“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.
