Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  Christmas in Milan. (Author’s Collection)

  For the next stage of the journey, I was to fly to Madrid and catch my plane for Morocco. As I was filling in time at the Madrid airport I was checking out the usual trinkets when suddenly my flight was announced. I felt somewhat distracted, having left my friend Enrique so quickly I had little time to think what was ahead of me. It was a long half-hour walk to my gate, cutting through crowds and the usual obstacles at these international airports. When I arrived to pass through immigration, I realized my folder with everything in it, including $5,000 and my passport, was missing. It was very upsetting and my head was spinning with all sorts of dramatic scenarios. I quickly retraced my steps. I only had an hour to catch the plane.

  Enrique’s Fallen Angel, hanging in my Los Angeles home. (Author’s Collection)

  The only place I used my folder was at the newspaper stall. I drove my trolley through large crowds, praying all the way and excusing myself like a mad driver from Cairo. It took twenty fast minutes to reach my destination, and now I was flying. How could I have been so careless? Breathless, I entered the newspaper shop. It was very crowded. My heart sank. I moved my way through, expecting nothing but a miracle. I stopped at the International Tribune pile and there sitting on top of it was my folder. I stood there, dumbfounded. I slowly picked it up, but there was no one to thank except God and the universe, which I did all the way back to my gate. When I opened it I realized nothing was missing. I chastised myself for creating such worry and angst, then stopped everything when I knew right away it was a signpost, to be present and aware where I was headed—to a country rich in heritage and shadows filled with clever merchants. I was finally on my way to Casablanca, feeling the excitement I felt all those years before as a young boy dreaming in the dark of exotic places. And of Bogie and Bergman, of course.

  I arrived in Marrakech later that evening. All went well through immigration and customs, and I had prearranged for a hotel driver to meet me at the airport. That’s always important, then you don’t get hassled with unreliable or tricky drivers because sadly cons are always lurking. I had had to learn that the hard way in the Middle East, so I always reminded drivers that I’d been to their country many times and knew their history well. I took charge of that game. You have to.

  I arrived at my hotel and went to bed early. The next morning the desert sun was shining through my window as I caught my first glimpse of Marrakech with its remarkable colors exploding through the light. I enjoyed a wonderful exotic breakfast while the concierge set up a driver and a guide. I began to explore the city, its narrow alleyways and its people with new eyes, having not been there before.

  My first stop was the city’s main square filled with a world of snake charmers, and the display of carpets filled the background with their earthy tones. The merchants were on the prowl, calling out to bring attention to their wares. My first encounter was at an artifact shop where the owner came right up to my face and whispered like a conspirator, “I love your face but I want your money.”

  I laughed. “You’re getting neither,” I said, and continued on my tour.

  My next experience was buying two framed mirrors with camel bone and wood that was stained black. How vain of me, but you can always use a mirror.

  The bargaining ensued until I made my final offer, a third of the initial price including air delivery. At first they said no and I walked away. My motto is this: If I can live without it, I can walk away. They live to sell. They chased after me and they agreed to accept my offer. I was pleased. Air delivery is expensive.

  I began taking photographs of vibrant colors with shadows falling across narrow streets, crossing paths with women completely covered in secret, men in black leading through the smoke, spices in heaps of such exotic colors, vocal merchants demanding attention, and cobras dancing to the sound of their master’s flutes, all magnifying Marrakech as Morocco’s most intoxicating city. Situated at the north of Africa, it’s a gateway from East to West. It became a trading and resting place on the ancient caravan routes from Timbuktu. This city has barely paused. Dominating the country’s landscape are the snow-capped Atlas Mountains, meaning “Land of God,” and they are beautiful. They extend for 1,600 miles through Algeria and Tunisia. Religion is prominent, Muezzins are always calling to prayer, veiled windows through labyrinthine alleyways representing a hidden society. They see you but you don’t see them. It all lends itself to an air of mystery that’s unique to its identity. You try to unravel it by going through it on your own terms.

  That is why I let my driver and guide go, which I found later to be a costly mistake. This time I felt I wanted to discover, rather than being guided. I had a good grasp of the country’s history and wanted to experience it with fresh eyes. As I walked through the old Medina dating back to the 8th century, I crossed paths with donkeys carrying loads of produce, saw heads of goats displayed on large platters, heard the butcher crying out the shop’s daily special, and watched the fabric dyers splash away their colors. I felt as if I had been transported into ancient times. The atmosphere was nothing short of a magic carpet ride. No machines, just human hands as the driving force.

  When walking a new path that is this unique, your life expands at that moment, a shift takes place within you and you realize how fortunate you are to travel the world, full of eye-opening wonders.

  I left the square and caught a cab back to the hotel. I had been walking around for hours and felt wonderfully fulfilled. As I entered the hotel, I realized that my camera and film were not in my hands. I rushed back out, but the cab was gone. All those beautiful photos disappeared in a split second. The concierge tried to locate them, but it was not to be. Once again on this same journey I was not paying attention. I had no philosophical answer for my mistake. Just a loss of photographic experiences I would not be able to duplicate. If I’d kept the guide it would not have happened. The images remained in my imagination, a sole consolation. Fortunately I always travel with two cameras in case an accident occurs. So the next day I continued on and hired a driver to take me to Fez, along the route of the majestic Atlas Mountains.

