Moroccan Rain

The midday sun is hidden behind a thick layer of black and green clouds.  Only its golden rays are visible; they light up the edges of the clouds with a literal silver lining, contrasting greatly with the dull grayness of the clouds interior and exclaiming to the world that the sun is indeed still with us and that this too shall pass.  For now though, the darkness has spread over three quarters of the sky, extending way off into the distance and leaving only a small patch of blue in the east.  The distant earth is dark and drab, as though night has fallen early.  The western horizon is lost between the blackness of giant, bulging clouds and a land unseen by the sun; it cannot be determined where the one ends and the other begins.  Steady gusts of wind indicate to all that this darkness is coming soon.

The silence is pervasive.  Ancient trees shake from fear of the coming assault but dare not make a sound, lest the storm find each of them individually and put in double efforts to uproot them from their earthen homes.  The air is thick with moisture and smells of Mother Nature’s own sweat, the natural musk of an old, yet vibrant woman who has been hard at work and still has much to do.  The streets are clear.  Sidewalks and intersections are almost deserted, save for a few scattered souls finishing some last bit of business before making their way inside.  Shops have been closed, windows shut, doors fastened, and ropes tied.  An uneasy calm has descended upon the city.

The clouds overhead are heavy with rain and decide intermittently to lighten their load, casting down tiny droplets of dirty water upon the residents of this dusty town in northern Morocco.  Some drops fall without care, allowing themselves to be pushed by the wind this way and that until eventually they reach their final destinations with a silent thud.  Others are more playful; they race their friends and lightheartedly argue over who is faster or who has the better aim.  They speed down towards the earth and call out to the others, “Look at me!  Look at me!” before landing on the heads of the passing humans with triumphant splashes, their kamikaze missions complete.  The largest drops fall rapidly, cutting through the wind as though it were non-existent.  When they finally do touch down, their mass and speed lead to spectacular crashes.  They bounce high off of the ground, jumping for joy in celebration of their arrivals, only to fall yet again, landing softly and forming groups of small, nearly indistinguishable puddles.  These first, slight showers are erratic.  They start and stop with an eerie irregularity.  They are just the first wave of the coming onslaught; soldiers of the front line.  The heavy rumblings in the distance indicate that the cavalry and tanks are on their way.

The Intersection

The intersection is alive with a cacophony of whistles, horns, and yelling; the sounds of early morning traffic.  Two policemen stand opposite each other, flags in hands and whistles at the ready, blowing and yelling at drivers and walkers alike.  They are well practiced and move in sync; the traffic continues to rotate around the round point without incident, though at a snail’s pace.  Pedestrians weave in and out of the traffic, brushing up against the slow rolling cars as they carry on towards some important place in order to do some important thing.  They do not recognize the cars in front of them; they see them merely as hopable obstacles, speed-bumps on the way to getting things done.

The circling drivers clench their steering wheels tightly and keep their right foot centered between the gas and brake pedals.  Each has his head on a swivel, ever ready to take advantage of an opening in the steady flow of automobiles surrounding him.  The weaving walkers do not bother the drivers; after all, they are not people, only objects not to be hit, like the cars and curbs.  A few of the more vocal drivers lean out of their windows, shaking fists and yelling at the others who are driving too slow or too fast or at those who change lanes too often or not often enough.  “Why can’t they all drive like normal people,” they each say to themselves.  Really they mean, “Why can’t they all drive like me?”

A giant, vine covered palm tree stands erect at the very center of all this commotion.  Leaning slightly, it allows its supple branches and leaves to dance to the music of the wind high above the circling cars and trucks.  Birds fly overhead, but none bother to rest on the dancing branches.  They prefer instead to play in the wind, circling and diving then climbing and rising only to allow themselves to fall yet again, all the while maintaining the grace of a gazelle performing ballet.  At its base, the tree is surrounded by a carpet of green and pink, the results of careful gardening and flowers in full bloom.  It is an island of calm amidst a sea of chaos.

