Not Today

Weaving through the busy streets of Meknes, I dodge pedestrians, donkey carts, stalled cars, motorcycles, round-abouts with no rules and taxis cutting in front of me as I head to the medina (old city). I have to admit – I am a small town driver. Although Ifrane certainly has its driving challenges, it is nothing like the “big city” of Meknes. Tired, I pull into a parking lot where numerous men try to get me to park in their section so they can convince me to let them wash my car. I find a spot, get out, make it clear I do not want a car wash, and walk through the mass of fruit vendors who yell the names and prices of their produce as I pass by.

Is it just my imagination, or is everyone staring at me? I’m used to coming here with Gerald and the girls. Somehow they make me feel more confident – they are my anti-haggling insurance policy. I am married and have children: Don’t look twice. But now I am alone and feel completely insecure. Turning onto the alleyway, I pass a clump of beggars. Old, worn out, lame, blind – the usual.

Then I see it out of the corner of my eye. Could it be…? Surely not! Is that enormous lump of flesh the beggar lady’s leg??? My heart jumps and my eyes turn again. They have to know, but my heart does not want to find out. Yes, it is her leg. Grotesque bulges of fat ooze out between the string that is wrapped around her flesh. The words “elephant leg” and “freak show" run through my head. Then images from growing up fill my mind – bulging cancerous eyes, amputees, shrapnel-covered faces, lepers with no fingers or noses...I can’t stop them.

Quickly I turn into the medina. I pass the butcher section with rows upon rows of huge carcasses hanging from hooks. Blood runs beneath my feet on the walkway. I look down – but not in time to miss the man sawing into a cow’s head. For the first time since coming to Morocco, I am truly overwhelmed. I make a feeble attempt at my errand and rush out. For the second or third time, someone makes a kissing sound in my ear. I’m too numb to even want to slap him. Then I enter the alley. I know she’s there. She’s over there on my left. I can’t look at her. I know what Jesus would do. I know what my mom would do. They would walk right up to her and look her in the eyes as I try to do when giving money to beggars. But then they would touch that repulsive lump of flesh that was her leg, and they would sit with her.

But I can’t do it. I can’t even look at her. I rush by averting my gaze from the outcast as everyone else is doing. I can’t do it today, dear God. Not now.

I practically run to my car, hop in, and get out of there as fast as I can. On the way I see people walking and I think – They see this every day. This is their life. This is life in the raw. This is the parallel world that goes on while I live my comfortable life in a city in which it is illegal to beg.

I turn the radio on. Loud. Maybe if I run away, I can pretend it didn’t happen. I’m sorry, God. Not today.