  It was a beautiful drive to Fez, passing through that mountain range for hours. I sat back listening to George Delerue’s film scores, adding extra emotion to the visual grandeur. These mountains God translated for us, to embrace, to take in and be inspired. My driver did not speak any English, which was perfect because then I could watch in silence. That’s always a good thing because it allows the mind to rest and take in other aspects of the journey without interruption. I had a map with me and I could see what was coming up next. I felt like an explorer navigating unknown territory with my driver as a compass.

  Later that afternoon we arrived in Fez, a city regarded as the jewel of the Arab civilization. It is Morocco’s spiritual capital, carrying many secrets that do not reveal themselves easily. Secretive and shadowy, they need to be discovered carefully. It looked like the South Mediterranean, bustling with merchants, artisans, captivating sounds and fragrances spilling through its center.

  I was staying at the Jamai Palace, which was transformed in 1930 into a luxury hotel that is situated high up on a hill. It had a beautiful entrance, brocaded in multiple-colored tile and old brass.

  During the day it’s a peaceful environment, but after 5 p.m. it becomes dangerous.

  I hired a guide and went straight to the bazaar before it got dark. We traveled through a labyrinth of sloping hills to winding alleyways crammed full of merchants and donkeys. Medieval history reverberates through the tangled streets—the exotic sounds and visuals all contributing to the seduction of this incredible maze.

  Fez’s golden age was during the 14th century and presided over by the Maenad Sultans. I viewed their tombs from my balcony window, illuminating the hillside in the afternoon light. Like Marrakech, Fez is a hidden city with high windowless walls adorned with flowing Arabic script, impenetrable to the non-Muslim. They radiate with bold colors as the shadows of hooded me
n and veiled women pass by, reflecting the drama.

  The colors portrayed radiated the importance of Morocco’s culture with white as purity, blue for the sky, black for depth, yellow for wealth, and green for Islam. It gave the city more significance for I was able to translate the life around me through color. I finally arrived and had a delightful lunch at a restaurant where male dancers spun around for so long, I began to get dizzy.

  My guide and I sat on the floor on large cushions while they served us maize and their famous pigeon pie. I loved eating with my hands, as was the custom, even though in the West we would frown upon it. I enjoyed sharing the experience with my guide who filled me in on the history of the place. Every design had a meaning, each color revealing its secret language, and by embracing it, I reveled in this foreign atmosphere.

  Entrance to Mosque, Marrakech. (Author’s Collection)

  It was getting dark as the winter sun began disappearing below the hills. My guide took me back to the Jamal Palace, as it was time to prepare for New Year’s Eve. That evening the hotel was throwing a big bash to celebrate the event. I put all my valuables in a safety deposit box and proceeded out of the hotel to take in the sunset, as this would be my last night in Fez before heading to Casablanca. I took time to speak to the guard who reminded me that danger was lurking always at this hour for tourists without a guide. We shared a cigarette, and as I walked away to the edge of the hotel ten young boys began to surround me. The guard watched from a distance. They began playing with their private parts to get my reaction. I knew that money was all they were after. The circle came closer and closer and I started feeling a little trapped. I began shouting at them. “Get home to your mothers.” They continued to taunt, ignoring my demands.

  “We give good massage up there in the forest, very cheap,” they whispered.

  No matter where I walked the circle never broke. I purposely left my valuables at the hotel because of my guide’s warning. This time I was listening and this time I had enough. I started pushing them away and the guard finally came over, screaming in Arabic. Fearless, they were now reaching into my pockets. I began to laugh because there was nothing to steal, not even a watch. This threw them and that gave me the upper hand. The guard physically disbanded the group and escorted me back to the hotel. I felt like the character in Tennessee Williams’ story Suddenly Last Summer where a man gets pulled apart and eaten by young men. I had passed through that danger physically unscathed but emotionally bruised. It was the character of the children that age, hustling for survival, that bothered me. What future did they have when starting out like this?

  Half an hour later back in my hotel room I began getting ready for the New Year when I heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from the side of the hotel. I froze. It sounded like someone being killed. Two hours later at the celebration I would learn a tourist had been robbed and murdered. I sat at the dinner table with foreign guests, thinking how fortunate I was the guard had kept his eye on me.

  I didn’t like hugging and kissing people I didn’t know at the midnight hour, so I excused myself and asked the concierge to send my dinner to my room. He didn’t understand my desire to be alone and he kept reminding me, “But it’s New Year.” I tipped him and his tone changed. I needed to be quiet with all that had transpired since arriving in Morocco. The experience with the boys and tragedy of that late afternoon were not celebratory. I wanted to clear any negatives hovering around me by lighting a candle and doing a meditation. Even the danger had its purpose—“Wake up.”

