The Inquisition

Halfway home on the bus from Beni Mellal I lept to sit in the recently vacated seats next to us on the definitely non-sunny side of the bus. I was feeling as though my right arm and leg were being slow roasted in a giant oven on wheels. Just as I jumped at the chance, the passengers sitting in front of us, a conservatively dressed Muslim couple, with a baby girl in tow, also made a move for the coveted seats. Begrudgingly, I gave up the seats and then the broken conversations began.


Bonjour,
Hello. Me? I am Australian, he is Canadian.
America?
No, Canada. Oh, you are 30? I am 26, Jeff is 27. Your wife?
I am…vingt-et-un.
Yes, 21, you are very young!

The man pulls out his Qu’ran and begins singing verses. Perhaps to us, perhaps it was time for prayer. We look at him and he and his wife smile at us while he kisses his Qu’ran and puts it in his bag.

No, we are not Islamic.

He traces a ‘t’ on the back of the chair in front of us. T?
He then sits back in his chair with his arms outstretched beside him. I understand now.

No, we are not Christian.

He points to the wedding band on his finger and then holds his hand to his heart.

No, we are not married.

A look of comic horror spreads across his face, his arms flail in the air. His wife looks alarmed and then laughs with us. We are just an Australian-Canadian couple living in Marrakech.

We teach at the American School of Marrakech. Proffesseurs. Oui. My students are 7 and 8 years old.

His wife looks impressed and nods in approvement. The man then wiggles his fingers excitedly and then puts his hand on his chest. The game of charades begins.

I don’t understand.

Again, he repeats the motion. Then he puts his fingers through his daughters hair and uses his fingers to ‘snip’ at her hair.

Oh, yes, barber. Coiffure, I get it.

The conversation changes and comes to an end. He points to a man who just boarded the bus.

Yes, that man, with the beard? No way I don’t believe you!

Taliban, he says, with a cheeky grin.

Just outside of Marrakech the bus comes to a halt in a small village and they grab their things and leave the bus. A handshake here, a wave there and they were on their way.

Enchante

Enchante

Beni what? Beni Mellal

With 4 days off work due to Eid, Jeff and I decided to hit up Jebel Toubkal. Our attempts however, led us around the medina, to numerous bus stops and Grand Taxi ranks until we discovered that our attempts to get to Asni or Imlil would continue to be futile, until after Ramadan.

So, after consulting the travellers bible (Lonely Planet) we decided it would be nice to hit up Beni Mellal. Only 3 hours away, mountains, albeit smaller than Jebel Toubkal, some cheap accomodation and a working bus service, sealed the deal.

On the bus to Beni Mellal, all of the memories of local bus travel came flooding back - ash trays filled with ancient gum and rotting paper. An empty water bottle wedged in the ceiling vent to maintain badly needed air circulation. Numerous teenage boys and the occasional woman briefly boarding the bus to sell shoes, tissues, necklaces, fake Dior sunglasses and trinkets.

A devilish young boy sat next to us on the back of the bus. After some recipricol smiles, he was turfed by the overzealous attendant. He returned a few moments later, proudly displaying his ticket which was in his jacket pocket all along. He again looked up at us for a smile. We nicknamed him 'sneaky smile'.

Once in Beni Mellal we discovered the garden and springs of Ain Asserdoun, numerous sheep and goats, mountains to climb and a sunset that was upon us before we knew it.

The next morning we got ready for our hike.We passed the beautiful gardens on our rocky path up the mountain.

We walked around the Berber village at the top of the mountain, and during our descent, encountered some cheeky boys and...

...also the odd goat up a tree.

Just what the doctor ordered

After a day and a half of stomach cramps and frequent visits to the bathroom, I thought it was about time to visit a doctor instead. From work (I thought I could manage a day...) the driver took me to a pleasant doctor right on Mohammed 5. As the driver left me in the waiting room, all I could think was 'English?'. Finally the doctor arrived and I was ushered in.
"Parlez Anglias?" I asked in French, already knowing I was dooomed.
"No, French."
Ok, with a bit of universal sign language, pointing at my stomach accompanied with 'malade', it was time to hop on the examination table for some prodding. Just in case my vocabulary couldn't describe it, my stomach let out an enormous groan which transecnded French, Moroccan and English and told the whole story.
Then came the prescriptions. "Mange quarot" he said.
"Hmm, quar ot? Je ne sais pas." Eat what? Oh, carrots, yes, I ate carrots the other day, so no carrots?
"Non, mange, mange carrots et riz!"
Ok. Yes, carrots, rice, couscous, tajine, sashay? Huh, no dancing? Oh yes, satchet of powder after eating, yes, oui.
With a never endng prescription in my hand my visit came to an end.
Shukrun, I said with a handshake. Thankyou, he replied.

I went to the pharmacy where they deciphered the doctors code and handed me 4 lots of medication. I guess I was on my own with the carrots and rice.