Ramadan in Morocco: Part I

I looked down at my map. The train station should have only been a mile from the hostel, but I still had so far to go. My lead heavy feet shimmered in the waves of July heat radiating off the sidewalk. And I needed to use the bathroom again. With a pang of regret, I recalled how I feasted on soft cheese and honey the night before. The lactose had finally caught up with me.  

I raised my hand and flagged down a not-in-my-budget cab.

“The train station, please.”

“Sit,” the driver commanded in a grumpy voice. He sped off even before I could close the back door. Maybe he's just cranky from fasting for Ramadan. Food I could imagine going without, but no water? In this heat?

I looked out the window at Casablanca. It resembled Washington D.C. with so many identical official looking white buildings and business people walking briskly. Just a few more stray dogs, palm trees and veiled women than you might expect in the US capitol.

The car slowed down to a stop. My heart sped up.  “Why are we stopping? This is not the train station.”

The driver ignored me, leaned over and opened the door. A man got in the passenger seat. The taxi started driving again. The two chatted back and forth, ignoring me. Is this the end? Is this how I get abducted? I looked at the lock on my door. It seemed to be working. I could hop out at the next stop sign.

But there was no need. The taxi soon turned into the train station parking lot, crowded with cabs and their drivers shouting at the departing passengers to get in them.

The cab driver took out his notepad and passed it back to me. “100,” it read.

“One hundred dirhams?” I asked indignantly.

That was more than ten dollars. “That isn’t fair! I only went a few blocks with you.” Why hadn’t I negotiated the price before getting the cab?

The passenger had just stepped out when heard my plea. He stuck his head back into the car and started calmly negotiating with the driver in Arabic.

He turned to me, “you can pay him ten dirhams.”

I passed over the note and got out of the car, staggering with the weight of my heavy backpack.

“Thank you for helping me.” I stuck my hand out, “I’m Lauren.”

The man looked at my hand with surprise. I retracted it with embarrassment. He gave me a little head bow. “And I’m Ali. I must hurry, for the next train to Marrakech is leaving soon.”

“I am going to Marrakech too.”

We entered the train station. It was crowded and loud. In front of the ticket counter people elbowed and cut one another. I got hit with a flying elbow and groaned.

“I will purchase your ticket for you.”

“Thank you so much!” I pulled out my money purse from behind my shirt. “How much is it?”

He took my purse out of my hands. “I’ll find out.”

I backed up from the mob of the line and watched Ali with concern. He had not only all my money but all my bank cards. Could I trust him? I stared him down as though I could glue him into place, ensure that he wouldn’t rob me.

He received his ticket and started running. I knew it. “Ali! Ali!”

He waved a me. “Hurry up and run Lauren.” He tossed my purse to me and I clutched it with both hands in relief. “The train is here.”

The whistle sounded. Boarding the train was another shoving match. Ali had me go in front of him to reduce the jostling.

The blast of air-conditioning from the second-class car was a relief. Ali looked at his ticket and turned into a cabin. It had two benches with three seats each, a small table in the middle and a window.

Ali patted the seat next to him. “You sit here.”

“Ok.”

An old lady in a hijab and a college-aged girl sat across from us. They stared at me with interest and spoke excitedly to Ali.

“They want to know why are you traveling by yourself. Where is your husband?”

“Oh,” I considered my go-to travel lie: that my husband was in the military and would be joining me shortly. Then I looked at Ali, smiling expectantly. He was handsome. Maybe I should keep my options open.

“I am a flight chaperone. American students want to do a program in Morocco, but their parents don’t want them to fly over by themselves, so I take the same flight with them, make sure they get through customs okay, and then hand them over to their teachers. So, I get fly places for free. I figure I should see as much of the country as I can while I’m here.”

This took a while for Ali to translate. I looked out the window as the train moved through the dusty outskirts of Casablanca. I caught him saying the word “chaperone,” and remembered that most people spoke a bit of French. My high school Spanish had been so useful up until now.

“But where is your husband?” Ali pressed. I wondered if it was really a question from the women or his own.

I looked at him straight in the eye. “I don’t have a husband.”

Ali squinted at me. “How old are you?”

I felt infuriated. What did that have to do with anything? “Twenty-seven.”

“Wow. You are so old to be unmarried. You should have children by now..”

