Morocco

   "Jack, baby, what do you remember about Morocco?"
   "I remember there was yummy things to eat in Morocco. I remember the donkey came. I remember the donkey."
   "What else?"
   "I think we couldn't touch anything. Why we couldn't touch anything?"
   "Because those things were for sale."
   "Momma, what for sale mean?"
   "It means that people might want to buy the things we couldn't touch."
   "Do you remember anything else from Morocco?"
   "I think that's all I know. We didn't see any butterflies in Morocco."

I have to admit, Morocco was the hardest part of our trip for me. Harder than slugging luggage through busy airports. Harder than keeping a three year old still on a 90 minute bus ride. What's worse is I really wanted to feel comfortable there.

To be fair, my viewpoint is a little skewed as I only saw the desert crumbles of Agadir on my way to Taroudant. Also, I was only on Moroccan soil for around 5 hours, most of it on a bus tour. Our guide, Aziz, was Moroccan and spoke broken English.

He made many jokes about how lazy the women get to be and that they are very happy to wake up, go to the market to buy meals for the day, cook for the family and then take a nap until time to prepare the next meal. "What I mean is they like life, the women.It is easy for them."

He was also seriously concerned that we Western tourists understand that Morocco was becoming wealthy and therefore as important as any Western European country, especially as several manufacturing companies were coming in and creating jobs for the people. "What I mean is, Morocco will be as good as UK and a very happy country." And then he would laugh and make a joke about shop keepers not really working until noon or so, or when they wanted. "It looks like we live in ruins, but the way it works is this. Men want garage. They make shop in garage and then build house on top, little by little."

All of these topics tended to make me feel a bit alienated, ashamed, or just plain sad.

As he spoke I watched children walk or ride their bikes to school. "In Morocco, boys and girls go to school together," Aziz proudly said. "We are not like other Arab countries. What I mean is boys and girls go to same school, no problem." I watched as the girls loitered on one side of the school yard while the boys played soccer on the other.

 "It is nice to be important," he interjected, " but more important to be nice." And he would laugh.

"Morocco is not concerned about religion,"he said. "You find people can go to the Muslim church or the Jewish church or the Catholic church. No problem. What I mean is people in Morocco are not concerned with religion. Religion is between the people's heart and God."

We spent most of our time in the souk or market in Taroudant. Taroudant is a walled city that has maintained much of its Arab tradition. The open air stalls were filled with mostly men, bartering and haggling, occasional donkey carts and several motorcycles. The air was full of amazing smells and the most beautiful, vivid colors I've ever seen. Shop keepers would pick up Jack and add him to their displays for a photo opportunity (always expecting a little Euro for their entertainment, though we didn't have much money with us). One of the tour guides shopped as he herded us through the market. He would interrupt himself to squeeze a tomato and ask a price, continue what he was saying mid-sentence, and then wave away the merchant.

We stopped in a "traditional Moroccan house" to watch a man pitch his homemade apothecary serums. He would ask his assistants (mute ladies who shared no smiles) to please pass around the perfume or hold out the chicken spices for everyone to smell. Then he would hold up a product and ask how many we wanted to buy. "He's a good salesmen, he is," one of the British men next to me remarked.

I couldn't leave the souk without bartering. I knew I was terrible at it, and was, by the way. I tried to smile as I bargained, but it came across as a frightened grimace. Fortunately, I was told with an annoyed wave of a hand, to just take the scarf I wanted to buy for the original price I offered (little more than a fourth of the initial price) and move on. I didn't feel cheated, but I felt incompetent.

I suppose this huge rambling post illustrates my own confusion. I really want to believe Morocco is this wonderful, free, exciting place that Aziz described. I really wanted to feel completely at ease. People were, on the whole, friendly. Yes, the culture was incredibly different from one I'm used to, though perhaps not so different from the Hispanic culture I grew up (and felt comfortable) in. But I didn't feel at ease that day. Everything felt very severe to me and dire. I watched people walk across the desert and I couldn't see where they were going. And I also saw tree climbing goats reaching for fruit at the top of barren trees.