September 9th: Should we even leave the ship?
Holy cow, Morocco. Talk about a change of heart. The first day here, September 9th, we went to go find the train station and end up in probably the worst part of Casablanca. We walked down Plague Street and needless to say we discovered why it was called plague. Dogs both dead and alive lined the streets of garbage and homeless locals while dust was swirling everywhere. To describe the smell to you again… death. Plain and simple. You'll be walking down the street and it'll hit you like a brick wall. My bright blonde hair attracted many unwanted looks. I'd turn to smile at the people and 1 out of every 8 or so would smile back. It became very demoralizing after a while and I started to avoid the eye contact. I felt completely out of place and hated the attention. After realizing that we probably shouldn't be in that part of the city, we turned back to walk through the midst of pointing and glares.
We needed a place to stay in Marrakech which was an adventure all in its self. Jules, Sam, Tyler, and I returned back to the ship. We had hoped to leave Casablanca the night we got there but our passports took too long to get ready from customs so we couldn't pick them up until 5:00pm. I sat down at a computer to figure out hostels or something and nothing was available. I ran out of internet minutes and Sam took over. Finally we came across something for only $25 per person per night, except it looked like an apartment. We didn't really have a choice so all of us gave her the OK and we reserved it for 2 nights, but we weren't really sure if we had just put a down payment on a lease for a house in Morocco or not. We figured what the heck, if we put a lease down on an apartment then we have a reason to come back. I may or may not need someone at Ithaca to sign me up for spring classes/housing due to my lack of internet minutes at the moment :p.
Exploring Casablanca at night was still a little sketchy even by all of the souks and everything. Just like Spain, there were stray cats everywhere. Everyone was celebrating the end of Ramadan so the streets were filled as people could finally eat again. At one point this little boy, who couldn't have been more than 8 or 9, followed us for what seemed like blocks of streets begging for money. It took all of my will power to not turn around and make eye contact with him. If I had done that, I know I would have caved in. It was still uncomfortable that night to be walking around with blonde hair. I felt very inferior to everyone with the attention on me every time someone walked by, and all I wanted to do was blend in and immerse myself in the culture, which is hard to do when you stick out like a sore thumb. People started to get on edge because of the Qu'ran burning in Florida and the travel advisory Obama sent out. It was questionable as to whether we were all comfortable with traveling.
September 10th, 2010: Good Old Moroccan Trains
The next morning (9/10) we walked to the port gates to go catch a train to Marrakech. All four of us go to pile in a red taxi since we were advised to take those. As we're getting in, a driver from a white cab comes over, says something to our driver, and then pushes us closer to his cab, saying "No no no, only 2 in red taxi." Well that's BS because four old ladies piled into the one in front of us, so basically he struck a deal with our first driver to have us go in a white taxi and pay more. Despite our best attempts at saying no (we were still bartering amateurs at that point), we succumbed to the white cab driver to take us, and boy was it a ride. It was like a video game, or even a competition to see how quickly each driver can get the most number of patrons to their destination. Jules, Sam, and I were all piled in the backseat. I'll be honest, I was a little freaked out at first. There are basically no rules on the road. Some traffic lights and stop signs exist, but people treat those merely as suggestions. You can drive down the middle of two lanes if you feel like it, traffic cops stand there with their whistle that has no effect on anything (we collectively decided that being a traffic cop is the most useless Moroccan job ever), and intersections are a free for all. You flash your lights, maybe look both ways, and gun it across the street. At one point on the way to the train station our cab driver split two cars while driving in the middle of both lanes, while at the same time swerving around a person on a motor scooter (which are EVERYWHERE in Morocco), and dodging a woman crossing the street carrying a baby all at once. It's absolute chaos, yet no one is talking on their phones, texting, or anything of the sort. To put it simply, driving in Morocco is an art form, but then again so is crossing the street as a pedestrian. It was a game of human frogger since there are cross walks, but no indication of when to go and when not to. I think we're up to level 5 now since we crossed some crazy intersections. Half the time we'd pick a local to follow since they're all fearless. These cab drivers are pros. It's honestly bizarre that there aren't an incredible amount of accidents every day. Finally we made it to the train station and ended up paying 150 Dirham for the ride which doesn't seem like a lot since it's almost 9 Dirham to every 1 American dollar, but we were told later to never pay more than 50 Dirham for a white taxi ride even if it's across the city.
