The Law of Unexpected Consequences, Exhibit B
King Mohammed VI had a problem. Most rural and nomad women were illiterate, they were restricted to the home, and they were often pledged to arranged marriages even before they “became a woman.” They would be auctioned off, sometimes not meeting their husbands–often decades older—until the wedding. These marriages were usually consummated by the age of sixteen, and often as young as fourteen, because it was thought that a woman was only pure until she began menstruating. And these unions almost immediately began having babies—commonly twelve or more live births as recently as thirty years ago.
The king decided to put an end to this oppression, as well as he could. First, he made it illegal for anyone to marry under the age of eighteen—even those with the consent of both parties and their parents. Then he made it necessary for both of the betrothed to swear separately three times in public that they were marrying of their own free wills. Then the couple had to take a family planning course and learn about the proper use of contraceptives, go through marriage and individual counseling, take classes on home economics and good nutrition and hygiene. They were taught their legal rights as husband and wife and the social benefits they qualified for.
Then the king set up a series of rural “cooperatives” that would employ only women. At the Cooperative Marjana, on the road to Essaouria, they grow, harvest, and process argan berries—all by hand, with a technology built of stones, the way it has been for millennia. Argan oil is 100% organic and used to make massage and cooking oils (it lowers cholesterol and has a pleasant smoky taste). What the government gives them is free land, no taxes, and support and education in building their enterprises.
In the three years of its existence, the Cooperative Marjane has grown from a small farm that harvested a few hundred gallons of argan oil a year—sold as massage and cooking oil—into a major manufacturer of cosmetics, candles, massage oil, health products, seasonings and cooking oil. It employs over thirty-six rural women (their photos are on display in the communal work area). They accept credit cards (not common in rural areas in Morocco) and have plans to open a webstore. The business is run by a young college-educated woman named Shira who wears a black Led Zeppelin t-shirt and a paisley headscarf and speaks expert English. When she’s not negotiating international distribution deals or keeping informed about the production details of over four dozen products, Shira is proud to give guided tours for the tourists ending in the gift shop who arrive on buses every fifteen minutes.
Women from the village now go to work five days a week (there is a communal bus that picks them up and drops them off at their houses), at a business that they own. And everyone—from the CEO to the field laborers—has an equal voice in how the business is run. Plus, most husbands now realize that they are better off when the power is shared between them, and it also turns out that these husbands are being nicer to their wives. Even if it’s just because they know they’ll be asking to borrow money on Saturday night, their children are seeing their mother being treated with respect and consideration by their fathers, whereas only a generation ago only the eldest male in the family was able to handle money.
Midnight, Twisting Like a Snake
Walking through shadows
and out again, a full moon
and tall alabaster clouds,
walking with determination
from beginning to the end,
wide awake in the dark.
Tonight the winds are from the west,
whitened by moonlight, moving up the slope
and massaging the pines and eucalyptus,
holly and heather,
turning hillsides into designs
bobbing up and down
one way and then the other,
as sand slips over sand,
pausing for an instant, then nothing
happens and I catch myself walking
just to be doing something
with no reason at all.
Marjana Argan Cooperative
September 23, 2010: Essaouria, Morocco
I feel comfortable in the Essaouira medina and know where I’m going after a brief tour and two passes on my own through its streets. On the central avenue you are either headed for the center of town or the castle that Hendrix wrote about in “Spanish Castle Magic.” Perpendicular to this central axis, the streets head either toward the ocean or toward the beach. When I make a wrong turn and head down a deadend street, it is obvious I am lost, and the locals point me in direction of the “exit.”
I’m looking for a music shop I passed on my way in, when I didn’t have time to stop. I started off in the wrong direction but when I got to the center of town, I realized where I was and found the store pretty easily. The same woman’s voice was singing in the shop, which was a gift because I didn’t know how I was going to describe her to the store owner when I returned hours later. He was standing outside his shop and nodded at me before turning away, chewing on the stem of a palm frond. I stood for a moment and listened until I was certain that it was the same woman, and then I excused myself and asked the owner who was singing. He went to the front of the shop and handed me a CD by Rokia Traore. I ask him how much. Fifty dirhams, he says, about 6 dollars. Sold. Her father is very famous too, he tells me and hands me one of her father’s CDs. Can I hear? Of course, he says. Boubacar Traore looks like Howlin’ Wolf and sounds like John Lee Hooker, accompanying himself on a large acoustic guitar. I later find out that he is not Rokia’s father. Traore is a popular surname in the musician caste of Morocco, so it is a common mistake. Then he shows me a CD by Salif Keita. Yes, I say, I have everything. He shows me a CD by Ali Farka Toure. Oh, yes, I have everything. Tinariwen. Ah, yes! I shout. The best! But I have everything. He reaches over and pushes a button on his shop’s CD player and I hear the opening bars of “Ammassakoul.” Ah, yes, I say. I have been singing this song the whole trip. Now I won’t get it out of my head all day.
