I know that there is much to look forward to in Mali, too. And I know that the fact that my heart hurts when I think about leaving is an indication of how wonderful life here has been. It's just like with falling in love: if it's particularly beautiful, it's gonna be particularly painful at its end.
I console myself with knowing that I can return after Mali if I want to. My ticket is round-trip, due to plop me back in Casablanca in mid-February. I really don't feel "finished" with Gnawa music either. I haven't had my fill yet and I feel as though I could never get tired of learning this music.
At the same time, February is a long way off and a lot can happen in a couple months. Maybe I'll love Mali even more than Morocco- who knows? Everything is “insha' Allah,” after all.
But part of the anticipation is that I also think Mali is going to be a work-out. Life has gotten pretty comfortable for me here and I am expecting a pretty big adjustment period in the coming weeks. When I start thinking about all the goodbyes, even if they're temporary, I get really choked up. I'm realizing just how attached I have become to this place, to the people I love here, to the spirit of Essaouira. Let's face it: I have fallen in love: with Essaouira, with my friends, with Ma'alem Sadik, with everything here.
I have no idea how I'm going to say goodbye to all these people. Like Ma'alem Sadik, especially. And Pat, and Tessa and Nishan and Rachid and H2 and Mwedid Mwedid, and Djawed and the two Mohammeds and Khalid and the guy whose name I can never remember and all the other men and guys who I hang out with every day. And I wonder how they're going to feel about seeing me turn into a puddle of tears.
Still, I keep reminding myself to breathe in deeply and give thanks. Essaouira has been a huge gift. It has been the nurturing soul food I needed; soul food I'd been craving longer than I can remember.
And Hassan. My talented, dimpled cutie, side-kick and companion. I don't know how I'm going to say goodbye to him, either.
It was one afternoon when Hassan and I were hanging out at my place that it really started to sink in about the beautiful connections I've made- and how hard it is going to be to say goodbye. As we were sitting on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, he started recounting the “Journey of Tamara.” With a fair amount of charades, and the typical mélange of Arabic, French and English, he told the story of how I came to Essaouira and how we came to meet.
He recounted how one day I got on a plane from America, and landed in Morocco (and by this point in the story, he was acting out my part, pretending to be me) how I had a good time in Tetuoan, in the Atlas mountains, and in Marrakech but how I thought that maybe there was something special in Essaouira. So I got on a bus to Essaouira. And then I met Pat and then Djawed and one night, I walked into Ma'alem Sadik's house.
And then he recounted his thoughts when he first met me. “Shkoon hadi? Men zhita?” (Who is this woman? Where has she come from?) He also remembered, to a tee, several little things I'd said and many of our conversations from over a month ago. Nothing had escaped him. And then after recounting all the laughs and good times we've had, he made a gesture of our two paths diverging again and got a resigned look on his face.
All of this was the sweetest “Once upon a time...” story I'd ever heard and by the time he was done, I had tears streaming down my cheeks. When he saw my tears he said, in Arabic, “Ah, it's life, habiba. Crazy life.”
Then he uttered this phrase which he'd been saying to me for weeks but the meaning of which I hadn't yet learned. Finally, I decided to ask him what it meant:
“May Allah protect you. May Allah protect you for me.”
Gulp.
But part of the anticipation is that I also think Mali is going to be a work-out. Life has gotten pretty comfortable for me here and I am expecting a pretty big adjustment period in the coming weeks. When I start thinking about all the goodbyes, even if they're temporary, I get really choked up. I'm realizing just how attached I have become to this place, to the people I love here, to the spirit of Essaouira. Let's face it: I have fallen in love: with Essaouira, with my friends, with Ma'alem Sadik, with everything here.
I have no idea how I'm going to say goodbye to all these people. Like Ma'alem Sadik, especially. And Pat, and Tessa and Nishan and Rachid and H2 and Mwedid Mwedid, and Djawed and the two Mohammeds and Khalid and the guy whose name I can never remember and all the other men and guys who I hang out with every day. And I wonder how they're going to feel about seeing me turn into a puddle of tears.
Still, I keep reminding myself to breathe in deeply and give thanks. Essaouira has been a huge gift. It has been the nurturing soul food I needed; soul food I'd been craving longer than I can remember.
And Hassan. My talented, dimpled cutie, side-kick and companion. I don't know how I'm going to say goodbye to him, either.
It was one afternoon when Hassan and I were hanging out at my place that it really started to sink in about the beautiful connections I've made- and how hard it is going to be to say goodbye. As we were sitting on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, he started recounting the “Journey of Tamara.” With a fair amount of charades, and the typical mélange of Arabic, French and English, he told the story of how I came to Essaouira and how we came to meet.
He recounted how one day I got on a plane from America, and landed in Morocco (and by this point in the story, he was acting out my part, pretending to be me) how I had a good time in Tetuoan, in the Atlas mountains, and in Marrakech but how I thought that maybe there was something special in Essaouira. So I got on a bus to Essaouira. And then I met Pat and then Djawed and one night, I walked into Ma'alem Sadik's house.
And then he recounted his thoughts when he first met me. “Shkoon hadi? Men zhita?” (Who is this woman? Where has she come from?) He also remembered, to a tee, several little things I'd said and many of our conversations from over a month ago. Nothing had escaped him. And then after recounting all the laughs and good times we've had, he made a gesture of our two paths diverging again and got a resigned look on his face.
All of this was the sweetest “Once upon a time...” story I'd ever heard and by the time he was done, I had tears streaming down my cheeks. When he saw my tears he said, in Arabic, “Ah, it's life, habiba. Crazy life.”
Then he uttered this phrase which he'd been saying to me for weeks but the meaning of which I hadn't yet learned. Finally, I decided to ask him what it meant:
“May Allah protect you. May Allah protect you for me.”
Gulp.
If my heart hadn't already been hurting, it certainly was then.
But he's right.
This is life.
Crazy life.
El hiyat hamka.
C'est la vie.
But he's right.
This is life.
Crazy life.
El hiyat hamka.
C'est la vie.
