EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALJune
27, 1999
Leaving Morocco
Five hours from Rabat to Tangier and we catch a ferry in the afternoon that will take
us across the straights and back to Europe.
In Algecerias, Alfi waits in the sun at a parking lot protected by gorillas with
official-looking hats. She’s intact and rumbles thankfully, still mufflerless, back
to Seville.
Our friends in Seville who have all visited Morocco, ask us how we liked it. It seems
everyone knows what everyone else will see and experience (give or take the searing
desert, hashish smoked, Cat Stevens studying Islam on a beach in Essaouira) it’s the
interpretation that is of interest. "Oh yes, yes, so different. Yes, bad digestion,
bad tummy, goes away, goes away."
On the phone with my brother James, who traveled through Morocco when he was 18.
Student carpets. Faux guides. Couscous. He’s especially thrilled about my shared
experience with William Burroughs. "Morocco, simply put, is a paranoid acid
trip."
