Morocco

Drifting in and out of hazy in-flight dreams I glanced out my airplane window and was shocked into a sharp state of awake by the snowy mountain tops glowing in the light of the setting, molten sun. Eye-level with the great Atlas mountains of Morocco. Snow capped mountains in Morocco? I had expected something closer to the sandy deserts of Egypt or the sparseness of a Cypriot countryside. My initial expectations were confirmed upon landing in the dry, dusty and sparse landscape of Agadir. As I exited the airport, I quickly scanned the crowd for my good friend and Peace Corps volunteer, Hanneke. For a moment, I panicked and thought back to the time where I missed my ron de vous in a French airport and felt hopelessly stranded without knowledge of the language, transport, or customs. What would I do if stranded in Morocco? In less than a minute I spotted her and felt not only relieved but elated to finally catch up with a friend whom I had not seen in a year.

We flagged a taxi and shared it with an Irish couple. Hanneke spoke in Tashelheet, the Berber dialect of the region as the cab driver took off ambitiously. I sat beside her, silent and impressed. That night, we were to meet up with 13 or so of her fellow Peace Corps volunteers, who emerge from their more remote sites on occasion to enjoy a drink -rare if not forbidden on any normal occasion- and to speak English and socialize as friends with strange commonalities in a foreign country. I enjoyed the chatter and even the large gathering of Americans, though fighting off the fatigue and impatience from the five hour bus ride, four hour flight, and taxi drive. After a dinner we flagged a red petit taxi and arrived at a packed karaoke night at the English pub by the beach. Ironic, I thought. After about an hour or so of poorly but joyfully sung rock and pop tunes, we prepared to make an exit. A group of male tourists and perhaps a few locals approached us and asked Hanneke and myself to join them at their table. As we engaged awkwardly in this typical scene, I felt myself slipping into my tired, defensive woman-traveler mode.

Boy to Hanneke: I have been staring at you for two hours. You must have a drink with us.
Me: We were just leaving.
Hanneke: Yeah, we are about to go.
Boy to Hanneke: Don’t make me beg. I have to see you.
Hanneke: I have a boyfriend.
Boy to Hanneke: I have a girlfriend.
Hanneke: So why aren’t you with her?
Boy to Hanneke: Just for friends. Please. I’ll do anything to see you again. I'll marry you right now. (on and on)
Other Boy to Me as Boy to Hanneke keeps on talking: He’s crazy. I’m sorry. It’s all bull &%$.
Me to everyone: My friend, I think you’ve been clear. I think she’s been clear. We’re leaving. Enjoy your night.

The scene eventually dissolves but repeats itself in one form or another throughout the week, mostly in the city and when we walk past groups of men. This is my least favorite part about traveling. Unequivocally. Sometimes I have to laugh at the ridiculous and desperateness of the comments, but usually I just become angry. What gives you the right to speak to me, to look at me in such a way? What gives you the right to take up my time and my energy to make you go away? At some level I am sad, because sometimes the individual is so friendly and respectful, like the young Moroccan man studying to be a flight attendant. He gives us his email address and number after a brief chat over fresh avocado, strawberry and orange smoothies, but how are we to know if we can trust him? We may miss out on a great story, shared interests and good conversation or maybe a very uncomfortable and even dangerous encounter. It’s uncertain and for this we won’t even consider calling him to meet up later as he suggests.

I also remind myself that I am in a culture where women are covered and hidden, often silent in mixed company and without much of a choice in matters of marriage or who speaks to them in such a way and when. The men, as Hanneke points out, are largely at a loss to know how to respond and act towards a woman. I know this. I become acutely aware of the rights that have been won by women in my culture and given to me. I want to give them to these women although I'm unsure of what is cultural and contextual and what is simply my idea of freedom or equality or rights. For now I feel helpless and self-conscious. Is my neck or lower arms showing? Is my dress covering my behind or did it get snagged in my jeans? Has my hair dried yet from my shower? Wet hair in public is ashuma, shameful for a woman in Morocco. Hanneke speculates it is because it provokes thoughts of the woman’s naked state just minutes before. But she says she is not sure why exactly. She says she is not sure about many things after living in Morocco for nine months. I haven’t a clue.

Day two we take a five person taxi with seven of us in it back to Tiznit and then another taxi back to Hanneke’s town, Larba Sahel which means ‘Wednesday by the Sea.’ Wednesday is suq (market) day and her town close to the sea. The town is tucked in between hills and dotted with prickly pair cacti, shrubs, and desert greens, freshly grown after the recent rains that swept southern Morocco for the first time in nearly a decade. It’s peaceful, quiet and serene, save the braying of donkeys which roam wild until their beastly services are required. In the several days in the small town, we walk around and greet the men and women that we pass. Hanneke makes small talk in ‘Tash’ and explains that I am her American friend that is visiting for a week, but who lives in Britannia, (Ireland is a bit too specific and largely unknown in those parts). I begin to pick up on these greetings. Le bes? Le bes. Bher? Bher. Humdalila. How are you? I am well. How is your family? Your health? Are you happy? Thanks be to God. Usually after these formalities they ask me if I speak Tashelheet. I look helplessly at Hanneke, because no, in fact, I do not speak Tashelheet. Waloo. Nothing. They smile and laugh at my attempts and at Hanneke’s clever explanations that meek ee meek, little by little, I will learn. It becomes apparent to me that the language is very very important as an identity to the people. One does not speak Tashelheet. One is Tashelheet. This sentiment is confirmed over and over again in the cabs, in the streets, in the markets.

