In Essaouira, coastal Morocco, there are
“wallists”. These are young men who lean on walls or wander laps around the
Medina or kick the soccer ball around the beach trying to get the attention of
a suitable woman. A not-Moroccan woman, perhaps a little older, perhaps cashed
up enough to provide some apartment living in exchange for being half of a
couple. There are a few other terms for this type of “career”. These current wallists
obviously haven’t been too successful, it’s towards the end of the tourist season
here and there and they’re still wandering around apartment/girlfriend-less. I
think it’s to do with the stupid hat one dread-locked guy is wearing and his
poor wallist friends are suffering from his shit fashion sense. I have not
found them particularly appealing, and they, clearly have not found me so,
there have been no calls of “bon jour”, “Hola” or “Excuse me” that pepper the
street as I walk by and vendors anticipate getting some dirhams out of my
wallet. Which is far more likely to happen than me putting them up in an
apartment.
I think the general feeling was summed up
yesterday on the beach, I was with a few girls watching some women (Aussie and
English) do an arty sandy thing on the beach – I can think of a lot better ways
to spend a Sunday morning but no one is drinking here so I think that’s why
people end up doing sand art. Anyway, a Moroccan guy came up uninvited and
looked us – with a total lack of subtlety- up and down. For quite an
uncomfortably long time. Then he announced his judgment that the curvy blonde
to my left was “The best” and tried to encourage her to consider being his 4th
wife. She politely declined. Then he turned to the girl next to me who had
“beautiful milky skin” and tried his fabulous wit and charm on her. Both these
girls are already married to Moroccan men. So he turned to me: “You! (pinching
me around my stomach) Not much camels for you! Too skinny – you help me get one
of these girls”. I less politely declined being his pimp. He was not impressed
with me at all. Seriously? At least I’m not cruising strangers on the beach for
spouse number 5 (as if one isn’t ever ENOUGH!!).
So I am not particularly camel-worthy.
Which is fine, I am not a curvy blonde with milky skin but I do know I have a
few other qualities that might be appreciated. I guess the problem is you might
have to get to know me to see them, they might not be evident on an initial
meeting – especially while travelling when I look like I have slept in the sand
with a stray cat bunked down in my hair. And this is the catch 22. We don’t
want to be superficial and make judgments based on looks. We certainly don’t
want to be judged on our looks. But we are.
I have just read Cate Moran’s How To Be A Woman (a must read for all
women – and most men), a modern feminist’s “rant” (in the word’s of wise Erin).
She ponders the fact that it is mainly women booking in for plastic surgery or
some sort of re-jigging/re-youthing of their looks. She believes that not only
are women doing this because they are so concerned about their looks, or losing
their attractiveness, but that most men don’t seem to notice if anything has
been done – so it is, in fact, not only scary in what it suggests about a
woman’s identity and value being placed on her looks, but also that it is kind
of pointless if they’re doing it for the opposite sex. Of course we really know
all beauty adjustments are really done for ourselves. Or for the judgment of
other women. She also points out that a lot of re-jigging happens post
fertility time in a woman’s life, a connection between society’s perception of
us as most attractive – and valuable- in our fertile years. Moran also declares
her refusal to have anything re-jigged or re-youthed – she will take glory in
hard won wrinkles and sags which are the marks of her very interesting life and
motherhood. And I applaud her for that.
But.
I wonder if it is indeed an easier
declaration made from one’s home with children and a husband who love you with
all the sags and scars and wonky bits. For others it is a harder job to dismiss
how other people perceive you. Because we are summed up superficially. I do it :
She’s a blonde ditz. He’s a meathead. I wish I didn’t. I love that travel and
new places mean you get stuck with people you wouldn’t normally choose to spend
time with and discover a whole world of amazingly interesting people. But we still
give people the once over. We eye them up and down – whether it’s in terms of
possible friends, lovers or colleagues. We all judge people on their
camel-worthyness. The wallists are relying on their looks for a means of living
and that sounds like a shit gig yet to an extent, most of us have to do that at
some part in our lives. We have to dress a certain way for work to be taken
seriously (very much a necessity for women) or choose to look a particular way
so that those with similar interests will recognize us (Ah Ha! Helloooo fellow
Emo dude!! Let’s get together and compare the most effective deodorant when
wearing black leather in summer). We primp to attract others. This is why teenagers desperately believe in
love at first sight – that someone will immediately see beyond their looks and
awkwardness and insecurities and blemishes and see and love all the amazing
inner qualities they have. That dude on
the beach did not see mine but that’s OK cause all I saw were his flaws too – and
I don’t want to be traded for a camel anyway. But I will try and be less
judgmental and hope that means I get to know more people and be a more inner
camel-worthy person as a result. Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be giving up
eye-liner or lip gloss, the (very) occasional skirt n heels but ultimately I know-
we all do- regardless of what you declare or decide, what you nip or tuck, other
than being as nice and healthy as you can, running a rake through your hair
every now and again, brushing you or teeth and slapping on a big smile, you
really can’t do much else about the way you look anyway. Camels or no camels.
