by Dina Bennett
Now the vendor picks out a chunk of meat which is so dark red it’s almost black. He points to the drawing and hefts the blob as if it were a shotput. He saws off a splinter and hands it across the counter, the flesh of his fingers smeared with bloody bits from other orders, the rims of his fingernails crammed with gunge. This is my moment of truth. I prepare myself mentally for the psychological impact of placing a piece of camel pad in my mouth. In goes the sliver. It’s the texture of a tasty tire or half-dried beef jerky. The flavor reminds me of liver mixed with something like chicken, part cloying, part like an old penny, and part sweetly mild. It strikes me as exactly what a foot that’s ambled the dunes of a vast desert should taste like. “Very good,” I say, nodding my approval while I chew for several minutes more.
I buy a pound. The butcher wipes his knife on the bloody apron skirting his thigh, slashes at the pad and holds up a flake to show me what he will do with the rest. My intense chewing must have blocked blood flow to my brain. I give the OKAY, realizing too late the irrationality of that yes. His knife and its attendant hordes of bacteria shave that lump faster and more evenly than the Slice-O-Matic I almost bought when I was ten, an age when I still believed infomercials. In sixty seconds a drift of red meat is all that’s left of the dense blob, every sliver tainted with whatever has been germinating on that wood block, those fingers, that blade.
Back at our hotel, I say nothing about this. I am so aglow with triumph that even Bernard, who normally will not eat what he doesn’t recognize, can’t resist sampling my prize. In one of the miracles of the road which occasionally anoint us, neither of us gets sick.
Bottomless Pits
ZAOUIA AHANESI, MOROCCO, 2004
Back in 2004 when we drove through Morocco I knew nothing about long-distance driving. I never needed to strategize about the how, what, where, or when of eating. Before Morocco I had never done a drive longer than sixteen hours and that within the two coasts of my own USA. On those drives the most pressing issue was where to stop to buy another bag of Cheetos. Equally relevant to someone whose first thought on getting in a car is when I can get out, they had a defined end about which I could do nothing. On reaching New York or LA, it was either park or nose dive into the ocean. Even I didn’t need a GPS to understand the consequences of that. So when we embarked on our five-day drive, my thinking was limited to this: we have a car, it runs, let’s use it.
The sandstorm of our second day was now a pleasant memory, all the shifting sand picked from my hair and flicked back into the dunes where it belonged. We were nearing the end of our journey and decided to head onto a little-used road toward the cliffs of Cathedral Rock and the red clay casbahs and hamlets beyond. This was plain rugged country, its lack of ruins unalluring to the average tourist, its rocky, winding roads keeping it inaccessible to mammoth tour buses. It was the perfect place for us. We’d sleep in the hamlet of Zaouiat Ahansal, with Marrakesh and its airport within easy reach the next day. That we had neither sleeping bags nor food along was immaterial. Never having winged it before I didn’t know enough to become unraveled at the thought of what could lay ahead. I’d scanned our map. It showed plenty of other villages, and since I was oblivious that font the size of ant footprints could mean a village in name only, I remained unconcerned. It looked adventurous, but not dauntingly so; remote, but with a neighborhood feel that reminded me of when my sister and I pitched a tent in our backyard and spent a night of sleepless suburban terror roughing it between the azaleas and the patio furniture.
Perhaps sensing slow going ahead, Bernard urged me into an early start. When we stopped to refuel in Kasba Tadla, a city seamy in its burgeoning prosperity, we decided a hefty lunch was in order. It might be our last sit-down meal for a while. That eating in a restaurant would also provide a flat surface on which to peruse our map was all to the good.
