Hello friends,
This will probably be the last missive about my trip (do I hear some sighs of relief?), though I may forward some other writings that I do about it at some point in the future.
I'm in New York City as I write this, enjoying a fast internet connection at my friend Alex's (who has graciously given me run of his room while I wait for my flight to San Jose tonight). It's 9am, but feels like sometime in the afternoon, and coffee is my friend. I walked down the street this morning looking for that friendly coffee, and the first coffee shop I found was full of men. I couldn't shake the feeling that it was inappropriate for me, a single white woman, to sit in a coffee shop full of men, so I left. I also can't shake the feeling that everyone's looking at me as I walk down the street, though they're probably not. I'm definitely a bit culture-shocked.
New York City feels like another foreign country anyhow -- sprinkled with mexican eateries, all I hear around me is Spanish, and the graffiti tags on the iron storefronts remind me that I'm in a place with just as many mysterious cultural clues and meanings as Guinea. I feel lost. I yearn for Santa Cruz with its beaches and redwoods. I ache for my familiar folk music & dance scene.
Mom and I spent the last week of our trip in Morocco, and it was hard. We had hoped for a relaxing Arabian Nights-style vacation in this well-developed country, but it ended up being very difficult to figure things out. For one, I had the unnerving experience of having difficulty communicating in French. For example, they were using a different vocabulary set than Guineans. In Guinea, there is a set stock of phrases, like "she's managing well" or "is that it?" which I can draw on and the meaning (both literally and culturally) is immediately understood. Those phrases often drew blank stares in Morocco. Plus, things that they said to me somehow didn't make sense, like they were translating poorly from Arabic. It reminded me of an Iranian professor I had in college -- all the words he used made sense, but not when strung together into a sentence.
It was also difficult to decide how to relate to men in Morocco. I had been told not to make eye contact with men. So, how was I supposed to bargain for merchandise? I tried looking at the floor, but that seemed SO rude. I finally noticed that when I spoke to older men (who would not be inappropriately forward, as the younger men might be), they looked at my face, but their eyes were focussed slightly to the side, as if they were examining my earring. So, that solved that problem. I continued to dress fairly modestly, in long skirts and usually covering my shoulders. I noticed that many tourists didn't, wearing tank tops and shorts.
Bargaining was another difficulty. In Guinea, if someone asked for $30 for something, you could expect to pay $20-25. In Morocco, if someone asked for $30, you could expect to pay $10-15. This was a whole different way to bargain -- a long-winded and wide-sweeping pendulum arc on either side of the "real" price, instead of a quick little oscillation with a few jokes and a handshake. I was uncomfortable offering someone $5 for something they asked $30 for, and so I always started too high and probably paid too much. It was frustrating, and I didn't buy much.
The first night, we arrived in Casablanca and stayed in a hot little room in the hotel there. It was fine. We took a train to Marrakech the next day but the A/C started to get overloaded about halfway there and we arrived sweaty and tired. A man in our passenger car offered Mom his Koran as we all left the train, and was disappointed when (flustered) she refused. "Don't you want to learn about our religion?" he asked. (The book looked to be in Arabic, so it might not have been particularly informative). Mom and I stayed in Marrakech in a lovely renovated guesthouse with intricately and colorful painted doors, sinks and showers that looked as if they'd been lovingly moulded out of soapstone, and a cold water jacuzzi in the courtyard. That jacuzzi was wonderfully refreshing in the heat of the day -- it was about 100 degrees on the hottest day. We first went to the main square in Marrakech -- Jemma al-Fna -- a mad circus of performers, snake charmers, henna artists, storytellers, piles of oranges being squeezed into juice, colorful cascades of dried apricots, dates, and nuts, and food stalls dishing up kebabs & snails & sheeps heads from steaming vats. We were assaulted by smells of diesel from the generators, and the pounding sound of drums, and retreated to a safe tourist restaurant overlooking the fray.
