by Annie Hawes
His beard? Seems a very odd punishment.
But Yazid says it makes perfect sense. Because another group of people the king dislikes a lot are the Islamists, who have a tendency to criticize him for not sharing his multi-millions with the poor of his nation. And these days anyone who has a beard can be presumed to be an Islamist. Absurd, in his friend’s case – Berbers are the last people to turn Islamist, as the police very well know. The Islamists want the whole world to speak Arabic, the holy language, as they see it, and naturally enough hold no brief at all for Berbers and their Tamazight tongue! And the feeling is mutual. But shaving Yazid’s friend was a clever move: made it look as if he was being punished for extremist religious beliefs, rather than for publicizing Berber language and culture among foreigners, and neatly confused the issue. He never has grown the beard back, though. If there’s a next time, it will be obvious what’s at stake!
Over in the shadows, one of the goats has started making a weird groaning noise. Or is that what goats always sound like? Can’t say I’ve spent a lot of time at close quarters with the creatures. I decide to ignore it.
What is this place, anyhow? I ask Tobias, hoping for a fuller answer on a less controversial subject than his delivery. Is this yard part of the restaurant? Do they do barbecues out here or something? And why so many beast-parking-spaces? Do so many of their customers come by donkey?
You call it a funduq, he says. Most of them are falling to bits nowadays, though. Like this one. Funduqs were places for merchants to stay, in the days before lorries. When goods had to be carried on mule-trains – maybe for weeks on end, right across the country – you needed somewhere for the animals and their owners to rest up overnight, with a lock-up to keep all the merchandise safe, too. The rooms upstairs, above the portico, were for the travellers to sleep. Beasts stayed down below, and the goods went into the ground-floor rooms – see the wooden doorways at the back, where the goats are? But there’s not a lot of use for a funduq now, when lorries can transport ten times the load in half the time, and never need to be unloaded and rested. So Mohammed decided to open the restaurant. The funduq still gets used on market day, though, when all the people from the outlying hamlets come into town with their wares.
It’s a kind of bed-and-breakfast, then?
Not really. The guests use their own bedding, mule-blankets or whatever, and do their own cooking out here in the yard. The funduq just provides bed, water and a brazier, and the guests sort themselves out. If they want a wash, they go to the hammam. That’s just normal here, though: lots of people don’t have an indoor bathroom.
It comes to me now that I have, in fact, been in a funduq before. It was in the south of Spain – in Andalusia, naturally enough – during my teenage travels. And it was such an incomprehensible experience that it has stuck in my memory ever since. I’d asked for a cheap hotel and been taken to a courtyard just like this one – a lot bigger, though, and with two balustraded storeys above it rather than just the one. Night-time when we arrived, pitch darkness, a wide dirt yard in the centre, the only light coming from a couple of dim lamps hanging under the porticoes, showing where the stairs led up to the balconies, and three separate bonfires, each with a group of figures hunched round it cross-legged on the ground, muffled up against the cold night air. A perfume of wood-smoke and char-grilled meat, glimmering reflections off pocket-knives and wine-bottles, unshaven faces in the flickering glow. In short, nothing like any hotel I’d ever come across in my life.