“Well, how old are you?”

“I am twenty-five, but I am still finishing my business degree. As soon as I graduate and get my finances in order, I will wed my girlfriend, Inshallah.”

I sulked and looked out the window. Ali continued to speak with the women. They laughed frequently and I found their good spirits disheartening. I had been so ready to marry my boyfriend in Boston. If only he hadn’t suddenly lost interest and dumped me. This trip was supposed to soothe that heartbreak  It was to be a bridge between Boston and my upcoming move to San Francisco.

Ali interrupted my self-pity. “Where are you staying in Marrakech?”

I pulled out my guidebook and pointed to an address. “I was thinking of staying here.”

“That’s in the souk! It will be so noisy at night you won’t be able to sleep. No, no,” he clucked, “I have an uncle that runs a hostel. It is very cheap and quiet. You will sleep well there.”

The fear returned. How well did I know this guy? Should I really let him know where I am sleeping?

“Thank you, but I will look for my own place.” The train rolled to a stop. I walked out with Ali, suddenly nervous from all the crowds. The train station was imposingly tall and modern, like a skyscraper mall. Once exiting it, I saw the street had very fast moving traffic. “We must be far from the city. How will I get to my hostel?”

Ali laughed. “We are in the city! Just not the tourist part. But, come,” he gestured me over to a car, “my cousins will drive us.”

Frugality drove me to the car. When I got inside there were two men already there, so I sat in the back with Ali.

“I found us an American friend.” That sounds ominous, I thought. But then I noticed that the driver wore a newsboy cap. How bad could he possibly be?

“Oh nice! How do you like Morocco so far?”

“It’s hot.” They laughed as though I’d made a joke. “But very beautiful. And the people are so nice.”

“So, Ali has been taking care of you, that’s good!” the passenger seat guy reached his arm back and ruffled his cousin’s hair.

The streets became more and more congested as we drove, until eventually we stopped outside a large red wall.

“The old city has too small streets, we can’t take a car in there. Come, we will walk now.”

I got out with Ali and opened my guidebook. As we passed through the wall there was tons of noise. The market place was half shuttered but the few vendors were loudly hawking their wares.

“I think my hostel is this way. Does that make sense?”

“Yes, but I’m telling you, it is Ramadan so all the stalls will be open all night. If you think this is loud wait until everyone shows up.”

I sighed, defeated. “OK, can you show me your uncle’s place?”

He led me away from the market through winding streets so narrow they should be called footpaths. Through gaps in shutters I caught glimpses of people on mattresses finding relief from the heat of day and fasting. It had to be at least a hundred degrees, even in the shade. Sweat poured from my back underneath my backpack and my feet wore painfully swollen. My fear of being abducted was replaced by a strong desire to sit down, to have a drink of water.
 

Finally, we got to the place. He knocked on the door softly at first then loudly. An old man opened the heavy carved door, yawning. He spoke to Ali in Arabic, seeming to say, “what did you wake me up for?”

Then the old man turned to me and flashed a smile. “Welcome! Do you need a room? We have nice rooms, sixty dirhams.”

That was much cheaper than the guidebook hostel. I stepped into what looked like an Anthropologie catalog: ornate tiles and wrought iron everywhere. It was beautiful, if only a bit dank. There were no windows to the outside and the sound of dripping water was everywhere. But I was tired and grateful for the lack of windows which would only let in the blazing sun. I pulled out my money.  

“Okay, you have a rest here,” Ali said. “If you would like to meet me later, I will be at the juice place around the corner.”

I paid my money, threw my bag in my room and went to the shared bathroom to wash up.

I opened the door and screamed. Four hamster sized roaches were scurrying around the shower drain.

“Problem?” The old man asked.

“The bugs” I pleaded, knowing I was throwing a tantrum but not caring, “can you please just make them go away?”

Before I finished the man had already grabbed a broom and was pummeling the roaches. I hurried back to my room, not wanting to watch. “Sorry!” said the man.

I lay on my bed, still shivering with heebie jeebies. Were there any more? Was I safe in my room? I tried to calm down and read my guidebook. I decided that my goal was to get from Marrakech to Mt. Toubkal tomorrow and climb the largest mountain in Morocco.

