6. Insha’Allah

I’m feeling hypersensitive today.  Everything I’ve seen and photographed over the last nine days feels like it’s hitting me very deeply all at once.  I thought my first energy shift a number of days ago was going to be it for this journey, but I was wrong.  Today I’m much more sensitive to my environment, and I know the place I’m standing in now is triggering my emotions.  I just walked from my hotel room at the opulent Palais Jamai here in Fez — a five-star hotel where I was looking forward to staying.  Now I’m standing in the feces-stained, open-air courtyard of a hotel for Moroccan farmers and their horses and mules.  Roosters run around my feet.  There’s a stench in the air and little ventilation.  I look up at the second floor and the blue doors where the farmers stay and then glance back down to the area in front of me.  It’s the main floor where their animals are tied up.  I passed by farmland on the long drive here, so I know these horses and mules have worked hard to plow fields and pull carts of food all the way here to be sold — Insha’Allah, God willing.  I learned this Arabic expression from Andrew, our expedition manager, who has been to Morocco more than a dozen times.  He explained that back home in the states I might use the expression, “God willing,” when I hope that something goes as planned.  “Here in Morocco,” he said, “to say it in Arabic and to Allah, it is said, Insha’Allah – If Allah wills.  It’s an expression to reinforce hope for humbled desires.”  Well, there’s no doubt about it, this hotel is very humbling.  I imagine what it would be like to live this lifestyle and not my own with the privilege of travel and a nice hotel room.  I then picture my grandmother trying to make a living by traveling and selling her crops as the farmers do here.  She was an apple farmer, but her work and lifestyle were much different.  Here, back-breaking work is traditional.  I feel twinges of guilt when I compare these accommodations to my hotel room, which was once a palace.  I hear someone in my group say, “third world” in their conversation.  I don’t say anything, even though I don’t like that phrase.  I believe we are all one world and connected to one another.  I also believe that there are a lot of inequities in life, but we all must walk our own path, with our own destinies…  As I stand looking at everything, it hits me that I should write about how I’m feeling now.  This is an unpleasant moment for me, but it’s showing me the reality of life here for farmers.  Earlier today, I was excited about visiting the Royal Palace with all of its formality and opulence.  The idea of seeing that huge golden “front” door and what lies behind it are now unappealing to me.  Where I stand at this moment is the real Morocco, with the real people staying up above their animals.  I wish I had an opportunity to talk with one of the farmers to hear his stories.  But that’s not going to happen.  I can only imagine what his life is like based on the many layers of what I’ve seen and experienced here…  Mindful of my footing, I take a few images and walk back into the alleyway where Momo, our local guide, is waiting.  Our group continues on a walking tour through this old part of Fez, and it doesn’t take long for me to realize that Momo seems to know everyone.  People working in the small shops call out his name.  I jokingly call him the town mayor.  “I have been doing this job for a very long time, and I like people,” he says.  Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he says that he’s been featured in numerous travel magazines because he is a well-known authority on the city of Fez.  “So, you are a local celebrity of sorts,” I say.  From his pocket, he pulls out a worn copy of an article from a U.S. travel magazine.  “See,” he says.  “That’s me.”  I look at the one-page feature article, complete with photos, and flash him a big smile.  “Congratulations.  How nice for you.”  “Shhh,” he says, tucking it away and walking toward a bakery.  “You are going to like this,” he yells back to the group.  He then quickly rejoins us and passes out a couple of loaves of warm, freshly baked bread for us to share.  We walk and eat, taking in the vibe of this part of town, which is not a major tourist destination.  Animal carts and people hustle past as they go about their morning business.  “Momo!  Good morning!”  I hear a man yell.  Momo says something back in Arabic, and the two men share a hug.  “This way,” he motions to us.  “To his restaurant.”  We are introduced to a cook who invites our group to enjoy some freshly made lentil soup that is simmering in a large pot.  While Moroccan life continues to either walk, bustle or trot past, we all gather around and take bits of bread and dunk it into the delicious hot soup.  I’d like to think that this cook purchased his ingredients from some of the farmers who are staying at the hotel where I just was.  Perhaps he knows them and sees them on a regular basis at the local market.  The thought of that kinship makes me smile, especially because it might be coming full circle as I enjoy my soup.