Morocco: Beni Mellal - A Day in the Blad
Should it come as a surprise that half of my Moroccan posts are dedicated to a small city in the Middle Atlas Mountains that nobody's ever heard of? That there are more Beni Mellal posts than those of Rabat and Marrakesh combined?
I think that ratio is actually kind of generous, when you consider that Beni Mellal was my home for two years.
In the morning, bright and early when the temperatures haven't soared yet, I go out for a run. I need to improvise, as I just don't recognize the place as well anymore. Here a turn at the police station, then up the hill toward Ain Asserdoun...but where then? Downhill again, okay, here's a tarred road, even though I don't have the faintest idea where I am. All I need to do, I remind myself, is find a landmark I'm familiar with like the bus station or the broad Mohammed V boulevard, and then we'd be cooking couscous before you know it. But it doesn't happen, it's like the twilight zone, only the sun is beginning to rise. Homecomings shouldn't happen like this.
I pass a garbage truck and playfully pound against the side of the vehicle with the palm of my hand. The truck driver looks out the window, sees the white guy in the old San Diego Chargers jersey running by, and flashes me a thumbs up. Tourists are supposed to do some sightseeing and spend their money, not exercise, run in the street, and pass the vehicles in the road. Finally, I find Mohammed V, and I hurry on home.
For the afternoon, I will visit my good friend Aziz with his family in nearby Smaher. We take the rental car out there, but I can't remember where he lives, and he must come out of the house and fetch us after I phone him.
Aziz was my best friend when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. He was always there, most notably when I had a kidney stone and was out of action for at least a week. I was with him when his father died. I could trust him blindly. It's taken him quite a few years and even more grey hairs, but now he is finally married and has a young son with whom I play with a lot.
Aziz has parlayed his talent with languages into a career that includes his participation on international panels dealing with gender rights, which is very progressive for Morocco. He has traveled to America, Europe, and Asia. Although nominally still a farmer and living humbly, he never ceases to find ways to make life better for his community. Morocco needs more Aziz's. With more Aziz's, the European Union would be applying for membership to become part of Morocco.
We make our usual rounds in the village. There's the old familiar olive orchard that produces the tastiest olive oil ever (and I've had it on numerous occasions!). Mostly, there are villagers curiously staring at all of these white people passing through their hamlet. One thing will never change: Moroccans are still the most hospitable people I've ever met, with no phoniness to it. We eat enough tagine to equip us for hibernation, if it ever were to occur.
A small crisis occurs when Aziz's goat escapes from its little enclosure. For a moment, the goat dashes from one room to another in the house until he finally stops in the last place you would want to corner a goat...the kitchen. The horns on this guy look like they were born for football scrimmages, and Aziz skillfully approaches him from the side before leading him by the horns back to his enclosure. Problem solved.
It's the old ritual again. Visit a lot of relatives, be seated on the comfortable ponges and drink some more tea, like we have all of the time in the world. Talk about the old times. Drink some more tea, play with little children that didn't exist way back when.
Rinse and repeat until it's time to go. Bye, bye, Beni Mellal. Ma'salaama. Boy, I hope it's not the last time I see this town.
I think that ratio is actually kind of generous, when you consider that Beni Mellal was my home for two years.
In the morning, bright and early when the temperatures haven't soared yet, I go out for a run. I need to improvise, as I just don't recognize the place as well anymore. Here a turn at the police station, then up the hill toward Ain Asserdoun...but where then? Downhill again, okay, here's a tarred road, even though I don't have the faintest idea where I am. All I need to do, I remind myself, is find a landmark I'm familiar with like the bus station or the broad Mohammed V boulevard, and then we'd be cooking couscous before you know it. But it doesn't happen, it's like the twilight zone, only the sun is beginning to rise. Homecomings shouldn't happen like this.
I pass a garbage truck and playfully pound against the side of the vehicle with the palm of my hand. The truck driver looks out the window, sees the white guy in the old San Diego Chargers jersey running by, and flashes me a thumbs up. Tourists are supposed to do some sightseeing and spend their money, not exercise, run in the street, and pass the vehicles in the road. Finally, I find Mohammed V, and I hurry on home.
For the afternoon, I will visit my good friend Aziz with his family in nearby Smaher. We take the rental car out there, but I can't remember where he lives, and he must come out of the house and fetch us after I phone him.
Aziz was my best friend when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. He was always there, most notably when I had a kidney stone and was out of action for at least a week. I was with him when his father died. I could trust him blindly. It's taken him quite a few years and even more grey hairs, but now he is finally married and has a young son with whom I play with a lot.
Aziz has parlayed his talent with languages into a career that includes his participation on international panels dealing with gender rights, which is very progressive for Morocco. He has traveled to America, Europe, and Asia. Although nominally still a farmer and living humbly, he never ceases to find ways to make life better for his community. Morocco needs more Aziz's. With more Aziz's, the European Union would be applying for membership to become part of Morocco.
We make our usual rounds in the village. There's the old familiar olive orchard that produces the tastiest olive oil ever (and I've had it on numerous occasions!). Mostly, there are villagers curiously staring at all of these white people passing through their hamlet. One thing will never change: Moroccans are still the most hospitable people I've ever met, with no phoniness to it. We eat enough tagine to equip us for hibernation, if it ever were to occur.
A small crisis occurs when Aziz's goat escapes from its little enclosure. For a moment, the goat dashes from one room to another in the house until he finally stops in the last place you would want to corner a goat...the kitchen. The horns on this guy look like they were born for football scrimmages, and Aziz skillfully approaches him from the side before leading him by the horns back to his enclosure. Problem solved.
It's the old ritual again. Visit a lot of relatives, be seated on the comfortable ponges and drink some more tea, like we have all of the time in the world. Talk about the old times. Drink some more tea, play with little children that didn't exist way back when.
Rinse and repeat until it's time to go. Bye, bye, Beni Mellal. Ma'salaama. Boy, I hope it's not the last time I see this town.
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