Our 2nd class train tickets only cost us about $12 American, so it was pretty cheap. The Casa Voyageurs station was a bustling little place consisting of 4 platforms with trains constantly arriving and departing. Unfortunately most of our train was filled with Semester at Sea students, but luckily the four of us were able to find a compartment with a couple locals, a man and a woman. The first couple of hours of the ride were fine, minus the intense heat. Coming out of Casablanca, it finally hit most of us that we were in Africa. On the outer limits of the city we passed the slums. Rows and rows of makeshift houses with clothes and garbage covering walls and rooftops. It was tough to look at, especially when you compare it to the conditions in which we all live at home. Sure they may not be the best… our driveways may need paving, our ceilings need fixing, but I'll take a little drywall on my floor or gravel in my yard any day over taking off my sweatshirt and hanging it over the roof so I don't die of heat exhaustion when I get home. I can't wait until Ghana and South Africa because that's the part of Africa I'm dying to see and dying to make a difference in. Outside of the slums came the rural part of the country. The more south we went, the bare the land was. On the entire train ride I can only recall one water formation (rivers, streams, etc.) that wasn't completely dried up and empty. Along the whole trip there were random villages some consisting of twenty houses and some consisting of only four or five. These houses consisted of clay and yet again, garbage. I've come to the conclusion that these were farming villages. Donkeys and horses would be relaxing in the shade and kids would be chasing the train or standing by the tracks staring at the cars passing by. I'm glad these people can make enough of a living to stay alive, but what happens to the children? I have a pretty strong feeling that they work in their fields with the parents rather than go to school to receive a higher education. When we passed through one village, three Moroccan boys were standing by the tracks. As the train began to depart from the station, these boys started to throw rocks at the passenger cars. It's important to note that this was not in a violent way however, it was simply their form of entertainment.
Garbage is the other issue that bothered me. Everywhere you go there is garbage. About 80% of the railways were lined in a thick coat of plastic bottles and food wrappers. Coming from America where more and more people are pro Earth and then spending a majority of time in Ithaca where the environment is a top priority, it was appalling. The part that tore me apart the most was seeing little kids along the tracks standing amidst the piles and piles and of garbage that had no business being there.
About two hours into our train ride we stopped at a station, which we later realized was deserted. Five minutes go by, then ten, and then fifteen and we're still not moving. When locals started walking around outside of the train is the point where the phrase "what the heck is going on? Please keep moving, Mr. Conductor." ran through all of our heads. The heat in the compartment was too much to bear so Tyler and I ventured outside after being stalled for almost a half hour. We were in the middle of nowhere. There was no sign of life in any direction. Tiny animals, which looked like scorpions, were running around on the ground outside. As soon as we stepped out of the car the heat hit us like a freight train (which is ironic because our train wasn't moving anytime soon). We were stranded in the beginning of the desert at the base of mountains. Keep in mind none of us spoke Arabic and only a couple of us spoke very little French so it was nearly impossible to tell what was going on. At first we heard electrical problems, then that the engine had crapped out on us, and at one point the story was that we needed to wait for another train to pass. Tyler and I watched this one man carrying his daughter on his back step off the train and walk over the barriers. Five minutes later we turn around and he's halfway into the mountains! More and more locals began to abandon the stationary train and disappear into the bare and foreign land, but we couldn't figure out for the life of us where they were all going because there was nothing in site! At one point we look out the window and see the conductor wandering along the rails in among the groups of locals wandering off into the desert. We still had no idea what was going on. Was this a union lunch break thing? Where is our conductor going? Needless to say we have some pretty good videos during our attempts to make the best out of our situation.
