by Cash Peters
Really?
And now we're here. It doesn't get any better than that.
Even as we're wiring our jaws back together, a gaggle of porters runs to grab our bags and take them to our suites—not rooms, note, but whole suites, one each—on the far side of the back lawn; a series of terraced bungalows as luxuriously decadent in their way as the rest of the villa, and filled with enough antiques and other classic touches to facilitate the fantasy that you too are connected enough or loaded enough to be invited to a celebrity's Moroccan hideaway, where the Cristal is flowing, Jada Pinkett Smith is sunning herself on the patio, Diddy's rapping freestyle in the cabana, and a couple of his homeys are in the suite next door getting their groove on with some bitches—or whatever the current degrading slang for “broads” is.
However, we're not celebrities, and we're certainly not loaded. This is only basic cable. Slightly worried, I ask Tasha, “Can we really afford to stay here?”
She bites her bottom lip. “Willy told me he's done a deal. He says he got this for the same price as the other place.”
“But how? How is that possible?”
It's a mystery. As is almost everything Willy has a hand in. I know the guy is our fixer, and fixers are meant to fix things, but something about his expression, the permanent sneer, the leeriness in his eyes, his nudge-wink street-kid mannerisms, tells me that his whole life is probably lived under the table. Exactly why would this ultraluxurious hotel, which clearly has larger, wealthier fish it could be frying, allow a group like us, who obviously don't fit its target clientele, to stay here? Best guess is that maybe business is slow right now, and cable TV money is better than no money at all. But I don't think so. Something else is going on. Willy has sweetened the deal in some way; I can feel it. And deals have consequences. Whatever he's up to, his little maneuver may be fine now, but it's bound to backfire on us sooner or later. Bet you anything.
Once again, the issue of flights, and why we don't have better ones, has returned to dominate mealtime conversations, as it did in Dubai—as it does regularly on these trips, in fact. The needlessly roundabout journey back to L.A. in a few days’ time is an ordeal the crew members are bracing themselves for with bleak fortitude. Especially Jay, who can barely walk any more without clenching his teeth and clutching his lower back, the way pregnant women do. If he moves too quickly, sharp bolts of lightning crackle up and down his outer thigh, a condition that won't be helped by switching carriers repeatedly, hopping from airport to airport, gate to gate, plane to plane, and being jammed into a variety of cramped Coach seats for the best part of twenty-four hours with no room to stretch his legs.
“Things are going to be even worse in Alaska,” Mike says, causing everyone to freeze. “Oh shit!” Realizing what he's just blurted out, he rushes to cover his mouth. “Did you know, Cash?”
I didn't.
Future destinations are meant to be kept a secret from me. But hey, I know now.
“Sorry, buddy.” He laughs.
“It's okay.”
And we all pretend nothing just happened. We do that fairly often.
For dinner tonight, Willy has brought us to a place in the heart of the medina, the old town. He knows the restaurant owner, he says, and can get us a special deal, which, to be fair, he does, including a table on the second-floor balcony directly overlooking one of the greatest human spectacles on earth: the Djemaa el-Fna. Despite the millions of more easily pronounced alternatives, this is what Marrakech decided to call its central square.
Say the word “Morocco” to people and three main things usually come to mind. The Djemaa el-Fna is one of them.
Combining the mayhem and momentum of a medieval battlefield, everything below us, from here to the mud bricks of the city's twelfth-century fortress walls, is chaos; a frenetic thousand-decibel madhouse riot—flutes wailing, car horns blaring, mopeds buzzing, children crying, donkeys clip-clopping by, drums beating—that sets this place apart from all others, not only in Morocco, but anywhere, and which heats up still further by late afternoon, when thousands of people clock off work and stroll through Marrakech's narrow stone streets to join the thousands already here, mingling with tattoo artists, fortune-tellers turning cards, small banjo bands, chained monkeys performing tricks too cruel and gruesome for any human being with any conscience to watch, and therefore drawing massive crowds; and finally, large teams of trained acrobats, somersaulting, leaping onto seesaws, and assembling themselves into incredible human pyramids, a feat of balance that earns massive applause from the spectators but for which there is otherwise limited call these days, I should think, unless you're repairing gutters or need to deliver pizza to a third-floor apartment.
