Take Me to Casablanca

The day I spent in Africa will remain etched in my memory forever. Morocco is a land of mystery, enchantment, and enticement. I was hoping to see belly dancers, snake charmers, and a slew of other vibrant, ornate sights. Many of the things that surprised me were completely out of character and will haunt me for a long time to come.

An array of emotions swirled around me as I boarded the ship that would transport me across the Mediterranean Sea to the northern coast of Morocco. Honestly, I was just giddy. It didn't matter that I was only 13, because I was about to cross three continents. This would be my first trip to Africa, after spending the previous five days in sunny Spain. In addition to being ecstatic, I was also awestruck and mystified. Moroccans are Muslim, and Arabic is their primary language of communication. This may come across as a bit biased, but as I settled into my seat on the boat, the song "Arabian Nights" kept playing in the back of my head. To avoid offending anyone, I did, however, dress conservatively.

The boat ride only took about half an hour. Immediately after the ship had docked, we were taken to a bus. The first time I saw Africa, I was disappointed because it looked a lot like Andalucia, Spain's southernmost region. Being so close to the equator, it was a tad bit warmer here.

After a few miles of riding, we pulled over to have our passports checked in a city that was once under Spanish control. This was the first time I saw Morocco up close. Along the road's old, cracked pavement, trash was strewn all over the place. Many locals going about their daily routines took a break to look at the tour bus carrying so many tourists. However, despite the tinted windows, their eyes seemed to pierce right through me.

The Moroccan tour guide joined us at this time. Despite his short stature and robe, he made an impression. His head was adorned with a small maroon hat. He warned us not to speak to any Moroccans on the street because they might try to steal from us in a heavy accent that sounded like Spanish. Also, he cautioned us against purchasing anything from street vendors for the same reasons. It was his prediction that hordes of people would swarm around us, harassing and exploiting us in every way possible. When we were warned about the gypsies in Spain, the gypsies had caused very little trouble, so I didn't pay much attention. I figured the same would be true of Moroccans.

We drove to Tétouan, one of Morocco's major cities, after the guide finished his speech. When I first saw the narrow dirt road, I was worried we'd never get there because it was built just two or three feet from a cliff. After about an hour of driving, we arrived in Tétouan, and I eagerly peered out my window, hoping to see a city in better shape than the one we had just left in Spain. What I did see, however, took me completely by surprise. Massive crowds of onlookers paused in their activities to fix their gaze on us. Most of them were dressed in filthy, torn clothes and looked shockingly thin. We were warned not to stare, but I couldn't help it. My mother gently nudged me in the ribs. I stepped off the bus, cradling my camera in my hand.

First, the local Moroccans started to get closer to the tourists. Their piercing gaze etched itself into my psyche. Their stares made me feel like an unwanted guest. When I accidentally bumped into a woman holding a crying baby, I felt my first pang of remorse. I managed to apologise, since I didn't want to offend her further. Those sad, troubled eyes of hers seemed to say, "How could you? Our lives in a third-world country are incomprehensible to me. As soon as I realized what I had taken for granted, my heart was filled with gratitude.

The main part of town's winding back streets were our guide. Both sides of us were bordered by stark white building walls. To get into the homes, these walls had open doorways that led to tiny rooms. As if we were gods, people appeared in these doorways and stared at us. In the alleyways, malnourished children in rags played in the garbage and filth. They smiled as they looked at us. In my mind, I wondered if they were aware of better ways of life in other parts of the world or if that was something they learned later in life.

Our guide in Morocco took us through a series of narrow, squalid alleyways that had a distinct marijuana odor. Drugs may have been their only way out of a life of misery for these people.

Through a small hole in the wall, our guide led us. A three or four-year-old boy's cries and screams could be heard. From the knee down, his right leg was covered in blood. I wished there was something I could do to help him, and my stomach rumbled. Gauze was used to cover the wound but it was soaked by the blood. Even though I only walked a few feet away, it felt rude.

We were then led into a charming little restaurant a short time later. I didn't eat much because I'd been walking through so many beautiful places and I'd lost my appetite. However, the restroom in that restaurant is something I will never forget. She escorted me into a stall after I paid her 100 pesetas (about 70 cents). The woman flushed by hand after I finished. She then squirted some soap on my hands and drank some bottled water. Finally, she shook her head and pointed to the door, signaling that she wanted me out of the room.

To make up for lost time, we returned to the bus for the final hour's journey to Tangier. The more I thought about it, the more numb my body felt.

When we arrived in Tangiers, the street peddlers surrounded us. I politely declined all of their offers, feeling a twinge of remorse as I did so.

Our first stop was at an indoor market. We could haggle to our heart's content there, but I wasn't really interested in anything. When I gave money to large corporations, I felt bad about it because they didn't need it as much as the people on the street.

As in Tétouan, there were a lot of peddlers in Tangiers the rest of the time we were there. After we left one store, a man approached me and offered to sell me a fez, a traditional Moroccan hat, for 2000 pesetas (roughly $10).

"No, thank you," I replied.

"Oh, you buy from in-store but not from the street, eh?" the man responded.

As a result of my lack of preparedness, all I said was, "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he said, "I bet."

I walked on, feeling extremely guilty about what I had done. However, he gave my mother a discount of 1000 pesetas, so she bought three hats.

I was relieved to be leaving Morocco behind as I boarded the bus. However, when I looked back at all the people, some of whom were children, I realized how difficult it must be for them to endure hardships every single day, hardships worse than anything we modern Americans have ever had to deal with. But these people had nowhere else to go.

The sounds and sights of its cities still haunt me to this day. Those memories, I suppose, will endure forever.