The next day we explored the Souks -- or marketplaces. They were situated in a maze of twisting high-walled alleys covered with woven slats. The leather souk was full of the smell of turpentine, and a kindly shopkeeper showed how they were pounding leather into pretty (but probably uncomfortable) slippers with pointed toes and sequins, and I almost caught my skirt on fire on their gas burner. We wandered through piles of pretty painted bowls, elaborate hookahs for smoking tobacco, lovely tooled leather bags, and embroidered dresses and robes. We enjoyed the mint tea in Morocco -- not as strong as the dark tea prepared by my baker friends in the village in Guinea, but sweet and minty and served steaming in charming little shot glasses from a silver filligree teapot.
The food in Morocco was also amazing. After a hot day wandering around the city trying to make travel arrangements to go to the desert, we found a nice upscale restaurant and decided to treat ourselves. We ordered the "various salads" and a chicken tangine with onions. The "various salads" came in about 20 little bite-sized bowls -- vinaigered beets, tangy and spicy olives, cucumbers, cooked spiced carrots, tasty lentils... so many little treats. A "tangine" is a traditional moroccan dish -- some vegetables and meat in a sauce, cooked inside a covered clay dish. They're always good, and this particular tangine was so tasty we were talking about it for days. The sauce was rich and sweet, and we sopped it up with thick pita-like rounds of bread.
We wanted to go for an outing to the Atlas Mountains and the Sahara, and had finally found a group outing which would take us for a one-night visit. We knew it was 4 hours through the mountains to Ouarzazate, and the travel agent said that it was then another 1 hour to Zagorat, where we would spent the night in a Berber tent, and then have a sunrise camel ride. We weren't too thrilled about the camel ride, but figured we could skip it if we had to. We packed up a big bag, and climbed aboard the bus ride... the bus ride... to HELL! <ba-duh-ba-duh-BA-DUM!>
1. The bus had no air conditioning 2. We were with 6 Spaniards. We don't speak Spanish. I speak more Pulaar than they spoke English. 3. It was 5 hours (not 1) from Ourzazarte to Zagorat, making for a 9 hour bus ride each day. 4. There was a 2 hour camel ride on Day 1 *and* Day 2 5. We couldn't skip the camel ride because that was how we were to reach our accomodation for the night 6. We couldn't bring our big bag of stuff -- only a day pack per person for overnight (quick, repack!) 7. It gets cold at night in the desert 8. The wind picks up at night in the desert 9. There's a lot of sand in the desert 10. Sand is easily picked up by wind
I was pretty tired and grumpy by the evening because of all the above (plus another unfortunate event, described below). I was talking with an Australian traveler who was in another group staying at the tent, and we didn't quite see eye to eye. He was one of those intrepid optimist adventure travelers to whom everything is always great & amazing, and you have to make the best of every situation. I wasn't feeling particularly upbeat, and didn't feel like trying to feel upbeat, so our conversation slowly and subtly deteriorated. The next day, he was riding his camel shirtless through the Saharan sun, sunglasses on, satisfied smile on his face. If anyone knows this type of young adventure-for-the-sake-of-adventure traveler, maybe you can relate to my annoyance.
But, complaining aside, it was quite an experience to be in the Sahara at night, to see the curve of the moon rising over the dunes and illuminating the camel caravan as our Berber hosts beat softly on drums. We could still see the car lights from the highway, so we weren't exactly in the middle of nowhere, but it was the actual honest-to-goodness SAHARA. A sign in the next town pointed south and said "57 days to Timbouctou" (by camel caravan, that is!). I can't imagine 57 days on a camel. We were pretty saddlesore after a few hours, and chose to walk next to our camels for a good part of the way.
But the trip had already been ruined for me because of something that happened on the first day. We had stopped at Kasbah Ait Ben Haddou, the largest walled-city in Morocco. It's been used for such films as Gladiator and the Last Temptation of Christ, so it's a popular tourist mecca. I was curious to see it, but was immediately turned off when we reached the river to the city and we were mobbed by a crowd of local boys offering to take us across on donkeys and horses for 50 cents each. It turned out we could have waded across it, but I didn't know that at the time, and Mom and I climbed aboard a horse. I didn't understand why the young man didn't wade through the water and lead the horse, like many of the young boys seemed to be doing, but he climbed aboard in front of me. Poor horse, carrying 3 people! On the other side, he helped mom down first, and then helped me. I had my hand on his shoulder, and other hand on the saddle of the horse to support myself, and he took advantage of my helplessness to put his hand somewhere where (to put it mildly) that he shouldn't have. I was OUTRAGED. My first instinct was to slap him as soon as I had my feet under me, but something stopped me. What might he have done? I didn't know the culture. In the US, it would have been appropriate to slap him. I just stared at him, open mouthed, and said something weak in French and English to the effect that he shouldn't have done that, that he knows what he did. He just looked at me, not smiling, not glowering, not innocent. Just nothing. And the worst part was, I had to PAY him for taking me across the river. I *knew* some real trouble would break out if I didn't pay. So I had to hand money to this man, who had just violated my dignity and person. I turned away as I let the money drop into his hand. Mom says that, as I did, he called me a slut.
