Casablanca

Whenever I travel to a country where English is not the primary language, I feel a bit guilty, somehow, that I speak English but usually not the local language.  I’m all too aware that some of my fellow Americans feel entitled to having their native language spoken wherever they go, and at times I wonder whether I partake in that sense of entitlement, or merely hold rational expectations, when I assume that—regardless of how embarrassed or guilty I may feel—English will probably be spoken in most places where I travel.  Arriving in Casablanca this morning en route to Accra, I sensed acutely the Arabic and French words being tossed about around me, and yet when it came time to go through customs, obtain a voucher for free hotel accommodations for the day, or check in to the hotel, I found staff who correctly summed me up as American and addressed me, with a smile, in English.  No one seemed even a little repulsed by my inability to communicate in either of the most common languages of Morocco.  Which is funny, because I was—even if only a tiny bit.

I’m careful not to assume that people I encounter all speak English.  When I approached a security guard to ask directions to the Office of Accomodations, I sidled up and smiled: Office d’Herbergement?  He pointed me outside the terminal, and noticing my quizzical look, responded, “Do you have a voucher?”  No, I didn’t; he sent me back inside to claim my free hotel voucher.


When, in the crowded hotel restaurant, a man sat across from me and began speaking in French, I just smiled.  Je ne parlez Francais, I practiced in my head, trying to pull together at least a half-coherent response but with next to no knowledge of French.  I stubbornly refused to reply in English.  Anglais, I replied softly, shaking my head.  The smile on my face was friendly but, beneath it all, betrayed frustration that I had studied Spanish in high school rather than French (a transient regret, to be sure; I’ve often been very grateful for my background with Spanish, and sometimes have wished to have studied German or Russian or whatever other language my peers were speaking instead).  He quickly switched to English that, as he admitted, was “not very good,” but that surpassed my French by lightyears.


Ultimately, I think I’d prefer to meet people where they are, rather than force them to step into my court and accommodate me, and language is one of the most subtle but common and powerful ways in which to do this.  So when I learned of the fistula hospital in Addis Ababa, I went online to see if I could find a good introductory Amharic book.  Or when I considered broadening my travels in West Africa, I bought a basic French listening course.  Or when I had the somewhat random idea of going to Pakistan at some time in the future, I sent my roommate an email asking her thoughts about studying Urdu in school.  My feelings toward my language capacities are a bit extreme; I’m thankful to know English, and there a probably twinges of the linguistic version of white guilt mixed in with them.  Obviously I cannot learn all languages, and it would be silly to try, but still I’d love to keep learning—and in the meantime, to fantasize about traveling back to before the tower of Babel.


So now I am in a room at the comfortable Atlas Airport Hotel in Casablanca, wishing I had studied Arabic instead of Spanish in high school so that I could understand the report of the Egyptian Electoral Commission on one of the Arabic language channels on the TV.  I had intended to try catching a taxi to drive me around Casablanca for an hour or so, just so I could actually have been there in some way, instead of only having passed through, but I overslept the time by which I had planned to leave in order to be back to the hotel in time, and am feeling a little out of sorts: I’m a female, I’m traveling alone, I don’t know when sunset is, the shuttle to where I could catch a taxi only leaves every half an hour, I don’t really know the value of a dirham or how much to expect to pay, I’d almost certainly miss dinner, I was warned by my seatmate on the flight in that Casablanca is neither extremely unsafe nor particularly safe, etc.  Plus I don’t speak Arabic or French, and when I asked a fellow passenger if many of the cab drivers spoke English, he chuckled.


Of course all these are just excuses, rationalizations, justifications; I could go if I were determined to go, and I don’t want to appear as though I’m complaining.  I’m slightly disappointed, but not too much; I’ve made my decision not to venture out to a cab, which I like to think of as the decision to try to get safely to my actual destination of Asaam, Ghana, so that my real adventure can begin.  And, of course, it doesn’t hurt that not only is Ghana an Anglophone country, but while I’m there I’ll also have the chance to get back into the groove of speaking Twi.

P.S.  The coolest thing!  Room card-activated lights!

No card = no light, but wait...

The lights on with the card in place!

P.P.S.  I fly to Accra late tonight/tomorrow morning, then spend a day or two with a friend in Accra before making my way to Asaam.  Pray for traveling mercies!