Along the Barbary Coast

“Just like good King Hassan says, ‘Moroccan food is like a desert palm: rooted in Africa, watered by Islam, and rustled by the winds of Europe.’”
Those were the words her mother said all the time. They echoed in Ameena’s head as she sat in the street café near the Medina. Her brothers Kareem and Mohammed were there. Her father was there, too.
She completely understood what her mother had said, She was in a Greek restaurant in Morocco, eating tiny slivers of lamb meat tucked into pita bread and smothered with curried bean paste. A large round of Spanish paella mixto (mixed paella) sat in the middle of the table, too. As usual, there was also the traditional pitcher o Tuareg tea to wash it all down.
To Ameena, it just tasted good.
“I’m glad your mother let you kids come with me to the Skala. This is a rare chance, indeed.”
“What are we going to do?” asked little Mohammed.
“We are going to the Ile de Purpuraires. I have to talk to an architect. He wants to erect a building there.”
“What kind of building?” asked Kareem.
“That’s what I have to talk to him about.”
The children followed their father to the pier where Mr. Mansoor hired a boat captain to take them to the island. The old motor bumbled as it pushed the boat across the choppy ocean waves between the two shores.
When they arrived at the island, the captain got out and steadied the boat so the children could get out. They jumped into the shallow surf and walked up the sandy beach. Tall, rocky cliffs protected the mainland from the shore. Atop the cliff sat a mosque. It’s minaret rose high above the island, like a lighthouse.
Mr. Mansoor led the children up a narrow trail to the top of the cliff. When they arrived there, they found a taxi and got inside.
“Where are we going?” asked Kareem.
“To the main part of the island.”
The main part of the island was barely a three minute taxi ride from the shore. A small village sat in the middle of the island. There were a few tourists there, exploring the old citadels and mosques on the island. In fact, Mr. Mansoor met the architect near one of the citadels in the middle of the city.
“Latif Mansoor?” asked a man.
“Mr. Saleem? Is it you?”
“It is indeed.”
“How did you recognize me?”
“Your children. This must your boy Kareem and little Mohammed,” he said.
Mr. Saleem turned towards the girl in the black hijab who said nothing.
“And you must be Ameena.”
Ameena smiled as she nodded to Mr. Saleem. Her eyes smiled, too.
“Let’s find a place to sit and talk,” suggested Mr. Mansoor.
“How about across the street at the tea saloon?”
The men went across the street as the children followed. When they arrived, Mr. Mansoor and Mr. Saleem sat down. Kareem and Mohammed stood beside the table.
“Can we go to the citadel?” asked Kareem.
“Yes, but be back in an hour,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two boys rushed back to the citadel. Ameena sat down between Mr. Saleem and her father.
“We must certainly be boring to you,” said Mr. Saleem, “would you like something to eat?”
Ameena shook her head.
“We ate before we came,” said Mr. Mansoor.
“I’m a little hungry, so I’ll order some tea and pastries. You can help yourself if you want.”
Mr. Saleem pulled a cardboard cylinder from his attaché case. He unrolled two sets of blueprints. One outlined the island and different plots of land on the island. The other was a diagram of his building. As far as Ameena could tell, it looked like a restaurant.
“With the growing tourism industry in Essaouira, I think this would be a good time to be the first restaurant on the Island.”
“Have you talked to the local Imams?”
“The Muslim priests are against new developments.”
“It’s not something to take lightly. We cannot even break new ground without getting their okay on the project.”
“I know, I know,” nodded Mr. Saleem, “but there are ways around that, too.”
“Purpuraires is important to the Imams. When the Ottomans came here from Turkey, they wanted Morocco as an Atlantic outpost. They had already controlled the Mediterranean. No European could get to Asia without their permission.”
“Or going around Africa,” added Mr. Saleem.
“Until Barbary.”
Mr. Saleem nodded.
In the 16th Century, several empires fought for control of the seas. It was the exploration age. The Dutch traveled to the East Indies. Spanish explorers like de Gama and Coronado explored South America. Even the Portuguese had Christopher Columbus, who traveled to North America.
Nobody, however, had traveled to India without first going through the Ottomans. A group of sailors, which included the Ottoman Turks and some Berbers from Morocco, formed a group of pirates called ‘the Barbary Corsairs’.
The Barbary Pirates sailed by night, marauding ports all along the Mediterranean coast. They also boarded trading ships trying to pass through the straits between Africa and Asia. They charged a tax, often taking most of the goods the merchant ships brought back from India and the East. This caused all merchants to sail around the south of Africa. Even then, the Barbary Pirates would control the seaways around southern Africa, too.
“I still think we can come to an agreement with the Imams,” said Mr. Saleem, “After all, I’m one of their Muslim brothers. I am from Turkey, after all.”
“Let us hope,” said Mr. Mansoor.
When the refreshments arrived, Ameena withdrew the veil from her face and took tiny bites of a crème-filled pastry.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Saleem.
Ameena nodded.
“Unfortunately, all we have on the island are tea shops and coffee shops. It is not enough.”
Ameena frowned in agreement. Then, her father motioned for her to pour the tea. She did as always, starting slow and drawing the pitcher high above the cup. Bubbles and foam formed on the surface.
“Perfect pour,” said Mr. Saleem.
“Day by day she’s getting better.”
After Ameena finished pouring a cup for herself, Kareem and Mohammed ran up, carrying sticks in their hands.
“What have you been up to?” said Mr. Mansoor, “…no, wait…let me guess…Midnight Marauders?”
Kareem and Mohammed nodded.
“What is Midnight Marauders?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“We’re swashbucklers,” said Kareem.
“Just like the Barbary Pirates?”
“Or anyone fighting over Morocco,” said Kareem.
“Even the Europeans?”
“Of course,” relpied Kareem, “I have friends from all over the globe and they are not my enemies.”
“I suppose that’s right,” said Mr. Saleem, “we Moroccans come from everywhere.”
“Papa is from Spain,” said little Mohammed.
“I’m not from Spain,” corrected Mr. Mansoor, “I’m from Tunisia, but my father is from Spain.”
“Close enough,” said Mohammed.
“Even though we’re from the same country, sometimes we disagree based on who we were before,” said Mr. Saleem.
“What do you mean?”
“There are people who do not want me to build here on the island. Yes, part of it is about the history of the island, but still, part of it is because I am different. This is one of the eternal struggles of Morocco. We’ve all come from different cultures and sometimes those cultures do not agree. Still, we manage.”
“I think that’s the old way,” said Kareem.
“How so?” asked Mr. Saleem.
“In our school, we celebrate all cultures. I am Muslim, but one of my best friends has family in Portugal. He is Christian. We do not let this get in our way.”
“Sometimes it’s easier for children,” said Mr. Saleem.
“It doesn’t have to be,” said Kareem.
“Ideally, you’re right,” said Mr. Saleem, “but sometimes old people are like old locks. They’re full of rust and will not budge.”
“That is why there is oil to free the lock,” said Kareem.
“I suppose you’re right,” chuckled Mr. Saleem.
“Now if we can just find the right oil for the Imams,” said Mr. Mansoor.
The two men shook hands at the end of the meal. Mr. Mansoor packed the blueprints into the tube and walked to a different part of the shore, where several fishing boats waited. Mr. Mansoor hired another captain who took them back to the port near the Skala.
Afterwards, they returned home. Ameena wondered how her father would unlock the opinions of the old Muslim priests.