Dirty/Clean

This one is long, so if you don't care to commit the time, just know a little detail of my current life: this morning I woke up to the calls of cows, chickens, goats, sheep, peacocks, dogs and the morning call to prayer, which I am informed is the head of the Mosque yelling "wake up! God is better than sleep!" at 5:30. This is all after meeting 3 Peace Corp volunteers and following them into their villages, where smoking a cigarette makes you a prostitute and the women- the unbelievably wonderful women- will make you coffee with milk they took from the cow just for you, five minutes before.

-fair warning, Mom, you might not like this one-

Two weeks after we dropped off the face of the planet, into a strange version of paradise, we re-entered the real world with a surprising element of culture shock. To get out of Imsouane and get anywhere after, one has to go to Agadir- the sweaty, busy, ugly town that those who don't have tons of time visit to say they got to the beach in Morocco. Or, as my friend Rachid pointed out, it's the only city in the area where one can find disco techs and women in the "business, you know," winking, "the business." Never the less, on our way to the desert we had to spend one night there.

After making all sorts of friends in Imsouane, we were given numbers and contact info for all sorts of places we could stay for free in Agadir. Awesome, as Morocco turns out to be more expensive than we had predicted and Spain is going to be a killer on the wallets. We hoped on the hot, sweaty bus and somehow end up in the backseat again. It seemed like a good idea at the time- roomy and all- but after the bus swung wildly around a few seaside corners, I felt more like I was on one of those awful theme park rides that's sole purpose is to insight nausea. We again assumed luck when a guy we'd met a few times in Imsouane departed with us, leading us right to the guy whose house we were supposed to sleep in. I know it sounds sketchy, but we were assured that we would sleep with the guy's seven sisters, and nothing says safety like seven sisters.

What followed was maybe the most boring and awkward 6 hours of my life. There were two of them, Mhad and Abdorahim, the later being the one with the sisters and the former being the one whom we'd met earlier. Mhad's stomach bubbled over the buckle of his jeans, he wore a light blue Diesel polo and shinny designer shoes, an outfit that in combination with his personality screamed douche-bag. Abdorahim wasn't so bad, he just was entirely without personality. After a quick meal that we devoured most of, we went to Mhad's house, because "it was just so close." Immediately after entering the stale one room apartment the boys recline on the sides of their hips, legs pressed together and body curled in an S that is reminiscent of porn stars, on the three cushions that form the "salon." There was something revolting about the way they laid down, even though it was just like all men in Morocco. Later I would put it together, they laid down with expectation, like we were hired prostitutes.

Of course, at the time I though it was just the awkwardness that sometimes comes out of language and cultural barriers. Sometimes it happens like this, you are invited into a home and it gets awkward as both parties have expended all of their words in the mutual language, this one being French. But this was different, 20 or 30 minutes would go by where no one would say anything. Leigh and I tried occasionally speaking to each other in English to relieve the silence, but it only made things worse as the boys never spoke to each other and we just looked rude. We tried everything possible to spark conversation, taking inspiration from our surroundings. I saw a Barcelona poster- "oh, you like football, is Barcelona you favorite?" "Oui." "Do you play?" "No." "Do most people like Barcelona here?" "Oui." End of conversation.

Later, when we tried to get some air and some space, telling them we were going to the Internet and would meet them later-maybe- they insisted on showing us where the Internet was and then standing there for the 2 hours we spent online, and going for coffee afterwards. I didn't get it, they couldn't be having fun. Unable to tolerate the silence anymore, Leigh and I just start talking as if they weren't there- reckoning that this must be the meeting of the four most boring people on earth. Then it dawns on us, we'd been trying all night and there were some people who could talk to us for hours in broken French. It definitely wasn't us, it was them.

A few fours later we sit in awkward silence in the apartment again, tired as hell and wondering when we would get to sleep. Waiting for Abdorahim to head to the family's house, I guess that it might not happen, the sleeping with women around, and consider getting a hotel. My instincts say "go go go!" This had gone from weird to kind of creepy, especially after Mham sat next to me and tried to hold my hand-which I quickly jerked away, body language was apparently not among the languages he spoke- after claiming to want to examine my tan. The option of bailing is discussed and we got up to leave, after getting the impression that these boys expect something they are not going to get, and are stopped by their confusion. After explaining that we want to sleep alone, alone alone, they assure us that is the plan and look as us like assholes for thinking any different.

