Transatlantic 2011: From a woman's perspective – in Morocco

(Perry does most of the writing on this blog; he's very good at it. There is one thing he cannot be expected to do, however, and that is to completely communicate a woman's experience. I thought, then, that maybe I should interject just a little of that, for the benefit of our female readers. -- Carolyn, contemplating Morocco)

This is my first venture into an Arab country.

 
 

I have known a life-long thirst for travel; therefore, I've been almost ashamed to admit some reluctance to exploring the Arab world. This largely has had to do with what I've read about the role and treatment of women. So, when we decided to visit Morocco, I was actually very excited to get past that. 
 
Well, guess what? It is hard. For me, that is. I've been feeling it quite powerfully today, after being in the country nearly two weeks and visiting Tangier, Meknes, Chefchaouen, and now Tetouan. 
 

That said, I should say that I'm very, very glad we made the trip. Morocco is rich and thrilling — culturally, historically, artistically. Everything about it, experientially, is saturated and intense. I feast on the colors, smells, tastes, and textures. I wish I could wander invisibly through the narrow, twisting streets of the medinas for hours, peering into the tiny shops and tea houses, listening for the muezzin's call to prayer. I'd like to mingle with the women in their colorful, long jellabas and various kinds of head coverings (puzzling also about those who do not cover their heads, or who mix traditional and western garments in myriad ways) as they go about their marketing — and try to imagine what their personal lives might be like.
 
Therein lies the tension, however. There is no way for me to be invisible here. I am a foreign woman, and I am relentlessly observed. Few greet me directly, but they stare. I cannot feel comfortable walking in the streets alone; the looks and comments from men (in a language I cannot understand) are jarring. Once, in a market area, when Perry hung back to take pictures and I walked on ahead, a young man walked into me hard from behind, brushing me aside. The women observe me — my clothing, my light skin, my uncovered head. Wrapping my hair in a scarf does not change things; then I seem to become an even greater curiosity. They whisper to one another. They rarely smile. I feel at once on display and totally isolated. I am always 'the other' and they don't know how to approach me.
 
Every evening we pass countless teahouses and sidewalk cafes where only men fill the tables and line the streets. Women are walking in the streets, sometimes with men, but more often with other women, going about their business. I do not see them in restaurants or cafes and I wonder if they take tea only in the privacy of their own homes. 
 
It feels to me that there is no way for me to be independent here, in my way of being independent — coming and going on my own, interacting with strangers, asking questions and discussing issues. And most who know me understand how I treasure my independence. There's a language barrier, but it feels like more than that.

 
This is good for me, I'm sure — to have my cultural buttons pushed. And it's going to provide much material for reflection. Would I want to spend an extended period of time in this environment so that I could perhaps get beyond some of the discomfort? Maybe not right now; I think I'm ready to steal away back to Spain and a little greater anonymity.

and I'll answer the question at some time in the future.
 
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The morning after I wrote this, we don our packs and head out to find a 'grands taxi' to Ceuta — one of the small pieces of Spain that remains on the northern coast of Africa — for the ferry back to Tarifa. As we walk through the beautiful area called Lovers Park, well outside the medina, we are happily accosted by a group of university students, smiling and chatty and very delighted to see tourists from afar. They have to be photographed with us, thank us for visiting Morocco, and wish us well for the rest of our travels. 
 

That was fun! 
 
We find a grands taxi — a large Mercedes 240D that takes four to six passengers at a time. We're in the back seat with a pleasant looking young man. Perry is in the middle. He keeps reaching across to take photos out the window and finally says by way of explanation, "we're tourists," which draws a wry smile! That starts a conversation, and it turns out he is an architecture student (studying in Granada, Spain) who lives and works in Tetouan where he and his brother have a business supplying and installing solar systems. He's a true solar advocate, and he and Perry find lots to talk about. He also steers us through the border procedures — avoiding all the touts who want to "help" do your paperwork for a few Dirham — as we cross from Morocco into Spanish Ceuta. We invite him to have a little lunch and a beer with us before he takes care of his business in Ceuta and heads back to Tetouan.
 
Second very positive experience of the day.
 

We take the ferry to Algicifas and the bus back to Tarifa, where we had made reservations and left our rolling bags stored at the Hostel Africa before going into Morocco. It's like being home! And we luxuriate on the upper terrace, writing and reading before an anticipated dinner at an Italian restaurant we had tried and liked when we were here before.
 
As I read on the terrace, a young woman sitting nearby asks: "Do you speak English?" (in English, I might add). "Can you tell me what means 'epiphany?'"
 
I explain it for her and ask what language she speaks. 
 
"Oh, I am so confused!" she says. Turns out she speaks many languages — French, Spanish, English, Arabic...  Her name is Jolie, and she is a clothing designer living part time in Marrakesh and part time in India. She is traveling with her mother, who lives in Florida but has lived in England, France, Peru... They are an intriguing pair, and we end up chatting with them for more than an hour.
 
I finally ask Jolie how it is to live as a woman in Marrakesh, because I want to understand a bit better my experience in Tetouan. 

"Oh, it's much better in southern Morocco," she says. The northern, Arabic, part of the country, in her opinion, is much more restrictive and a more difficult place for women. The southern, Berber, cities — Marrakesh, Rabat — are much more relaxed and cosmopolitan.
 
So, where had we chosen to travel? In northern Morocco. Moreover, in each city, we chose riads (hostels) inside the old medina walls — with the mosques, the traditions, the mystery, and centuries old attitudes. We shunned the shiny and modern 'ville nouvelles' with their high-rise buildings, glitzy shopping areas, and cosmopolitan attitudes. We wanted history and authenticity.
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So, how do I now feel about my Moroccan experience? I think I got exactly what I asked for...and wanted. And I am reminded that when feeling a bit tender and testy, it's wise to wait and nurture perspective. Thanks for the lesson, Morocco!

 

Comments

[mark]

Thanks, Carolyn. Your women's take on the culture was important to read. Too bad you couldn't sit down with a traditional woman and exchange views.

[Judy]

Nice post, Carolyn. Your experience reminds me that sometimes what meets the eye is exactly that, and at other times we are just seeing a piece of the puzzle.

[Pat]

You've had quite the recent experiences. Now Mexico will have to really feel down-home!