Romance in the Riads

Too much to write about Morocco, an experience that was overall very mixed. Have decided that it’s a country well-worth visiting and hopefully one I’ll return to, but not alone.

After leaving Joanne and Tobin, still wearing Joanne’s socks, I wandered around Fez and found the actual market which our “guided” tour had almost completely skipped. I was paranoid about getting lost, but really needn’t have worried, as the path was pretty straightforward and I didn’t deviate too much from the main road. I ended up buying two handbags from a merchant and his Parisienne wife, sparking the need for another bag to carry all of my purchases.

The next morning, after a lonely dinner with a Texan down for a couple days of pot smoking, I woke before dawn and hopped on a train to Marrakesh, a nine-hour journey that aptly showed off all of Morocco’s extremes, save for its corner of the Sahara. The cold mountains and lush green valleys gave way to olive groves and grapevines, cork trees and herds of sheep. We passed through Casablanca and then headed into the dry desert, like environs of Marrakesh. There were beautiful compounds made of hardened clay baked by the sun into the sides of hills. Fences were prickly cacti loaded with red buds. I even saw a camel.

When we finally arrived, I ditched my headscarf and headed out into the melee that is Marrakesh. It’s an incredibly vibrant city with a much more interesting and in some ways intense market. Souk after souk displayed every kind of whatever you were looking for, whether baskets, shoes, blankets or handbags. I realized too late I should have taken better advantage of the selection. But I still bought more than I could carry.

My days fell into a kind of routine. Up and out by 9.30 or 10 a.m. A walk around the city, o the Internet or a museum, then a sandwich for lunch, stuffed full of brochettes, salad, tomatoes and fries. Delicious! Then I would wander into the market, try in vain to keep my money in my wallet, then sit and people-watch until it was time for mint tea and the sunset call-to-prayer from the beautiful minaret. I really enjoyed the teas on the terrace, as it was a chance to see everyday Moroccans interact. They were so Western to me, with men and women having a quiet cup of coffee, or tea, and chatting amiably or flirting subtly, one young couple in particular, with the woman doing all the talk, making her boyfriend laugh with funny stories, struck me as being so very normal, which made it all the worse that almost every interaction I had with a Moroccan man made the male half of the country seem like rude, piggish, sex-starved assholes.

Marrakesh was the first place I really felt unsafe or uncertain on my own. I walked through the market and onto the last street of blankets and when I stepped out to throw some garbage on the heap when suddenly a man was standing there, grabbing both my shoulders, blocking my path and saying something to me in Arabic. I was so shocked. For a minute or two I thought maybe I’d simply stepped in his path, and I moved to step away and then my spidey sense started tingling. Obviously the man wasn’t trying to be friendly, as within seconds, a handful of merchants came running to pounce on the guy and hit him about the head. I retreated with tears in my eyes feeling very shaken.

The next day I walked out of my hotel as the sun was setting and was immediately tailed by an Arabic guy with dread who wanted to practice his language. I ignored him as I continued around the square and thought I’d lost him until he came into the patio where I was sitting waiting to order dinner, sat at the table next to mine and continued talking as though we were having a conversation. I asked to be moved and the waiter took me upstairs to the terrace, where I could at least see the square. I felt very annoyed though, that I had to move away and sit alone and isolated because some jerk couldn’t understand I didn’t want his company. When I left the restaurant, he and his buddy were waiting and actually picked up where he’d left off in his repertoire of questions before saying “Don’t you want to talk to me?” before finally getting the hint and wandering off. Two seconds later, a kid in a red T-shirt was at my side doing exactly the same routine. I was so angry I wanted to scream. These kids just don’t get it. For some reason they seem to think women shouldn’t get to choose who accompanies them, and when you politely tell them you don’t want their company they act all stricken and insulted, which just infuriated me further.

From Marrakesh I went to Essouira, an idyllic beach town well-worth the visit, with a small, wide medina and a large square good for people watching. I was met off the bus by the usual hustlers and decided since I didn’t have a hotel and no idea how to navigate the city, on top of being weighed down by the burgeoning shopaholicism, I went with one kid to see a room for 500 dirhams, or $5 US. I thought it was dirty, in a confusing part of the medina’s twisty streets, but I figured it was only one night. Why I think like this, I’ll never know, and one of these days it’s really going to get me into trouble. The home was a private one and it was difficult to find my way back. I went back tot he beach for a while – watched the kids play soccer – and returned to the house in the late afternoon for a nap. That’s when I realized what a poor investment my $5 was. The house was crazy loud, with a movie blaring, a boisterous discussion floating up through the courtyard, kids screaming and yelling and a crazy old grandfather shuffling up and down the stairs who freaked me out a bit. I was feeling pretty poorly, stuffed up with a recurring sinus infection but even I could smell the wet animal smell lingering in my room, which was directly across the hall form the bathroom, so I got the added pleasure of hearing absolutely everyone pee, including Creepy Grandpa, who had a shower with the door open the next morning, farting and wheezing all the while. I moved out first thing in the morning.

