How to tie a scarf in Morocco

Face2face in Peru

patricia — Thu, 23 May 2013 11:02:00 GMT

The smell of printing my own prints reminds me of those days. It feels like making my own shoes. I moved to digital when my mom died. These days I don’t leave home without my Canon S95 in my pocket.

I am an adventuress who is driven to explore the world. I lived in Papua New Guinea, Australia, Boston, London, Halifax, Toronto, Winnipeg, and Vancouver.

I am a writer who writes about pictures. I am a photographer who photographs stories. Both steal: I indebted to everything for revealing something of its essence to me.

A 'place' I have visited

patricia — Thu, 23 May 2013 11:00:17 GMT

I am a Harvard graduate and art school drop out. My Turkish grandfather lived and worked in his studio on Selkirk Avenue in the north-end of Winnipeg My Russian grandmother and then my mother hand-painted his photos. The smell of printing my own prints reminds me of those days. It feels like making my own shoes. I moved to digital when my mom died. These days I don’t leave home without my Canon S95 in my pocket. I am an adventuress who is driven to explore the world. I lived in Papua New Guinea (www.travelblog.org/bloggers/global-adventuress), Australia, Boston, London, Halifax, Toronto, Winnipeg, and Vancouver. I am a writer who writes about pictures. I am a photographer who photographs stories. Both steal: I indebted to everything for revealing something of its essence to me.

Photos: How to tie a scarf in Morocco

patricia — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 05:53:00 GMT

My Scholarship entry - A local encounter that changed my life

patricia — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 05:46:00 GMT

On my last day in Marrakesh, a German traveller from my hotel has accompanied to this hammam (traditional bathhouse). Nude with shampoo in one of her hands and a dollop of soap in the other, she asks, “What should I do?” She repeats. I whisper, “Go with it.” She is led into another room.

A large woman with bouncing breasts slithers my body with black soap made from the resin of olives. Endless minutes of brisk scouring punishment follow. Heat rises from the satiny hand-polished limestone plaster floors and the hot water that is splashed at me washes away dead skin. I listen to the Arabic symphony of naked women gossiping with each other and parenting their children.

Now I wait in the cold change-room and study a mother lovingly tie a white scarf around her daughter’s head. This exquisite moment is the closest I have been to a Moroccan woman.

I track the woman’s capable hands that sculpture the fabric with precision to a position that emphasizes the prepubescent’s cheekbones. The daughter dutifully supports her hand where it has been placed. Mom swings another portion of the scarf over itself and around. These movements and gestures make up a poetry that has been danced everyday throughout the centuries.
The mother’s gaze soothes and comforts. She is strict and loving at the same time. With the bend of the triangular piece, presto the scarf holds itself closed. No knots are seen. Her daughter’s beauty is visible. It shines.

The young girl throws back her head and looks into the mirror. Love is showered onto the reflection. This is a precious depiction of joy of oneself. Her profile with generous lips shows the beginning of a pout upon her confident smirk. The scarf hides her dark hair and long neck. Below the scarf she is already in her pyjamas.

Outside in the city hustle, I tell my fellow traveller about my glimpse into the Moroccan female but words don’t do it justice. However I will never wear a scarf without remembering how to tie a scarf in Morocco.