The trip/”date” to Hassan's village that I mentioned in a previous entry eventually did happen- only it wasn't really his “home” village, but a village where he lives, works and surfs during the summer. It's a tiny little village called Imswan (or something like that) with pink houses perched on cliffs and near several phenomenal beaches with gorgeous, picture-perfect waves. Even not being a surfer, the spectacle was incredibly inviting.
The trip to the village took place just a couple days after having dinner with his family and we hadn't really perfected our charades and “thinking on the same wave length” telepathy quite yet so a lot of the trip came as a surprise to me, like when he showed up at my apartment unannounced that day with his surf board and said, “Are you ready to go?” There were many other things too like how we would get there, what to bring and all that but I just realized that this is part of the fun of hanging out with him: all these miscommunications make for some entertaining adventures.
He had wanted to teach me to surf but the winds were too strong. However, we spent a fair amount of time watching other people surf. I got such a kick out of listening to him cheer them on, curse and get emotionally involved, just as men do when watching football. Naturally, it was all in Arabic and I just found it really cute to listen to: “Swim! It's good! It's good! Go! GO!” and then if the surfer caught the wave, he'd smile, nod and say, “Saha!” which is one of the words here that's difficult to translate but loosely, it's like bestowing a blessing on the person, saying, “To your health!” or “May this bless and benefit you.” I find it such a sweet part of the culture here.
What made things really take a turn for the 'strange and interesting' was that not long after arriving, my back went out. I tried to tease him that it was his fault for playfully kicking me in the butt earlier because I had felt my back spasm when it happened. It was some of the weirdest pain I've ever felt, too. The muscles started cramping down my leg to where my calves and foot were burning. The pain got so intense at one point that I started remembering stories of the muscles' ability to crush bone under certain circumstances. But at least I had a gorgeous place to curl up in the fetal position and listen to the ocean! Of course, not knowing how long we would be gone, I hadn't brought any pain killers or anything of the sort.
From my fetal position and grimacing and gasping, it was almost comical trying to explain to him what was going on; these aren't the times when you feel like pulling out a dictionary for “excruciating pain” but he seemed to get it and went into care-taker mode. He only left my side to cook me food and he had decided that exactly what I needed was an octopus tajine. His charades told me that octopus was really good for muscles. I was skeptical but I left the room long enough to watch him beat the crap out of the octopus on the rocks below the house, which he later explained was the way to pulverize it before cooking. I must say it was by far the best tajine I've had since being in Morocco- better food that his sisters made.
My Aussie girl friend here cracked me up when later she said, “Well, if that doesn't DO it for you, Tamara, I don't know what will- watching a man grasp a slimy octopus, beat it to a pulp, cook it up into a phenomenal tajine and then serve it to you! Was he flexing his muscles all this time, too?”
Curiously, even with the excruciating pain, it was still a “fun” and relaxing excursion/date somehow. The few times that I managed to drag myself out of the room here and there, and to distract me from the pain, we played a little music together, having brought my guimbri. The scenery and sound of the ocean was unbeatable, the home-cooked food amazing and especially unforgettable was the fact that he would often just break out into song at the top of his lungs, especially while cooking up my octopus. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'd hear, “Iiii ay yay ay ay! Iiii yay ay ay!” a call from one of the songs that is unmistakably Sub-Saharan African for its emotionality. Although I know I'm a little biased, he really does have one of the most beautiful voices I've ever heard (I keep telling him we need to get recordings of just his voice singing these songs) so really, life could have been worse. I kept reminding myself that: “Even though I'm in unbearable pain in the middle of nowhere, the scenery is gorgeous, the sun is shining, and I have a handsome personal chef and care-taker who will serenade me while I watch the ocean.” If you could call this a first date, it sure was out of the ordinary.
The taxi ride home, sitting for a couple hours in a painful position, took a lot of inner focus to get through. He kept saying to me in Arabic, “Eveything's okay, Tamara... Everything's okay... Hamdoli Allah” (thanks to Allah, it could be worse).
After we finally got back and I found my Aussie girl friend for tea, I started to tell her how I'd gone to this village called Imswan and she said, “Oh, I know.”
“What do you mean you know?”
“I asked some guys if they'd seen this American girl who lives here and is studying Gnawa music and they said 'she went to Imswan with Hassan Laarousi'.”
“Who are these guys? Do they know Hassan?”
“I don't know, they're just guys I know here. I guess word got around Essaouira.”
In a way, it was kind of reassuring to know that people pay attention to the goings on, especially of Westerners and that if I'd disappeared for some reason, apparently the whole town of Essaouira knew where I was and who I'd gone with.
In any case, it was one of the strangest and, in hindsight, comical ways to try and 'get to know' someone on a little excursion together. And I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if a complete stranger approaches and asks me, “So, how was Imswan?”
