Not Even a Passing Grade

Whew. Where to start. . . .

Short story:

The Sahara invited me and my present-day ancestors to The School of Love. None of us got a passing grade. Hafiz still bestowed gifts.

Long story:

Feeling as though I was getting a bit too comfortable in my idyllic Marrakech routine, I decided to answer the call of the desert. I signed up for a guided tour which would take me, over the course of three days, into the Atlas Mountains to the ancient Kasbah Benhaddou, through the Todgha Gorge, where some nomadic Amazigh people do still live in caves (as the desert mothers and fathers once did), and then on to the Sahara desert, which I would enter, in caravan, on camelback, and then one 10-hour day of driving back to Marrakech.

Well, Reality pulled the chair out from underneath me, and had a good laugh! My tailbone is still a little sore.

On the first morning, in the dark, I waited at the post office to be picked up by the 16-passenger bus. I was curious about who my tourmates might be and what great connections awaited me. When the driver arrived and took my bag to stow in the back, another passenger immediately jumped out and announce that there was no room for my bag. "No problem," I said, "I'm glad to place it under my seat." I boarded the bus, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I discerned just two empty seats, both inhabitated by the backpack fortresses of the person alongside each seat. No one moved. I stood there awkwardly for a moment, then asked the one I thought looked friendlier if I might be able to sit next to her. She silently moved her backpack.

The men behind me eagerly told me that they were a group of 14 Dutch people who had run a half-marathon together and were now going to the desert together. They hadn't expected me to join.

Wow. How about that? I thought. With the hundreds of people heading into the desert over these few days Reality put me with this group of my genetic brothers and sisters! This should be interesting!

Out loud, I was quick to tell them that I am nearly 100% Dutch, though I speak virtually none since my family came to America in the late 1800's and early 20th century. I shared the surnames of my four lineages. We made some initial small talk before they all resumed their exclusively Dutch back and forth. After the first stop, my seatmate resettled herself next to a Dutch teammate.

We made our stop at Kasbah Benhaddou, an ancient fortified city along the trans-Saharan trade routes. My inner New Mexican felt at home amongst the beautiful adobe (atobe, in Amazigh), so similar to what the Zuni and others used to create their homes, but with more ornamentation (because here in Morocco, there is always more you can add).
 

My Dutch companions and I enjoyed this visit, but I could tell they were getting a bit irritated by having a guide and needing to stay as a group. A number of times he had to herd them from alleyways they'd wandered down back to the group. I get it. So many doorways call.

Our guide brought us to a restaurant for lunch. When my companions realized lunch was not included in our package (as had been clearly stated prior to purchase), they stood, loud in complaint, to leave. My Dutch blood recognized their umbrage. And placed my stake in higher ground: be a good guest. Disgruntled, they settled in to get their money's worth of the buffet lunch, tucking away many small oranges and yogurts in pockets, and some not purchasing their own meal, just cleaning up my and others' leftovers. And speaking Dutch, exclusively, the entire time.

I got back on the bus and quickly reached for my book of Hafiz. Teach me to love, Hafiz, I prayed silently, as I read poem after poem. I apprentice myself to you.


Hafiz confirmed my intuition in so needing him, answering:

It/ Is all/ Just a love contest/ And I never/ Lose./ Now you have another good reason/ To spend more time/ With/ Me.

And this:

This/ Sky/ Where we live/ Is no place to lose your wings/ So love, love,/ Love.

Follow the leader, Lorilyn. Don't lose your wings.

Despite sharing the evening carafe of wine I'd purchased, I endured another evening meal of exclusively Dutch conversation.

The next morning a Dutch emissary was sent to me, where I was seated enjoying my coffee and Hafiz, to tell me that they had decided to alter the day's plan, being uninterested in spending time at an Amazigh village and wanting to arrive at the desert sooner.

Now, I had just 30 minutes before journaled how excited I was for this visit to the village. "So, we thought we should know what you think," Wijtske stated, clearly not meaning a word she'd said. 

