The Olive Mill

I had a really interesting day yesterday: I went to visit my host mother in the morning (Malika) and we got to talking about olive oil. I inquired if there were any old-fashioned mule-powered olive mills in one of the villages here. She said there were but wasn't sure if they were using them right now because the olive harvest was bad this year. She offered to take me to see one in the afternoon. We met again at 3pm and walked into town, first stopping by the pharmacy to say hello to Naima. We told her of our mission and she said we should go see Abdul's mill out on the road to Marrakech. She knows him and his family well and they have a little roadside shop selling various olive oil and argan products. It's about 2km away and Malika wanted to take the bus. As we were talking logistics, in walked Abdul himself! He owns a car and immediately agreed to show us the mill and drive us there. He's about 60 years old, speaks some English mixed in with German. Malika and I piled into his car with one of his construction workers and went to the farm. We entered the gated orchards and were greeted with a handful of parked 4-wheelers and a couple houses in construction. Abdul invited us to his house, a total bachelor pad; the kind of place you'd imagine some old renowned author to be hiding out in. Olive trees and dried out flower pots and fountains surrounded a courtyard sprinkled with roaming chickens, cats, and two enormous peacocks. We passed by decrepit couches scattered on the mosaic tiled verandah and entered his lair: One long room filled with more sofas and wicker furniture. Opaque laced sheets were draped loosely across the ceiling while vases of dried flowers and piles of old books filled every table. I loved it. He motioned for us to go sit on a sofa next to his bed while he disappeared to his kitchen. The coffee table in front of us was overflowing with “stuff”: Empty bottles of wine and orange juice, a plate of cracked pumpkin seeds, more books, an ashtray full of half-smoked cigarettes. Abdul handed us each a glass, placed a bag of dates in front of us, and perched himself on the edge of his bed. We held on to our empty glasses as he lit up smoke after smoke and told me about himself. Abdul is originally from here but studied in Germany and married a German woman. He spent 30 years there, raising 2 daughters. After his wife died, he retired and moved back to Morocco about 2 years ago. He indicated each of his family member’s portraits on the wall surrounding his bed. The biggest one was of a gorgeous young woman with long auburn hair: his late wife. He said he’s happy here, back in his homeland, running his farm, enjoying the sun, his whiskey and cigarettes. I kept wondering how Malika was taking all this in. She smiled and nodded even though we were speaking mostly English and German.

Abdul then took us next door to a house he’d recently begun leasing to an English-Austrian couple: Kevin and Bettina. They look to be about Abdul’s age- in their 60’s. Kevin was sitting on the patio, in his sweats and rubber boots, smoking and drinking “Speciale” beer. Bettina and her 3 little dogs gave Malika and me a tour of the house. They’d moved in a month ago from Portugal. The house was beautiful and spacious, all tiled and painted in blues and whites. Afterwards, she offered me a glass of wine or whiskey and I self-consciously declined, feeling slightly embarrassed to even be offered that in Malika’s presence. We sat on the patio and chatted a long while as Bettina, Kevin, and Abdul puffed and drank away. Kevin has lived in several Arab countries working with the British military and is retired now. Bettina is a golf teacher and works in partnership with Hotel Palmeraie in Marrakech. I told them of the bakery project we’re working on with the Women’s Association, and the prospective fruit dryer project we hope to be working on this summer. Abdul had heard about it all through Naima and offered to help in any way he can.

As the sun set and the cold surrounded us, we bid goodbye to Bettina and Kevin and finally went to see the olive mill across the street. Abdul was slurring his words considerably more now and his breath smelled of wine, but he was lucid enough to give us a pleasant tour of his domain. I photographed the mill (not in operation but cool nonetheless) and we visited the orchards and vegetable gardens. We looped back to his house and he offered to sit a while before driving us home. We hesitated but Malika seemed okay with staying a while longer, so I agreed. We sat next to his bed again, huddled around his space heater, and listened to his comparisons of Europe versus Morocco: Morocco is full of bandits, but there is sunlight and life is good. Europe is efficient and correct yet stressful and has a tendency to seep the life out of you. Around 7, we made a move to go home. Abdul graciously and carefully drove us back to town, where we met Naima closing shop and gave her a recount of our adventurous afternoon. Malika seemed pretty happy with the way the day had turned out, despite that it wasn’t at all what we’d expected. I learned there is a wealth of personalities in this place, and I hope to meet more of them in the future.