Livin' Medina Loca

Tetuan, Morocco. After our initiation in Tangier we decided to head south, to the small city of Tetuan. Similar to our first stop, Tetuan is dominated by an old Medina filled with a cast of colorful characters. We wandering around the twisting streets without much enthusiasm, gazing at the markets and avoiding the touts, until the sound of distant chanting voices began to permeate the air. We paused and listened as the voices steadily grew louder, bolder, more urgent, a wailing Arabic cry. It grew closer and closer until suddenly, our doom had arrived. Here in the tight Medina alleyways, with no where to run and no place to hide, an angry mob had rounded a corner and rushed headlong towards us.


My mind reeled. A few moments earlier Xander had mentioned to an inquisitive tout that we were American. It stood to reason that a furious cabal had now gathered to kill us. America is not very popular these days, what with our growing national debt, unbalanced trade deficits, and mishandling of prescription drug coverage for seniors. Oh right, and that pesky war with Iraq--nearly forgot that one. I was not certain whether we had done anything to Morocco directly, though I had heard rumors of a plan to open a Walmart in the Medina. Perhaps they were inflamed by the prospect of rock-bottom prices on everything from figs to camel-hide coats.
From around the corner they streamed: twenty, forty, sixty men--I lost count. The narrow corridor forced them to bunch up tight, forming a ferocious river of heads and bodies. The chanting intensified, fists pumped in the air, and stamping feet rattled the ground. Swiftly they descended upon us. This was definitely the end. We stumbled backwards into an intersection. I froze upon seeing the wooden casket they held to bury what would remain of my tattered corpse. I prayed quickly to God that when I died no one would ever uncover my secret obsession with Ricky Martin. And then the most curious thing happened--the crowd veered away from us. Onwards they flowed, passing us by, a harmless brook. They were nott coming to kills us at all. We had merely stumbled on a funeral procession. As they passed I noticed more and more people joining the crowd. It seemed anyone could jump in and participate, so we shrugged, and followed.
The throng turned left and right, back and forth, winding their way through the Medina towards (for us anyways) an unknown destination. Lagging behind, we were stopped by a policeman as a second funeral procession appeared. Followed by an array of smartly dressed individuals--some in formal military uniforms--we believe we witnessed the procession of a dignitary of some sort. Eventually allowed to pass, we continued following the masses through an ornate gate to a large, open-air stone plaza bordering a cemetery. A group of old men dressed in traditional robes (called djellabah) sat chanting on a stone bench. They seemed unconnected with the ceremony, in their own world, a permanent chanting section for the deceased. We stood back, taking in the experience, soaking in it, until the body was interred and the crowd dispersed.