Clearly, I was powerless. I tried to choose my words carefully and yet be candid. I told her I had been greatly looking forward to this visit. She assured me I could take another tour, as they had previously, to visit an Amazigh village. Adding, "You know, it's not so nice for us to have you along on this trip."

Thanks for the newsflash, I thought.

I returned briefly to my hotel room and nearly started to sob, but then gathered myself and begged Hafiz to please hold my hand. I situated myself on the bus, contracting over and over with a growing list of complaints against my travel partners, and then opening Hafiz to read such expansive lines as:

Blame/ Keeps the sad game going./ It keeps stealing all your wealth—/ Giving it to an imbecile with/ No financial skills./ Dear one,/ Wise/ Up.

I'd try again to lay down all my internal weapons, only to discover, just moments later, I'd picked them all up again, forming choice words that would cut.

The Teacher discerned my need for extra support because at our next step Hafiz had shapeshifted from dove to man named Rachid. This tour guide, within minutes of arrival, understood the "situation." Arriving on the bus, he asked, "Are you all from the Netherlands?" The bus resounded with versions of "Ja, but nee." When I told him I was American, he asked, "But why?"

And here, my friends, is where —despite my hard, hard work— I secured my failure.

Those of you who know me well recognize that while I have MANY words, I am not one for a pithy, quick or biting rejoinder. I take no pride in that; it simply has never been accessible to me. However, the response I heard flying out of my mouth to this smirk of a question was, "Because the alternative would be to be Dutch!"

I delivered it with aplomb.

The bus exploded with non-verbals belying a mix of surprise, shock, respect, and anger. For my part, I was both mortified by what I'd said and satisfied by such a quick and apt-to-my-feelings response.

Rachid gave me a high-five and immediately sat down next me, stating, "We will be friends."

So, it was no surprise that on the next stop the Dutch took a group picture, which didn't include me. None of us thought that was a good idea.

Rachid returned to the bus and sat next to me again, saying, "Hand me your phone. I have a surprise for you." He snapped a selfie of the two of us, handed back my phone and said, with a wink, "Group picture."

All of this was done in a context of him also offering great warmth to the entire group.

Hafiz, up to Love-mischief

In the end, we did get the full tour of the Amazigh village, since the tour company explained there is the schedule they must stick to. A few hours later, at the end of our time with Rachid as guide, having enjoyed many private conversations with him about his family and home, he presented me with a gift, pictured at the top of the blog, a necklace with a pendant symbol of the Amazigh, representing the free human.

I will treasure this heart-crafted piece and aspire to embody its symbolism for all my days.

We did make it to the desert. I rode, in caravan, on a camel. There were more awkward meals. The long drive home (10 hours) became longer by 8 hours (yep, a total of 18) when the Atlas Mountain pass we were to travel was unpassable due to meters and meters of snowfall.

Hafiz, I wondered, are you trying to give us extra time in the school of love? I'm sorry. I'm tired.
 

Pulling into Marrakech at 2am, Bernhardt, asking for a collective tip for our longsuffering driver —who, in addition to the extra hours, had endured one of the riders repeatedly storming to the front of the bus to critique his driving—felt it was his duty to inform me that the 100dh note (about 10 US dollars) I added was probably larger than I wanted to contribute. I assured him I was quite clear about what I was giving. As my blood boiled.

In the end, what felt most difficult was my inability to "triumph" in love. Like most us, I am not yet a free human.

I'm comforted by Jesus' likening of the kingdom not to the pearl itself, but to the search for the pearl.

Soul friends, I know you, too, have difficult relatives and travel partners. Who doesn't?

Please stay on the search with me. We need each others' stories of expansions and contractions, for the sake of Love.

Strangely, we seem to need these journeys into the desert with people not of our choosing. To be reminded of how much we have to learn.

And we need to fall back into the welcoming arms that await us. Last night back in Marrakech I attended a music concert where I connected with two lovely travelers. They invited me to dinner and we shared our artwork and our hearts.

Don't quit the journey, Soul Friends. Keep letting yourself expand and contract, contract and expand.

Hafiz says, "I have a surprise for you!"