We venture the hillside to find the host family that Hanneke lived with for three months. The mother and her two daughters are watching the sheep while her son is throwing rocks and playing hide and seek with a few other boys. Hanneke chats with her host mom and sisters, I listen to the strange and melodic language, wondering what they are saying. Sometimes I ask. The youngest girl, about six or seven, does not need to speak to me. Her eyes dance as she laughs and grabs hold of one of my hands and one of Hanneke’s and uses us as a lever, then a swing, then a resting post. We are invited into the house where we take off our shoes and her host mom takes off her head covering and brings out heavily sweetened black tea with mint and bread and olive oil and honey. Her host dad comes home and he welcomes me warmly into their home and we talk and drink tea and dip bread into the bowls communally. I am careful to use my right hand, the polite hand to do so. It is now dark outside and time for Hanneke and I to go. We return to her house and talk for hours and eat Swiss chocolate and watch the American version of the Office, our favorite TV sitcom. All of the events of the day and the people and the bright Moroccan sun and the talking and listening and cultural questions have exhausted me, and I fall into a deep sleep.

Loud voices in my dreams. Confusing and harsh and somehow sorrowful. It is the early morning prayer call, to be repeated again four more times throughout the day. I wake up as I realize this and then fall back asleep until the sun streams in and convinces me to brave the cold morning air and cold tile floors and the squat toilet that I have yet to master the correct angle on. Hanneke and I make tea and eat granola and then stroll over to the ‘Netty’, a woman’s cooperative that produces products from the argon nut. The process fascinates me as does this roomful of women fully dressed in colorful patterned materials sitting on the floor chattering and cracking the nuts with stones, then sorting the nut from the shell, then grinding the nuts to produce argon oil, and cakes, and cosmetic products. I want to join in. I sit down with two women in the back of the room and try my hand at it. I hit the nut over and over again harder and harder but it won’t crack. I reposition it on the stone and try again. I am afraid I will hit my fingers with this big rock. I do, many times. Crack, you silly nut! It finally does after several minutes and I feel jubilant until I look around the room and see one-hit-immediate-crack success from every single other woman. I laugh at how clumsy and funny I must look but am enjoying myself immensely. A girl my age tells me (through Hanneke) that I should marry a Moroccan man and return every August and that we must be friends for forever. The impossibility of this is profound, but I laugh and say insha alla, God willing. Hanneke says that in addition to making general statements about God willing things, anytime you don’t know how to respond or are not sure if a refusal would be rude you say insha alla because it is accepted and it will get you out of most situations. She is right in this and God’s will saved me an uncouth or awkward response more than once.

In years to come people may ask, where were you when Obama was elected and I will say, ‘In a mud home in Morocco.’ We traveled in to Tiznit to stay with Amelia, another Peace Corps volunteer and seven of us cooked and ate and watched CNN international for about five hours. Seven personal commentators peppered the room with excited chatter and I felt relaxed in this ‘American’ conversation and atmosphere in a very foreign setting. The mud house fascinated me. The series of little rooms connected to each other only by open terraces and gardens with no enclosed hallways. An outside house inside. Amelia’s pet, Marilyn the turtle, roamed freely in the open garden. I felt privy to this exotic place, these new and strange things and this modern update to an ancient home. I mentally note that someday an open courtyard with a free-range turtle might be a nice addition to a home. And the patterned tiles and bright punjabs are a nice touch—I could get used to this Moroccan flare.

Several days later Hanneke and I board a bus for the five hour ride to Marrakech. The men selling the tickets oversold the bus and Hanneke is negotiating what to do next with several of these men as fifty Moroccan faces watch in curiosity what will happen with these two foreigners from the West. For the thousandth time I gave thanks that Hanneke spoke Tashelheet and as it turns out, a man either left or was kicked off the bus so that we had two seats. Although we asked what was going on, it remains unclear. We do not understand again, as in most things. We ride on through desert and snowy mountains past mud homes, palm trees, waste lands, and irrigated fields. One of the men on the bus continues to hand out little bags for people who need them on these windy roads. Hanneke warned me about this. I put on my iPod and tune out the tinny, instrumentless Berber music and the old man beside me asks me how much my iPod costs. Hanneke says that it is common for people to ask that question for just about anything. I smile and drown all else out. We arrive in Marrakech.

The city holds a certain magic. Someone once described this charm by saying it is like something exciting is always just about to happen, but you don’t know what. This is more or less accurate. There are thousands of people out and walking, talking, selling, performing, dancing, snake-charming, drinking, eating, playing, begging. We join the throngs and bargain our way through the markets. I always enjoy the hunt and the barter, though this time I had Hanneke and her boyfriend Phil who collectively speak Tashelheet, Arabic, French and English to some extent or another. This made conversation easy and prices a bit cheaper. We absorbed the atmosphere and ate tajin, cous cous, and other traditional foods in the open market. My last meal in Morocco.

I have never been one for long or dramatic goodbyes. Neither has Hanneke. Her and Phil were kind to take me to the airport and chat at a café and people watch while waiting to check in. But it was time and we hugged and said our goodbyes. My week in Morocco was incredible: mostly because I could enter her life for a short while and catch a glimpse of the essence of this new place. I have returned to Ireland and my Western world where transportation is a seat per person and I know where to go for what and what to say to whom and how to act. Morocco holds a patchwork of both ancient and modern worlds and customs that I will never understand, though I will remember and appreciate its beauty for the rest of my life, I think.