Lunch with the Ambassador

It's not everyday you get to chill out with the high-ups in our government and much less in an informal setting, but just recently I got the chance to do that.  I can't explain exactly how it all came about.  It could have been that through my email blasting, which I've been doing over the last month, that word got around about my counterpart's trip to the U.S. to participate in the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market and at the opening of an exhibition titled Empowering Women hosted by the Museum of International Folk Art.  Another possibility was a referral from a dear friend of the Cherry Buttons Cooperative, Dr. Susan Schaeffer Davis, who not too long ago brought a delegation of U.S. Americans to Morocco and took them on a tour of events, some of which were attended by embassy staff and perhaps even the ambassador's wife.  Dr. Davis was one of the victims of my email blast to which she responded and said that she had recommended that the embassy staff meet my counterpart, Amina Yabis, if they were ever in the Fez region.

I got a call from Peace Corps staff alerting me of the ambassador's visit a couple of days prior to the expected arrival date, and then shortly after that phone call, embassy staff contacted me.  I was given a date, but few specifics: only that the ambassador's wife wanted to meet Amina and that they were aware that a Peace Corps volunteer was in the neighborhood so they also asked that I be present.  I was told not to contact security personnel as they would be responsible for doing so.  I relayed the information to my counterpart, but I forgot to tell her not to call any security personnel.

The day before their arrival, embassy security called me to give me an approximate time of when they would be there and to settle on a meeting point.  At the time, Sefrou was in full Cherry Festival mode.  The streets were decorated, there was a lot of foot traffic, music playing on different stages throughout the city, fantasia was on exhibit in the evenings, and expo tents were set up all over town, but the visit was not to partake of the festivities.  We decided we would meet at the artisana tent expo where Amina would be present with her cooperative ladies.

The following day there was a bit of drama.  Amina had told the Pasha, the equivalent of the security chief of the region, about the ambassador's visit and that he and his family may possibly dine in her home.  Amina said the Pasha did not take too well to the late notice and rebuked Amina for it.  At the artisana expo, local security personnel from either the police or other services approached Amina for more details, but she had none to give.  She told them to speak to me and I told them exactly what I had told Amina.  They wanted an itinerary that I simply didn't have.  When they realized that we were in the dark as much as they were, they cooled off and later on apologized to Amina.

As soon as the drama subsided, the black Suburbans arrived.  Amina and I went over to meet Ambassador Kaplan and his wife as they exited their vehicle.  On another suburban, members of the ambassador's family got out and we greeted them all.  A couple of volunteers who were planning to meet with Amina for Camp GLOW business came over to the tent and also greeted the ambassador and his family.  The ambassador's wife went over to Amina's booth, greeted the coop ladies and apprentices, and her family got to buying the coop's famous button necklaces and bracelets.

In conversation with security personnel, we determined that Amina would indeed host the ambassador and his family at her home for lunch.  As soon as we decided, Amina took off to get things prepared.

In the meantime, the ambassador and his family took a lap around the artisana expo with only the entourage of the security personnel.  The ambassador's visit was quite a contrast to the visit from the Minister of Artisana who had come through Sefrou only a few months back.  The entourage that followed that man was a good 50 meters long of what we PCV's call The Suits.  When the minister came to the artisana, all the artisans, members of the chamber of artisana, apprentices, and even myself formed a line for the minister to shake our hands.  Security personnel were out in full force with multiple vans shadowing the glossy, black Mercedes Benz-- the typical transport for government officials.  It was just a lot of pomp and circumstance everywhere.

I was happy that the political entourage was not there.  After all, this was not an official visit.  He did not come to make a proclamation or to shake hands with the political hierarchy; the ambassador and his family were here as your everyday tourist.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Jewish cemetery in Sefrou.  I was about to say goodbye and to tell them that I would meet them at Amina's, but they urged me to come along.  I was honored to be accompanying the ambassador and his family, but more importantly I was psyched about the ride in the Suburbans.  For all my criticism of entourages, I was now part of one and I got to say that it did feel pretty cool.  The cemetery attendant greeted everyone with a "shalom" and then he began to blurt out some rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic that I could not understand nor could begin to translate.  Apparently, he thought that I was the tour guide for the group--not the first time this has happened.   The security personnel went over to the gentleman and explained that I was not Moroccan, but American, and that I was still learning.

