Run-ins with Men and Food Poisoning — Marrakech, Morocco

I’m not sure where Khalid’s taking me, but right away I know I’m not supposed to be there.  The lights are dim and the air is ripe with cigarette smoke. The holler of men’s laughter fills the room. I walk close to Khalid, trying to meld into his ribcage. We’re in a brasserie.

Morocco was a French colony from 1912 to 1956 and “brasserie” is French for “brewery.” But the breweries in Islamic Morocco have a different flavor than their French counterparts. A guidebook I’ve bought characterizes the Moroccan brasserie as a “smoky, all-male drinking den that is only for the desperately thirsty.”

We sit down at a corner table. My eyes adjust to the murkiness. Men are throwing back alcohol, playing poker, and watching me. “Should I be here?” I ask.

“Yeah, no problem,” says Khalid, dismissing my concerns with a wave of his hand. “You’re a foreigner. Anything goes.” He hails a server and orders the first round of beer.

I rub the goose bumps on my arms. I’m wearing a red tank top and black shorts.  My hair is down. I’m not sure how to feel. This is the first time I’ve dressed provocatively in months, if you want to call what I’m wearing provocative. It’s no more scandalous than anything I’d wear in America.

Still, dozens of men are scrutinizing me. Their expressions range from suspicious to sleazy. It wouldn’t have mattered, I reason. I’m female, a fascination. I’d be a novelty at this joint even if I were two hundred pounds and homely.

I’ve mostly felt hideous my entire trip, decked out in scarves and cargo pants and long-sleeve shirts, all my clothes intentionally two sizes too big. Wearing sunglasses to avoid eye contact, going back to my hostel before nightfall, and abstaining from alcohol were all tactics I used to avoid attention. And though I’ve stayed safe, I wonder if it was overkill. It’s my second to last night overseas and I’ve decided to let down my guard.

The beers arrive, green bottles etched with the words Spéciale Flag. Khalid slides one towards me and begins sipping the other. I drink the first beer. It’s a light lager with a pleasant hops taste. The booze rushes to my cerebral cortex and I start to feel warm. I’ve abstained for almost twelve months and my tolerance is low.

Suddenly a waiter is bringing a second round to the table. Khalid slides another beer in my direction. “You’re going to keep up with me, right?” he jokes.

“Umm, don’t know. We’ll see,” I say coyly.

I eye Khalid. We’re both twenty-eight. He’s several inches taller than me, muscles carved into his arms, neck, and back. His features are pleasant, symmetrical. We’re sitting close, our shoulders nearly brushing, and I can smell him. It’s an odor similar to other Moroccan men—a pungent smell, bitter. I feel a wave of attraction and I wonder how much of that is the pheromones and how much is the alcohol.

I met Khalid this morning outside his jewelry shop in the souks near the Jemaa El-Fnaa. “You’ve been passing by my store all week,” he said. “I tried to get your attention every time I saw you but you ignored me.”

“Guess you didn’t try hard enough,” I said. I’m not surprised I didn’t notice Khalid’s advances; in places where bartering is acceptable, I’ve learned not to speak or make eye contact with vendors unless I’m serious about buying.

I take a few sips of the second beer. Khalid takes out his cell phone and shows me family photos. He’s got five older sisters, all married. “These are my favorite nephews,” he says.  The two boys are three and four. They look Moroccan: tan, frizzy hair, pale eyes. They’re gorgeous.

The beer is still coming. A third round arrives and then a fourth. I’m still milking my second beer and though I’ve let my guard down, my gut instinct tells me not to drink more. Khalid is lighting a cigarette and telling me about the year he lived in Córdoba. Then we’re talking about George W. Bush and the Iraq War and foreign languages.  Khalid is fluent in Arabic, French, Spanish, and English. Time passes in a blur.

After an indeterminate time, I look at the table. There are eight empty beers. Two are mine, six are Khalid’s.

“Wanna get out of here?” he asks.

“Are you sure you’re OK to drive?”

“Yeah.”

I eye him closely. He’s not slurring his words or behaving erratically. He seems unaffected.

“OK,” I say, uncertainly. He reaches for my arm and I feel my flesh quiver. We walk outside.

***

I don’t ask Khalid where we’re going. I assume back to my hostel. We’ve spent all afternoon together and he knows I have to catch an early train to Casablanca. I sink into the passenger seat and enjoy the scenery. We’re on a highway flanked by palm trees. Streetlights illuminate the buildings. They’re salmon pink. Marrakech is known as the “Rose City” or the “Red City.” The windows are rolled down and desert air infuses the car. Mosques aside, this might be Santa Fe, San Antonio, or Phoenix.

