Help

“Do you know how to buy a ticket?” A young Moroccan male asked me. I usually respond to questions from strangers by saying that “I don't know” or that “I don't understand Arabic.” This time however, I realized I can be of service. I could in fact show him how to buy a ticket from the machine. I could teach him a thing or two about his own country. The Casablanca tramway system is something I am more familiar with than many Moroccans.

In Peace Corps I've discovered that a volunteer must have faith in the generosity of strangers. It is our most valuable resource. Strangers have fed me, housed me, and taken hours out of their day to teach me something or to speak on my behalf. The first step in accomplishing even the simplest tasks is asking for help. Establishing oneself in a new environment requires embracing the hospitality that exists at the core of any culture. I suppose no matter the situation, being kind and accepting kindness is one of the defining cycles of the human experience. I know that's a basic lesson taught to any child, but it is incredible how often I forget to live by it. Anyway, this is what went through my head as I taught my new friend how to use Casablanca's tramway system.

I showed him what buttons to push. I told him when to insert the seven dirhams. I taught him how to swipe the ticket to enter the platform. I explained how our platform would go in the direction of Sidi Moumen, his destination, and how the other tram would go towards downtown and the beach. I pointed out the sign informing us that the tram would not arrive for another twelve minutes.

My friend was a local, and yet he depended on my help in order to get home. It would be his first time using the new Casablanca tram. Sidi Moumen was located at the very end of the tram line. All he had to do in order to get home was sit on the tram until the last stop. There was no way for me to mess this up. It was completely within my power to help this local get home. After being on the receiving side so often, it was exciting to have built up the knowledge and confidence to provide help to a Moroccan.

I was inflated with optimism as we got on the tram. My young friend followed me on. He sat next to me and listened attentively. I told him that I would get out halfway to Sidi Moumen and how he would get out at the final station. I described who I was and what I was doing in Morocco. I was speaking Arabic. I was completely in tune with the rhythms of Casablanca. Morocco was easy. I was high on integration. I was a bad-ass.

“Where are you getting off,” he asked me.

“I don't know the name of station. I will look and will know. I will see the taxis that go to my town.” I had used this strategy many times, and I believed that the process had become second nature.

“Ok. Do you have a facebook?”

After giving my friend my email address I tried to pay close attention to the stops. My taxi stand would be coming up soon. It was dark, and I it was difficult to recognize the neighborhoods. I focused at each stop. It will be arriving at any moment now, I kept telling myself, look for the big 'Total Gas Station.'

Suddenly I was very pissed off about our sitting arrangement. We were facing backwards, because that's the way seats point sometimes. I could see everything we had passed, but needed to turn around to see what was coming up. Every time I craned my neck to glimpse the future, I lost a tiny bit of confidence. Where the hell was my stop? I would have seen it. I would have recognized it. I wanted to change seats and face the future. I wanted to be able to look into the approaching distance and watch the dark urban landscape creep into formation so I could feel oriented. But I didn't want my friend to know that I needed help. He couldn't find out that my confidence was fake. I didn't want him to think of me as just another foreigner, unable to quite sync up with the flow of Casablanca. So I remained sitting backwards. The neighborhoods flew passed into the night, disappearing before I could make any sense of shapes and textures.

One by one the tram stations went by. Not a single one looked familiar. Our conversation had stopped, because I was becoming nervous, and I think my friend could tell. My confidence was deflated. I felt lost! I kept telling myself that my stop was still coming up. There was just no way I wouldn't have recognized it.

Finally, the tram politely confirmed that I still suck at Morocco “FINAL STOP: SIDI MOUMEN.” I had missed my stop and had ridden the tram all the way to the end of the line. Sidi Moumen is one of Casablanca's poorer suburbs, with a couple shanty towns scattered about. I was not suppose to be here and my friend knew it. I was embarrassed. He looked at me confused, wondering why I had remained on the tram this entire time. I expected him to offer help, maybe figure out where I was suppose to go, or mention that he had extra space if I needed somewhere to sleep. But he just thanked me, and walked home. I asked some people which stop I was suppose to get off at to find my Taxi stand. No one knew. I asked the guard to let me back on the tram since I had missed my stop. He told me I had to buy another ticket.

So I did, and got on the tram heading back into Casablanca. Hopefully I would not miss my stop again. And hopefully, once I got to my stop, taxis would still be running trips to my town. If I couldn't get back to my town tonight what would I do? Where would I sleep? Morocco scared me. I was helpless.

Friendship

After dealing with a final costumer, we are ready to go to the cafe. I help Adil close up his shop. I bring the mannequins inside and arrange the shoes on the wall so that there is room to close the shop's doors. Adil claims that owning a clothing store requires a seven day workweek since you never know when a big spender will show up, but besides that, it seems like a pretty nice gig. He mostly hangs out, listening to music or surfing the internet, taking an occasional hit from his pipe. More importantly he has the freedom to take short vacations, or afternoon coffee breaks with the local American.

Once all items have been crammed into the small shop, contained by locked metal doors, we set off for a taxi. It'll be my first time using a taxi in my town. I've used horse carts before, when the sun is too hot, or when there are groceries to carry, but never have I considered using a taxi. Moroccan towns are arranged into a clutter where everything anyone could need is no more than a few blocks away. The cafe we are going to though, is in the country side, a two dollar cab ride away. Adil says that its nice to enjoy a coffee outside of town, where the atmosphere is relaxing.

