Cultural Conundrums

At about 11:30 PM the crowds around the Medina in Marrakech begin to thin out. Families stroll to their homes in the newer areas of the city, couples wander off down the inconspicuous alleys towards their Riads and after a brief transition most mixed gender groups and tourists have dispersed. Thus around midnight the working men are left to pack away stands of fried fish, steaming escargot and roasted goat heads only to be reloaded the following afternoon when the "A-yoh" calls begin anew and people are led (often by the wrist) over to one area or, if you are smart enough to respond "Deja mange," made to promise to return once their hunger has.

After mounting this knife edge of time one arrives at the other side, the side where the x-chromosome no longer exists. Young men are in groups of two to seven. Old men crouch outside of one establishment or another looking unproductive. And middle aged men usually sit at the doorways to their Riads seeming equally worthless. Genna and I have become accustomed to these people and learn to avoid them, especially the young, as best we can as they coo to us or beckon us or straight up just try to greet us. The problem, of course, is the latter, as having a good man just crave a decent hello is something we care to encourage in the culture (not to mention is often turns out useful to know such people for informational purposes).

On this particular evening Genna and I have an insurmountable chocolate craving; and I dare admit that along with out recent Coke addiction has come a Snickers fetish as well. So, after losing a highly important rosham I set off down our alley to wander towards the last open shop window and retrieve our midnight treat. When I enter onto the main Medina road that our Riad alley joins I arrive at the bustling point in the evening where the people flow down the alley like Vesuvius has erupted and so I join into the stream and head off towards the corner shop.

As I arrive at the corner, no more than 5 minutes later, I notice the crowds have begun to rapidly thin and I know it would behove me to pick up my pace. Before entering the shop I am descended upon by a few young adults keen to chat it up with me and who knows what else. I do my usual pretend-they-don´t-exist routine and take refuge with the shopkeeper when they start to pursue. Unfortunately, as is the case in many countries, despite my being second in line, I am left until after the last to serve as I am the only woman who needs assistance.

Chocolate bar in hand I check outside the shop door to ensure that coast is clear. When I see no testerone obstruction in my path I make my way for the corner which I am about to round when the same man, in his twenties, heavy and hanging with a group of equally motley cronies approach me at the corner. I whisk by him at a pace impossible for conversation but am immediately pursued down the cobbled streets back towards my Riad. Despite my pace the man speeds up yelling at me in French and begins to reach his hands down his pants.

When I recognize what is occuring I set off at a run listening to the man and his disgusting noises of masturbation pursue me in the background. I still don´t know if the boy is joking to impress his friends or if he truly has decided to jerk off on a street that is at the least occupied by dozens of men. Sprinting around the corner I could vomit I am so disgusted by the behavior of this animal, his friends, and every spectator on the street that just let it happen.

So you could blame it on me for being out so late. You could blame it on the men for being pigs. You could blame it on the culture for leaving these boys no other sexual recourse than this level of degredation. But when it comes down to it - I don´t regret it.

The following day Genna and I are approached by another one of these nasty characters and asked if we like sex. It is only because of the previous evening´s events that I have had enough experience and am fed up enough with these men to let this boy have it. At the top of my lungs and in front of a crowded street of I let this boy know that he is a pig and should ashamed of himself. Before my eyes the boy´s face shrinks to a small pimple of an object. For the first time, after two months in Morocco, I feel power over this little puke who I am standing up to before a street full of onlookers. The boy stops dead in his tracks and for the first time we are not pursued halfway down the block like other fellow lady travellers. It is through this knowledge and this power that I have gained that I feel that I am able to protect myself better than before and am able to share this experience with others.

Of the many countries I have been to (and luckily there have been many) Morocco is one of the few that I will almost surely revisit. However, Morocco is also the country that has caused me the most distress as a woman and nearly chased me out by the time I purchased my ticket to fly to first world Spain. I write this in the hopes that these words empower other women because as culturally relatavist as the trip has made us there are some beliefs of mine that will never change. I am a feminist.