The scene: Marrakech medina. Sunday afternoon. A return trip to the neighborhood laundry. Me to the laundry guy (via Google Translate and expecting the worst): “I’m sorry, it’s a little awkward, but I’m missing something. [beat] A pair of ladies’ things.”
Laundry guy (via sign language, concerned but not embarrassed): “I’ll have a look around.”
Me (into phone): “The color is orange.”
Overhead: Clean djellabas, mostly grays and browns, hang on three sides of the laundry, which is a dim stall that opens onto a lane near the medina wall.
On the right: an old-fashioned, industrial-sized electric iron/mangle, steam spraying lightly from the cord near the wall. Its cushion is a faded red.
Rather than disappear behind the curtain (where the washing machines sit) to search for my underwear, the laundry guy hangs out with me. He looks to be in his 30s. We do our best to chat via Google Translate.
He’s from a place called Castle of the Song.
America is very beautiful and he’d like to go there.
His name is Hamzah.
Pretty soon, the owner arrives, carrying his round-faced toddler. This is the first time I’ve seen a man holding a child here.
Laundry owner gets a kick out of the whole underwear-gone-rogue situation. His son toddles around holding a disk of Moroccan flatbread in both hands. I coo to him in English. Toddler is quite nattily turned out in trousers and a fleecy shirt. Instead of a chest pocket, it features a tasteful label that says “worker.”
Eventually I remind the guys about the underwear. Hamzah ducks behind the curtain and retrieves them. They’re still damp, and dirtier than when I dropped them off. Obviously they were caught in a machine and got that dirty/greasy matted lintball stuff on them.
I decide it’s a small price to pay for the number of laughs I’ve had on this errand.
Before I leave, Hamzah pauses to wrap my undies in tissue paper, which he carefully tapes together. I walk back home through the ancient medina, carrying my little package and feeling pretty good about the whole encounter. I had dreaded going back, and considered skipping it entirely.
Now, whenever I walk or bike past the laundry stall, I stop and say, “Salaam al’ lakum” to Hamzah. Tonight I warmed my hands on the toasty mangle as we Google-chatted. With some help, I even managed to say “goodbye” in Arabic.
Often in Marrakech, I feel vulnerable, awkward and out of place. Many locals seem pretty jaded about tourists; it’s hard to know when to maintain my guard and when to relax it.
But moments like these, with people like Hamzah, remind me of the rewards that lie outside my comfort zone.
And, as my friend Liza once reminded me: Awkward isn’t lethal.
This time, it even turned out to be fun.
Lovely
Shukaran! (That’s thanks in Moroccan Arabic. 🙂
Really a neat story! Stay Safe🐪
Denny and Mary Lou O’Brien
Many thanks!
Charming, Kelly. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks kindly.
A delightful story!
Thanks, Meredith! It was a highlight. 🙂
I love this so much, Kelly. It so nicely captures the essence of being in a different place with new customs, and emphasizes how laughter can solve so many communication challenges. Thanks for sharing!
Thanks, Lisa. That means a lot, coming from a savvy traveler like you! 🙂
Fantastic writing and sharing the nut of who you are and what is what. Keep it up so we can experience it with you. Love love
Aw, thanks, Stacey.
I love this story: it encourages me to be braver.
I think you are plenty brave, cycling the coast of Morocco. Happy pedaling; can’t wait til our paths cross again.
So lovely to “hear” your voice again, Kelly. I’m dying to know the Moroccan for “ladies’ things.” ;-0
That will be in my advanced Darija class, no doubt. I’m still working on “good morning.” It’s exciting–people are starting to respond when I say it, so my accent must be improving. 🙂
Hey, Bella, I love this post on this small everyday item, and this seemingly mundane incident which turned into an adventure and brought you closer to the locals. Brava! I’d love to see more photos of Morocco too, when you get a chance?! XO
Thanks, Kristin! Most of my adventures these days are of the micro-variety. I kind of like it that way. Hope you are surviving the Arctic blast in Vermont!