They also have real snake charmers! With real cobras—they're not sock puppets, like you might expect. To coax them out of their basket, a couple of grizzled old-timers squat on blankets on the ground, each blowing into a small metal trumpet-shaped flute-type thing, producing The Most Nerve-Jarring Sound in the World, a strangulated neeeyaaayeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeeaaaaaeeeeeee eeeeeaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeyeeeeeeeeeyaaaayaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeyaaaaaaa yeeeeeee-ing noise, not quite music, not quite a persistent strident racket, but certainly more than is required to pierce the average eardrum, I should think.
“Allahu akbar… ashnadu an la Ilah ila Allah …”
Once in a while, however, the snake charmers find themselves outwailed by: (a) the Muslim call to prayer crackling from loudspeakers high in the central Koutoubia Mosque, which most people seem to ignore; and just as often by: (b) vendors from the myriad stalls that extend west from the mosque almost to the other side of the concourse, who yell for your business as you saunter by.
“Try my oranges.”
“No thanks.”
“Fresh oranges?”
“No thanks.”
“Sir, sir, try my fresh oranges.”
“I said no thanks. Really.”
“ORANGES!!”
“NO!”
“Why you not try my oranges?? What is wrong with my oranges?”
“Jeez, he's going to throw them at us. Run.”
If it's not oranges, then it's fresh cake, or mint tea, or succulent dates, or a hundred other treats. So many choices that you don't know where to start. You're just sure it won't be with the oranges.
“HEY! WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST MY ORANGES? SIR! SIR?”
Of course, such a dizzying blizzard of hyperactivity is irresistible to Kevin's restless cinematic eye. One look at the confusion, the ghostly corona of smoke circling the hurricane lamps that hang from stalls frying chilies and shrimp; the men with orange lampshades on their heads dispensing fresh water from an urn for pennies; the entertainers; the bums; the pickpockets; and he's inspired to shoot a time-lapse from the restaurant balcony, capturing the multitude, and, beyond them, a panoramic backdrop of finger-thin towers that skewer the clouds like kabobs. As the sun, a shimmering dollop of honey, slithers down behind them and twilight creeps stealthily into night, these towers, along with the entire horizon extending as far as the hills, magically fade to black against a hot curried sky.
The shot will take an hour to play out. Once it's set up, Kevin is free to relax, joining us for a delicious meal of roasted chicken, couscous, bastillas, and lamb.
The Moroccans, same as the Greeks, same as almost everyone else in the world, it seems, enjoy food cooked, basted, fried, tossed, bathed, or drizzled in oil, which again makes it hard to find anything I can eat. In the end I settle for a small salad and a chicken drumstick. Though that's only after I've fussily scraped the glistening marinade off it with the back of my knife, a move that draws a brief but obvious Crew Look.
Their mood tonight is noticeably downbeat, and in obvious diametric contrast to our frenzied surroundings. Off to one side, Mike sits alone with his phone, locked in another of his long-drawn-out negotiations with an airline booking agent, trying to wangle a favor. A less punishing route home maybe? Bulkhead seats? Better yet, an upgrade. But as smoothly seductive
as his efforts are, for once they come to naught, and he hangs up, stymied and miserable.
“Dude, this is freakin’ nuts. It's the holidays. Everything's booked up. I don't know what else to do.”
The others fall into restless contemplation.
Tasha has zoned out, and remains quiet for the longest time before making a confession. “I can't do this any more,” she says solemnly, letting the words slip out unobtrusively between mouthfuls of couscous. “There's too much hassle.”
I know how she feels. Even the best of road warriors grows weary of battle sometimes.
“It'll be okay,” I reassure her. “Everybody's tired. We'll be home soon.”
“Sure. But… still…” Another mouthful of couscous.
Still?
I guess my disappointment is etched into my facial expression, because, having dropped this terrible bombshell, she immediately rushes to lessen its impact—“I'm sorry. I mean, don't get me wrong”—or at least to head off accusations of desertion. “I've had an amazing time making the series, I love everybody, and it's been great…”
“Okay.”
