F is for Freedom

What does freedom mean to you? Is it knowing your horizon is endless and with that so are your dreams? Or does your freedom have limits; known boundaries that can be measured and weighed, cut and devised into halves and thirds? However you determine this righteously owned liberty, consider the matter in which you excersize it. Do you take it for granted? The worst part is that for most North Americans, the question of freedom is not a question at all. We imprison racist extremists, terrorists, and criminals because it's the right thing to do. We provide equal rights to gays and lesbians and legalize same sex marriages because it's the right thing to do. We provide adequate means to an education to all people equally because it's the right thing to do. But what does it all mean when we don't appreciate it?

While in Boumalne du Dades, I met my new favorite person. His name was Johnathan (just a nick name) and he was a breath of fresh air. He was gay and living in an Islamic country, doing everything but struggling under the weight of the bricks his peers stacked on top of him. He was passionate in his pursuit for happiness and his thirst for knowledge overwhelmed me. Johnathan was fluent in Arabic, Berber, French, Spanish, English, and Italian. The people of his village were divided between those that shouted words of hate and those that embraced his outlandish lifestyle. Tourists flocked to his side, attracted by his charismatic and out going persona. And not once did I see him buckle under the pressure.

Johnathan had more potential to be great than anyone I had ever met in a classroom. He studied as hard as he partied, welcomed as much as he thanked, and let me take a glance at the "difficult" life I thought I had. Even when he spoke of the family he was no longer welcome to be apart of, I could see the fire deep within the pool of his chestnut eyes burning thick with hope. Then it came time for me to ask why he still lived in this village that could no longer contain his promising future. Patiently, he explained in a tone reserved for the rehearsal of this speech. For a Moroccan citizen to leave his country, he must have a valid European visa, $20,000 to his name, and somewhere to go. I was shocked at the hoops this young man would have to dive through in order to put a stamp in his passport. But his voice did not pour vinegar into an open wound. He just smiled, shrugged, and told me that one day he would get there. He knew, as I never will, the truth behind this type of perserverance. Unlike myself he had not been given the rights to his education, but paid for it through the currency of hard work. I left University after a year of relentless struggling; I left knowing that there were things in this world, valuable things, that I could never learn in a classroom. I was right.

That night, as I lay awake in bed, tossing and turning against the will to do nothing, Johnathan kindly welcomed another stranger into his life for a cup of tea and a sneak peak at what aspiring to be something great really looks like.

Lookin' Up: A Moroccan Night Sky

Not without you. My woes hang like decrepit limbs, strung out on a line so thin like silk. I lie poised with a beauty man struggles to find, in blatant view and neglect. Joined by the thrum of 10,000 spinning stars we stretch our web to exhaust the light. To craddle the ones you left out of sight. Casting silver threads of beaded life, changing tides and guiding lost souls still parched from your rein, I struggle.

But you, you sleep while I blanket the night. I slide you into the bed I made of hope and kiss the hand of a love too weak. Sweet dreams I cast, still staring past with empty eyes.

Yet the sea bears what the heart wills it to hide and there, beneath the luminous sheet of flickering stars, I see the poignant truth to these spilling tides. There lies the refelction of a wound so deep the swell was swallowed. So once more my lips brush the sweeping lash you still hold closed, and I watch as you fall away to the will of sleep. For a life in your shadow, stealing kisses from the sun is not enough when each day you rise with beams of golden honey, ignorant and alive.

Forget the Teller, Give me the Fortune

1.You are waiting for some news.

2.You are going to make a big change in your life.
3.You are very tired.

These were the three truths so prominent in my life at the time of their unveiling that when Mohammed, a Moroccan Berber/stone age fortune teller, scurried them out from under my shield of ignorance, I couldn't muster the words for a reply. The third prediction was one not easily ignored. Giant black crop circles had managed to set up permanent camp just below each eye and any desirable feature I possibly had now sagged with exhaustion in a droopy grimace. Two months of non-stop train hopping had taken the wind out of my sails, stripped the fuel from my tank, and hindered all performance. So ya, I was a little tired.

