Morocco in the Raw

In early 2001 I accompanied my sister and two of her friends through Morocco’s Atlas Mountains into the medieval city of Fes. Our trip through North Africa began after a four-hour crossing of the Mediterranean Sea that landed us in Nador, a crumbling port town pulsing with deadened heat. Monkeys scampering along garbage piles that overran the neighboring town of Melilla yanked us out of our Madrid and French Riviera reveries. Without a game plan, I suddenly felt vulnerable.

Morgan, a bookish redhead, unintentionally broke our party’s dress code by wearing a hot pink tube-top through this gateway to Muslim Africa. I doubt the citizens of Nador cared much for her beaming, freckled shoulders, or a lascivious bust that drew throngs of heckling youths along our way to the taxi depot.

Haggling for a driver through clouds of cigarette smoke and grabbing hands was an exercise in polite deference that grew increasingly heated as my sense of responsibility for the girls grew; wizened old men scowled at our merry troop of adventurers, uncaring. Had I known the road we would shortly traverse was known for stolen passports and disappearances, I would have spent another two weeks brushing the feathers of Flamenco dancers away from my thick Spanish wines.

Ancient forms of irrigation traced our path through the Atlas Mountains, water shuffling along wooden roadside planks propped upon stilts a leper might use. Burned in my memory is the tail end of a street fight that had a thirteen-year old boy wielding a grapefruit-sized rock just before impact.

These primitive scenes reminded me that we were no longer hostel hopping through Europe, enjoying tapas bars sponsored by Rick Steves – survival had taken the place of blasting self-congratulatory emails back home. When our taxi showed signs of slowing at nondescript intersections in the midst of deserted mountain ranges, I clutched my 600-page copy of Don Quixote, which would have to serve as our only weapon should we need it.

By the time we arrived at the gates of Fes, I was riding a pilgrim’s paranoia that enhanced the architecture exploding before us; sepia fortresses surrounded this city, born of strife, stained with the blood of Crusades. Eventually we found a guide eager to lead our taxi through town, but the only English he knew was a well rehearsed “follow me.”

At the end of a road circling through an endless labyrinth of neighborhoods, he pointed to the shadowy entrance to the ‘Love Hotel’. Teenagers circled our car, making neck-slicing motions with their fingers. There was no way back, only forward. Reluctantly I turned to my comrades, mustering a hopeful smile.

Stepping into the lobby, we were greeted with warm smiles and shown rooms windowed to a courtyard already echoing the morning prayers of Islam. All that seemed threatening in Morocco quickly dissipated amidst scents of curry and other aromatic spices hawked on the corners of nearby streets.

Comfort zones are islands, and we must travel through uncertain deserts to find them.