I’d been travelling all day with a van-driver who, whenever he fancied stopping for a coffee, a glass of wine or a tapa, had paid his way with baby cos lettuces pulled from his load. He just parked, pulled out an armful of them, walked in, plonked them on the bar and got us whatever we fancied in exchange. A strange enough experience already, as far as I was concerned, though the recipients showed no surprise at this unusual form of currency. They would grab a lettuce, slice it in half lengthways, sprinkle it with salt, and munch it up appreciatively, just like that. Until now, thanks to my deprived British upbringing, I’d always imagined that lettuce was not edible without some kind of dressing. Eventually I tried one. It was good, very good. Later, as evening drew on, I asked the driver if he knew of somewhere cheap to stay. He did, and he was going there himself. I might as well come too. And so we arrived in – well, in what I now know was a funduq, though its yard was mule- and donkey-free, of course. Spain had given up the long-distance beast of burden some decades before. The most unnerving thing about this Spanish funduq, though, was what I found when I finally went off up one of the stairwells in the corners of the yard, seeking my bed on the second floor. The whole staircase had been transformed into a sort of misshapen tunnel, by dint of lining it, right round the walls and across the ceiling, with yards and yards of tacked-on red flannelette. The light being dim, and this being a type of decor I had not so far come across, I gave the cloth above me a prod with my finger as I passed, just to make sure it really was flannelette, and almost choked on the great cloud of dust that flew out of it. Somewhat more unnervingly, I seemed to hear the crunch of small quantities of masonry being dislodged behind the cloth. I was too tired to care, though, and since none of the other guests seemed to fear that the place was about to fall in on their heads, I went on up and climbed into the rickety metal bed I’d been allocated. No sheets or covers, so I just spread my sleeping bag out on it. In the morning, when I stepped out onto the balcony, wondering where you got breakfast round here, I found that the travellers in the yard had rekindled their bonfires, on which they were toasting bocadillos and making coffee. I headed down through the filthy red tunnel to join the other guests, hoping they might be disposed to share, and on the first-floor landing, my eye was drawn to an impossibly bright pool of sunlight shining from under an ill-fitting door. Curious, I bent down and looked under the three-inch gap at the bottom. Clouds. Sky. There was nothing at all on the other side of it. No building, just a disintegrating pile of building rubble down below. Undoubtedly the most peculiar hotel I’d ever been in.
I see now that I must have been in at the long, slow death of one of the very last funduqs of el-Andalus.
Tobias heads back indoors. He’s asked the Mohammeds to give us infidels a spot of lunch, as long as we eat it out of sight. A plate of soup, or something. They’re cooking anyway, for tonight’s festivities. I must have a very weak character, because I now feel horribly embarrassed at the thought of eating at all while everyone else is fasting. Even though, until only a few hours ago, I had absolutely no notion of such a thing.
The goat lets out another of those awful groans. I wonder if animals don’t get fed until sunset during Ramadan, as well as humans. Steering clear of the goat, which doesn’t seem too even-tempered, I go over and pet the mule, scratching its big flicky ears. It gives my hand a hopeful velvety nuzzle. How much I would love to be a merchant trader of old, with an excuse to roam the fascinating Rif hillsides with a whole string of these lovely creatures.
The old man knocks out his pipe, gets up, unties the donkey and, with a polite nod at us, sets off out of the yard, leading the creature by the halter. The woman gets up and follows him out through the archway. The goat does some more gurgling.
Outside in the street, beyond the arch, a small crowd of people is now standing around, their backs turned to us. All of them seem to be staring with great interest at one of the houses opposite. There must be twenty or thirty people there, though when I looked out to check for restaurants ten minutes ago, there was hardly anyone about. The building everyone’s suddenly so gripped by looks like a completely normal house: a plain stuccoed front with the usual intricate ironwork at its windows. What can be so fascinating about it? I wander over to the gate but can’t see anything at all past so many bodies, wearing so much voluminous drapery. Some of the women must be Berbers; they have those striped cloths tied round them, though nobody is wearing the full straw-hat get-up. The others in pastel jellabas and khimars will be Arabs, then, I suppos
e. Or people who’ve forgotten they’re Berbers, as Yazid puts it. One woman is dressed in another of those all-enveloping haiks, though hers is white, not black. You must be able to tell a lot about people from these various outfits, if only you knew what they meant. Indecipherable to me, though. I’m an illiterate not just in language here, but in dress-codes as well.