The ambassador pointed to a grave that he said spelled out his first name Samuel in Hebrew.  The attendant led the group around the cemetery and pointed to graves where the remains had been removed and transported to Israel.  The ambassador said something to the effect that he had read that Sefrou had more of these empty graves than any other Jewish cemetery in Morocco.  In my nearly two years in Sefrou, this was my first time there.  It was interesting to see Hebrew written everywhere and to think that only 50 or so years ago Sefrou had a thriving Jewish population that lived in relative harmony with the Amazight and Arab population.

After the tour of the cemetery, we headed to Amina's home.  Once again I got to ride in the Suburban (it was cool the second time around as well).  Amina greeted the ambassador at the door beaming as she said in her limited English, "Welcome, welcome, welcome, and thank you, thank you, thank you."  We all sat down in Amina's living room and began to chat it up.  RPCV Gregg Johnson was there.  Amina's younger sister and her family were also there.  The ambassador and his family sat in one room while the security personnel sat in another not because there was not enough room, but because it was World Cup season and the other room had the TV tuned to the Paraguay vs. Slovakia match.

The ambassador and his family sat huddled towards one side of the room with the typical octagonal Moroccan table in the middle.  First, Amina's husband walked around with a water kettle and had everyone wash their hands.  Then, Amina began to bring out the food.  She did not do anything outside of what she normally does when she has guests visiting.   She served up the usual garnishes: small saucers of chopped tomato and cucumber, some saffron seasoned rice, some spicy tomato sauce, and a variety of olives.  She brought out the silverware in a tray that we passed around until everyone had one.  She also passed around a basket of bread.  Then, came the family platter of two oven-baked chickens with crunchy fries on top and a thick lemon sauce and green olives at the base--a classic Moroccan dish and one of my all-time favorites.  Not having individual plates to eat from, the ambassador's daughter asked, "So how do we do this?"

I proceeded with my vast knowledge of Moroccan table etiquette to explain how the bread serves as the fork or in essence kind of like a glove for one to dip and grab whatever is in one's real estate or food that is directly in front of you.  Gregg provided some cultural commentary on the tradition by explaining how eating in close proximity to each other and from the same platter was part of the community lifestyle that is exhibited in Moroccan society and how it serves to reinforce family bonds.  However, even with my exemplary demonstration on how to eat Moroccan style or the commentary, everyone went for the forks and went straight for the chicken.  Even though I am a big Moroccan bread fan, I'd much rather eat the meat without bread so I joined them fork in hand in prying the meat from chicken.  After getting our fill of all the garnishes and the chicken, Amina followed it with a platter of watermelon and big, fat Sefrouian cherries.

It was cool to see the ambassador and his family in an informal setting: his family kidding with him calling him "His Excellency" and his youngest grand-child taking bites out of the cherries and spraying everyone around with cherry juice.  It was great to see the ambassador almost eating Moroccan style.  I gave him a break.  It took me a while to replace the fork with bread.

He was happy to see that his security staff also got fed.  He mentioned that in some cases his security staff are not invited to eat.  Amina said that there was no way she would let those men go hungry.  The ambassador was extremely grateful for the food and the company, gave me and Amina his business card, and then we all posed for photos.

We walked the ambassador and his family back to their Suburbans.  I stayed behind with Amina and waved to them as they departed.  Amina was still overjoyed.  She still could not believe that  the Ambassador of the U.S. to the Kingdom of Morocco had dined in her home.  I was happy for her, but I was even more happy for the ambassador and his family who I believe got a different taste of Morocco here in Sefrou.  It was an exciting moment for me.  It was a pleasure to tag along with the ambassador and his family for a bit, being part of the entourage and riding in the Suburbans was a highlight, chowing down some Moroccan grub in typical Moroccan fashion, and just relaxing and shooting the breeze with him and his family.  It was a fine and memorable day in the life of another Peace Corps volunteer.