The writer shares five vignettes of her trip to Morocco during Ramadan in one hundred plus heat!

1. Morocco in Five
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By Ann Marie Meehan

2. “Mint Tea?”
She is a green-eyed Berber who raises her teapot for every hot, irritated tourist that crosses the
threshold of her authentic Berber-style house in the lush valley below the mountains of Morocco. Our
guide, Mustafa, translates as the lady in pink shares with us the precise method for making a proper cup
of hot mint tea. “Do you ever drink it iced?” I ask, wiping my brow with a wet wipe. Mustafa doesn’t
bother to translate for her; he just passes me a look of scorn while reclining on the couch trying to
forget he hasn’t had water in six hours and will have to forget he has seven more to go as it is
Ramadan. So Moroccans and the English have that in common- to dare to do anything but brew the
leaves for any purpose other than to drink it hot is sacrilege.
The water is forever a-boil atop the Berber oven which looks like an ant-hill with a hole. Once it’s boiled
it is brought to the low table. Upon this table sits a flat-shaped tea-pot which she stuffs with fresh mint
leaves and loose gun-powder green tea. “She throws out the first cup,” confides Mustafa. A steady
strong stream from the pot on high fills the flat one below. John thinks it was for dramatic effect but I
discover later that this grand pouring technique aerates the water. The air around us suffuses with
mint and the smell of heat on the clay walls and cow dung from the next room where three bovine
contentedly munch hay out of the scorching noon sun.
Three or four minutes- that’s all!” warns Mustafa as she plops huge hunks of white rock-sugar into the
pot. “That’s sugar? Why is it in a block and that shape?” Mustafa doesn’t know so he pretends he
didn’t hear me. Later on our journey, in the fishing town of Essouira we visit a museum running an
exhibit on the history of tea in Morocco. It explained that the sugar was bell-shaped because the weight
used to measure it was that shape. The sugar comes wrapped in paper and is often given as a wedding
gift. I like this on many levels as the shape of the sugar resembles an obelisk, so pure and white and
smooth.
Emerald Eyes eagerly passes searing full shot-glasses of tea and I realize that her palms must be
completely calloused from years of handing these round. “Have they no mugs?” asked a co-worker
perusing this photo over my shoulder. I think about this and wonder if some of the magic of this tea is
that it isn’t passed in a large stoneware mug. The serving is dainty, precious- the tea’s sugary heat
seems rich and decadent while the mint plays games with the drinker’s digestion as you burp and smile
and find someplace to put down the hot glass only to have Miss Berber Mint Tea grab and re-fill it
while you’re still wishing it were handed back in a tall glass over ice.
Small, giddy brown brightly-dressed girls step shyly into the room and nod hello. “Look at those eyes,
eh?!” says Mustafa longingly admiring one girl’s green pair. I smile and look from the tea-pourer to the
child and wonder if this is as highly uncommon as it appears to be as I only recall meeting one other
native sporting this eye color. Everyone happily bobs their heads in agreement with Mustafa and I
imagine that Berber hut as it might have been many years ago as traders passed the door atop
dromedaries laden with gay rugs and glistening tea-pots. Perhaps some beautiful brown Berber woman
avoided the habit of averting her eyes and stared into the sun behind some handsome fair-skinned man
from Europe or Asia who cast his green-eyes down upon her. Maybe she tiptoed out past the ancestors
of those silent cows in the next room and pushed apart the tented carpets and never slept at all that
night next to that stranger for fear that it would only be a dream. Maybe he left her with the power to
produce a child and grandchild and great that carries a power that sifts and shifts through Berber
lineage persistent as that fire heating endless pots for tea in that hearth.
Master of Dromedaries

3. Mustafa spends his days with some of Earth’s most astounding creatures- dromedaries. Dromedaries
are NOT camels; camels have two humps while dromedaries have one hump. I do not know if there are
other differences but I am sure there are (after all a human with one leg is very different than one with
two).
Three dromedaries are saddled and awaiting us one cloudless morning by Morocco’s portion of the
Atlantic Ocean. The humps are unseen; the saddles are crafted so that the dromedary’s hump is
protected from the rider. Coarse, brightly colored Berber rugs are layered atop the saddle while a metal
handle is fitted somehow around the creature’s shoulders for the rider to hold onto. Sadly, the
dromedaries chew their cud with difficulty as the bit in their mouths is made of nylon rope.
“Boss” is Mustafa’s mount- he is very belligerent and vocal and converses with Mustafa who has raised
and cared for him for almost twelve years. No tourists ride Boss; he only allows Mustafa to ride him.
Here is a photo of Mustafa stroking the dromedary I rode. He was affectionate and even-tempered and
content to walk behind Boss and in front of John’s comely ride. We mount them as they are seated on
the ground, to my amazement. This means of course that they must rise with you atop them, which in
my dromedary’s case is quite a feat as I am at present, hefty. These powerhouses seem to fold and
unfold themselves from a seated to standing position; I look downward and realize how tall they are and
how unlikely to stay upright upon such slender legs. They do not have hooves- their wide round feet
seem like suction-cups, clinging to the sand and stone.
“Watch!” Mustafa tells us, as he commands the dromedaries first in Arabic, then in French, then in
English. For two hours we sit atop our animals as they climb hills of silt-y sand, amble across a beach
as falcons pass overhead and flamingoes feed knee-deep. Our dromedary guide points out the film
locations from the movie, “Gladiator” and from the HBO series, “Game of Thrones.” We pause briefly in
a eucalyptus glade as the dromedaries like to munch on the leaves.
“Thank-you,” I say, nuzzling my ride as we return to the stable. “I appreciate you!”
“What did you say?” Mustafa asks me.
“I just told him I appreciate him- that I admire him and I am thankful for him carrying me.”
Mustafa smiles, looking very satisfied. “Appreciate.” That is very good.”
The Scammers of Morocco
“What are you writing?” John asks me. It is 107 degrees. We sit facing the ruins of an ancient palace
protected by cranes high atop the walls in enormous nests of thick sticks. I am wondering if I am

