Bunissima

Acum spune, daca manac covrigeii astia, o sa ma vrei mai tare? Uite ca sunt in culmea placerii, si culmea!… nu pare a fi una de ordin gastric…

The hand job, daca pot sa-i spun asa, e foarte nereusita. Covrigii sunt mult mai mari decat ar trebui, sunt asezati gresit sau ca si cum cineva ar fi pe cale sa se indoape cu ei in fuga, neconcordand deloc cu figura suava si plina de concentrare subtila a tipei.

Maroc.

This is an old card I have found in my family’s “archive”. It was used during the communism to measure the food you got, mainly the bread, flour and oil. The people who lived in the contry side were forced to give either milk, eggs, meat and fruits alltogether, or cereals, depending on what people were cultivating and growing in different areas.

You could’ve gotten each month one kilogram of flour (= 2 pounds), one of oil, and the same with sugar and maize. I also find out that in the cities you could have gotten 5 slices of real salami per month. Really?

Make no mistake, there were things to buy… like milk, beggining with 4 or 5 am in the morning, because if you got there later you risked of being milkless for your indolence. On the other hand you could just come and stay there with a chair from the evening before or late at night so you be the first on the line when the milk is on the race.

And powdered egg. And… pig heads, that must have been a real feast. And soy salami, why, you all need to be vegetarians cause we tell you to. If you did not turn vegetarian because you could only eat soy salami, you would definately do it because of refusing to eat the pork heads. Maybe some pork legs would do. Or, as people called these pig feet, Adidas. The name compensates for the lack of style. Oh, and a bread a week. Really, no you need to go on a diet, the diet of all people that are equal.

Same things, from a different angle:

My great grandfathers lived in the country side. So did my granma, with them. There was so little food sometimes that they wouldn’t know what to eat. One day, while she was sowing the ground, my great grandmother caught a deer by the foot. It did not run, it did not make any noise. That was a good thing, because you were not allowed to hunt. Not even kill your own livestock, whithout announcing Big Brother, except for pork. And people were afraid anyways to do too much. They ate the deer. They told us kids, just in case someone would ask, that it was a pork they had cut. They burried the skin so that not even dogs would find it.
To make a living my grandma was making tuica (she would sometimes exchange tuica for food). At that time it was illegal to do it without approvals or just illegal, I don’t remember exactly. And since the officialities could not get their presumtion confirmed from grown up traitors, they thought to ask the kids. I can remember even now the tall imposing policeman that asked “Is your granma making tuica?” while we were looking up at him for the dwarf-sized kindergarten chairs. I ignored him. My littler sister, just a kid of 3, could not defend herself, even if the teacher was insisting on him to leave us kids alone. So my sister admitted that it was true. The officialities never knew about this. The policeman had suddenly become a good friend who came to visit often, to pick up his payment.
I don’t recall too much more. All I really remember is seeing the pork head and thinking it was so disgusting. And that soon after the revolution you could buy oranges, without actually having to wait for 3 hours in a line while making room with your elbows. That was enough for me as a kid to understand that something was better. Plus the school vacation, wich suddenly got bigger!

I was paralysed with fear. I could hear the person at my door trying to get in. I did not know what to do, and I though that if I’d move, the person would hear me and then I had no way out of this, for sure. When I heard the door opening I took whatever I could grab. And I waited. When the door to my room opened, I hit her. And then I ran away. I could see her body, ’cause it was a she, and it was weird looking, with a big belly and huge boobs, over wich some unkempt hair stood out. I could not see the face. I could only guess her hideous hate.

Then I am in a different place, with some family. The same hideous appearence in her gray-bluish costume, with a weird gun trying, with the certainity of the winner, to kill. All I remember is that I threw a spike at her and that her eyes promised to revenge even if you could see a hint of doubt, and some blood, for once.

