Cars

America's dependence on automobiles gives me anxiety. Sitting in traffic, avoiding accidents, trying to park, buying gas, and paying for maintenance are requirements for holding a job, running errands and surviving the grind. It's so stressful.

Before arriving in Morocco I was living without a car at the edge of Missoula, Montana. Errands were a drag. I tried carrying beer in plastic bags on my bike's handle bars only to have them break through and explode in the street. I didn't know how to function without a car. My social life was hard to coordinate. Getting out of town meant finding a ride. I couldn't take myself or any of my things anywhere. I often felt stuck in my living room.

In Morocco though, not owning a car is not a handicap. With compact towns and an even distribution of shops and businesses, a car free lifestyle is encouraged. Errands, work, social functions, and even travel require little dependence on private vehicles. This is one of my favorite perks about Morocco.

With few privately owned vehicles, small town Morocco exhibits a different style of human movement. This morning I went shopping for breakfast. I walked less than a block away to get milk, bread, and butter, and then another two blocks to pick up some fruits and vegetables. With no windshield to hide behind, I greeted familiar faces and chatted with one of the store keepers. My errands provided the opportunity for positive interactions with other humans and it felt good. I was able to sync up with the rhythm of the day, feel the sunshine, and get a little exercise. It was convenient and pleasant. It felt like a very important part of the human experience.

Everyone in my town can get to where they need to be without the aid of a car. Though the population is somewhere around 15,000, density is high and everything is walking distance. Kids walk to school and adults walk to work. Socializing involves circulating around town to cafes or friends' houses. To bring the groceries home from market the women hire horse carts to transport their fruits and vegetables. Long distance taxis, buses, and trains provide the infrastructure for travel. It's a system of cooperation that forces face to face interactions to navigate the day.

In the streets of most American cities there are more cars out in public than there are people. Neighbors don't bump into each other often. People don't greet familiar faces on their way to the grocery store.  We miss our daily greetings and go about our business inside our own heads without connecting with the person selling us our sandwich. People of different social classes or age groups have little contact with each other and we struggle to develop empathy towards other demographics. Cities are designed according to the machine and not the individual. With urban sprawl and increasing commute times American's are spending a huge fraction of their lives inside cars, not exactly a relaxed natural setting for Homo Sapiens. It's a system of independence that promotes social isolation.

I understand why cars are so popular in America. Montana is a fun place to explore by car. I love driving to the Black Foot river in the summer and driving up the Bitterroot Valley in the winter to ski at Lost Trail. Nothing symbolizes freedom as well as having the means to explore a playground as big as Montana. However, it would probably be best for us to love our cars a little less. Besides encouraging social isolation, obsession with cars is detrimental to our health, safety, and environment. For a healthy and happy population, the automobile needs to be used in a practical non-indulgent manner. It's something American culture could work on.

There 4,000 tigers in the world.  There are 20,000 white rhinoceros in the world. There are over 1,000,000,000 cars in the world. That's more than any species of large mammal (except for humans).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Effects_of_the_automobile_on_societies
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_mammals_by_population

Harassment

It's different walking around with Erin, my site mate.  By myself, I can almost feel invisible when I want to be. With an American female walking with me, not so much.  Anyone that sees her takes an extra long look. The stares are suffocating.

But for her last night as a volunteer in town I feel likes it's important for her to get out.  She shouldn't spend her final hours in the apartment.  I want to show her that we can go out and enjoy a pleasant evening despite the attention she draws.  We'll go to a nice cafe by the garden and relax with the sunset.  I know she must be annoyed by the hassle of walking around, but being outside is worth it if only for the sake of leaving the apartment.

So we get a table on the sidewalk next to the garden.  We work on a crossword puzzle and chat about Erin's imminent transition.  She is about to head back to America now that she has completed her two years of service.  Such life changes conjure a wide range of intense emotions.  There is a lot on her mind.  The sun sets and we embrace the chill of the Autumn night.  Summer was hot.

From the darkness of the garden somebody requires our attention.  The man is asking me for a cigarette or a dirham (2 dirhams = an American quarter).  I shake my head and ignore him.

How will Erin describe her experience to her friends back home?  Most volunteers will tell you that Peace Corps is an incredibly powerful experience; an important step to understanding how to lead a fulfilling existence.  Most Peace Corps volunteers will also tell you that the experience comes with frustration as cultural barriers generate a sense of isolation.  Few volunteers extend service beyond the standard two year commitment.  Erin is not one of them. Soon she will be absorbed back into her culture; expressing herself freely without fear of judgement or harassment.  She appreciates the Peace Corps experience, but is ready to move on.

The man emerges from his dark corner and approaches our table.  His eyes are slightly glazed over and he mumbles as he speaks.  I wonder if he's been huffing glue, not uncommon in the town.  Erin asks to know what he wants.

"Give me a dirham," he says.

Erin tells him to go away.  He remains.  Again, we tell him to leave us alone.  He stands near our table with a drunk smirk on his face.  We try ignoring him.  But, he continues to be entertained.  I've seen such an expression in Morocco before.  I hardly ever receive it, but I've seen it directed as my Asian American friends, at my African American friends, and at my female friends.  It's a leer of racist/sexist amusement, and it is incredibly disturbing.