Curious, I go on over the road, where I attach myself to the fringes of the crowd. A few people have turned to look at me. I try asking a moustachioed man in another of those cunningly wrapped chèches what’s going on. S’il vous plaît, qu’est-ce qui se passe, I say in French, for lack of a better alternative. He just blanks me. Looks right through me, then turns back to the house. Maybe he doesn’t speak French? I try Spanish. Que pasa, por favor? Same result. These people don’t seem anything like as cheery and welcoming as the rest of the Moroccans we’ve met so far. I try asking the lady in the long stripy kaftan, a draped headscarf and an extra square of flowery cloth for a veil, all but her kohl-lined eyes hidden. She gives me what seems an unnecessarily short, sharp reply. A positively angry reply, you might think, if you were feeling a little paranoid. Probably just the effect of fasting on the temper, as outlined by Moustafa earlier. But I myself am in holiday mood. I may as well edge a little further forward and satisfy my curiosity.
Hardly have I taken two steps more in amongst the biblically flowing garments and fascinating headgear when, at last, wild adventure finally does break out. One woman gives me a sharp shove in the ribs with her elbow; several others, one with that blue tattooed line from lower lip to chin, start to screech right in my face. A score more angry people turn towards me, narrowed eyes under twisted chèches and crocheted skull-caps, lowered brows above black kohl. Voices are raised, pointing fingers waved under my nose. I am being jostled and pushed at from all sides now. Suddenly, I’m scared. What have I done? Is it because I’m dressed in Western clothes? Because my head is uncovered? My face is showing? What a terrible irony if I were to be felled and trampled upon, die a Christian martyr’s death beneath a tidal wave of billowing Muslim robes, when I was never so much as baptized! Should I try saying I have no religion? No, they’d probably hate a thoroughly unbelieving infidel even more. And anyway, we don’t seem to have any language in common. A grey-bearded old man at my side raises a gnarled fist, shakes it menacingly at me. OK, got the message. I am definitely not wanted here.
I back off and turn tail. Angry shouts follow me as I cross the road to safety, lean in the archway to take stock of my situation. Gérard and Guy seem to have vanished, Yazid too. They must have followed Tobias indoors. My heart-rate is just returning to normal when I get another shock. An unexpected arm grabs mine from behind. I swing round, heart thumping – to meet the smiling eyes of a singularly unmenacing-looking young woman in tightly-tied khimar and grey jellaba. Am I all right, she asks in perfect French. She saw me in trouble back there – did I not realize what I was pushing my way into?
No, I certainly did not. What on earth, I ask, slightly hysterically, was the matter with those people? Why did they get so insanely angry? Is it something religious? I was only squeezing in to see what they were looking at! Is it because my head’s uncovered?
But not at all! she says. They are just the poor people of this town, and they thought you were claiming to be poor too.
Poor? Are they? To my eye, they look the same as everyone else here. The nuances of jellaba and kaftan – not to mention Berber get-ups – that divide rich from poor, are, as I have mentioned, beyond me as yet. Remembering how school uniforms used to work, I check it out at ground level. Yes. Broken-backed plastic sandals, worn-down flip-flops. Poor, OK. But I don’t see why that should make them fly into a rage with me, particularly.
My new friend, still holding my arm, is shouting something in Arabic – or possibly Tamazight – to the people across the street. The atmosphere relaxes noticeably. The angry lady in the stripy kaftan even seems to smile – though it’s hard to be sure with that veil in the way – and shouts something friendly-sounding back.
What’s going on? I ask my Good Samaritan. What did you say?
I told them, she says nonchalantly, that you were not after their money, that you are just a simple foreigner who thought she’d found a tourist attraction.
But why would they think I was after their money? I ask indignantly. Do foreigners often come over here to pick poor Moroccans’ pockets?
My new friend, Mariam – who is a schoolteacher from a nearby village, she tells me, just the other side of Chefchaouen, and we must come and visit her if we have time, she’s sure we’d find it very interesting – explains that the house everyone finds so fascinating belongs to a rich goldsmith, the richest man in town. And on the last day of Ramadan, the rich of Islam are duty-bound by the law of the Koran to share some of their good fortune with the poor. Nobody should go hungry or ill-clad tomorrow, on the feast of Eid al-Fitr. Soon the goldsmith will open his windows and distribute the customary alms for the end of the fast, the sadaqa. Still, Mariam says, gently steering me on into the yard, you would not have been stealing, anyway. The Koran says that sadaqa must be given not only to the poor of the area, but also the needy wayfarer.