And then I woke up. I remembered I had seen “No country for old men” the night before. It is the third time when this happens. I get nightmares from movies with a lot of violence in them. The first one that gave me the nightmares was Mel Gibson’s Passion of Christ. The second, Mel Gibson’s again, Apocalypto. One could say that everything Mel can do is give nightmares to people.

But, boy, this movie was just the best I even seen (>read this with a Southern accent). I think that Bardem did a great job. I still hate thim for having played such a role, because, no doubt, anyone would hate a killer like Chigurh, and it’s still hard for me to make the difference between the actor and the character. That is because he scared me so goddamn much.

And the second thing that makes me say it’s a great movie, eh, well, it’s my bad, but it really tricked me into believeing it was actually made in the ‘70 or so. I mean, really, I tried to find everything that might betray its recent age, but nothing. All the details were so well thought, the hotel rooms, the streets, the people’s clothes, the haircuts, the two kids at the end(that really convinced me). I usually guess the decade when movies were made. This one tricked me, and I had been told it’s new… I just thought I got it wrong. Besides, I was thinking that Woody Harrelson looked older just because of the cameras they used in the ‘70. And at some piont I convinced mself that it was not Tommy Lee Jones who played the Sheriff.
Not that I complain about it, but I still wonder why the killer in the movie turned to be a woman in my dream?

Marocul poate fi o tara destul de interesanta. Daca alegi sa te duci intr-un orasel mai retras, cum ar fi Oualidia, aflat in partea de nord-est a Marocului, poti avea parte de cateva lucruri placute fara prea mari batai de cap. Poti sa te bucuri de o portie de stridii dintre cele mai bune din lume, si vestite pe deasupra, insa daca nu esti pasionat de fructele de mare, parerea mea este ca ar trebui sa stai deoparte.

Nu de alta, dar dupa primele trei care mi s-au parut ca semanau cu melci negatiti cu mult mucus pe ei, am aflat, spre rusinea mea, ca intr-adevar nu erau gatite. Atunci o mie de ganduri negre mi-au trecut prin cap, referitoare la tot felul de boli pentru ca o multime de microbi marini necunoscuti ar fi putut sa ma atace.

Trecand cu bine de acest episod cvasi-debordant, a doua zi am facut o plimbare pe malul Atlanticului. Chiar si intr-o zi de iarna te poti bucura de cate ceva interesant de vazut.
Desi e o tara islamica, in care religia interzice bautura si tigarile, poti sa gasesti intotdeuna un vin bun la restaurante si la hoteluri. Vinul marocan nu e nici pe departe comparabil cu vinul romanesc. Cel mai sec vin romanesc pe care l-am baut eu era dulce. Insa cele marocane sunt intr-adevar seci, de-ti lasa gura punga, fapt care insa nu te descurajeaza, din contra, parca te purifica atat de profund, incat vrei sa bei mai abitir.

Sarind peste alte seri petrecute la lumina lampii filtrata prin sticla de vin, ajungem in Marrakech, unde lucrurile iau o intorsatura incredibila, unde intensitatea trairilor e in ton cu intensitatea infometata a privirilor care te fixeaza. Primul lucru care te frapeaza in Marrakech e faptul ca esti primul turist care a calcat vreodata pamantul lor islamic. Adica, asa, la modul figurat vorbind. Ceea ce se intampla in realitate e ca aproape toata lumea se holbeaza la tine si incearca sa te acroseze pe strada. Daca ai norocul sa te cazezi chiar intr-o zona centrala, in vechea medina, o sa ajungi sa vrei sa te dai cu capul de pereti. Putintica rabdare, stimabililor, si o sa va spun si de ce.

