There are four distinct Berber communities in Morocco.
A weak breeze and a few late wisteria flowers prepared me to be charmed by the view of the Strait of Gibraltar the way I like it, a safe distance–a comfortable distance away from that strangely aggressive magic, that throbbing aura of Joseph Conrad’s Africa. The more I thought about it, the more I could feel that hot African breath prickling the back of my neck.
I was in Gibraltar, sitting with a man who knew his way around the Tingis region.
“But the maquis, the maquis, what about the maquis?” I asked.
“The maquis? The maquis is all that’s left. The remnants, the refuse of a great botanical richness that used to be. Old growth has been stripped. The maquis? Nothing but a few odiferous weeds. Suitable for the Interzone.”
“The what?”
“The Interzone, just as Burroughs’ wrote. But it’s real. Look at any satellite image. The Interzone is a land nobody owns–separated by the Sahara from Africa and separated by the Mediterranean from Europe. You don’t think so? One continent with towns like Timbucktu, Gran Bassam and Little Popo–another continent with towns like Rome, London and Paris. You tell me what happens where those two continents meet…the Interzone.”
“Wasn’t that some kind of 1950s fiction?”
“Didn’t you understand? It’s a real place, not a literary fantasy, but a geographic reality! Listen, in the Interzone rootlets from Africa and Europe attack and they attach. They try to suck energy from you. African rootlets suck European energy. European rootlets suck African energy. Anyone who lives there long enough becomes a crippled schizoid.”
On the twelfth day of Ramadan, Maalem Hamid and I arrived at the shop about 8AM. Maalem Hamid finished the outstanding work. I watched him do the final touches. I helped where I could; but I was tired and mostly watched. He did a lot of detailed tooling; his assistant did leather stamping.
When they finished the first book, the maalem proudly offered it to me for examination. I took it. I hefted it. I felt it. I inspected it. I paged through it. Yes, it was beautiful–content aside, it was every bit as delectable a product as I could have ever hoped for.
About two in the afternoon, when he had finished the details, he wrapped the five books in thick brown paper himself. Then he ceremoniously presented to me the final five books. I placed the balance of what was due for his services in his hand. Then we shook hands. He was proud. I was proud.
And honestly, it had been such a pleasure to watch the exceptional craftsman handle his tools, and produce such a refined result in appearance, in touch, and in technical strength. I thanked him.
He walked with me to the Place El Hedim where I took a Petit Taxi. He and I both waved until he was out of sight.
Almost sunset when I arrived in the Ville Nouvelle. Lights on in Tom’s place. Knocked and showed them one of the final copies. My time in Morocco was up. Over the past six months, Tom and Marcela had given me shelter every time I needed it. I owed them.
Arranged to have dinner together at a 5-star Ville Nouvelle hotel restaurant the next night.
I spent the day packing. I took Marcela and Tom for dinner at the Hotel Transatlantique with a full-blown late-night Ramadan Iftar buffet special, filled with more options than I could list. It didn’t make much difference to me because all through the Iftar dinner I was dreaming not just to be home for Christmas, but of a White Christmas.
***
Christmas Now
The morning of the fourteenth day of Ramadan–couldn’t believe it–my personal last day of Ramadan–my last day in Morocco!
Tom drove me to Casablanca airport. We left early in the morning when it was still dark. Three hours on the road–a Moroccan autoroute. Raining and gray, low clouds all the way. The earth was sucking in all the moisture. Plants looked happy. The ride, though, was a slog.
I was emotionally depleted. My last Moroccan memories like the first–sensually extravagant. We had parked and I was walking. Just at the pedestrian entry to the airport terminal–my sense of smell was assaulted by–clusters of Eriobotrya japonica trees in flower–excessively sweet to the place where fragrance meets odor. Goodbye Morocco.
Finally, I was off the ground. Casa-Brussels-NYC-home. I was outta there! Phew! Never thought it would happen. Relief.
But then there was also sadness. Ma’salama. I’ll never be the same. But then I mentally blinked–twice–reset.
Wonder what Santa will bring?
Back home. I paused in transit in New York, had to go through passport control and customs. Outside, it was snowing. Thanked my lucky stars to be standing there where at least I hoped I could live happy in the land of the free. The country where we can sleep in peace at night when we lay down our heads.
Last flight…after gathering my luggage, I looked around and thought, I am starting again. LittleWing was the first I saw, then Kate and Sam–they all met me.
Kate joked, “Look who got a Med sun tan.”
Sam observed and, with a smile on his face, gruffly asked, “Did you order this winter wonderland snowstorm?”
But Sachy was the first to wrap her arms around me–eyes all aglow–a huge smile on her face as she ran up to greet me. Hugged me hard and in my ear she whispered, “Home for Christmas!”