Essouira was relaxing with meditative mornings on the beach, a sandwich at lunch and a meander through town and the medina in the afternoon. I did a lot of people watching, especially of children and spent a considerable amount of time daydreaming while staring off at the ocean. I f only inspiration would strike and a fully-formed bestseller would formulate in my brain.

While shopping in the medina, I met Said and his cousin Hamid and his cousin’s girlfriend, a white woman from France who was living in Casablanca. I was hoping to buy a scarf and a few blankets from Said, instead I got four cups of mint tea, an intense discussion about the changes in Morocco and a few furtive advances. Actually, I nearly gave myself whiplash trying to turn my cheek fast enough when he went to plant one on me. They say mint tea is an aphrodisiac – “Berber whiskey without the alcohol” – and in Said’s case it might be true. He got more and more forward as the afternoon wore on, starting with a friendly hand-on-hand gesture whenever I made him laugh, progressing to a hand on my thigh, to a peck on the cheek to an attempt to kiss me on the mouth. As I made to leave – our negotiations having broken down completely and me feeling increasingly uncomfortable – Said told me he loved my eyes, then invited me to come drink wine at a drumming jam. “Just for friends, not for sex.” I figured if mint tea made him that randy, I couldn’t imagine him with wine coursing through his veins, so I made vague statements and was safely stowed in my room by 9 p.m.

I was really taken with his cousin, Hamid, who confessed rather blithely that he used to study, but since his grandfather died, leaving him and his cousins four shops and several houses. He did nothing but party, open the shop and party some more. He had gorgeous eyes.

The boys told me all about their king, Mohammed, who ascended to the throne at 39 and immediately set about bringing Morocco into the 21st century. I was fascinated by him and his bride, Sophia, a gorgeous red-headed woman from Fez. No headscarf or dumpy jellabah for her!

From Essouira, I headed into Casablanca on the milk route, a rickety African-style bus that stopped every few feet to let passengers on and off, no matter whether there were seats to be had. At one point, a man who looked to be in his late 40s sat next to me with his toddler son and told me it was just him and the boy, as his wife had died and he was looking for a new mother for his son. I thought, “Hmm… keep looking.”

Casa was a nightmare right from the get-go. The guidebooks all describe it was the most progressive city, a hub to international destinations, and at first I was seduced by the idea that the women had Western hairdos, wore short skirts and were out on their own, but apparently those are freedoms awarded to Arab women only. Within a few blocks of an after-dark exploratory walk around the neighbourhood of my hotel. Some creepy guy I’d made the mistake of glancing at with a smile on my face was following me, turning up at cross walks and such calling “Mademoiselle!” I got hopelessly lost trying to ditch him and after 45 minutes of walking determinedly in the hopes of losing him while finding my way back to the hotel without giving off the impression that I was lost. A landmark finally came into view. I shook my head and giggled at my foolishness, only to find my insides frozen when I heard creepola call “Bon nuit!” from across the street of my hotel. I thought I had lost him and shudder to think what could have happened.

The next day was actually worse. I woke after a terrible sleep – a fight broke out between potential guests and the hotel management when they refused to pay for their rooms upfront and it went on for more than half an hour, from midnight on – and I bought a bus ticket out of town, giving myself a couple hours to see the Hassan II mosque, the largest in Morocco and the only one open to non-Muslims. Of course, I got totally turned around while trying to find it and had to pull out my guidebook to get my bearings. As I was making to cross the street, a street kid approached and asked for a dirham. I shrugged to indicate I had nothing for him and moved to turn away. He grabbed onto the sunglasses in the hand and wouldn’t let go, glaring at me all the while as if to say, “C’mon bitch, I dare you.” I didn’t let go either, even though my heart was pounding and within seconds, the leg had snapped off in his hands. I just scurried away heading back the way I came and crossing a busy street. Then I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was following me, so I moved even quicker. He caught up to me and grabbed for my hand, my bag, my sunglasses or my book – I’m not really clear on what he was after –and I shouted an angry “hey!” which caught the attention of some men standing up the street, who yelled and came over. Our body language was very telling – the kid reaching and me hugging my bag to my body. As soon as I yelled and they yelled back, it was like something in the kid snapped and he came out of his stupor, looked down at the leg of my sunglasses in his hand and looked, I don’t k now, maybe sheepish. As the men came running, I bolted. It was obvious from the fact he was holding a broken leg of my sunglasses that they kid had gotten close enough to grab at me, so I had no doubt the men would slap him around and yell at him for a bit. Hopefully, a deterrent, not a fuel. I could hear them calling for me to come back, ostensibly so he could apologize, but I just kept racing away, trying desperately to keep it together.