The lyrics to Alexander Stan’s “Mister Saxobeat” are on the radio. Stan’s a Romanian artist and I’ve heard his single all over Europe, Asia, and Africa.

It’s a catchy club song. The lyrics are interspersed with a man groaning like he’s on the verge of orgasm. Suddenly, I’m conscious that Khalid is pulling the car to the side of the highway.

He turns off the music, turns off the engine, and faces me.

“What’s up?” I ask, a little surprised.

Khalid slips my tank top off my shoulders, pushes it around my waist, and unhooks my bra strap. It happens so quickly I barely react.

Suddenly, I’m topless and sitting in Khalid’s car on the side of a highway in Morocco. It’s dark and headlights stream past the driver’s side window. Khalid eyes me hungrily.

“I love them,” he pronounces. “Goddamnit! They’re perfect. Fuck!” He cups one of my breasts in his hand and flattens it with his fingers. Another hand wiggles south, unbuttoning my shorts. “No,” I say, and clamp my legs together. Undeterred, Khalid bows his head and begins sucking my nipple. I sit there, rigid in the passenger seat, feeling prudish.

I gaze down at Khalid—at the muscles shifting in his back, his dark curls—and try to figure out what to do. Despite my attraction towards this man, my initial reaction is to push him away and demand that he take me back to my hostel; if I miss my flight out of Casablanca in the morning, I’m screwed. But as the moments elapse, I realize that my resolve is crumbling. This is because Khalid is doing something incredible with his tongue: a steady, flicking motion. I’m cognizant that if I let Khalid continue I will enjoy myself immensely.

I’ve succumbed to this temptation before—to tongues flicking at just the right frequency—but this time a nugget of something I can’t verbalize holds me back.

Khalid lifts his head. He’s attractive. So. Damn. Attractive. 

“Will you come back to my apartment?” he asks.

I eye this man closer, trying to get a better sense of him. Our conversations today were delightful. He’s not malicious. At least I don’t think so. No, at this moment he reminds me of an overeager adolescent.

“I have to catch the train to Casablanca by six,” I say. I sound unconvincing. “I have a flight to Madrid at noon.”

“I’ll drive you myself,” Khalid stammers. “I’ll drive you to Casablanca in the morning. Right up the interstate. It’s more direct than-than-that train. We’ll get there in half the time.” He stops and strokes my arm. Again, my flesh quivers.

“I…I…I’m…” I’m sure I want this at much as Khalid wants this, maybe more. Still that nugget of something.

I’m weighing my options when Khalid seizes my waist and pushes me backward across the front seat. The edge of a seat belt clip pierces my hip and I wince audibly. Khalid takes no notice, but leans over me like a ravenous animal, licking my neck. His tongue moves downward, flicking, flicking. To my breasts. To my stomach. His hand starts manipulating the buttons on my shorts, again. I gasp—not from pleasure, but from the weight of him. He’s heavier than I expected and I can hardly breathe.

“Khalid,” I wheeze, and try to push him off. One of his hands grips my shoulder. I push upwards but it’s like shoving a brick wall. “Khalid,” I repeat. “Khalid.” I feel like I’m breathing through a cocktail straw. The smell of his sweat assails my nostrils—a smell I’ll forever associate with North Africa. It was a smell I loved in the brasserie but that, in a manner of seconds on the side of a highway in Morocco, has become repugnant. My vision is starting to blur. “Khalid.”

“Jesus Christ, Khalid, get the fuck off me!”

He recoils like I’ve struck him and slides backwards against the window.

I sit up, shaken, and pull my bra and tank top to my shoulders.

“Why?” Khalid asks. He looks dejected, like a child who’s just been told that Santa won’t be coming this year.

“I…I… I’m not on anything,” I mumble, my face flushing. I stare at my hands. It sounds reasonable and indeed it’s true. Pregnancy. Abortion. These are things to consider. “I’ve got condoms,” Khalid counters. “A bunch of them. We’ll be safe. I promise.”

I stare at that nugget of truth. He’s not malicious, but he’s overeager, impulsive. And clumsy. My index finger skims the place where his hand gripped my shoulder, the place where my hip encountered Khalid’s seat belt holder. In both places I feel tenderness, a lump of congealed blood. I don’t trust this man to wear his condom correctly. I don’t trust him to get me to Casablanca on time. All day America seemed so close. Close enough to dress American, close enough to drink alcohol, close enough to let down my guard.

I feel a pang of vulnerability that’s stronger than anything I’ve experienced on the trip.

“It’s not worth the risk for one night,” I say in resignation. “It’s just not…worth it…to me.”

Silence fills the car.

