morocco desert
The first time I ever walked across a border, meaning the first time I ever passed on foot from one nation-state to another via a regulated border control process, was in 2001 when I went from Spain to Morocco. "Spanish Morocco" consists of the cities of Ceuta and Melilla, and the Moroccan government sees Spanish control over these areas as foreign occupation. We took the highspeed ferry from Algeciras on the Spanish mainland to Ceuta, and then crossed the border into Morocco. The actual crossing was fascinating and terrifying, terrifying mostly because the experience was such a completely new one that no imagined expectations could have prepared me for the reality.
My memories of the crossing are hazy, though interspersed with distinct images of what we saw and experienced. I don't really remember leaving the ferry and getting to Spanish immigration, but I clearly remember walking from the Spanish check point to the Moroccan one. Until this lived experience my mental image of walking across a border meant simply stepping over a line drawn in the sand; now you're here and now you're there. This walk, however, was long. It took at least 7 full minutes as we moved, packs on backs in true Western Adventurer style, along a wide dusty road with fences on either side. On the other sides of these fences were dusty mountains, and I vividly remember watching people scurrying to and fro with all manner of goods on their backs and in their arms. Of course, the scurrying went more in the Morocco => Spain direction as opposed to vice versa.
When we reached the Moroccan check-point we were let through easily, and I'm sure ahead of other non-Americans who had been waiting. In fact I don't remember other Americans or Westerners crossing at the same time we did, and Christina and I definitely stood out. Once in Morocco I remember moving past immigration and into a field of taxis, all ready and waiting to take us to wherever. The process of getting a taxi, explained so simply in Lonely Planet, was scary. There were at least 7 drivers vying for our business, we tried to barter, the drivers were aggressive and loud and handsy, their friends joined the commotion, two men were starting to fight, and so we stopped trying to be nice and just hopped into a car and went. Bartering the price from within the taxi was a pain in the ass and we paid too much. The language barrier, wherein the drivers were speaking Arabic (I spoke French and Christina spoke Spanish, both languages that are somewhat common in this northern region given the history of colonization) coupled with the gender differential between us and them also contributed to a sense of having no idea what the hell was really going on. But it all ended fine, and we made it to Chefchaouen, a beautiful mountain city of blue where we commenced our Morocco adventures.
My memories of the crossing are hazy, though interspersed with distinct images of what we saw and experienced. I don't really remember leaving the ferry and getting to Spanish immigration, but I clearly remember walking from the Spanish check point to the Moroccan one. Until this lived experience my mental image of walking across a border meant simply stepping over a line drawn in the sand; now you're here and now you're there. This walk, however, was long. It took at least 7 full minutes as we moved, packs on backs in true Western Adventurer style, along a wide dusty road with fences on either side. On the other sides of these fences were dusty mountains, and I vividly remember watching people scurrying to and fro with all manner of goods on their backs and in their arms. Of course, the scurrying went more in the Morocco => Spain direction as opposed to vice versa.
When we reached the Moroccan check-point we were let through easily, and I'm sure ahead of other non-Americans who had been waiting. In fact I don't remember other Americans or Westerners crossing at the same time we did, and Christina and I definitely stood out. Once in Morocco I remember moving past immigration and into a field of taxis, all ready and waiting to take us to wherever. The process of getting a taxi, explained so simply in Lonely Planet, was scary. There were at least 7 drivers vying for our business, we tried to barter, the drivers were aggressive and loud and handsy, their friends joined the commotion, two men were starting to fight, and so we stopped trying to be nice and just hopped into a car and went. Bartering the price from within the taxi was a pain in the ass and we paid too much. The language barrier, wherein the drivers were speaking Arabic (I spoke French and Christina spoke Spanish, both languages that are somewhat common in this northern region given the history of colonization) coupled with the gender differential between us and them also contributed to a sense of having no idea what the hell was really going on. But it all ended fine, and we made it to Chefchaouen, a beautiful mountain city of blue where we commenced our Morocco adventures.
I don't have pictures of the border, but I have many memories of that crossing and the ten or so days I spent in Morocco. I remember hiking (and perspiring) in the summer heat to here,
and looking out to this,
and hearing the enormous wall of noise Chefchaouen projected in front of me, collide with the silence filling the space behind me.
I remember starting at the top of this waterfall,
and hiking down its several steppes to the pool below
and trying my competitive-high-school-swimmers-best to get under the fall, but the impact of it hitting the water was so strong I could not get within 50 feet. I remember watching as adventurous boys climbed the rocky cliffs and jumped into the water, and making sure that I was not inadvertently exposing too much skin from under the t-shirt and shorts I wore over my swimsuit.
Going to Morocco was travel of many firsts for me. It was the first time I went to a Muslim country and the first time I set foot on the continent of Africa. It was also the first time I saw landscapes like in the first picture of this post. It was the first time that I felt really, really, almost fundamentally culturally different from the people I was surrounded by. It was the first time I road-tripped with some locals, and the first time that while in a foreign country, I felt that my movement and choices were restricted because of my gender. I was often uncomfortable in Morocco, because it was the first place where I was conscious of the fact that I did not know the rules, but as I've learned since, that's what happens when you cross borders.
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