Here's Looking at You Kid (Morocco!)

We arrived at Morocco and I didn’t really know what to expect. I knew two things; I knew I was scared out of my mind, and I knew I was more excited than I have ever been in my life. Anything outside of those two things, I did not know.

Morocco is a land of juxtaposition; Billion dollar Mosque across the street from total poverty; men who are dressed like any other man on the planet and women who are in full head to toe coverings; nothing about Morocco makes sense if you think about it too much. That’s just how Morocco is.

I went with a group of students who traveled to Marrakech independently. Marrakech is an incredible place, though getting there was quite a challenge.
My group boarded a train to Marrakech without much of a game plan. We have the address of our hostel written down on a few sheets of paper and didn’t think we would have a problem getting to the hostel. But, as Semester at Sea keeps telling us, the ‘F’ word of the voyage is ‘flexibility’, and the 20 of us had no idea just how true that was going to turn out to be.

Outside the train station in Marrakech we were immediately overloaded with sights and sounds. The 20 of us stood outside the train station and just marveled for a few minutes- and that was a mistake. A group of 20 western looking college kids with overnight packs, standing looking lost is a temptation no self-respecting Moroccan cab driver can pass up- and they didn’t. Since we didn’t have a clear plan or any person in charge, we were easy pray to get hustled into cabs and way overcharged to get dropped off into the hands of more Moroccan men waiting to relieve us of our money. The cab drivers deposited us in a busy intersection in the dark Moroccan evening, pushing us into the arms of 3 young, 25 ish) Moroccan men. They offered to walk us to our hostel (which, we came to learn, is down an ally that is not accessible my car or donkey, just by foot). We knew that this was a sketchy plan, so tried to tell the guys la shukkron (no thank you in Arabic), but they weren’t having any of that. Having to choice but to walk in the direction of the hostel behind the guys, we began our 15-minute trek down creepy urine smelling allies in pursuit of our hostel. We kept tell the men that we would not pay them, and they would reply that they just wanted to help out their ‘American friends’ and would not require payment. ‘What is money?’ one of them asked me, illustrating that he had desire to take payment. Ha. That was a joke. By the time we reached the door of our hostel the group of 3 guys had swelled into 5, and now they didn’t seem to remember that they didn’t want money. They barred the door and now demanded a payment of 100 Dirham each. We argued with them for what seemed like an eternity, growing more frustrated with Morocco every minute. Once the threats of violence began to fly, we each paid the 20 Dirham and eventually than left, laughing as the disappeared out of the ally.

As we entered the hostel, we had begun to hate Morocco.

Luckily, our hostel was a fortress inside; an Arabian palace from one of those old black and white movies, it was like stepping out of a nightmare and into a dream. The hostel that night served as our safe place in Morocco that felt hostile and frightening. We went up to the rooftop that night to look up at the moon and stars, sharing a bottle of wine and eating couscous.

The next day we decided to give Morocco another chance and headed out to the medina (the old market place filled with shops and souks). In the daylight, Morocco wasn’t nearly as frightening. We did some shopping and had lunch at a small food vendor (tarjine aux les legumes! Yum!) now that we had splintered into smaller, more manageable groups. We even made an attempt at bartering. Walking through the medina was like walking through a real life Aladdin (though it smelt pretty bad in certain areas). The narrow alleys and winding roads have laundry draped across, drying in the sun. Music plays from street performers and shops. It was truly magical.

But if the medina during the day was magical, I have no description for the medina at night. The medina at night is a whole new place. The main square, empty during the day, is now wall to wall with food carts, selling everything from strong mint tea to rotisserie pigeon. Street performers, magicians and story tellers gather crowds in large circles, and without the sun beating down on you, you feel like you can actually breathe at night (the guys in our group didn’t know how lucky they were. We ladies were in long pants or skirts, long sleeves and head scarves often, just cooking in our own skin).

Bartering for taxis is horrible for women. Darrell, a fellow male student who live on my deck, decided to adopt our group, gets his way all the time. Every once and a while, however, one of the taxi drivers waiting outside train stations, port gates or hotels wont see Darrell to approach him and will instead approach one of the girls. Earlier today one saw us and immediately started bartering with me, until he saw Darrell, who doesn’t speak French (French is super helpful here). Darrell (who is called Denzel Washington by all the merchants and venders) was using me to translate and the man kept trying to get me out of the conversation. Unable to do so politely, he eventually turned to me and said in broken English “In Morocco the man makes the deal”. Darrell then took my arm and walked away from the driver. Darrell has been nice enough to take care of our group (now splintered into only 6 or 8 girls depending what we are doing) while in Morocco. Last night while in the Old Medina (a street square with performers, food venders and shops) a man put a monkey on my shoulder, and immediately demanded payment for the pleasure of having the monkey there. I refused to pay, and Darrell stepped in to get the monkey off my shoulder. He watches over us like a mother duck, leading our caravan through the markets, turning around occasionally to count and make sure we are all still there. He even tries to keep all 8 of our butts from being harassed in crowds- a harassment that is a mixture of pick-pocketing and copping a feel. It’s a near impossible task, but poor Darrell tries really hard.

Anything can happen the medina. A monkey was placed on my shoulder by a street performer who offered to take pictures with it (to which I said no thank you), snake charmers wave snakes around, draping them on unexpecting passers-by. The square is crazy and magical all in one.
The next day we said goodbye to Marrakech and took the train back to Casablanca, and returned ‘home’. It’s amazing how quickly the ship has started to feel like home.

On our last day in Morocco was spent exploring Casablanca. We went to the King Hassan II Mosque, the third largest mosque in the world (the first two largest are in Saudi Arabia). The mosque is located right on the water (in fact one third of it is actually built over the water) and is beautiful. A life long learner told me that, no matter what religion you were, you would feel the presence of God in the mosque. I felt disappointed when all I felt was anger. The mosque is built right across from so of the worst poverty I have seen in my life. The giant, beautiful mosque felt more like a monument to mans own hubris than a holy site. Don’t get me wrong, it was beautiful, one the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen with its 56 chandeliers and Moroccan marble floors that stretch out for miles. But while I was there I couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t have made God happier if they had spent the billions of dollars they spent to build that Mosque, on the poor people right there across the street. Wouldn’t that be more of an honor to God?

I guess I don’t know.

On the whole, I loved Morocco. The place is so different from anywhere else I have ever been to; so uniquely its own. The biggest lesson and struggle I have had in Marrakech is coming to terms with what being a woman, and more specifically a western woman, means here. The men either look through you or are grabbing your butt and calling out to you in broken English that is rude at best. I have never ever been able to let a man do something that I can do better. And even more of a struggle is, when you do feel someone grabbing your butt, knowing that turning around and confronting the pervert will likely get you arrested or worse. I have never felt so helpless, and the fact that the feeling is entirely based on my gender just makes me furious.

We are now sailing through the Canary Islands on our way to Ghana. As we said goodbye to Morocco I couldn’t help but feel like I wasn’t saying goodbye, but rather ‘see you soon’ to a new friend. As my first really different travel experience, I’m sure Morocco will always have a special place in my heart.

I’ll do my best to post some pictures up here as soon as I can find some free Internet in Ghana. We’ll arrive in 5 days.

Here’s looking at you kid,
Mal