Africa

Saying I’ve been to Africa after visiting Morocco is like someone saying they have been to North America when the only city they visited was Miami. I am not trying to pretend that my little three day experience in Morocco gave me anything even close to a full experience, but still, Morocco is Africa, and it felt, smelled, and tasted like the foreign place I imagined it would be.

It really is amazing to consider that only 14 or so kilometers separate the bottom of Spain from the top of Morocco. From the beach in Tarifa, the hills of Tangier, Morocco, Africa, rise within plain view. As the wind whipped around me on the ferry to Tangier, I couldn’t help but think about all the land that lay in my vision and beyond, and of all the peoples, tribes, communities, and cities that lay beyond. Africa feels like a different world. Maybe it is that the mix of amazing and foreign cultures resembles little of the western world with which I am so comfortable. Maybe it is as simple as its other continent status. Regardless, Morocco was another, and very tangible at that, reminder of the big, big world out there.

A three-hour bus ride from Sevilla to Tarifa puts one on one of the southernmost points of Spain. We boarded the ferry that would take us from Tarifa to Tangier in a mere 45 minutes. We landed in Tangier to the hustle of a city- a city full of men. I was acutely aware of being a woman in a man’s land. Very few women were in the street, and my uncovered brown hair, pale skin, and jeans drew attention. Most people who disembark at Tangier have horror stories to tell about being approached and severely hassled. We experienced none of this, but found the city to be quite navigable and friendly. After finding our hotel, we set off to explore the Medina, or the old town.

Before we even made it to the Medina, we stumbled upon an Anglican church on its outskirts. Once again, this was a powerful reminder of the mix of cultures and religions to which this land has been host.

And then another foreign experience: As we walked out of the Anglican church, we walked dead into the middle of a dog fight. And this wasn’t one day barking at another as they passed on the sidewalk. A smaller dog had a German shepherd by the neck in a firm grip. Blood was everywhere as these two dogs struggled. Another dog circled the two, barking in protest, as a rather large crowd of Moroccans gathered. It was a strange moment that was both nauseatingly disturbing, but intoxicatingly gripping. I could not turn away. I was drawn to this fight for life, dominance, food- who knows what it was for really. It was just so primal, so the essence of survival and existence, that despite my own cushioned microwave dinner existence, it reminded me of our very basic existence that exits somewhere in the recesses of our memory. And while I live a life that never forces me to kill my chicken and eat it that night, that is a way of life that others outside of the western world consider reality. (I’ll stop here on this before I break into The Lion King’s song, “Circle of Life”!)

Morocco was a learning trip in many other ways. It was a learning to say a firm, “No” when offered guiding services. Not once, twice or three times did we have to say no to one person, but more along the lines of 15 or 20 times. (And I thought the Gap worker asking me if they might help me find something twice was annoying.)

It was learning that, as a foreigner in a Muslim country, I stood out. And I found that very frustrating, yet there was nothing I could do to change this. I’m a white, protestant, English speaking, American student. I’ve had to embrace that, which is very contrary to my generation’s great desire to blend in and look normal. There was no way this was going to happen in Morocco. One of my travel companions looks Mediterranean, and everyone kept calling her “tangerina” as if she was Moroccan. Interestingly enough, overall, we had far more success with getting answers and staying under the radar by speaking Spanish. All of our guides spoke to us in Spanish, and often preferred to talk with us in Spanish rather than English. This is due to Tangier’s proximity to Spain as well as the fact that Tangier used to be Spanish territory. Most people in Tangier speak French, Spanish, and Arabic, and many of the signs of the city were in all three.
My time is Morocco was learning yet another rhythm of life- one that is dictated by the five calls per day to prayer. Yet, also watching that rhythm of religious life be challenged by the influence of the western world. Shows on the TV in the hotel room were American Disney shows or movies, dubbed over or subtitled in French or Arabic. Music, once again, was often American: Norah Jones’ velvety voice flooded throughout our hotel lobby. From McDonald’s to Coca-Cola, it was all there. One thing I’m astounded by is how these very different cultures I have encountered in southern Spain and in northern Africa adapt and exist together. Despite hundreds of years of practice, the ability for such different cultures to live fairly peaceably among one another over time is inspiring. When I think of America and the North versus the South or the War against terrorism in the Middle East, I wonder if we might all have something to learn from this convivencia, this living and breathing together, that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews were able to attain.

http://picasaweb.google.com/sgauche, Espana, Part 10

We visited Asilah, a beautiful little village on the Atlantic coast. Our taxi driver drove us down along the coast, and we watched wave after wave crash against the completely untouched coast. Breathtaking.

Nejib, our wonderful taximan, also drove us into the hills to see some Roman ruins that have recently been found and not yet excavated. It was fun to explore and look around this place that someday will be encased in a museum.

We ended our tour at the Caves of Hercules. There is a fairly magnificent shape of Africa naturally cut in the rock. A stunning picture.

Our trip was so worthwhile, although Tangier was fairly underwhelming as a destination. This is most likely because Tangier is a melting a pot, having existed for so long as an international zone. But contained in our little weekend were glimpses into a truly beautiful country, whose differences served as reminders of the magnificence found in contrast.