(The title is a very apt favorite line from The Tempest.)
Here is a short list of potentially grave mistakes:
Tonight we are sleeping in the same bed Jimi Hendrix once did. Not really, but this place (in middle of picturesque Todres Gorge) is hippie heaven and our waiter quoted Hendrix to us at dinner. ("Tomorrow you're goin' up the mountain.") We are indeed hiking with a teenager named Mohammed tomorrow, to see cave dwelling nomads and other interesting stuff, then, Y promises, a free afternoon (hooray because it just so happens that we also have a free bottle of wine!).
Today's entry will focus on just one aspect of our exciting day. After cold bread and jam (and cafe nuss-nuss) for breakfast, we hopped in the car and headed to a "pharmacologie ecologie" - a natural plants and herbs place in Ourzazate. There, Y entrusted us to an oily young man (who I suspect is considered the "handsome one" of the sales guys), named Zachary.
Zachary was mildly capable of converting his French to English. Imagine me, speaking English very slowly with heavy French accent. See? It was the reverse of that. I say this not to disparage
his language ability - which outpaces mine considerably - but so that you can understand the language barrier that compounded the cultural one.
We rise very early by the standards here so it is not surprising that at 9:30 am we were the only customers in the shop. It's got a lot of white shelves and row after row of glass jars, large and small, consisting of all manner of things. Some have just bright pigments (colored sand) or colored water. Others have small jars and bottles of product. Still others have herbs. The traditional large woven baskets of loose sachet type materials are also present, as you see in most public markets.
So we two are seated in a mid-sized room lined entirely by a white painted wooden bench. Like a park bench, only less comfortable. It's clear to me that this is a performance usually reserved for much larger groups. Zachary stands before a large butcher block cart of pots, tubes, jars and plastic baggies. Many of these products, we are soon to discover, are quite pleasant. But our presentation does not begin with those. Instead, Zachary unzips a baggie of black cumin seeds and shakes a small handful into a miniature white handkerchief.
He crushes the tightly wrapped bundle of seeds to crush the pods. With no warning, he then presses the bundle tightly to my left nostril and exhorts me to inhale forcefully.
My God. It is not only unpleasant but actually painful.
"Seenuzes!" Zachary smiles excitedly, keeping up his constant patter.
My right nostril is then assaulted in the same manner.
If I had ever toyed with the idea of snorting cocaine, this experience has been enough to guarantee that I will not. The nasal passages are not to be taken lightly. While none of the substance actually entered my being, the harsh odor alone was enough to make my eyes tear up and my nose run.
"Wow! Great!" I smiled encouragingly at mom.
While undergoing the sinus treatment was not particularly pleasant, watching someone else do it was HIGHLY satisfactory. I understand why Zachary would not deprive himself of this small pleasure in what otherwise must be a tedious sort of job.
Once Mom was through suffering, we sat through an absolute barrage on the medicinal value of damn near every herb on offer. Some were lotions, others teas. Some were oils to be massaged into your temples, which Zachary was kind enough to demonstrate at considerable length on my own head. (Mom estimates my general face massage lasted approximately ten minutes. I assumed it only FELT that long.) It was completely embarrassing, in part because Mom's mastery of the camera has improved. But, it was nicer than having my head straddled by a monkey.
After an eternity of having my face gently stroked with musk oil, we learned that Zachary was deeply concerned about our stress, our hot flashes, our menstrual cramps, our digestion and our eczema. He was also not at all shy about homing in on our physical imperfections. I do not think it was just my imagination that he spent an inordinate amount of time lavishing us with praises of the "weight loss tea."
And, can you imagine walking up to the Clinique counter and having the sales lady cluck her tongue and point out the age spots on your forehead? Well, my forehead received a large dose of complimentary lemon oil and some sympathy. And did you know eucalyptus is good for your seenuzes as well as under eye bags?
We also had to endure a brief sales pitch for gypsum (crystal) and how beneficial it can be. So MANY uses! Deoderant! Antiseptique! Let me vouch for the fact that it is excruciating to sit next to your own mother and listen a young man describe "bath gynecologique." Oh yes. Zachary was attempting to educate us about douching. And the complete lack of embarrassment was on his part, not ours.
After this painful interlude, Zachary got out a tube of green "magic lipstick" and joked that the color it turned on you indicated whether you were "frigid," "normal" or "hot." (Imagine those words in quotes in a French accent for full effect.) Oh yes. I am SO NOT MAKING THIS UP.
A dab on my palm showed I was "normal," while my furiously blushing mother was pronounced "experienced." This is the moment Zachary found a special place in my heart and I determined that, yes, absolutely I would buy the mint tea, some eczema treatment for Aaron, and about $50 worth of other assorted herbal cures. Worth every damn penny.
