The Enigma of Zaouia
There is a town just across the river with no water, and about a 15-minute walk away from my town of Talmest, called Zaouia Abdel Jaleel. It is apparently a big tourist attraction, yet upon seeing it for the first time, I was at a loss as to why. It's a compact village of whitewashed block buildings and stone walkways that slope down a steep hill to the river bed. It is in a scenic spot, with the mountain sloping up beyond it and a high river-bank covered with trees on the other side. But it's just a small dirty village, and the river only sometimes has water in it, mostly dirty and stagnant when it does, and the rest of it is continually littered with trash.
So what is it about this place that draws tourists from as far away as Casablanca and holds them there for weeks at a time? When I questioned a young friend of mine who spends as much of his time there as possible, he said it is the home of the tomb of a famous Muslim saint. And in the summer, he says, the river is a draw. Families come to visit the tomb, hang out by the river, and just relax. He said sometimes people stay for an entire summer. The disproportionate number of hotels in this town is testament to the truth of what he says, though I still found his answer vastly unsatisfying.
This town seems to hold endless appeal not for just tourists but also for locals. The people of my town of Talmest - particularly the men, both young and old - never miss an opportunity to go to Zaouia, as it is called, in the afternoon and then stay till the wee hours of the morning. The last few times I accepted an invitation to go with them, I began to see what it is that they actually do there, and the last time, finally gained an insight into what makes Zaouia tick, so to speak. It has a lively festive atmosphere almost all the time. During the day, families sit down by the river, where there are booths set up that sell food and trinkets, and their kids splash in the approximately four-inches of water. There is an entire closed market winding up the maze-like alleyways which sells all the standard tourist fare usually sold only in big cities. Across the river, on the raised embankment, people gather to play drums and sing and dance, or just sit in the grass and enjoy the music and the breeze coming from the mountain.
But things really pick up as the sun goes down. The men gather at cafes, and the women hang out in the common areas of their hotel. Men play billiards, fussball and arcades, or congregate on street corners for hours on end. The women run around bare-armed and bare-headed, as if they were in Casablanca or Rabat rather than a small country village with the typical conservative dress code. Men and women skirt around the narrow streets together, sometimes hand in hand (which is scandalous pretty much anywhere in rural Morocco).
Yet as I came to learn, public-handholding is just the tip of the Scandalousness Iceberg in Zaouia. Among the hotels here there are some specifically for unmarried couples who want to enjoy a bit of unwedded bliss. Generally in Morocco, it is illegal for hotels to rent a room to a Muslim man and woman who aren't married. You will be asked to provide your marriage certificate upon check-in. So Zaouia provides a sort of refuge for the non-legitimate yet romantically inclined couples. But the main draw in Zaouia for many visitors, my young friend finally disclosed to me, is the brothels. The tiny hamlet sports anywhere between 2 and 6 houses of ill repute. He could not confirm the exact number because he himself is not a client. He says he does not visit the brothels, and I believe him, but he does not seem uncomfortable with their presence either.
No one does. Men, women or children. Though most of them are aware of their presence. The brothels are not tucked away in a secluded area. One of the "famous" ones, for example, is right at the center of town at one of the main intersections. I sat across from it with my companions, actually, for several hours as we watched people, as the children laughingly danced by, the women in head scarves rushed by with food to cook for dinner, the police literally looked the other way, and no one seemed to give it a second thought as if it were just any other friendly neighborhood gathering place.
So this obscure little village about an hour from the biggest town somehow manages to provide a sanctuary both for those seeking to honor a saint and for those who have long-since strayed from the path of sainthood. Yet the more pious visitors do not seem to be a wet blanket for the sinners, nor do the sinners seem to offend those seeking more G-rated pleasures. Maybe because they are all just simply seeking pleasure, each in their own way, there is more that unites than divides them. The overwhelming spirit of Zaouia is strikingly and unnervingly wholesome and innocent, a collective celebration. A freeness, unburdened by shame. My young friend sums it up succinctly, double-meaning intact: "People are like animals here. They don't worry about the future. They don't think about themselves. They just enjoy the moment."