What should I have done? Slapped him? I wish I'd spit on the coin and thrown it in the mud for him to retrieve. But what if some theatrical show of disrespect got me into some real trouble? It probably wouldn't have -- there were 4 Spanish men with us who, even if they didn't know what was going on, would have rescued me if something had happened. I felt humiliated, dirty, and claustrophobic as we wandered the kasbah, with children tagging along and asking us for money. Had I had my wits about me, I think the best thing would have been to find out who he was -- his name, and his father's name, and then seek out the immam (muslim priest) in the village and try to explain to him. But I didn't. Whenever someone insults you, it's always in the days afterwards that you're able to think of all the things you *should* have said, the perfect comebacks. It's your psyche trying to repair the damage that's been done to it, building up little walls and barbs, shooting retaliatory arrows into the night and knowing that there's no longer any chance of hurting the person who hurt you.
We returned to Marrakech tired and dirty, and the bathwater turned brown when we bathed. It's almost worth being so dirty and tired, because then rest and water feels so goddamned GOOD. The next day, we made arranagements to go to a hammam -- traditional bathhouse -- and get scrubbed and rubbed with hot water. In a series of three rooms, each getting progressively hot and steamier, clutches of naked women and children bathed themselves with buckets of hot and cool water drawn from taps in the stone. We lay down on the smooth flagstone floor, which was heated by fire ovens from below, and a strong wiry woman took a pair of abrasive gloves and scrubbed and rubbed our bodies -- discussing things animatedly in Arabic with another woman who ran the bathhouse. We washed our hair, and she combed the conditioner vigorously through it, and dumped hot water all over us. It was just grand, and cost about $5 each. We left feeling refreshed and clean, and the aches from the previous days' travails had almost disappeared.
And that was Morocco. When I left Guinea 5 years ago, I had stopped through Fez and was enchanted by the winding cobblestone streets in the old town and the intricately mosaics on the fountains and mosques. I wasn't enchanted this time, but maybe I was just tired of travel. Maybe I was missing Guinea, and not dealing with my sorrow as I left the village. Maybe it would have been better for us to go to a less touristy destination. But oh well, it's done, and I'm almost home, and that makes me happy.
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Epilogue:
I'm now back in Santa Cruz, and not entirely conscious. I'm awake, and jet-lag is almost gone, but I'm still not entirely clear on what I feel. Yesterday was a peach of a Santa Cruz day, and I enjoyed the lovely weather and a waffle with fresh strawberries. I felt guilty as I ate my breakfast -- a few feeling in relation to Guinea. Guilt. I always knew that no matter how hard I tried to be one of the villagers, I differed from them in one key aspect: I have a Choice. I enjoyed village life, and loved the people, but I was there by *choice*, and they were not. And here in Santa Cruz, eating my food -- food for taste's sake instead of necessity's sake -- I felt guilty that I'm able to enjoy this easy life. This is a surprisingly simplistic emotion for me to be feeling. That can't be all.
I feel some regret. The time went so quickly in the village, and there are so many conversations that I didn't have. I waited for people to tell me what was going on in their life, and they never did. I told them only the barest skeleton of my life. I feel that we connected, that we shared many experiences together, but didn't share much information.
I suppose that what I feel is the sort of post-partum depression that comes with the completion of any important pilgrimage. I returned to my village, and I am joyful that I was able to return, and that my visit was received with such enthusiasm. It will probably take me the next five years to figure out what it meant to me. And then, perhaps, it will be time to go back again.
Thanks for listening,
Stephanie