Memories

 

This is a true story of a trip I took one year in the Mediterranean.  It tells of what I saw, and have never forgotten.  Perhaps in my telling, you won’t be able to forget it either.

It was summer, 1974 – nearly 37 years ago.  And I had joined a guided tour group on one of those Wham-Bang, six countries in four days kind of deals.  The “cruise ship”, such as it was, was a converted “packet steamer” probably left over from World War Two.  Years past it’s prime, it chugged along at an amazingly slow pace from port to port, while the tour party soaked up local culture and customs along the way.

We were told that it had originally been used to transport small cargoes from place to place, whereby it gained its name, The packet ship Tartanian.  It consisted of about eight “staterooms” which were little more than sleeping rooms and a larger room called “the Lounge”, which, by any standards was nothing more than an open room with a small bar.  By “small”, I mean small – six stools for sitting around a five-foot “bar” which only served beer, and a few assorted liquors.  Nothing fancy, and certainly nothing to brag about.  But it was cheap, and a good way to spend part of the summer.

I believe there was a crew of six.  Maybe more, maybe less.  It’s hard to remember.  As we docked at each port of call, it seemed as if a swarm of dockworkers swarmed aboard, loading and unloading packages and cargo for somewhere else.

But looking back on it now, it is one of my most often memories because of what happened in Morocco.

Morocco is on the north end of Africa, along the Mediterranean Sea.  Primarily a desert country, it is profusely populated by date trees.  Dates and date trees everywhere.  Makes a lot of sense, since dates prefer desert heat during their growing cycle, and which are a staple of the Arab diet.  It was said that an Arab could survive in the desert eating only six dates a day.  By local custom, the most popular date seemed to be of the Medjool variety, fat, plump, and dark brown.  In fact, in “typical” Arabian restaurants – the places that tourists were guided to, used dates as an appetizer.  When a guest was seated, a bowl of dates was brought to each table, without charge.  Like some restaurants use bowls of popcorn, Arabians – at least Moroccans - use dates.

Anyway, our tour guide had taken us to this little hole-in-the-wall “native” restaurant, for an afternoon “snack”.  Many Arabians don’t eat a formal lunch, during the heat of the day, but prefer “lunch” later in the afternoon, when it’s generally a bit cooler than mid-day, then the larger meal late in the evening when it’s often much cooler, around ten p.m. or so.

This restaurant – I can’t even remember it’s name – contained about a dozen chairs and tables – a mismatched collection of different styles and types, looking as if they had been collected from various flea markets and swap meets all over the world, along with two large round tables about a foot off the floor.  Each of these two tables was surrounded by numerous large pillows – and no chairs at all.  The tour guide explained that these large tables were used primarily by “natives”, whose custom was to sit on the floor, or on the pillows instead of the “Western-style” chairs.

Here’s where my memory gets good!

A small group of us – four as I recall – had gotten off the Tartanian to visit the market place, and sample the food in the town’s Bazaar.  While we were sitting there a party of four entered, and proceeded to seat themselves around one of the larger tables.

Let me describe that a little better for you…..

The party of four were wearing Arabian dress, and were led by one whose clothing was obviously better than those of the two men who followed him  In fact, his clothing was noticeably better, and it was apparent that he was a man of some importance.  The two men who followed him, were obviously subservient, perhaps business acquaintances, or friends.  And last in their party, and following the three men, was a young woman, wearing the somewhat traditional long dress, covering her entire body down to her feet, and a head covering scarf, revealing only her eyes, which seemed to be dark and mysterious behind a veil which covered the rest of her face.

The men were busy in conversation in what I had to assume was Arabic, and they seemed to totally be ignoring the woman, who was simply tagging along after them.  Head slightly bowed, and studying the floor to prevent tripping over her long dress.

As the leader selected the table to sit at, the other two men stood attentively until he seated himself satisfactorily.  Once seated, the other two men seated themselves on cushions to his left, and the woman knelt directly on the floor to his right.