I stepped back, looked deeply into her eyes. It was her, Sachy, in real life, in front of me. Could this be? I held Sachy by her shoulders and said, “Lovely weather for a sleigh ride!”
I put my arms around her again, pulled her ever so close and, in the tightest of hugs, I whispered in her ear, “This is not a dream–my heart is warm–I couldn’t have done it without you!”
***
CJ made it home; but Morocco, unbeknownst to him, lingered.
***
If you wonder what actually happened during CJ’s six months in Tangier, pick up the eBook, Tangier Gardens–out of the classroom into the real world–via plant portals, here: https://amzn.to/3HLrtyv
4.1–The Oval Garden experiences inspired me to address the things that were at the very heart of landscape architecture. In this tale, I talk about the sun and sunlight.
4.2–After my Oval Garden visits, I went over and over my portal experiences, trying to understand logically what happened. I, in this short tale, share my own conclusions.
4.3–I used my own forest experience to construct a short tale in which I talked about forests in the landscape, their life beyond the senses and salubrious exchanges.
4.4–I described what I was missing in Tangier. But I did have a rooftop garden terrace with a view over the Strait of Gibraltar.
Who is CJ and why is he writing these tales?
In June 2000, Christopher Janus, a senior studying landscape architecture at a mid-west America university, finds himself in Tangier on a term abroad design study. The strange culture, the North African landscape and Mediterranean gardens are not what he expected. CJ, as his friends called him, could not wait to be home for Christmas.
To complete his term abroad design study, CJ documented his strange culture, landscape and garden experiences in Morocco in a series of 43 short stories that are being released on Amazon Kindle Vella everyday between now and Christmas Eve. The first 3 are FREE! You can find them here: Tales til Christmas Vella link ASIN: B0BNZDYKKC
Majoun, jajouka, gnawa…CJ wasn’t sure where to turn. He just wanted to finish his term-abroad design study. But all around him…culture, landscape, gardens; they were all different. They were all strange. He thought he knew what he was getting into…but did he? He did know one thing for certain—he wanted to be home for Christmas. Read his short stories.
Those short stories are, for the first time, being released on Vella everyday between now and Christmas Eve: find them here=http://bit.ly/3B9rJXE
ENJOY!!
***
If you wonder what actually happened during CJ’s six months in Tangier, pick up the eBook, Tangier Gardens–out of the classroom into the real world–via plant portals, here: https://amzn.to/3HLrtyv
The strange culture, the North African landscape and Mediterranean gardens are not what he expected.
In June 2000, Christopher Janus, an American landscape architecture student at a mid-western university, finds himself in Tangier on a term-abroad design study.
CJ, as his friends called him, could not wait to be home for Christmas.
To complete his Moroccan term-abroad design study, CJ writes about his strange culture, landscape and garden experiences in a series of 40 short stories.
Those short stories are now, for the first time, being released on Vella everyday between now and Christmas Eve.
You all know I write about landscape. In my own words, landscape that takes you to the foggy edge where normal transforms into paranormal.
I have only one writer who inspired me–Algernon Blackwood. He showed respect for the observable landscape. He also felt another side of landscape–its power. Its indefinable power that, in a fleeting second, can overwhelm.
I don’t copy him. But my experience in the landscape is similar. Tangier Gardens is about a young man just making his first discoveries beyond the foggy edge of normal. Nature is like that–if you let it.
If we look at nature, in a traditional sense, we see it as a source of human inspiration.
What about landscape? Landscape is the canvas upon which nature sits.
What about landscape architecture? Now that is confusing. It is a modern profession, that in my opinion, mistakenly moves natural elements around, often losing the traditional inspirational quality of nature. Failure.
So, in Tangier Gardens, the young man, CJ, tries to find how he, as a student of landscape architecture, can impart the inspiration of nature into his landscape design. Difficult. Tons of adminstrative regulations that bind nature into some kind of measurable pop experience. Not fun or helpful.
So I turn to a Algernon Blackwood aficionado, Eugene Thacker, who writes about Blackwood’s approach to nature and landscape:
If we are to call Blackwood a naturalist, then we must do so with caution, for his sublime awe before the mysteries of nature is always coupled with an acute awareness of the indifference of what we dutifully tag as “nature.” His novella, “The Willows”, suggests something different. Perhaps what we call the “supernatural” is simply the nature either we don’t see or don’t comprehend. It is the site of myth, religion, metaphysics—and perhaps of science as well. The strangest or “weirdest” understanding of nature is given to us not from ancient superstitions but from modern science. Perhaps the natural is supernatural, and vice-versa.
