Ramadan in Morocco

Casablanca seems like a lovely location—the ideal port of entry for Morocco. As it turns out, it’s a dull, dreary industrial city with little to offer except for a huge mosque and miles of beach. So we got out of town fairly quickly after docking to head for Essaouira.
The trip out wasn’t easy. We took a train to Marrakesh—second-class, as that was all that was available. The second I took a step off the train I felt a lash of cold rain. It quickly gathered into a solid downpour. We hurried across the track to huddle under a shelter (looking, ironically, like palm fronds), waiting for the rain to stop. It didn’t. We had a bus to catch, but no way of knowing when or where to catch it. I finally decided to trudge all the way to the main terminal to find out. None of the people I asked knew when the bus left, but they knew it left from the bus station—back the direction I came. I trudged back again, looking for a way to cut across the tracks to the street. Finally I found a way. In fact, it was the bus station. In fact, the bus was leaving now. “Vite, vite, vite!” they told me. I thus ran back, dragged my family through the downpour, and got them on the bus with just seconds to spare. My sneakers didn’t dry out for two days.
But Essaouira was fine: a small city defined by its medina, set off from the modern development by a thick, crenellated wall. Our riad was square in its center, off a side street from the main drag. The next morning I awoke early and walked through the town. My first impression was that it was dirty and depressed: only a few shops open, few people. But it was Ramadan. People had arisen early, before dawn, and eaten their morning food before 5 a.m., when sunrise was announced by the call for prayer, and returned to bed. Muslims take Ramadan very seriously—indeed, as we were reminded, it’s one of the Five Pillars of Islam. We foreigners were allowed to eat, but I never felt terribly hungry when the entire population was fasting. By noon, people had woken up. Vast crowds mobbed the narrow streets, with occasional bicycles, motor scooters, or handcarts working their way through the mass of people with surprising grace.
Our riad (the Riad Sidi Magdoul) featured music in the evenings. The first night it was nothing special: a small group of kids playing Moroccan pop of their own creation to solid but repetitive hand-drumming. But the next night featured a small troupe of young Gnawaian musicians, including one of the most inventive and virtuosic hand-drummers I’ve ever seen. I was entranced, and at the night’s end got up the nerve to talk to them, mentally practicing sentences in French to say to them. But they spoke English! Indeed, it was the best English I ever heard in the country. I made friends with Omar Afif, a young man in his thirties with dreadlocks and a thin beard who played the gimbre, a box-shaped lute with three strings that produces the bass-line riffs for the music. I met Omar the next day, bringing the girls (who can be heard clearly on the tape I made: “what’s dat?”). The Gnawas are descendents of sub-Saharan African slaves, brought to Morocco centuries ago. Their music is riff-based—repetitive, hard-driving, yet beautifully and subtly improvised. Each song is a hymn to the saints, or sidis, and the specific combination of songs (specified to me by Omar) is enough to put adherents into a trance. It’s still not clear to me whether Omar himself is Gnawan. His face suggests a Sub-Saharan African ancestry, but at one point, he made it clear to me that he is “100% Berber,” citing the different Berber tribes that contribute to his heritage. But he and the other young musicians have been studying with older masters and are dedicated to the Gnawian religious beliefs, which are peaceful, mystic, and ecstatic (as with the Sufis).
Gnawian music has never had a high social status, but thanks to the enthusiasm of a handful of rock luminaries, it has become chic. There are now posters for Gnawian festivals. Omar appeared at one recently; as with his appearance at the Riad Sidi Magdoul, he was paid next to nothing. He doesn’t seem interested in his commercial success. For several years, he earned his living building boats in the Essaouira harbor. His apartment, located in a small alleyway within the medina, was small but comfortable, with a few modern touches (like the shower curtain covered with colorful fish that entranced Celia: “what’s dat?”). If nothing else, I’m interested in coming back here to see how Omar is doing—and to learn more about the music to which he dedicates his life.
Morocco was a pleasant place. One couldn’t help but be impressed by the unquestioning firmness with which people lived their religious lives—everybody was fasting, everybody went to the mosque, even the doctor (specializing in reproductive issues) with whom we spent an evening in Casablanca (as part of “dinner with a Moroccan family”). No alcohol: the Riad Sidi Magdoul was probably the only late-night music venue I’ve been in that served me only water for my beverage. Yet the Moroccans were also predatory, even in their politeness. Nancy got a taste of this after being drawn (reluctantly) into bickering with a stall holder about some wooden curios we were determined to buy. The man quickly insisted that we were good friends; that his stall was different because he makes the material himself; that he would charge double in Marrakesh; that the items were of exceptional quality; that the price fluctuated depending on the customer—wealthy people didn’t care, poor people couldn’t afford it. And tourists have their own price, we thought. Nothing we can do about it. Did this man actually think he was making friends? How could he? It was a business transaction, carried out very elegantly (if time-consuming), and it ended with a sale. He was apparently right about Marrakesh, too; we didn’t go into town, but our students who did saw the whole deal—a huge square packed with people, donkeys, snake charmers, and hustlers of all variety, doing anything they could to make a sale. One student got the trifecta: all at once, she had monkeys and a large snake put on her, all while a henna artist started coloring her arm. Yes, Marrakesh is a famous place, on the border between civilized Morocco and the nomadic inner world of the Sahara. But the same barriers still existed throughout the country. Onward to Ghana.....