What? I say, so just anybody who came and stood there today would get cash showered on them? Or gold, or whatever it is?
Yes. Apparently they would. But local people would not dream of standing there asking for charity if they didn’t really need it. They would be shamed in the eyes of God, not to mention the eyes of their neighbours. It is a Muslim duty to look after those poorer than yourself; that is the third Pillar of Islam. To take charity you didn’t need would amount to publicly stealing from the poor.
So they thought a rich Westerner like me was about to grab herself a share of their paupers’ alms! I am hot with shame.
Now Tobias sticks his head out of the restaurant back door. We’re in luck, he shouts. Come on through and eat!
For goodness’ sake. As if I hadn’t had enough public embarrassment already.
The Mohammeds have plenty of soup, they say, settling us on low padded benches round a knee-high table by a window with its blinds down for good manners. Yazid has decided to wait outside, adding to the guilt-quotient.
Do we want to try some harira – that’s the classic Ramadan fast-breaker all over Morocco? Or some baisa, which is a local Berber version? Or both, maybe, why not?
We hesitate. It seems bad enough eating at all, never mind greedily wanting to try both. Which we undoubtedly do. But we needn’t have worried: the Mohammeds are positively encouraging us to eat. We need to keep up our strength for our travels, they say. Of course: the wayfarer waiver. Both it is, then!
The harira is meaty and thick, a soup your spoon would almost stand up in, flavoursome mutton and chickpeas, plenty of spices, and a good half-dozen kinds of vegetable. Seven kinds, actually, says Mohammed the father. The Berber fast-breaker is delicious too, if somewhat more restrained in its ingredients, and oddly reminiscent of Uncle Kebir’s breakfasts. Is there, maybe, some special Berber affinity with broad beans? Because that’s what the baisa turns out to be: a broad bean soup pureed with garlic and a large dash of chilli, thickened with a splash of olive oil. A big chunk off a round loaf of fresh sesame-seed bread to dip in it. Lovely.
The Mohammeds soon come to sit with us, plying us with extra bread and chilli sauce. As hospitable and as curious as everyone here – except those you are trying to steal from, that is – they are soon asking where we’re bound.
Algeria? Mohammed the father is very unimpressed. A foolish place to go, he says, still speaking Spanish. Why don’t we stay here in Morocco? The Algerians are a Godless people, he adds, echoing Moustafa. A nation of Communists and atheists!
Why on earth do people keep saying this, when Algeria is apparently collapsing into chaos, as we speak, because its people tried to elect an Islamist – or at any rate, Islamic – party to government?
Mohammed the father gives a hollow laugh. Islam is j
ust their excuse to fight their government, he says, refilling our plates from the soup-pot. It has nothing to do with piety.
Forgive him, says Mohammed the son in French, which Mohammed the father apparently does not understand. His father is only repeating what his countrymen have been told about Algeria for decades. Morocco is a kingdom in the absolute sense of the word. And any absolute monarch worth his salt, when his next-door neighbours declare a monarch-free democratic republic, will do his best to blacken their name. Cold War propaganda may have gone out of style elsewhere, but here in Morocco it’s still going strong.
A newcomer arrives at the table, wanting to speak with Mohammed the father. He is wearing a large bath-towel on his head, for all the world as if he’d been playing at sheikhs in his mother’s airing cupboard. Or concealing his identity on a French building site. This is getting ridiculous. We have gone along with the idea of a dishcloth as ordinary everyday Moroccan headgear, but bath-towels, surely, are going beyond a joke?
Mohammed the father soon puts us right. The towel on the head is merely the correct procedure for returning home after a visit to the hammam. You should never let your head cool down too quickly – it is dangerous to the health.
All of a sudden there is a commotion from out the back. An agitated youth with an apron over his jellaba rushes in from the kitchens, and Mohammed the son is called away urgently to the courtyard. Towel man goes with him. The goat, it seems, is giving birth. I thought there was something odd about that noise it was making. Why on earth didn’t I tell anyone?
