Learning to Adapt

Back in Agra, I was talking to an English traveler one night who said that, for him, the view of the Taj Mahal from the fort perfectly summed up India: crazy traffic - tuk tuks, cars, animals, pedestrians - on a litter-strewn street, a dirty river, and, in the distance, a magnificent monument that didn't quite seem like it belonged there. Based on the cities that I visited, this assessment is fairly accurate.

There are a great many things I noticed about India that, at worst, seemed inefficient or downright useless; at best, illogical. Like how when you book a first class train ticket, instead of automatically getting assigned a seat you have to look for your name on a sheet of paper taped to the side of the train car (which, incidentally, is always somewhere in the middle and not in the front; if you're boarding at a station other than the origin and have only a few minutes to get on there's a good chance you'll be running to find your car in the 20+ long train). Stops aren't announced either, so if you plan to get off before the final destination you'd better hope that the 3G gods are on your side and you can trace your location or else you could be in for an unplanned adventure. Many institutions are more of a bureaucratic headache than their French equivalents - just try buying a train ticket from abroad or getting a SIM card when you arrive. There are no cars allowed within several hundred meters of the Taj Mahal supposedly because of concerns for pollution, but when you consider that the overall air quality is probably worse than that of Los Angeles, I don't know who they're kidding. And, finally, the metro in Delhi has separate lines for men and women to buy tickets; if you're a girl traveling with a guy be prepared to wait.

I won't deny that I was a little scared heading to India on my own, but quickly found that the anxiety was unfounded. Yeah, I played it safe by not going out at night unless I was in a group, taking private transportation instead of public, and not really drinking, but in all honesty my biggest fear turned out to be running out of hand sanitizer an inopportune moments. Or toilet paper. 

I've gotten mixed reactions for saying this but, as an American with no prior experience visiting developing countries, India was like a more exaggerated version of Morocco - i.e. more people, more poverty, more general filth. And I don't mean to rag on these two countries, which possess many redeeming qualities that have hopefully been illuminated in previous posts, but because of my sheltered, upper middle-class background I found them, at times, to be quite difficult. The culture shock was only exacerbated by the fact that I was there a lone, female traveler. 

India and Morocco also felt similar in other ways. They are both patriarchal societies, for example, with strong religious proclivities and a tendency toward general social conservatism. The way I see it, because social interaction - to a certain degree - is discouraged between young men and women (something to do with pre-marital sex being a big taboo?), you end up with all these groups of idle men on the streets. (Girls, I guess, are engaged more with indoor activities). I'm sure unemployment doesn't help. So what I wrote earlier about the kite flying party in Jodhpur being like an awkward middle school dance really applies to pretty much everywhere I went in both countries.

At first I kept looking around, thinking, where the hell are all the girls? But then that would inevitably lead to making eye contact with a guy, who would consequently think that I was interested. So instead I stopped questioning the testosterone-heavy environment and got used to wearing my sunglasses all the time and perfecting ways of looking not-quite at people; instead either at their feet or just over their shoulder. Indian guys didn't catcall like Moroccans, but they certainly stared. A lot. And while I generally found strangers to be friendly enough if I needed directions, it didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to see how someday the sexual tension might reach a breaking point and result in one of those awful, high-profile gang-rape incidents. Not that everyone is a rapist but, empirically speaking, guys in India do tend to travel in packs, so I can understand how a girl going out alone (or even with a partner, as two of the incidents I'm thinking of took place) and crossing paths with the wrong crowd would be quite vulnerable.

This American student's account of her study abroad in India bears mentioning, not only for its content but also for the fierce debate it has sparked in the comments. Certain things I find implausible, like the hotel incident, because every place I stayed was staffed almost exclusively by men, who I felt were more attentive to me and my wellbeing because I was a girl traveling alone. Other situations, like being followed, I could relate to, though not in as extreme a capacity as her. (It happened in Morocco, too; a guy comes up and introduces himself, then asks if it would bother me if he walked with - read: followed - me. When all else fails, tell him to fuck off. It's like a well-traveled friend once put it: why would a person who was completely secure in his identity, culture and environment want to talk to me, a complete stranger? The answer: you meet a lot of weirdos while on the road). Some of the reactions from readers are just as shocking, because they basically amount to the same as slut-shaming.

It's important to be aware of what's going on in the places that you're visiting, but I don't think that fear should ever hold you back. Bad things happen everywhere all the time, and the media typically makes things seem worse than they are. (I have friends who have been to Egypt in the last few months, for example, and they've all come back unscathed). I listened to David Sedaris recount a taxi ride in a foreign country when the driver asked him, in complete seriousness, how he managed to live in America and not get shot. If all you knew about the US was what you heard on the news (particularly in the last 12 months)  then, yes, that would be a completely logical question.

