Bright sunlight stings my eyes as I watch Casablanca from the ship.
The city hides behind a brown cloud of haze and smog.
Cranes from the industrial area jet high above the low buildings of the city
spread out all covered in a complete cloud of disorder.
A mosque and tower, the tallest objects as seen from sea,
stand tall at the entrance to the city's bay.
The silhouette of the tower looks like a guard protecting the ancient city.
It is hard to imagine that three and half million people
live in the city hidden from me.
A fresh breeze from the Atlantic Ocean cools me down as I write,
occasional it stops allowing the smell and the flies to creep out of the city.
Decrepit and rusted Tankers around us sit and wait at the entrance of the harbor,
waiting for what is my thought.
The flies that manage to escape form the city are nothing
like the ones back in the states.
They dive-bomb me as I write, pestering me breaking my concentration.
Now and then they even land and sit on the ledge next to me
and stare with the big yellow bug eyes.
The blank stare somehow reminds me of the Moroccans on the first day in Casablanca.
In Europe we blend in, only noticeable by our loud mouths and American accents
but here we look like the colonialists they hated and revolted against.
The first few minutes in the country we had soda cans thrown at us by
defiant schoolboys were trying to prove their machismo.
We just walked and laughed not wanting to act nervous,
Maybe the kids like dogs could sense fear and would thrive off it.
We didn't know, we just walked faster and prayed silently.
Latter a man on a bus screams "fuck you" in French,
ironically the language of the conqueror not the conquered.
After hours of walking we finally found the bazaar entrance,
there people moved so fast and there were so many that Greg and I blended in,
nobody seemed too care whether we were Berber, American, or French.
The storekeepers were perceptive, they saw us from a mile away.
Each one was our brother or best friend depending on
how much money he thought we had.
The fossilized shark teeth and the blue and orange clay beads
that I bought are infinitely worth more then I paid.
As I write I hold the teeth and the beads in a tight fist,
almost cutting my hand on the sharp shark teeth.
My children come in to my mind in perfect clarity,
each laughing and giggling,
even yelling and screaming in anger.
Their warm smiles and soft kisses touching me as I come home.
As I drift deeper into my mind the orange sun starts to set behind the
silhouette of the mosque.
The Call to Prayers drifts across the water and mist, eerily breaking my concentration
making my solitude
complete.

03/20/2003

Posted on 03/20/2003
Copyright © 2024 Derek Gregory