Mystical Morocco

Entering Foreign Land

*This is a long one, 7,700 words, aka 18 pages. Yeah. I paywalled it just under the halfway mark. If you want to read the full article, please go paid for $35/year. (Which also grants you access to ALL my paid posts.) Thank you and enjoy!

~

Britney and I got married in a little gathering with family at my mother’s house up in the hills of Santa Barbara on Saturday, October 14^th, late morning. It was a stunning ceremony. Britney looked beyond beautiful. (I wasn’t bad either in my tux.) We were both joyful and nervous reading our vows to each other. My high school college-prep English teacher—who did more to form me as a writer in my early years than any other adult—officiated. It was brilliant.

Later that evening we flew to Morocco. Or more specifically, from LAX to London Heathrow, and from there to Casablanca. Our Air BnB in Casablanca was nice and gave us a lovely view out of floor-to-ceiling windows of the mosque. But Casablanca was brief. Soon we were on the bullet train—which, like in Europe, goes 200 MPH—to Tangier, up north along the Mediterranean. I’d been interested in Tangier for one simple and singular reason: William Burroughs. In the 1950s William S. Burroughs, one of the famous Beat authors who’d written Junky and Naked Lunch, had lived there. Others in the movement—Kerouac, Ginsberg—had stayed there with Burroughs. My life and writing owing so much to the Beats’ legacy, I was of course intrigued.

This was our first time in Africa. We’d originally planned the trip for back in April, but then my father—sick with terminal cancer at the time—got extremely sick and we postponed the trip. Finally, we were here. We loved Tangier. It would remain our favorite city in Morocco. We stayed there only two days. But we found it riveting. Buffered by the Mediterranean to the northeast, and the Atlantic to the west, Tangier is only a 35 minute ferry ride to southern Spain. Recently, over the past few months, we’ve been thinking of moving to Spain for a few years. Before that we’d thought of the Bay Area, and then Chicago, but, due to the rampant and worsening crime, we realized these weren’t sound choices. I’d always wanted to experience the writer ex-pat life. Hemingway did it. Henry Miller did it. James Joyce did it. Baldwin did it. I’d always heard that you could write more accurately about your own land once not living in it.

Now we rethought Spain. Tangier would be easier, and cheaper. Much cheaper. Spain was right there. We’d have a bullet train, and Casablanca, aka the airport, was only two hours south. It was safe, much safer than SF or Chicago in current times. We could learn Spanish or French versus Arabic.

I loved the sea so nearby. And the narrow alleyways and streets of the Medina. The city life reminded me of a mini-Manhattan. Only people were friendly. They did also constantly hassle you and try to “guide” you to your destination, which meant they wanted to take advantage of your geographical ignorance and get a tip. One guy—tall, thin, with a traditional Moroccan robe on, maybe mid-twenties—led us to the office of our Air BnB.

We discovered—this is typical, we later found out—that he purposefully led us astray taking the roundabout long way, so he could get a bigger tip. Then he took us to a dinner spot where we got traditional Moroccan dinner. (Veggie soup, delicious homemade bread, chicken tagine.) After eating we tipped him again and aggressively assured him we wanted to go off on our own. He had this humorous, and yet grating, way of seeing me and saying, Brrrrooootthhhhher, what can I help you with now? We never used him again, but we did hear that distinctive voice several more times.

Our time was spent out and about, walking through endless narrow streets and alleys, or else eating—it felt like all we did was eat because there was so much bread and so many accoutrements—or else Britney was shopping (she later learned to bargain) or else we were resting in our riad, a traditional former Moroccan home-turned-motel for tourists. The second day we had an Air BnB with a lovely small roof terrace. I wrote there in the morning in my physical journal—I didn’t bring my laptop and I had scheduled Substack posts ahead—while watching some locals demonstrate their prowess taming Cobra snakes with aghast tourists circled around them. From the roof I saw the circle of them, plus a little square, plus the shimmering blue-green sea. A cruise ship sat there docked, unmoving below.

Cats were omnipresent. Adult cats, young cats, kittens. It was both wonderful and largely sad. Many of these felines were dastardly-looking; half-blind, badly malnourished, crying, lost, weak and very thin (some skeletal). We fed some with milk in little upside-down tea cup tops. They meowed happily, lapping up the white liquid desperately. We decided we needed to live in Tangier if for no other reason than to rescue all the cats. We were told that the cats did get fed by locals. But surely they were also desensitized by it. The creatures were everywhere, for one thing, and also we were in a poor third-world country. People didn’t have any money, so the cats came last.

