This road is not safe, Miss.

by Mairead Rodgers (Australia)

A leap into the unknown Morocco

The was nothing romantic about Casablanca. The sun was blaring down, the temperature hovering somewhere between 36 and 40 degrees Celsius. I stared at the shimmering mirage of cracked footpaths and looked down to check the blue flashing dot scaling the screen of my smartphone. I was wearing long harem pants and a scarf to cover my shoulders. This, coupled with my vibrant blue backpack, pale freckled skin and naïve wide-eyes— I knew I screamed tourist. The road was lined by walls of reinforced concrete and the only sign of life was the mechanical roar of a crane in the distance. That was until the appearance of a young Moroccan boy. He fell in step with me, so close I could feel our sweat mixing as his arm brushed abrasively against my own. I tried to quicken my pace to match increasing heart-rate, navigating the potholes and exposed metal beams. With my head lowered and no communication, the boy still followed. The long stretch of road now seemed threatening, as this boy clung to my side, chanting erratically in Arabic. Suddenly aware of the isolating position I had put myself in, I began to consider how they might find my body after I was abducted. The hotel receptionist had been quite adamant when suggesting I phone a taxi. I had dismissed her, “No, no. I’ve travelled before. I’m capable of walking”. I thought she was trying to coax me out of money but as I pulled my hand uncomfortably away from this boy, I began to realise she may have my safety in mind. The boy continued to speak in tongues – I believe it was French now – although he was finally understanding my lack of comprehension and had moved into hand gestures. First, he pointed to me and I noticed how the skin his dark fingers cracked at the knuckles. Next, he pointed to himself, then finally he raised clasped hands to his tilted head. I flustered. Was this 14-year-old child trying to proposition me? It was at this point that I gave way to a tsunami of anxious thoughts. What was I thinking coming to Morocco for my first solo adventure? I wasn’t cut out for solo travel. I wasn’t equipped for this. I could barely find my way to a bus stop in my own tiny town and yet here I was, about to be assaulted and killed in the desolate industrial district of Casablanca. My hero did not appear in spandex and a cape but rather under the guise of a middle-aged man wearing a traditional Djellabah, a dress outfit of loose white cotton. He had been walking a brisk pace far ahead but had dropped back when he noticed my uncomfortable predicament. He offered an outstretched palm and a stern look at his younger country-mate. I bounced thankfully to his side, peering back one last time to see the dismayed young boy. I was not looking at you, kid. It occurred to me for a split second that I may have put myself in a worse situation. At least I had a chance of fighting off the weak limbs of the young boy but this man could easily overpower me. This sent a new feeling of unease through my body, although it was quickly abated. The man spoke of his young daughter as we walked, who had moved abroad to study. He chastised me for walking the deserted freeway alone and with my phone outstretched for all to see. We discussed in broken English how it was best to stick to more populated areas and to keep my bag pulled close. Our pleasant conversation ended abruptly as he led me straight to the base of the Hassan II Mosque, my words failing as I stared in wonder at the majestic mosaic facade that circled the exterior. A colourful blend of blues that glittered in the light. My new friend smiled at me with yellow teeth, genuinely delighted by amazement. He was proud of his culture of his country and with good reason. Before he left he shook my hand and taught me my first Arabic word, Shukran— thank you.