Magnified Emotions
“Traveling tends to magnify all human emotions.”
— Peter Hoeg (Danish writer)
In the summer of 1981, to be Polish was exciting, as was proclaimed by inscriptions on T-shirts sold in Western Europe. A third of all Poles, myself included, had joined the Solidarity movement believing that we were participating in something significant. This was the non-violence mass social movement - or the revolution - of the Polish baby boomers. We did what all revolutionaries do: we sang protest songs such as “Mury” (Walls) to the melody of the Catalan “L’Estaca” (The Stake) by Lluis Llach, (although “Mury” seemed to have more powerful words in Polish, written by the young Polish poet – “the bard”, as he was called - Jacek Kaczmarski). We hailed banners with the word SOLIDARNOŚĆ (Solidarity) inscribed in characteristic red letters on a white background with euphoria, and last but not least, we experienced a feeling of genuine solidarity with each other and with the rest of the humanity.
I made my second trip to Morocco that summer. Normally I would have flown, but with a small “Solidarity” badge, with its characteristic marching letters proudly pinned to my shirt, I felt more adventurous than it was usual my nature to do – or was it just the excitement of being Polish at such a time? Whatever the case, after a short visit to Bourges, a town with a glorious past, where my brother had been studying painting at the local École des Beaux Arts, I took a night-train from Paris to Sète, a port on the Mediterranean coast. I arrived there early in the morning. The ferry from Sète to Tangier (in Morocco) was leaving in the afternoon, so I had enough time for sightseeing. Sète is a charming small town, notable for being commemorated in the poetry of Paul Valéry. A number of France’s most famous artists and sculptors were born and raised in Sète, Georges Brassens, a French singer-songwriter and poet, among the others. Paul Valéry is also buried here - in the graveyard above the harbor, the same graveyard he depicted in his most famous poem, “Le cimetière marin” (The Graveyard By The Sea). Like the poet, I too had walked to the cemetery at noon, when impartial noon patterns the sea in flame, and motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue, broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme.
In the past, whenever I had taken a ferry across the Baltic sea to Sweden, I would buy the cheapest ticket, which meant that I would be sleeping on the upper deck or, more accurately, in the cafeteria which would close for business at night. At dawn I would be woken up by the buzzing of a vacuum cleaner around me, and - if I was sleeping on the floor - feel it brushing against my sleeping bag, but that was a minor inconvenience. In the morning, while the ferry was approaching Stockholm through the beautiful archipelago, I would get up and refresh myself, so I could step off the ferry feeling well-rested, and eager to pay a visit to the student employment agency.
Therefore, when I was buying the ticket for the passage from Sète to Tangier, which lasted some three days and two nights, I took for granted that I would spend the nights on the upper deck. I could not have been more mistaken. After we had embarked the ship, I learnt that those in tourist class sleep on reclining airplane seats on the lowest deck. The lounge was already full of older Moroccan men in dejellabas, long robes with full sleeves and baggy hoods, small turbans or fezzes, and soft yellow pointed slippers. (Women were probably in a separate lounge, which I guessed later. The ticket seller had clearly mistaken my gender. Although, perhaps different rules apply to non-Muslim women.) Hundreds of thousands of Moroccans who now lived in France would to go back to their mother country as often as possible. My accidental travel companions were already settling down for the night, unfolding mattresses and brightly colored blankets (which they clearly did not need) in the spaces between the seats. Since the hour was still early, I wanted to sit or stroll on the open deck, enjoy the sunset, the air, and the views, but I hesitated as to what to do with my belongings. I was the only woman here among at least 50 men, who - to my horror - used both restrooms in the lounge. How could I survive three days and two nights in a stuffy space full of Berbers or Arabs, who at that moment were all watching me expectantly, as if waiting for some decision on my part? They had wise faces; their glossy black eyes smiled, but their lips did not. While I was gloomily reviewing my situation, two more men arrived, and one of them looked French. Another European, at last! The Frenchman looked around, fished me out of the crowd: “Pardon, mademoiselle, avez-vous de l'aspirine? J'ai la migraine si horrible,” he complained loudly, in the manner of a capricious character from a nineteenth-century French novel. I shook my head apologetically. Feeling a little disappointed by this effeminate Frenchman, I looked at his companion. Something about the face of this dark boy struck me as being very sad, but they left their things and headed to the exit before I had time to ponder it. I put my luggage on my chair and followed them to the upper deck.
The ferry boat set sail in the late afternoon. We would spend two nights aboard and arrive in Tangiers on the morning of the third day. I found an empty canvas chair on deck and settled down happily with a book. Meanwhile, Sète had long disappeared over the horizon. Reading had made me hungry, so I went to the cafeteria, where I spotted the Frenchman again. He was eating alone. I looked around and found his sad companion watching him, like a starving dog, from outside, through the glass partition. There was something terribly disturbing about this picture.