It brought up a moral dilemma: Was poverty an excuse for abuse, neglect, rejection? It made me think of some of our current American debates about “root causes,” aka: If an “oppressed minority” commits a crime, should that crime be prosecuted? Or, being victimized by “the system,” is said victim/minority not responsible for the crime they committed? This is an argument you now hear from the fringe Left. Things like Black men beating up Asians in 2020 or shoving subway riders onto the tracks, were given passes by the Left. Because, these men being “oppressed,” surely they couldn’t be held responsible for their actions. The system—the white, racist system—had failed them; had held them down and rejected them. Of course they acted out. Who wouldn’t in that situation? We hear the same argument now on the left supporting the fundamentalist terrorist organization Hamas and their attacks on Israel.

Of course any level-headed intellectual person grasps that this “root causes” idea, if allowed to carry on, will be the total unraveling of society. Societies which allow crime and violence and terrorism to flourish under any banner are doomed to death.

The streets reeked of cigarettes, piss and shit. You’d get wafts of it in certain pockets. Young men constantly said, “Where are you looking for?” or “Medina that way” or “It’s closed” or “Where you from?” trying desperately to guide you and therefore get a tip. The desperate poverty saddened me. Being a man who craves sincerity and authenticity it was tough to be fully aware of the fact that the only reason locals spoke to you was to suck up your money. On the flip side I couldn’t rationally blame them. We were “rich,” privileged Americans. We had it all. They had nothing. They needed our American dollars. When I asked any of them if they’d been to the States they always smiled and shook their heads. Too expensive. They wished. This reminded me of talking to locals in Mexico City in 2018.

We drank our fair share of Moroccan tea. Everywhere you went they served it, pouring it traditionally from two feet above the cups. I can recall the loud sound of the tea hitting the cup, then bubbling and foaming up. Surely I looked like a lazy American tourist in my too-big holey straw hat (which Britney mocks me for), and my father’s old thin sweatpants, or else shorts. The weather was warm; I rarely wore more than a T-shirt. It didn’t feel really foreign to me, not yet. Staying in Mexico City, the Turkish Quarter of Berlin, and rural Spain all felt similar in various ways. I learned how to ask for hot water with a side of milk (“halibe”) and used my own Irish Breakfast tea bags.

Even here, in Tangier, I felt a little sick. Nothing much, just general fatigue, a cough, some light chills. We stayed in the Mick Jagger suite in our riad and had a lovely dinner on the high large rooftop terrace with a view of the sea, hundreds of other roofs (some with cats roving around), the cruise ship, and the rest of sea-facing Tangier. We could literally see Spain, and the Strait of Gibralter. I imagined living here, feeling the wind against my face, pictured myself romantically sitting in some small apartment office penning the Great American Novel (I’m working on a 3^rd-person POV novel about my father’s 23-month cancer journey), maybe going for a swim after, in the summer.

Britney got a Hammam massage. She was unprepared and traumatized. The worst was when the unprofessional woman rubbed her dirty feet and then, immediately after, rubbed her face thoroughly. We visited Burroughs’ apartment, simply eyeing it from outside. The area looked rough, and the self-made online guide indicated that the area had been really rough in the 1950s. Burroughs had, after all, been a wild literary man and drug addict. He hadn’t been going for safety, either in his writing or in his lifestyle. He was gay in the 40s and 50s; do the math. (Meaning: He had extra big balls, metaphorically-speaking.)

We visited several bookstores in town, and in one we chatted with a nice Black Moroccan. He told us that Tangier was quite Conservative and that gay men were not safe. In the early morning and afternoon and evening the Quran prayers blazed out of loudspeakers throughout the city. This felt both Orwellian (Big Brother) and yet also profound and beautiful. I didn’t know exactly how I felt about Islam. Certainly I respected anyone’s right to worship whatever god they wanted. Or to not believe in any god. As long as they didn’t harm others. Of course the history of all religions is rife with oppression and violence, including, of course, and notoriously, Christianity. But we were living in the 21^st century. I didn’t know much about Islam, but I did know that it was patriarchal and often didn’t do women any favors. (Another confusion via Leftist feminists a la cultural relativism.)

All this aside I was delighted to be in Africa, in Morocco, and I wasn’t there to judge their culture, which I mostly enjoyed. I was there to experience, both for the simple act of travel and for the sake of writing about it.