Number one one the list of insightful prophecies could pertain to any number of things, really. Every day I would scan through piles of emails, looking for the slightest reason to end these ridiculous escapades and head home. Although I loved the crisp, cool breath that freedom poured into my lungs in one resuscitating blow, I couldn't shake the resentment that clawed beneath my skin. I missed my father's long and insightful talks, his words strewn with Confucian remarks. Or the way my mother could craddle me in her arms by just looking at me. It wasn't until I'd left Mohammed's shop in the main square and wandered back to my hotel that I found the greatest treasure waiting for me. There in my inbox was news from my brother; he was coming to see me.

The second prediction Mohammed made is one I still can't put my finger on. Every day thus far has been loaded to the brim with illustrious choices and changes. From leaving home 2 months earlier as scared and unsure as I've ever been, to falling in love with a lifestyle so surreal, I couldn't see how the next few weeks of my journey could possibly be anything less than outrageous. And I hoped, for not only my self, but my sanity as well, that I would confront these future changes with an open heart and jump head first into the lion's den.

Don't Drink the Water

There they stand in files, pleated against the length of their clay dwellings.
Mothers cradle their young, who clutch the breast of life, waiting.
How long has it been since we've seen a reason or felt a truth?
How long has it been?
Day by day they crouch outside their homes, sieving heaps of crimson sand through callosed hands. Their fingertips numb to the steady rythm, and yet their nail beds throb after having bled a steady trickle of hope.
The well is dry and cracked and still they wait.
Still enough for the wind to catch their draped wishes in a swift breeze.
The work is hard, the tea is sweet, and they, they sweat for a faith that promises something in return.

The Atlas Mountains

Bouquets of color scramble wildly over each sculpted curve, every chiselled peak. Lush emerald blades strike upwards like rigid soldiers. Along their worn line that separates the broken hills from the lost valleys are buckets of bleeding reds shrivelled to a halt by an overgrowth of budding life. As you daunt past the mark Hope made with delight, life ceases to flourish in a pile of arid dust. But don't be made weary of the blanketing shepards. Like mourning widows hacked clean from their beloved mates, the hills cry for one another. Beneath each peak, settled along each base thrives the brush that sweeps, the stream that courses through the veins of the hollowed hills, the slow burn of a dying ember. Yet all those wandering eyes breathe in is the scar tissue that erodes each pinnacle.

Cover Up; It's Only 40 Degrees Outside

Someone once told me that Morocco is a hot spot for western women seeking romantic affairs, the place they run off to so some guy in an Armani t-shirt can whisper sweet nothings in her ear in Arabic. It's also the place where non-romantic affair seeking western women get hassled and propositioned on the street. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tangier.

But that's not to say that all Tangierians anxiously await a new flock of wild geese each day. The women are a different story. The Islamic religion is one that preaches of modesty and self cleanliness. Therefore, Muslim women do not expose themselves in public as an act of respect. These women mean business; they go to the beach in 40 degree weather fully clothed; no hair unveiled, no skin shown. Well I wish someone would have told me this before I go marching in there with bare arms and ankles, flashy tattoos, and pierced ears. It was like going to a fancy dinner and flashing your smile all over the room to then notice, long after the evening has concluded, that there's something slimy and green wedged between your two front teeth. All you can do is cringe at the thought of how long it's been there. I was that slimy green thing to these women.

So, to escape from this onslaught of both ogling and glowering stares, I laid down on the sand with my face stretched towards the sun. It's warmth still reached down like an extended hand and I let out a breath of frustration. With the tension easing I listened to the waves roll over each other as they made their way to the shore. The sand beneath me had now cooled against my back, but I still smiled with contentment. But then, with my eyes still closed, I thought, yeah, this could be anywhere in the world.