The heat started to get to some people on the train as a couple women started yelling in Arabic. At first I couldn't tell if they were laughing or yelling, but when the Moroccan man in our train tried to calm them down it was plain to see that it was anger. This was later confirmed when we did the traditional boxing motion and he nodded with a smile on his face.
After sitting in the compartment for over an hour, Tyler turns the two Moroccans and nonchalantly asks "So do you guys speak English?" The woman, who is named Miriam, responded with a smile and a laugh with a shake of the head and the man, Abdul, said he only spoke a little. Slowly but surely we began to communicate back on forth with Sam and Amanda as our French translators and our botched motions with charades. I'm not sure why, but I love the language barriers. If we sat on a train at home, we would think foreign people were insane if they started motioning at us trying to communicate. Here, the tables were turned, well kind of. Yes, Miriam and Abdul thought we were crazy with our spotty French and dramatic gestures, but we thought they were crazy with their gestures at us. So there we were, six young, American college students trying to communicate with two middle aged Moroccans. It went back and forth for quite some time and it took a lot of explaining in order to get the idea of Semester at Sea (SAS) in their head. For whatever reason trying to explain that you sailed across the ocean and will continue to be sailing around the world is a very hard concept to describe without words. Jules experienced this back in Spain when an elderly couple thought she swam across and/or lived in the ocean when she tried to explain SAS to them. Abdul took the "train game" book from Sam, flipped through it, and started to play Sudoku. I didn't know that was an international thing, but surely enough he had beaten the puzzle. Jules had her sketch book out for her art class, Miriam though she was an art student, and as a result insisted that Jules draw a portrait of her. The exchange between the two was hilarious. After Jules finished, we turned the tables and had Miriam draw Jules.
Things continued to progress and the train FINALLY started moving again, although by that point we honestly didn't care anymore. We were having way too much fun with our new friends. They went around the compartment saying one nice thing about each other. Amanda had pretty eyes, Sam had a big heart, Jules had a nice smile, and Abdul (jokingly) waved his hand at Tyler and I as if to say "no no, nothing good about you two." That's when Miriam chimed in with her hand motions, none of which were comprehendible. She'd pinch her cheeks, wrinkled her nose. The best we could do was to conclude that she was saying I had a baby face, which wouldn't be the first time I've heard that. She decides to draw it out in Jules' sketch book. She finishes, we look at the paper, and what do we see? A mouse. A freaking mouse. According to Miriam my face is like a mouse. After much laughter she convinced us that this was a good thing.
In the span of about two hours, our friendship continued to grow. Abdul started pulling up youtube videos on his phone for us, they told us about themselves. Miriam was going to visit her fiancé in Marrakech while Abdul was going to visit his parents. It's crazy to think that at the start of the three hour engine failure that we knew absolutely nothing about each other and now we were taking pictures together, exchanging e-mails, and even teaching each other things. Miriam explained how Casablanca was the New York City of Morocco and by the end of the journey we had taught her the days of the week in English.
After a three hour ride turned into a six hour ride we finally arrived in Marrakech. We had absolutely no idea where we were going for our hotel. Miriam, Abdul, and even Miriam's fiancé all had no idea as well. Eventually Abdul was nice enough to flag down a taxi for us and negotiate the price lower. We said our goodbyes to him and this is where the second part of the adventure starts as we were back to crazy Moroccan taxi drivers.