A large mosque looms in the background and invites the passing drivers to stop and pray.  Few heed its call.  One side of its towering minaret is lit up brightly by the newly risen sun, displaying for all its intricate carvings as well as its chipped and cracked façade.  The rest of the mosque is hidden in shadows, its green and white exterior made even cooler by the added shade of a row of small palm trees guarding its perimeter.  Just outside, beggars sit in ragged sheets and robes, asking for pocket change from the passing stream of people and blessing the parents of any who help, though most of the walkers are too busy to be bothered; indeed, most are concentrating too hard to even notice.

The large mosque is made less large by the even larger apartment building across the street.  This building is obviously newer than the mosque, but is already showing signs of wear.  Its white exterior is in need of repair and the black iron railings on the balconies could use painting.  The building is well lived in: clothes of every sort hang from hooks and ropes, soaking up the sunshine until they are a scratchy, crispy dry; potted plants sit on tables and chairs, hang from ceilings, and wrap around posts and table legs; and one particular elderly couple sits many stories up, enjoying the breeze and looking down on the intersection, wondering if the world below will ever slow down enough to enjoy the gift that is this day. 

Meanwhile, the drivers continue to circle.  They do not look up to the couple sitting above, only straight ahead, towards the next intersection.

The Bus Ride

‘Ring ring.’  The telephone’s siren has broken the peaceful silence yet again.  The people closest groan audibly as the young woman in the far back right seat answers loudly.  The conversation begins with a series of questions until finally the matter of who is who is settled and the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s begin.  She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear as she picks the old, red paint off of her fingernails.  She shifts in her seat and switches between ears.  She laughs loudly at some unheard comment, tossing her head back and dropping the phone with a thud.  She hastily retrieves it, switches positions, and continues the conversation and nail picking.

A moment later the ‘hello’s and ‘how are you’s have ended.  She begins now to retell, for the twentieth time that day, the story of her vacation, the details of which the passengers around her now know as though they were their own.  She tells about the beach, the nightclubs, and the restaurants; the hotel with the cute bellboy and rude receptionist; the taxi driver who almost hit the bus in the middle of the intersection; etc, etc, ad infinitum. 

 Finally, the vacation story is over and the most wrenching part of the conversation has begun.  “So..?” she says.  “So..?”  “So..?”  That simple, seemingly benign word grates on the ears of her fellow passengers like nails on a chalkboard.  “So..?”  A bit of silence, a bit of talking, and then another “So..?”  More silence, more talking.  “So..?”  “So..?”  “So, if you have nothing to say, then hang up the fucking phone!” the other passengers scream inside their heads.  They exchange glances with each other, rolling their eyes and shooting themselves in the head with their fingers while the girl blabbers on, “So..?”  “So..?”

It’s one o’clock in the morning.  The bus is in its seventh hour and the young lady has been on the phone for at least five of those seven.  Every time she hangs up, the bus breathes a heavy sigh of relief, thanking God that the banality of her conversation is over.  And then, with every ‘ring ring’, stomachs drop and eyes close.  The people here are only too aware what it means and are only able to speculate as to how long, and how trite, this new conversation will be.

“Ok.  Ok, I will.  Ok, thanks.”  Ears perk up.  Could this be it?  Is this the end of the torture?  Necks crane as eager listeners try to catch the slightest hint that the suffering is over.  “Goodbye,” she says, and with that, smiles spread over the tired faces of the other passengers like melted butter in a skillet.  They sink deeper into their chairs, listening to the final ‘goodbye’s and ‘farewell’s and preparing for a long awaited rest in the silence of the night.  “What? Oh, haha!”  The girl’s shrill laugh cuts through the air, causing her fellow rider’s heads to jolt forward.  They stare wide eyed at the headrest in front of them, hoping to hear another series of ‘okay’s or ‘goodbye’s, anything signaling the end of the torment.

“So..?”

