NOT SO EASY AFTER ALL
A day ago I marveled at how miraculous, and how easy, it was to be in one place and then to step on a plane and be a third of the way around the world in a strange and exotic place.
On Wednesday night it wasn’t quite that easy. I took it easy all day and then went out for a good dinner at Venezia Ice, came back and through the very accommodating French host of L’Hostel Casablanca made reservations for Thursday on the bus to Essaouria from Casablanca. The very modern and comfortable bus goes several times a day but the middle of the day was already booked so I elected to take the 7:45 bus. Then I went to bed early so that I could be up early and ready.
I had tried to get a private room but had settled for a bunk in the dormitory where there were ten beds, each with a white curtain around it for privacy, for nine twenty year olds and one 85 year old.
Four problems. The first was that it was cool outside but in the dormitory it was hot and stuffy.
The second was that I had been sleeping in a recliner for a couple of months and when I tried to duplicate a recliner by piling everything I had with me at an angle under me for some reason I could never got comfortable.
The third reason was that every time anyone entered or left the room the light in the room immediately outside automatically went on and flooded the room briefly with light. This happened about every twenty minutes until midnight.
The fourth reason was that when I lay down at 8:30 and attempted to go to sleep I was still on Swannanoa time, 3:30 in the afternoon. So in spite of being exhausted and lying there very still waiting for sleep to steal me away, nothing happened. I laid their wide awake until about 1:30, slept for a couple of hours and then when I woke up to pee I was sure that now, dead tired, I would be unable to wake up on time and miss my bus. So I lay there awake till 6, took a shower, and was ready for the taxi at 7:00.
As a result I slept through the first 3 hours of the bus ride I had been looking forward to and didn’t see a thing. But half way through the ride the bus stopped for a rest stop. I don’t know what the others did but I managed to get the use of a private toilet for the bus staff and just barely made it back on the bus in time.
The woman sitting beside me with the window seat with the curtain pulled to avoid the sun was suddenly gone. I got the window seat and a great view for the rest of the trip. I don’t know what I expected but made the mistake of buy in my mind comparing Morocco to the USA or India. What disturbed me in my dazed condition was that there seemed to be plastic bags and bottles in every vacant lot. The land was barren and the fallow fields, probably waiting for the rainy season were full of rocks. The only thing planted and growing was olive trees. There were a number of horse drawn carts but none seemed to be transporting anything. Morocco looked like a very bleak place. There were rock walls everywhere, probably to dispose of some of the rocks, and every substantial building, factory or private house had a huge concrete wall around it. Some plots had concrete walls without anything inside, as if marking out their territory to keep everyone out. It seemed very odd.
I finally came to the conclusion that within their own space Moroccans were tidy with gardens and outside their space was none of their business and they didn’t care who dumped what where.
And it certainly wasn’t my space so I don’t know why I got irritated. And any analysis I was doing was simply revealing my American presuppositions and not saying anything about the Moroccans.
And then we arrived in Essaouria where the streets are wide and clean, the buildings modern and freshly painted, with gardens everywhere, no trash anywhere and all my judgments about Morocco were upended again. And when I walked from the bus station and entered the Medina, the walled fort with its narrow lanes lined with shops selling all kinds of brightly colored rugs and clothing and pottery, I marveled at the delicate good taste of Morrocans, which is probably another judgment that is only half true.
BILLYBABA’S WANDERING 