It appeared as though the driver knew where he was going. Before we know it we're out of the city into more deserted land, kind of like where we were stuck for three hours. On the side of the road were camels just chilling and snacking on some hay. The driver continued to speed past a motorized scooter with a family of four hanging off of it every now and then, still acting like he knows where to go. We pass signs for our residency, but it's still nowhere to be found. At one point I leaned over to Jules and asked "Where the heck are we?" and she responds "I'm not sure, but we're by freaking sheep herders." Sure enough I look out my window and there are no buildings, only a little old man herding his sheep along the roadside. Great. Where the heck is this place!? We were seriously in the middle of nowhere with no end in sight. It was to the point where we were all chuckling to ourselves because we were so nervous. There was nothing else we could do. The driver starts to slow down on the side of the road next to a rundown shack with locals sitting outside next to a Coca Cola side that's tipped sideways. As the car came to a stop I could hear Jules whispering "please don't stop, please don't stop, please don't stop," next to me. To be honest, I was thinking the same exact thing. Sure enough, the driver stops. We hear Sam ask "Is this the hotel?" in French. When the driver responds we hear "Oh thank God." No it was not the hotel, but yes the driver did in fact have no idea where he was going. Three times he turned around and stopped to ask for directions. After back tracking over ten kilometers, we pulled down a little dirt road that was even more sketchy than the road we were already on. Out of nowhere this amazing apartment complexes rises out of the surrounding brush and dusty land. Security guards and everything. All of this for only $25 a night per person!? Little did we know that it only gets better.
The security guard walked us to our apartment. As he opened the door, our jaws dropped. Incredibly high ceilings as we walked in with a private terrace off of the living room. He proceeded to take us upstairs to a bedroom with a full bathroom. Up we went again to another bedroom with a full bathroom. This room consisted of a king size bed and had a walk out balcony overlooking the residency grounds. Up again we went, this time to our private rooftop terrace. From here we could see Marrakech, the mosque, and the surrounding areas at the base of the mountains. In fact, we were surrounded by mountains on three sides. A stunning view and three stories all to ourselves? Our minds were boggled. The rooftop terrace is where I witnessed my first African sunset over the brush. This was definitely something else. It was absolutely stunning and although I tried to capture the image in a photo, it doesn't do it justice. The part that put this place over the top was the fact that they offered a free shuttle into and out of the markets in Marrakech. Not only that but it included an in-ground pool, tranquility pool, spa, and restaurant. Uhh, perfection? I think yes. It also didn't hurt that we were within the vicinity of NO SAS kids.
As we went on yet another shuttle drive, we met a couple people from the UK and two from Holland. They tried to warn us, or at least ease us into the market scene. They advised we not reveal that were from American with the whole Qu'ran burning and everything. This was the point when Tyler, Sam, Jules, and myself became Canadian citizens for the next couple of days. As we pulled up to the markets it was masses of people. An indescribable amount. I must've looked at Jules with a terrified look on my face, which I don't doubt since it was quite overwhelming to just drive through all of the crowds, because she responded "it'll be ok," haha. We stepped out the van and were immediately sucked into the current of people migrating towards the market. From afar it appeared as though vendors were on fire, but really it was just the numerous vendors serving dinner. As we moved closer to the crowds we passed thousands of motorized scooters parked along the sidewalk. It was like a Moroccan Harley Davidson club, but the party was going on in the souks. Soon enough we pushed through the crowd past the street performers and henna artists into the main food section. There was an indescribable smell that filled the air as it consisted of a little bit of everything. Cous cous, beef, vegetables, etc. It was the best smelling open air market I have ever been a part of. Considering the fact that we hadn't eaten since breakfast at 7:30 am, we decided to grab food first. Before we could even consider anywhere else, a Moroccan man threw a menu in our face saying "sit, sit. Please. Good food, great price." I'm telling you right now, it's impossible to say no to these people. They served us fresh bread with an amazing chili sauce that had a kick to it, but was combined with lemon juice. Then came the main course of chicken, beef, and friend vegetables. It was out of this world.
It was pretty easy to see that this enormous market was an economy all in itself. When we ordered our drinks we watched this young man run across the street, come back with drinks, hand them to our waiter, and then our waiter hand them to us. It's basically saying "we have to drink whatever that stand has over there." Even while bartering, if we asked for something they didn't have, they would go next door and come back with it from their friend. It's very much a "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" type of society.