Our driver from Tangier to Chefchaouen (66 miles southeast) was Mohammed, a tall, thin, rangy 26-year-old hothead who informed us he’d just gotten into a brutal fight with his wife. He was nice, friendly, and arrogant. We liked him and also feared his hotheadedness. The driving was insane. Back in spring we’d considered renting a car in the kingdom and driving ourselves. Now we were grateful we hadn’t done that. The driving reminded me of Manhattan….but much worse. More like Naples, Italy. There were seemingly no rules: Cars cut each other off at random and got so close to each other we expected crashes at any moment. Even more harrowing, there were fast-moving mopeds everywhere. Bicycles and locals on foot ran through the cars as well. Pedestrians took a chance every time they crossed the street; cars rarely stopped; if you were lucky they’d slow down a tad. Mohammed claimed Morocco was the king of car crashes. It made sense to me. Total unbridled madness.

We went to the pharmacy for me and got some cough drops. I felt alright. Tired but fine. Just a little wheeziness. We talked with Mohammed. He spoke great English. He was Muslim, and very religious, he said. He’d been married for only four months, together with his wife only two-ish years. Britney and I’d been together 14 months, married for less than a week. This was our honeymoon. It felt romantic and thrilling to be in a foreign country in Africa in a strange car heading south to a new city. We passed through a large tract of national forest, on narrow, winding roads. Mohammed drove too fast sometimes, freaking Britney out. She asked Mohammed a billion questions eagerly, one after the other like a linguistic assault rifle. It made me think of our American road trip back in the summer. I’d done 15 days and 7,000 miles across the nation and back.

And then Mohammed dropped us off at a hotel in Chefchaouen, but our Air BnB was a ten-minute walk from said hotel. Britney had packed for half a year of travel—she brought veritable makeup kits, blow dryer, skincare products, you name it—and she waddled under the intense weight of her pack. It was the same pack she’d used (one of my old ones) backpacking in the high Sierras a couple months ago. I used her mom’s old red pack from the 80s. Smaller, lighter, more efficient. I helped her put on and take off her pack. Mohammed had squirmed under the weight lifting the thing and taking it back down.

Chefchaouen—the “Blue City”—was a gorgeous little mountain town surrounded by fortress walls and covered in blue walls and very narrow, twisting streets and alleys. Mountain peaks rose around and above the small town. I couldn’t help but be reminded of my hometown, Ojai, 90 miles northeast of Los Angeles, also a small town nestled within the Topa Topa mountains. Exhausted, we dropped our bags at the lovely three-story, narrow Air BnB. It had a small roof terrace where I could write. An American woman owned it. Perhaps we, too, could buy property here and Air BnB it out. We pondered the possibilities.

We explored, getting food and avoiding scammer-guides and observing the malnourished cats (again) and the injured mangy dogs gallivanting around the open square. Later, Britney would “befriend” two men in a little rug store after they heard her crying because she was trying to call a vet and rescue a street dog. She ended up buying a “40 to 50-year-old traditional Moroccan rug” for $350 USD (probably she got scammed price-wise) and they convinced me to pay $40 USD for a black traditional male Moroccan robe. Mohammed met us there. We got dinner with him after.

The next day Mohammed drove us the 131 miles roughly due south from Chefchaouen to Fes. More national forest. More windy, narrow mountain roads. A stop at a restaurant by a mosque where Mohammed cleaned his body and then prayed. Constant conversation between Britney, who sat up front in the big black van, and Mohammed. They had a nice little rapport going on. He teased her. She asked him endless questions, about Islam, Morocco in general, Fes (where Mohammed was from), his married life, his religiosity, the cultural differences between America and Morocco, his lack of travel, Moroccan music, drinking (none) he and his wife’s relationship, money in Morocco, Mohammed’s desire to travel to the States, his love of freedom but not “too much freedom,” etc.

They yapped on and on and on up there. I sat in the back, lonely and happy, looking out the window at the rural countryside, seeing groups of sheep, wide open fields, mountains, forest. It felt good being in such a foreign place.

We had four days in Fes. Because we liked Fes the least, and because this essay risks being too damn long, I’ll skip it.

*

At the end of our four days in Fes—staying at a really fancy, snazzy riad which felt more like a Hilton Hotel—we were picked up by a second Mohammed. A new driver. This guy we liked much more, and trusted more sincerely. He was tall, thick, bucktoothed (most Moroccan men had terrible teeth), and 40, my age. He drove sanely. Same big black tourist van.

