Travel Journal

Ladies and Gents: Another one of those harem fantasies

First it's a desert storm in the Sahara, then a journey down the Congo river where he risked getting "smoked and consumed later" by cannibals, of course.  And now it's the Moroccan harem.  I have never had any sympathy for those who engage in journeys in which the sole purpose is to challenge the macho within them.  Other than freezing, I didn't feel a thing for those who went on the Everest expedition.  The visual effects, enhanced by the nauseating seats of the IMAX Theater might have been cool, but don't expect me to cry because you lost your toe climbing a hill.  You weren't supposed to be there in the first place, and that's what you get for foolishly pursuing a testosterone high. 

To go back to Tayler's harem, what can I say?  Ingres, Matisse, Delacroix, Picasso and a whole-lotta other orientalists before him depicted a harem where naked and semi-naked women pose vulnerably for an audience of perverted and frustrated men.  Ask Fati, she’ll tell you all about it.  Numerous pathologically pale odalisques wearing des culottes of all colors lay topless (and they have no beads to show for it) on a divan in an ambiance dominated by mystery, smoke, and above all, laziness.  Other than a slight change of attire, fashion-oblige, the women of Tayler’s harem could have been taken from any of Matisse’s paintings.  Several women, in what seems to be the middle of the day, lounging in the courtyard in negligees, painting their toes, looking at magazines… it sounds to me like a romanticized portrait of a late nineteenth and early twentieth century whore house in New Orleans’ red-light district.  

Now let’s shift for a sec from the object of the gaze to its subject.  Jeffery Tayler, a Don Quixote of the 21^st century, seems to constantly and intentionally expose his body to harm.  He embarks on a journey whose purpose is, let’s say, the discovery of self?  Now, there are very few places on this planet that remain authentic enough to serve as destinations for the lost, the failed, and the rebellious (the other planets are the realm of underachieving nerds).  Those who like it cold crawl up Everest, and when they like it hot, well, where else, Africa; which keeps me wondering how many more explorations are enough to consider it explored. Pharos, mosquitoes, whores, cannibals and all, and that’s precisely where Tayler goes. As for Latin America, that’s for overzealous M.B.A. students with imperialist ambitions and mediocre Spanish.

It is in Africa that Tayler fulfills his ultimate desire: placing his body at the mercy of barbaric “Others.”  A rape fantasy you might ask?  I wouldn’t go that far, although Freud would be down with that, but nobody listens to Freud no more.  Let’s just say that a psychoanalytical reading fits the text perfectly, just like Cinderella’s not too meaty, not too bony foot slides gracefully in the glass slipper -must have been very uncomfortable.  And speaking of Cinderella, what’s up with the cookie episode?  Totally Cinderella-esque, from the potion-filled malefic sweets, to the presence of the old woman, except that she is on his side, and it is the younger woman, Laila, who tries to feed him the poison.  And that’s when my Cinderella analogy falls flat, giving rise to yet another analogy, that of Laila and her Majnoun.

Whether he is Cinderella or just another loquito a victim of love sickness, or amor hereos, one thing is clear:  the dude looooves to be abused.  Masochist? You kink you, drop Sigmund for a sec and hear me out.  Tayler on-purposely positions his body in loci of vulnerability.  In the middle of m’rakshi crowds he is grabbed, pulled, pushed, insulted, dragged into a harem where beautiful young women rub against him, serve him mint-tea, probably too sweet for his diet-coke damaged palate, and brush his golden curls.  He is later harassed by the father’s preaching, the daughter’s indecent letters, and m’rakshis of all ages. 

I hear what you’re thinking, “as soon as somebody says a little som’in-som’in about her Morocco she be gettin’ emotional and all.”  To a certain extent, yeah, things like that do hurt.  You would think that by now I should be immune to such comments on Moroccan women and fantasy harems.  But Jeffery Tayler is not anybody.  He is speaking from a position of authority.  He lives with the natives.  Works with the natives.  Hell, he even speaks the natives’ language -probably better than them- coz the brother’s got education (as Angie Stone would sing.)  Tayler is an involved observer with a heart.  Naïve at times, but not what you’d call a bouhali.  He knows their tricks, and they ain’t about to fool him. 

MTV did more justice to Morocco with Road-Rules than Tayler with his travel essay; and with that, my dear, I wish to summarize my disappointment.