Oh and That's Good that You Speak a Little English

I'm finally getting around to talking about that short trip I took to Asilah and Tanger last week. Both are places I had previously visited, but years ago and generally while in transit to Southern Spain.

So, last week, I boarded a train ( all of my stories seem to start off with this phrase) and rode for 5-ish hours towards the Northwestern part of Morocco. I noticed pretty quickly that the scenery outside the window was a bit different than what I was used to in traveling through other areas of Morocco. The farm land seemed less cultivated than what I was used to seeing in terms of fruits and vegetables. I remembered as I rode that many farmers in Northern Morocco have resorted to growing the hashish plant (Moroccan version of cannabis). I thought that some of the things I was seeing must be hashish, but fortunately, I am not worldly enough to recognize it. The fields on the way there did offer a pleasant surprise of occasional patches of fields of sunflowers. My heart really got a boost in seeing them.

I arrived into Asilah and could immediately see the Ocean before I even left the train. With the Asilah train station being a bit outside of the actual town of Asilah, my options were to either walk into town or to squeeze myself into a mini-bus with a bunch of other Moroccans and a few British?( I heard English with an accent) tourists who all seemed to be just as tired and hot as I was. To our further delight, the bus windows did not open, nor was there any air-conditioning.

I asked the bus driver when I got on if the bus went by the place in the old city of Asilah where my friend told me she would be waiting for me. He replied that there was a stop close to it, but not quite there. I asked him if he could tell me when we were at that stop. He sighed and said that he was " So tired of telling people things." I am used to seeing this type of burn-out in people whose jobs entail too much public interaction. And it was hot and sticky, and so i just kind of smirked and half-smiled at him and walked to the back of the bus without saying anymore.

So then of course I get struck with that " Am I going to miss my stop" paranoia and ask a few people on the bus if we are close to where I need to get off. Eventually the bus clears out a bit, the bus driver seems to have lightened up and he tells me when we have arrived to my stop. I get off the bus and walk straight down the street towards the old city of Asilah. I am immediately enamored by how quaint and turquoise everything is, and the smell of the Ocean air.

I see my friend waiting for me and sneak up behind her . An older woman sitting on the ground next to her , says to me in Arabic something along the lines of " Oh that's nice, she 's your friend? Oh and that's good that you speak a little English."
My friend is a White-American Catholic girl and when I walk with her in Morocco people rarely think that we are from the same country, I am either Moroccan or from Senegal or maybe the Sudan, and she is either American or Canadian or some brand of European.

And so, accordingly, we have starkly different experiences here in Morocco, and that difference of experience was something about which we spoke a lot during my short visit with her in Asilah. She meets types of Moroccans I would generally never interact with, and I hang out with other types of Moroccans she would rarely get to know. For example, one of the first things she told me when I got to Asilah was that there was high drug-use among some of the people there and about the people she had met who use heroine and cocaine or were just alcoholics. On the other hand she also meets a lot of White expats from the US and Europe, who as she told me, confide in her their disturbingly racist judgements of Moroccans. She says that they just assume that she is on the same page as them. She said that when she speaks with them she feels like she is in South Africa in the 1960s.

After depositing my stuff at her house and saying my prayers we head out for a belated lunch at an outdoor cafe which reminded me a lot of Spain. Being that we were near the Ocean I was excited about eating some super fresh fish. In the evening we took little stroll through the town and walk by the Ocean. Even after sun down we passed men selling freshly caught fish off of carts. My friend told me that a lot of unemployed men in Asilah fish to feed their families and sell a bit for some cash.

The next morning we wake up as early as we can and walk to take a bus for Tanger. As we are walking towards the bus stop we go past a cafe and a man who works there who seems to know my friend is cheerful and says "Salaam." We reply back and he extends to us his hand to shake. I put my hand on my heart instead of extending it to him and he is thrown-off. He extends it to me again. With my hand still on my heart, I slightly bow and ask his forgiveness if I do not shake his hand. But his guy is persistent, and asks my friend why I won't shake his hand. She says that she doesn't know. Generally I don't have to get this far with men here in Morocco or even in America for that matter. Even if they are not religious, they accept my position and we move on. Not satisfied with my friends response however, he turns to ask me why I will not shake his hand. I tell him that it was not the practice of the Prophet Muhammad, (God's Peace and Blessings be upon him) to touch a woman who was not his wife, and that I am following his example. The waiter then pulls out a hadith (saying) of the Prophet that he misquotes, but whose meaning is that " Actions are [judged] by intention. " For a second i try to understand his use of this saying in this situation, but honestly, in my mind I am just thinking about making the bus to Tanger so that I am not late for my appointment.

So I begin to apoligize to him profusely, (trying to allow him to "save as much face" as possible), still not shaking his hand and back away with my friend as we head for the bus. My friend thinks it was a hilariously awkward interaction and I say yeah, but you can't take it personally or anything, few people have a clear understanding of religion.

We pay our 10 dirhams and ride for an hour or so into Tanger. I go to my appointment and a few hours later meet my friend for lunch at a restaurant near the French consulate. As I approach the restaurant I get a clear view of the Mediterranean Sea that makes me want to just stop and look. It is the kind a thing a person who is not from a place does, but that a native,grown accustom to( or even tired of the beauty)just walks past.

After a good lunch Alhamdulilah, my friend and I part. I dash off to take a cab to the bus station, feeling slightly enraptured by Tanger I must admit, and as if I need to return and spend some more time here. At the bus station, I pay my 100 dirhams and board the bus to Fes. The bus trip was a few hours longer than the train,but a bit more scenic (lots of sunflowers) and I had the added bonus of having it drop me off right near my apartment when we got into Fes.

Peace