t imagine never returning to Morocco, whether the man is part of the picture or not. Though I’m glad to be back in the States for now, I still dream about Morocco, think about the food, sounds, mountains, air, wind, and all the other things that make it special. I muse about how much I detest it sometimes, and how other times find me overwhelmed with longing for it. I picture it as a relationship – the U.S. will always be a “parent,” but Morocco is the one that I’ve tied myself to, for better or worse.
And to not return? To not ever see Africa again? As I sit here, looking at the map of Morocco on my wall, tracing the lonely road over the Atlas mountains to home, I can’t even imagine.
OK, people, here’s your donkey.
It’s the same damn donkey that I saw every day in the Gorge, accompanied by his donkey owner – I couldn’t decide if the owner looked like him, or he looked like the donkey, but they were practically twins.
It’s the same damn donkey that insisted on braying every day during my siesta, no matter when that siesta might be.
It’s the same damn donkey that smugly looked at all the nomad donkeys shuffling by with their water jugs and feed sacks.
This donkey, despite looking cute and authentically Moroccan, is not friendly, and should not inspire feelings of loyalty amongst my limited readership – but the universe is not fair.
For your educational fun, Donkey (as Cat mentioned) is “h’mar” in Darija, “arhayud” in Berber.
Why the new template? Well, A. I was bored with the old one, and B. I really miss Moroccan watermelon.
Watermelon, “d’leh” in darija, is what I eat almost exclusively when I spend the summer in Morocco. It’s probably the best I’ve ever eaten – sweet and firm red flesh with lots of flavor, like it’s supposed to be. The watermelons here taste watery and mushy by comparison.
I should mention that my habit of sprinkling salt on the watermelon before munching was met with incredulity and horror on the part of my Moroccan compatriot. I think it brings out the flavor even more, but they didn’t agree.
Some photos of the flood damage in the Merzouga area can be found here. One interesting point mentioned by the author – all of the poor locals now living in tents are enduring temps of 45-50C, without the benefit of nice cool pise or concrete homes. Ugh.
“Dans la nuit du 26 au 27 mai, 100 litres d’eau par m2 sont tombés en moins de 2 heures dans la vallée du Ziz (région du Tafilalet, sud-est du Maroc) plus particulièrement Merzouga, Hassi-Labied, Taouz, Ouzina…”
We had our flood in the Gorge on the same weekend, and I can confirm that it was a lot of rain in a very short time.