The Breakfast

            Before you even reach the doors, the smell emanating from within takes you back to every morning you ever woke up at your grandmother’s house.  You can almost see the hot, black coffee dripping slowly into a see-through pot on the countertop; the sweet, gooey frosting dripping down the side of a mountain of freshly baked cinnamon rolls; the mound of fresh fruit sitting ripe and ready in a bowl on the table; and the thick patties of seasoned sausage sizzling happily on a lit stove.  Only the din of clinking plates and forks and the scraping of pans brings you back to the present moment.

            Many moons have come and gone since you last had a proper breakfast.  The days of waking up expectantly, hoping that the most important meal of the day would be something different, something substantial, have long since passed.  You know now what to expect; you no longer wake up hopeful.  Weeks upon weeks of bread, butter, and olive oil have slowly crushed your appetite and your spirits until even you yourself have begun to believe that a handful of flour and some churned milk are proper breakfast fare.  But as you approach the large, swinging doors ahead of you, the aroma of foods you have almost forgotten tickles your nose and those wicked and wily thoughts are dashed like stale pastries on the rocky shores of appropriate breakfast cuisine.  Neurons fire and taste buds tingle as memories of what used to be march victoriously back into your consciousness, declaring with trumpets blaring all that is right with the world.

            Into the dining room now; it is as large and as sacred as a cathedral, and on this Sunday morning, you are about to be saved by a sermon unlike any other.  The aroma is stronger here, and your eyes are free to roam and match the wondrous smells with the gleaming, metallic serving pans from which they spring.  Rows upon rows of tasty treats are laid out before you; foods you haven’t tasted, smelt, or even seen in what feels like half a lifetime.  You stop just inside the entrance, closing your eyes, extending your arms out to the side, and tossing your head back, allowing the sanctity of this blessed moment to engulf you; to swirl around you and seep into your skin pores; to wash over you like a tsunami wave until you are caught up in the current and dare not fight against it.

The moment passes and you break free from your trance to join the chaos of the crowd.  You fall in line with the madmen, the jokesters, the clowns; this unenlightened mob who know not the importance of this event.  They pile their plates high with your dreams, shove mouthfuls of your desires down their throats, and throw your fantasies into the garbage without thinking.  You yearn to show them the error of their ways, to impart upon them the understanding that this is something to be appreciated; to be looked forward to and reflected upon.  You pity their simplicity.  But how can you blame them?  You were once like them. 

You recollect yourself and move on; slowly examining all that is available.  You pass pan after pan of deliciousness, each with its own smiling server, who, given the slightest nod, would present to you the entire eight liter pan of food and not even think twice about it.  Eventually though, you have seen enough.  You grab a large ceramic plate and you begin your search for the one thing that you have anticipated above all else; the one thing you have seen in your thoughts and in your dreams, both in the day and the night; the one thing that is lacking from every meal of every day; the reason breakfast was invented: bacon.

One?

            It’s almost nightfall when you set out.  The winter air is chilly and the wind blows holes in your ragged sweater, caressing your skin with icy fingers and giving you goose bumps that rise like yeast in the oven.  Your hair is disheveled and dirty; your clothes are the same.  You look up and down the street, trying to decide which way to go first: the neighborhood to the east is nicer, but the west is always crowded.  You settle on a direction and head off into the darkness.

