Germans drink beer with breakfast, the Irish have no qualms striking conversations with strangers, and Paris is the PDA capital of the world. But none of these cultures necessarily shocked me. North Africa, on the other hand, provided me with my first, real, eye opening culture shock. This post is a little longer and there aren’t pictures (as of now) since the ship internet can’t handle me right now. Every night before we pull into a port, the ship brings everyone together for a Pre-Port meeting. We go over what to do and what not to do, what to expect and what to look out for. At every single meeting, we get lectured on how to avoid petty theft. Every pre-port, for about 5 minutes, administration gives us a presentation to prepare us for the “worst.” Of course, they apologize for this; not every country is full of pick-pockets and thieves. Morocco’s pre-port was a little different. Recently upgraded to level two security, this was our first major port where we were urged to stay on high alert at all times. We had a Moroccan student on the ship with us who gave a presentation and while our interport students usually talk more about food and things to do, the Moroccan student also stressed safety. While she loved Morocco, she also recognized that it wasn’t nearly as safe as our prior stops. Women, blondes in particular, were subject to some *ahem* extra attention. She told us to never ever be alone, and when possible, bring a guy with you to avoid extra harassment.
Here’s the issue. I like to be alone. I’m aware of how that sounds, and I’m sure many of you are flashing scenes of Taken through your mind, but in Europe traveling alone is normal. Taking a train to a city and wandering is dangerous, yes. But with common sense, it’s no more dangerous than living in Chicago and walking alone. I also have this qualm against the idea that another man needs to lay “claim” to me for me to be left alone. Many of the women here (Americans in particular) wear rings that look like wedding rings to flash to men. I know that happens in Chicago, but I have an issue with pretending to be owned by someone else just so that someone will stop pursuing me like a piece of meat.
Needless to say, this pre-port put me on edge. Our first day in Morocco, most of my friends (most of the ship actually) headed off the Marrakech to ride camels across the desert. I had a mandatory field lab with my Education and Economics class, so we boarded a shuttle and headed to the Public University. We met with the Dean and a professor at one of the most prestigious business schools as well as a professor of English at a technical school nearby. I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone; the Moroccan educational system is by far the worst of any of the places we’ve visited. Portugal has struggled, but has been making large strides and has had extraordinary success in recent years. Morocco, on the other hand, still struggles immensely. Over 40% of its population is illiterate, the dropout rate is stunningly high, and the system is, to put it simply, flawed beyond comprehension. The presentations by the faculty members gave us statistics, and I kept glancing at my professor who was practically jumping out of his seat with joy (it is incredibly hard to find data on third world countries like Morocco, so even he was learning a ton.)
After the presentations, we had lunch and met with Moroccan students in the English master’s program. Abdellah, the student I talked most with, had dropped out after primary school. Both of his parents were illiterate. He went back to college in his twenties, taking a test to enter (sounded similar to obtaining a GED.) One of the most interesting moments, among many, from our talk, was when he turned to me and my female friend and asked if there were many girls in college with us. I explained to him that I was expected to go to college. It really was never a question. In fact, women, in many cases, dominate higher education in the US. A look of confusion flashed across his face and he stated, bluntly, that women should be at home, taking care of the house. Then he proceeded to question us about a million other things. This statement stuck with us, and when we shared it with our class one girl (she gives a new definition to “feminism”) furiously exclaimed that she would’ve told him a thing or two and slapped him across the face. But how is that fair? That is his belief; his culture. He was probably equally offended and confused when we said all women were free, and encouraged, to attend college. The whole conversation was eye opening but that particular part stuck with me. In the end, we friended each other on Facebook and left.
Day 2 rolled around and since most of the ship had left for camel treks, it was just my friend, Lakin, and I for the day. We decided to go to the capital, Rabat, and boarded a 9:30 train. I’ll never fully be able to explain what I saw on the train. Fields upon fields were littered with trash, dirtier than I had ever imagined, and in the middle were horses and donkeys and cows, grazing upon the grass (could it be called grass?) and roaming around. Kids walked across huge stretches of dirt, presumably heading to school. Imagine rural America. Now imagine it filled with trash. Now add children, scrawny horses, and donkeys. The train ride was about an hour long, and the entire time I was fascinated and confused by the scenes outside my window. This was my first real experience with poverty. I’ve seen homeless people in Chicago and I’ve seen littered streets, but this was a completely different scale. While I had thought that Rome was uncomfortable, and my mom had many issues with the men in Munich, I had never experienced this before. It was honestly as though I had 8 legs. 8 sexy legs. Men constantly made noises towards us, screaming compliments at us in English and then angrily shouting at us in Arabic when we didn’t acknowledge them. Many would follow us down the street, until we ducked into a store or weaved between the crowds. Men would stare at my chest (I was wearing a maxi dress with a cardigan, I had no real chest going on) and bump into me… only to grab a handful of my butt. If they weren’t screaming or following, they were staring in utter confusion. Our tour guide the first day had warned me that this would happen often. She explained that they weren’t necessarily trying to be rude; they rarely see blondes and blue eyes are foreign to them. The men cat calling us only knew America from what they saw on TV, which was rarely a good portrayal. They expected us to be promiscuous; they honestly expected the cat calling to be acceptable. I guess you can’t fault a guy for trying. Can you?
So with no idea where we were going or what we were doing, we wandered around Rabat with our senses on high alert. In hindsight, we should have made a better plan for Rabat. Wandering around a city with no plans can be exhausting when you’re constantly watching over your shoulder. We headed back to Casablanca earlier than expected and, honestly, a little dismayed. I’m usually one to brush off uncomfortable situations. A guy catcalls you in Rome; you give him the finger and move on. A guy in Dublin grabs your arm; you yank away and give him a piece of your mind. Usually it takes a lot to make me feel truly uncomfortable. A group of guys followed us for nearly 10 minutes in Lisbon when we were heading to the ship around 10pm. While they were clearly talking about us, shouting to us, and making noises the whole way, it wasn’t any different than creeps in Chicago. Here was different.
