Karma Chameleon

The chameleon -- what does he do when he sits on a tartan?
He screams and says "what do I do now, I don't know how to do this! I don't know how to fit in!"
Whether you have ever had this happen or not is debatably good or bad. Personally, I think it is good while at the same time traumatizing. 'Fitting in' is something that we like to do; 'blending in' comes as second nature to most of us. When we can't do it, it makes life difficult but it helps us grow. In the end, the chameleon either learns to blend in with the tartan or he learns that he can't. But either way, he learns, or....
he runs away.

So here's me, in Morocco. And I'm feeling like a chameleon sitting on tartan.

"How's that???" you say.

Yes, it is an odd analogy but the best I can come up with first thing on a Sunday morning. Or maybe I should explain it in simpler terms.

I'm feeling like I can't hide in my own life anymore and fitting in just doesn't come naturally, nor does it even feel natural. Somehow, fitting in stopped being natural a while back and I got used to the idea of being a stranger wandering through the world. So, in essence, I feel some days like I have lost the context of my own person and even the very smallest things amaze and transfix me. Unless I am mistaken, and I may well be so, I believe that this denotes something of a phenomenological view of life. (Tom, feel free to correct me if I am using this term wrongly)

I'll give you an example...

Two days ago I walked the streets of Casablanca just after eight o'clock in the evening. Traffic had slowly trickled away and the streets, nearly full an hour before, were close to empty of people. I had walked for some time exploring the darkened avenues and boulevards before I decided to find a taxi to take me home. As I stood at the side of the Avenue Hassan II, I watched a group of Moroccan woman collide on the sidewalk in hugs and greetings. Their covered heads and robust forms embraced each other and I stood silently watching. And I saw as I watched something I had never seen anyone in my life do before nor may ever see again.

They each embraced and kissed as many Europeans do, first on one cheek, and then on the other. But on the other, they kissed, pecking at each other's other cheek three times in succession. I watched and saw each woman daintily do this with all the others, the small group of them exchanging their one and three kisses. And it was so incredibly new to me!

The moment suddenly froze as I took these women in. And I felt so sad for them.

They did not realise, nor would they ever realise, how beautiful they were to me in that moment, --that they would never be as beautiful or as gentle to themselves or to anyone else for the rest of their lives as they were to me in that moment! And they became like a great, great work of art crumbling in front of me as each second pushed forward and their meeting ended. And I smiled and watched them drift away and into the dwindling crowd on the street until they disappeared.

None of those women would ever know the impression they had on a man from elsewhere who stood on a street corner waiting for a taxi that night.

On the way home, my taxi driver insisted on merrily chatting with me in French. He didn't stop until I told him in my horribly wrecked Quebecois, "Pardon, je ne parle pas francais tres bien. Je parle en peu".

He smiled and laughed, and then apologised to me. "Your face", he said in Moroccan French slang, "votre visage..." He said as he pulled his hand down across his face.

"You look Moroccan!"

'Thank you' I replied in both French and Arabic.

"Merci,... Shukran."