My first Thanksgiving with Islamic hospitality
Life today in the Medina, Old Fes, Morrocco
So as I watch Israel and Hamas go at it, Syria and Turkey lobbing a few rounds at each other, and more than a few Muslim countries on the verge of exploding, I reflect back on my first experience with Islamic hospitality. It is 1978, and I am attending the University of Valencia for a semester. I was obviously ill informed about the history of the region as I wandered and pondered about the old town.Why were all these mosques, Hafal butcheries, and people in serious veils everywhere. I thought I was going to Spain? Oh, the Moors invaded in ~714, totally kicked ass and changed the name to Medina al-Turab.
The Muslims then went on to an off and on golden age in southern Spain, until they, and the Jews, were sent packing back to Morocco and where ever other part of the Maghreb their ancestors came from in ~1609. But they left the mark. I would build my career on, saffron (they call me mellow yellow), the usual palaces and obviously more.
However, we three students at the University of Valencia had other reasons for going to Morocco. Gentle reader, you are going to have to google the early history of the likes of the Beatles, Bob Dylan and the Rolling Stones, or any other 1978 exotic local that we heard utopia/enlightenment could be just wandered or pondered into, for the providence of that motivation.
It was Thanksgiving break at the University, and three of us, booked passage on an overnight ship to the Spanish colony of Melilla and then caught a scary cab from the port into Morocco. Talk about culture shock...I remember no electricity, my first exposure to the Arabic alphabet and a nasty and abused camel. Oh, and no room at the inn.
When it became obvious that when the dude said there were no rooms, he meant it and it sunk in that we were really not going to get a room. Our choices were the fetal position on a totally dark street, with some nasty dogs, and Allah knows what else, and maybe a street tea vendor with one candle as light or get on the night bus. Movin' was better than stayin', at least until it got light and we (my companions were from Denmark) could figure something out.
Yup, catch the next bus to our ultimate destination, Fes. As we got on the bus in the near freezing chill, we encountered the usual third world fare: screaming choleric babies, a few live goats, a pregnant woman pretending to be asleep, hoping the foreigners would not ask her to schooch over, (wrong, lady) a man with six impossibly heavy televisions. And off we went to Fes, eight hours away.
Ten minutes later, first stop: more bags of cous cous, coughing grandmas, and almond vendors. Ten minutes later, tea break. Ten minutes later, a man with no arms or legs, loaded onto the roof, tied onto some kind of homemade stretcher. WTF?
Eventually in these down times, when travelers would bond over the tea kettle to pass the time, a man in a Moroccan robe and headdress, but with an obviously expensive business suit underneath them (ah, the disguises of humanity), said in Spanish "I have overheard your conversations and concerns about reaching Fes tonight. This will not be possible"
As it turns out, he was on the ship with us from Valencia, returning home after doing banking business in the "New Spain". He says this bus will be days reaching Fes. "Please stay with me for one day, two day, and my sons will drive you to the Medina".
When it became obvious that when the dude said there were no rooms, he meant it and it sunk in that we were really not going to get a room. Our choices were the fetal position on a totally dark street, with some nasty dogs, and Allah knows what else, and maybe a street tea vendor with one candle as light or get on the night bus. Movin' was better than stayin', at least until it got light and we (my companions were from Denmark) could figure something out.
Yup, catch the next bus to our ultimate destination, Fes. As we got on the bus in the near freezing chill, we encountered the usual third world fare: screaming choleric babies, a few live goats, a pregnant woman pretending to be asleep, hoping the foreigners would not ask her to schooch over, (wrong, lady) a man with six impossibly heavy televisions. And off we went to Fes, eight hours away.
Ten minutes later, first stop: more bags of cous cous, coughing grandmas, and almond vendors. Ten minutes later, tea break. Ten minutes later, a man with no arms or legs, loaded onto the roof, tied onto some kind of homemade stretcher. WTF?
Eventually in these down times, when travelers would bond over the tea kettle to pass the time, a man in a Moroccan robe and headdress, but with an obviously expensive business suit underneath them (ah, the disguises of humanity), said in Spanish "I have overheard your conversations and concerns about reaching Fes tonight. This will not be possible"
As it turns out, he was on the ship with us from Valencia, returning home after doing banking business in the "New Spain". He says this bus will be days reaching Fes. "Please stay with me for one day, two day, and my sons will drive you to the Medina".
Well, do we trust the dude or not? After all one of the main tenets of Islam is kindness and hospitality to travellers, even if they are complete strangers. However, for some inexplicable reason, his expensive shoes were a good enough reason for us to go for it. An hour or two later, with stops every quarter hour to cram more people in the bus, work on the engine, have tea, and so forth, the bus dropped us off in the Atlas foothills. As it pulled away, we were in total freezing darkness with billions of stars twinkling away. As beautiful as it was, I was kinda pondering if we had made the right decision.
We followed him in single file in silence. Mile after mile. The only light was the moon and more stars than I had ever seen. Occasionally we would come to rustic? stone compounds and dogs would start barking. He would say something soothing in Arabic, and I guess the dogs recognized him, because they immediately quieted down. As we trudged along and as cool (really freezing cool) as this all was, I really started to wonder how it was going to end. I mean if it went bad, not a soul in this universe knew where we were. Dear reader, stay tuned.....although, let's face it, if I am here writing on Thanksgiving night about it 34 years later, it couldn't have gone too bad *grin*
Lonely house in the Atlas mountains, Morocco
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