We're not in Kansas Anymore

If you were to take a look in any Moroccan Travel Guide on any given day it would tell you that the country is located in North Africa, has a population of over 33 million people, and an area of 710,850km2. You are sure to read that the country’s capital is Rabat and that the national currency is the Moroccan Durham. If you’re really lucky and picked up the special edition copy featuring maps of cities with names you can’t pronounce, you most definitely will have a list of the best places to really experience Moroccan culture. From the Kasbahs to the mind droning carpet salesmen, these books have it all.

But, what you won’t find between page 3 and 4, located next to the long list of celebrity hot spots, is an accurate description of how it feels to truly be in Morocco. Yeah, you can pay 200 Euro to be taken 5 minutes out of town and ride an over worked and abused camel long enough to get your award winning picture. Or, visit a city’s bustling Souk to find yourself surrounded by hundreds of camera happy white faced tourists. Don't even get me started on the so called "snake charmers." But hey, this is what the folks back home pay to see on TV.

Never in a Travel Guide will you find a map of culture. It’s something that each one of us finds and experiences differently, and at our own pace. It took me days to truly get in the swing of things. I wasn’t used to strange men eyeballing me like a wolf would a three-legged cat. Or, how there are two prices for everything; the local’s price, and then the tourist’s price (I once paid a Euro for a single banana). I didn’t understand the importance of art and music to the Berber people until I was in the Dades Gorge drinking tea with them. Culture can’t be written, and it can’t be photographed. A people’s lifestyle must be experienced hands on and without any reservations. I didn’t completely unveil the true Morocco in the one week I spent in the country, but what I did discover is something you won’t ever read in a book.

Cadaques

Nuzzled in the far North East corner of Spain along the Mediterranean coast resides the little port town of Cadaques. Don’t be fooled by this town’s completely off the radar status; it’s everything you could ever ask of a beach bound holiday; If snoozing on the white sandy beaches in between dips in the calm, crystal sea is your thing. The entire town is stretched along the coast allowing for its town center to sit comfortably along the harbour. Once I stepped off the bus and looked out across the town’s white washed buildings, I knew I was in heaven.

But all was not well in the Land of Oz. I had arrived quite late in the day to Cadaques and as it was the weekend, all reasonably priced hostels were booked. So Mark and I trudged along the town’s coastal walk, hoping we might find a quite beach to set up at tent. Easier said than done. Not only Cadaques but most of Spain’s coast line is occupied by either farmland or local properties. In a country so beautiful these people weren’t leaving any free roaming grounds. Just then the sun began to set and our worries intensified. Camping on a government owned beach was a federal offense and could be punishable by law. If we set up the tent along the water we risked a hefty fine and eviction. What else do you think keeps the hobos out of Spain? So we continued to walk until we found ourselves slowly drifting out of town.

By this point I was all too willing to curl up in a tree if that meant I could go to sleep. I let these thoughts run through my head as Mark crept around some of the local’s land until I saw a blonde head bobbing towards me. The first thing that came to mind was, and pardon my language, Shit, she called the cops. We were done for. Next time I talked to my mom would be from a prison cell in the heart of Spain while I swatted away an eavesdropping inmate named Leslie. But the woman approached us with a smile and looked at us through her huge heart and asked us if we wanted to stay at her place. We followed her through the iron gates that led to her property and found that Jesse owned a villa rental and had recently housed god knows how many models for a Spanish photo shoot. She then led us to what would be our lodgings; a miniature house. We were delighted to have been granted this kindness and after watching Jesse walk back up to the main house, we both made a mad dash, like a couple of 4 year olds, to the giant king size bed where we bounced on the mattress, over come with giggles while revelling in our good luck.

Valencia, my friends; where the soul prospers

After having decided short notice that I was going to add Morocco to my ever growing list, I began to move South down the Eastern coast of Spain. All I wanted was beach, beach, and more beach! What I got was another story. The rain had somehow managed to board the plane in London undetected and do what it does best, all over my parade. But I kept my head held high, and kept moving on. That is until I took a look at my bank account...

