by Ning Cai
Pam looked at me, eyebrows comically raised. “Fine, point taken, Ning. But you weren’t going to accept their threesome proposal, right?”
I’d finally found us an empty spot and sat down, taking in the incredible sight of a fine-looking male specimen making a perfect dive from the cliffs before us and disappearing cleanly into the gorgeous turquoise blue waters below.
Pushing up my sunnies which were slipping down my nose, I answered the BFF with a wry grin. “Seriously? Of course not!”
Just please, don’t ask me about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie!
14
a kiss is not a kiss in casablanca
Casablanca · September 2011
NING
“Will you be my wife?” he smiled as he proposed to me on the bustling streets of French-speaking Casablanca, teeth flashing like white pearls contrasting with his deeply tanned Moroccan skin and exotic dark beard.
“Oh!” I gasped at the unexpected proposition. Touching my throat, I gave an emotional sniff. “Yes... but only if you’ll be my bitch, asshole.”
I cracked a sarcastic smile and flipped him a birdie. The Moroccan stranger guffawed and padded away in his worn brown slippers, hands clasped behind his back with his baggy djellaba flapping behind him. Rolling my eyes at the complete inappropriateness of it all, I heard a highly amused Pam chuckling loudly behind me.
You see, despite my wild child stage persona, I’m really quite the sappy romantic at heart. So you can probably understand my angst and irritation that my very first marriage proposal happened on this dull afternoon, along a crummy street near our forgettable hotel, from some stranger whose name I would never know. He was far from an Arabian prince. Sure, he was plenty dark but hardly tall or handsome.
Bummer.
Pam and I had just landed in Casablanca after a long flight from Rome, the land of sex and romance... but for some reason, the local Muslim men in Morocco seemed a lot more amorous than the suave Italian studs we had encountered.
The moment we left the safe confines of our hotel, we had been unceremoniously whistled at, hissed at and chatted up by the local men, even being persistently followed and trailed. If I collected a fee for every leering konnichiwa thrown at me, I’d be rich enough to finance my World Vision-sponsored child’s education through to his PhD!
The two of us girls were hit on by Moroccan men left, right, centre... all because we’re foreign women and despite being conservatively dressed with sleeved tops that covered our shoulders and full-length jeans that covered our legs. I was even wearing my favourite headscarf while Pam had a cap on.
We later learnt that Moroccan men would never behave this way toward the local Muslim women, simply because it was not a decent thing to do. Since the two of us did not have a male companion or local guide with us, it provided a further “green light” for their bold behaviour, which would make any Plain Jane believe she’d somehow magically turned into a desirable sex Goddess.
“Oh my God, can you believe the nerve of that guy?” I turned to face Pam, who was back to taking pictures. “Here we are, just minding our own business when BOOM, this happens. Again. And now, a marriage proposal. Seriously?!”
“We just have to pretend they don’t exist, Ning,” Pam said sagely, in her slow psychologist voice. Whenever she wears that professional hat, the BFF’s voice grows a notch deeper and she enunciates a lot more clearly, not unlike Dr Ross Gellar in the American TV series Friends. “Just imagine we’re in our own bubble, you and me, and nothing outside can touch us or penetrate our bubble.”
I sighed as I adjusted my long-sleeved cotton shirt, which was now sticking to my skin in the hot Moroccan weather. “I’ll try, but if one more annoying perv tries to burst our sacred bubble, I’m gonna whoop his ass. KAPAP style.”
Months before our departure on March 2011, Pam and I had been training intensively with the KAPAP Academy Singapore to ensure that we knew enough self-defense in case we needed to defend ourselves in unarmed combat (not against each other!).
Originating from Israel, KAPAP (short for Krav Panim el Panim in Hebrew, or ‘face-to-face combat’) is a practical street-fighting style of martial arts similar to Krav Maga and Brazilian Jujitsu. In other words, it’s a lethal form of mixed martial arts. As a gift, our head instructor, Master Teo Yew Chye, had given both of us a Spikey, a clever self-defense weapon that Pam and I carried with us wherever we went.