I tell him I’m looking for good Gnawa music and he hands me a recording of the 2010 Gnawa Festival in Essouria. I have 190 dirhams and I pour it all on the counter. “What can I get with this?” I walk out with Rokia and Boubacar Traore, the Gnawa anthology, and a CD by a local female percussionist, Amina Alaoui. As I pick up my package he reaches out and grabs my hand, shakes it vigorously. “You will like these,” he assures me.
I go to the cash machine and take out $200 in dirhams and walk to another music store I passed on the way in. He too is playing something interesting. He leans against the speaker on the street, his arms crossed. He returns my gaze and we both nod to each other. Then he turns and continues to look out into the street. I say, “Excuse me, who is this singing?” He slowly straightens up and goes to the shelf, puts a CD on the counter by Boubacar Traore. “Oh,” I say, “I just bought that one.” “No you didn’t,” he says. “Yes I did,” and I go digging in my bag. “I can see what you bought” and I look and see that my bag is transparent. “Oh, okay. Here is what I just bought. For dance hall I like Amadou and Mariam. For women singers I like Oumou Sangare, for male singers I like Salif Keita and Issa Bagayoyo, for blues-based music I like Ali Farka Toure, and my favorite is the desert blues of Tinariwen. What would you recommend for me?”
“Ah,” he says, dismissing Tinariwen with a wave of his hand. “Everything they know they learned from him,” jabbing at the Boubacar CD. He is quickly losing patience with the whole desert blues thing. “Listen,” he says, turning around. “If you like Tinariwen, you will like these”—he pulls out a two-CD set called “Desert Music Volume III” and puts it on the counter. “But I know you,” he says. “You like blues, right? Do you like jazz?” “Yes,” I say, “some jazz, sure.” He pulls out a CD by a local oud player, Anouar Brahem. “Here he is playing with….” “Dave Holland” I shout, reading the CD cover. “Yes” he says, “and John Surman. Do you know Surman?” “No, I don’t.” “He played with Miles, he plays with John McLaughlin. He is very good. Do you know Jan Garbarek?” “Oh, yeah, sure, and his daughter Anja, who’s a musician too.” “Here take this.” He hands me “Madar” on ECM from 1994. “This is Anouar with Garbarek and Ustad Shaukat Hussain, a very good tabla player.” “So it’s northern Europe, northern Africa, and Asia.” “Yes,” he smiles. “It is very good.” He puts on a CD by Ismail Ko which he says is hard to describe. It’s a duet with Marianne Faithfull. I put the other Boubacar CD on the counter, the one that was playing when I entered the store. “How much for these six CDs?” He points to my bag. “How much did you pay him?” “Fifty dirhams each.” “Are you happy with that price?” “These cost me $6.00 apiece. If I could find these in the U.S.—and I doubt it—I’d probably pay $60.00 for the four of them. So, yeah, I’m happy.” “Then 50 dirhams for these too.” I stuff them into my bag and reach out to shake his hand. “Thank you. You have been a great help.” “You will like,” he says, nodding, refusing to look at me.
Music from Some of the CDs Bought in Essaouria
Track 1: Bownboi, Rokia Traore, featuring Kronos Quaret, from “Bownboi” Label Bleu
This is the first song I heard of hers, in the marketplace. When I returned, she was singing a different song—I don’t remember which one—but I recognized the voice. There is more about Rokia in a previous column, and she also make another appearance in next month’s column.
Track 2: Kanou, Boubacar Traore, from “Desert Blues 3”
“Boubacar Traore looks like Howlin’ Wolf and sounds like John Lee Hooker, accompanying himself on a large acoustic guitar.” There is more about Boubacar in a previous column.
