Duck Cheney

I find myself reading a fascinating story about our Vice President. Apparently, he accidentally shot a friend. Now the entertaining thing about this is the way the media does everything they can to make this sound more palatable. The media reported that the lawyer was "peppered" or "sprayed" with "bird shot." This clearly makes the incident seem better for...for the man not in intensive care with pellets in his heart. Let's be serious here, the man got shot in the face with a shotgun. He would be missing his face if he hadn't been 30 feet away. Shot in the face while hunting with the Vice President whom did not have a valid duck stamp. Ok, so let's get the headline right.

Vice President Shoots Man in Face While Poaching!

Now isn't that the headline you would expect to see if it were anyone else but the Vice President involved? What happened to ethical reporting and a media with a backbone?

Congratulations Mr. Thaxter

Timing a little off, I just want to extend a congratulations to my friend on his recent marriage. I am glad someone is far enough along in their life to make the commitment. Now if I could only decide which pair of jeans I want to wear. Vi ses.

Smok'n Hair

I witnessed something curious today. A man walking down the street. Fro in full bloom. Now sometimes you will find the pick garnish. But, no not this time. Something much more creative. A single stick of incense adorns this tuft. Oh yes, it is lit--smoky fragrance bump'n down the street behind him. I think this new fashion statement has potential. Not only does it smell nice, but the idea of the stick burning to an end, igniting the fro compels me to follow him for a few blocks more.

Maybe it was the Couscous

I make my way to the airport, time to leave Morocco. I feel sick, my stomach all in knots. Hot and cold streaks, a fever for certain. By the time I return to Rome, my body is engaging in full body shakes, shivers when I am hot. Frequent trips to the lou. I awake, one more hectic day in Rome, some peace in Copenhagen, chaos in Newark, and solace in Denver. It seems my travels are done and I find myself home. Food poisoning, ravaged, I struggle to reclaim my reserves. I am filled with so many wonderful memories.

Eyes of Passion

At lunch I felt the presence of someone staring at me while I wrote. I look up eager to engage the stare, she turns away. Curiously I watch. She is older than I, eyes of passion define her. She radiates--helpless romantic. We hold a gaze--just a moment. She speaks French, how an accent melts me. I utter no words, letting my eyes do the talking. Her's shine so brightly piercing metal like the craftsman of the souq. On we went, eyes engaging in a tantalizing game of passion. We leave the restaurant at nearly the same time. I reach the street, disappearing into the mass of the plaza. No words were uttered, none needed. We were perfectly fulfilled from afar. I will cherish her half-smile and suggestive glances. She is my love of Marakech.

Tannery Tour

After a morning jaunt to Jardin Majorelle I returned to the Medina destined to witness the art of leather making. A world class header shared with some kids in a dead-end street. I am clearly going to have a great day. I take a wrong turn and end up in a familiar, but wrong place. This time a free guide missing a front tooth decides to show me the way. Now he moves through the crowds with unbelievable ease. I struggle to keep up, my best crowd navigating skills shamefully inadequate for the challenge. He waits, and we continue. He pawns me off to a guy at the tannery who shows me around. This new guide show me the tanks of chemicals, Berbers slogging through poisonous liquids. Blood, guts, feces, and fluids converge in the dirt gutters streaming towards some downhill location. Here the leather is treated, prepared, and cut. Within the bordering houses, the leather is sewn into the final product. It takes two months for the leather to go from raw material to final product. The aroma is no worse the Greeley, which I guess says a lot for Greeley. From here I am taken to the rooftop of a rug store where I can see down on both the Berber and Arab taneries. So I settle for a rug, tip my tannery tour guide, and continue towards the hotel. Pleasantly enough I run into my first guide. He asks me what I bought and tells me that I got a great price. Now he asks for a tip of a cigarette. Of course I don't have one, so we settle for a pen. This is good to remember, when traveling always have a smile and a pack of smokes or a case of pens. I find myself eating lunch overlooking the main square. A persistent desert wind cooling the air and flipping the pages faster that I can fill them.

Visual Stimulation

Today was full of firsts. I suspect that here you experience something new every day. This may be true everywhere, but perhaps my senses become dulled when I am familiar with my surroundings. Had I come here prior to Italy I would have been a much less tolerant prick. The first new thing I saw today was my first fight. Unlike the passive Italians that I have witnessed for the past three months who are content to get in each others' grill, but do nothing more--Moroccans exchange blows. After some Arabic profanities, formalities were exchanged and it was on like Donkey Kong. The melee tumbled into a nearby store. The store and street packed, a mob has gathered. The two fighting are under 25, so the blows are fierce and the movement swift. One kid's movement is hindered by his nice leather coat. As he removes this, members of the crowd surge and separate the bought. The crowd divides the two and as soon as it started it is over, no police, just citizens keeping the peace. So I decide to walk on to the new city for the evening. Here I witness my first auto accident in Morocco. It involves two scooters, no surprises here, and one crippled man. The man on two canes somehow finds himself in the middle of the street (logically as this was no place for a healthy person). So the scooters are whizzing down the street, approaching each other. Each decides to pass the slower traffic taking the ambiguous middle lane. As they accelerate and claim the center line, wall-ah the man on two canes appears. Both motorists swerve to avoid him--one choosing right the other left. Blam-o, the crunch of metal, screech of rubber...a head-on encircles the crippled man, still standing, like Moses in a parted Red Sea. Oh the irony, which I can say now as no one was hurt. A spellbinding spectacle which is somehow normal in Morocco.