Late summer leaves the countryside brown and dead. Some fields have been plowed and seeded, in hopes that the first sprinkles of Autumn are on the way. One field acts as the local dump, ruining my attempts to consider the landscape beautiful. What is a coffee shop doing out here?

From the outside there seems to be nothing unique about it. It seems like a final rest stop for travelers heading into Casablanca. Upon entering, I am stunned by the waitresses. They look sexy, and that is not a typical look for girls in rural Morocco. I wonder if the cafe functions as a brothel during the evening hours. In town, there are a few cafes with women servers, most of whom also work as prostitutes. After greeting a couple familiar faces, Adil leads me into the courtyard. I am impressed by a green lawn and a flowing fountain. How fancy! I bend down to feel the fresh grass, a feature I miss from the American landscape. We claim the table nearest the fountain, to be tickled by its soft murmur. The only other costumers sit at the corner of the courtyard, puffing on their hash pipe.

Adil orders an 'especial,' which I believe to be a kind of beer. For some reason I have it in my head that the waitresses are prostitutes, and the clients smoke hash, and so there must also be alcohol. I start to change my order because it has been too long since I last had a beer, but Adil laughs and tells me that this is not a bar and that he ordered a shot of espresso. I settle for my coffee and milk.

And so I find myself in a familiar situation, chatting with a Moroccan at a cafe. For males in Morocco, the coffee shop serves an important social function. They watch sports on TV, or chat and catch up with friends. Business is often conducted within the safety of a cafe. Ideas are shared. Of course, it is a male only environment, and unless you are in a major urban center, it is rare to see any women at the cafes. Women go about their social lives within the home. Despite a western attitude taking hold in the cities and amongst the country's youth, most Moroccans continue to adhere to traditional gender roles. Fortunately I am a male (seriously, a male volunteer puts up with a lot less crap the a female volunteer), and I can enjoy my freedoms without being judged.

I enjoy my conversation with Adil. He understands my Arabic, and he forms his sentences cleanly, so that I can understand his. We use French and English to help clear any confusion. He is open minded and I find that I can be truthful about my opinions. Too often, I am ultra conscious of being in a foreign culture and sensor myself in order to be polite. With Adil, however, I can act entirely myself. I have no fear of him judging me, and our relationship is very similar to the ones I have with close American friends.

He is able to relate to me. This is partly because he is my age, single, intelligent, and able to keep up with the western zeitgeist through the internet. Mostly though, we relate because he has experienced life in a foreign culture. Ten years ago he flew to Brazil, where a visa is not required for a Moroccan entry. The idea was to start in Brazil, and figure out a way to sneak into America or Canada. Instead, he spent a month in Sao Paulo, indulging himself off the festive atmosphere. He made friends, and got to know the city and culture, and realized that the range of human lifestyles goes far beyond what is offered in Morocco. He ran out of money, and his friend got homesick, and he was forced to return to Morocco with just a taste of what the world had to offer.

That little taste he has of Brazil is the connection we have. He appreciates my commitment to live in Morocco. He appreciates the time I have spent to get to know the language and connect with Moroccans. “Do you like Morocco?” he asks me.

I say that I find Moroccans to be welcoming and hospitable, and comment on the diverse geography and beautiful cities that the country offers tourists. Since I want to be completely honest with my friend, I also explain some of my frustrations. It isn't easy to make genuine connections with people whose culture uses a different format for forming relationships. There is a constant tingle of isolation. Most Moroccans are vaguely aware of this and adjust their communication to be inclusive of my perspective. Unfortunately, there are those that are uninterested in making room for what is foreign. In Morocco, Peace Corps volunteers encounter religious harassment, female volunteers deal with sexual harassment, and Asian-American volunteers experience racial harassment.

He defends Morocco, claiming that the country is used to people of different backgrounds. Straddling Africa and Europe, Morocco has always been influenced by non-Arab populations, and Moroccans have learned to treat them with respect. He also points out that sexism and racism must also exist in America. As far as the harassment is concerned, he admits that small towns in Morocco have little exposure to other cultures and its populations can be rather close minded.

Adil and I have hit upon an interesting topic. Examining Morocco's cultural diversity is not an everyday conversation. I have a lot to say on the subject, but the language barrier becomes more and more of a burden and so we move onto lighter subjects. He tells me stories about Brazil and I share a few of my travels. He recommends that next time we will visit the cafe at night because it is a different atmosphere. I expect him to mention something about prostitution, but he just says that the courtyard will be colorfully lit. Eventually, my Arabic tires and I exhaust my vocabulary. My sentences become less and less coherent. So, we tune our ears to the fountain, Adil lights a cigarette, and I finish my coffee. Adil pays the bill and we hitchhike back into town.

Too often, I crave American company in order to remind myself of who I am. My outing with Adil is a refreshing reminder that I can be myself without my culture around to back me up. Interactions with Moroccans are not superficial as long as I feel comfortable about representing myself honestly. Cultural barriers are very real and establishing true emotional connections with non-westerners is challenging for me. As a Peace Corps volunteer though, making these connections is an important goal of mine, because when it does happen, humanity seems to burst with optimism.