The Moroccan

August 5

I'm settled in here in Essaouira, with the beach only 300m from my accommodation, and a view of the sea between the buildings lining the beach.

My stomach still hadn't returned to normal, so I ventured out and bought loads of fruit and a few vegetables, admittedly from these 'rough' looking stalls, hoping to prepare my own food, to avoid any chance of dragging this Moroccan tummy on any longer. It was looking like I'd be vegetarian for the week, because there was no way I was buying some beef or lamb from the dead carcasses hung on display. I returned to the hotel and spent nearly 2 hours meticulously preparing a massive fruit salad- washing and re-washing the fresh fruit with bottled water, and cleaning the knife with purel after every other fruit. As far as hygene was concerned, I was pulling out all the stops.

I got out kiting yesterday morning, but the wind was weak- for the first time in 4 weeks, according to the locals. Just my luck. The beach was packed with sun-seekers willing to put up with the wind, a varied mix of locals and foreigners. French and arabic were the only languages heard, with a constant background din of Miami-beach style music coming from the 'events' stage mid-way down the beach.

Yesterday afternoon I wandered along the beach, dodging paddle ball players and the highest concentration of novice kitesufers I've seen on any beach, with kites crashing down inches from toddlers plunked in the sand. I remember the lack of control I had when first learning to kite, so I kept quite a distance from the weary-looking beginners. I made my way to the Medina- the old city- of Essaouira and browsed the shops, keeping a close eye at each turn I made, to be sure I didn't end up lost in the maze of narrow streets. Strolling past the 8th or 9th leather boutique on this particular street, a Moroccan jumps out from the collection of bags and belts and says,

"Hello Madam? English?"
I laughed wondering how he knew I spoke English, so I replied, in French,
"What gives you the impression that I speak English?" but then continuing in English with,
"Because I do, but how did you know?"

In his broken english the Moroccan, who appears to be in his mid-twenties, asked me where I was from, so I tell him, explaining the French-speaking Canadian bit. The Moroccan explains that his third language of choice (after Arabic and French) is German, and it becomes clear that my French was an easier means of communication than his English, so our conversation resumes en Francais.

The Moroccan then says,
"Please, Madame, come into my shop. Have a seat. We shall talk more."
Having yet to hear a sales pitch and sensing genuine interest in casual conversation, I stepped in, peering at the leather adorned walls, leaving the bustle of the market street behind me.

"Here, have a seat," says the Moroccan, who appropriately has that classic tanned Moroccan look, down to the faint hint of eyeliner and all, as he pulls up a leather-stuffed stool next to his small desk.

Having accepted an offer of the Moroccan green/mint tea I had come to enjoy, I found myself gazing out at the street from the back of this pleasant smelling leather goods shop, for which I was now "keeping an eye on" while waiting for the Moroccan to return with tea for two.

He quickly returned with two small glasses and a steaming silver pot, stuffing in the fresh mint leaves and a massive chunk of sugar to steep while our conversation resumed to stories of the Moroccan's family, his studies, and life in Essaouira, while I shared bits and pieces of my life in Canada. Before I knew it, nearly an hour had passed and the Moroccan had made an offer to share with me a traditional Moroccan meal from the market. Names had gone unexchanged, and yet the invitation to dinner was put on the table.

I was apprehensive at the idea of eating 'local' food given the state of my stomach and my experience with the local grub in the previous week, but he went to explain that we would buy the vegetables and chicken from the market, 'drop it off at the Berber tagine' (this is the bit that left me confused) and return after 45 minutes to have dinner. The experience sounded far too authentic to pass up, so I accepted (the meal, and a few more days of Moroccan tummy) and agreed to meet the Moroccan back at the leather shop in an hour.

The days in Morocco are wonderfully long, and the sun was still shining when I returned to the leather shop, with somewhat of an appetite, at 8pm. The Moroccan left his shop to be watched by his buddy next door, and we were off into the medina. I followed quickly behind his experienced steps in the masses of people bustling around. Dodging kids, bicyles, donkeys, and herds of old men with canes, we spilled onto the main road of the medina before making a quick left between two stalls into a hidden mini-market of fruits, vegetables and... chickens. It was quieter amongst these stalls and I got a few odd looks as we breezed past the endless crates of various produce at the Moroccan Zehrs.

