The taxi ride was pleasant. As I finished my cigarette, I let the wind stamp out the butt and I placed the remnants in my backpack; I refuse to be an inconsiderate smoker who throws the butt onto the ground. We passed village after village for a few minutes, and at each entrance a small water fountain greeted us. These are the fountains that people typically use to clean their hands, feet, and faces for ablutions. The villages all lined the east side of the street, the deserts leading up to the Atlas Mountains lined the west side. Camels walked through the bushes alongide mules and children. In the taxi, most of the volunteers sat in the back. I sat up front with my sitemate. I turned to him and noticed that his eyes were moving back and forth, as though he were trying to read something with his mind.
"You're thinking of something." I said.
"No, not really." He replied.
"All right, then."
I turned back to the road, held my hand out, and left the force of the wind raise and lower it. My hand sliced through everything - the trees, the houses, the camels, the children - until it finally sliced through the pillars that marked the entrance to Meski.
The watering hole is within the valley of Meski, and it required us to travel down a steerp set of stairs that had been carved into the valley rock. We paid the five dirhams to get in, and we found a place in the shade to sit where the owners had drilled metal beams into the side of the valley for a tarp. My sitemate had just returned from America, and he had brought back with him some bacon, so we all decided to have BLT's for lunch that day. Knowing Islamic policy on pork, we made sure to sit in a corner where nobody could see us.
"Who all is going to go swimming?" Someone asked. The men raised their hands, as did most of the women. I didn't like the idea of taking my shirt off in front of large groups of people, so I decided to stay beneath the tarp. One of the women in the group was wearing a two-piece swimsuit. The people of Meski, being used to living in a tourist town, are used to this sort of thing. Nonetheless, it didn't take long for all of the men, who were dressed in no more than two inches worth of clothing, to notice this woman swimming. I looked around the watering hole, at the men, as they stared at her. To be honest, however, the same thing happens in America, but because the men and women are intermingled, it doesn't get noticed as often. Men naturally stare at women. Men can't help themselves, it is hardwired into their brains to look at women this way. I then noticed the women who stared at the female volunteer. The women of thew village all wore long dresses, complete with long sleeve shirts, neck coverings, and wide-brimmed hats. Knowing the culture's desire for light-skinned people, I could think of two reasons for this. The women here are simply trying to avoid as much sun as possible, and they don't want to be looked at that way. I remember a Moroccan once saying that she doesn't feel like a prisoner wearing the hijab. It is when she shows her flesh that men treat her like an object.
I sat there, watching the others play in the water, and opened my book of poetry. I took a drag fom my cigarette and began reading "The Gift", by Sharon Olds.
If I could change one physical thing
about myself, I would retract those tiny
twilit lips which appeared at the mouth
of my body when the children's heads pressed out
I read the words, took another drag of my cigarette, and looked out at the watering hole. The female volunteer didn't notice the men looking at her, or, if she did, she din't make it look like she cared. This is what it's like to live wholly within one's element, I thought to myself, thinking back on the last time I had ever felt like that. It was when I was writing. Hours could pass, and I wouldn't even notice the sun's light creeping along the edge of the desk.
A few moments later, the volunteers came up to me. They had finished swimming and had decided that it would be a good time to try to get home, before everone tried to rush home. We climbed the stairs to the main road and found a taxi right away. The humidity of the coming storm had passed, and the skies were completely blue.
Later that night, the others were sitting around the parlor, enjoying themselves, and I went to the other room to have a cigarette. I took out another cigarette and watched as the trails of smoke twirled up through the middle air shaft, into the night sky. They snaked around the metal gratings of the rebar; free of any shape, they could get around anything that tried to hinder them in their attempt to escape the ventilation shaft. My sitemate came up to me.
"You're thinking of something." He said.
"No, not really." I lied.
"All right, then."
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