DAY 217

Monday 13 February 2012


We awoke again, after another late-night (nearly 3 AM) talk-laugh-music session with the Attar brothers, to find another bountiful breakfast arriving at the outdoor table minutes after our bedroom door opened. How did Fatima do it? How did Mustafa wake early enough to orchestrate it while simultaneously keeping the 3-yr-old dimpled dynamo Salah-Din from self-destructing from his limitless energy and curiosity? And all for people who were strangers only 40 hours earlier? These folks were remarkable examples of Moroccan hospitality, and we were the blessed beneficiaries. 


It took a while longer for Bachir to drag himself out of bed -- actually, Mustafa dragged him, when he found out we were planning to take off soon. We tried unsuccessfully to offer some donation for the food we ate and probably 20 gallons of sweet mint tea we drank but Bachir made it clear we were welcome any time, to stay for as long as we wanted, an offer we all hoped we could make good on some day.


Parting was such sweet sorrow but we had much more of that great country to see, and so we followed Mustafa into the next big town where he picked up some supplies and we continued down the road, but not before we wisely took his suggestion to grab a trio of "ham-boor-goors" for the road from a local stand. They were huge (nearly twice the size of a big American burger), all savory meat in pieces not patties, that cost a mere $2.70. A few miles down the road, unable to wait any longer, we found out how delicious they were, wrapped in a thin, light but chewy bread that beat any bun we'd ever had.

It was a long days's drive, rolling through some beautiful farming countryside but a lot of it was not so remarkable. What WAS remarkable was seeing men plowing fields walking behind a pair of donkeys, women riding on top of mountains of leafy greens piled high on their asses (sorry, too much Sancho Panza). More so: a man gathering stray wood to load on his horse, right next to three lanes of rush-hour traffic in the thick of Casablanca; men herding their cows and goats in the median between freeway lanes; and the one that made us laugh, a complex of modern design buildings with a big sign dubbing the campus "Technopolis" -- and a huge herd of sheep strolling in front.

We continued towards El-Jadida and the coastal road to our goal of southern warmth and endless beach at El Ouatia, and after emerging from the grip of Casablanca traffic looked for and found a "repose" stop, meaning a 24-hour restaurant with restrooms and a safe place for the night. To make sure, we inquired inside if it was 24-hour and also safe and allowed, and the manager behind the counter motioned to an employee who spoke English and he assured us we could "dream easily" because there was a security guard patrolling the premises, and that we were welcome. We were just floating on hospitality, and constantly mused about what the American version of many of our situations might be.

We gave a call to Dian's folks through the computer from the van because we could get Internet there, through our handy dandy Maroc Telecom USB stick, one month of Internet almost everywhere in the country (on top of a sand dune? we think so) for 24 bucks. Wish we could get that in SoCal. Dian and Nicole then hit the hay while Charles went inside to catch up on many important communications, and milked his cappuccino while getting free electricity till the wee hours.