West Bubba, Morocco
One of my dear friends moved to a small village in Morocco last year. She wanted to be in a quiet location where she can study Quaran and Arabic and rest from her exhausting US based job. She rents a house in a walled compound, a lovely green oasis in the midst of the dusty, dry landscape. The lawn is groomed daily, weeds are pulled and fed to the landlord’s rabbits, fruit of pomegranate, orange and lemon ripen in the strong sunshine, and we are in competition with the birds for the sweet figs. A huge argan tree shades the patio and a comfortable hammock beckons, promising restful sleep.
Outside the walls, it’s another story. The world is in constant motion. Cars ride the dotted line, taking up both lanes. People and vehicles are seemingly surrounded by an invisible forcefield, as near misses occur constantly. Motorcycles pass horse and donkey drawn carts piled high with onions, oranges and melons. To get around, we share vans and cars with others, 50 cents for a ride from West Bubba to the closest big town. Some of those cars are so old that they have ashtrays and lighters in them, and I think they may still be rolling on the original wheels, as well. We pass construction sites. Plastered cinderblock walls with elegant gates open onto vacant lots. Squat buildings of ochre, red and salmon crouch together, most of them unfinished. It reminds me of a scene from dystopian, post apocalyptic movies, except instead of human skulls, the ground is littered with plastic bags and empty water bottles. On market days people begging mix with piles of polyester caftans, piles of carrots and plastic buckets. A man lazily fans flies away from his tabletop spread with organ meat, one piece appearing to be a cow’s vagina. The ubiquitous round loaves of bread, whose production is subsidized by the government, lay stacked by mounds of fresh mint and parsley. A man offers fresh squeezed ginger and sugarcane juice from his cart. We had him fill up our empty water bottles because he only offered rinsed cups to drink from. It’s quite a scene, a bit overwhelming after sitting in the peace of my friend’s garden.
My friend explained that here the men are chivalrous and look out for women and children. Honesty is an American value, yet it doesn’t seem as ingrained in our culture as it is in Morocco. It is due to the depth to which religion is ingrained in the culture. Do people say I am Muslim before they answer that they are Moroccan? I can almost hear people saying “I’m American and I’m Buddist/Jewish/Christian.” In this small town, I am just another brown face, my clothing is the only thing marking me obviously as a foreigner. What would happen if I covered my face, swathed myself in layers of fabric as the women do here. Would I be able to seamlessly blend into the crowds in the street? We return to her home, the heavy fragrance of the rugosa roses mixes with the soft coo of the pigeons and the ruckus of the neighbor’s chickens. The sonorous call of the call to prayer reverberates over the village, bringing a gentle close to this long day here in West Bubba.