Now, I've tried to capture some essence of what these places are like through the lens of my camera and my own observations, but I've also been collecting memorable things people have said to me in some of their most candid moments. I won't reveal which country (Morocco or India) the speaker was originally addressing, because I think that they apply equally to both. These quotes paint a fairly grim picture that the guidebooks only hint at when they mention bargaining, beggars and the like but, you know, food for thought. Everything seems a lot rosier when I post on Facebook, Instagram, etc., so for any readers out there planning their own first-time visits: brace yourself. 

"A big part of living here is paying people off." - an expat

"It's lovely until you get to the parts with all the people." - a traveler I met on a train

"I hate my own people." - a local

"I need to get out of this country." - a local (child) 

In an attempt to end this on a semi-positive note, I offer this as suggested further reading. It's a hilarious and potentially offensive account of an American guy's travels through India. I've never gone as far as he has in the acting department, but I have pretended not to understand English just so people will leave me alone. Every day is an adventure...

Mixed Messages

 "It's okay, I just want to help you."

"You can trust me!" 

How many times have I heard claims like these immediately followed by something exceedingly dodgy? Like when I arrived at the New Delhi train station and an official-looking guy took one glance at my ticket and told me that my train was delayed by nine hours - but - I could book a new ticket at the tourist office just around the corner. Right. Because a problem with the train isn't something I can resolve, you know, at the train station? I don't think so, asshole.

It's not my intent to unfairly generalize about the people of India and Morocco, because I'm sure that there are plenty of kind and generous individuals (and I have met a few), but as a tourist the sad truth is that a lot of the people you encounter are just... Let me put it this way: I don't consider myself a violent person but in the last few weeks I've fantasized a lot about punching people in the face.  

Here's another example. I wound up at a handicrafts emporium in Delhi after a tuk tuk driver told me that the market I originally wanted to go to was closed (I checked later; it wasn't), and purchased a silk scarf for about 1000 rupees (~$20). The driver clearly earned commission (the salespeople took note of who brought in which customer; there is something disgustingly admirable about such an abject lack of subtlety) but I guess I didn't spend enough because after a little argument he let me off in a random part of central Delhi. Hardly my idea of a fun afternoon.

A few days later when I got to Agra, the owner of the guesthouse assured me that, in his family-run place, I would be safe from people trying to get at my money. Well for one thing, during checkout my tab from the restaurant was slapped with a 15% tax that was not advertised anywhere on the menu. Not to mention that hours before I left for the Taj Mahal, he warned me to stay away from the vendors near the monument, and in the same breath offered to show me his "friend's" textiles store and his "uncle's" jewelry shop. Face. Palm. Morocco was the same; if you took what people said literally, then everyone was somehow related and/or best friends - a social network of gigantic proportions tied together by money. 

But I digress. The reason I brought Agra up is that, at the textiles shop (which I consented to visit because really there is nothing to do there except see the monuments), I was presented with silk scarves ranging in price from 250-400 rupees. Recalling that awful experience in Delhi, I thought, well, shit - either the saleslady at the emporium was a real hustler (probable) or the scarves I was now fingering in Agra weren't actually silk (possible). How am I supposed to know what real silk looks and feels like? It's definitely not something I tend to shop for at home.

Next we went to the jewelry store, because jewels are a specialty of Agra. (But are they really??) As per usual, the salesman blathered on about quality this, good investment that. I was only half-listening, though, because as I gazed at all the sparkling rings and pendants, I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he was lying about everything.

It reminded me of when we learned about connoisseurship in art history class. The way my TA broke it down is that, although it does take a certain level of expertise, connoisseurship - in practice - relies more on a sort of gut feeling. 

Take wine, for example. There is a lot of evidence to suggest that wine tasting is bullshit, but even the scientific studies tend to point to one thing - that it all depends on how the subjects are primed. Tourists like me, who come from places where no one actually makes anything for themselves anymore because we outsource the labor to other countries that we then visit for vacation, are like sitting ducks. Tell me a story about how your family has been in the industry for generations, still making things the traditional way, and I'll believe it. Or, rather, that's how I was until the leather flats I had purchased in Fez fell apart after several wears. Call it naïveté or a general faith and trust in humanity, but whatever it is has long since gone.  

Nowadays I take everything with skepticism, which is harsh because I know that there are great things to be found. But getting to them through all the white noise generated by the people trying to sell you products and services at every turn is exhausting, and I'm over it. I've been wrong before about who I can trust, so now I choose to trust no one.

