File Under: Another Moroccan Story

I didn't go with Mr. Fresh Hell on my second trip to Morocco - for some reason that now escapes me he couldn't get away during the summer. So I went by myself, and spent two weeks with Mr. Fresh Hell's family and mostly his brother-in-law whom, because he is a teacher, I shall call The Professor.

That trip was simply unforgettable - I saw so much of the country and traveled far beyond tourist haunts. I went to local restaurants, traveled as the natives do, and spent very little time in hotels, staying mostly with family friends who showered me with their gracious and abundant North African hospitality.

That year saw my first trip to Taroudaant and included a more thorough stay in Marrakesh than I'd previously had. I learned quite a bit of Arabic that summer (much of which I've likely forgotten), but I learned some useful vocabulary and a little bit of writing. Because The Professor is a teacher, he punctuated our travels with lessons disguised as wordplay; pop quizzes administered during a sunset walk on the Corniche, language drills based on everyday items seen on the beach, in a restaurant, or in the countryside.

In Taroudaant we scoured the town's souk not for bargains in jewelry or leather, although I did buy some extraordinary things, but to find the stall with the best bread to accompany our noontime mint tea. Once found, our order was for the most perfect round, opened and spread thickly with fresh natural butter and cheese, both of which had the palest cream-colored hue. The resulting sandwich was by turns both light and dense, melting in one's mouth and satisfyingly chewy all at once.

I'll never forget our taxi ride from Taroudaant to Agadir. It's a one hour trip, and the grand taxis (those that are licensed to travel from city to city) are available for hire in Taroudaant in a parking lot a short distance outside the city walls. The taxis are all Mercedes Benz sedan models made in the '70's, and a canny driver will maximize his profits by not setting forth without a full complement of passengers, generally five (two sitting in front with him and three in the back).

Ground transportation in Morocco is dirt cheap - we could have hired the entire car for the one hour trip for $10-$12. Even though I had more than enough money to hire the car privately, The Professor was too thrifty to agree to this extravagance; instead, we paid for two places in a taxi to Agadir. The Professor made sure that I was seated next to the door, with him on the other side for protection.

I figured out afterwards (even though the Arabic words weren't familiar the tone of voice raised no doubt) that a few of our fellow passengers were pretty miffed that they would be sharing the taxi with not only a female but an infidel with uncovered hair. The Professor was at least twenty to twenty five years older than the other men sharing the taxi, so I suspect that they felt duty-bound to make their irritation known with harsh words but backed down out of respect to their elder. Although I noticed to my dismay that the car's speedometer was broken, it seemed we made the trip in record time - driving 120 miles an hour seemed to go a good way in placating a few uncomfortable passengers.

Back in Casablanca, The Professor and I went shopping at the outdoor markets - the fresh produce, meat and flower souks that are frequented by everyone. (We would also go to Marjane, a modern large supermarket chain, but mostly for staples and paper goods).

After visiting several vegetable stands, we found ourselves in front of the live chicken seller. The merchant had his wares displayed behind him in three tiers of small cages, each holding a live chicken. On the smooth wooden front counter was a ancient balance and scale. I watched idly as The Professor and Chicken Man exchanged what I can only presume were typical buyer/seller pleasantries while Chicken Man took a live chicken out of its cage; holding it firmly, he settled it in the scale and plopped an iron balance weight on the other side of the scale to record its weight.

After the weight had been determined and The Professor signified his assent to the purchase, in one quick movement Chicken Man lifted the chicken up by its legs; with its head dangling upside down he wielded a wickedly long and sharp knife and expertly slit its throat, right in front of us. Setting down the knife, with a free hand he then opened a cabinet behind him situated under the cages of his wares, thrust the chicken inside and closed the cabinet door.

While the chicken squawked and frantically beat its wings during its death throes inside the cabinet, the remainder of the chickens, scenting the bloody demise of their own kind, set to furiously beating their wings against the bars of the cages. adding their fierce discordant cries to the first.

While I turned faintly green.

The entire death of the chicken was accomplished professionally and neatly in less than a minute. Chicken Man smiled broadly, but The Professor noticed my ashen face and quickly escorted me to a vegetable stand as a distraction. About ten minutes later, laden with tomatoes and lettuce and having gained my composure, we returned to Chicken Man for our now quite dead and gone chicken, discreetly wrapped in butcher paper and placed in a plastic bag. I smiled weakly and waved goodbye, accompanied by Chicken man's grin.

I was duly shocked and surprised - before this I was very typically American in my habit of not getting closer to my meat than inspecting a shrink-wrapped styrofoam tray in the supermarket. Did I think that chicken and beef plopped joyfully onto styrofoam of their own will?

I'm an unrepentant carnivore - having lived on a farm when I was young I admit that from the chicken's viewpoint, Chicken Man's method seemed like a pretty clean demise. And it was likely the best chicken I ever ate - the resulting dish rivaled a five star restaurant in its freshness and tenderness.

During that trip cultural differences and pecularities were revealed to me - most significantly I gained a front row seat into the division in North Africa between public and private life, and also learned how much those particular contrasts and divisions suit my personality.

And were I to visit Chicken Man again, I won't flinch quite so much when he wields his knife, as I know the result of his actions isn't gratuituously unkind, but will ultimately become a flavorful family dinner.