Morocco
So, Morocco.
My travels tend to be a breathless gallop around slightly obscure and/or grim places, trying to see and gobble up as much as possible in a usually all-too-brief period of time. My hopeless memory makes it essential that I keep a record my of my travels so I take a notebook, camera and now a pocket mini-video to try and retain impressions, details and experiences I come home with a load of words and pixels and half-formed questions, and then it's straight back to work and routine, and those thoughts and memories immediately start to fade. I went to Morocco for a couple of weeks over the new year and while I was there decided there's been too much gobbling and not enough digesting - I need to spend more time reflecting on the things I see and experience because seeing and recording on its own is not enough.
So here's the beginnings of the digestive process.
First of all our itinerary: flew to Marrakesh, spent three days mooching round the souks, seeing the sights and attempting to explore off the beaten track a bit; then a train to Fes, and a few days there doing much the same; train back to Marrakesh to fly home to find our flight had been cancelled, so courtesy of Easyjet, a bonus five extra days in Marrakesh waiting for our return flight, spent rather surprisingly in a five-star hotel.
Marrakesh is the most tourism-orientated and tourist-infested place I've been in a long time. And it's difficult to visit and not fall into that role yourself. A clear demarcation exists between the correct streets for tourists to walk around, the correct places for them/us to go, and the rest of the city. Time after time we would notice an interesting-looking sidestreet and start down it, only for young men (invariably) to rush up to us calling Interdit, interdit, road closed, nothing here, you can't go this way. We would be directed to nearby tourist attractions, the main square, anywhere as long as it was in the opposite direction - we would smile politely and say Merci, merci and keep walking - they insisted - we kept smiling and walking. Sometimes they were right and the streets led nowhere and there was nothing of note, and sometimes they were fascinating. As a tourist, you are expected to keep to the tourist paths and the tourist ways of behaviour and the pressure to conform is difficult to resist. At the same time it's easy and sometimes fun; our travels are often a bit gruelling and it can feel nice to do this frivolous stuff instead. But it often makes me feel uncomfortable afterwards. It's like eating a bag of sweets instead of cooking a proper meal.
But it probably goes without saying that the best things we saw were non-tourist sights - oddities, happy accidents, out of the domain of commerce and expectation. A derelict outdoor cinema with a palm tree growing by the stage and creepers all over the seats; a group of women drumming and dancing with each other while waiting for a royal procession; the view over the Gormenghast-ish city of rooftops in Fes and the whole other life going on up there. Then we had some sense of authenticity and seeing something uniquely emblematic of that place that mass tourism erodes. Chasing the authentic is what it's all about now, in so may ways.
Living in London allows you to feel totally anonymous most of the time when you're out and about. Even if you see the same people everyday on your bus to work or in the street you probably don't acknowledge them and they ignore you back. This invisibility-cloak feeling becomes comfortably taken for granted until you go somewhere where your appearance makes you stand out as Not Belonging there, and you become aware that people are watching you all the time and noticing everything you do. These are uncomfortable realisations. The times when I could feel that no attention was being paid to us and and that we had no influence on events or anyone's behaviour were the times I enjoyed most. I liked feeling invisible.
Ironic then that in my notes I've written invisibility of women irks me. Can I reconcile liking the feeling that no eyes are upon me, walking around without attracting any attention, with my dislike of seeing women in hijabs and burqas and ugly shrouds? Is this hypocritical? I am annoyed by being able to flick through innumerable Arabic TV channels without seeing a single woman, only endless men pronouncing on politics and religion, by public space being completely dominated by men, by almost all our transactions being with men. I could see women in the streets shopping, hauling children around, going in and out of their houses and riding round on mopeds, but beyond that it's impossible for me to say anything about Moroccan women because it was impossible to get to know any. My feminism says women should not be hidden away and silenced, but I enjoy being able to feel unseen. It's about whether it's imposed or freely chosen ultimately, and usually I have a choice. The theme of Morocco wanting to keep things hidden or disguised recurs - in the boys telling us not to go down those streets, in the inward-facing buildings, with blank and scarred exterior walls hiding ornate courtyards and gardens, and the women in their shapeless shrouds.
That's enough for now. Next up: money, animals, kings, more aesthetics and religion (possibly).