Immediately a waiter appeared carrying the obligatory bowl of dates and placed it in the center of the table.  A single word was given by the leader, the waiter acknowledged the command by a small bow, and left for the kitchen.  He returned a moment later with a cart which carried an ornate copper Samovar -–a Russian coffee brewer-pot-or cooker, from which freshly brewed thick pungent coffee would be poured directly into small cups.

Apparently the coffee had been brewing for some time, since by local custom, the coffee beans were directly boiled whole and allowed to steep for some time to make the liquid thick and pungent.

The leader of the group waved his hand over the bowl of dates, signifying that his companions should partake of the snack.  His two companions eagerly reached for the dates, selected a few, and placed them on small paper napkins provided for their use.

The woman, meantime, had not spoken, or indicated in any way that she wanted any of the dates.  She kept her head bowed, and looked at the floor, almost as if she were counting the tiles with great interest or counting the bugs as they skittered across the tiles.

Our tour guide explained that as a woman, she was an outsider to men’s conversations.

“She’s his virgin”, he explained in hushed tones.  “She’s here to serve him, not to participate.”

The waiter returned to the Samovar, with three tiny cups and saucers, and that’s when it hit me!  She wasn’t going to get any.  She was like a servant.  There, but not there.

The waiter served the coffee into the three cups, placing each on a tiny saucer and placing all three in front of the woman.  Not a word was said, but she acknowledged the waiter, and the cups of coffee by nodding to him, without looking at him.

It seemed to me that the waiter had been very skimpy with the coffee.  It looked as if he had only half-filled the tiny cups to begin with.  I was soon to find out why.

The Arabian leader turned to the woman, and uttered a single word.  I couldn’t understand him, but our tour guide translated.   “Milk!” he had said.

She raised her left hand to her right shoulder, and undid the clasp holding the fabric of her dress across the upper part of her body, dropping the fabric away, and revealing her bare breasts.  They were full and firm.  What the English call “A fair bit of flesh!” probably a full, firm, size C cup.

Totally ignoring that her breasts were bare, she picked up each of the tiny cups, brought each to her breast, and with her free hand, squeezed her breast, squirting breast milk directly into the cups.  The Mexicans would call it “Café con Leche” – Coffee with Milk.

The twist that made it, for me, was that it was HER milk that went into the cup!  She was lactating…..  She was a walking milk bottle for the men in her party.  Somehow this was wildly erotic for me.  And, the fact that she was a virgin!  As I understood it, females began to lactate only after having children.  So a lactating virgin would be an oxymoron – a self-canceling concept.

She continued to squeeze her milk into each of the tiny cups, until each was filled, which is why the waiter had filled each cup only part way, leaving room for the milk she would produce. 

Once she had filled each cup, she placed it in front of one of the men, leader first, then his two companions.  She dutifully raised the fabric of her dress securing the free end at her right shoulder, covering her breasts again.

As I watched she lowered her eyes to the floor again, and acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened in the past couple of minutes.

The men continued their conversation, and once again, ignored her presence.

The waiter returned, bearing a platter of Farina D’Or – roughly translated as “Golden Nuggets”, a Moroccan delicacy.  They are about the size of a plum, a dough, much like a dumpling, boiled in very hot oil to a golden brown, then rolled in a mixture of sugar and cinnamon, and eaten while still hot.  In America, we have a similar product called a “donut hole”, which is the dough removed from the center of a donut, and cooked separately.  In taste, the nuggets resemble the Mexican Churro – a six-to-eight inch pastry stick that is also cooked in oil and coated with a sugar and cinnamon mix.

I glanced around the room while munching on a hot nugget, it seemed as if no one had taken notice of anything different – that anything out of the ordinary had happened.  Our party contained one woman, and it appeared as if she was the only person in the entire room that had been shocked, or otherwise affected by the sight of a young woman baring her breasts and milking herself in public for the benefit of the men in her party.

I fantasized about it for the rest of the day.  In fact, for the rest of the trip.  In fact, every day for the 36 years since!  I wonder what she thought about when she served her maser in this manner.  And I wondered how such a custom grew, and above all, what would cause a woman to participate in such a ritual?

I remember the phrase; “There are eight million stories in the City.  This has been one of them!”

 

07.11.11