4. suffering from heat-stroke and realize that I will get little attention and sympathy from Moroccans as it
is mid-day in a kingdom celebrating Ramadan by not eating or drinking anything between sun-up and
sun-down.
“A letter to the king. I’m going to write him a letter and tell him why I think no one would want to
return to Morocco on vacation. I’m going to complain loudly about the fact that there are no street
signs in the Medina. I’m going to tell him about the mistreatment of the kingdom’s snakes, horses, and
monkeys going on in Jemaah al’Fna Market. I’m going to tell him that the kingdom suffers since tourists
don’t get to talk much to the women. Most importantly, I am going to tell him that his male subjects
have got to stop harassing and following and badgering and wheedling and scamming us tourists!”
John was exasperated too, but at me, not the Moroccan scammers. “Hey, look- we’re here now; don’t
you want to see the tombs?”
“No. I want to write. It calms me down. Just let me stay here and you can tell me about them. “
John and his very large, heavy camera left me; he crossed the massive courtyard past the dry fountains
and the stray cats seeking the shady corners of the palace.
I wrote it all down; I thought about how to grab his Majesty’s attention, how to couch my argument,
how to flatter him about the things I loved about his country. In the end it probably comes down to
dirhams (the Moroccan currency that you can’t even use anywhere else in the world), so I figured if I
could make him understand what could be fixed, that tourism would improve and he’d get that all-
important gold ring of returning tourists.
This is a photo of me that I laugh at. I am amused that I managed to smile while the scammer in the
robe was trying to rip me and John off by charging us too much for the two soapstone statues in the
foreground. How funny is the addition of a calculator in this photo- simply a prop for the scammer to
pretend to give us a deal if we bought more than the two items. John’s hiking guide is the man in the
black jacket; he certainly isn’t dressed for hiking but he did get John up the mountain to view a waterfall
which John found unremarkable. The man in the robe is in charge of the co-op effort to sell native-
made goods, but I don’t know. I am certain that there is a large chunk of change that was diverted up
those sleeves of his.
I look at the wall of colorful leather slippers traditionally worn and laugh even more. They remind me
of the Iraqi who threw his shoe at W (aka, George W. Bush) and wonder if I had stayed there,
bargaining much longer would I have started grabbing those slippers and throwing them at Mr. Robe in
anger and frustration. Please, please, please, King Mohammed: please ban the practice of scamming!
The Water-Bearer
He is dressed in the tradition of the water-bearers of Morocco. He circles the marketplace and streets
selling water; the silver cups strung to his shoulder are reserved for thirsty Muslims-infidels can drink
only from his plastic bottles. It is Ramadan, so I imagine his expression is one of frustration and
disappointment as the faithful are forgoing beverages of any type and the tourists are heeding the advice
in their guide-books cautioning against drinking from plastic that has been used and re-used.

5. I am in awe of John’s photo-taking skills as he managed to take this man’s picture without the man
running after John for money. Yes, even picture-taking in Morocco is cause for them to run after you in
anger with their palms out as if you stole a piece of their soul.
A Birthday Celebration at The Mamounia Hotel
Winston Churchill considered it one of the most remarkable and wonderful hotels in the world, and now
John and I know why as that is where we lifted a few glasses in celebration of John’s fifty-fourth
birthday.
Although we did not stay at the hotel (the cost of a room must run in the hundreds of dollars per
night), we managed to persuade Security to allow us to bring our back-packs into the hotel in an effort
to change into suitable attire for the hotel bar. Wandering through the elegant lobby we admired the
water-colors of a talented artist who managed to capture the likenesses of the scammers without them
clambering through the hotel and swiping them off the walls or demanding money.

6. The bar was cozy bedecked in burgundy and gold and dark wood and stain-glass windows overlooking
an avenue of palms and a lazy blue pool. Contented, we cupped cool tumblers of iced whiskey with
loads of sugar and a bright maraschino plopped on top. Stopping time is the best way to celebrate a
birthday, particularly when there is so very much to celebrate like eluding cancer, finding a person on
the planet who loves you as much as you love them and adding another set of memories to many
adventures in travel both have shared.
In the lobby a musician was rehearsing on a traditional instrument which looked and sounded like a
dulcimer and we stood admiring an elaborate marble statue of a large member of the cat family
attacking the dromedary he rode. We strode hand in hand through the dizzying tiled doorway and
down the steps towards a fountain for a photo documenting the occasion. The camera sat upon a wall,
pointed at the two of us standing beside one another, smiling at the day, which was picture-perfect up
until that moment when John stepped back into the fountain and drew the ire of security guard intent
on removing us from the scene.
This is a beautiful photo, I think- the Moorish entranceway to the hotel, the swirl of the doorman’s cape
as he turns his soft-shod shoes towards the lobby, his tall figure proud and full of purpose, as steady as
the lamp suspended over his skullcap. Perhaps it is the hour, as sundown nears and his heart lifts in
imagining that first deep draught of water to quench the day’s dryness.