Here is a short list of potentially grave mistakes:
- Brushed teeth with tap water first night in Marrakech.
- Enjoyed single grape after dinner at great personal risk.
- Did not slap henna lady who grabbed my hand within 2 minutes of entering bazaar (more later, promise).
- Sat in front seat of car thru Atlas mountains (mom just added this to my list).
Today's entry will focus on just one aspect of our exciting day. After cold bread and jam (and cafe nuss-nuss) for breakfast, we hopped in the car and headed to a "pharmacologie ecologie" - a natural plants and herbs place in Ourzazate. There, Y entrusted us to an oily young man (who I suspect is considered the "handsome one" of the sales guys), named Zachary.
Zachary was mildly capable of converting his French to English. Imagine me, speaking English very slowly with heavy French accent. See? It was the reverse of that. I say this not to disparage
his language ability - which outpaces mine considerably - but so that you can understand the language barrier that compounded the cultural one.We rise very early by the standards here so it is not surprising that at 9:30 am we were the only customers in the shop. It's got a lot of white shelves and row after row of glass jars, large and small, consisting of all manner of things. Some have just bright pigments (colored sand) or colored water. Others have small jars and bottles of product. Still others have herbs. The traditional large woven baskets of loose sachet type materials are also present, as you see in most public markets.
So we two are seated in a mid-sized room lined entirely by a white painted wooden bench. Like a park bench, only less comfortable. It's clear to me that this is a performance usually reserved for much larger groups. Zachary stands before a large butcher block cart of pots, tubes, jars and plastic baggies. Many of these products, we are soon to discover, are quite pleasant. But our presentation does not begin with those. Instead, Zachary unzips a baggie of black cumin seeds and shakes a small handful into a miniature white handkerchief.
He crushes the tightly wrapped bundle of seeds to crush the pods. With no warning, he then presses the bundle tightly to my left nostril and exhorts me to inhale forcefully.
My God. It is not only unpleasant but actually painful.
"Seenuzes!" Zachary smiles excitedly, keeping up his constant patter.
My right nostril is then assaulted in the same manner.
If I had ever toyed with the idea of snorting cocaine, this experience has been enough to guarantee that I will not. The nasal passages are not to be taken lightly. While none of the substance actually entered my being, the harsh odor alone was enough to make my eyes tear up and my nose run.
"Wow! Great!" I smiled encouragingly at mom.
While undergoing the sinus treatment was not particularly pleasant, watching someone else do it was HIGHLY satisfactory. I understand why Zachary would not deprive himself of this small pleasure in what otherwise must be a tedious sort of job.
Once Mom was through suffering, we sat through an absolute barrage on the medicinal value of damn near every herb on offer. Some were lotions, others teas. Some were oils to be massaged into your temples, which Zachary was kind enough to demonstrate at considerable length on my own head. (Mom estimates my general face massage lasted approximately ten minutes. I assumed it only FELT that long.) It was completely embarrassing, in part because Mom's mastery of the camera has improved. But, it was nicer than having my head straddled by a monkey.
After an eternity of having my face gently stroked with musk oil, we learned that Zachary was deeply concerned about our stress, our hot flashes, our menstrual cramps, our digestion and our eczema. He was also not at all shy about homing in on our physical imperfections. I do not think it was just my imagination that he spent an inordinate amount of time lavishing us with praises of the "weight loss tea."
And, can you imagine walking up to the Clinique counter and having the sales lady cluck her tongue and point out the age spots on your forehead? Well, my forehead received a large dose of complimentary lemon oil and some sympathy. And did you know eucalyptus is good for your seenuzes as well as under eye bags?
We also had to endure a brief sales pitch for gypsum (crystal) and how beneficial it can be. So MANY uses! Deoderant! Antiseptique! Let me vouch for the fact that it is excruciating to sit next to your own mother and listen a young man describe "bath gynecologique." Oh yes. Zachary was attempting to educate us about douching. And the complete lack of embarrassment was on his part, not ours.
After this painful interlude, Zachary got out a tube of green "magic lipstick" and joked that the color it turned on you indicated whether you were "frigid," "normal" or "hot." (Imagine those words in quotes in a French accent for full effect.) Oh yes. I am SO NOT MAKING THIS UP.
A dab on my palm showed I was "normal," while my furiously blushing mother was pronounced "experienced." This is the moment Zachary found a special place in my heart and I determined that, yes, absolutely I would buy the mint tea, some eczema treatment for Aaron, and about $50 worth of other assorted herbal cures. Worth every damn penny.
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