When I’m traveling around a lot, I find it really difficult
to find time (and focus) to sit down and write. I journal in my little travel
journal, but pulling out my laptop and everything seems a bit too much at
times.
Anyway, in the past two weeks, I’ve been in three
countries—Namibia, South Africa, and Morocco (and Qatar for a quick layover but
that doesn’t really count)! So things have been hectic as you can assume.
But at last I’m in Morocco…after years and years of
dreaming. People have been asking why I’ve always wanted to come here, and I
tell them the same story. When my grandfather was in World War II (painting
signs as a commercial artist), he was stationed in Casablanca for a time. When
he returned stateside, he painted a bunch of photos of the buildings and
environment from this area. Growing up, I saw these paintings around our house
every day. Then when I got really into photography –and traveling—in college, I
dreamed of visiting this photographer’s heaven; there are so many colors,
designs, textures, and beautiful sights.
When I began planning my COS (close of service) trip,
Morocco was my #1 destination because of my long-time fascination with and
desire to learn more about the culture and people. And now I’m finally here!
So it’s been about two full days since I arrived. I decided
to take the “travelers” route and couchsurf for the first time ever. I was very
lucky with my host—a local Moroccan girl who is very knowledgeable about
Moroccan culture and has had some time to show me around Casablanca.
Since arriving at the airport though, I’ve been a bit
overwhelmed by my lack of being able to communicate with people. I quickly realized
how incredibly spoiled I was to be living in southern Africa where British
colonization led to most people being able to speak at least some English.
Morocco was colonized by France meaning that the “second” language here is
French (the first being Arabic). I now understand why people kept asking me if
I spoke any French or Arabic before I arrived. What I discovered yesterday
though, during my first time out and about in Casablanca by myself and also on
my first day in Morocco, is that knowing the language almost makes life “too
easy.” Let me explain….
So my couchsurfing host explained the directions to me, told
me the bus fare, the bus number, where I should get off, and where I could find
Hassan II Mosque. This is the largest mosque in Morocco (13th
largest in the world) with its minaret standing tall at 210 meters (689 feet),
and it’s situated in downtown Casablanca.
I was a bit nervous about language barriers, but I’d just gotten a
Moroccan SIM card and data, so I figured I could always GPS map my way there if
I couldn’t read signs. I waited for the #7 bus, got on and paid the 5 dirhams
bus fare, then went to find a seat. Relieved that I was on my way and had gotten
that far, I relaxed a little, watching the new city landscape unfold before me.
Then a man approached me asking for my bus ticket. I said I
didn’t have one. Let me clarify that he spoke zero English and I know zero
Arabic (or French), so most of this “conversation” was had using hand gestures
and facial expressions. We went on for a few minutes arguing about where my
ticket was and whether I’d paid. At one point I tried to give him another 5
dirhams in an attempt to just buy another ticket and to get him (and two other
men who had joined the debate) out of my face. Then he insisted that I pay 35
dirhams. Not understanding why, I
refused. I assumed they were just trying to rip me off because I couldn’t speak
their languages and they could tell I was foreign.
Confused, I looked around the bus. We had attracted a lot of attention from other passengers
because the men were basically yelling in my face. I noticed a woman sitting
behind these men look at me out of the corner of her eye and shake her head
indiscreetly, warning me not to pay them. I made eye contact with other women
sitting in front of me, looking at them with puppy dog, confused eyes and they returned
an empathetic face to me.
Not knowing what exactly to do but remembering blog posts
I’d read recommending to stick with women for help, I slid across the bus aisle
into the seat next to the woman who’d given me the non-verbal advice. She
welcomed me next to her and I tried to explain using very basic English phrases
and hand gestures to tell her what happened. She started helping me by arguing
with the men saying she’d seen me pay and that I just hadn’t gotten a ticket
(this part was my fault because I was
supposed to take the ticket myself if the bus driver didn’t hand it to me…but I
hadn’t known that).
Then things got really hectic and all these people who had
seen me get on began fighting for me against these “bus conductors.” There was
so much Arabic arguing filling the bus and there I sat, having no idea what was
going on while the one conductor continued to get in my face telling me I
needed to pay and that I was ‘a problem.’ The woman next to me kept shaking her
head at me and using a hand gesture like ‘no. it’s done.’ So I just ignored the
guys. They eventually, after practically the entire ride into the city, gave me
a ticket.
The woman next to me asked if I knew where I was going and I
said no, not really and tried to explain to her that I was trying to reach the
big mosque. I ended up showing her on my google maps app on my phone. She and
the woman behind us, who she’d thoroughly filled in on the drama and who kept
trying to speak to me in Arabic despite me having no clue what she was saying,
insisted that they’d go with me (or something, I really was scraping the bottom
trying to figure out what their gestures were meant to say). They were
especially impressed by my English—Arabic translations in my little notebook
and realized then that I was at least trying to learn some of their language.
They motioned when we reached a bus stop to get off. Not
sure of exactly where I was supposed
to get off, I figured it was worth a shot to see what they were going to take
me to. So we exited the bus and began walking down the street. They chattered
in Arabic about the corrupt conductors who just wanted money. They tried to ask
me questions, but the only one I understood was when one of them pointed to her
ring finger and then to me, asking if I was married.
The one woman split off from us, but the wonderfully helpful
one, wearing a beautiful turquoise djellaba
(long, flowy, tunic-like dress with sleeves) and headscarf, continued to escort
me through traffic and down sidewalks, past markets and various businesses,
always grabbing my wrist to cross the road like I was a helpless child. Honestly,
I found the mothering to be quite comforting after such an incident on the bus
that had made me want to curl up in a ball and not leave the house for the rest
of the day. She continued to try to speak to me in Arabic and I continued to
repeat words after her and add in the very limited Arabic vocabulary I
remembered, making her smile and say iyyeh, yes.
When we approached the mosque, she gestured in a way that
she lived in a different direction. We exchanged phone numbers, although I’m
not sure how we would communicate over the phone, and parted ways. As I
approached the massive, open courtyard of the Hassan II Mosque, I felt a wave
of relief and appreciation that I’d made
it. Despite the challenges, I had reached the mosque, I’d arrived in Morocco,
and this was real life.
I spent the sunset, golden hour wandering around the mosque,
feeling surprisingly at peace, soaking in the beauty and intricate details of
the architecture and trying to recall the proper names of the features from my
Islamic art history class in college. The air smelled of sea salt and felt
thick with humidity as the mosque sits directly next to the Atlantic Ocean. I
sat on a short wall with the ocean waves crashing into the shore on one side and
the mosque slowly being consumed by darkness on the other. Accent lights lit up
the prominent features—the archways, the intricate doorway mosaics, and the top
of the minaret—creating a beautiful contrast on the muggy evening.
It’s moments like these, spent in awe at a beautiful sight
or experiencing the hospitality and kindness of strangers from a different
culture, that make traveling worth all the challenges and difficulties.
