I am on a mission to slim down my backpack and so I look for a lighter tent.

I am used to the folks on Facebook Marketplace not replying or having annoying conversations where they get confused if there is more than one question in the chatbox and so I push him; after he has been silent for while I send him two impatient question marks and he then gives me his number.
“I am coming tonight,” I write.

I feel impatient and un-attached to the social vibes at the school this night. I would’ve wanted to hang around at home but everyone feels tired and boring and so I imagine that I’ll have a better adventure trying to buy a tent from a random dude and maybe after, going to the huge Quriyaa market or the Medina and the African market, maybe getting some Senegalise food again by the loud barbershop, yelling insecure french over the beats to the beautiful young mama with eyes thickly lined with black. Whatever, anything, I’ve been home all day, I want to do something. So I just take my bag and strut out into the night air.

Taking the shared taxi works out well and stops where I need it to – I take it that my pronounciation of “Quriyaa” has been sufficient – and from there it’s only fifteen loud minutes of following an enormous street with cafes lined up along the sidewalk and eyes of men following me as I strut along in my colorful capulana and I think that Casablanca just never ends. It is the biggest city I have ever lived in, five million people; it’s crazy.

I meet with him and he has the tent – that’s how I recognize him – and I am surprised that my expectations are fulfilled and that it was so easy. Miracle of the internet. Sure, I answered maybe ten ads and he is one of two who got back to me, but the tent is exactly like the one on the picture and looks whole and clean when he unfolds it in the stairwell with neighbors moving around and saying friendly hellos. He is friendly like all the Moroccans are to strangers on their best days, he doesn’t speak any English and his French is even worse than mine. He offers to drive me home on his scooter and I say no thank you after we have traded the tent for the money, wary in case he would try to flirt with me or insist on my number or be clingy in other ways. I am used to men being clingy here, and for the sake of conserving my energy I find it easier to stay friendly yet distant to begin with, not offeting any openings to any interactions that may even be remotely inviting. It is limiting, yet. But easier.

But then on a whim and with the translator application I ask him if he wants to buy my tent and to my surprise he wants to see it and so we take the scooter to my place anyway.

We zig-zag our way from his neighborhood to mine. I hold on and I have no helmet on but it’s not too far. I find myself enjoying myself.

I bring down the tent from the top floor and we stand in the lobby for ages and look at each other’s instagrams. He shows me his photos from hikes and camps and it is beautiful and saturated, a bunch of waterfalls and inspirational quotes. Morocco is beautiful and I ask why it isn’t more common for Moroccans to go camping and he says he doesn’t know. He doesn’t unpack the tent but finally we negotiate and the price falls lower than I want it to be but more than anything I want him to buy the tent to be rid of it and he does.

I have learned that in the Moroccan culture, making a good deal is important and discussing over dirhams is fundamental. It’s like, I think, their mood gets elevated when they feel like they’ve made a good deal; they become giddy and happy.

Later he asks me if i know harira, the Moroccan tomato soup with pasta and spices. Of course I know harira, I laugh, and he suggests we go and get some. I don’t know if I want to; actually I am hungry but I don’t know if I want to continue our interaction. My laughter buys me time to think.

“How will we even talk to each other, we don’t speak the same language?” I tell him in English, hoping I can multitask feeling my feelings, making a decision and keeping up the conversation at the same time. I know he doesn’t understand me, no chance, I make for the translator, still giggling and giddy, also seriously wondering but it hits me that this is exactly how we would talk, and why am I even feeling doubts after all my hours of hitching between languages?

It is not really about the language, I know that. I just honestly don’t know if I want to hang out with him or if I’d rather look for other adventures. But he has said “marhaba” which means welcome and I think that it also means that he will pay for the food and in the end, I don’t want to turn down free food.

Another thing I’ve learned about Moroccans (Moroccan men, specifically) is that they feel like winners if they can treat someone to a meal. So why not, it would be a win-win.

So I agree, I say d’accord, yalla and he laughs and I hop on the scooter again and we’re off. My mind changes into adventure-mode. The business is done and this is just for fun. The traffic passes by and I switch on my little sensors to keep an eye out if this one is interested in flirting with me. He’s not pushy but I get the sense that he might not not be interested, either. A little ambiguity, a tension; I accept it as part of the adventure.

He takes us to eat tacos and I happily note that this is the first time I try these French tacos, this popular fast food that my students rave about. I note that a menu costs 35 dirham and I remember getting a proper chicken tajin, a generous bowl of beans and bread for 20 dirham just the day before.

I note how this thinking of dirham is turning me more Moroccan day by day.

We eat the tacos and he has asked for mine to be made without cheese, just as I wanted. It is all right. We watch more of our instagrams, his mostly, and talk a little about travel and whatever with the few words that we share and I find that it is all right, too. Coming into the headspace of talking despite lacking language comes easier than I thought.

After the tacos he suggests we go for a ride: standing beside the scooter he spins his finger in a circle with a question-smile and I accept with a nod and a yes-smile (and I think I say yalla, too) and I hop on and we cross through random streets, never ending Casablanca-streets, merging with the vivid traffic. He slows down to say hello to so many men hanging around in his neighborhood and I think that he enjoys having me on the back of his scooter and that he wants to show me off. It amuses me; it is not the first time.

We drive to the Medina, to Maarif and then towards the big mosque and I am happy and excited and even more so when he turns left from the mosque and follows the sea, this way that I’ve wanted to walk for weeks already, and I watch the houses and murals and parks passing by in the night. Him speeding up and taking more and more slim turns as he gets more comfortable with my weight on the scooter behind him.