            It takes only a few minutes to reach the first café.  As you come upon it, you slow your pace and begin to shuffle your feet; nothing too drastic, just enough for people to notice.  You enter the patio and put on your game face; somewhere between sad and lost.  You approach the first table slowly and already the men pretend like they don’t see you; they look off in every direction but yours.  You wait until you are directly in front of them before sticking out a dirty hand, index finger raised, saying, in a voice just above a whisper, “One?”  The men continue to look away.  You ask again and they shift in their chairs.  They are uncomfortable; you can sense it like wild animals sense fear.  Now you have a decision to make: keep standing or ask again.  Standing builds the awkwardness and many will pay just to have their comfort back.  But they may find their strength in the silence.  Asking a third time forces the issue.  There can be no hiding at that point; they’ll have to respond.  You decide to go for it.  “One?”  “God help you.”  The words hit you like a punch in the gut.  Your head reels a little and you slowly withdraw your hand, mentally kicking yourself. Three men at the same table; one is bound to give in.  You know better.  You shake it off and move on. The next man has his head buried deep in his newspaper and shoos you away like a fly before you even have a chance to extend your hand.  You give a feeble, “One?” anyway, just to check, but he has already become engrossed in the next article and gives no reaction.  You take a quick glance at the front page to see what is so important and you recognize the letters, but you can’t make out the words.  You continue.  Inside, an older couple offers you the remains of an avocado and banana milkshake and although you would much rather have coins in your pocket, you gladly accept.  The drink is gone before you take a second breath and the couple smiles at you as though they’ve saved you forever.  You force yourself to reciprocate.

            The café is full and by the time you finish you’ve collected four dirhams, two pieces of bread, a package of cookies, half a milkshake, and a shot of espresso.  Not a bad start.  As you move on to the next café you can only hope that the people there will give more coin and less food; the young ones will appreciate the cookies, but the landlord expects cash.  So do the doctors.  But beggars can’t be choosers and you can’t ask for cash value. 

            You carry on for the next three hours in the same manner.  You’re offered more bread; some cubes of sugar; a glass of water.  Occasionally someone will reach into their pocket and pull out a dirham or two and you’ll add these to the ones in your own pocket, privately rejoicing in the weight of the coins and listening to the satisfying clink-clink as you shuffle on.

By ten o’clock it’s time to turn back.  You’ve hit every café on the main roads and you’ve spoken to anyone who looked like they would be willing to help.  Your stomach is full of empty calories and you’ve got 23 and a half dirhams in your front pocket.  The shopping bag of stale bread and biscuits you have clutched in your left hand will be enough to feed your family for the night, possibly with some left over.  The walk home is a pleasant reprieve from life.  It is the one time of the day you have to relax.  You look up at the stars and you find one you especially like and make a simple wish for a better life.  The star twinkles back at you knowingly and you allow yourself a genuine smile for the first time that night.  But you had better hurry back; there’s work to be done at the house still.  And on top of that you’ve got two pages of homework to do.  And a quiz to study for.  Third grade can be such a bitch.

Old Friends

            “Hey man.”

“Hey.”
            “Been waiting for you; where you been?  Working?”

            “Yep.”

            “Yeah that’s what I thought.  It’s a little late though right?  I saw you come up, you look tired man, you ok?  How was it?”

“Eh.  Same ol’ same.  Boss was riding me all day.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.  He treats me like an ass sometimes.  I do all the heavy work and he just stands there yelling at me to work harder.  Like I’m the one slacking off.  I’m really starting to hate that guy.”

            “Yeah well forget about him, man.  He’s an idiot anyway.  He couldn’t do half the work you do.  Anyway it’s the weekend man, what you gunna do?  You got plans?”

            “Plans?  You taking shots at me or something?  You know I don’t have any plans.”

            “Well, I don’t know man, I thought, I don’t know.  I thought you might go into town with the family or something.  I don’t know.”

            “No, I’m not going into town with the family.  Not that I know of anyway.  Probably just be right here the whole time.”

            “Well that’s cool man.  Beats working,” he stopped briefly to attack a sudden itch behind his ear.  “Hey I saw that foreigner again.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah man.  He came up to me today, started talking.  But I aint understand a word he said.”

            “Yeah he said something to me the other day too.  I didn’t understand him either; I just pretended like I didn’t hear him.”

            “Ha, yeah man.  He seems nice enough though right?  I kinda like him.”

            “Yeah, me too I suppose.  Though, I really don’t know anything about him.  But at least he doesn’t bother me.”

            “Yeah not like those kids round the way, right?”

            “Let’s not even start about the kids.”

