Leaving Morocco

4AM. My Nokia beats the call to prayer. The hotelier can´t speak French at this hour, and I can´t handle locks and keys at any. I fall into Avenue Mohammed V for the last time.

Women sweep the street outside the cafe and we exchange bon matins. As the taxi pulls me away, we are all smiles and bon voyages. The driver sees I love Oujda as my own and says I will be back, inshallah.

The bus station is a small gathering of huddled masses, sleeping, sitting, drinking. It´s one and a half hours of waiting in the foot stamping, teeth clenching cold before the bus leaves, Moroccan time. A young man I accidentally smiled at clicks his fingers at me. I ignore and he hisses viens ici. In the cold lack of sleep, I am very close to standing up and shouting that I am more than animal, more than woman, and he better learn some respect if he wants a decent relationship. It´s going to be a long day...

A sheep digs its feet into the earth in defiance before being loaded into the boot with my backpack. Children attempt to mimic the plaintive cry; baa baas abound. Later, I hear a roost of chickens being added. The cock crows dawn mid-route despite being in the belly of the bus.

Sheepman sits next to me. I wind my scarf around my head, blowing and stamping to keep the cold out. The scenery is beautiful but I can´t look for the draught of having the curtian open is painful. We are in a 1920´s American-style school bus, all metal, no modern. I can see glimpses of the sunrise, red.

When Sheepman gets off, National Geographic Girl sits next to me. She takes more space than unspokeningly agreed. She fidgets and is all bismillahs. I am close to snapping point.

Eventually I sleep until Nador, which I don´t recognise at first. In cold automation, I stamp over to the cafes I know for heartening harissa. I wish that I don´t have the wishbone. I have my first and only mint tea and choke on the leaves while the five sugars seep into my veins.

The petit taxi driver won´t take me to the port, but will charge me ten dirhams for driving me around the block to a grand taxi that will. I spit the one euro equivalent at him, and mutter abuse, which he understands. I bundle myself into the Merc with 6 others. There is no sheep.

FerriMarroc insists on filling out my exit form in painful Roman lettering. I am escorted alone across the port. Several times my passport is checked. Each time I am asked "you are leaving today?" in surprise and I keep checking my ticket. It seems Eid has diminished the exodus. There are five of us on foot, three in cars for a boat of 3000.

Standing on the edge of Africa, I contemplate the geography. Customs breaks my revelry. "You are a journalist?". I am terrified. "...comme journaliste..." I answer the preceding questions in polite ignorance. All ends well. Everyone is just intrigued; who is the Moroccan girl who doesn´t speak Arabic? I soon know all the port staff in this manner.

The boat leaves on Spanish time, and I still don´t understand it. We wait for an hour amidst the mountains and clouds. Africa at my one side, and the Spanish port of Melilla on the African contintent, confusingly on the other.

There are more staff than passengers, more cockroaches than staff and four sheep for tomorrow. Shoes line up outside the prayer room, it´s the only facility on the ship in use. The staff are sad to be working tomorrow. We all watch Morocco slip away. On revienne. Inshallah.