That's when Abdorahim, the harmless one, leaves, abandoning us to rearrange the cushions pushing Leigh and I together as far as we can get from Mhad, reminding him as many times as possible that we want to sleep alone. He looked confounded, especially when we did the best we could to play the possibly lesbian card, making a bed for the two instead of splitting the cushions and sleeping separately-a safely move. I wanted to go, badly, it felt creepy, but at that point it was late and every time we had trusted someone it has turned out really well.

Sometime in the middle of the night the inevitable happens, I have to pee. With at least three hours before daylight I can't hold it, so I leave the room, feel around for the bathroom and then feel my way back to the room. As I try to gently swing the door open I discover his fat, disgusting shadow waiting for me. At least Leigh was in the room, even if she was sleeping I knew she would wake up to my screaming if I needed her to. He put his fat slug arm around my waist and tried to tug me in the direction of his mattress, after I fling it off he tries again. It took a violent shove for him to get the point. Yes, I was a girl and he was a boy, but that fact didn't even come near to suggesting that I was going to have sex with him. Gross.

I crawled back with Leigh and didn't sleep a bit, all the while watching his creeper shadow and ready to sprint for the door with my friend and to spend the rest of the night on the street- it was late and all the hotels were closed. The morning comes, and as content as Leigh is to sleep because I haven't told her yet, I wake her up and tell her we've got to leave soon. As I head to the toilet again- I didn't get sick in India but my stomach does crazy things here- I worried about how stupid it was not to follow my instincts and just get the hell out of there the night before. When I returned, Leigh stood in the doorway, both of our packs in hand. "We're leaving." As the boy tried to follow us out, to show us where the Hamman is, we deny him, with no concern of rudeness. "We can find it, ALONE."

We're out of the door when Leigh informs me in my short time in the bathroom he had done the hand on leg move and asked why we weren't going to sleep with him. First chance I had I told her what had happened in the middle of the night, and we agreed, he was a Fucker. And we would never do that again. Sorry Mom- I guess the follow my instincts lesson is one I had to learn the hard way.

To cleanse ourselves of that awful experience- we immediately went to the closest Hamman, the Moroccan bath house, for the first time. The Moroccans we've met are very clean people, and often it is suggested in as polite a voice as possible that we finally take a shower, so with soap, a glove that is wrapped in sand paper-more or less, shampoo and the tiny dish towel we bought for 5 dirham because we left our towels in Imsouane, we entered a giant tiled room with no idea what we were doing.

A woman who speaks no french occupies the first room, where we strip down and wonder if the underwear should stay or go, hand the over money dirham by dirham until it is enough and observe that the woman exiting is wearing underwear. Right, underwear it is. With two buckets made from recycled tires, we walk past two empty rooms and enter the third tiled chamber full of naked Moroccan women sitting on mats on the floor washing themselves. We fumble around until a woman notices that we're just standing there, snatches our buckets and fills them for us. To figure out the protocol, we watch the other women, or rather Leigh watches and dictates to me, as I took my glasses off and can't see a damn thing.

Scrubbing ourselves with the glove of sandpaper seems impossible, so finally we "do as the romans do" and start to scrub each other, after all, everyone else is doing it. With lament, we scrape off our tans, discovering that we were dark only because we were covered in dead skin. If you've never been to a Hamman but think you've been clean, you are mistaken. Dead skin rolls of in clumps that looks like lint off of a sweater. It sounds gross, but it's actually kind of cool.

Naked Moroccan women are something else. They are big, full, and have the roundest, darkest nipples I have ever seen and a tolerance for heat that is unbelievable. In the sweltering heat of summer they wear so many layers of cloths that they would like like hobos expect for their exceptional taste. Shirts on top of jeans, sweaters on top of dresses and a cloak and scarf on top of it all. The Hamman is no different, and as I am considering what heat stroke feels like and remembering how I don't even like saunas that much they are as comfortable as I have seen women in this country; just hanging out chatting. They scrub, they lather, they rinse and repeat the whole process at a leisurely pace, free from the men and all of the thankless work that seems to define their lives here.