“Please take me to the hostel,” I say. Khalid doesn’t budge. “Please take me back,” I repeat, my voice a whisper.

Khalid settles into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and merges into traffic. He looks straight ahead, his face unreadable. I cross my arms and lean forward slightly, forcing my body into a small mass. We whiz through downtown, past department stores, luxury hotels, and a reflecting pool. Parts of Marrakech, I realize, are surprisingly modern.

“You’re mad at me,” Khalid says finally, his voice mechanical.

“No, I. It’s fine. Just take me back, please.”

I look out the window. I don’t feel like saying anything. It was a good night, I think. The second to the last night. And then this.

We’re back in the souks, weaving through alleyways. Left, right, right, left right left. Khalid comes to a halt at the base of an archway not far from my hostel. He faces me, and I realize that he’s on the verge of tears. “Look, I’m…I’m fucking sorry,” he says, his eyes watery. “I haven’t been with anyone for like six months and I…I got carried away.  Fuck.  I just…look I’m sorry. I…  Fuck!” He reaches for my hand and I slide away.

“I… don-don’t worry about it” I say, and my voice breaks inexplicably. I’m shocked.  Am I really crying? I never cry.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask. “For dinner.”

Without waiting for Khalid to respond, I pull forty dirham from my shorts pocket and set it on the dashboard. He doesn’t object. Then I open the door and swing my legs into the street.

“Wait,” says Khalid, grabbing my wrist. “You’re really going to leave like this? Not give me your email or anything?”

I turn and face him.                                                                                        

Khalid fumbles for a pen in the dark, and I scribble my contact information on a piece of scrap paper. I know he’s not going to contact me.

I step out of the car. “Bye,” I say, and close the door.

I walk away. A sob escapes my throat.

I go back to the hostel, to my co-ed dorm, and climb onto my bunk bed. I tread lightly, trying not to disturb the Hungarian guy, the German guy, the French guy, or the Australian girls. I bury my face in the pillow and try to sleep.

***

At five a.m. I wake up, grab my backpack, check out, and hurry through the souks. As I pass Khalid’s jewelry shop, my heart beats faster. It’s OK, I reassure myself. It’s too early for him to be at work.

A taxi driver gravitates toward me. “Madam! Madam, where I take you? Where, madam? Where?”

“The train station,” I say, flatly.

I’m there early. It’s 5:21 a.m. I buy a ham sandwich and a glass of jus d’orange from a café near the ticket booth and eat them for breakfast. At 5:54 a.m., I board the train.

I wake up four hours later as the train pulls into the station in Casablanca. For some reason I’m sweating. Everywhere. Sweat trickles down my forehead, runs in rivulets down my spine, and courses across my breasts. I’m exhausted. Quickly I check in, board the plane, and fall back asleep.

I wake up again as the plane hits the runway in Madrid. I’m still sweating. Everywhere.

My sister, Emily, is teaching English in Madrid and I’m supposed to crash at her apartment for the night. We’ve planned to celebrate my departure with sangria. She told me she’d meet me at the Lacoma Metro Stop at seven p.m.

But I’m too tired to go to the metro. Instead, I wobble to the airport bathroom.

I fill my water bottle in the sink, open the door of a stall, and settle onto the tile. My hand comes up and sweeps my forehead. I’ve got a raging fever.

I unscrew the cap on my bottle and pour water over my head. Then I pull my tank top to my waist—the same way Khalid did—and pour water between my breasts and shoulder blades. I feel cooler for a second, but the heat returns. I pour more water over my head and drink a few ounces. A few minutes later my back arches. I put my elbows to the toilet seat, gag violently, and vomit the water I just drank into the bowl.

Somewhere in my head the pieces come together. I’ve got food poisoning. I’m not sure if it’s from the meal I shared with Khalid or from the ham sandwich at the train station. I review everything I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours.

For five months, I’ve eaten my way across forty-eight cities in nineteen countries on three continents and I’ve never been sick. I’ve eaten from food stalls, open-air markets, and seedy dives. I’ve drunk water—the local, unpurified variety.

“You’ve got a steel stomach,” someone pointed out.

“Oh fuck, yeah,” I said, proud. I inherited it from my father. Even at home I can eat the most outlandish combinations of food.

Guess my luck ran out.

I get to my feet and toddle to the metro. I feel like I’m underwater. At this rate, I’ll never make it by seven. I’ve got to change lines twice. Seven stops on Linea Nueve. Three stops on Linea Seis. Six stops on Linea Siete. Meet Emily.

I can do this.

I sit down on a plastic seat. There’s a couple across from me. They giggle, wrap their arms around one another, and rub noses. Their tongues emerge and intertwine. I don’t need this now, but I’m too weak to move.