Track 3: Ode D’ibn Arabi, Amina Alaoui, from “Alcanera” Auvidis France
Amina Alaoui was born in 1964 in an aristocratic family in Fes, Morocco. She began to study Andalusian classical music at the age of six on the piano and also studied modern and classic dance from 1979-1981. She then attended the universities of Madrid and Granada, where she studied philology and linguistics. She moved to Paris in 1986, where she studied gharnati music (Arabic for Grenada music), along with European Medieval music and Persian classical music.
Track 4: Jilala, from the Gathering of Musicians for the Festival d’Essaouira Gnaoua, 2010
There is no information available on any of the musicians included on this CD, which only lists song titles.
Track 5: Humaisa, Abdoulaye Alhassane Toure, from “Desert Blues 3”
Abdoulaye Alhassane is a guitarist and singer born in 1963 in Niamey, Niger, to a Malian family. In the late 19802, he was leading a band called Super Kassey, the first Niamey band to travel abroad and record in a recording studio. He currently lives in New York City where he performs with his band Deep Sahara.
Track 6: Bati Bati, Gigi, from “Desert Blues 3”
Born Ejigayehu Shibabaw in Chagni, northwestern Ethiopia, she performs under the stagename Gigi. She was trained Ethiopian church music by a priest at a time when women were not supposed to sing or play music. She lived in Kenya before moving to San Francisco in 1998. Her first two releases featured traditional Ethiopian music, but her 2001 album “Gigi” was produced by Chris Blackwell (who brought reggae to the mainstream via his Island Records) featured jazz musicians such as Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, and Pharoah Sanders, and was produced by Bill Laswell, who became her husband. She has also recorded with the band Material.
Track 7: Waqt, Anouar Brahem, John Surman, Dave Holland
This and the following track are the direction the second music salesman wanted to steer me in, and these were among my favorite CDs in the whole batch.
Track 8: Jaw, Jan Garbarek, Anouar Brahem, Ustad Shaukat Hussain “Madar” ECM
Track 9: Without Blame, Ismael Lo & Marianne Faithfull “Jammu Africa” Barclay France
Ismaël Lo is a Senegalese guitarist and singer born in Dogondoutchi, Niger on August 30, 1956. His father was Senegalese and his mother was Nigerian. Shortly after his birth, the family moved to Senegal. He was part of the band Super Diamono, but in 1984 he left to begin his solo career. In 1990 he signed with Barclay and released “Ismael Lo,” which became a hit in Europe.
Track 10: Laban, Salif Keita featuring Ousmane Kouyate
There is more information on Salif Keita in earlier columns, and there will be more in the following one. Ousmane Kouyate was learned guitar and balafon as a child, and moved to Bamako to join Les Ambassadeurs in 1977. He left them to join Salif Keita when he went solo, and then started recording albums under his own name.
Track 11: Asco, Ali Farka Toure
There is more about Ali Farka Toure in previous columns, and he will also be featured in the following one.
Track 12: Amassakoul ‘N’ Tenere, Tinariwen
Tinariwen was formed by Ibrahim Ag Alhabib, who grew up in the Tuareg refugee camps in Algeria. In the ‘70s he formed a band that would play at weddings, and later began to sing more political songs. In 1980, he went to Libya to train in the military so he would be able to go back and fight the freedom of his country, Mali. In 1989, he returned to Tessalit, Mali, his hometown for the first time in 26 years. Within a year, the Tuareg Rebellion began, and lasted for six months, when a ceasefire between the sides was signed.
Street Performers, Casablanca
Article by Randy Roark
Newtopia staff writer RANDY ROARK worked with Allen Ginsberg for the last 17 years of his life, first as an apprentice, then as his teaching assistant, and finally transcribing and editing 28,000 pages of Ginsberg’s poetry lectures, currently available on-line through the Ginsberg trust. Following Ginsberg’s death, he worked with artist Stan Brakhage, producing art events featuring his films until his death. Since 1998 he has worked with Sounds True as a producer, where he has edited artists such as Alex Grey, writers including William Burroughs and Robert Anton Wilson, and a wide variety of spiritual teachers, including Alan Watts, Krishnamurti, Jack Kornfield, Pema Chodron, and Lakota Elder Joseph Marshall.