Morocco – Clara Hsu

Babouche Revisited

It took some time, and, as Dore said, some webbarizing—meaning solving technical issues on the web without knowing what I was doing. My book of short stories, Babouche Impromptu and Other Moroccan Sketches, has been reissued with more stories and a new look, and it is available now on Amazon.

The love story of a Berber and his charge, and a message from the Sahara were added to the collection. Babouche Impromptu opens with an extensive introduction by Jack Foley that included some of my recent poems.

A kindle edition is also available.

I invite you to read the stories, and leave a comment on the “Customer Review” if they move you. Thank you.

Lantern Rhapsody

The magic of light encased, hanging down from the ceiling, or swinging on a long stick, flickering. The glimmer inside a paper fish’s belly, yellow star fruit, hairy rambutan. When I was small I pulled a little white curly crepe rabbit with four wooden wheels. A candle was lit inside, held by a thin wire. My sister and I walked up and down the length of the short corridor at home. She with a butterfly of transparent wings. We were the keepers of light, short legs toddling, gleeful and drooling, a kind of mythical youngling along with the shadows that cast on the walls and ceiling.

In Turkey there are congested galaxies. In Morocco you have to rub the painted glass three times (to clean away the dirt) before the genie appears. He has grown big and slightly stooped since the last time we met but he’s the same one, I’m sure of it.

Photo credit: Shutterstock

Khubs, Tea, And The Sahara Omelet

Bari came to dinner on his motorbike. Helmet, jacket, and his signature black turban that he wrapped around his neck. From an already breaking paper bag he pulled out one item after another: tea pot, jars of spices, a tin can of sugar, mint, coriander, tomatoes, eggs and Moroccan bread (khubs).

“I’m making mint tea and omelet.” He announced.

“My father thinks he is diabetic,” I told Bari. “I don’t think he’ll go for the tea. As for the bread, it’s too hard on his teeth. I think the only thing he can eat is the omelet, but don’t make it too spicy.”

Celebrating Thanksgiving with a ninety-year-old man, everything had to be soft.

But when Father saw the bright green mint stuffed in a cup he became curious. And the bread, which I toasted in the oven, came out hot and crispy on the outside. He smacked his lips as he tasted the mint tea. “Sugar!” He smiled, and drank heartily.

The omelet reminded me of the Sahara (where Bari came from) with sand (cumin and ras el-hanout) and stones (green peas and tomatoes) and the large sun (the eggs, scrambled and cooked with lots of liquid).

Toward the end of the meal, Father figured out how to eat the khubs too, dipping the bread into the mint tea to soften it. Now he was satisfied.

“Bari, you are a good cook.”

Bari smiled. He loved my father.

A Glass Of Tea

It happened in Rotterdam in the Netherlands. Walking down an aroma filled neighborhood to find a place to eat, I was attracted to the large rotating lamb and beef shwarmas on gas flames in front of a small restaurant. But what caught my eye were the little clear glasses filled with bright green leaves that most of the customers were drinking out of. Curious, I ordered “one of those”.

They called it “Moroccan whiskey”—mint leaves, boiling water with lots of sugar. It was so sweet it melted my teeth. But it was also extremely addictive—taking me back to my mother’s womb where the only thought was to suckle and nothing else. In time, I learned that for each serving of tea you need two glasses. One was used to agitate the sugared water by pouring it repeatedly back into the teapot. The other was for drinking. This social drink brings people together and I think you can talk about anything when the tongue is sweetened.

Photo by themoroccandream.blogspot.com

Elegy TO A Pair Of Babouche

You have served me well, my alligator-head babouche. Your orange and black colorings always bring people’s attention to my feet. When I slip you on each morning I’m reminded of Morocco.

Your daddy was Mohammad, and you were born in the little room behind Ben Youssef Madrasa in D’jmaa Elfna Square. He displayed all his children in a shop next door according to size and color. When he found me sitting at his front door, hot and dusty, he invited me inside for tea.

You stood out from all the others, my dear alligator-heads. Your strong sisal bodies were hand crocheted into this curious shape. “Try them on.” Said your daddy, and we were a match.

Here in San Francisco you walk on carpeted floor and never fail to charm my friends. But after four years my big toes wear you thin, and like all things, I see the end approaching.

It is always a dilemma for me when I have to dispose of the things that I love. I write this not so much for you, but for me, so that should I come upon this entry many years from now, I may remember you.

Photo by Andy Stock

Without A Camera

My birthday in the Sahara with two Berbers, hashish and sand cake

I surrendered my digital camera when I sold Clarion Music in 2005. The camera was a business purchase so it rightfully went to the new owners. Since then I have been without a camera.

It was a conscious decision not to buy another one, especially when I made my solo journey to Morocco in 2007. I knew it was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but as a poet I wanted to use my eyes and my pen to record the journey, and not through a lens.

It was a lofty goal. At times I regretted not being able to take a snapshot of this or that. But the universe provided. On the bus to the Sahara I met a Japanese tourist with a great camera. We ended up going into the desert together and I was gifted with six photos later through email.

Without a camera I became less of a target in the strange country. The hustlers didn’t care to spend their energy on people who didn’t look like they have much. After I returned home, two friends got infected by my journey and went to Morocco for vacation. They had a great time and took hundreds of photos. On their last day they went one last time to the souk (market) and the camera was robbed. What was left in their memory was bitterness.

Photo by Ken Aoki

The Story of the Snakes

After our Two Tongues of Gaia debut last night a man came up to me and asked, “What’s the story on the snakes?” He was referring to one of the poems I read, titled The Chase.

When I was in the Moroccan Sahara Desert in 2007 I had a vision of a massive exodus. In order to travel long distance humans and animals changed shapes and forms and piggybacked on each other. Tolls had to be paid before services were rendered. So the further they went, the less they possessed and thus memories of their origin were lost along the way.

About two weeks after I came back to San Francisco I had a vivid dream. I was wakened by something that was moving in my bed, slithering between my sheets. I forced my eyes opened. In the dim morning light I heard a crackling sound and saw two snakes with arched bellies racing across the room.

Did I carry the snakes home? What did they pay to get out of the desert? I sometimes wonder what have become of them: lost souls huddling in a corner down Mission Street, or lounging in an Arabic grocery store? Three years later one of the Berbers I met in the desert won the Green Card lottery and arrived in San Francisco. He is now going to school and working in a Moroccan restaurant.