A SOUTHWESTERN SMALL TOWN 4TH OF JULY

I heard the splash before I felt the droplets. I turned to see my friend Patty and her children armed and ready. A steady stream erupted from yet another fire truck. Patty was fairly soaked by the larger stream of water emitted from the fire fighters bravely manning their stations. She was plainly outgunned. Her fault, really, being armed with her small single-stream water pistol; she was David in a losing battle with a Goliath armed a water bazooka hooked to a hose which lead to a tank of water.

Oh well, it’s the Fourth of July in Patagonia and veteran parade goers (I am one) know you best wear quick-dry clothes if you are right on the street during Patagonia’s 4^th of July Parade and Festival. Patagonia is a pretty little village nestled between the Patagonia and the Santa Rita Mountains, along Sonoita Creek. It is basically a two main street affair. A row of artsy shops and yummy restaurants in addition to its only general store sits along the north road and a large historic hotel, its local craft store, more yummy restaurants, a coffee shop and a beautiful church line the south road.

Patagonia is now a place people move to get away from the big city (the biggest nearby being the millionopolis of Tucson) or ranch lands that have been in families for generations. There are organic farms along the verdant Sonoita Creek bed and Spiritual Retreat Centers in the hills above the town.

There are several mining ghost towns on the dirt roads up in the Patagonia Mountains, quiet reminders of a booming industry that left a train station turned into Civic Center on a generous patch of park that stretches the two long blocks between its two main streets. It’s a place where neighbor absolutely knows neighbor and with that comes the civility of having to live next door to people you might not exactly agree with. It’s one of my favorite places to be on the 4^th in these United States.

Patagonia’s 4^th festivities are pretty downhome. Families arrive plenty early to stake out their canopy spots on the grounds of Patagonia’s generous central park. The Senior Center’s volunteers arrive early to organize the brat and root beer float concession in the Center’s spotless cafeteria. The Tombstone Vigilantes drive up in their colorful period costumes and noisy pistol replicas.

Sonoita horse ranchers show up with their horse trailers and their best-looking and calmest steeds for the Parade. The floats, fire engines and trucks, a flotilla of historic and really cool looking Model T’s and A’s and whatever else there are line up behind them and somewhere near the middle those adorable 4H kids tote the flag and sometimes drag their fairly well-behaved goat or dog or other 4H project turned life-long friend along. On July 4^th, Patagonia is a western Norman Rockwell painting.

Patty, her two children, my own grown son Daniel and I got there an hour later than usual but there was still plenty of spaces down the block in the Post Office lot. It was Patty’s first time but she had done her research (she is part of my adventure group and we all tend to do research before we head somewhere – it’s just what we do). We both had our snacks and our drinks. We had a camp chair for each of us. Patty and her kids had three water pistols plus a gallon of water for recharging the ammo. We all had sun screen which we forgot because that’s what one does in Arizona when the clouds provide some cover and your skin is not broiling from the sun.

We walked up the north road and started hunting ‘our spot’ along the long line of revelers already waiting in polite lines all the way down the three-block northern part of the loop around the City Park. In front of a beautiful villa-style stone house, I spotted an unattended sidewalk space big enough for our raucous group of five. The lone gentleman sitting on one of a row of patio chairs assured me it was just waiting for my group to come along. His name was Eric and he and his wife were LA transplants, migrating to Patagonia to escape the overwhelming busyness of the big city. It was his second Patagonia Parade. I could tell from his constant stream of visitors that he had already embraced the small town friendliness that comes with living in Patagonia.

To protect our ‘spot’ I added a couple of our own camp chairs to the line barricading the vehicle parking lane and got down to business of waiting for the parade to start. The other four, this being their first time in Patagonia, explored the Park where Dan investigated the many tasty food options at the Festival grounds on the other side of the Senior Center. Mexican foods are naturally a big favorite here in this village that might have been around since before it was even part of the United States.