I tried to sleep, but was sweating too much. Oh no. The roaches are attracted to water and I am seeping so much of it. I dozed off to nightmares of roaches covering me like a moving blanket. 

At 8PM, I heard the call to prayer that indicated both the fourth time to pray and time to break the fast. I decided to head out.

“Beep!” As I stepped out of my hostel I was almost run over by a motorbike carrying three men. Now that it was time to finally eat, the streets were bustling. I found the juice shop. Ali was nowhere to be found. I bought an “avocado juice,”and took a seat with my guidebook in front of a large fan by the open porch. I took sip of my drink. It was so thick it hardly made it up the straw. “Avocado milkshake” would have been a more accurate description. It was delicious.

I turned to my journal and guidebook. A half hour went by. Then a full hour. Had Ali stood me up? Maybe he figured he had done enough to help me already.

“Hello, Lauren!” A tap on my shoulder interrupted my self-pitying monologue. There was Ali and five of his friends. “Come sit with us!:

I looked at the six men and felt a twinge of nervousness. I was outnumbered and out powered. But I was also lonely. “Yes, thank you.”

It was a reassuring that all the men were drinking juice: I felt much more comfortable than I would have at a bar.

“Do you have Facebook?” The guy with a newsboy cap asked.

I smiled. This was a question asked in all the places I had traveled, from the Republic of Georgia to Ghana. “Yes.”

“May I see your picture?”

“Sure.” I had connected to the Wi-Fi earlier. I pulled up my Facebook page and they scrolled through my profile pictures. They admired the picture of me near the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, on a motorcycle in Ghana, but when they got to a picture of me jumping with an umbrella by the border of Azerbaijan, they started laughing hysterically. I assumed it was because of my Mary Poppins pose. I was wrong. “You are so fat here,” Ali blurted out in between chuckles, “what happened to you?”

My ego crumpled. I hadn’t thought it was a bad picture, I thought I looked cute. And although I had lost some weight since then it hadn’t been that much.

The men finished their juices. Ali turned to me and said, “you want to go on a ride on my motorbike?”

“Sure!” I voiced with enthusiasm. Then the nerves hit me: should I really be getting on a strange man’s vehicle?

“Can I take a picture first?”

“Of course.”

I had a pedestrian take a picture of me on the motorbike with the men around me. I immediately posted it on Facebook, figuring if I were to die, at least my family would know who was to blame.

I hopped on. I tried balancing myself by hanging on to the rack on the back but with all the stops and starts on the busy streets I was jostled forward. I ended up giving in and wrapping my arms around Ali, hoping I wasn’t too forward.

We left the tangled maze of medina streets and entered the larger street outside of the city wall. “These walls are very old, from maybe twelfth century.”

They seemed to glow with the warm lamplight.

Alongside the street was a narrow strip of park. Every patch was occupied by families having picnics, stews simmering over open cook fires filling the air with the fragrance of ginger and pepper. It was after midnight but children were playing and laughing as well. It felt festive and joyful. We drove for miles and the park was still packed, it seemed the whole of Marrakech was out that night.

The joy was contagious. I was enjoying the coolness of the night air, the wind on my face, the exotic views.

Then Ali put his hand on my thigh and I turned cold with fear. We were very far from the Medina now and I had no idea of how to get back. What were his intentions? The muscles in my face suddenly froze too much to say “no.” Desperately, I managed to activate my arm and swat his hand away.

Ali cleared his throat and turned into a park. I held my breath. Then he turned around and headed back to the city. We didn’t say another word the whole ride.

When he dropped me off at my hotel he said, “I will come visit you in the afternoon, yes?”

“I am going to leave tomorrow to climb Mt. Toubkal.”

Ali looked sad, “really? But you have seen so little of my city. Please let me show you it.”

“It is beautiful. But I am eager to climb the mountain. I have your phone number. I may stop in on my way back. Thank you so much for everything.”

And I went back in. As I lay in bed I recounted the day. Ali had helped me so many times, with the train ticket, getting to the medina, the hotel, the tour of the city. And yet I couldn’t trust him. Did the hand on the thigh negate all the good he had done? At least he removed it when I made it clear that I wasn’t interested.

As a solo female traveler, I had to always be suspicious. But I am grateful that I opened up to Ali. I received so much in return, up until the moment he lost my trust.  I never saw him again.