The rest of the day was spent in Casablanca, relatively close to the ship (home sweet home). We went to the Medina and did some shopping, but since knock off Prada doesn’t really appeal to me, I kept my purchases to a minimum. The market itself was amazing, though. A nice older gentleman showed us around and while I’m fully aware that he was taking us to all of his friends’ shops, I couldn’t care less because he was yelling at any guys who looked sideways at us. Plus, all the stores sold the same stuff, so who cares who owns it? He talked dreamily of America, asking us question upon question about what it’s like. We met a shopkeeper who lived in New York who eagerly shook our hands and ranted about the opportunities America had given him. I forget, and I think we all do sometimes, that we really are blessed with amazing opportunities in America. I hear so many people say that if you’re poor in America, you’re screwed; just give up now. But this man, who came to America at age 19, without knowing a single word of English, worked his way from having empty pockets to owning his own restaurant in New York. I think America provides more opportunities than many of us even know.
The next day, my friend also left for Marrakech, leaving me on the ship. Sounds awful right? WRONG. There was a reason I was stuck on the ship all day (mostly because administration really really frowned upon women going out on their own) doing absolutely nothing (should have studied for my midterms). But first off, it was relaxing staying on the ship. And since no one else was here, the internet finally worked in my room. But, more importantly, I was patiently awaiting the arrival of one of my absolute best friends from home.
Evelyn was set to arrive at 6pm and I spent basically all day counting down the minutes. That’s a lie. I’ve been counting down the minutes since about June. There’s even been a countdown on my phone. If there is one single person on this earth, aside from my mother, who would legitimately drop anything if I needed them, it’s Evelyn. Everyone talks about the friend that would answer a 1am phone call and be over 5 minutes later with ice cream; Evelyn would be over in 3 minutes with ice cream and wine. We were together for less than 24 hours, but it just reminded me that no matter what situation you put us in, whether it’s some shenanigans back in Chicago or a bodega in Morocco, I’m going to laugh so hard that I cry and I’m going to be reminded over and over again that I have met one of the best friends I’ll ever have.
So as I sprint past security and hug Evelyn, I suddenly forget the tenseness that I’ve felt for the last 3 days. Some guy on the street tells us he loves us and instead of my stomach sinking, we just start laughing and we joke about it. Our hotel had terrible wifi, a broken tv, and (the real kicker) no electricity in our room (AKA a very dark bathroom) and yet all we did was laugh about it and rave about what a great find it was, ya know, disregarding those minor details. There are lots of people who would have let the lack of wifi ruin their stay. There are even more people who would have been raging mad that they had to pee in the dark. But Evelyn just laughed it off, had a glass of wine, and made me hold a flashlight while she peed. I guarantee she’s going to give the hotel a great review, too.
Evelyn and I walked around Casablanca, checked into our hotel, went and got dinner (and wine!) and walked back in the dark and somehow none of it made me uncomfortable. While the last 2 days had shown me the scary sides of Morocco, these 20 hours with Evelyn showed me the beautiful side. Suddenly the alleys, though still sketchy, struck me as interesting rather than daunting. She practiced her Arabic asking for directions and every single person we encountered was more than willing to point us in the right direction. The stray cats (which were everywhere) stopped bothering me and instead actually looked kind of cute. Everything about the city changed as I experienced it with someone different, which once again reminded me how important it is to choose who you travel with carefully.
“I have found out that there ain’t no surer way to find out whether you like people or hate them than to travel with them.” – Mark Twain
Amen, Mr. Twain, amen.
I cried saying bye to Evelyn. I’m not even that ashamed. There are few people on this earth who I can speak this highly of and 20 hours with her just wasn’t enough. She is 100% someone I could travel with… and we’ve already started making plans. (#Guatemala2k15?)
I was talking with my roommate on the ship when I got back and after we finished swapping stories, we were on the topic of friends from home. (I’ve been lucky having so many close friends abroad) Having reached the halfway mark of our journey, we were both starting to feel a little out of touch with home. And, to be honest, it’s been hard on everyone here to only have email on the ship. And, let me tell you, there’s nothing more frustrating than getting wifi for a few minutes and having no one available to FaceTime. Heartbreaking, I tell ya. The world is a cruel place and as soon as wifi leaves, then everyone seems to wake up. By that time I’m usually back on the MV Explorer, searching for one of the few spots where internet works. Back in the States, we know everyone is busy and the last thing anyone wants to do is sit down and type an email. We know that texting or Facebooking would be so much easier. But we don’t have that. We have emails, which we know have this weird, professional and awkward feel to them. But it’s all we’ve got. We spend our day casually (and constantly) refreshing SeaMail (so creative, right?) and hoping someone sent us something, anything. I even get excited when I get theSKIMM (a news email). But people at home don’t realize how much it means to get an email, even if it’s just a few sentences. I’ve been really, really lucky to have amazing parents and grandparents who are there when I feel homesick or bored or out of touch and special shout out to Alison and Evelyn and all the other amazing sisters who email me regularly, even if it’s just to update me on the silly little things in their lives. Especially looking ahead to the 14 long days we’ll spend travelling across the Atlantic, please, please email me. Even if it’s just a sentence or two about what you ate for dinner. I love the ship, I really do. And I love the people on the ship. But I think you can ask any one of us, and they’d tell you the same thing; there’s nothing like an email from home (Or Morocco or Dublin or Paris or Nicaragua or wherever it is that you are reading this from). Adriana.kille.fa14@semesteratsea.org
Comments