Black and White Guide

Day three in Morocco and things are going wonderfully--clear blue skies and temperature again in the 70's. Somehow it is surreal to be walking around in a t-shirt in the mid-December. I start the day with my the usual glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and then trudge to the Sabien Tombs. A cemetery for royalty, I find this facility most intriguing. At the tombs I am offered a free guide. A curios black and white cat decides to show me around. Oddly enough the cat seems to know every tomb I want to see. It leads me there, meows about the significance, and off we move to the next one. This is surprisingly familiar to my experiences in Italy. I thank the cat for the information, paying for the service with a small treat. As I exit the tombs I ponder what to do next. Well as I am on a death tour, I hike across the southern medina to the Jewish Cemetery. It is located in one of the oldest ethnic neighborhoods in the world. The Sheik isolated the Jews here because their practices ran contradictory to Islam. Deciding to change gears I head to the souq for some more shopping. One can only spend limited time here as the interactions are draining. Lunch was fair and dinner was at the now famous food cart #1, again greeted as "couscous."

Medina Maze and Ginger Tea

Day two and plenty more to see. After a modest breakfast it was off to Palais al-Bahia. Then to another rich guy's house that is now a museum. I was feeling hungry so I headed for lunch. Now I am not the kind of person that gets lost, as a matter of fact I have a good sense of direction. But in Marrakech it is quite easy to find yourself helplessly turned around. Navigation is complicated for many reasons. None of the streets are straight, and they are quite narrow restricting your range of view. You can only experience about 200 feet either in front of you or behind you. Signage is either non-existant or in Arabic which does little to aid me. Paths constantly terminate in dead ends forcing one to repeatedly double-back. Finally, everything is the same shade of pink. I wandered for a good couple of hours determined to eventually stumble across some form of public space that I could locate on a map. To no avail, hungry and tired, I finally broke down and hired a young boy to show me the way back for the bargain price of $0.50. As I was enjoying my "traditional" meal of Berber Beef and potatoes, I witnessed a woman across the street wailing loudly, as if there is any other way of wailing. A crowd of mostly men quickly formed, obscuring the woman. Scooters stoped, wails continued. Eventually, the woman is helped into a nearby store. When she is returned to the street she is vomiting. A friend helps her clean up. Kind of makes you lose your appetite. After lunch I went to the souqs and did some shopping then back to food cart #1 for dinner. I figure since I did not get food poisoning from eating there last night it is a good choice. The couscous and chicken filled me to the brim. I was welcomed as "couscous" man. After dinner I decide to have a little Italian passegiata. Across the plaza I end up having a glass of mint tea. With the tea comes some sort of gingerbread cake. It is gritty and has a pungent bitter taste, but when combined with the tea the results are amazing. It is filling and the flavor is hot. The combination of the spice and temperature of the liquid is most enjoyable.

Today I Make my Marrakech

After the exhausting travels from the day before, I somehow find myself awaking early and eagerly heading out alone into the unknown. Today I claim my Marrakech. The town crawls like a teeming ant hill--the hustle and bustle of motion. Grinding horns and bells alert you to their presence. Cars, trucks, horse-drawn carriages, bicycles, donkey-drawn wagons, people-drawn wagons, and curious little motor bikes you start with pedals all race by, passing over the hot plaza tiles from shadow to shadow. Museum Marrakech is my first stop. Aimlessly I wander with a general sense of direction before suddenly stumbling upon the museum. Islamic architecture, with its mysterious culture and exquisite detail has always fascinated me. After the museum I head through the souks (marketplace) towards the Palais El Badi. On my way I find every imaginable animal for sale. Lizards, snakes, owls, turtles, monkeys, and some furry rat thing all dangerously wait in a hot musky cage. Chickens are bought live--butchered, plucked, and cleaned for all to see. Fruits and vegetables are neatly stacked on blankets in the street.
Near the palace whooping cranes nest. A majestic animal, it sits atop the old city walls making guttural clicking noises. People smile more here. The place is loud, smelly, and thick with smog. The nearby Atlas mountains cloaked in a cancerous veil contrast the vibrant clay red of Marrakech; radiating a sense of comfort, warmth.
For dinner I return to the square, eager to eat from the carts that role in around sunset. The square bustles with energy, smoking aromas waft from the food carts. Vendors yelling in all tongues eager to lure you to their smorgasbord of delights. Musicians, fortune tellers, story tellers, comedians, acrobats, and snake charmers feel any available space. Twenty men eagerly sit in a circle placing wages on which scorpion in the box will survive the longest. The operator, continually closing the box to shake it with renewed furry.
Food cart #1, that is where I will eat. Chicken kabobs, sausage, potato cakes, and bread with not one but two sauces. All cooked to order, right in front of me. Clearly they are a family which operates this eatery. The father, grill master of course, and the mother whipping up a mad batch of couscous. Her sons practice their Arabic, French, English, Turkish, Spanish, and Italian on the patrons. Who says you need to go to school? Now I watch the mother draw in customer after customer it uttering the only English I think she knows, "couscous?", she confidently beckons as she lifts a teeming scoop from the pot. Now this is important, as I am nearing the end of my first night, I see the mother preparing her famous line. So I mimic, "couscous?" My timing is flawless, her sons erupt in laughter and a genuine smile beams across her face. My joke would not only bond us, but to generate my Moroccan nickname, "couscous?".
Rhythm describes all that is Marrakech. An underlying pulse of repetition, prose, and beat. The architectural forms, cars, noises, movements, floor tiles, and birds all appear to respond to some underlying law of meter.