            They both sat quietly for a moment.  The sky above faded from deep purple in the east to bright blue overhead to blazing orange in the west and was dotted with slow drifting white clouds and small groups of wandering black birds.  The late September sun was just beginning to nestle down for a nap in between two groups of trees and the warm glow it cast was reflecting off the whites of the houses and onto the faces of the two old friends.  They closed their eyes and imagined themselves far away, in no place particular, just somewhere different; a place so nice that it couldn’t be bothered by details.  They sat this way for a long time, until finally the silence was broken by a sigh.

            “I gotta get out of here.”

            “Yeah, tell me about it man.”

            “No, I’m serious.  I, I can’t live like this.  I gotta go.”

“Oh yeah,” he turned and eyed his friend suspiciously, “Where would you go?”

           “I don’t know, I just.  I just can’t keep this up, that’s all.  This job, this life.  I work all the time and for what?  What do I have to show for it?”

            “Hey well no offense man, but at least you got a job, right?  You work and you get to eat.  Me?  I’m living off scraps, you know?”

            “Yeah,” he let his head fall and said quietly, “but at least you have your freedom.”

            “Freedom?  Freedom to do what man?  Freedom to dig around in the trash for my lunch?  Freedom to sit at people’s doorsteps and hope they give me their left-over’s?  No way man.  If that’s freedom then I want my money back.”

            “Well, I’m just saying man, this,” he nodded at his surroundings, “This isn’t the life for me.  I gotta get out.”

Again they sat in silence.  Nearby a woman in a ragged apron and plastic sandals was taking the last piece of bread out of a large, clay oven.  The two friends watched as she placed this one on a plate with the rest, covered them with a dirty dish towel, and carried them back into her house.

“You could come too you know.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.  You just said you don’t have anything around here to live for.  You can dig through the trash anywhere.”

            “Yeah. But, but I’m comfortable here.  You know?  I know everyone.  I know where everything is.  It’s just.. I’m comfortable here.  I thought you were too.”

            “Comfortable?  You’re joking right?”

“Well, maybe not comfortable comfortable.  I just meant, you know, you got a job, you get dinner every night.  You have stability, you know?  It could be worse.”

“Yeah well I don’t see how.  You’ve seen the work I do.  You’ve seen my boss, the way he treats me.  Then I come home to this place.  No, I can’t do it anymore.  I gotta find a way out, and soon.”

Five o’clock was just turning to dusk as I peeled off from the alley and headed towards the courtyard.  Sounds of children’s playing soared over the wall and fell on my ears like carols at Christmas.  The communal oven just outside our yard was black with a new layer of soot and already I could smell something delicious cooking on the stove from within the house.  The family donkey stood tied up to half a tree just a few paces off from the gate, and at his feet laid a dog that would often keep him company in the evenings.  They both looked up at me as I approached and I could see in their eyes that they would have liked to tell me something if I could have understood.  I spoke a few soft words to them and turned to enter the courtyard, not wanting to impose on their time together.  It seemed to me that these two were always deep in conversation, though I was never quite sure what they were talking about.

The Samsar

            “Dar zwina yak? Dar zwina?”

            “Makaynch bit lma.”

            “Kayn! Chuf, tmma.”

            “3ad glt lik, bghit lbit lma F ddar, machi BRRA ddar.”

            This was the third house of the day.  And like every other house on every other day, it was missing a bathroom. 

            “I know there are houses in Khemisset with bathrooms.  I’ve seen them.”

            “Yes, the last house had a bathroom, remember?”

            “It also had a giant crack in the ceiling that leaked rain water and caused mold, remember?”

            It was the middle of January and six weeks into my house search.  I had started downtown, near my host family’s house, and had been gradually moving outward.  The apartment we were at now was a thirty minute walk from the city center, but it was nice; it was tiled, had windows, no cracks, no leaks, etc.  The only problem was that the bathroom was downstairs, in someone else’s apartment. 

            This was pretty much par for the course: mold, missing toilet, missing shower, shared kitchen, no windows.  I hadn’t seen a house that had all of these problems, but I also had not seen a house that was devoid of all of these problems.  When I found that house, I would live in it.