A little later I saw the Frenchman moving in my direction. Judging from his polite smile, he wanted a favor from me. I guessed right. “Mademoiselle, pouvez-vous garder mon pulll et ma serviette, s'il vous plait?” Obediently though unwillingly, I agreed to keep an eye on his expensive cashmere pullover and his towel, soft as a cloud. Next day I would learn that he tended to carry around far too many accessories: not only the baby blue sweater and the yellow towel, but also a leather man-purse, a chic scarf, and so on. Looking after his things for him made me feel as if I were on duty.
Evening came, and to delay whatever surprises awaited me on the lowest deck, I went to the discotheque, a somewhat desperate decision for someone who avoids noisy music and crowds. I had barely sat down when a young Palestinian boy emerged from the dimness of the room and asked me to dance; it turned out he was fascinated by the Solidarity badge pinned to my shirt. He suggested an exchange: his keffiyeh (a black and white Palestinian scarf) for my badge. He had been deported from France for participating in political demonstrations, and his parents, who lived in Palestine, had been forced to emigrate to Morocco. For a moment we felt a special bond - two kids with their “tribal stigmas” among these happily dancing people. I gladly exchanged my badge for his scarf.
The night came and I headed down to my chair. Oddly enough, the big lounge full of elderly men did not smell bad. In fact, it did not smell at all. The air didn’t seem stuffy, the ventilation was working perfectly. I covered myself with the provided blanket and went to sleep. Thus I spent the rest of the trip: the night among silent Moroccan men, the day with a book on the upper deck, guarding the Frenchman’s things while he would vanish God knows where. As we sailed past the Balearic Islands the next day it became unbearably hot; the air began to cool down just past Gibraltar on the morning of the third day. Finally we arrived in Tangier, where I was reunited with my dad for a happy vacation.
On my way back to Europe, I would take a train from Madrid to Hendaye on the French frontier, where I would change for the Paris train. My dad came with me to the Madrid Atocha station to see me off, before driving back alone to Morocco. The train which started its route in Algeciras (the Spanish town across the bay from Gibraltar) was already standing on the platform. To my horror, the carriage in which I had a reserved place was full of Moroccans, all older men again, who suspiciously resembled my pals from the ferry. I did not want to share a small compartment with them. They would probably sleep on the floor again. “Don’t worry”, said my dad, “we’ll find you another seat. Look at that carriage over there, it’s empty.” We went to the empty carriage and without a moment’s hesitation, I boarded the train. It did not occur to either of us that the carriage might be empty for a reason. If there was any information posted anywhere, we did not notice it. I took a window seat in the middle compartment like I owned it. I was the sole occupant of the carriage until about three minutes before the train’s departure. Out of the blue, a squad of Spanish recruits in fresh uniforms with brand new backpacks on their shoulders ran onto the platform and quickly boarded the empty carriage. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was surprised to see them. My presence there caused a small confusion. Obviously I had taken someone’s seat. The carriage was full to the brim now. My dear dad, standing on the platform, looked terribly anxious, but it was too late for me to go to the “Moroccan” carriage where I belonged. Luckily, all the recruits found their seats, and nobody kicked me out of the compartment. The train began to pull out, and I waved goodbye to my worried parent.
Feeling uneasy as the only woman in this company of young men, I tried to read and alternately stared out of the window. I was counting on the age difference making me invisible to the young Spaniards. A pipe dream. They were not going to leave me to my thoughts. To catch my attention, someone would say something, then all would burst into laughter and watch my reaction. It took them some time to realize that I didn’t speak Spanish and that their jokes were wasted on me. With resigned looks on their faces, they took up their backpacks to browse their contents. What do we have here? They would jokingly wave in front of me every piece of their new garments: socks, T-shirts, boxer briefs, sweatshirts, all in the military patterned khakis. I now bitterly regretted giving away my SOLIDARITY badge. The badge would send out a clear message that I had more important things to think about than fooling around with recruits. Finally they got bored with the clothes or simply got hungry. They opened their paper brown bags with genuine curiosity, took out sandwiches and canned soda, and - in sign language - offered some to me. They were really kind boys. I wanted to keep my guard up but they effectively disarmed me.
In this friendly, relaxed atmosphere we arrived at Vitoria-Gasteiz, the principal city of the Basque country. The city is known for the battle in 1813 in which a British, Portuguese and Spanish army under Wellington defeated the French army under Joseph Bonaparte, the elder brother of Napoleon. Beethoven dedicated a symphony “Wellingtons Sieg oder die Schlacht bei Vittoria” (Wellington's Victory, or, the Battle of Vitoria) to the victory. To fulfill the military tradition of the area (or for other reasons), there are Spanish army headquarters of the Basque region in Vitoria-Gasteiz, and this is where my happy traveling companions were going. A puffed up army sergeant with a very sinister looking smile was already waiting for them on the platform. They started pointing at him and groaning loudly. Their gaiety had suddenly vanished. Seeing compassion in my eyes they bent over me, one after the other, and asked for a kiss on the cheek. Adiós, adiós, they sobbed. The boys from adjacent compartments asked me to kiss them too. That day I must had kissed, para la buena suerte, over a dozen extremely handsome Spaniards. Good luck with the sergeant, young soldiers. And good luck to you, the Palestinian boy, with smuggling my Solidarity badge into Morocco, and good luck to you, the sad looking Moroccan lad, with your life.