He brings me up to a viewpoint with cliffs ending sharply in a dark and rowdy sea. There is a lighthouse behind us and the city ahead, both facing the endless black of the ocean. We slowly go to the edge with the unseen waves loud and big below us. I find the height genuinely scary and refuse to go all the way up to the edge. He laughs at me and takes my hand and says come on and it doesn’t feel flirty at all and I like that.

He video calls three of his friends and chats, shows me to them, tells me to speak Darija or English or French with this or that friend and I deliver. The last friend he calls replies from his job: a truck driver currently behind the wheel. This makes me happy. I struggle to tell him in French that I hitch with truck drivers and he tells me he is on his way to Paris, having just left Germany. He goes all over Europe he says.
But not Poland I shoot in, proud to show off my knowledge that only the Polish companies drive through Poland and he says that yes, that is correct. He is friendly and happy, he laughs a lot. I tease them for Morocco having lost the game to South Africa the day before and we talk trash about the French. This is part of being a guest I think to myself, this is part of being received; in exchange for free food and rides around the city I am shown off as an object for curiosity, an alien, a foreign thing: look, she knows Darija! And I don’t mind that right now. I see my new acquaintances with equal curiosity. It is a win-win.

We get back on the scooter and continue following the beach. We pass by fancy restaurants and clubs. The night unfolds, black and cold and humid. I look curiously on the houses and the architecture I have never seen before and might never see again. Nothing is required of me. I like it.

I play with the thought of wrapping my arms around his waist, just because I feel like it. What if I would flirt, for once? I wonder if I even want to be close and how he would take it. I know nothing about him.

It takes a good ten-fifteen minutes before I decide to go for it. It feels easy but I end up in a more awkward position than I thought. But he likes it. I do it just when the road angles slightly and the ocean wind hits us more sharply, making it suddenly significantly colder. It’s as good reason as any for me to play with him. He takes his cold left hand from the handle and places it over mine.

We make a u-turn just a short while later and head back. By this time I have let go of him and am looking around as before like nothing has happened; nothing has. He’s driving closer to the cars now, faster, and I notice getting a little scared and even thinking “sorry mum” at one point, riding with no helmet and all. I try to relax despite the cold and to enjoy the adventure. That my only responsibility is letting him know when I want to go home.

The thought strikes me that someone might ask me how I can trust somebody I just met enough to follow them for a ride like this. In my head I reply that it is not him I trust, but me: my ability to read him, my ability to say no the moment I feel a no and to ask for what I need. I would not have gone with anyone. I wonder if I am naïve, lucky or actually truly good at reading people.

Might be all.

We turn into the old Medina and stop by a stand serving snails. He asks me if I want any and I nod eagerly, my hands having lost almost all sensation.

He eats quicker than me. I really enjoy the little black worm-like creatures, the novelty of pulling them out of their shells with a toothpick, the calcium-y flavor and their weird eyes dangling limp from the heads. They are served in steaming, ginger-hot stock, and that is my favorite part. We finish two cups of stock each, slowly warming up, and he asks for a third one. I am content.

Back on the scooter he navigates through the narrow streets of the Medina; we have become the Medina-drivers that I so dislike, making noise and forcing people to move aside. But the streets are practically empty at this hour and I find that I like navigating the labyrinth like this, too.

Back on the big road he speeds up again. He asks me if I want to go home;
“Something something la maison?” He mixes Darija with French despite me having no way of understanding it and it neither annoys nor stresses me. I know that I get as many tries as I need to make sense but in this case it is crystal clear.

“Oueh oueh, la maison,” I say. I have already assumed we’re heading back, sensing the adventure coming to an end.

Another thing I’ve learned is that Moroccans (again, the men) will always make sure I get home. They will take me to my doorstep no matter what, and I have learned to receive that without feeling bad for their de-tour. Sometimes I tell them that I can take this or that taxi if I don’t want them being overbearing, but this time I just receive; I really want the ride to my door, please and thank you.

And I like drifting around despite the cold, seeing the city like this, playing with this boy and our roles. I wonder if I am his first tourist that he picks up and drives around and I laugh again at how the stars align, yes I know that they always align, that even in the most mundane and boring moments they are perfectly aligned but especially in moments like this when I get exactly what I want, this is when I become ecstatically aware of fate delivering. I began this evening being restless and annoyed and now look at this beautiful adventure that I’ve stumbled into!

He remembers the way to my place. I do too, but barely. I think of wrapping my arms around him again, but don’t. I enjoy the thought, the slight sense of desire, the option.

When we get back my feet have fallen asleep from the cold and I limp off and my capulana gets stuck and I laugh and look for the key in my pocket. It’s late and I’m tired and happy. He hugs me, then presses a clumsy kiss to my cheek and another one to my lips that are still laughing and don’t respond to the kiss. I just walk to the door, wish him well and tell him we’ll talk.

I knew it might happen, I was pretty sure and to be honest I had considered it myself.

I unlock the door, he is still there as I knew he’d be, making sure I get all the way through. With the door open I change my mind. Still laughing, giddy; this game seems so easy to me, and so I play. I turn and walk back to him, bend down from the sidewalk to his lips and kiss him. He responds immediately and actually, it is not bad. It is pretty good. He is soft and relaxed, not too eager. It’s nice. I look at him as we pull away and his eyes are closed and I wonder if it is because he likes nature and I like nature too, if it is the hiking and the forests that soften him to a tempo that I like, slow and steady.

I pull away when I feel done. The rush I get from the kiss is calm, nothing that goes to my head but a feeling that grounds me. And he is nothing but sweet.

We say good-bye again. I close the door behind me and as the sound of metal echoes through the lobby I hear him driving away. I say hello to the creepy night guard and take the stairs. I think to myself that all Moroccan men are easy prey and the generalization makes me smile wide and quicken my steps. I am sure he had fun, too. It is a win-win.

…

(This story told in pictures.)