I suppose this part wafted over me in the background, like the scent of the leather bags, during the Moroccan's dinner proposition, but we would be selecting our chicken dinner from the peppy-looking, and entirely alive, white-feathered friends that were sitting directly in front of me. The Moroccan looks me up and down, in an attempt to estimate how much I'd eat while asking my opinion on the size of bird we should cook uo. I told him I wasn't entirely familiar with the live-bird to cooked meat conversion rate, and that it would be a decision best left up to him. I was slightly disheartended to see him point to one of the tinier, almost cute, ones in the pack, which was scooped up and tossed on the scale by a boy no more than 13 years old.

I'm surprised to say that what I saw next didn't convert me to a vegetarian, so those of you who are, just skip ahead.

Armed with nothing but his bare hands, the young boy wrenched the chicken's neck (fortunately any sounds were muffled by the din of the market) and it was dropped into a bucket on the ground, blood dripping along the concrete floor on the way. The bird flapped around a bit, nearly knocking the bucket over. I suppose the death wasn't as instant as we like to think. I looked away, but found myself staring at stall after stall of chicken retailers- we were smack dab in the middle of the butcheries. And the guy across the way was a step ahead; he was at the de-feathering stage.

They've expedited the de-feathering process from the old-fashioned feather by feather plucking (at least I presume that's how it was done), and our now compeltely dead bird was lifted from the bucket and held head-first into what looked like a golf-course shoe cleaning machine only bigger, and instead of polishing bristles, it was razor spikes.

The very naked chicken reappeared, looking much more like the vacuum-packed grocery store product I'm used to seeing... but with a neck, head, full limbs still attached, and gizzards inside, there was more butchering to be done still. One swipe of the blade and it was off with the head, followed by a trimming of the limbs and a crack at the breast bone to emplty him clean, which included a rinse through under the tap just to be sure no organs were left inside. The meat was severed up and tossed into a plastic bag, alongside the token chicken heart and liver.

We picked up fresh cucumber, tomato, and onion for a Moroccan salad, and two round loaves of Moroccan bread. I followed the Moroccan as he weaved back through the crowds of the main street, the lights and sounds of each boutique and hundreds of conversations bringing the darkening medina to life.

A quick turn to the right and we were on another quiet side street, before turning off to climb a wide set of mosaic-tiled stairs. This was the part of the dinner I was confused about, as we passed a small family heading back into the main street with the familiar smell of tagine wafting in the air. The stairs opened up to a big room with tables and plastic chairs, with 3 middle-aged men sipping on Sprites, eyes glued to a football game being broadcast on the small tv in the corner. I followed the Moroccan across the room to the kitchen that lined the far wall, and he passed over our bags of goods, rhymed off cooking instructions in Arabic to the three chefs who were busily dicing and slicing.

The Moroccan called it a "berber restaurant," but I still don't know if that was the name of that particular place, or just the general name for this type of 'dining out.' It's a pretty neat concept- something I could see taking off outside of the major food markets in the big Canadian cities.

So we left our meal to prepared and cook and made our way back to the leather shop to pass some time. I learned quite a bit about the methods behind the Moroccan bartering madness. The shops owners provide the salesmen with the actual product cost, and from there they must sell the product with some amount of markup. The salesmen takes a commission of the profit. Fairly straight forward business model, yet highly unpredictable for the shop owners. Knowing this I was able to understand why it's actually important to be as friendly as possible when bartering- because if the salesman isn't particularly 'taken' by you as a customer, he's going to stick to his guns to garner as much profit as possible. Oh what a game...

Forty-five minutes later we returned to the berber restaurant after to be served our delicious smelling chicken and salad. I was apprehensive about the hygene of all the food prep, considering how I had laboriously poured over my own fresh fruits and veggies to keep them safe and clean just the day before. Hunched over our lawn furniture table and chairs, we picked away at the tasty meal. Dessert was juicy melon, another market find.

Once we finished eating we made our way back out to the main street, my tummy full and so far, holding strong. The night had stretched longer than I had realized when I looked at my watch to discover that it was nearly midnight.

I politely thanked the Moroccan, whose name I never did learn, for his generosity and hospitality, as he escorted me to the main gate of the medina to catch a taxi back to my hotel, where I fell asleep with a wonderfully full stomach that seemed to be okay with the Moroccan meal I'd just enjoyed..... or rather, experienced.