I managed to get my bearings and marched the remaining distance to the mosque filled with loathing for every Moroccan man, every misfit idiot born and raised there with the attitude that women were property or merely objects to be admired and desired, not free-thinking individuals capable of independent thought and opinion and entitled to live her life with the same freedoms these men so blindly enjoyed. When I got to the mosque, full of rage and loneliness, truly shaken up. I couldn’t see an entrance, so I walked up to a guard and asked, in my best imitation of French, where the main door was located. He looked at me blankly. I tried again using slightly different words and hand gestures. He turned to his friend and back to me and said, “Are you speaking French?” At that, I burst into tears, which was the absolute smartest thing to do, as the guy immediately felt like a prick, apologized – sorta – and tried to get me to follow him where he could find someone who spoke English. I just said, “No, you’re a jerk” and walked away sobbing. I ended up sinking to the ground against a shady wall and had a good cry – cursing this stupid country, their backward attitude and oppressive religion – until I felt it was out of my system. Red-eyed and puffy faced, I joined an English-language tour, where I met a lovely Australian couple – Patty and Patrick – who took me for tea and a sandwich and cheered me up with a sympathetic ear and some words of encouragement it felt so great to be speaking English to anyone who could hold a conversation without telling me what a “sexy baby” I am.

I caught my bus to Asilah, a journey marred only by the fact that an old woman and her even older, fatter mother got on the bus in Rabat and sat next to me, the daughter chomping on a piece of gum as though the progress of the bus ride depended on it. I kept shooting her dirty looks, but she appeared to pay no mind to the dirty Western whore sitting with her mother.

I arrived in Asilah way after dark and was the only one to get off the bus. I expected a swirl of hustlers, but found the place deserted, even of taxis. Instead, the guys at the bus station pointed me to my hotel, literally at the end of the block, and I trundled off with my big bag giving me later-in-life back problems.

The hotel was staffed by a charming man fluent in Spanish – a real change of gears after r week of French phrases – who bundled me into my jellabah and walked me up the block to a food stand for harira and a steak sandwich (the filling of the sandwich wasn’t cooked, so it ended up carefully concealed in the wastebasket.) The little hotel owner even brewed me some mint tea and left me to mange solo in my room.

I awoke the next morning feeling much better: the Australians and the hotelier having counteracted the Casablanca street kid. I wandered to the Internet café and sent a slightly dispirited email, bought oranges and took a wander around town. The guidebook recommended only the restaurant and by pure happenstance, I wandered into it for a lunch of grilled shrimp. (Took forever to peel the little suckers, but I was a girl with time on her hands.) After lunch, after the men left the mosque from midday prayers, I headed into the medina and was not very far along when I was joined by Faoud, a multilingual Lothario who struck out with me. He was good enough company and told me my misfortunes with Moroccan men could have happened anywhere to which I responded that was patently untrue and went onto detail the way I live life in Toronto. I’m sure he was slightly dismayed – damn, an independent one! – but he took my rejection of an offer for mint tea well and left me alone with my thoughts high on the fortified walls surrounding the medina.

The view was gorgeous: waves breaking over rocks and beaches far out for the eye to see. I thought about loneliness, traveling, the need to travel, the desire to travel, my limitations in traveling, the things I was seeing and learning and would I trade it warts and all, to be back at my desk in Toronto? Absolutely not.

Of course, I also thought about my tendency to be alone, my existence in Toronto, my active social life, countered by my non-existent romantic life and my almost insatiable need for space. I also examined, in small detail, my fear of people getting close, my almost automatic response of pushing them away or unnerving them with sarcasm or smarts. I wondered if one of these times I would just take a risk – like a Said invitation – and find myself handsomely rewarded, or whether I would always say no, no, no, consider the possibilities later and add one more item to the list of regrets.

That night, a search for a sandwich led me to a food stand not far from my hotel, where I was picking away at cow knuckle and chickpea soup when two guys walked in and ordered soft drinks. My initial reaction to their hello was, of course, oh God, not again. The one turned around at one point to wish me Bon Appetit and I just smiled and said thanks and looked away. He then, well, after a few bites, turned back around to ask if I was German. (I assured him I was not, I’m Canadian. You look German, he told me. Uh-huh, it’s the hair, I said, again looking away as if to signal the end of the conversation, one I felt I’d had dozens of times since arriving in the country, the old “guess her nationality, chat her up, call her a sexy baby” routine.

