File: Walled City, Secrets Of

My first glimpse of Taroudaant is the bus station outside the city walls. It's hardly a romantic vista in July of 2000 - I arrive exhausted after a 9 hour all night bus ride south from Casablanca with my brother-in-law, after which I can barely keep my eyes open.

Taroudaant is a small market town in southern Morocco, about an hour inland from Agadir on the coast - it's a hub for the agricultural areas surrounding it, with huge farms outside the city limits.

The town itself is a walled city - one of a few remaining medieval walled cities in southern Morocco, erected during the 13th or 14th century. It's accessible and attractive, with a pleasant and managable souk. and walls that are in many places walkable.

Although some decades ago the town was considered a "must see" tourist stop for southern Morocco, recently it's been eclipsed by Ouarzazate, situated further inland; a more convenient trip south from Marrakesh, and home to the country's burgeoning film industry. (Practically every film with desert scenery that's been made in the last decade is filmed in or around Ouarzazate.)

I personally believe Taroudaant has suffered somewhat for being taken so cruelly off the tourist route, as tourism remains Morocco's life blood. But the town is still thriving, as it is first and foremost the market town for the agricultural areas surrounding it, a marketplace for the gigantic farms comprising thousands of hectares of citrus, dates, olives, argan. The town center also boasts a thriving tannery industry.

Argan oil is one of the the most amazing products of the region - the argan tree only grows in a few locations on earth, southern Morocco being one of them. Its fruit is like an olive, only larger, rounder, and darker, with a hard outer shell like an almond. Harvesting methods reamain primitive, however, and it generally takes at least 20 hours of intensive work to produce 1 litre of oil.

Argan oil has two incarnations and as a cooking or eating oil, its chemical properties don't just mimic the benefits of olive oil, in many aspects it surpasses them. With an additional refining process it is ready to be used cosmetically, and is a natural rival to some of the most expensive anti-aging creams. Prohibitively expensive in the States, good quality is still available in Canada and Europe. The best, of course, is still to be found in southern Morocco.

At the close of my first day there, at sunset, we climb the walls of Taroudant and I walk on ramparts that enclose what I feel is one of the most picturesque cities in Morocco. The sunset is particularly vivid, brushed with a reddish glow from the surrounding brick walls, motes dancing in the dust - the traditional deep blue of the women's clothing as they congregate on benches situated on the main street leading into the city is a gorgeous contrast to the white-gold sand of the walls and streets.

In Taroudant, we stay with family friends in their spacious house about a 20 minute walk outside the city walls. This is my first experience (outside of Mr. Fresh Hell's family) living in a sophisticated middle class Muslim household.

In addition to the parents there are two younger children living in the house [the oldest daughter a university chemistry student]. The children have their daily chores in addition to school attendance and study - their very limited free time is not spent in front of the television set - although a small one is displayed in the men's and guest salon at the front of the house.

In this extremely traditional setting, the father works outside the home. The children as well as their mother and the daily kitchen worker perform their chores with no grumbling. Laughter and good natured teasing drift upward from the first floor salon to the cathedral ceiling Mealtimes are calm and ordered but not somber - lively conversation and laughter dominate the table.

This is an example of basic country living in Morocco - a traiditonal Muslim household with no influence of Madison Avenue advertising or MTV, not many books on display that aren't school texts. It is an atmosphere of peace and calm. Traditional it may be, but each person appears to me to be at ease with life, in a way that sharply contrasts with my New York life. (Not that I'll give that up in a New York minute, but I feel it instructive to venture outside its confines and take some notes while I'm there.)

Moroccan hospitality is legendary, and as a guest I am spared no comfort. This visit becomes a very fond memory for me of relaxation and warmth.

I return to Taroudaant in August of 2001 with Mr. Fresh Hell, my sister, and her husband. We drive a sporty rental car rather than relying on the bus, which is merely the first of many differences.

What I see on this second trip is the town seen through Mr. Fresh Hell's eyes - he had lived there while growing up, spending his summers and weekends at the family farm. In the 103 degree heat, we drink a pot of mint tea on the shaded terrace of the local cafe, where he shares his reminiscences of the town and notes, despite the passage of years, its relatively few changes.

While my sister & brother-in-law explore the small souk, Mr. FH struggles to convince the cafe proprietor that he indeed lived in the area while young. The cafe owner remains skeptical, in a fashion I find surprising, given Mr. FH's knowledge of local landmarks and lore.

Until I think about the commotion surrounding our parking the teeny rental car in the local lot and wandering up the street to the main square. I assume, as I often do during this particular trip to Morocco, that the intense local interest lies in the juxtaposition of Mr. Fresh Hell and his three light-haired light-eyed companions.

Watching closely, however, I realize that for all that Mr. FH resembles the men lingering outside of the shop entrances, or shares a basic body type with the teenage boys congregating at the corners, there are many bold differences that mark him as someone who no longer belongs. He certainly can't be marked as different merely by speech alone, as he speaks like the native he basically is.

Part of it is definitely the obvious quality of his shoes, the undeniably superlative First World cut of his clothing, the stylishness of his haircut. (I like to believe part of this difference is also his intrepid American wife, but this is likely wishful thinking.)

Finally, I decide that what sets him apart is an awareness of self and body that is only developed through living 15 years in New York; an urban swagger, if you will, that translates to these muddy streets as a quiet and sure self-confidence, underpinned with the merest trace of hidden menace - a combination of alertness and expectation.

Our day ends and we are rewarded on the drive to Agadir with the extraordinary sight of a whole herd of camels being driven down the side of the highway.

My travels may never lead me back to Taroudaant; however, the mysteries uncovered in this intriguing walled city linger on in my memory.