We exit clean as I have ever been, leaving all the awkward and skeezy events of the previous night behind with layers and layers of dead skin that have probably been on my for years. On to the desert, more heat, blue men, camel jokes and a guy who can walk through the Sahara everyday of his life in a pair of worn out Nike flip flops.

...And we're back

After spending near two weeks in a tiny coastal village without electrify and running water, but with plenty of gorgeous men, fresh fish and some other unmentionable goodies, we have finally returned to civilization. Let me tell you, civilization sucks.

So- because I haven't really posted sense we left India almost a month ago, here is a brief overview of our adventures in Morocco thus far-

After an insane five straight days of travel we arrived in Casablanca, took the train into the city, walked out of the train station, looked around, walked right back in and took the train to Marrakesh. According to other tourists we spoke to, we made the right choice.

First thing in Marrakesh, we got screwed by the taxi driver who drove us all over the city to arrive at the hostel that was more or less across the street from where he picked us up. We didn't realize this until after we forked over 80 Dirham for a 2 Dirham ride. Bastard.

Youth Hostels are awesome. After five days without a real bed- or even an Indian version of a real bed- sleeping on the hostel mattress was like sleeping on a cloud, a creaky cloud, but a white puff of heaven none the less. There, we met a Canadian named Carl who helped us with our French and a whole slew of Spanish students on their Easter break. Hopefully, if our funds make it past Morocco, we will have places to stay in oh-so-expensive Spain.

Marrakesh is tourist central. Honestly I think there were more white people in the city than Moroccans. It's a bit of culture shock from India, everything here is so modern and developed. Everyone is very European, and all of the locals dress better than us. Most of the time it feels as if we just walked into an office in sweat pants. The center of the city is the oldest part, where you can get the best fresh squeezed OJ of you life, buy herbal cures for anything, get any fruit you can think of dried and shop for leather, silver, pottery, and trinkets until you drop. If India was a mess of color, Morocco is a minimalist painting. No less color, but more solid. Brightly painted blue doors pop open from white buildings. The bathroom could be painted yellow, the bed room pink and the hallway tiled in yellows and greens.

After fulling exploring Marrakesh, drinking gallons on Oj and getting fondled/followed more than I'd like to admit- I miss the men at home, who find me neither interesting or attractive- we headed to Essourra, a picturesque coastal town where gulls swarm over the square, hoping for abandoned bits of fish left behind as whole crabs are plucked from the ocean, grilled and served in heaping piles. Leigh made friends with a cook as I made a friend I later unmade when he told me he thought our souls were a perfect match, but the cook friend made us a goat's head for dinner. I thought I had seen every graphic food in India until I saw the head, in its entirety, splayed in half on the plate in front of me, ears flopping to the side and eyes still looking alive. Yum... Leigh cowboyed up on that one more than I did, she ate the eye.

When we departed trying to get to Agadir, we got tired of fighting with bus drivers and cab drivers, who try to charge you way more than the price and pocket the extra, so we just headed out on the road hoping to hitch a ride. Sorry Mom. Thus, we accidentally ended up in Imsouane, half way between Essourra and Agadir, halfway between a tiny fishing town a Billibong add. We planned on staying one night, as it was getting late, and ended up there for two weeks. I tried to surf and sucked at it, we saw an older woman make Amaloo- a delicious kind of peanut butter that all the boys warned me to slow down on when they noticed my frequent trips to the toilet- listened to the locals play the dijembe and a Berber version of the symbols. We ate too much, so even though we are tanner, we're a bit fatter. Not that it stopped the boys we were hanging out with, sleeping with tourists is a sort of competitive sport for them, one they are very good at...

So, after a diet of fish, fresh bread, cous cous, and tagine- teahouse people beware, our version is WAY off- we have finally returned to the real world, where electricity and running water are the perks and busy streets, noise and skeezy men are the pit falls. We are in route at the moment for the Sahara, a camel trek and an eventual return to the coast.

Miss everyone at home- although the prospect of return to the states might be something I put off as long as possible.