Exista la ei niste souk-uri centrale, care sunt piete la noi, cam cum erau alea din Europa, da’ Europa aia din Bucuresti, nu din afara. Exista piete separate pentru ce vrei si ce nu vrei. Covoare, jillab-uri (hainele lor traditionale sau religioase), bijuterii, piele, obiecte decorative, ustensile de gatit, si multe altele. Aici toti oamenii sunt foarte politicosi. Iti dau toti buna ziua, intai in franceza, apoi in engleza si daca nici atunci nu le raspunzi, in spaniola. Unii mai stiu si alte limbi si le incearca si pe acelea. Daca ai fost indeajuns de dragut, in naivitatea ta de turist cu bani, sa le raspunzi, al lor esti. Te intreaba ce vrei, apoi te intreaba de unde esti, si apoi diverse lucruri ca sa iti dea impresia ca sunt interesati de persoana ta deosebita. Se ajunge la negociere, care este o adevarata arta. Asta daca o stapanesti. Daca nu mai vrei sa negociezi, unii te iau foarte gentil de maneca, cu o politete desavarsita pentru a te obliga subliminal sa nu pleci. Ei bine, eu m-am smucit si am plecat, nu ma las eu invinsa de asemenea metode psihologice.

Daca vrei neaparat sa iti cumperi un costum traditional, un covor de 500 de kilograme, un vas traditional numit tagine, fie si o bratara, trebuie sa negociezi. Pe bune. Preturile lor nu sunt afisate ca la noi, ca la noi daca vin cei de la PC, adica protectia consumatorului, si ne vad fara preturi in magazine ne dau amenzi. La ei probabil ca le da garda imperiala amenda pentru ca nu i-au pacalit pe ametitii de turisti. Spuneam mai devreme ca este o arta negocierea din urmatoarele motive: 1. primul lor pret este de cel putin trei ori mai mare, intotdeuna; 2. porneste de la un pret mai mic decat cel pe care esti dispus sa il platesti; 3. fii pregatit ca atunci cand spui un pret prea mic sa fii scos frumusel din magazin- unii dintre ei sunt profund ofensati si nu negociaza ci te iau de maneca sa te dea afara, fenomen pe care nu am reusit sa il inteleg. Cred ca acestia sunt cu adevaret cei onesti. Am intalnit numai doi. Daca vrei sa scapi de orice stres vorbeste in romaneste. Nu o sa se tina prea mult dupa tine.

Daca ai esuat la punctul 2 si ai spus pretul direct, tine-o una si buna sau mai ridica pretul cu vreo 10 Dirhams( 1 euro). Mie mi-a ajuns sa negociez de trei ori. Am obosit psihic pur si simplu. Voiam decat sa merg si sa ma intind, sa ma relaxez si sa imi incerc noul meu costum pentru care aveam mandra satisfactie de a-l fi negociat la sange. Dar ziua nu se terminase, si pentru ca in ziua aceea nu ne rataciseram inca, pentru a urma obiceiul deja format din zilele anterioare, a trebuit sa incercam din nou. Nu ne-am ratacit prea tare dar am dat de una si mai boacana. Niste copii musulmani catarati pe zidul exterior al medinei aruncau cu pietre in trecatori. Nu oricare trecatori, mi-a soptit paranoia mea, ci doar cei ce pareau mai occidentali. Printre care ne numaram si noi. In religia lor e pacat ca un infidel sa arunce cu pietre in ei, dar ei cica au dreptul sa arunce cu pietre in “infidei”. In fine, copii sunt copii, si nu stiu ce fac.

Ar mai fi de mentionat ca… da, sunt si lucruri frumoase de vazut. Daca reusesti sa ajungi undeva, that is. In primul rand taximetristi sunt niste scamatori de prima mana. In Casablanca sunt cinstiti si nu incearca sa te insele. In Marrakech, fie preturile sunt duble, asta daca, bineinteles, negociezi, fie… nu ai negociat indeajuns. Orice ar fi, nu trebuie sa te urci in masina pana nu ai negociat pretul. Si oricum vei plati mai mult decat ar trebui.