And to the next driver to give me a ride: I will pay you extra not to take me shopping. 

What I Say vs. What I Mean: A Glossary for When I Can't Say No

I sometimes struggle with honesty. Not in the sense that I'm a compulsive liar, but that in an effort not to offend someone I'm willing to bend the truth as much as necessary. I think it's an American thing. We try so hard not to reveal our true feelings that we end up going through all these convoluted channels and just hope that the other party figures it out. Nowhere has this been more of an issue than shopping.

India and Morocco are renowned for their handicrafts. The locals know it. The tourists know it. And so they engage in this complicated dance wherein the tourist is at a perpetual disadvantage because she doesn't know the true value of the object. (This is much more pertinent when fixed prices are out and bargaining is in). Sometimes I'm in the mood to shop and I don't mind (over) paying for something I truly like.

But then there are those other instances when a driver or guide has taken me to the shop of his "friend" and then conveniently disappeared right when said friend begins the hard sell. Getting out of the situation without me hemorrhaging money isn't always as simple as just walking out of the store, so I've fallen back on a few key phrases to help me stall until the driver returns to take me away to my actual intended destination.

"I'm a student."

Read: We both know that you won't accept what I'm willing to pay so let's just not even bother with the whole charade. 

"Oh, that's really nice/pretty."

Read: I'm acknowledging the long-winded explanation you just gave me about how this was made but I don't necessarily believe you.

"I'll think about it."

Read: Okay, ready to leave. 

"Umm..."

Read: I'm so disinterested in what you're trying to sell me that I can't even come up with a decent excuse for why I'm not going to buy it. 

"I'm really late for a meeting with a friend/my mom/my dad."

Read: Please get me the fuck out of here. 

They really are lovely, unique items (usually) but a lot of times they're just not for me.

Au Revoir Maroc

People often misunderstand me when I use (and I do so quite liberally) the words "interesting" and "different," assuming that I mean them in a derogatory way when really the reason I rely on them so heavily is because they are quite neutral as far as adjectives go. For me these words are just a shorthand for when something veers away from what I'm used to, and in the given moment I can't decide how I feel about it. So yes. Morocco was immensely interesting, and very, very different.

I'll start with the good. The beautiful Islamic architecture was a sight for sore eyes after having spent so much time in Europe (I've seen more than enough cathedrals and castles), and as a chef I loved walking through the medina souks and seeing items like camel's heads and spleen sandwiches (the abundant fleas and wasps were less appealing but, oh well, what can you do). I was worried about my visit coinciding with Ramadan, but in the end it only enriched the experience - I got to have iftar (the traditional meal at sunset) a few times and I'll never forget my first night in Tangier, when I could hear the call to prayer from my bedroom and was startled by the cannons that signal the end of fasting. Coming from a secular society, it was pretty wild to see the empty streets in the medina, with entire stalls and shops left unlocked with the merchandise uncovered, as everyone went home to eat with their families.

But after nearly three weeks of being here, I fear that I have gradually devolved into the worst possible version of myself. I am now the girl who rolls her eyes instead of thanking the driver when getting out of a cab because he's charged more than the ride was worth (they really don't like to use the meter in Casablanca and Marrakech); who alternately ignores and snaps at strangers that try to talk to her on the street; who insists on wearing sunglasses well after it has ceased being bright enough to do so because the social ensnarement that ensues from making accidental eye contact is too much; who has been known to return to the hostel in late afternoon and contemplate skipping dinner just to avoid dealing with people. I more irascible and cynical than ever, and I realize that this description probably makes me seem like a bitch. But the truth is that to travel alone, as a girl, in this country, you kind of have to be.

Friends and family constantly checked in to make sure I was okay, as when I'm bored and have wifi access I am prone to sending out melodramatic messages and emails ("A polygamist just tried to hit on me!"), but the point I've been trying to make - through tweets, blog posts and the like - is this: safety is a relative term. Apart from the occasional bisous and a few handshakes that lasted too long, no one ever touched me, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't at least a little uncomfortable from the moment I left my hostel to the moment I returned. (Except when I was in a group and/or in the company of a guy which, fortunately, was often the case because I picked awesome hostels). I think I mentioned the racial catcalling I encountered everywhere ("Ni hao," "Konnichiwa," "Hey, Japan," "Hey, China," and my personal favorite: portions of Gangnam Style complete with the dance) but never could completely block out without feeling a twinge of anger. And don't even get me started on the staring; if you ask me, headscarves are secondary to sunglasses with perfectly opaque lenses when it comes to a single girl's travel necessities.