There really isn’t much to do in Casablanca, Morocco’s financial business capital, where everyone speaks French and the occasional English. At our hotel’s front desk, the bored receptionist shared with me that local females would snub a man who speaks only Arabic because French was considered more classy. So a French-speaking Moroccan lad would be perceived to be a lot more educated and of a better family standing, with higher earning potential.
But Pam had always wanted to visit Casablanca because of some old romantic song and that iconic Humphrey Bogart film. That’s why she chose to fly us into Casablanca instead of Marrekech, the cosmopolitan capital of Morocco. Trust me when I say this: that old song and black and white movie are a billion times more romantic than the real city of Casablanca and its lecherous men can ever hope to be. But that’s just me speaking.
We started off towards Casablanca’s ancient medina, with plans to venture to the famous El Hassan II mosque after. Perhaps it was a sign of things to come, but just before we crossed the road to visit the souks (local stalls), an elderly Moroccan woman tripped and fell right in front of me at a bus stop.
I quickly helped her up, startled because she had taken quite a heavy fall. She had not seen the long, thick industrial cable tie an irresponsible person had left lying dangerously on the ground, and had gotten both ankles caught in the tangle like a snared animal.
Entering the old medina, Pam and I were very unimpressed with the boring wares on sale. The market wasn’t busy because it was the afternoon and most of the stores were closed, perhaps for siesta. Five minutes had not even passed and we weren’t far from the entrance of the medina, when a beggar woman in her 50s and a boy aged about ten approached us for alms, despite looking none too shabby.
Travelling the world for months had allowed me to see homeless people in truly destitute situations, and the two in front of me were dressed too decently and had too clean an appearance for supposed beggars. So politely but firmly, I shook my head and refused to give them money. With a grimace on her wrinkled face as she presented me her disinterested-looking boy, the woman persisted in blocking our way. I wasn’t even convinced they were necessarily related.
As she continued urging me for some Moroccan dirhams, I suddenly noticed a slim, dark-skinned man charging towards us at breakneck speed out of the corner of my eye. I quickly braced myself because there was nowhere to move and in a split second, he crashed directly into me. I managed to keep my balance and maintain my footing despite the impact but instead of apologising and backing off, like any one would were it a real accident, the Moroccan stranger grasped me tightly by my forearms.
Furious that my private space had been rudely invaded and that the man’s clammy hands were squeezing me in a vice-like grip, I shouted at my attacker, who silently stared back at me with a vicious rat-like expression. His eyes lacked warmth and kindness, and he seemed consumed by evil, with absolutely no trace of humanity. His grip tightened and strong fingers dug into my flesh, hurting me.
Now the wonderful thing about martial arts is that aside from learning fighting moves and understanding body mechanics, we are also taught something that is especially important to women: You can fight back. And in that moment, everything I’d learnt from Master Teo and our female KAPAP instructor Yun Quan kicked in.
Swiftly grabbing my attacker’s slimy wrists and furiously twisting them at an awkward angle, I caused him enough pain to force him to release his death-like grip on me. During the flurry I was also aware that both the woman and boy had strategically moved away.
I knew for certain that I wasn�
��t going to let this creep grab my bag and make off with it. It contained our passports, important documents and money and today wasn’t going to be his lucky day.
“Casse-toi! Fuck off!” I hollered angrily as I shoved the wily creature away, after successfully wrestling him off me. I would have knocked him to the floor, crushed his balls with my foot or kicked him sharply in the head if he hadn’t been an elder. The man looked to be a fit 60 years of age, with quick, crafty eyes. Damn my Asian values about respecting older people.
A burly fishmonger noticed the commotion and yelled at the old man, who cursed at the merchant before rudely spitting on the floor and slinking away. I don’t know Arabic, but I was quite sure I heard the fishmonger mention Allah.
I couldn’t believe he had tried to rob me so blatantly in daylight, and within a few steps of the entrance of the medina! My heart was still racing and my fists were shaking in rage as I glared at my attacker’s retreating back. Perhaps he was berating himself for not finding a more docile Asian tourist.