“… but I …” Her lips are smiling, her eyes are not. She can't hide anything. “I want my life back.”
Well, who doesn't?
Truthfully, Tasha has better reason than most to jump ship. Got engaged not long ago to an Emmy-winning TV editor and misses him like crazy; says so regularly, sometimes with tears in her eyes. There's also her upcoming wedding in Florida to plan. Hard to do on the road from Morocco or New Zealand or Alaska. So the writing was on the wall all along. As hard as it is to accept, one of our gang has reached breaking point and is about to dianaross our supremes.
Nothing personal, of course. I know that. She's not angry at me, or with anything I've done or said. It just feels that way.
My show, my crew, my friends, my fault if they leave.
She's right about one thing: this schedule, it's eating us alive. If we're not dog tired, we're annoyed and snapping at each other; if we're not annoyed we're in pain; if we're not in pain we're homesick; and if we're not homesick, but especially if we are, we're threatening to quit. We all have full personal lives apart from our work. Kevin's got a wife and kids waiting for him in Malibu; Jay is happily married to a lovely woman who is herself in the running to cohost a morning show on network TV; Mike is single and free. When he's not traveling extensively for his job, he travels extensively for his own pleasure and enlightenment. And of course I'm as good as married these days: great home, solid circle of friends, a relaxed, harmonious life in Hollywood, one that, as far as I'm concerned, could be made better in only one way: by my actually being there to enjoy it—as opposed to being here, in yet another foreign land, eating in another foreign restaurant, putting stuff in my mouth that is speculatively classified as food but which more than likely will, by this time tomorrow, have turned my complexion to bubble wrap.
“Sorry,” Tasha mumbles again, big brown eyes fixing me with an unwavering stare. “I'm going to miss you.” And she gives my arm a little squeeze.
“Er … excuse me, guys.”
It's Willy. Spotting a moment of tenderness that needs disrupting, he shuffles over to our table, looking … well, shifty, what else?
“About the tickets,” he says, “I think I may be able to help you.” His cocky tone would be perfect for selling fake Rolexes, I've decided. Or condos in Dubai. “I have contacts at the airlines. If you like, I will talk to them, see what I can do.”
Everyone cheers up instantly.
Mike's elated. “Hey, great. Thanks, dude.”
“Give me your tickets; I'll go to the airport first thing tomorrow, okay?”
Ah.
Our initial flush of enthusiasm gives way to the same grumbling concern that accompanies any dealings we have with this odd little man. There's a trust issue. Not to mention a simply-not-liking-him issue. Me, I don't want to be giving any stranger my ticket. Without it, I won't be able to get home—obviously. However, the others seem inclined to take a chance, and their childlike innocence wins me over. As one, we gather up our airline tickets into a single stack and pass them to him, even as my intuition is telling me that this is the equivalent of opening the nearest Dumpster and tossing them inside.
When I wake up next morning, with the fevered clatter and bang of the Djemaa el-Fna still ringing in my ears, I'm alarmed to find my stomach acting up.
Remember, I said there were three things you think of when you hear the word “Morocco”? Well, this is the second: food poisoning. I don't think I've met anyone who's been here and not at some point fallen ill.
Has to be the chicken I ate in the restaurant last night. Who's to say what happened to that poor little drumstick on its journey from farmyard to plate? How many unwashed fingers manhandled it en route; how many rusty radiators it accidentally fell behind; how many hours it lay in the hot sun on a window ledge crawling with flies before being breaded and marinated in delicious Arabian spices; how many dogs ran off with it and had to have it torn from their jowls before the chef could wipe the saliva off with a dishrag and finally sling it in a pan and slow-cook it to perfection?
But we're here to make TV. I can't let mere nausea drag me down. A whole team of people is depending on me. So I scramble out of bed, swallow a couple of charcoal tablets with my tea at breakfast to put the frighteners on the bacteria, and continue on with the day as normal.
