Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Paradise Valley

We hiked in Paradise Valley the other day, down Taghazout way.  Yeah, yeah, it’s cool: cascading pools, smooth sunny slabs, jumping opportunities, palm trees – an oasis ripe with canyoning and freshwater-soaking lizard-like hedonism. 

But it was the French family that was memorable.

With some difficulty (unsure footing/pregnant Josie), we had navigated the river to an in-between sanctum for picnicking and solo dipping.  Upriver a ways was the far point (river mysteriously burrowing below ground beyond), the deepest pool with established jumping spots and naturally terraced rock sprouting lunching tourist groups like uninspired mushrooms.  Heading downriver the flow petered to a shallow lack of possibility.
We thought we would be alone.
Big sister was the head of the septuplepede worming athletically up the banks.  Aptly.  Even from a distance, her beauty was obvious: tall, tanned, fit, elegantly nimble, brunette – mesmerizingly and shockingly clad in teeny yellow bikini, flash running shoes, and aviator shades.  Only.  In conservative Morocco?  Hackles.  Wariness.  Paternal-like concern. 
The other six were a blurry fringe, hushed tones out-watted-and-witted by the blinding and brilliant canary hue foreground.  Peripheral consciousness picked up a wealth of trailing exposed skin and familial ties, but little else.  
They kept coming. 
Conscious of her age, and her family behind, I tried to avert my stare, but it was a traffic accident, impossible not to gawk.  They were coming right up on us.  More hackles.  Would they respect spacing?  We were peacefully solitaire, and fiercely protective of that bubble, a cache of facial expressions and body posture set to register irritation, mystification and resentment on the ready.  I held off on cocking the trigger.  Why not have a closer look?
They broke rank and stride ever so slightly, informally huddling on the move.  Hyper-aware, my feelers exact, I confidently (and correctly) surmised they were discussing destination, while also being spurred to simultaneous realization that we were planted right  in front of what might be considered a moderately high launching point into the river for the cautious – or to the family of mixed abilities and mettle. 
We must have appeared very much the content couple in love, spread out on our India blanket over elaborate lunchables with romantic drippings, obviously reveling in our earned and isolated situation.  
They barged.  And this is what I loved about them.  They set up shop in front of us, within a meter, essentially blotting out the river and our entire agenda - endlessly jumping and screaming and splashing and cheering and cajoling and laughing and photographing.  Their boldness titillated me.  We barely warranted a glance, and certainly not consideration.  Maybe there was a highly evolved feeling-out process conducted out of my stratosphere.  Maybe there was a head nod.  But I don’t think so.
Collectively, they gave no fucks.
Big sister had a friend – a family friend.  Same outfit, different colored bikini.  If big sister was a 10 (and she certainly was), the friend was a 9.  These two are friends and high school teammates on some sort of running squad – either track & field or cross country, maybe both: they were definitely mid-distance to distance runners.  I know.  I could tell from their bodies, their rapport, their behavior, their particular athleticism – hell, their entire essence.  I know.  (Later, on the hike out, I watched them act out their runner mentality by choosing to run, with a runner’s efficiency, the steep climb to the parking lot.  Further bolstering my assuredness: they put on running shorts over their bikini bottoms when they reached the car.  Considering their brazenness, I’m sure this was only to avoid burning their upper hamstrings on hot upholstery.  Yes, I was watching closely, but our proximity was merely coincidence.  I swear.)
These two were so confident.  There was virtually no teenage insecurity present.  It wasn’t that they carried themselves like far more mature women, they carried themselves like some other species.  Aliens.  It was as if they existed outside the realm of normal human uncertainty.  I don’t think they considered for one single second how inappropriately dressed they were for this sporting endeavor, not to mention (till now) for this country, where women swim in full burka. But that was their magic.  They didn’t strut and they weren’t arrogant.  They weren’t stupid, vapid, ignorant, or uneducated.  I didn’t find them culturally insensitive or insulting.   They existed on their own plane.  A higher order.  A foreign thought process at work. 
I feel I should further address their attractiveness.  Honor the reality.  Tip my hat.  Fall to my knees.  I would like to narrow my focus to the purely aesthetic, but I’m not going to.  Let your imagination run wild.  Astounding.  Fully mature bodies, before the onset of any mature imperfections.  Crushingly pretty but not prissy. The kind of beauty that is as salty as it is sweet, just as capable of arousing anxiety, paranoia and regret as pleasure.  They’re pain inflictors.  Now…
quietly, in the back of my mind this morning, as I work my way through this experience, I’ve been debating on the necessity of some type of disclaimer regarding this sketchy subject material.  I vowed to not do it, but I’m chickening out: I would put the age of these girls around 16.  I can imagine them in Driver’s Education class.  Despite my goings-on about the exquisiteness of these two, I want you to understand my platonic observations and cravings.  The mental self-gratification I allowed myself in Paradise Valley was a clinical and premeditated exercise.  I got caught up in the idea of how I would have felt about these two when I was 16.  I tried to see them that way.   Yearning was what I experienced.  I just wanted to be around them (not now, 16 year-old Adam).  I wanted to “hang out.” I hankered for interaction.  I wanted face time.  I wanted ATTENTION.   It reminded me of standing outside the house of Pam Hamilton in the middle of the night, and getting off just on knowing she was behind that window sleeping.  I guess that was close enough.  It wasn’t sexual then (I was a late bloomer).  It wasn’t sexual this time.  AND, speaking of self-gratification, I have married a woman so beautiful, so fucking hot, that I find myself no longer capable of even keeping a stable of fantasy women or situations.  The barn door is permanently propped open.  The ol’ right hand has been made redundant.  Anyways…
the girls were really joyful in a non-cheesy way.  But they were being cheesy: tandem jumps, egging each other on, too much I Phone documentation, incessant giggling.  And this phenomenon, and all the other contradictions, is what I think I’ve been trying to mine the last few hours.  They were somehow so delightful, so good-natured, so beautiful, that they were afforded some kind of pass.  All day, in every arena, they transcended all their flaws. I spent the afternoon completely consumed by their appetite for joy and for life.  I wanted to inhale them. 
I meant to tell you about the rest of this amazing family:
-the much younger and fearless brother with the deep and smoky resonating voice that echoed through the canyon all afternoon, despite being “shushed” four thousand times
-the attractive mom, who kept peeking and exposing her breasts to check tan lines
-the smiley dad, snapping pictures with endless patience, seemingly blind to the parading half-naked troupe he was traveling with
-unremarkable little sister, gracefully unfazed by her unremarkableness
(-an aunt/sister I really didn’t examine),
 
but I am feeling the need now to mine some visceral activity. 
 

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