Dodging through traffic hand in hand, we establish a beachhead at a stained plastic table on the deck of an ordinary restaurant fronting in a sea of honking, belching buses, cars, and motorbikes. From a menu offering more Moroccan specialties than any ordinary kitchen should be able to produce, Bernard chooses lamb chops. I ask for lamb meatballs then push back my plastic chair to seek out the bathroom. “By the kitchen,” points our waiter, indicating a splintery plank door to which cling bark-like strips of once-bright-blue paint next to the unscreened cooking area. Approaching, I see men in stained aprons wield heavy cast iron pans in a ballet with leaping flames. Their back muscles ripple inside thin T-shirts as they twist around for ingredients, shaking a pan vigorously, tossing cooked items onto waiting china plates. Black hair curls with sweat, dripping into the eye or down a cheek, to be swiped on a slick bulging forearm with a quick duck of the head. I pause to watch one of them grab a fistful of raw meat. He slams it on a greasy cutting board, whacks it into chunks, flings them into a pan where they sizzle and spit. Without even a cursory wipe of his hands, he then grabs a fistful of salad vegetables and starts chopping them on the same board. With the same knife. For reasons that baffle me even now, the only thought that registers as I watch this is, “How wonderful. A freshly prepared meal.”
Closing the creaking bathroom door behind me, I assess the toilet situation. Warm sunlight filters through cracks in the planks, enough to illuminate a hole in the ground made sophisticated by raised platforms of dank wood on which to place my feet. Looking a little closer, I see not everyone here has great aim. There’s a sink, but a quick swivel of the taps yields nothing. A thought flits, ephemeral as a darting hummingbird: is running water available for washing dishes? I return to our table just as food arrives, steaming and savory, the plates garnished with lettuce, tomato, and cucumbers.
Big mistake and hard lesson learned, which I now share with you so you can memorize it. It starts with the mantra all mothers, including mine, pound into their children as soon as they’re old enough to walk: wash your hands with soap before eating. I was raised in a family of exceptional order. Everything in our house had its place, every activity its time. The gilded bronze sculpture lived on the china cabinet in the dining room, a multi-color vase of Murano glass on the third shelf at the back of the library, across from the Steinway. We ate dinner in the dining room at 6:30 every evening, after I’d practiced the piano for an hour. At the round table set with Limoges china on a delicate embroidered tablecloth, each of us had our place, my mother seated at nine o’clock, my father at three, my sister and I respectively at noon and six. We didn’t trade seats. Even after my parents divorced, leaving just my mother, sister, and me at the table, no one ever sat in my father’s spot. Three o’clock was his forever. At meals we conversed, discussed, joked and laughed, all four of us participating. I used a headband to keep my long hair from dragging in the food on my plate, held my fork and knife in the proper continental fashion, hid my used Kleenex on a thin ledge under the table rim. And I washed my hands before meals in the powder room off the front sunroom, the one with tiny white hexagonal tiles on the floor and a bar of Dove soap at the ready. So yes, I knew better. To which I’ll add a bit of current lore which I soon learned on my own: When in strange places, eat only what you recognize. Never, ever order food made of mystery ingredients.
Would that we could have such hindsight available to us instantly, that we could live with the glory of the future, the purity of the present, and the comfort of the past simultaneously. But no, I dig in, enjoy my lunch immensely, and think nothing more about it. All is well as we drive high into the mountains, heading, unbeknownst to us, to a road that was severely eroded by floods the year before. Initially we make reasonable time, reaching Cathedral Rock with plenty of daylight. Around us are stony hills covered with fragrant cedar and sage brush, juniper and the briar-like thuya. Village walls are flounced with red and white oleander; feathery pink tamarisk line the sandy creek banks.
On we press, bumping along an increasingly rocky, potholed road, squeezing past cargo trucks after hairpin turns, breathing in the fine ochre dust scented with wild ro
semary, juniper, and cedar. The going is slow but not particularly hair-raising, until we reach a narrow gorge, now made all the narrower by those floods. With a cliff of pale granite rising on Bernard’s side and a sheer drop into the shallow river on mine, we slow to the pace of a Galápagos tortoise with a hundred more years to get where he’s going. The road, once paved, is now undercut and crumbling. My eyes, which should be studying the map, instead sneak glances out the window to help my brain assess how much it will hurt if the road gives way beneath us. Soon we have no recourse but to abandon the road altogether and take to the gravelly riverbed. Though it’s unfortunate for the farmers, it’s quite fortunate for us that it’s a drought year, for the riverbed is relatively dry. Our progress improves significantly as Bernard slaloms around boulders, fording rivulets and gliding across sandbars without once getting stuck.
