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Cats & Kebabs lessons from morocco By Taylor Bickford At 17:37 I finally stepped off the tiny Ryanair plane that faithfully transported me from London to Morocco, and for the price of a Topshop dress I found myself standing in the capital, Rabat. I spoke no Arabic, and my French was rusty to say the least, but with the help of some friendly strangers, perhaps not the safest course of action, I hailed a ‘grand taxi’ to meet my best friend at the vague and elusive destination of Rue de France. The Moroccan man with whom I shared a cab not only paid for my bus ticket from the airport and cab from the bus station, but he also escorted me safely to my destination. Lesson 1: don’t be excessively naive, but trusting people is not always to your detriment, and we need not so quickly dismiss humanity as a lost cause. My time in Rabat was short, but long enough for my illusion of Morocco, established by the study of Orientalist paintings by Renoir and Delacroix, as an exotic and old world place to be shattered by buildings such as the national library with its tall white walls glittering in rainbow spotlights. Lesson 2: while I am an Art Historian at heart, I must concede that art cannot teach you everything about the world as it is filtered through the artist’s vision; I think firsthand experience is the only way to overcome the boundaries of prejudice. My best friend, being a true English citizen, found probably the only pub in Morocco, and that is where we spent our evening. Although adorned with flags, it was far from the ‘traditional’ Irish pub it claimed to be. Yet, this ‘pub’ served alcohol, something hard to come by and very expensive in Morocco, and therefore it was packed from wall to wall. Lesson 3: As an exchange student from the United States, I’ve been told that Moroccans are very similar to American college students; not allowed to drink, struggling to find alcohol and paying what seem like, because of their meager part-time incomes, outrageous prices for it. After a brief introduction to Rabat, we took
the train across the country and back in time to Marrakech, a destination that corresponded with my exotic illusions and touristic desires. I cried tears of joy at how cheap a cab ride was: approximately £2 for a 25-minute ride, miraculous compared to the exorbitant prices of London. Our hotel, equally budget-friendly, was adorned with beautiful crystal chandeliers, a pool and a welcome tea service upon arrival. Lesson 4: Morocco is the perfect place to travel on a student budget if you desire a little bit of warmth and tropical vibes. However, be wary of diabetes in consuming large amounts of their delicious tea, as I am fairly sure it’s brewed from 98% sugar. As a blonde, fair skinned girl in Morocco it couldn’t have mattered less if I spoke Arabic or not, as I easily stood out. But whereas in New York City catcalls consist of things I wouldn’t dare to repeat, in Morocco harassment consisted of being called ‘beautiful,’ ‘blonde,’ and ‘strawberry.’ Lesson 5: Undeservingly bad reputation aside, no matter how rebellious Moroccan men think they are, it is no worse traveling alone as a girl in Morocco than it is in New York City. In Marrakech I sated my tourist desires. I rode a horse-drawn chariot to the camel park, where I then rode a camel around in circles just outside of the Old Medina (sadly not dressed in whimsical flowing pants and a head scarf). I was decorated in lacy henna, and witnessed monkeys dressed in skirts and snake charmers, doing nothing other than charming snakes. I ate couscous on Friday and drank fresh orange juice, making sure I watched them make it so that they didn’t add the harmful ‘filler’ liquid. I ate kebabs at a street market, and navigated the souks; stalls with vibrant colored ant hills of spices, carefully beaded slippers, gritty yet glittering lanterns in the iron casting area, and all the shining silver a girl could desire. Lesson 6: Yelling is an accepted method of advertising in Morocco, and
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