Over the weeks, I'd been pondering buying a guimbri despite the fact that I don't really play guitar or any other instrument similar to it- yet. Why let that small detail stand in the way, sensible as it might be to actually learn guitar first? Guimbris are truly beautiful instruments and who knows, maybe I'll find a calling in it.
Sunday night I mentioned to Ma'alem Sadik that I'd like to buy one of his hand-made guimbris. He had already been working on a few new ones which I had watched being stained the previous night. I asked him if I could watch him finish it the next day but he was done by the time I got there. So in less than 24 hours, my guimbri was ready to pick up which I did that night, hoping to also hear some music as usual.
However, that night was the eve before Aid el Kabir, one of the bigger Muslim holidays where every family that can afford to will slaughter a sheep in in remembrance of Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son. For days beforehand, I was seeing dozens and dozens of people pushing sheep in carts around the medina. You could hear the bleating all over town. Ma'alem Sadik had a sheep tethered in his wood shop which all of us had been entertained by watching the last few nights. Hassan had been directing his kif exhales towards the sheep to relax the little guy for his last days on Earth.
Anyhow, because of the holiday, I was only at Ma'alem Sadik's about 30 minutes when everyone departed- some for the hammam, others to go see family.
However, in that short time, quite a bit unfolded:
I not only got to pick up my gorgeous new guimbri and hear the ma'alem play it (ahhh) but I also saw Hassan, who was dressed in traditional clothing (common practice around holy times): a djellaba and tagia, the small cap that sits on top of the head. I find the traditional clothing very handsome- much like seeing men in kilts or sarongs- and I was tickled to see that despite wearing his djellaba, he hadn't left out the rainbow-colored scarf.
I sat myself next to him and we “talked” about this and that. I gave him a CD I'd made of his playing the night before. He had been so pleased by being able to hear himself through the headphones at the time of recording that he had played for 22 minutes straight without stopping (that wonderful file is going to take about 5 hours to upload).
As we were “chatting” and interacting, I was overtaken by The Klutzy Stage that possesses me when I really like a guy. Even with previous dedicated efforts to combat this great genetic misfortune and/or curse, and regardless of me telling myself, “Tamaraaa.... caaaaalm dooooowwwwn,” it's just inevitable that I will turn into a stooge.
Within my short visit that night, I'd knocked over my glass of juice several times and spilled it all over the floor- as well as bumping into things and fumbling around with a half-functioning brain. I think it was after knocking over my glass the third time that Hassan reached out to shake my hand as in, “nice one!”
To my disappointment, the Arabic word for “klutz” is not in my dictionary.
Part of why I was turning into a complete idiot was that since I never really know when he's going to turn up, I had decided to make the most of the fact that he was there that night: I got his email so I could send him the URL address when I post my recording of him and then I gave him my email as well as my phone number in case he wanted to “get tea” sometime (the visit to his village hadn't happened yet).
I really pondered whether or not I should offer such information, worrying that maybe giving a guy your digits here more or less tags you as a hussy. I asked Pat about this; she's one of my contacts here, a hilariously-cheeky, 50-something, little British lady with a mouth like a sailor and who speaks her mind about everything. Her response was more or less, “Oh, fer feck sake, why the hell not give him your number, Tamara? We're all prostitutes!” I'm not sure what she meant by that but after weighing everything, I figured that as long as I'm not throwing myself at him, what's the harm in having tea?
So I gave him my number and we walked back to the square together, trying to make small talk, as much as that is possible for us. However, at that moment another emotion washed over me: I was suddenly aware of the childlike sweetness of our situation. Being forced to communicate at such a very basic level is giving the whole dynamic with him a kind of rare innocence to this awkward stage: the raw, vulnerable human quality to our interactions (which can't be covered up by blabbing on about meaningless stuff) bypasses the vast cultural and language roadblocks. We're just two people trying to connect.
As we said goodbye, shaking hands, he said, “So maybe we'll have tea tomorrow?- insha' Allah.” And I said, “Yes, good- insha' Allah.”
After walking home with my guimbri slung over my back, feeling thrilled to have it, I saw a tiny kitten (“mushsh” in Arabic) by my apartment door. He'd been mewing there for most of the day, his mother nowhere to be seen; I had tried to catch the little mushsh earlier to no avail. His cries were breaking my heart so I tried again and this time he didn't run. I scooped him up, brought him inside and heated some milk. As he was lapping that up, I ran out to the medina again and bought some sardines as well as some floor cleaner, expecting to have some kitty 'deliveries' to clean up in the morning.
I hadn't been back long with the groceries when my phone rang. It was Hassan. We had a very confusing conversation where I thought he said he was in the square in front of my apartment but in fact he was at a phone booth close by but not visible to me. Thus ensued about 20 minutes of confusion, embarrassment and more confusion but we finally tracked each other down on the other side of the medina.
Being a chilly night with the cafes closed by then, we went to my place for tea. He showed me how to string my guimbri and tried to teach me some playing technique but I got self conscious and klutzy and therefore, diverted the attention back to him by setting up the recording equipment. We got the microphones placed well and then recorded a good hour or more of him playing and singing.
As he was sitting on my couch in his djellaba, playing my guimbri with the headphones on, his eyes closed and a big grin on his face, I had another wave of feeling really grateful. How many people get to hang out with the locals, invite them over for tea and be serenaded with traditional music? Despite my probably-doomed crush, I am just delighted to know him.
During all of this time, I was also checking on the mushsh and other than throwing up (or maybe it was the other end) on one of the mattresses a couple of times (perhaps the sardines were too rich), he had curled up in a ball to sleep.
Afterwards, Hassan and I were actually able to talk about music and my travels. I played him other Gnawa recordings I'd made so far then showed him videos of my family. He complimented me on the fact that I'm really trying to get inside the culture and to my surprise, said completely in English, “Most tourists just come here to snap a few pictures, stay in a hotel and then leave. What you are doing is really good.”
It was a lovely and very polite, “proper” evening with no moves made by either one of us- which was good. I'd only sat next to him on the couch when he was showing me how to string the guimbri and the rest of the time, I sat at the table. The whole vibe of the evening confirmed my hunch that he's a very well-intentioned and sweet guy.
When it started to get late and he needed to get going, he shook my hand, thanked me and said, “I'll see you tomorrow- insha' Allah.”