The bartering began after dinner. The first souk we went to asked where we were from. We responded with Canada and he responded "oh, well then my name is Jim Carey!" It was very hard to negotiate with him since he spoke perfect English. I found this out later when I tried to barter for a pair of pants. He held them up and went "your hips go 'cheeky cheeky' in these pants" as he proceeded to sway one side to another. I will always think of "cheeky cheeky" when I wear them. At one point he commented on our American-like accent to which we responded that we're from the border area. I found that bartering is an acquired skill. For example, I absolutely suck at it while Jules is able to talk down a 200 Dirham shirt to only 60 Dirham. It's difficult to be used to a set price and deciding whether you want it based on that. Here, you need to come up with a price in your head and stick to your guns. I learned that you need to start at least 20 Dirham below your minimum. They'll think you're crazy, but that gives you leeway to meet somewhere in the middle with them. It's an endless cycle of the same thing. It starts with the old "good price, great price. I offer you special diplomatic student price." Then they laugh at your first offer, and after they realize you're not a complete idiot they'll start to come down. Once you start to walk away, 95% of the time they chase you down, accepting the offer. Some do's and don'ts of bartering: DO NOT EVER shake someone's hand unless you are already in their souk. They will in fact grasp onto your hand and proceed to drag you towards their merchandise. It happened to me as I was in awe over snake charmers. I had to literally pry his hand off of mine while Sam came back and pulled me away from him. ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS make sure you agree to a price. If they start lowering their price like crazy (which happens all the time… Tyler had his candle holders from 500 Dirham to 100 Dirham in a matter of seconds), be sure they'll stick to it. Refer to the orange juice story in the next day's post. DO NOT make eye contact if you are looking at their stuff. They will sucker you into their shop with their relentless tendencies. DO ignore people you don't want to talk to. It seems rude and uncomfortable at first, but they don't take it personally. For example, someone tried to sell me jewelry. They always ask you what language you speak and he went through a whole list; German, English, Spanish, French, etc. All the while I just shook my head and kept walking. Some guy asked me if I was from Somalia at one point which was pretty amusing. DO NOT be afraid to talk to them. They are the nicest people you will meet. They will do anything to go above and beyond and make you happy. DO smile often. These people like to have fun. They'll mess around with you and test you. They'll go from 100 Dirham to 200 just to see if you're paying attention. The more you barter and the more confident you are, the more respect they have for you. DO NOT be afraid to just have a simple conversation. They will open up to you and the more they do that, the more the price goes down. Yes, that sounds shallow, but it's also a great way to learn about the culture.
While walking out of the square, this lady forced Jules to look at the henna designs she offers. She proceeds to grab Jules' hand and say "simple flower, simple flower." Before we knew what was happening the lady had the top part of Jules' hand covered. She had been hennaed against her will, which was pretty funny now that we look back on it.
After a ton of bartering and running into Lauran, Leah, and Adam (three of the four best bosses you can have) and buying some Moroccan pastries, we retreated back to our home (we call it home because we could've easily lived there forever). We did some star gazing up on the roof which was absolutely amazing, just like everything in Africa.
September 11th: Proud to be Canadian
Jules and I were sitting at the dining room table this morning snacking on our Moroccan pastries when we hear keys outside. Slowly but surely the door begins to open and an older lady appears. She looks at us, smiles, says "bon appetite," and slowly backs up as she shuts the door. About ten minutes later there's a knock on the door and it's the cleaning crew. He starts speaking French to me and I stared at him with a blank stare at my face. I turned to Jules, who also speaks no French and we just looked at each other like "what the heck do we do?" It ended in me asking for 30 more minutes, please and shutting the door.
While snacking on our pastries we established a very important rule after we tried one specific treat. If it looks like sh*t, It tastes like sh*t. It means exactly what it sounds like it does. Between Spain and Morocco it's safe to say this rule will come in handy.