Fear is too strong a word, but I felt adrift in a culture of discomfort. I don't like being told what I can do or where I can go, either explicitly because it's "not safe" or implicitly because I noticed pretty quickly that there are places women simply do not enter. But I made an effort to respect the local customs; for example I did my part and wore pants and shirts with sleeves that at least covered my shoulders (even in boiling hot Marrakech) and didn't take photos without permission. What I found intolerable, though, was the lewd behavior of the men. Messing with a Muslim woman is a serious offense, I gather, so instead men (not all, obviously, but many that I encountered) verbally project whatever sexual frustrations they have onto the foreigners. I suppose what bothers me most about the catcalling and being followed - and not just in Morocco, because every society will have guys that are assholes - is the inherent power imbalance it entails. Most men will never know what it's like to feel their body tense up like a coiled spring every time they hear a car slow behind them or are walking home after dark with the emergency number pre-dialed and a finger hovering over the call button. Let me tell you from experience: it really, truly, absolutely sucks.

I read somewhere on a travel forum that if you stay in Morocco long enough you will begin to distrust everyone. This is sort of true. For me I think the turning point was when I booked a walking tour through my hostel and the guide just took me to a bunch of shops that he very clearly earned sales commissions from, which brings me to the stressful, dramatic experience that is shopping in the medina. I always felt at such a disadvantage because the seller knew the true value of the object, while I had no idea. I didn't mind overpaying for things, especially after seeing how they were made (the leather workshop and ceramics factory left deep impressions on me), but I doubted that very much of my money found its way to the actual artisans.  I also met many perfectly genuine and hospitable locals, but for the reasons above I felt that, especially in places like Marrakech, the tourism sector was imploding on itself.   

I came with an open mind. I ate enough tagines and cous cous to last me until my next visit. I made new friends. But if I had known what it would be like beforehand, I would not have gone to Morocco by myself. 

Casablanca

Tell someone that you're going to Casablanca, and you're guaranteed to get one of two reactions. Either a moony, far-off gaze because the name conjures up grainy, vintage images of the film noir era, or a wrinkled nose and bewildered expression because the Casablanca of today is one of economic power replete with all the negative inevitabilities of socioeconomic disparity - unemployment, crime, prostitution, etc. It certainly felt dodgier than the other cities - even Tangier, but maybe that's because I had spent too much time Googling variations on "is Casablanca safe...[for women/at night/etc]" beforehand, only to come up with unsettling results that made me feel exceedingly paranoid by the time I disembarked at Casa Voyageurs. (Mugging at knifepoint, according to the interwebs, is not uncommon).

But beneath the grubby exterior is a trove of Art Deco buildings, vestiges of a bygone golden age, that deserves to be appreciated. Such is the mission of the Casamémoire organization, which normally offers walking tours to showcase the best architectural specimens but, alas, not during Ramadan. However I did get in touch with them via email early enough that they sent me a list and map of their standard hit list.  

Yet for all this twentieth century nostalgia, I need to get one thing straight: not a single frame of Casablanca was shot in Morocco. I know, I know, Rick's Cafe is convincing, but in reality was founded by an entrepreneurial American riding the wave of tourism sparked by a seventy year-old film. (Not to knock the cafe - I went my first night in Casablanca and it's just as glamorous and decadent as you'd expect an homage to Old Hollywood to be). But the fact remains,  they didn't shoot on location back in the day.

Apart from the above, really the only reason to spend any time at all in Casablanca is to visit the majestic mosque Hassan II - the third largest in the world and one of the few in Morocco that non-Muslims can enter. I'd say it's almost on par with St. Peter's Basilica in terms of magnitude of size and opulence but, of course, being built within the last few decades the mosque lacks the same richness of history. However it is pretty awe-inspiring to stand in the grand hall decked out with titanium gates that won't oxidize, marble columns featuring disguised loudspeakers, massive chandeliers, hand-carved stucco, and an orate cedar ceiling that can mechanically open to the heavens like Safeco Field, where 25,000 worshippers can all pray at the same time. Our tour guide dubbed it the "iMosque," but you wouldn't know just by looking at all the traditional embellishments. The walk to the mosque may feel a bit sketchy, and it doesn't take a great stretch of the imagination to picture slums where the multi-million dollar structure now rests.   

The city is worth spending one or two nights here, but if you're still not sold it did make the NYT list of places to go in 2013. The nightlife scene is supposed to be quite lively, but given the harassment that ensues simply from walking around in broad daylight it didn't really seem a worthwhile thing to pursue.