“Where were you?” I demanded, turning around to face Pam. The BFF stood frozen, eyes wide open and staring quietly at me as I readjusted my sling bag and clothes. “Why didn’t you help me? That fucking asshole just tried to rob us in broad daylight!”
“Everything happened in a split second. I didn’t even have time to react!” The BFF explained, still in a daze. “But I think it’s an accident. He must have tried stealing something from that fish shop when he crashed into you...”
“What?!” I glared angrily at Pamela, incredulous that this woman who holds a Masters degree in Psychology could be so trusting. I swore again under my breath as I fished out a packet of wet wipes to clean my arms of the gross slime from the old man’s touch. “I don’t fucking believe it!”
Adrenaline was pumping in my veins, my heartbeat was still racing and I was too pissed with the situation and with Pam to even want to talk about it. Angry thoughts raced through my mind as I stormed ahead of her. I knew exactly what happened back there and couldn’t believe Pam could be so naïve.
It was a classic case of misdirection from the beggar and the boy, while the man, possibly her plotting husband, tried to scare me into surrendering my belongings. But because I put up a really strong fight and stubbornly refused to comply, they decided to stop and pick on someone else instead. Most girls would be completely freaked out and would just hand over their handbags and cameras. How could she not see this? Sigh.
“I’m done with this stupid place,” I gloomily told my silent travel companion after a few more uneventful turns showed us the same boring crockery, heavy rugs and impractical souvenirs, all of which we couldn’t buy since we were backpacking. “I’ve had enough.”
“Yeah me too, let’s go,” Pam sighed as we left the disappointing medina.
“You know, I kinda expected this to be a bustling market place like in an Aladdin or 1001 Arabian Nights movie set,” I squinted against the midday sun as we walked past rows of closed shops. “I don’t even see any funky Moroccan slippers or those cute little red Fez hats circus monkeys wear.”
“Let’s head to that famous mosque now, then grab some lunch,” Pam suggested.
A distant starry look clouded her eyes. “Ooh... I hope we get to see that famous place... Rick’s Café. No idea where it is, but that’s where they shot that iconic piano scene in the movie Casablanca.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid?” I did a bad Humphrey Bogart imitation, trying to pull my spirits back up and let go of all the bad feelings. “Well, if it’s meant to be. We only have a day here anyway, before we head to Fes.”
After studying the poorly-printed free tourist map from our cheap hotel, we decided to take the longer route that curved along the sea. We knew it would be safer than trying to take shortcuts through places that might get us completely lost.
“Here in Morocco, locals expect you to give them money as a form of thanks if you stop them to ask for directions,” I shared with Pam, as we folded our map away so we didn’t look like helpless female tourists. “I read that nugget online and also in the Frommers travel guide about this place.”
“No kidding!” Pam frowned. “Well that’s the thing with different cultures I guess! In Paris, people are usually impatient and only offer to help you if you speak French. Every place has its quirks.”
Despite me wearing my aviator sunglasses in an attempt to seem aloof, strange bearded men in slippers and djellabas still whistled at, hissed at and loudly konnichiwa-ed us as we made our way toward the El Hassan II mosque, an attraction in Casablanca that boasts the world’s tallest minaret.
“Ignore them, Ning,” Pam reiterated, sensing my growing irritation. “We’re in our own bubble. When we don’t respond, they’ll go away.”
A particularly sticky pest of a man was walking next to me, matching me stride for stride. He kept asking where we were from and if we had boyfriends or husbands, what we intended to do in Morocco, where we were staying in Casablanca, which part of Japan were we from? Tokyo? Could we be friends? Konnichiwa. Konnichiwa. Konnichiwa.
I did a great impression of a deaf mute, completely ignoring him.
“Your friend is so scared,” the unshaven local sneered at Pam, jabbing a crooked brown finger in my direction as I continued to ignore him. “You are in my country, why are you so rude? I am also human.”
