I walked through the streets, cracking on sunflower seeds and marveling at the differences. Here, the McDonald's rose as high as the mosques of the old city, and the cinemas boldly displayed movie posters of seductively posed women clutching at men.
Hip-hop style, that new lingua franca of the fashion world, dominated the fashion of the youth, and steely-eyed young men with stone faces walked like cartoon rappers down the street.
Bars were in evidence, though still quite discreetly, hidden behind the darkened windows and closed doors of "pizzerias".
Young women walked, their long robes not quite long enough to hide the baggy camoflauge trousers that they wore.
I continued walking, turning down a side street, wide and cobblestoned. The place looked like an MTV video, packed with people in baggy clothing and shirts emblazoned with the faces of American rappers and international pop idols. Tupac passed, and then Eminem. Che Guevara's face flew by.
A young boy approached me, perhaps around fifteen years old. He asked where I was from, and I told him Albania. He immediately made me nervous, staring covetously at my bag, which I cinched tighter around me. He followed me down the street, slapping friends five as we passed them in the cafes. I asked him what he wanted. He asked me if I was Mafia, and laughed, sneering at me.
His conversation was impossible to follow, he recited the names of French and Spanish cities, asked me again if I was "mafia" and then offered to sell me something which one sticks up one's nose. Heroin or coke, I was not sure, nor was I interested.
"Can I help you with something?" I asked him.
He sneered again and continued to walk with me. I shoved the package of sunflower seeds into my pocket, blocking off access to my money. I cinched the bag tighter and continued to walk, waiting for the moment when this local punk would try and rob me.
It was funny, really, that the first time in this trip that I have felt nervous was right then, intimidated by a fifteen year old who obviously knew everyone on the street, had no fear, and seemed intent to rob me. I continued walking, not scared, more annoyed that my walk should be interrupted by this need for care, for caution. Suddenly, just as he had appeared, he disappeared, saying goodbye and walking back the way we came.
I only understood a few moments later, when I too saw the police officer that he had obviously seen before me. I continued on my walk, undisturbed.
My friends have just left town, heading off to Casablanca, and in a few hours I too will leave, for Azrou, a small town about one and a half hours from here. I decided to clean up today, before leaving, and changed my clothes, took a shower, and got a shave.
This is something that I do from time to time, and I generally regret it as soon as I have done it, wondering why I shave, get mad at myself for doing so, and then do it again. Still, there is something attractive about changing one's face so easily.
I went to the barbershop, and the man took care of me. He lathered up my face and used a straight razor, wiping off the foam on a nearby sponge, until my skin felt like silk. He finished up by putting aftershave and skin cream on my face. It was a pleasant experience, though somewhat soured by what I believe was an absurd price for the work (twenty dirhams). Nonetheless, it is done. Check it out below.
you look wonderful pancho!! great shave.
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