            “This is a big city; lots of people.  If you want a nice house you have to pay for it.”

            “I’ve told you already it’s not my decision.  They give me 900 D’s.  Safi.”

            “Well then you should ask for more.”

            “No shit Shakir.”

            “I told you, I am Hamid.”

            “Look, you got any more places to look?  Otherwise I have another samsar up the road that I need to talk to.”

            “No, no, no.  I have another house.  It’s very nice; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, toilet, everything.”

            “Sounds expensive.”

            “1000 D’s. You can ask your organization to give you a little more.  It’s a great house.”

            I sighed

“Ok, let’s go look.”

            And with that we walked off into the brisk winter air, moving farther away from downtown and closer to my dream of living alone.

The Hammam

            As we continue farther, the atmosphere becomes dense and breathing becomes difficult.  The air is so thick with moisture that it seems as though we are walking through clouds.  Not the happy, white clouds that sit high up in the sky and impart upon their guests a cool, bright, tingling feeling, but rather the muggy, steamy clouds of the low lands, the type to be found in an uninhabited swamp in southern Louisiana, trapped between a canopy of old, damp limbs and leaves above and the muddy mire of the bog below.  The humidity threatens to break out in a full blown downpour at any moment.

            We reach the final room and the heat is stifling.  Wispy pillars of steam rise up from the giant blue buckets lining the walls and slowly climb higher until they reach the ceiling above.  There, large drops of condensation hang upside down, tempting gravity as they grow and stretch until finally they are too heavy to hold their footing and fall down towards the tiled floor, splashing quietly before they begin their slow descent down an unnoticed slope, into the gutter and out into the street.

Men and boys of all ages accompany the buckets.  They sit and they squat.  They stretch out upon the ground and they curl up into balls.  They splash the scorching hot water on their face, hair, and neck and let it run down the length of their almost naked bodies, reveling in the sweet burning sensation.  They focus their thoughts on this sensation alone, allowing all worry and apprehension to be washed away from their minds as the dirt is washed away from their skin.  Some are covered head to toe in soapy lather, scrubbing furiously at their arms and chests and legs.  They go on to elicit the help of a neighbor, whether friend or stranger, to wash the hard to reach places on the back and shoulders.  No one is refused.  Little boys wrestle and play in the corner, splashing water on each other and giggling loudly until an old man with sad eyes and thinning hair addresses them.  This is no place for games, he says.  This is a place for relaxation and quiet, for meditation and bonding, for cleansing the body and the mind.  Other patrons look on, nodding approvingly, and the boys cease with their games and lie out, face down on the warm, wet floor, still giggling softly to themselves.  But the giggles soon give way to smiles and the smiles, in turn, fade to nothing.  Before long, the only thing left on their young faces is the look of quiet contentment, a peaceful calm that is found only by surrendering to the heat.

Mrka

            “Tariq. Tariq!”

            “Eh?”

            “Aji takul.”

            “Waxxa.”

            It’s just past one in the afternoon; lunch is early today.  As I descend the stairs the aroma of simmering meat and vegetables grows stronger in my nostrils.  “Mrka,” I mumble.   As I enter the dining room I see that the table is already set; four small plates of tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and onions, salted and oiled; a basket of homemade bread, still steaming and wrapped in a well-worn dish towel; and three small bowls of olive oil, each boasting a few leftover bread crumbs that have sunk down to the bottom like the jagged fragments of a tiny ship that became lost and was broken apart upon the sea.  I greet my father with a quick “Salam” and take my customary seat on the far side of the table; just left of where two couch cushions meet.  Shortly thereafter my mother enters from the kitchen carrying a large plate with potatoes, carrots, and beef piled high, forming a sort of mountainous island surrounded by a murky, brown sea of watery, stew-like gravy, the result of a four hour cooking process.  My mother unwraps the bread, tears off sizeable chunks, and doles them out to the family.  My father accepts his piece, says “bismillah”, and pops an especially plump, black olive in his mouth.  I accept my bread, tear off a small portion, and mumble, “mrka.”

