Same River Twice

On our flight here two months ago we’d planned on jotting down our preconceptions about Morocco so that we could later compare them to the realities we experienced. Instead of writing them down we slept. Too bad. Now we can’t remember what we thought then, and two months here has changed the way we look at the place so it’s too late to put the genie back in the bottle. Our views change each day, just as a fountain beside a mosque that we once noticed for its beautiful tile work has new meaning now that it also signals a shortcut home.

We hopped in a cab the other day to head out to Gueliz, and there’s something immediately familiar about the driver. As soon as he opens his mouth, we look at each other and realize, this is the same cabbie who’d spoken to us a month ago about leaving Morocco with his fiancée to live in the States (see our post “Two Conversations”).
We’ve thought a lot about this fellow since and his quest for verite. While we almost always travel with our camera, we kick ourselves when we realize we’ve forgotten it at home. We ask the man how he is and what his plans are with his fiancée. “No, no,” he says and quickly changes the subject. Instead of the financee, he’s intent on revisiting the sad story of his ex-wife. Shortly after they married, he bought her a house, which she then promptly kicked him out of, taking up with a much younger man. All of the hopeful talk of his new love and the potential move to the States has vanished.

We near the grocery store and his depressing tirade about his ex-wife continues (as we’d experienced a month ago, his cab slows proportionate to his story intensifying; this is a man who still treats his cab like a psychiatrist’s couch). He smiles a little smugly as he says, “But there is a God.” In his eyes, God will have different plans for his ex-wife than for him. He turns to look over his shoulder and demands of us, “Vous etes croyants?” You believe? “Ah… well, yes,” we say, as we approach one of the few verboten topics here with mounting trepidation. Satisfied with our white lie of a response, (surely we must believe in something – the redemptive power of cheese, perhaps, if not God) we breathe a sigh of relief.


He’s not finished with us yet, though. “So what religion,” he asks. “Catholic?” The stuttering begins: “Uh, no, not exactly. Christian, though.” He’s obviously waiting for more and we’re drawing blanks. So many thousands of miles from the white steeples of New England, and we can’t think of the differences between Episcopals and Universalists, nor even their names. What to say? “Protestant!” we blurt out, and await his response. He nods his acceptance, not pressing us for a denomination or any theological details. Yeah, that’s it, say the heathens to one another, we’re Protestants. “Et vous etes croyants,” he says again with satisfaction, and points his finger skyward: “There is a God.” With all the cultural differences we’ve tried to navigate, none present a chasm quite like religion. And it’s certainly not a topic we’re likely to resolve with our cab driver.

PS. For all you fashionistas out there, might I recommend coming to Marrakech to study haute couture at Ecole Top Alfa Mode? Think about it. Seriously.