After breakfast, we headed back to the souks around 11am for some more bartering. The streets are like one giant maze filled with souks, cobras and snake charmers, and monkey tamers. The more we walked, the more we found. It literally goes on forever. Everyone asked us where we were from and every time we would have to respond with Canadian, all the while hoping that all hell didn't break loose back in the U.S. Each turn we took placed in a new section of the markets. Big alleys led to little alleys that led to even littler alleys that had hundreds of people trying to pass each other at once with horses and motor scooters trying to split between the chaos. I was really just waiting for Aladdin to start hopping from rooftop to rooftop. Souk owners trying to coax us into their shops. We found a hidden scarf shop. Jules needed to take a picture of an owner wearing a shirt for her work. The people were so friendly and so willing to help us out. They didn't even think twice.
The food is great in Morocco, but the orange juice is better. From now on I will be severely disappointed every time I have OJ because it won't be from the streets in Morocco. It's so pulpy, but so delicious. The taste is like no other. We had gotten some the night before and had a craving for some in the morning. As we walked up a stand the man next to the stand started bartering for our service. "Four Dirham, three, two, one!" Obviously we went to the stand that offered it to us for one. The man on the side was not pleased. He started cursing us out. Yelled some more explicit language and tossed his OJ in the street. It was honestly scary to stand there and drink ours. We go to pay our vendor 4 Dirham. He looks at us like we're crazy and starts to yell, denying that he said 1 Dirham for one glass. We all went back and forth for a while until we gave him a little more and got the heck out of there. We wandered some more around the souks, convinced some more people we were Canadian, and continued to barter.
Jules and Sam got henna on their hand. While this was happening we heard the call to prayer for the first time. It was a little intimidating at first to hear the Arabic voice blaring over the city, but nothing seemed to change in Marrakech. All of the souk owners kept howling at the consumers, the henna artist continued her design. Literally nothing changed. It was sad that these people were more concerned with making the next buck than worshiping what they so whole heartedly believe in. I mean, they just fasted for a month during Ramadan and they can't follow the call to prayer and pray for three minutes? I know I would've been more than happy to wait for three minutes until they were done with what they needed to do before I continued bartering. I guess that's just the way life is in Marrakech. We heard the call three more times that day, all while we were in the market, and still nothing changed. At one point we wandered by a worship place with people walking in. If we hadn't been in a more local part of the city, we would have never seen that.
That night at dinner I had cous cous with chicken and vegetables. Delicious. This time there was a sweeter dipping sauce for the bread which yet again, I wouldn't have been more than happy to straight up drink.
I could go on and on describing the market scene, but you just wouldn't get it. It's one of those things that you have to go and witness yourself. However you're picturing it in your mind, multiply that image by about one hundred and maybe you're close. As we walked out of the souks that night, the moon had risen next to the mosque, which is a sight I'll never forget. We sat on the curb for a while and observed the people and culture. You can learn a lot by just stopping and taking the time to look at your surroundings.
September 12th: Should we trust the Moroccan trains?
Our awesome shuttle guy from the hotel took us on one last wild ride and went out of his way to take us to the train station. What a guy. Yet another example of how nice these people are. We hopped on the train and with no three hour delays made it back to Casablanca. We walked back from the station and this time was certain to avoid Plague Street. Marrakech and Casablanca have two totally different feels. Marrakech is so upbeat and lively, while Casablanca feels like there's a dark rain cloud hanging over the city. The smell is rancid, and no one looks happy to be there. On the way to the port we passed a pack of dogs, at least five or six, just laying on the street corner. It's depressing here, in my opinion. Every now and then you'll find someone who's happy to see you, but it's still very dark and dreary.
I'm not really sure how to analyze the past couple of days, but I'll give it my best shot. Morocco is like a war of two different worlds. There is the younger, more liberal generation that's breaking free of their elders. These are the people that wear shorts, the women are able to wear shorter dresses and tank tops. This was most prevalent with the younger kids, and sometimes in the middle aged bracket. On the other side you have the conservative, religiously grown older aged people struggling to hang onto their roots. But even then it seems like the requirements are becoming more liberal. There are the women that wouldn't bother covering their head in public, while others did. Some would drape the scarf over their mouths while others covered their entire face so only their eyes peered out behind the shadows of their scarves. A perfect example of this was when we were observing from the street curb. There was a woman dressed in traditional Muslim clothing with her head, shoulders, and knees covered. Next to her was her friend who wore a short black dress that revealed her shoulders. The part I love most about this is that they weren't fighting at all and there was no tension between them. They had two separate views, but still coexisted as if they were one. With the September 11th remembrance happening back in the states, it was very symbolic of what people should be doing between our culture and the Muslim culture.
