WAKA WAKA. These two words pulsed through my brain as I disembarked from the plane and set foot on African soil (or pavement). Oh yes, I was finally in Morocco. I have actually been to Africa before, to Rwanda as part of an educational service trip in high school, however, the fact that both countries are located on the African continent is basically the extent of their similarities.
Tangier, Morocco is on the coast of the Strait of Gibraltar, only 14 miles from Spain, and reminded me very much of the terrain of the Middle Eastern countries I see on the news—dry, desolate and sandy. The discrepancy between the outskirts of Tangier and the inner city is quite stark, as there is a plethora of unfinished apartment complexes, restaurants and shops, clearly desolate due to the economic crisis affecting our world. But this is Her Campus. While my liberal soul could go on for hours about the situation in rural Tangier, I will refrain in order to tell the story of our exotic Moroccan weekend.
Almost as soon as the plane landed, our group of Demon Deacons was whisked away by Rasheed, our Moroccan tour guide plagued with a cross eye and the personality of an SNL cast member. All you need to know about him is that he referred to himself as “slave of the ladies.” ‘Nuff said. We trekked straight from the airport to the Caves of Hercules, a hidden gem located near the ocean with a picturesque view of water splashing against the cliffs.
Then there were the camels. We followed these bad boys down to the ocean, skillfully avoiding dung and eagerly awaiting our chance to hop on a hump. Because my friend Taylor and I are in love, we got to ride a camel together. While the ride itself was not long, the process of getting on the camel seemed to take forever, as humps (those lovely lady lumps) are harder to maneuver than they appear. Finally the camel caretaker pushed me and Tadams (aka Taylor) on the hump, forced my purse out of the way and commanded the camel to rise. I feared for my life at this point, as remaining stationary on a rising camel is quite a process. We were flung forward and screamed for a long time. From then on, the rest of the ride was smooth and very surreal. Are we really on the beach in Morocco, riding camels? Too good to be true.
The rest of the night was spent at a traditional Moroccan restaurant where we were served a meal of customary fare, including couscous, kebabs, Moroccan soup and mint tea to finish—delicious and refreshing. We even got to sit on pillows while listening to some instrumental melodies provided by the “house band” (men who were also seated on pillows).
Because it was an event sponsored by a hip, European travel agency, the majority of the people on the trip were students from our program, St. Louis University Madrid. To be perfectly honest, at times it felt like we were on a middle school field trip. People screaming throughout the corridors of the hotel, stealthily drinking in the hotel rooms (so bayyyd) and awkward attempting-to-flirt-but-failing sexual tension. Also, drinking in the hotel room? Because I really want to be wasted in an Islamic third world country. Nice.
During the morning of the second day, we went on a walking tour of Old Town Tangier. The village we walked through was on top of a cliff overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. If I hadn’t known better, I would have guessed we were on a cliff near Monterrey, California on the Pacific Coast Highway. Bet Africa doesn’t hear that often. We were led up and down small alleyways, including the one where a scene from the Bourne Identity was filmed (!). The stucco houses were spotted with bright tiles, symbols of Islamic artistic influence. There was laundry hanging above our heads and lush greenery seemed to be growing out of the sides of the houses. The colors were simply stunning, and the ocean views were breathtaking. We also saw a snake charmer in the middle of the street, and I channeled Britney Spears by trying the bad boy on for size.
We spent the afternoon in a small town called Asilah that resembled Santorini, Greece with the whitewashed buildings, blue rooftops and windows with an ocean view. It was here that we milled around the shops for local artwork and souvenirs. Colorful bracelets, jeweled scarves and a surplus of wooden trinkets littered the marketplace. Not to be cocky, but they sure do have a thing for blondes over there. That night after dinner in the hotel, we went to a local hookah bar. True life: even though I didn’t smoke hookah, I brought and had to use my inhaler. I would never fit into the Moroccan culture.
The weekend was the perfect dose of culture, learning and entertainment, as well as a newfound appreciation for both my home and the freedom I have in being a woman in America. As Mays Gilliam says, “God Bless America…and every place else.”