Below: 

1. Tribunal. 1922. 

2. Rick's Cafe. 

3. Post office. 1918-1920. 

4. Mosquée Hassan II, exterior. 

5. Mosquée Hassan II, interior. 

More Casablanca (and the grand mosque) on Flickr. 

Essaouira in Photos

Essaouira has the vibe of a Mediterranean coastal town, except probably a bit cooler since it rests on the Atlantic Ocean. The walled blue and white medina rests partially on a cliff, offering lovely views from the ramparts and the port. To the south of the old city sits the beach, where families and children frolic midday and, in the late afternoon, boys and young men play soccer on the hard-packed sand. The strong winds also make for a (kite)surfer's paradise. Walking north from the beach along the wall, you eventually come to the port - a chaotic, lively and stinky ecosystem of fisherman, seagulls and cats.

There are no specific sights to see here - nothing to wake up early, stand in line, buy tickets for and plan your day around; rather, it's the sort of place you come to for aimless strolling, beachside lounging, and sipping beers on a rooftop terrace overlooking the ocean. This is my kind of Morocco, and I'm glad I saved it for last.

***

If you go...

1. Eat fresh fish in the shacks by the port. Negotiate the price before you sit down. They'll try to get you to pay 100d per person at first, but both times I negotiated down to 65-70 dirhams - and that included ample fish for everyone, plus salad, bread and drinks.

2. Get juiced. Ginger serves wholesome juices, salads and sandwiches. The staff is multilingual and the place has wifi. On the way from the main square to the ramparts if you follow the wall.

3. Do a mini pub crawl. The cafe closest to the port on the main square (it's just to the left of the bank) has 25cl beer for 20 dirhams. (Not great, coming from 2.50€ pints in Paris, but probably one of the better deals you'll find in Morocco). You can only drink on the upstairs terrace - which is fine, because the views are great. Afterwards head over to Taros (on the other side of the bank) for more expensive drinks but a better ambiance. They even have thick woven ponchos for when the cold settles in after dark.

*** 

Fresh Air, Fresh Fish

I stepped off the bus from Marrakech bracing myself for the locals to start badgering me.

"Excuse me, miss, you need hotel?"

"Can I help with your bag?"

"Taxi?"

But the barrage of hustlers never came. Whereas in Marrakech I had to thrice fend off local men trying to give me directions* during the short walk across the main square and over to my hostel, in Essaouira no one accosted me. As the wind from the Atlantic ruffled my shirt (which in Marrakech had been perpetually stuck to me with sweat), I breathed a sigh of relief.

While exploring the medina that afternoon, I noticed that, save for an occasional "Hello, bonjour," the shop owners seemed like they really didn't give a shit whether you entered or not. It's so much more enjoyable that way; being able to take in the surroundings rather than staring at the ground trying to avoid that fatal first eye contact which, in all other cities, will have the business owners yelling and gesticulating wildly for you to come in and hear all about the "special price" that awaits.

"Why would you go back to fucking Marrakech?" a hostel staff member demanded a fellow traveler trying to sort out his last few days in Morocco.

Essaouira has that effect.

For dinner that first night, a large group of us that had first met in Marrakech went to the blue-and-white shacks near the port and enjoyed a massive meal of fresh seafood grilled to order. After negotiating the price down to 65 dirhams per person (including salad, bread, drink, two large fish and four sardines), we sat in the semi-darkness of an old-fashioned gas lamp, picking our way through tuna and sole as they came straight off the grill to our table, while feral cats lurked in the shadows hoping we'd toss them some scraps. It was a delicious but thoroughly messy affair and at the end of the meal looking at the mounds of balled-up napkins and fish bones on each plate, we debated whether this would be a really awesome or really terrible first date.

I went back the following night with some other new acquaintances. We paid a bit more but got to try red snapper, tuna, calamari and shrimp as well. The host let us take turns being photographed holding live crabs and lobsters. Doesn't get more fresh than that!

*This is how the scam works. A local - generally a young guy in his teens - sees you with a large backpack or suitcase and asks if you need a hotel. You say you already have a reservation. Instead of going away, he asks where you're staying. It matters little whether you tell him or not, because he knows all of the hotels and hostels in the area, so will continue to walk a few steps ahead of you in the same direction. It sounds completely illogical that a person can lead and follow you at the same time, but that's exactly what happens all the way to the hostel where, at the door, he will stop short of following you inside but will demand money. The staff is used to this and doesn't intervene. So in the end you toss the kid a few dirhams just so he'll fuck off.