On this, my first driving trip, the unpredictable nature of going away from the beaten track is like the jolting unknowns of riding a roller coaster facing backward. At first, I’m flooded with relief that I’ve avoided the unpleasantness of sitting in the car while it toppled off the road. This lasts about two minutes. Another few minutes pass as I relish the new adventure of finding our way through the riverbed. Do the math and you can see I allow myself all of five minutes of good feelings before beginning to worry that we are progressing at so slow a pace we’ll still be in the riverbed, so recently my savior, at nightfall. None of this pleases me. I now want nothing more than to abandon that riverbed, lurching back onto anything that’ll allow us to drive straight and at consistent speed, so I can get out of the car forever.
It is early evening when we reach our shelter for the night, a gîte d’étape housed in a century-old granary. We’re on a hill above the village of Zaouiat Ahansal, its casbah roofs blending so perfectly into the surrounding sandstone cliffs that at first I don’t even notice it, though that could be because I’m fixated on the granary, which looks hospitable for grain and livestock, but not especially so for people. The silo is built of buff stone crudely chiseled to approximate bricks, flanked by one-story wings of the same stone. Together they form a two-sided shelter to the sandy courtyard in which we now park. A few goats wander around, nosing for scraps, sprinkling glistening black fecal pellets like onyx pebbles on the orange ground. The windows of the living quarters, or perhaps they’re goat sheds, seem to be staring at me, each glassless square a glaring eye, the white shutter next to it a Picasso-like vertical eyelid. There are no curtains, no pots of flowers. The place is simple and utilitarian, which is understandable. Threshed wheat has no interest in its accommodations.
If I’d had a crystal ball to tell me this was a training run for the P2P a few years later, I would have made more effort to hide the fact that I’m frazzled and exhausted. Luckily for Bernard, the hearty welcome we receive from our host goes a long way toward improving my mood. We’re the first guests this middle-aged shepherd-innkeeper has had in months, and he’s so delighted to see us that I can’t stay grumpy for long. In gentlemanly fashion, he offers us his best accommodation, a large white-washed room facing onto his goat pen, bare of any furniture except a diminutive engraved wood table squatting on six-inch legs. A few religious icons are displayed on the wall. When we explain that we have no sleeping bags, he pillages his own bedroom, returning with a generous armful of cotton quilts and their resident fleas.
At midnight, my lunch decides to make a second appearance. Not keen at the prospect of picking my way in darkness down a flight of stairs to the outhouse, I scrounge about for a handy receptacle. In the barren room, the only solid, bowl-like thing I can find are the plastic bags that cover my shoes. That’s when we realize that, in addition to sleeping bags and food, a flashlight would have been handy. Ever courteous and hoping to help me upchuck with a modicum of neatness, Bernard strikes a match and lights the room’s only candle, which casts lurid figures onto the white walls.
I’ve never felt at ease throwing up in view of others. To me, there’s something intensely private about the whole miserable affair. It isn’t long before I stagger forth to make my way to the privy. A gibbous moon casts sharp shadows in the courtyard, one silvery ray illuminating steep stone steps leading to the long-drop hole. If I thought the day was tough, I’m doomed now to spend much of the night in more unpleasant surroundings. I find myself kneeling, like a penitent at the altar, in front of a rough board with a black hole in the center. The stench fills my nostrils, and even though it is two in the morning, flies buzz around my head. Opening my mouth, I stick my index finger into the back of my throat to make myself retch. It works, the poisoned contents of my stomach burning my throat on their way into the soiled pit below.
The next morning, I ignore Bernard when he asks, “What took you so long last night?” He doesn’t want to know. And I keep to myself the one evident benefit of spending my night over a cesspool: Bernard is covered in flea bites. I have nary an itch.
Food Fair
GRAN ISLA CHILOé, CHILE, 2008
It never occurred to me that Chile would be foodie heaven. I guess I was blinded by the country’s history of dictatorship and neglected to think about the fact that Chileans needed to eat.