While our fixer is at the airport sorting out the tickets—probably—one of the Thugs drives us to the medina again, this time for a tour of the souks, a sprawling labyrinthine tangle of ancient alleyways and dead ends threading like spider veins across a wide area to the east of the Djemaa el-Fna, and jam-crammed with tiny shops, some little more than alcoves, no wider than the shoulders of the traders running them, selling a wide range of goods: jewelry, fresh produce, spices, baskets, rotary phones, severed goat heads, pointy shoes, hats, musical instruments, and, of course, oil lamps—the ones that regularly pop up in fairy tales. To my surprise, the souks are awash with them. And it stands to reason they can't all have genies in them; it's not statistically possible.
My companion today is a local man with an intimate knowledge of Marrakech.
“Hi, good morning.”
“Hello,” he replies distantly, not really paying attention.
He's tall, middle-aged, balding, and wearing a functional blue anorak to ward off the morning chill. Haj is a taxi driver in Marrakech. He's been enlisted by Willy to walk me around the medina. I stumble across him, inasmuch as I stumble across anyone in these shows now, studiously picking through a jumble of artifacts outside an antique store, searching for something called a Hand of Fatimah. It's a gift for his sister's birthday.
“We hang it in the house or on the door. The Hand of Fatimah,” he explains, digging into a stack of them, “protects you from ‘bad eyes.’” To illustrate, he makes his own eyes bulge out of their sockets in a scary thyroid way. “We put them on the door to protect us from bad-looking.”
Fatimah was the only daughter of the prophet Mohammed. Those Moroccans who are superstitious—in other words, all of them—like to keep a talisman in the shape of her hand, and sometimes several, around their house to ward off hexes, jinxes, evil spirits, and Satan, when in most instances a simple dried octopus would be quite sufficient.
“But why would I want protection?”
“Oh, Gawwwwwd,” Haj groans in his thick Arabic accent.
When you're groundlessly superstitious, a question like this is considered so silly and obvious that it doesn't warrant an answer.
He then goes back to selecting a hand, evaluating two in particular. Which one, he's calculating, is more likely to frighten Satan: a plain tin one etched with curlicues, or a plain tin one etched with curlicues and with a raised bejeweled eye at the center of the palm?
After much inner wrestling, he opts for the hand without the jewel.
“How much is this?” he asks the shop owner.
> “Two hundred dirham,” he replies.
“Awwww, come on!”
We don't realize how lucky we are sometimes to live in a Western economy, where purchasing something from a store is such a simple process: we choose what we want, we pay for it, and we leave. That's it. It's a great little system.
Alas, not so in Morocco. You can't simply buy stuff you need here. That would be considered eccentric.
“We have to bargain,” Haj tells me sternly. “You must bargain for everything.”
And the bargaining is super-complicated. It comes in a three-phase protocol.
In Phase I, you dispute the quoted price with a look of utter dismay, even horror if you're up to it, not only refusing to pay, but going full out to berate the shopkeeper for his lack of business sense in charging something so laughable in the first place. Shame on him. Shame and damnation! Once that's done, and the store owner is staring at you, going, “What the hell are you talking about, you son of a camel? That's cheap!” it's time to embark on Phase II. Here, you play complicated mind games, acting out a bell curve of emotions, by turns outraged, insulted, hurt, chagrined—if that's even a word—and desolate, in any order you like; walking out of the shop, coming back in again; shouting, pacing up and down, waving your hands, in a fine-tuned choreography of offers, counteroffers, and histrionics designed to leave the customer exhausted and drive the store owner to slit his wrists.
And all for a 5 percent discount!!!
Finally, in Phase III of the protocol, things calm down a little. You and the store owner arrive at a price for the item that's mutually agreeable, and all too often the exact same price it started out at.
So, the Hand of Fatimah Haj has chosen—a cutout metal shape with a hook to hang it up with, which might come in useful for breaking into cars perhaps, but doesn't look like it's capable of protecting anyone from anything—carries a price tag of two hundred dirham (roughly twenty-two dollars).
Naturally, Haj is disgusted and throws in a counteroffer. “One fifty”