When he turned around again, he caught me poking my cow knuckle rather confusedly, with a look of puzzlement on my face. At the time, I had no idea what it was and I had the sickening thought that maybe it was a camel’s knee. Do you like Moroccan food, he asked? Yes, normally, I replied, then confessed I had no idea what I was eating or even how to go about eating it. It’s a cow’s foot, he said. Hmm… There’s not a lot of meat to it, I laughed. It broke the ice with me, for whatever reason, and I felt further encouraged when they introduced themselves and Tarek’s friend Youssef had the expression of a puppy who’s just met a friendly stranger with an appetizing chew toy. It was such a genuine expression, I found myself a little disarmed and felt a little of my ice maiden demeanor fade a little. Anyway, Tarek told me he’s a set designer in Germany, where he once lived with his wife (“now divorced, I don’t know why I’m telling you my life story…”) but was in Morocco to restore and refurbish a riad in the medina for a wealthy English antiques dealer. He invited me to come by the house the next day if I was in the medina and I told him I would undoubtedly be in the medina, it’s a very small town, afterall, and would look out for him.

Then I walked back to the hotel, feeling slightly better about things generally and forgot mostly about Tarek and his invitation.

The next morning, I woke super late – the kindly front desk guy had a raging row with someone over the phone, then a woman who came to the hotel around 11.30ish, all right outside my door – and I ended up going to the Internet café, then for a sandwich and then for a long walk. I ran into Faoud twice and again turned down the offer for tea again. I went back to the hotel for a nap and woke with a start around 3 a.m. feeling like I’d passed the whole day away.

My plan was to go for a walk around the rampart walls, which seemed to stretch for a couple kilometers, but my shopaholicism kicked in as I neared the medina and I thought I would go in for just a quick look at what was on offer. As I was haggling with a blanket salesguy, Youssef walked past. His face, and mine, I’m sure lit up in recognition. He came into the shop, told me they were just around the corner and about to eat dinner and I should join them I said I would try to find them, but needed first to find a bank machine. By the time I’d returned with my money and chatted with the shopkeeper, Tarket was walking up the road looking for me.

He was also insistent I come to see the house and mentioned dinner with friends and I was my usual self, saying no, no, I couldn’t possibly, I wouldn’t want to intrude, but Tarek was almost childlike in his insistence – simply showing me the food on our tour of the house and then stating “you’ll join us?” as he set another place. I turned out to be fantastic.

Tarek and his brother and his brother’s wife, along with Youssef and Jocaonda and Victoria, friends traveling together from Sevilla, although one was from Britain and the other was Mexican. Most of the conversation was in Spanish, and although I could follow about 70 per cent, I couldn’t contribute at all. The Spanish girls were great company and Youssef sang a Scorpions song (he’s obsessed in an autistic sort of way about it, actually) and Jaconda sang Cole Porter and Tarek recited a love poem, that Jaconda later transcribed and translated. It was lovely.

The girls had to leave early to catch a ferry back to Spain, Jaconda sneaking in an extra peck on Tarek’s ups as she said goodbye. After they left, his brothers and wife wandered off to smoke a joint and Youssef went with the girls to help them find a taxi. Tarek and I headed into the medina just coming alive for the night, to take a quick look at his other houses, hit the bank machine, see his clothing shop and meet his youngest brother (one of eight!) and then to buy booze. We each had a drink and Tarek told me about the English guy, his annoying Moroccan boyfriend, the somewhat misguided Moroccan attitude toward women and the breakdown of his marriage. Anyway, we ended up getting closer and closer on the couch and he seemed quite taken with my long, blonde locks and next thing you know, we’re making out until the phone rang and Youssef rang the bell came in and sat between us. We chatted for another half hour or so, then I made my excuses and they walked me home. It felt a little funny to be out with just Tarek, especially buying booze, as Muslims don’t drink and just as strange to be out walking with Tarek and Youssef, as if all the people looking at us had already decided Tarek had bagged another blond. We parted ways at the end of the block with a chaste kiss on both cheeks and a handshake and a vague promise to find him in the medina the next day. I literally floated home grinning to myself like an idiot, feeling totally liberated.

The next morning, I got up, packed my bags, bought oranges and some bread and headed off to Tangiers. Part of me felt guilty – I’d given the impression I wanted to see Tarek again and part of me wanted to – and part of me felt the faint outline of another line on the list of regrets. But more of me felt like the experience was all I could hop fore, all I needed and wanted and anymore might sour the experience. So onto the bus with a smile.

Tangiers, dirty and busy, wasn’t anywhere as dangerous but I heaved a solid sigh of relief to get back to European soil. A struggle, to be sure, but worth it. I’m still chewing it over; it’s still percolating in me, and it’s made me wonder at the wonder of wandering again, of never knowing who you’re going to meet, how they’re going to change you and what you’re going to see, do or experience.