On our first solo drive following the P2P, we flew into Santiago, from where we planned to peruse as much of Patagonia, both Chilean and Argentinian, as we could fit into a month. After an eventful few days en route from Santiago, including Pucón’s Volcán Villarrica, we headed for Isla Grande de Chiloé, Chile’s second largest island. It’s February and we’re looking forward to what we expect, at this time of year, will be a calm and deserted island. Cruising south on the Pan-American Highway, we see a horizon dotted with volcanoes’ summits piercing a cool morning mist like cone cakes covered with vanilla icing floating on a creamy bed of custard sauce. The road narrows, bordered now by waving beach grass, as we follow signs pointing toward the ferry docks. The day is pure golden sunshine, and I roll down the car window to let the salt-tinged air fill my nostrils. I’m almost intoxicated with elation that we’ll soon be boarding an island ferry.
Boarding a boat for an island hop is a visceral experience for me, reminding me of the many times we took ferries to visit friends on Fire Island when I was a child, and of how much I loved those trips. Ours was a household of friendly routine, one readily understandable and indeed often reassuring to my sister and me. Still, like all children, we chafed at what sometimes felt like restraints, thrilling to those times when we stepped beyond the boundaries set by adults. On Fire Island, we’d be untethered from our home routine in every possible way. With no cars allowed on the island, my sister and I were able to roam at will. The prospect of mornings dodging waves and picking up horseshoe crab carcasses on the beach, of eating lunch later than my mother’s strictly observed noon meal, of watching in horrified fascination as friends’ kids engaged in spit fights from their bunkbeds, filled my body with such happiness it made me jumpy.
To this day, ferries thrill me. Gulls wheel and cry in a jubilee chorus, celebrating as cars clang over the steel ramp to be packed bumper to fender in the ship’s damp hold. There’s the continuous thrum of the engine, which strains and belches water to keep the ferry from drifting away from the dock too soon. The slightly fishy, oily, rotten food muskiness of all docks slips up my nose and I inhale it deeply. Then there’s the bustle and press of imminent departure as the shore hand catches each thick, hairy coil of rope flung back from the ship across a widening stretch of water. Passengers rush up top to get a glimpse of the crossing, hair whipped by the stiffening breeze as the ferry gathers speed. Soon the deck is lined with a parody of the lonely lover, everyone standing with their arms tightly around themselves, ruing the jackets left behind in the cars below deck. As the wind snarls hair into a frizzle, only the brave or the impervious to cold continue to lean on the railing. Too soon, though, the ferry reaches the other side and everyone clambers back down the steep stairs in search of their vehicle. I still feel the same twinge I did as a child, wh
en I’d wonder if I’d find someone already installed on my side of the back seat, the front being taken by picnic materials and my mother’s red plaid thermos of hot black tea. Then the excitement of disembarking would take over as the ramp hit the new dock with a bang, and one by one the cars rolled off.
We’ve just passed a sign that says it’s two kilometers to the docks when Bernard slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt behind a car whose occupants, dressed in festive beachwear, are standing by the roadside, talking on cell phones. Other car occupants ahead have hauled out bright canvas and plastic beach bags. I see them bent double, busily digging through their satchels, extracting drinks and snacks. We’re at the end of a line of cars a mile long, none of which are moving. Obviously there’s been a major accident, but what a strange habit Chileans have, to start a party when far ahead people must be suffering. I listen for the sound of ambulance sirens, look for police cars with flashing lights.
“Creo que vamos a esperar aquí un poco tiempo, no?” I say in Spanish to the women snacking in front of us. I studied Spanish for all six years of high school, and I’m good enough at it to hold decent if not hugely philosophical conversations. For days now, I’ve secretly swelled with pride that it’s me getting us out of trouble, not just getting us into it. I also have observed in myself an unexpected benefit to speaking in a language not my own, aside from the ego boost I get in showing myself to be an above average foreigner. To say anything in Spanish I first have to contemplate things like gender, conjugation, and sentence structure. And that forces me to take a breath or two. As any good meditator will tell you, breathing has a benefit aside from keeping you alive. Done with awareness, it calms you down. Speaking in Spanish has allowed me to quell my usual impatience, and that makes me happy. Having a contented travel companion has made Bernard happy, too.
