First, I am well. I am blogging from a shwiya cafe just outside of my hotel in the province of Ouarzazate, surrounded by the smells of spices piled beneath tents. I am surrounded by colorful clothes lined against the hotel walls. It is almost dark here, and the sounds of the calls to prayer just took place, kulshi zweet, ana xlf, l-Hamdullah. Sometimes, it is difficult to believe that I am on the continent of Africa and not on some movie set - the square that faces the hotel is covered in tiles and little stores line the streets.
Before I left, I had lived my entire life in Pensacola. I grew up starting with the same type of friends, and they became more of the same type of friends, and so on and so on, until, at the age of 25, I was left with the feeling, "Is this really who I am? Or is this the result of me living here and surrounding influences? Here, I don't have to worry about what people would have said if they knew the old me - they don't know the old me, and that's the beauty of it. I have become a butterfly, a chameleon, something which was able to shed its previous skin and emerge, shimmering in the Moroccan sunlight.
I learned a lesson on the second day that I was here. We were driving from Marrakech to the Ouarzazate province, twisting and turning up the mountains, inches away from the edge of the road, when we stopped at a small cafe to rest. I know that the old me would have stayed in the bus, or just stayed in with the group, but I wanted to change that. I walked into the café with Tracy to get some water. I walked up to the Hanut owner.
“Salamu alaykum,” I said. The man looked surprised.
“Salam, salam.” he replied.
“Uhh… smiti… Marcus. Smit… smitha Tracy.”
“Ah, yes, very good, very good.”
“Thanks, I mean, shukran. Uhh… Huh-na Peace Corps… Huh-na… crap, what’s the word for water? Uhh…” I looked at the man. “WATER!”
“The man laughed and pointed behind me. His son goes to get water and I reach into my wallet.
“lla, laa. No, you have. You have.”
“Really? Thanks?”
“You do good.”
So we turn to go and the man takes me by the shoulder and pulls me to the back.
“Come. Come.”
I was nervous, but decided that after the faux pax from the other day, I decided to simply go with it. Before I knew it, I was in a kitchen with the man and his wife in the back corner, making lunch. He sits me down at the table and puts a bowl of it in front of me, along with salt and some orange spice, and a huge round piece of flatbread. I eat with another man, and try to speak what little I know. It’s surprising to know how much of a conversation you can have with so few words. I finish my meal and hold my stomach.
“Kulshi bixir. Shukran.”
“Lla shukra, illah wagib.” I had said thank you and he had replied that no thanks was necessary, and that it was a duty to do such kindness for strangers. Which brings me to lesson two. People are generally good, want to do good for others, and hope that others want to do good, too.
Think about it, though. If a stranger were to come to a doorstep in America, the person in the house would lock the door and call the police, and that’s if the stranger were lucky enough not to approach a house of a gun owner. I think this says a lot about trust in Morocco. They will keep a door unlocked and show kindness to a stranger. I know that there will be times when I will find exceptions to this, and will experience prejudices, maybe even theft, but that experience just helped me to realize that I have made the right choice in coming here.
In closing, here is a suggestion. The next time you see a stranger in trouble, just be nice. People are good, there is good in people, and people generally want to be good.
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