Blast from the Past ~ Morocco 1971

From Spain, our tour group ferried across the Mediterranean to Tangier, Morocco. Angling out from the Iberian Peninsula, the 1400-foot-high Rock of Gibraltar looms over the meeting of the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea. On our trip over, those two bodies of water were having a vicious fist fight over which direction the waves should flow. Furious dark waves heaved our ferry to and fro as if it were a toy boat. If conditions on the day we crossed were typical, over the centuries, Gibraltar must have witnessed enough vomit hurtling over deck rails to fill the ocean. I don’t remember what color I was on the ferry ride back to Spain, but on the way to Morocco, I was awash in sickly green.

After figuratively kissing solid ground, we were mobbed by Moroccans peddling handmade goods. At first, this was distressing. But threading our way through their chaotic commercial congregation, we made note of their woven woolen wares and leather goods and later, got a feel for typical prices in the Kasbah’s lively labyrinth of fragrant, colorful booths. By the time we embarked on the ferry home, we all were laden with souvenirs, most bought from peddlers stalking our tourist bus.

I was pleased with a brown and beige woven wool rug I had bought. Also a hooded djellaba. The knee-length djellaba was brown and beige woven wool, open in front with delicate string ties and a tassel on the hood. Moroccan men and women wore ankle-length djellabas, which I thought must be beastly hot and scratchy in summer, but the times I wore mine back home, it turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. I wish I still owned it.

One souvenir I do still own is a terra-cotta-colored, tooled leather wallet that I bought from a Kasbah vendor for my father. His Navy ship had docked in Tangier during World War II. Although he rarely talked about his war experiences, he did talk with enthusiasm about exotic Tangier. When I gave him my gift, however, he said kindly that he didn’t want it. I don’t remember the reason. For decades, this wallet’s strong leather smell took me immediately back to the colorful Kasbah. Today the smell has faded, but the leather is butter-soft to my fingers, the tooled design beautiful to my eyes, and the memory tender to thoughts of Dad. Seeing it today, I have decided to use it when my current wallet bites the dust. Pourquoi pas? Why not?

More fuzzy memories to match my fuzzy photos—seaside caves seen from our tour bus, women balancing baskets on heads, donkey-drawn transportation, and smiling, dignified doormen.

From 1912 to 1956, Morocco was under the protection and rule of France. Perhaps this was why our hotel in 1971 served French food, including the delicious ice cream mentioned in my previous post. Official languages in Morocco today are Arabic and Berber, but the country experiences some controversy over proposals to include the French language again.

One language note relating to my Kasbah memories is the word souq, or souk, a commercial quarter in a Middle-Eastern city. My French-teacher friend once used the expression J’ai un vrai souq, not because she had a true bazaar in her home, but because things were a bit higgledy-piggledy. My disorganized desk at this moment is un vrai souq, but rather than tend to it, I have more fun reminiscing about the Kasbah and wondering if souq is allowed in Scrabble.