That morning I’d woken up in the riad around 6:15, before Britney, which was rare. I had wild energy and felt good. I took a shower and made myself Irish Breakfast tea as Britney slowly woke up. But by around 7 I had my first bout of bad diarrhea. It came out lumpy and loose like thick water. Fifteen minutes later I had to go again. Same thing. And then a third time. By the time Mohammed arrived at 8:30am I was worried. We had a long drive ahead. We were 332 miles north of Marrakech. But the desert came first. We had a camel ride planned.

We got into the van, greeting the smiling, massive new Mohammed. He radiated friendliness and kindness. But we weren’t ten minutes out before I started feeling nauseous. An uncomfortable clinching feeling in my gut. I should add also that I’d brought my old softcover dog-eared copy of Henry Miller’s third book in the series, Tropic of Capricorn, which I hadn’t cracked in years, and I was roughly halfway through the book.

So my experience in real-time of Morocco was being mixed in the literary-spiritual blender with Miller’s ranting about “cunt” and his obsessive, vibrant, rich, thoroughly mythopoetic and compelling imagination, his story of being in his teens and twenties in New York and what led him to renounce normalcy and convention for the diamond, mad life of a recluse outsider writer. (Click here for my essay on Henry Miller.) When I read the book I of course underlined and highlighted favored passages. I published some Substack Notes with photos of these beloved sections. Miller had fled NYC for Paris in the late twenties, early 1930s. And I was here, in Africa.

*

Fifteen minutes out, still in Fes, I needed to shit again. Badly. We pulled over. Mohammed and I raced across the street to a café. He dialogued with the man behind the counter. I ran upstairs to the bathroom. No toilet paper. Mohammed ran back to the van and returned with tissue paper. Jesus. I used the toilet—water rushing out of my ass—and cleaned myself, washing my hands thoroughly. The nausea grew worse, more fierce and turbulent. There was a sea storm brewing in my stomach. I hated vomiting. Always had. It reminded me of being drunk in my twenties, having the spins, and knowing I’d yack. I loathed that experience. Britney said she felt a little weird too, but nothing to worry about.

We weren’t actually yet on the way to Marrakech; we were on the way to the desert to do our two-night camel ride. I had mixed feelings about this upcoming leg of the trip. I both wanted to and did not want to ride the camel. It felt touristy and exploitative. And yet surely indispensable. Right?

Several times I had to have Mohammed pull the van over on the side of the highway. I tried to yack, even at one point pushing my finger down my throat. No dice. It wasn’t going to happen. Knowing she’d be deeply disappointed, I told Britney we might have to cancel the desert. Tears brewed in her eyes. She was frustrated, but also felt empathy for me.

We passed a wildly diverse mix of landscapes and geography, from what appeared as desert, making me imagine what deeper areas of sub-Saharan Africa might look like to some degree, as well as areas that had random mesas and rock formations, calling to mind sections of Arizona, Utah and western Colorado. (We remembered from our summer road trip through these states.) And then thick forest, even pine trees calling to mind mountainous areas of Northern California, or even the Sierras. We passed rivers and lakes. Tall, spiky mountains with jagged peaks, some as high, the map told us, as 12,000-plus feet. Stupendous. Spectacular. Gorgeous. More narrow, thin, twisty roads. Passing cars from inches behind them. It was their way. We chatted with Mohammed but he was often quiet. I didn’t mind. I was busy gazing out the window at the landscapes. More sheep, chickens, random lone feral dogs, donkeys, horses. We passed through the Middle Atlas Mountains.

Around the town of Midelt, after Britney had taken a car-nap, we stopped for lunch. Mohammed ate alone upstairs. Britney said she felt terrible all of the sudden, and she was certain she had a growing fever. She was also now experiencing chills and body aches, and she felt exhausted and even nauseous. And she had diarrhea. Oh, crap. (Literally.)

Over the course of the meal—veggie tagine, bread, water—we finally decided we’d better cancel the desert. Clearly, we were both sick. I needed to vomit. She had a fever. And now it was raining, rather strongly. We both needed to lay down. Being sick in a foreign country is not fun. You feel vulnerable. In Berlin, in 2016, I’d developed a nasty viral infection which included coughing so harshly that I vomited several times and couldn’t sleep. I’d run a fever of 103. I’d gone to a big public hospital on Good Friday and had had to wait six hours before seeing a doctor. By then I felt like I was going to explode or collapse or both. They gave me antibiotics. I was better within 48 hours.

But this wasn’t just a foreign country, it was a third world country.