Finally, we could hear before we could see the Parade color guards marching down the street. Then came the Parade Marshall followed by fire trucks and engines from pretty much all the volunteer and professional fire departments

in a 50-mile radius. A Navajo Hot Shot crew walked in front of the trucks carrying their pulaskis, picks and shovels. Firefighting is an honored tradition in these dusty hills and mountains and every year, and to thank them, these firefighters are given the special honor of being one of the first groups to lead the parade.

Float after float came drifting by. Many of them had water-soaking bandits hiding out in the interiors or on the decorated buckboards. Water, another of the village’s precious commodities, came raining from both the spectators and participants alike. Patagonia knows how to throw a really good water fight.

It didn’t take Patty and her kids long to realize blasts from their small streams of water usually was followed by perhaps a larger response from the parade participants but that was quickly followed up by the traditional wrapped candies now so ‘not allowed’ in other parades across the country. Patagonia trusts its neighbors to deliver safe candy and to stick around to pick up the mess.

Finally, the last float drifted by and the crowd began to collectively move toward the Festival grounds. A side trip back to our parked cars to stow our camp chairs made us a little late getting to the ‘hanging’, a skit with volunteers from the crowd being ‘tried’ by a judge from the Tombstone Vigilantes with trumped up charges being attested to by a ‘sheriff’ intent on having justice served. With ice cream if possible. After the hanging, we were treated to the music and dancing by the Redhouse family, proud Navajo traditional dancers Lenny and Tony with their musical sister Mary. Mary sings, chants, drums and plays the Native flute while her brothers celebrate Navajo culture with ritual dances.

 

As the festivities continued, our group headed to the cars and to the Patagonia-Sonoita Creek Preserve, a beautiful 873 acres of the richest riparian habitat left in Southern Arizona which is home to the first 2 miles of the permanently flowing Sonoita Creek. The kids (even my 25-year-old who might just be more of a kid than Patty’s tween boy) hunted crayfish in the meandering stream and watched the four indigenous and tiny fish species play out the ancient circle of life with the crayfish. Barefoot and bareheaded, it could have been a scene from Huckleberry Finn’s days.

Everything about Patagonia and that day remind me of what’s best of the United States – friendly and patriotic people willing to lend a hand to the community, happy people offering thanks for their freedoms and gratefulness for their families.

On our way back to Tucson, Dan and I saw a fountain burst somewhere near “A” Mountain, the official firing site for the Tucson 4^th of July firework display. Heading toward the parking garages at the University of Arizona, we parked and hiked up four levels to the top where an entirely different group of Americans waited patiently on the camp chairs with their coolers, dogs and kids for the traditional explosion of patriotic feeling we call the 4^th Fireworks. It’s tradition. It’s what we Americans do to celebrate ‘the bombs bursting in air (that) gave proof through the night that the flag was still there.”

I hope I continue to do something like this every Fourth – get away to a small town holding a celebration of being able to do small town things, then meet up with friends who come from all parts of the country and even other countries to view the 4^th of July fireworks. I hope I never lose the magic of patriotic music and flags and 4H kids with goats. I believe in what America has come to stand for and the reason so many people from other countries (including my own forefathers and mothers) float, fly, drive and even walk into this country.

The United States of America’s freedom is disorderly. Often my freedom impinges on someone else’s. But in the United States, our traditions would have us settling these disputes in legislatures and courts rather than by bullets. Of course, we Americans have the right, which we so often and deeply rely on, to disagree on how we want to live. And sometimes the far left or the far right act in ways which, although sometimes fueled by honest and heart-felt beliefs, take their resistance way too far into violence like the recent shooting in Charleston. But I don’t see a system out there that has been able to manage the great Melting Pot in the same way we have. Freedoms for one to be extended to all has meaning. Even just this past week our freedoms were expanded as gay couples finally were given the green light by the freedom arbitrator of our country – our Supreme Court - to marry who they love and with whom they want to be celebrating their 4th of Julys.