All day long on every single day I would get different looks in response to my blonde hair. Little kids would walk by holding their parent's hand. As they progressed forward there head would stay stationary on me as their eyes would widen as if to say "what the heck is on his head!?" Teenagers would look at me like I was a freak, and older people would give me a glare that said "you don't belong here." As uncomfortable as I was, I still found that a majority of the people were very welcoming. Some were like that because we were there to spend our money and others were genuinely open to me. I have to say that despite all of the glares I received, all of those bad memories were erased when the four of us were sitting on the curb and a father sets his three year old daughter down on the sidewalk. Out of nowhere she comes waddling on over to Sam, Jules, Tyler, and me with a huge smile on her face, giggling and waving hi at us. Her father came over, flashed us a smile, picked his daughter up and crossed the street. The entire time they were in the crosswalk she continued to wave at us with that glowing smile of hers.
At another point, we watched a three year old jump from the street onto the sidewalk. He was so elated that he jumped for joy as if to say "I DID IT!" The four of us all smiled and clapped for him as he stumbled back to his parents. I'm sure I did that when I was little. I'm sure we all have. Yet we act like we're so different from these people and to be honest, I don't see it. Yes, they have darker skin, usually shorter hair, maybe they drive differently or speak a different language, but we've all jumped for joy before. The main difference that people see is religion. So what? So what if they have a call to prayer four times a day? What's so bad about worshiping something you believe in? I know Christian people that go out actively promoting their religion, so what's the difference between that and someone independently praying on a street corner? I just don't see a reason to fear these people, especially when they have given us no reason to. Some might say that "they" flew planes into the Twin Towers. I'm sorry for bursting your bubble, but "they" didn't do anything. A select few made the choice to do that. Let me also point out that a select few Americans have chosen to create terror and tragedies amongst ourselves, yet we still sit on our high horses and go about our daily lives. If you think the way they dress is intimidating, then you should probably swallow your pride and take a reality check. They dress for what they believe and we do the same thing here. Some dress more conservatively than others. If you don't feel love and compassion, or at least tolerance towards these people, don't worry, I'm not trying to call you out or make you feel like crap. To be honest, I sympathize with you. I used to be you. I know how hard it is. The media, whether we like it or not, subliminally conditions us to view Muslims differently than ourselves. They, in a way, tell us that we're above them. For the past three days and the next two I have been/will be forced to be the odd one out. To trust people that I have been told have hidden agendas for years. Was it intimidating? Maybe at the start. But when the old man sitting on the corner of the street enjoying the day smiles at you, you can't help but feel appreciated.
I could describe Morocco as filled with garbage and smelling like death again, but then you'd look past the beauty of the country and its people. They will bend over backwards for you. Every now and then you run into someone that isn't like that, but that person exists in every society. There are too many similarities to consider Americans better than Muslims. Not to be cliché, but I can whole heartedly state that I do not see why two different worlds such as Americans and Muslims can't coexist like the conservative and liberal Muslim women who, despite both struggling to hang onto their views, can coexist and be tolerant of one another. I love Morocco. I love the people, and I love the society. I love how someone so different, such as myself with my blonde hair, can feel so out of place, yet so accepted at times. That doesn't happen everywhere you go. I didn't take many pictures of this port. Only about 20 and 17 were of our hotel and the African sunset. It was more important to me to observe and learn about these people because of the tension between us. Also, in a lot of instances it's rude to take pictures of the people and I didn't want to risk offending anyone. Just listen when I say that this is a beautiful place with beautiful people, so you'll have to come see for yourself.
