Abdul’s Afandy

Larache – Briech, Morocco

I think the only real exposure that I had to the Arabic world growing up was a guy named Mohammed Abdul. I mean, there was Aladdin, though I never really knew that story. And there was the Autobiography of Malcolm X; but I would hardly count that. Oh, and there was the Java restaurant. My friend Manny and I used to go there, eat Middle Eastern food and watch the belly dancers. Probably there was some kind of instruction on Islam in Sunday school at the Unitarian church, but I must have missed that day because I don’t remember learning anything about the prophet Mohamed or anything like that . . .

(Growing up I was always confused about what Unitarianism was about. They were always eager to introduce you to other religions, and tell you that whatever you believed was okay, but it seemed like they never really got around to telling us what Unitarians believed. But maybe there core belief was that you could believe anything and God would be okay with that . . .?)

Later on, after Diana and I were married, we got to know a friend’s Dad pretty well. Maurice. He is half Palestinian. Like so many immigrants he is a wonderful person – full of great stories. He was loud and opinionated and fun. 

He would say things like:

”You steal a loaf of bread, I chop off your hand!” And he would add emphasis with a big chop himself. 

“You commit rape, I cut off your . . . (well, you get the idea).”

”You shoot someone, we shoot you!”

I really enjoy Maurice and am never quite sure how much is bravado and fun, and how much he really believes. And Maurice isn’t Muslim at all – so while some of this must have come from the Arabic world via his Palestinian side, it wasn’t coming from Islam . . . Nonetheless, I’m sure knowing Maurice has influenced my view of the Arab world – because I didn’t have much else to go on . . .

Well, I guess there was Mohammed. I worked for him. He was the owner of a restaurant on Nicollet Avenue in Minneapolis called Abdul’s Afandi. I think it was pretty successful. But Abdul was pretty enterprising, and he also had a ribs joint next door. I don’t remember the name of that place; it wasn’t very successful . . . 

Abdul’s and the rib joint shared a kitchen. I was the dishwasher for Abdul’s and the cook and dishwasher for the rib joint. On the rare occasion when someone wanted food from the ribs side, I would leave the dishwashing station and throw some on the grill. 

I can’t say I knew Mohammed real well. He was this big intimidating guy with a gruff voice, gruff mannerisms, and, as I recall, a full beard. I’m not sure where he was from originally – I assume someplace in the Arab world. And, really, for as little as I knew about the Arab world it didn’t really matter. Egypt was the same as Libya was the same as Morocco – at least in my mind. (Just found this article – I guess the restaurant re-opened for a bit a while back…)

That was about the extent of my knowledge. Hmm. Maybe the wrong word.

How about this . . .

That was the extent of my pre-existing impressions of the Arab world. Oh, and I guess I saw the Moroccans in the last men’s World Cup. They wore red, they were African but not black, and they were good.

So I think it is fair to say that my unconscious expectation of Morocco was of a bunch of big, gruff, bearded men, with an eye-for-an-eye view of justice. Of course, like all of us in America, my impression of Islamic women involved a lot of burkas – with the general idea that the Arabs were not too excited about women showing skin – although, I guess, belly dancing might be okay. 

The reality of what we’ve experienced is, as you would expect, much different. While, based on what we’ve seen, I think we would describe Moroccans as generally pretty loud and forward, I wouldn’t describe them as generally gruff. We’ve seen a few women in burkas, but my sense is that, at least in Morocco, people are not particularly conservative on this topic. That said, we have seen a lot of boys swimming in the ocean – and not one girl or woman. Our impression is that it’s perfectly acceptable to not wear a burka – it might even seem a little over-the-top to be wearing one at all – but swim suits on girls is a bridge too far. 

Gender roles in general seem pretty fixed here in Morocco. Our tour guide on the first day was trying to tell us otherwise. He said you will see female police officers and some members of the government are women as well. Maybe so, but we have seen a lot of police officers and not one of them has been a woman. 

I’m not sure on the crime and punishment front. We certainly have not observed any theft or anything. (Maurice would say that people don’t steal when they know they will lose their hand if they’re caught…) But we haven’t experienced anything like that in any of the countries that we’ve visited thus far. 

My big impression now . . . Moroccan people are, in general, friendly and generous and kind. But maybe, as I’m reviewing scenes in my mind, that’s not quite right. Moroccan men are, in general, friendly and generous and kind. Now that I’m thinking about it we haven’t really met many Moroccan women. We see them. They are cleaning the hotel rooms, or making the bread in a restaurant. But they don’t seem to be the ones talking to people like us too often . . . I guess that accords with our sense of Morocco generally. Still a Muslim country – but a much less conservative one. So women are around and not hiding behind burkas – but they aren’t necessarily out talking to folks a lot or anything . . .

Our ride today was beautiful. Rolling hills. Green pastures. Bucolic scenes.

And ocean views. Diana kept commenting that it’s like we’re already in Europe. 

The only problem? The wind. My goodness did the wind pick up! By noon we had 30 miles per hour cross winds trying to push us off of our bikes. After almost getting completely blown off the road, we decided that wisdom was the better part of valor for the day. We pulled over, had lunch, and found a nearby hotel. 

We even enjoyed a little trip to the beach – because the ocean is only a short walk. But, sadly, it turned out that the wind was kind of ugly down there as well. It’s not coming off of the water, but standing on the beach is tantamount to being in a sandblaster. But whatever, the water was actually nice.

All good. 

Except for one little detail. 

We still have 25 miles or so to go in order to reach Tangier and the ferry to Spain. The ferry leaves at 11 and we are supposed to arrive an hour early. And the wind is supposed to be wicked all through the night – only diminishing a little bit in the morning hours. 

Our plan? Get up early – make a quick breakfast ourselves because the hotel breakfast doesn’t even start until 8 – then get on the road by 7:30, and hope we don’t get blown into the Atlantic Ocean on the way. 

P.S. – We just met another biker – David from Spain – who took the ferry the other direction – that is, from Spain to Tangier – earlier today. We were walking back from dinner and we saw him emerge from our hotel parking lot. Apparently there are no rooms left so they turned him away. We told him about another place we saw down the road. Hopefully they have something or he’ll be camping out in these crazy gusts . . .