Ambassadors of Goodwill and Nakedness

“The alleged deviant is often just a man with a deeper than average apprehension of normality.”
-Declan Kiberd

And you thought you knew me. Yes, I, Blair Lampe, was last week naked in front of many people, in a Muslim country no less. And yes, I did it on purpose. Ok, ok. I did that for shock value. Recover yourself and allow me to elaborate. Ah, but why jump right in? I’ll begin back a pace. Last week in Morocco was represented America (myself), New Zealand (Ailie) and Canada (Melainie). And we’ve had a wonderful time, although we were somewhat hindered as none of us spoke fluent Arabic (however, Melainie’s from Quebec, so that proved quite helpful as the second language is French.) So, first day in Morocco is spent on a bus to Chefchaouen, which is a village tucked away in the Atlas mountains where we hoped to find a place to stay before going on to Fez. As people are exceedingly helpful when it comes to offering directions (you can never be sure where they lead) we found a place to stay right away. A bit dirty, but then at 40 Durhams, or about 4 euros, who really cares? And such was sort of our motto for the duration of the trip.

After 2 months in Europe on a tight budget, the country is unbelievably cheap and the food is amazing. The next day, we set off towards Fez on a bus that should have taken 5 hours, but instead took 7. We took a tour around the medina of Fez, the most still in-tact Islamic medieval city in the world. Later that day, Ailie and I opted to visit a traditional Moroccan hammam, or bathhouse. Of course there are special hours for women only so we went then and signed up for a massage as well. Very interesting place. When you’re used to seeing all the women around you dressed very conservatively, it is strange at first to see them all in naught but their skivvies. Stranger still was being as them, among them. After about 5 minutes, however, you kind of forget. There’s just people everywhere and everyone is talking and washing and washing their kids and getting more water, taking in the steam. We’re sat down and obviously being new at this, women bring us buckets of water, some cold and some piping hot and you mix them to the desired temperature. Then we sat for a while pouring water over ourselves and sudsing up, not really knowing what to do until the ladies came for the “massage”. Us without Arabic and they without English, they just sort of moved us by force where we should go, arms up, turn over.

And they were merciless. It was actually more very deep tissue massage/scrubbing and not exactly relaxing, but an experience nonetheless. Then they had us sit back up and came over with another bucket of water….very very cold water..and poured it over our heads. It was sort of an unexpected, O! COLD but then refreshing afterward. That is until they came with the next bucket. Then it was OKAY, ACTUALLY NOT THAT REFRESHING. Then when we saw the third bucket approaching, it was just fear and wishing you knew the phrase “Stop, for the love of Allah”. So that was the hammam. Yes, I would do it again, but not anytime soon.

We stayed in Fez for two nights and then continued on (this time by train) to Marrakech. I had been excited to see Marrakech, however, I must admit that once there, I pined for the more traditional Fez or quiet Chefchaouen. Just walking down one of the main streets in town leaves you tired, not from walking, but rather the intensity of the people. For one, even in mid-November, the place is swarming with tourists, and they walk very slowly. It was the first time in several days I’d seen bare shoulders or skirts above the ankles, which was somewhat telling. The western influence was evident not only in the westerners there, but natives as well, especially in dress. Secondly, to be one of the westerners is exhausting because of street vendors who are relentless, as well as cab drivers who I have now decided are simply not human. Also, being women who are obviously not Muslim was certainly a factor; never dangerous by any means, but it could be quite an annoyance, especially when you know they wouldn’t talk to Muslim women that way or put their arms around their shoulders, etc. But all in all, still a very lively and exciting city. The main square is really a crazy place to be, day or night, with motorbikes whizzing by sporadically, fortune tellers, henna artists, snake charmers and people people people. Possibly competing for the rush one feels standing in the middle of it was my joy at finding this tasty psychedelic yogurt, bright pink and yellow and green….maybe not the reason people visit, but it sure made my day.

The people (aside from those mentioned) were really lovely. One woman sitting across from us in a train compartment noticed my hands and communicated (through another Moroccan man who spoke Arabic and french to Melanie who spoke french and English to me) that she also suffered from eczema, and there was this cream, made only in Mauritania that worked wonders. Then she proceeded to get her suitcase down from the overhead compartment, rummage through it, and give me hers. The man also offered to mail me some in the States for nothing at all because his village is near where they make it. There was also a separate train ride where the three of us could not find seats together, so I sat next to two younger girls of about 16 and a few women across the isle. With nothing better to do, I took out my Arabic book and began to study. Noticing it right away, the girl next to me gets very excited and begins a lesson which lasts the duration of the ride and generously includes a portion of her dinner. Mmm. It was helpful, although somewhat uncomfortable, because they spoke no English and often they were laughing and I wasn’t certain if it was a with me or at me thing. Also, thanks to the language barrier, I believe I may have taken Islamic vows and promised to marry the girl’s brother, whom I have never met, so she can visit America. Mom and Dad, you may be getting a strange phone call very soon. Let him down easy for me. One particularly memorable moment in the ride was her asking my religion. Not wanting to try and explain “atheist” I opt for “Buddhist”. When I see she doesn’t understand, I make a motion like rubbing a very round belly, and bald head, and meditating, adding again, “Buddhist”. She seems to understand and is happy. Then pointing to her ring finger she asks if I am married. I say no and she gives me a mildly reproachful look. Only then do I realize she now takes me to be an unwed mother.

So, Morocco was good, but I was also by the end ready to get back to Europe. The return ferry to Algeciras was not helpful in this. What should have been a two hour ride across turned into 7 hours circling Gibraltar as the authorities were not allowing ships to dock until they found 4 guys who had jumped out of one of the boats and were attempting to swim to shore. Then came the goodbyes to my travel mates at the bus station, though I still didn’t travel alone because I met a girl also trying to get out of Algeciras by train. As the boat was delayed, there was only one train left that day, so together we headed to Rondo for the night and split a pension. Though I had never heard of it, it turned out to be a really nice place for the last train to go. Today, I’ve made it to Cordoba and tomorrow, I think I will bypass Seville and head for Portugal.