Two weeks as a local (Part I)

Tinerhir is a stop on the way north through a spectacular gorge or south into the vast stretches of the black rock sahara. For most people, it is a stop for lunch on the bus tour, or a quick scramble for a local guide that will outfit you with a landrover and all the supplies you need for an exciting and breathtaking adventure. For me it was supposed to be no different. The town is surrounded by lovely palmeries, but I've spent enough time wandering through those so I wasn't interested. I was supposed to fill up on supplies and head north for my grand adventure through the mountains of the Moroccan High Atlas; however, I got a tad bit ill after my journey into the desert. The day before I showed up in this town I had a wicked hangover from dehydration which hit me quite unexpectedly. I traveled to this city in order to recover, because it's difficult to rehydrate when you're in the desert. So, despite what I'd planned I was stuck here for a few days. The first day I did laundry and ate well and drank plenty of fresh squeezed orange juice. The next day I was feeling a hundred percent and was ready to head out in the morning, but that never happened.

So one night I'm eating at a fancy smancy restaurant because I'm sick of eating stew every single night. As usual I was alone, and so as usual I was ignored by the wait staff who flocked unefficiently around the large groups. Occasionally my needs would coincide with the family next to me and the dinner slowly progressed. The whole thing took around three hours and I probably could have eaten again having worked up an appetite waiting for the bill, but it was ten o'clock and I needed a good nights rest before I started my big hike. Right next door to the restaurant is a little shop, which I'll describe later, because in the interest of chronology I had not yet noticed the details of the shop. On the steps in front of the shop were several guys of various ages. The guy about my age initiated a conversation as is typical of every friendly local in this neck of the woods, and unlike the big cities, conversation is often more valuable than money. So we got to talking and luckily he spoke english, although the rest of the group did not, but they are of little importance and most disappeared shortly apart from the shopkeep. So we talked, and out of the blue he asks me if I play guitar, and before I could say yes he was bolting down the street to get his guitar. I just sat there smiling at the other folks that came and went. He returned and handed me this dreadfully neglected shell of a guitar and although I did my best, it could not be tuned. It had so many problems such as the machine heads being misaligned and the wrong type of strings put on (the same reason the guitar Christine has broke), but additionally, the wrong type of strings were put on in the wrong order and it was just hopeless so I gave up. Actually before I could give up, my friend asked if I would mind if he played, and I handed him the guitar quite puzzled as he began to play. Fortunately for him, most arabic tunes only need two strings, and exactly two of the strings actually worked so my problems were not shared. Occasionally I would cringe when he'd hit the odd string, but after a while it just sort of fit in. He also sang, which attracted quite a crowd, especially younger kids who would stop dead in their tracks as they passed by and would stare with mouths opened, completely hypnotized by the tunes. The whole neighborhood kind of picked up on the music and everyone seemed a bit happier and walked a bit slower than usual. Not only was this a lesson in local music but it was also a lesson in local interaction between friends. My friend pretty much was playing for me and he looked in my eyes pretty much the whole time, or at least I think so because I avoided the uncomfortable stare. His songs would often be interupted quite suddenly whenever he felt the need to explain something to me or add a useful bit of trivia such as when he sung a song a second time in berber instead of arabic. He walked me back home because it was quite late and we strolled shoulder to shoulder, and if that wasn't enough invasion of my american comfort zone, he would lean over whenever he spoke. He asked if I'd come back tomorrow and I agreed. He dropped me off at the hotel and left singing an incredibly accented version of Cat Steven's 'Father and Son'. So I guess I'm not leaving just yet.

The next day when I woke up, I realized that I just said I'd see him tomorrow and never actually agreed on a time. I didn't even know where he lived. I just assumed I'd find him outside the store. Without being sure of our arrangement, I visited the store three times throughout the day, spacing out my visits. The first two times there was no store. The street was barren since all the shops were hidden behind large iron doors. There were no signs or traces of there ever being a store here or anywhere, and I went about the day not expecting a change when I made my final visit. I showed up at about seven, with the intent of taking my friend to dinner, and then turning in to leave tomorrow. When I showed up the shops had reappeared and my friend was there, wearing quite a stunning outfit, very stylish for a Spaniard is how I explained it to him. The first minute of conversation was a comfortable reexhange of names since neither one of us remembered. So now I can refer to my friend as Aziz, with the accent on the second syllable, a soft A, and an I halfway between bit and beet. The second minute of conversation was a forced explanation of his attire. He explained he and his friends were to play music for a wedding and that I can go if I wanted. He explained the offer as though is was no big deal and if I had better things to do than I could refuse without hurting his feelings. So I calmly accepted.

Now the night was my first experience with Moroccan time, which the guide book only sights as seven hours ahead of Pacific Standard Time. The first hour and a half was spent wandering around, visiting various people and gathering the band. The gathering of the band was poor, as members often left shortly after they were found. We spent most of the time in the back of an iron works stall while Aziz's friend played a flute. Eventually, through some magical realization, Aziz hoped up and ordered me to follow. The van was at the end of the street blinking all possible lights, and it was filled up by people coming from all possible directions. Aziz said we had to go get the instruments, a good plan. The first stop, and the next, and the next three had little to do with instruments and usually the object of the stop was quite unclear to most everyone and appeared to be a passing fancy of random folks in the van. Occasionally the van full of musicians was used to transport a mutual friend a few blocks down the road, strange since we were supposed to be at the wedding a half hour ago. Eventually at a stop the back doors were opened and the back filled with instruments. Getting to the wedding was more of the same, except I didn't mind since the back of the bus was now a traveling orchestra beating out traditional berber tunes while we cruised the town in a bright blue van, and when the music stopped and the van stopped we all jumped out and I was shuttled into the home of the brides family.

This entry is getting long so I'll touch on the useful details of the wedding or at least of that evening. First off, I experienced every custom known to Morocco, but rather than as a demonstration of the culture, I was in the culture, and the only difference between me and everyone else was that I was new. I received the usually reception of a new member of a group, which quickly grew old and eventually I just hung out, attempting to act natural and when I screwed up a custom, no one noticed and if they did they didn't care. I felt quite honored to be where I was and for the first time looking out from the inside... I know I've done a poor job of describing this, but just try to use your imagination, because, I want to get back to Moroccan time. You see although I met Aziz at 7, we didn't make it to the wedding until 10:30, two hours late, but luckily the band members were also guests, so no one minded, and everyone else was late too. At about 12:30 in the morning the house decided that it was too late, and everyone should leave and come back tomorrow night to finish the wedding. No one complained and we all left. I was getting a big dose of Morocco and my trip as a local had only just begun.