Human Traffic Jam

            “Balak! Balak! Balak!” is one of the first phrases we learned here in Morocco. Translation: “Get out of the way,” yelled by men pushing carts loaded with gas tanks, fresh-baked bread, or leading donkeys carrying loads of shampoo or wood. Normally the reaction is to move as close to the wall as possible and glance over your shoulder to see how big the coming vehicle/animal is, but at 6:30pm last night I was stuck between a crying child and a large woman, so the “Balak!” yelling cart-man would just have to wait.

            I had left our house to meet my roommate and walk her back home – for some reason it feels safer walking out of the medina than into it, and it had gotten dark earlier than expected. I walked unobstructed and unbothered for most of the way, until a knot of people between a boot-seller and a store hawking jellabas and scarves plugged the narrow street. I dived into the seven-foot-long sea of head-scarved women holding their knee-high children by the hand, following behind a broad-shouldered man until he pushed through a crack and left me to be swallowed by the crowd. A giant cart covered with a wool blanket was stuck at a standstill on my left, and from behind the force of the crowd was pushing a woman into me and myself into the small child caught between my legs and his mother’s. The mother turned towards the shoe shop, captivated by a slipper, and I squeezed through the tiny space between her back and the cart to advance a few inches. Hot and feeling mildly claustrophobic, I tried to slip into the space left by the cart as it parted the crowd. Unfortunately, everyone else had the same great idea and I only found myself being pushed towards a pile of sneakers, on sale for just 50dh if you could find two that matched. I tried to keep my hands by my pockets, but the crowd was so tight that even pickpockets would have had trouble bending their elbows to grab my things.

            Finally, creeping along the shoe display while attempting to keep my backpack from hitting anyone in the face, I popped out into the open, and after staggering a few paces turned back to look at the crowd.

            It made no sense. The shoe store and jellaba shop were identical to myriad others on the same street farther down. Before the high-density area and after it the street was just as narrow, but for some reason there was a human traffic jam in that one spot. Just another Moroccan moment that denied all logic. I enjoyed the luxury of personal space for a moment before continuing on my way, crafting a plan for better navigating the human knot on the way back.