  It’s an interesting way to experience New Year’s Eve, quietly without expectations. Because it’s just a date, the extreme joyousness of people has always had a desperate undertone for me—like some miracle is about to happen, but never does. I wanted to start the trip to Casablanca with a clear head and not a hangover. This was the last leg of the journey, and my dream was about to be fulfilled. I loved Fez, faded but stately, and even though it’s crumbling, it all adds to its myth and keeps its secrets alive. I didn’t want to overanalyze as I always have found that when returning through the door where you started, answers will appear.

  As we were driving toward Casablanca I felt like something was missing. In all my journeys to ancient cultures it was always walking through ruins, imagining the life that came before, that stimulated me the most. I noticed on the map that the ancient city of Volubilis was near the path to Casablanca. I asked my driver if we could stop there and explore it. He knew nothing about it, as was the case with most drivers, especially the Arabs, as their history didn’t begin here till after the late 7th century, bringing in their language, customs and religion with them. Perhaps the lack of knowledge is because it clashes with their beliefs, as idolatry is forbidden. Still I think it’s important to know who walked the path before you, and that was the Greeks and then the Romans. An hour later we arrived at the Roman city of Volubilis. I was back in my element.

  The city was most dominant in the Roman period that ended in the late 3rd century AD. The only residents left are the storks that nest above the ruined columns. And there are plenty of them. It was almost comical, but it was life nonetheless. They are the best preserved ruins in North Africa, and in 1997 it was listed as a World Heritage site.

  There weren’t a lot of visitors and I felt at home here with no distractions, just sitting and being in harmony with the elements. It was a landscape rich in oil and grain, especially for the Romans. But the city’s downfall was caused by earthquakes and the disassembling of structures to help build the nearby city of Meknes in the 18th century. As time was getting on, my driver signaled me that it was time to go. I wanted to reach Casablanca in the light. I got my ruins and that helped satisfy my passion for the old.

  Entering the city edge of Casablanca were the grimy shantytowns of the rural poor, splashed across the country’s landscape. It reminded me of Rio de Janeiro. The traffic jams, like in all Middle Eastern countries, were a mess. Mindless directions and lack of traffic laws with plenty of exhaust filling the air, leaving a metallic taste, I had a sunken feeling that my dream was to turn out to be a nightmare. I held my breath all the way to my hotel. I checked in and said goodbye to my driver. His last words in broken English were “Be careful.”

  I decided to take a walk and what I witnessed was one of the dirtiest cities I had ever seen. Its architecture was in need of a good wash. The name Casablanca means “white house,” which did not apply under these conditions. I slowly entered the Souk and before I knew it at least twenty merchants were coming toward me with one thing on their mind: money. Every expression of charm filling their masked faces. Before I could take another step I was encircled. They came closer, touching, grabbing and shouting about their wares over each other. I couldn’t breathe. I sensed danger and tried to leave but they held on: buy or else. I began laughing at their greed and that threw them. I remembered not to carry a wallet with me and showed them my empty pockets.

  “Just sightseeing,” I said.

  Not a happy crowd I had attracted. I freed myself and kept on laughing, while their faces remained stern. Acting in the real world has its advantages. Having outplayed them, I left relieved.

  It was time to sit at a café and observe Casablanca life from a public place. I had this eerie feeling that I needed to remain close to my hotel. As I was having Turkish coffee two men in their twenties sat at my table. They began a conversation and I just listened. They were rambling and I was wondering what they were after, when they asked, “When are you leaving?” My antenna went up. I remembered an experience in Rio when the same question was asked me, and I was warned that if that ever arose, recognize it as the beginning of a plan to scam you. It would take place the night before I left and that way I couldn’t press charges.

  I smiled and said, “Next week.”

  “But what day?” they kept probing.

  “Tuesday evening,” I lied back.

  They went on about their lives and were clearly excited that I was from America—land of the r
ich. I played along with their game until they revealed their plan.

  “You should join us Monday evening for a celebration with our friends to welcome you to Casablanca,” they said.

  “Will I leave happy?” I asked.

  They were confused. I politely declined and their attitude changed. They persisted, and I continued to decline. Irked, they rose up with their mustaches curling. Out of the blue one of them placed a small ball of cellophane-wrapped marijuana on the table.

  “For you, to keep you happy in Morocco, from your friends.”

  My blood curdled. They left and I quickly called over the waiter in case there were secret police watching. The waiter brought my bill and I pointed out the object that was left by the individuals who had sat there. He picked it up to smell it, and his expression changed. I never touched it and I told him to throw it away. It was the real deal. I looked around to see if anyone caught the incident, but there were so many people around I couldn’t tell. I played it safe, but the incident bothered me because their intent made it creepy.

  After ten minutes I’d had enough. I didn’t feel comfortable, even though I had been in some tricky situations before; I listened to my instinct to go back to my hotel. I never left my room until two days later when I was exiting Morocco. I watched the rest of my dream through the glass of a hotel window. I never made any friends. That was a first.

  I returned home through the door I left and began to think about my childhood dream. Casablanca was a movie I fell in love with, but when I visited, what I saw was life. Different, but the course I chose. The players were strictly business and their only motive was money, and how best to get it. Their sincerity had a different motive. There was no embrace, but like veiled windows that are characteristic of that society the myth proved true. I never got intimate enough to find out. Nor was I invited, just another foreigner passing through.