The only real "problem" in this place is that going to the bathroom is always an adventure. Yesterday evening, while we were stopped on our way to Rabat for our van driver to pray, Allen asked if everyone was comfortable squatting to use the toilet. "Comfortable" might be a stretch, but I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for this trip. I squatted yesterday in the bathroom of Mohammed's restaurant, tucking my nose into my shirt, rolling my pants up from the top so they wouldn't touch the ground, being careful to touch nothing but the walls and washing up to my elbows with warm water and hand sanitizer afterwards. I knew I could do it again, but it certainly wasn't preferable even in the best of moments, and I worried that I might not be able to manage if I was peeing in the middle of the night, or sick. Allen mentioned that some of the houses we were staying at would have "western style" toilets, but some would not. I prayed the entire way into the city that I would get placed in one of the houses that did and, miraculously, my wishes came true. In fact, our bathrooms here are cleaner than my apartment back home--I just have to get used to showering out in the open*. They don't have a bathtub or a shower curtain, just a drain in the middle of the floor, so everything gets wet!
Outside, in the streets--especially these winding, cobblestone "rues" in the old medina--everything smells slightly of pee, and I swear I saw shit smeared in the street. Beggars in the market walk around with open wounds--this one man today was lying on the ground, a cut on his leg so swollen with pus that he could hardly move it. I'll never forget the sight--the sad little man, sprawled out on the ground in the busiest street in the market with his hands outstretched, begging for money as people made a delicate path around him on either side. I do not know why or how some countries become more "developed" than others--how "proper" sanitation systems come into being, with a regimented garbage pick up (the litter here is also unbelievable) and landfills and all that. Who thinks of these things? I am the only one of the girls on my trip who seems to be making a point of wearing closed-toe shoes with socks at all times, and I worry that the others might be more susceptible to germs in their sandals and flip-flops.
Despite the filth, though, I am still so happy to be here and remain fascinated with the people--just as much as they are with me. I also haven't slept so well since I left Texas! [Prior to Morocco, I was in Burlington, VT and then Sevilla, Spain, neither of which have air conditioning. In the heat of the summer, this can make for some extraordinarily sleepless nights.] Even though it is hot outside and the houses here do not have air conditioning either, the tiled walls and floors cool the house-- to stay cool, I press my flushed cheek up against the cold wall, or sleep with my back up against it.
This morning, we went to Chellah, where I saw a real African vista!
This view, just a short ride outside the city, cemented for me the knowledge that I am in Africa. Honestly, this place is so magical that it's easy to forget where I am, but, every so often, there's a reminder, like the gas stations with the word "Afrique" on their awnings, and a thrill runs through my body when I remember this important, exotic, diverse, challenged continent that I'm walking upon. Coming here is something that I've wanted to do my entire life, and I sometimes have trouble believing that I am really here. I don't think that the other students on the trip really like me--I must seem unfriendly, or they sense that I'm not going to bond with them because I'm constantly staring out the window in amazement, or have my face hidden behind my camera, trying to capture everything. Quite frankly, they're exactly right--I've waited too long to come here to waste my time hearing about their sex lives or their drunken exploits back in Spain and playing card games in the van to pass the time. I'm not about to let anyone stand in the way of my squeezing as much Morocco as I can out of every moment.
*My host family's house would become a hot-spot for the others to use the bathroom, and they would sometimes walk home with me or Kara in pairs, to get at least one good release in before heading back home to be faced with their holes-in-the-ground. I was astounded one afternoon when, at one of the other host family's houses, I discovered a seemingly abandoned bathroom in a door off to the side of the hole that housed an oversized sink, an old refrigerator and a "western style" toilet. It was dark and wet, and there were no windows or a light switch, so I propped the door open, dropped my pants and just prayed that none of their little boys would wander in while I was peeing, or that none of the maids would come by and shut the door! Panic rose when I realized that the toilet didn't seem to be functioning, and, thus, wouldn't flush, and I have no idea what ultimately became of the situation. What shocked me the most is that these people had a fully functional (well, maybe not "functional," but capable to say the least) toilet, yet they still preferred the hole. That is just a cultural divide I'll never cross!
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