My friend Tahar has the brightest face I have ever seen. He seemed to be friends with everybody—when he wasn’t talking to me, I would pass him at his shop conversing with locals and Western shoppers alike with that same luminous smile. When I was in a hurry, he was respectful. One of the few shop owners I met to be so. When I had time to spare, out came the stool. I got to have tea with him twice during my time in Marrakech and embrace this beautiful symbol of Moroccan hospitality. Not only was the tea wonderful, the black and green Berber leaves and a hint of sugar calming any nervous or upset stomach, but it invited conversation. Encouraged laughter. Dispelled cultural myths. North Africa is not like my family thinks it is, or my coworkers. It is a beautiful place with rich culture—wonderful people, food, customs. And Islam is a beautiful religion, despite how desperately I longed for the wine that couldn’t be found there in Morocco. It was like Indiana Jones. But it was so much more than that.
The name Tahar means “pure” or “virtuous” in Arabic, and that’s what Tahar is. He is an older, Berber man possibly in his fifties. He wears a Kefta, a traditional Berber tunic, in a brilliant periwinkle blue color. You can’t walk down the street without saying hello to him—not because he harasses you like many other shop owners did, but because his eyes invite you. I started with “hello” and ended the week saying “Asalaamalaykum”—an Arabic greeting meaning “peace be upon you.” But he taught me many other greetings. I love how there are so many ways of greeting a friend in other languages, and in Darija, the local Arabic dialect, I can’t transcribe with our English script how beautiful the words sound. Darija has the melody of a Romance language. I fell in love with it. While I had studied a bit of Arabic before I arrived in Marrakech, it was different learning from Tahar. I developed more of a sense of wonder in the language. A sort of childlike curiosity that I couldn’t shake. And while my accent certainly must have needed work, and my working memory wasn’t always the greatest, my appreciation for the language grew exponentially. And he was ever-patient, repeating himself as much as I needed. Going knee-deep in a country—getting dirt under your nails, grease on your fingertips—making friends—is the only true way to travel. Confronting cultural biases. Conquering fear, or succumbing to it (I’ve done both). Both learning from others and teaching yourself. I am better because of all of it.
The Medina in Marrakech—the Jemaa el-Fna Plaza—was full of shop owners and fruit stands—monkey wranglers and falconers. It could be overwhelming at times. But I cured all with frequent stints in rooftop restaurants and out-of-the-way corner hallways in the Souk, where I had a little more breathing room and saw the city from a whole new light. And while there wasn’t any alcohol, the coffee and tea were fantastic. Fruit juice squeezed right in front of your eyes. Not to mention fantastic liver kebab sandwiches grilled right in front of you. If you wanted it, this city had it. The hustle bustle of Dallas doesn’t even begin to compare.
While I did and saw a lot during my time in Morocco, these days back in Dallas I think back on my friend Tahar. What is he doing right about now? Has he found a new tourist to host? He said we would see each other again, “inshaallah”, and I hope we do. Just like I hope I see my friend Maya, whom I met in Peru, again. The more my world seems to expand, it also seems to shrink. I see more places and do more things, but I meet more friends and the world ceases to be a scary place and becomes a playground. More places to call home. More pieces of my heart flung wide out away from Dallas. While I am back at work, back around my normal people, my comforting lifestyle—my soul is happy, just in time for the holidays.
For pictures of my trip, you can visit my Instagram.
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