The idiot eventually moved away, probably needing someone to reassure him that he really hadn’t turned invisible. I heaved a sigh of relief when we finally had our peace. “I really hope things get better tomorrow when we meet our guide, Pam. I can’t imagine enduring this every day.”
I had arranged for a tour guide with a 4x4 vehicle to take us around the various parts of Morocco for the next two weeks, including the gorgeous Erg Chebbi dunes in the Sahara desert that I’d always wanted to experience.
The El Hassan II mosque is a clever engineering marvel and after exploring the huge building and its grounds, we took a break near a fountain feature. Pam was reviewing pictures she had snapped on her camera and I was sipping water from my bottle when a Moroccan family moved towards us.
“Awwww, isn’t he so cute?” Pam cooed at the young Moroccan boy of about five years of age, who was dressed in a black and white Western suit that made him look like a cross between a restaurant waiter and miniature penguin.
I thought his outfit was a bit insane in this weather and my eyebrows raised when the boy’s older sister, who looked to be about eight years old, suddenly rushed towards us. She had a chunk of half-eaten bread in her hands and crumbs on her face, when she wetly kissed my cheeks in a French-style greeting. She moved over to Pam and her little brother followed suit.
Something about them unnerved me. We shook our heads silently when the girl offered us her piece of bread. Then, she began touching everything we had on us. She was especially interested in my red watch, a Christmas present from my good friend Adeline. The little girl was unnaturally giggly, as if she were high on drugs. Alarm bells rang when she started patting our bags.
“Gypsy kids!” Pam mouthed as she quickly kept her digital camera. I nodded gravely and stood up to leave. As we walked briskly and purposefully towards the main road, the children followed us, tugging at our clothes. The young girl’s over-friendly demeanour was now drastically different and she was no longer smiling. Her large dark eyes had a cold hardness to them.
“Wallet,” she yanked at Pam’s pants, as her little brother scampered to catch up with us. “Show me! Show me!”
“No money!” Pam firmly told her as we quickened our steps and moved away from the aggressive gypsy children. They finally stopped pestering us and went back to their family, empty handed.
I sighed. It was only afternoon but we were already feeling exhausted. Having read up on Morocco, I kind of knew what to expect here, but I didn’t think it would be such a challenge.
As Pam and I rounded a bend, I noticed a building sign on the left, half obscured by tall palm trees. Stopping in my t
racks, I poked the BFF in the ribs and grinned, pointing at the grand visage.
Pam’s tired face brightened up instantly and she smiled her infectious sunny grin. Clapping her hands together, she whooped loudly.
“Rick’s Café!”
15
maladies in morocco
Morocco · September 2011
NING
I stared skeptically at the giant slab of raw, red meat hanging off a menacing metal hook, dodgy white fluff still attached to the end of the carcass’ pink tail. Our good-humoured Moroccan guide, Ibrahim Ahnana, had brought us to a local eatery and was speaking rapid Arabic to the man in a white lab coat behind the open-air counter. The heat was unbearable and I was really thirsty for something cold.
We ordered a traditional Moroccan kafta consisting of barbequed meats and a lemon chicken tagine to share. For the past few hours, we had driven past several local roadside butcher shops that sold similar slabs of red meat (cow, camel, deer, goat, lamb) that were completely unrefrigerated and simply hanging out in the open.
Lab Coat cut a sizeable chunk of meat from the slab of dead animal hanging between us, weighing it in front of an approving Ibrahim before putting it through the meat grinder. The minced meat was then swiftly pattied into a ball by hand, before being passed over to Lab Coat’s sullen colleague who was in charge of grilling the meat over hot coals.
We had just ordered drinks and were settling down at our table when a dozen Japanese ladies took the table behind us. They looked dazed, perhaps due to the punishing weather, or from being konnichiwa-ed at a lot by over-enthusiastic local men. The girls smiled at us, a touch of curiosity in their eyes at these two crazy backpacking Singaporean girls. I wasn’t feeling particularly chatty due to the heat, so I just waved a casual Ohayo.
