I just came back from Morocco. I had gone there looking for something, a cure perhaps, some understanding, a little bit of nostalgia for a place I know nothing about. At the end of the trip, I got what I wanted but I am not sure I am any better for it.
Writing authoritatively about Morocco after a weekend in Marrakech is like writing about India after a week in South Bombay. You may get the sounds and smells right, but not the soul. So what I am writing about is my own journey and my own experience. In Hollywood speak, this is “One man’s journey to find the soul of a city.”
There were ups and downs in this journey as there would be in any, and there were happy moments and sad occasions. A ten kilometers ride from Guéliz to Djema Al Fina transported me magically from 21st century back to the 12th century. There were leafy avenues and sidewalk cafes where I sat observing people as they went about their modern lives and there were places were one could look into the expressive soulful visages of old men as they idled by the streets for no particular reason as they might have eight hundred years ago.
And of course, like any Asiatic place (even in Africa), I was taken for a fool and seperated from my money by a quickthinking scam artist. I can’t blame anyone but me, because I ought to know that “paying for services or goods not rendered in an Asiatic country” is the third great blunder (adding to Vazzini’s “Never start a land war in Asia” and “Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line”). So I thought, “you are welcome and glad to help the economy.”
But the magic still remains.
I may not be part of Morocco’s plan. I may not have been accorded the protection of the hand of the Fatima. But then I have no plans, just impulses. I have no faith, just instincts. I floated through the souks and wondered in and out of cafes and palaces, mosques and tombs. But that is not where I found Marrakech’s soul. I found it on the streets. Crazy, chaotic, and hectic, the streets came alive in the evenings with all the purpose of anarchy. The whole place reminded me of Delhi, much more than I ever imagined. There were places that reminded me of Old Delhi, Chandni Chowk and Juma Masjid, and of course there was Guéliz and Hivernage that have echos of Vasant Vihar or Defense Colony. Marrakech lacks the scale and grandeur of Delhi but it also is cleaner. What I found really refreshing was that Morocco seems to wear its Islam lightly.
As Spalding Gray once looked for his perfect moment while writing the Impossible Vacation, I too was looking for my perfect moment. I wanted to understand why Moroccans were the people they were. I ran into a former Pakistani Diplomat from Europe in a café and we spoke of being enchanted in Marakech. I don’t know if I was being entirely truthful. I was enchanted with parts of its soul.
But unfortunately I am not part of the plan. Morocco flows like a river, you step in it but for a moment.
Then I had my perfect moment away from all the hussle and buzzle. In a perfectly lit courtyard restaurant called Cibal. I dined alone in the courtyard; I had a perfect mojito, Moroccan wine (need another eight years before it gets its groove, if you ask me, Sahara Reserve, Too fruit-forward and a little flat) and feasted on perfect Moroccan food. Norah Jones was singing and her voice just makes me melt (her soul may be Texan, but the talent is all Indian. Whatever you think of Ravi Shankar, all his children inherited his talent. May Shubho Shanker's soul rest in peace.)
I waited 'til I saw the sun
I don't know why I didn't come
I left you by the house of fun
I don't know why I didn't come
There were three belly dancers who strutted their stuff among the guests. Later I saw one of them leave with a white man who was apology for a middle-aged human being.
When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching tear drops in my hand
Spalding gray’s perfect moment resurrected in me. I knew nothing more would top that evening just for its sheer soulfulness. But then, I knew all things must come to an end.
There were moments of tranquility before, in the lush gardens owned by Yves Saint Laurent, inside the Saadi tombs. And a rambling palace of a vazir that reminded me of my child hood memories of Kerala palaces. Weddings, funerals, songs. Double meanings, conflicted feelings, a nightmare about someone walking through the mountains high on marijuana for a whole week.
My heart is drenched in wine
You'll be on my mind
Forever
Afterwards, I walked a long distance in the night alone. The air was hot and pungent. In the shadows lurked working girls and other dubious characters. I felt perfectly safe and was guided by the neon lights of the hotels far away and perhaps the hand of Fatima (which is a major cult in Morocco). It was time to let go.
Out across the endless sea
I would die in ecstasy
But I'll be a bag of bones
Driving down the road alone
May be when I landed, I thought I will find the magic of the city in the camel rides and the tourist spots. Or at those outside eateries and fortune tellers.
But that was not to be. I wish I could know you better, but that takes a lifetime. The pragmatic Morocco perhaps blocked the impulses of the soulful Morocco. So I had to seek my perfect moment away from the din and chaos and it came as a revelation. A secret message from the Atlas mountains.
Norah Jones played in my head as I continued my sleepless walk. Cigarette smoke enveloped me.
Something has to make you run
I don't know why I didn't come
I feel as empty as a drum
I don't know why I didn't come
Sometimes you just have to do what you feel. No matter what the price. Even if that means sitting in a plane and traversing continents to feel the dust and heat of a soulful place. Not see the place but be the place.
At the airport, sitting alone sleepy and tired, waiting for my flight, I looked out into the desert horizon and smiled to myself. I was carrying a cure for a malady, some understanding, a little bit of nostalgia for a place I know nothing about. Thank you Morocco. I will remember you. Fondly. Even if I don’t return. I knew I walked the paths of others. I knew I felt the secrets they kept.
And then the Monday morning phone calls started.
