As
Casablanca is a three hour drive and full of potential hazards (reference the
“tout” series of posts), not to mention the discernible perils of urbanity, we
researched and settled on an Essaouira institution to jab J in the vein. The
clinic is on the “outside,” town proper (locals-only), and I took time to
assess and take stock of my general level of comfort as we made our way towards
the medina walls:
I
generally oscillate between the sensations of feeling invisible and feeling
conspicuous in foreign countries. Rarely
am I totally relaxed. I’m not blended
in. I’m not absorbed. I’m not
intermingling. I’m on the outside. I
have to always contend with my “presence.”
And that often makes me feel invisible or conspicuous – polarized.
Invisibility
and conspicuousness are two sides of
the same coin, only the coin is spinning so fast, purely positive or negative
connotations get blurred. It’s
mish-mash. My brain. Six weeks ago there were far fewer tourists
in the medina; it just wasn’t high season yet.
We got way too much attention: merchants, stall owners, beggars, drug
dealers and restaurateurs were funneling desperation and aggression down our
throats like a stale and heavy flow of cascading Old Milwaukee beer through a
three-story beer bong. We were turning heads.
We were being overly-noticed. We were choking on our own brand. It was suffocating. I started making excuses to stay in. I questioned my choices. Decisions were debated. The light at the end
of this tunnel was dim. Muted. This is
conspicuousness in its worst form.
After
all this time, I still haven’t learned how to lay the needle in a groove of
proactive mood resuscitation. I just
have to skip for a while, warped and undulating. I don’t make a conscious effort because I
always do recover. I trust my
instincts. It’s learned apathy; I let my
frame of mind right itself – “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down” - they
always right themselves. It doesn’t take
much: a kind word or act from a local, a great meal, an adventure, a stunning
visual, a random thought, a look, a moment – it only takes a moment. And it always comes. Chemicals shift, and then I am high, and happy
to be conspicuous. I am getting off on the uniqueness of my situation,
relishing in the same headspace that was eating me alive only seconds before. I’m hovering weightless above the status
quo. I’m the fucking King of the World,
transforming these exotic circumstances into my plaything – a child’s toy.
Invisibility
is just as dizzying. I crave it in
moments of conspicuousness. I want to be
unremarkable. Typical. I have that now. If I go out to buy a liter of milk, I won’t
draw that much attention as there are other tourists to dilute my
presence. I can focus on the actual doing or experiencing of something rather than theories or ideas
(lifted from dictionary definition of practicality
- fittingly). Anxiety dissipates in the wind, the current
of company blowing gale force. Power in
numbers. Repetition soothes nerves as
well. We get less and less visible when
we wind well-trod paths. As I don the
same long sleeve oxford shirt yet again for night-time medina carousing, I
contemplate this reflex as premeditated, as to become more recognizable and
therefore more invisible. I bought this
Chinese-made shirt of glorious nondescript nature to further supplement my
disappearance ($2). But then, I hate being
invisible too. It’s not that a “tipping
point” gets reached, like I become so invisible that I crave attention and want
to be “special” again. It’s a whole
other thing: I am out of place here =
not local with a long-term investment in the place, so I become invisible. I am a “mark” at best, not to be fully considered by people living real lives
all around me. This is not being seen, different from
invisible, but the same. I’m a
ghost. And far from home.
The walk to
the clinic is depressing. Outside of the
medina is less traditional, newer, filthier, filled with the exhaust of traffic
and honking taxis. It’s slum-like. I’m low.
We’re sized up, curiosity intense, yet stand-offish. Polarized.
Fear is present as well – health and the well-being of an unborn is at
stake. Are we crazy? It’s apparent when we step into the
bare-bones clinic that our white faces are not an everyday occurrence, and I’m
awash with doubts – I’ll bet I was mildly shaking my head to the evil rhythm of
dark thoughts. Their conspicuous stares
were a shamanic guide, directing me inwards to forcibly explore this massive
feat of irresponsibility and decadence.
And then
everything worked out fine. Better than
fine. Like it always does.
We rule.
No comments:
Post a Comment