I shut my eyes, bite my tongue, and breathe out of my nose. I count the seven stops on Linea Nueve, stand up, and move off the metro.

Again it’s mechanical, instinctual. Instead of heading toward the sign for Linea Seis, I wobble forward, parallel with the train tracks. There’s a column ahead. I duck behind it and projectile vomit. Again. Stop. Again. Stop. Again and again and again. Six times in total. I gag a seventh time, but my stomach is empty.

Every last thing I’ve eaten in the past twelve hours—kebab koutbane, mutton, couscous Marrakech, batinzaan zalud, mint tea, beer, ham sandwich, and jus d’orange—is splattered on the walls, the column, the floor, me.

I’m still wearing my backpack and the nineteen pounds seems oppressive. If I don’t take it off immediately, I’m going to faint. I shrug the backpack onto the tile and collapse on top of it. My heart is pounding like I’ve run a four hundred meter sprint.

I sit there forever. I can’t move. I hear a man. “Señora!Señora!¿Estás bien?¿Estás bien?” I turn. A conductor is leaning out the window of a stopped train. He stares at my vomit. His face registers sympathy, concern.

I raise my arm weakly, then turn back to the wall like a child in time-out.

***

At 7:45 p.m., I stagger out of the Lacoma metro stop. My sister is leaning against a wall. “You’re late,” she says, approaching. She’s wearing a slinky blue halter, heels, and makeup. I’m wearing the same clothes I slept in the night before. They’re rumpled, sweat-stained, and coated with Khalid’s saliva, food matter, and bile. She does a double take. “What the fuck?”

“I’m sick as hell,” I say, as if it isn’t obvious. “I’ve been puking my way through the metro for two hours.”

I’m dizzy again and my voice seems to be coming from afar. “Six times,” I hear myself say. “All over.  I feel bad for whoever had to clean that up. Will you hold my backpack? It feels like a goddamn cinder block.” I let the backpack slide off my shoulders.  It lands on the sidewalk with a thud.

I place one hand on the wall for support and flip my hair to get the ratty strands off my face. A couple of men walk out of the metro and eye me curiously. I’m vaguely aware that my stance is provocative. I look like a prostitute loitering near a metro stop, but it’s not intentional. I’m simply trying not to fall over.

I consider the distance to Emily’s apartment, to the airport, to America.

My sister bends over to pick up the pack. She does so gingerly, trying to avoid my stomach contents. “Guess we’re staying in tonight, partner.”

***

When I wake up on Emily’s terrace at five a.m. I do two things. First I shuffle to her bathroom with a stainless steel mixing bowl and empty the night’s vomit into the toilet. Then I open the door of my sister’s bedroom and say goodbye.

The bed creaks in the dark. “How’re you feeling?”

“OK, I guess. Actually shitty.” Shitty is an understatement.

“That sucks.” She sits up. “I’m not sure I want to hug you. Are you sure you’re OK to walk to the metro station?”

“Yeah,” I say. I’ve walked the route before. It’s less than half a mile.

“OK,” my sister says uncertainly, studying my face in the dark. “Feel better! I’ll see you in Minnesota.”

“Thanks.”

I stagger outside with my backpack and the stainless steel mixing bowl. I toss the mixing bowl into a dumpster and head to the Lacoma metro stop. It’s still dark outside. I feel stiff, my body depleted of all the electrolytes I’ve thrown up. I shuffle along the sidewalk at one or two miles per hour.

I only have to take a left at the first intersection and walk downhill for two hundred meters. The metro will be on the right.

I take a left at the first intersection and walk downhill. No metro station. I wonder if I’ve taken the wrong left.I walk back uphill, turn left, and take a left at the second intersection. I walk two hundred meters. The road curves to the left and I continue walking. Suddenly I realize I’m back in front of Emily’s apartment.

There’s the dumpster. There’s my stainless steel mixing bowl on top of the garbage heap. Somehow I’ve walked in a huge circle. I realize I’m practically hallucinating and I begin to cry.

The sun is starting to rise and I wonder if I’ll miss my plane.

I take a left at the first intersection, again, and walk downhill. I’m still crying, my sobs cartoonish. I look like shit and I know it. It’s the most I’ve cried in a year. But honestly, I can’t recall a time when I’ve felt worse.

An old man approaches. I wipe the tears from my eyes. “¿Dónde está el metro?”

“Allí mismo,” he says impatiently. He points to something over my shoulder. I turn. The metro is fifteen meters behind me.

“Gracias,” I mumble. In that moment there is a shift. The distance to America closes.