Returning Home

After a week and a half Christmas vacation in the United States, I am now back home in Morocco. My welcome has been both comforting and a bit startling.

Shortly after arriving in Meknes I ran into a security guard from work on the streets and his greeting was even more enthusiastic than the usual elaborate Moroccan greeting, including large grins and excessive touching of my arm and shoulder (excessive from an American point of view, that is). I received similar treatment from many coworkers when I stopped by work yesterday.

The strangest part of my welcome, though, has been the kisses I have been receiving from older men. Now, after extensive time in Latin America, Spain, and France, I am well accustomed to the "bises" that I am expected to exchange with females, but males only rarely exchange them, and I personally have always stuck with the Germanic handshake in my encounters with men.

I was passing the electronics store near my house on the way to work and the middle-aged, partially toothless, and stubbled security guard greeted me warmly. He stopped what he was doing and approached. I held out my hand to shake his. He took it, shook it, and then pulled me in towards him. As his face neared, I quickly realized this wasn't a hug. He intended to exchange the bises. Trying not to flinch, I accommodated his unusual greeting. Then I quickly pulled away and said goodbye with a forced smile.

I just thought it was an anomaly, some over excited security guard. But then later in the day, when I saw my concierge for the first time since returning, his warm, grinning greeting morphed into an up front and personal experience with his stubbled cheeks.

So, apparently I've learned a new Moroccan cultural practice. It seems that when Moroccan men have not seen each other for an extended period of time (I guess two weeks counts?), they kiss each other on the cheeks. Good to know. I'm contemplating whether I ever want to leave Morocco again...

My flight returned a few days ago, but I did some traveling before returning to Meknes. The cheapest return flight I found from the United States took me through Dublin on Aer Lingus and then to Agadir, a beach resort town a few hours south of Casablanca. I had looked forward to a nice vacation checking out some tourist hot spots on my way back to Meknes.

After arriving, I remembered why I do not particularly like tourist hot spots.

Agadir is a beautiful beach town, but its beauty is marred a bit by the touristy atmosphere. Every 100 meters or so, a Moroccan would approach me, profile me, and say hello in every language I could possibly speak (German, French, and English/American seemed to be the only nationalities I fit). I would try to ignore them or give them one word answers. But they would persist. Since each one seemed to think himself my best friend, he seemed offended that I didn't want to stop and gullibly fall into his hustler's spell.

Some were more direct. Rather than playing the pretend friend game, some just get straight to the point: "Hello. You want hashish, shit, marijuana...?" The /I/ sound in 'shit' is particularly hard for some Moroccans. So it often comes across as 'sheet', but some manage to also pronounce it as 'shut' or 'shoot'. I would have made a joke at their expense, but such a response would have been counter-productive to my escape strategy.

After a day in Agadir, I headed to the strangely Europeanized city of Marrakesh. The hustlers were exactly the same. After a couple of days, I quickly grew tired of the whole experience, living out of a suitcase, being a tourist. So I decided to head back to Meknes a little early.

After a six and a half hour train ride, I arrived back in familiar Meknes, and I began the short walk home. Halfway between the train station and my house, I heard a voice calling to me, "Hey! You! Friend...stop. How are you?"

I rued to myself, "I can't escape being a tourist no matter where I go." I tried to walk a little faster as I ignored the voice. As usual, that didn't deter this persistent Moroccan. He ran and caught up to me.

I turned to recognize a familiar face.

"Hey. You remember me?"
"Yeah."
"We had coffee a couple of times. You're going to buy a rug from my friend, right?"
It was true. We had had coffee a couple of times in my first few weeks in Meknes. He and his friend had been very friendly, and they had always wanted me to come with them to buy a carpet, which I had always declined.

He asked how Christmas had been in America and how my family had been. He asked if I wanted to get coffee or maybe go check out his friends' carpets. I said I was tired after the long journey and wanted to go home.

We shook hands and parted on the corner by my house.

It is with a little disappointment that I recognize that everywhere I go in Morocco, I will always be a foreigner.

But there's still something strangely comforting about being hustled by a familiar voice.