Soon, Erin cannot support his presence.  She threatens to go to the police and he remains unfazed.  She gets up and walks to the police station, which happens to be nearby.  I'm not sure if she is bluffing or not.  The man continues to enjoy the show he's created as Erin storms off.  I remain at the table.  The man is less interested now that Erin has left, but doesn't leave.  He waits for her to come back.  A few minutes pass and she returns without police aid.

I follow her lead and we take our coffees to a table near the entrance, where other customers are gathered on the well lit terrace.  I'm shocked that the man follows.  He finds a way to remain hidden and glower over our table at the same time. He's relentless.  We tell him again to leave us alone.  He remains at our side and unnoticed by the rest of the costumers.  I feel frozen, not sure how to get rid of him.  I wanted Erin to enjoy a pleasant evening.  She is the only female at the cafe and is getting harassed by the man in the shadows.  I wanted her to feel safe and I'm failing.

Erin steps up.  She goes inside the cafe to find someone to help us.  As she gets up a five dirham coin drops to ground under the table.  She walks inside and the man makes a move.  I grab Erin's bag unsure what the man might do.  He takes the coin on the ground and runs off.  I yell and make a lame effort to chase after.  I can't believe what just happened.

"Did you guys see that.  The thief, he stole five dirhams."  The men around laugh.  It's only five dirhams. Nobody consoles.  I just got owned by a glue-huffer and feel pathetic.  At no point during the entire ordeal did I step up to demand respect and now our dignity has been trampled.

Two employees then come out with Erin, trying to figure out what the problem is.  It's too late though.  The man got his amusement and then got some money.  He's gone and the pleasant evening has completely blown up.  Everyone stares at us whispering what I imagine are negative comments.  We want to get back to the protection of the apartment.  I pay the waitress, the only other female at the establishment.  She provides an apologetic look, and Erin's final excursion is over.  It's time for her to go to America.

The Immigrant

We find that with French we can hold interesting conversations. It's fun for him to practice English, and I appreciate him listening to my Arabic, but when we aren't necessarily looking to improve our language skills, French is our medium. We still stumble, but that's what makes our conversations charming. At one point Hicham wants to say “dice.” Instead of searching for the right word that I would understand, he flicks the lighter in the air, catches it, looks at it, and announces “five.” Immediately I understand his charade, and the conversation resumes. Shortly after I fall into a fit of laughter. Why the number five?

Together we make dinner for his last night in town. I fry some veggies while Hicham figures out how to prepare the sheep shoulder. Neither of us can cook well, but I've been experimenting and Hicham says he remembers seeing his ex-wife bake mutton. So we have some fun in the kitchen.

Hicham can be an intimidating. He is big; tall and muscular. His passion erupts with every punch he throws in kick boxing class. And he is so loud. Whether he is serious, or upset, or happy, he is so loud. I've never heard someone laugh harder. I've had neighbors tell me to be quiet on nights that Hicham comes over to hang out. However, behind his massive frame hides a philosopher, continually trying to work out his purpose in life.

He has let me into his thoughts, trusting that I won't think he is crazy. He worries about love, hoping to one day know a girl he can feel passion for. He worries about freedom, complaining that Moroccan culture limits his potential. Contemplating life's purpose since childhood, he has always felt different. While most other Moroccans found the answers within Islam, Hicham decided to look beyond religion. He studied biology at a University in Al Jadida, but struggled, and became frustrated with the education system. This followed with years of seeking pleasure through partying. When that did not fill his emptiness, he succumbed to family pressure and got married and had a boy. Again, he felt dissatisfied, lacking passion, feeling as though there was still another path out there that would lead to passion and happiness. He got divorced.

I have been told not to hang out with Hicham. Other friends of mine warn me that he is a little crazy and that I should be careful. He is a divorced father. He doesn't pray. He doesn't fast during Ramadan. From a Moroccan perspective these things are bad. Only a bad person would decide to not practice Islam. Only a bad person would see divorce as a solution. From an American perspective, however, I understand that Islam is not the only way. We don't agree on everything, but we listen to each other and learn.

After we eat my eggs and veggies, and my sweet potato fries, and his baked mutton, Hicham asks a favor from me. He is shy about it, but manages to politely ask for a suitcase. I agree to give him a backpack. He needs it. He is about to embark on the scariest of human experiences. Tomorrow, Hicham will board a flight to Istanbul and begin the clandestine life.

He is leaving everything to begin his search for freedom and happiness. He won't have shelter. He won't be able to communicate. Things will function according to a different set of rules. Everyone will be a stranger. He will be very alone. His existence will be illegal. No one will care about him. No one will love him. He will have no one to love.

But, he says he is excited. He says he is not afraid. He says he is so happy. He says he has been waiting his whole life for this. He says he needs things to function according to a different set of rules. He says he will find freedom and all the beautiful things in life.

Peace Corps is hard. Being an illegal North African immigrant in Europe is infinitely harder. Good luck Hicham. I hope you find your freedom. And thank you for showing me that migration is not always an act of desperation for the sake of survival, but sometimes an expression of freedom.

Hicham's best quotes:

“No freedom, No life.”

“If we could all get a Visa to go to Europe or America, there would be no one left in Morocco but the King.”

“Adventure is magic.”

and finally, in an attempt at English, while talking to me on the phone on his way to my house:

“I come in you.”