It was finally time for me to confront my severely beaten savings account. This trip to Spain had been decided on a mere whim adn without a payment plan. Affording Morocco on top of it was next to impossible. Rather than book a plane ticket back to Ireland the next day, I began to Google possible job prospects. I spent hours applying to all sorts of jobs, most of which I was highly under qualified for. But I let my paranoia of returning to Canada as a hobo and the carpal tunnel that had set up camp in my left wrist get the best of me. The only people replying to my desperate emails were creepy British men. I was screwed.

To clear my head I went for a walk through the city. I knew this little walk around the park would be the only chance I would have to tour Valencia as my bus down to Cabo de Gata left the next day. So I set off to explore the city's centralized park. Just as the sun began to lower along the horizon, I found myself distracted by a man who appeared to be walking on air. I stepped closer, obviously intriged, and stared in amazement as this sweaty, crazy haired man, who later became known as Jose, bobbed along some sort of bouncy rope. He was a gymnast, a tight rope walker, a circus performer, and I was his audience. After his little show concluded, he turned my way, having already noticed my gawking stares and beckoned me closer. Let me stop right there and say that in any other situation where I've found myself in a park at night in a new city I wouldn't willingly star I knew it Mark was having a go at the slack line (as it is more professionally known) and I was sitting on the grass with Jose. His English wasn't by any means fluent (it beat me trying to speak Spanish), but a smile thrown in between each mispronounced word kept us on the right track. When I asked Jose why he spent so much of his time slack lining he told me, in his warm Spanish accent, that it taught him about himself. The challenge was never being able to walk along a suspended rope, but rather in trusting yourself not to give up. Jose said that in order to be successful at this, you had to have faith in yourself.

So I jumped up, accepted the gauntlet that was placed before me, and tried so friggin' hard to get up on that rope. After half a dozen badly executed tries I managed to wobble my way into a semi standing position. My torso remained rigid and unmoving while my feet, staggered one behind the other, shook violently from side to side. Unable to keep up with trembling rope beneath me, I tumbled awkwardly to the ground in defeat. Mark and Jose watched from their resting places on the grass as I stood up, brushed myself off, and then fumbled my way once again onto the rope. Just as my legs began to shudder beneath me, I head that warm Spanish voice call out, "trust yourself." So I took that ever prolonged breath and waited as my face took on its normal color again and let my mind escape my current need for a job, escape the rain that had just begun to fall, and escape the demanding world that had caught up to me overseas. When I opened my eyes I was still. Just as I let a smile creep over my face, the poise I had demonstrated so well left just as quickly as it came and I was once again left in shambles on the ground.

On the walk home I forced myself to think only of what Jose was preaching. All this time I had forgotten the number one rule; trust yourself. The little voice in the back of my head was no longer whispering the importance of employment, but rather shouting it from all angles. I had forgotten that I was the one in control of the remote and with one click, the madness could be silenced. So I pressed that mute button and forced the nonsense of finding a job to the back of my mind.

Before marching up to bed, I allowed myself one quick peek at my email. There in my overflowing inbox sat that answers to the many questions that had been swimming laps in my head all day.

Everything was going to be okay.

Hola, Senor!

Before I had time to catch my breath from running around the UK and Ireland, I was wisked away to Spain by a knight in shining armor. The decision to take this unexpected holiday was based solely on the promise I had made to myself before crossing the pond. I was going to take risks, and I was going to take a lot of them. So it was thanks to this ingenious train of thought that led me to be, once again, beach bound! After months of drizzling rain and cloud covered skies I had forgotten the secrets of a summer's sun. Whether it be the warmth that came with tickling rays, the smile you couldn't bear to hide, or the naps that just couldn't wait. You bask in the warmth that sets on your skin and can feel its melting rhythms humming through your skin. As you lie in bed at night your nose tingles with the faint smells of the sea, not yet chased away by the wind. These were memories that floated back to me as I stepped off the plane in Barcelona. All it took was one deep breath, and I was home!