One thing that the Southern excursion really made clear to
me was the power (privilege, burden, pro, con, joy, stress, trouble) of being
an American in a developing country. This probably also rings true for Europeans
or Canadians or any “Western” traveler, but since I am American I will speak as
one.
Anywhere I go in this country, I am
seen not just as a person but also as a walking, talking, white-skinned leather
wallet. I am a Moroccan salesman’s chance at an extra dirham of profit; perhaps
their shot at a cigarette after work or an extra piece of bread on their family’s
dinner table. And they treat me like anyone does money: carefully but with
greed, wanting to take as much of me as they can while understanding that they
need me to exist. If they do take all of me, they lose just as much.
And who can blame them for seeing
like this? Let’s say I get charged two dirham more than a Moroccan for a bottle
of water. For me, that’s less than a quarter extra spent, a shrug of the
shoulders and a happy gulp of cool refreshment; a 1.5 L bottle still costs me under
a dollar. If a taxi driver charges me 10 extra dirham for a ride, I’m still
brought to where I need to go, happy as a clam because the total is less than
the price of a cab in San Francisco before it even starts to move. Or if a shoe
salesman in the souk gets 50 dirham of extra profit from me; the boat shoes
still only cost $20 and he smiles because his wallet is that much bigger and I
do too as I admire how they match my outfit.
While I understand that not all
Americans have the luxury to see money in the way expressed above, I think it’s
safe to say that if they are traveling to Morocco there’s a good chance they do.
A dollar means something much different to me than it does to many Moroccans as
a product of the cost of the life that I’ve grown up living.
In a strange way, the money I have
seems to undermine the cultural immersion that I’m supposed to be experiencing.
The more I try to dig my way deep into the depths of Moroccan everyday life,
the more I’m reminded of the huge differences between that life and my own. I’m
treated differently; at my homestay, in the souk, out at bars or restaurants
because people can perceive my privilege. It’s like some unbreakable window
keeping me from a true cultural experience, a window I can look through and
punch at and lick and smell, one that I can press the whole of my body against,
but simply can’t break through.
This is interesting to me because
of the overly simple and idealistic view of immersion that I grew up believing.
I was taught by family and friends and teachers that in order to really learn
about the world, you must become one with it. And in order to become one with
it, you buy a plane ticket, a new change of colorful clothes and dinner at a
local restaurant. And yet, here I am, slamming my head, arms and legs against
this window, trying with all my might to gain access to true immersion and I’m
left with just bruises to remind me of the seemingly impossible task at hand and
it feels more isolating than it does uniting.
And so the question becomes
why do we even try? The window really is unbreakable and a walk through the
city square and a visit to the museum are just light and meaningless taps
against it. However, I think that if you really try, you can push the window
just a bit closer and scratch away at it like sandpaper to make it thinner. It
takes work and conscious effort and much discomfort but you do it with a hope, a
hope for a moment, a very brief one that occurs one day as your walking through
the souk. And the sunshine is flawless in the noon sky and a sticky sea breeze
off the Atlantic cools your sweaty face and the barber down the street gives
you a friendly wave. It all feels right, your senses are alive and dancing in
ecstasy and there’s a smile crawling across your face and as you take it all
in, a thought in your head shoots shivers down your spine: I’m an American in
Morocco and I feel a little bit at home.
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