En route to Azrou

October 16. 11:00am. Bus to Azrou
“I feel like I have a llama.”

“I feel like I have a llama. I went to eat it, and she took it ”
—Katie, in reference to Rebecca’s agile food-stealing

The joy that can be derived from juvenile potty humor and Moroccan bathrooms should never be underestimated.
Neither should the power of a good cup of ka’awa, the sweetness of the smile and conversation of the Moroccan gas station barista, or skipping toward a gargantuan tour bus arm in arm with your hilarious hijab-ed program assistant.
There are times when all I want in the world is to be at Common Grounds in Lexington wearing a faux-batik wrap dress, holding Clay’s hand, hugging my best friends, listening to Eric Ruppel and people laugh at his “Battle of the Sexes.”
But then there are the times when being an American women in Morocco is just too funny to leave. The times when I walk through the souks with Katie, who is badass enough to yell at Moroccan guys to get away from her, and when that doesn’t work, we hide in a clothing shop behind hangers of tacky Western clothes, “salaam”-ing and “lebaas”-ing the eager merchants, who promise us, “100dH, good price, good price” for a sequined halter top with feathers. Hmm.
The times when you have to laugh at the word “poop”, because “poop” is the root of half of your friends’ problems: either they can’t stop pooping, or they can’t start.
Poop has to be funny if you’re going to survive Morocco.
How could I leave Morocco when the best of times includes your host family laughing at you so hard they could cry, “hshuma”-ing you because you taught them the word “zucchini”, and to them it sounds like you just called dinner “ass.”
And then you bank on “zucchini”, using it as cultural currency to break the ice with otherwise sour-faced taxi drivers, who laugh until they cry and slap the steering wheel, charge you the right price for the ride, and shower you with peace and blessings when you leave the taxi. (I will bank on my “zucchini” revelation for the rest of my time here).
Caffeine and a smile will go so far in this chaotic country. Even so far as to make me invincible to bad poop-related ailments and bad experiences with B.O.-laden Moroccan men.
If someone gave me a free ticket to the States right now, I wouldn’t take it.
I’ll be home for Christmas.