In ceea ce priveste femeile occidentale, ele au un statut aparte. Toti barbatii musulmani le “admira”. Privirea lor spune doua lucruri si nici unui incepator intr-ale citirii in ochi nu i-ar fi greu sa isi dea seama. Acestea sunt ura si dorinta, uneori de o intensitate agresiva. Asta din cauza ca femeile lor sunt mereu acoperite si nu lasa sa se vada nimic. Sunt si femei musulmane care se imbraca occidental, insa problema barbatilor lor e mai veche de vreo 14 secole si se cheama frustrare.

Inca un lucru memorabil sunt ghizii orasului. Aceia care se autoproclameaza cu de la sine putere, cand tu mergand pe strada linistit, ca omul, ei incep sa iti spuna unde este cutare loc si daca le-ai zis un cuvintel-doua, in semn de multumire si de infaptuire a comunicarii, iti cer bani. Pentru ca ti-au spus unde este cutare piata. Hai serios.

Si sa nu uit. Este un termen anume pentru Marrakech, numit “the city rage.” Atunci vrei sa te dai cu capul de pereti sau eventual de al uni avion in timp ce te duuuce…

Rewind. In urma cu aproape doi ani am auzit o poveste. Era despre o familie de tigani care, plecati in Germania, se duceau la magazine, cumparau ce expira foarte curand si apoi se duceau dandu-se bolnavi, sa ceara in gura mare despagubiri managerilor. La o discutie deschisa, unul marturiseste: “Stii, noi profitam de bunul simt al omului.”

Fast forward. Cam asa si cu Marakesii nostri. Daca esti baiat cu obraz subtire, ta manaca si oile lor pe care urmeaza sa le sacrifice de E’id.

Lucrurile se petrec in felul urmator. Pentru ca ai atatea optiuni minunate de a te distra, poti sa faci cam urmatoarele lucruri intr-o duminica. Poti sa mergi la lacul inghetat, un fel de wanna-be patinoar pentru moment.

Si admiri talentele de a cadea ale altora.

Te holbezi la turta dulce si acadele, in timp ce asculti colinde. Ai zice ca mai e Craciun inca.

Daca vrei sa te odihnesti… poti sa mai astepti pana la primavara.

Oh, americanii sunt aici!

Si Mos Craciun se apara de intemperii…

Si daca te plictisesti rau te poti duce in Las Vegas.

I know a person that has an obsession. It is not such a harmful one, especially for her, since she does not realise she has it. It’s rather annoying for others.

But lemme introduce you to a whole new world first. If you didn’t know yet, there are demons and angels in this world, and when things go bad you can bet that there is a devil around, grinning tar through his teeth at your infortune. And then, angels come in the scene to straighten it all out for you. It’s like the good guys and the bad guys are fighting for your wonderful self, and you just have to sit quiet and pray.

I for one, think the demons can be some pretty groovy dudes. I mean, I can already imagine them, when someone is fighting, that they are wagging their pointed tails back and forth like felines, resting on their trident with their left arm, and chewing on hot coals as if it was popcorn, making comments at each other about who is going to win. I don’t know what the angels do. I don’t have that much imagination.

When somebody starts to argue, when they are swearing, even when they are sick, this person I know (let’s call it P.) feels like god asks to be given some holy water or some incense, holy incense, frickinsense or whatever you call it. Oh, I guess I meant franckincense.

I know for a fact that if I want to challenge her to duel with holy water against the demon, I just have to say something that contains the simplest form of demon in it, like if I say “ce dracu” sau “ce mama dracu,” wich basically means “what the devil,” P will become personally offended and almost feeling like a sinner for only hearing this word.Then comes the holy water around the house and maybe some incense, so my demons go away.

But nothing can rise up to the devilish offense of finding some chewed gum stuck on your door. Purposefully!! It means, no doubt, someone has an agreement with the devil to do some bad things to you. Therefore you can proceed to vigourously irrigate the hallway with holy water to exorcise the blasphemy within the entire block. There you go, little devils, you can’t touch me now!