Freedom has a forward trajectory in our country. We are a messy and loud bunch of people where the beliefs might not all be the same but the love of freedom is constant. Living under our flag means being able to sew it on a pocket of my jeans in college just so I could sit on it as a protest against what I thought was wrong with these United States. Even then, I viewed the flag as important and I treat it with respect, but I’m glad I can live in a country that does not require me to think of it as a sacred icon, one that would wave at me as I hobbled to the jailhouse because I had a different way of believing than others. Long live these United States and its community celebration called the 4^th of July.

THE SOUL OF MAROC

I wrote much of this just a few hours before leaving Maroc, the name Moroccans give their ancient land. From the first moment of arriving, I felt its great welcome. I was asked am I tired? Am I hungry? How could my hosts help me feel better right in this moment, these first moments in Marrakech? It had not been a long flight from Madrid but the lines through immigration and customs made me both hungry and tired.

My hosts listened with ears that heard my needs and immediately began to address them as their guest in their beautiful country. And from that moment of arrival, they were constant in their desire to see my needs were addressed. I experienced many, many news things in Morocco and I have written about them in other blog posts.

My experiences in Morocco's South has made me believe that the desert, the great golden Sahara, has been a constant and guiding influence in the long history of Morocco and might just be its heart. The constant threat of danger formed a culture in which hospitality became the key to survival.

When I first pulled up Southern Morocco on Google Earth, I saw great swaths of mountains and plains (which I learned were called hamadas) slashed with stripes of verdant green. Southern Morocco's desert may be it's heart, but the life-giving rivers coming from the Atlas Mountains in the South's verdant and cultivated valleys are its blood, providing water for homes and crops in this otherwise seemingly inhospitable landscape.

But surely, it is the Moroccans themselves that are its soul. Moroccans, and particularly Amazigh Moroccans (who the English called Berbers) are very modest people. They are kind and thoughtful; they are clean and tidy, always ready to receive a guest as commanded by the Koran and the exigencies of an unforgiving desert. They are justifiably proud of the gifts their country can offer - the exotic adventures, the ancient kasbahs, the beautiful dunes of the desert, the stunning gorges cut by constant waters, the green and productive river valleys. But this pride does not make them arrogant. They are a humble and loving people. In writing this, I hope I do not offend their sense of modesty but how can I possibly explain why I think its people are the soul of Morocco without offering my readers a chance to meet some of the wonderful people I have met there?

For some, I have kept their names since they are businessmen and women and would love for my friends who might be traveling through Morocco to consider them for goods or services. For others, I have changed the name so that it might be less easy to identify them. For any offense, I beg apology.

As I was repacking and trying to cram my gifts into the one small suitcase I brought, my host Adrienne told me she hoped I wasn't 'disappointed' that we hadn't made it to Fez, one of the oldest and most historic of the Royal Cities. I was actually taken aback by the thought that I might be disappointed and took a few seconds to gather my thoughts about my stays in Boumalne Dades and areas further south. I finally settled on the truth of my visit which is even without tourist sites that surely must be listed in every guidebook known to the traveler, I had been given far more than memories and beautiful pictures to show my friends. I had given me the gift of getting to know its people, surely a gift far more valuable.

My last night in Boumalne, my hosts and I went from new friend to friend so I could say goodbye as would be proper in the desert where friendships mean a great deal. Almost all of these people had given me a small gift or a memory that is irreplaceable. Spending my last few hours seemed the courteous way to thank them for taking time to not only meet me, but to let me know they felt getting to know me was the most important thing they had to do whenever we spent time together.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would not have met Masu, my driver up and into the Tanghir Gorge (the subject of another blog post to come) whose smile is as as wide as the ocean and whose sense of humor exceeds the restrictions of the lack of common language. The three of us, Adrienne, Masu and I had a lively conversation all about the lack of common language and we laughed at our ignorance while acknowledging how much fun we were having together regardless. Masu reaffirmed my belief that lack of a common language is only a barrier if you NEED something but if your intent is to have a good time, to enjoy common experiences, common language is down the list of important ingredients.

Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have gotten to know Odmane, the general director of Xaluca Dades, the luxury hotel that was the site of my blog post HOT IN THE HAMMAN. When our overnight stay in the nomad encampment in the Sahara Desert was aborted due to an impending sandstorm, Odmane assisted us by making sure we had rooms in another Xaluca Hotel, Kasbah Hotel Tombouctou, outside of Merzouga and right under one of the Sahara's enormous collection of dunes, Erg Chebbi. Before the sandstorm hit, the hotel staff helped us hire camels and a camel guide to fulfill my deepest Moroccan wish - to sink my toes on the top of a sand dune in the Sahara.

Back in Boumalne on my last night in Marocco, we told Odmane of our experience riding our camels into the dunes to return to the hotel where the sandstorm rattled the doors on their hinges and sent sand drifting under the door, affirming our gratitude that we could still experience the desert but safely. Odmane, whose entire family had been in the Sahara tourism trade for generations, told of his first wild drive through a sandstorm, at 16-years-old, after the driver of the vehicle he was in refused to continue in the blinding storm. Feeling a heavy responsibility for his guest, he took over the wheel even though he was a very inexperienced driver, intent on finding a safe place in which he and his guest could weather the storm, only knowing he really was on the dirt road when he felt its washboards under his feet. From Odmane, I learned how deep runs a sense of responsibility in desert families for their guests.


Had my trip not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Odman, the merchant, a lanky, good-looking Amazigh (Berber) who invites his customers to Moroccan 'tea' right outside the door of his shop, one of the many doors down one of the many narrow alleys that form Boumalne Dades. I would not have met his beautiful sister who brought us tea with just a bit of saffron, a luxury spice even rare and valuable in Marocco. From Odman and his sister, I learned that Moroccan merchants take an interest in their customers needs and are willing to spend whatever time is necessary to fulfill them. I learned that a transaction with a Moroccan merchant provides an opportunity that goes beyond the purchase into friendship.

 



Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would not have encountered a traditionally-raised woman, whom I shall call Fatima whose marriage had been arranged as it was at that time in Marocco at the very early age of 13. She lost the husband of her 4 children also very early and, without any education, she has managed to raise a family of professionals - a lawyer, two sons certified to work in the tourist trade (very important in Marocco), and a budding mathematician who was studying for her finals during my visits. Now, with all of her children only home for visits, she lives in her spotlessly clean house in the family's kasbah and grows fruit and vegetables in the family plot along the river. She is younger than me. Fatima's happiness, peace and strength are palpable. From her, I learned the Moroccan family relationships, especially her right to bring her children to live in her family's kasbah, mean men and women are supported by their extended family in whatever way is needed. An offshoot of this strong family relationship (to the extent family members are not denied housing) is that homelessness is practically unheard of in Marocco.

Had my visit not been exactly the way it was, I would never have met Aziz Bolouz , who is a sports trainer that offers his family's stunning Kasbah Assafar perched high above the Valley of Roses to groups of athletes wanting a special place to train. Aziz, a runner, takes them up and down the mountains and valleys of the High Atlas, knowing every nook and cranny. Aziz told me he has met so many different kinds of people he wanted to know how people come to believe what they believe so in addition to his study of sports training he took a degree in philosophy. The night we were guests in his family's kasbah was spent dancing and accompanying the two Asafari who sang traditional songs until I could no longer keep my eyes open at 2am.

Aziz and I understand each other's need to be more outside than inside. We both constantly check the sky and track the sun on the mountains' many canyons. I hope to put together an adventure hike in the High Atlas in 2017 with Aziz as the provider of tents and other support. From Aziz, I learned of secret places in the High Atlas and of the great and ever-changing beauty of the sweeping Valley of Roses below his kasbah. He also reinforced the multi-faceted character of the Amazigh, living both in the modern world yet respecting very old fashioned traditions of respect for nature and for hospitality.

These are the people that are the soul of Morocco. Strong, resilient, honest, trust-worthy and reliable. Proud of their heritage but humble by nature. Important and honorable characteristics. I'm sure I would have loved seeing the ancient university in Fez or the great palaces in the other royal cities, but if my trip had not been exactly the way it was would I have made friends like these? I think not and for that I feel very blessed indeed.