            If you plan on spending any considerable amount of time learning how to cook mrka like a Moroccan, I would encourage you to reconsider.  I don’t mean to say that this Moroccan dish isn’t delicious, it is; nor do I believe that you shouldn’t want to learn a new culinary style, you should; it’s just that one need not spend any time at all learning this particular skill.  If you have ever made stew or have ever used a pressure cooker then you are ten tenths of the way to becoming a Moroccan mrka chef.  It really is that simple.

            For those of you who like things in neat, ordered lists, the following steps provide a surefire way of creating a classic mrka dish:

1.      Pick your favorite red meat and vegetables.

2.      Pressure-cook them until they lose all semblance of original texture.

3.      Serve with bread.

That’s it.  Perhaps the incredulous among you don’t believe that capturing the essence of a national dish can be boiled down to three steps, especially when one step involves picking ingredients and another involves serving the meal.  However, I can assure you, as a lifelong consumer of food and current expert on all things Moroccan, that this time-tested method of preparation is sure to have you cooking mrka like the pros in no time.

A final piece of advice: if your vegetables crunch at all during the meal, consider yourself a failure; this is the most obvious sign of an amateur.  If the vegetables put up a brief, futile attempt at resistance against your teeth, take heart, you may yet become a great Moroccan chef.  And if the vegetables put up no fight; if instead they melt away as though they had been pureed and then reformed to look like the vegetables that they once were, then give yourself a well deserved pat on the back, for you have just created the perfect mrka dish.

Patio Café

            Cigarette smoke as thick as London fog hangs over the heads of patrons of Patio Café.  Miniature tea kettles rattle when poured and spoons clink-clink inside coffee mugs.  A steady hum of commentary flows from the two flat screen televisions bolted to the walls on either side of the front door.  The only other noises come from the men; the occasional ‘zwina’ or ‘willi willi willi’ are all that pass for conversation in this place.

            The café is dimly lit and prone to power outages.  These, however, never affect the mood of the crowd.  When they do occur the men sit silently and wait; they pour their tea and they stir their coffee in the darkness; they shuffle in their chairs and uncross their left leg in order to cross their right.  They are used to waiting, but they need not wait long; the game resumes and the silence is broken.  A quick glance at the score line indicates that they have missed a goal, but 5 replays and 3 angles are sufficient substitute.

            Kora is by far the most popular sport in Morocco.  On any given day one can find children playing it in the streets, in the alleys, and in the fields.  Any café worth its beans will have its televisions tuned to one of the many channels broadcasting local matches.  Throughout the day Moroccan men funnel into cafés in order to watch their favorite teams compete.  They say their salams and find a seat facing the TV, which is most assuredly playing a Moroccan league game.

The cafés are always most crowded at night; that’s when La Liga is broadcast.  Indeed, if there is one thing Moroccans prefer to Moroccan kora, it is Spanish futbol.  La Liga is followed with a passion rivaled only by that of bread and tea.  And the lines are clearly drawn: simply mentioning the words ‘Barcelona’ or ‘Real Madrid’ can turn strangers into instant friends or enemies.  Both teams are well represented at every game, regardless of who is playing, and a café during El Clasico, the bi-seasonal meeting of the two teams, can quickly turn to riot.

             Even at seemingly innocuous games, like the one playing at Patio Café between Barcelona’s B team and some soon-to-be-relegated, 4-15-7 team, there is potential for confrontation.  The relative silence of the crowded café is broken only by Barca fans cheering loudly at the goals and Real fans laughing loudly at the mistakes.  Then it happens.  Glances are exchanged, harsh words are spoken, and immediately the whole room is on its feet.  Friends hold each other back, fling curses, and dodge projectiles.   And amidst all the loud words, chest bumping, and water throwing, another goal is scored north of Gibraltar, but no one has noticed.