The first time Dave Braem saw me after I chopped off all my long, curly locks and buzz cut my hair in preparation for my trip, he said, “Tamara, are you trying to look like a boy or a lesbian?”
Of course, this is Dave we're talking about: sweet, mild-mannered, wouldn't-hurt-a-fly Dave (although he does like to kill moose for chili...) so it was said with a twinkle in his eye.
Nevertheless, ever since that day, I got to thinking. Yes! Perhaps cutting my hair was precisely the right move to fending off unwanted male attention. Either option- looking like a boy or a lesbian- would buy me valuable time to escape while the men processed the confusing input.
Alas, Dave- I am here to tell you that while having short hair might have helped significantly, now they all just think I'm European. German, more often than not. You know those spiky, punky German haircuts on women? Well since I'm going real light on everything and thus, just wash my hair with bar soap, it's become quite a vision: something not unlike the tussled, spiky German haircuts. And unfortunately, I've still had to build a complex strategy to deal with the heckling, which for the most part, was nonexistent in Tetouan.
The men are generally very, very friendly- often times with a pinch of sugar, as Mohammed Reda would put it. As I mentioned previously, it's very hard to meet Moroccan women, at least in the rural areas where I was, because the women stay home and invite their friends into the home. The cafe and the street is the man's world. Therefore, just about everyone I talked to and met was male. And they're certainly very happy to chat to the point where being blindly rude and ignoring people was the only defense.
When I did (and do) talk to the guys, I got a real laugh out of secretly timing each one to see how long it would take him to ask me if I had a boyfriend. “Will it be the second or third question this time? Hmm.. he seems more eager- probably the second.” And I'm not flattering myself here, believe me. In my REI get-up, crazy. matted, German-like hair that's growing out all funny, hiking boots and rucksack, I'm hardly the vision of irresistible femininity. Still, maybe I'm exotic looking like I do! They're not shy about telling me I'm beautiful (“zwin bzzef!” in Arabic) so I honestly have to chuckle and mutter, “yeah, yeah, yeah.”
Thus, I have my consistent story, my fictitious boyfriend/fiance/husband (depending on how desperate they look) back in Marrakech who telecommutes for a computer company and since he needs internet connection consistently, he can't travel the country with me. Pretty good, huh? What's funny is that no one has asked why I don't have a ring. I also was caught off guard when one asked me his name so I need to develop this character a bit more, apparently. At least now I know that if push comes to shove and I'm desperate for a husband some day, there are plenty of eager and willing men here (and I'll always look gorgeous in my hiking boots and crazy hair!).
Sometimes I have fun with all the marriage proposals, though. My Arabic has gotten pretty decent, if I do say so myself. Actually, I'm quite pleased and now, very happy that I took the time and money to do the language course. I've been receiving compliments from the locals and was actually able to have a philosophical conversation with a guy a couple weeks ago.
Along the way, I've also learned enough vocab to make jokes and therefore, I can playfully shoot guys down in Arabic! I only keep doing it because each time, they have roared with laughter. Generally my line has been, “nah, you're too old for me,” and often, they are. Like one who had to be pushing 70. If they're young and “sporty,” I'll emphasize how old I am. I've gotten some good laughs all around, so when I get tired of explaining Mr. Fictitious in Marrakech, I'll fall back on this.
(and for those of you who read the previous entry about Jamel, let's just say it didn't work out)
So yeah, the past month, I was constantly hounded by people, and if it wasn't guys trying to sell me something or who wanted to be my guide for the day, it was the kids who can really be infuriating here. They'll wait until you're on the phone and start hounding you or throw rocks at you if you don't produce dirham. I even had one boy run up and grab my butt. Eesh.
Probably the most frustrating was when I acquired a 23 year old appendage named Brahim who wouldn't let me out of his sights for three full days. Every time I thought I was finally rid of him (it sounds mean, I know) he would be waiting for me at my hotel again. I hopped on one of those four-wheeling minibus things into the Djebel Saghro from a town called Nekob (where I acquired him) and right as the bus was pulling out, he hopped on too. I told him firmly that I neither wanted or needed a guide but he insisted, “I know, no problem- I have family there so I'm going to go visit them.” Yeah, right. He was a nice kid, really. I could tell that he meant well- he was actually suffocatingly sweet to me, always trying to get in my face and help me with every little thing, including when a pack strap broke. I got pretty frustrated at him by the end and I think he finally got the hint. I felt kind of crappy but smiling and saying, “no thanks” just doesn't seem to do the trick here.
It's a tough thing: he was a nice kid, he actually did end up helping me out a little and led me on a crazy hike through some gorges that I might not have found myself. I couldn't exactly tell him that he couldn't go visit his family or whatever, either. So anyway, whether I liked it or not, I had something of a male servant for three days. Too bad he was so young, not my type and didn't speak Arabic or French really. He kind of made up his own French which I could barely follow. He struck me as the sort of guy that a ditzy blonde from souther California would go for though: good-looking, sporty, very clean-cut and so forth.
In any case, I tried not to be too frustrated with him. For all he's ever known, women don't travel alone, they aren't particularly independent. He probably thought he was doing his duty as a man to accompany me and take care of me, despite the fact that I am over 10 years his senior. I've had some equally uncomfortable situations where even in more business-like relationships with musicians here, I had one guy take my hand (which at first, I thought was just to cross the street) but then he didn't let go once we were across, was standing a little close, putting his arm around me, etc (and this is within 10 minutes of meeting!), so I had to play the fictitious boyfriend card again, hoping I wouldn't offend him and lose the music contact. Maybe there's some cultural differences, too, I don't know!
So Dave, you were wrong. Or something like that.
Alas, I will simply have to endure being Tuh-MAH-ruh, the exotic REI princess with the crazy mess of hair, with imaginary lovers and camels for backup boyfriends.
