The starving kitten, so common in these parts, so helpless, unsure if it will see another sunrise, or if it even would want to. Here in the desert the tourists flock to escape the soul-sucking cloud cover of northern Europe, to breath in the life that one great star sheds down upon us. But when you're a kitten- already struggling to scrape up enough fuel to move from one shaded alleyway to the next, the burning rays of the midday sun are anything but a benediction.
I'm fascinated by these little creatures. Not only is their omnipresence all the more remarkable as they seem to go unnoticed by most, but the role they play in Marrakechi society seems almost entirely reserved to the ranks of schoolgirls. The kitten is in some way the barbie doll of North Africa- a training device used as an outlet for budding maternal instincts.
As I wondered through the souk, as aimlessly as if I didn't actually want to be there, I came across a modest sized group of felines, composed of a mother figure, entirely inattentive, indolently siesta-ing in the shade of a kumquat bush, and her three motley offspring, ribs exposed, eyes infected, but still lovin' life.
I found the whole scene quite tragically charming, really.
All evidence points to the fact that these creatures are unloved, unneeded, and all around purposeless. But my oh my, someone sure loves them.
Resolving to grant them one precious moment of my attention, I reached into my bag to grab my camera.
A click of my Canon, and a little voice popped into my head. Except it's not in my head, it's chasing me down the alley. I glance to the left and am hit with "Excusez-moi, monsieur! Vous n'avez pas le droit de prendre des photos! S'il vous plait, donnez-moi l'appareil !" and despite the startlingly good French, all I my shriveled, dehydrated brain stem can process is "RAW RAW RAW! ME WANT EAT MANFLESH"
A 6 year old child. Running at me, spearheading the movement for feline rights.
Have you ever been struck with actual butt-cheek-clenching, forehead-sweating fear in the face of a 6 year old girl? Neither had I, and frankly her ugly, brutish temperament immediately doused the interest I would have normally taken to such impressive language skills.
Time to act, Zachary. Do I lie? Do I give her my camera? All my money? Do I punch her in the face?
Run. Oh my fucking god, just run!
And thats what I did. Like little Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth when the psycho Franco-fascist chases her to a gory death in the maze of stones. Down another street, at one point panicking as I hit a cul-de-sac, cursing the day I was born.
Oooh and all that fear, she could smell it. She took great delight in it.
I was well aware that Moroccans tend to shy away from photography with a sort of nervous, suspicious modesty, but I didn't know that cats were allowed identity cards, and I didn't know kittens had brains (see attached photo). Next thing you know, they'll want the right to vote and to marry one another! The world has gone to the dogs, I tell ya. (that was ironic and funny)
Sooo there ya have it. The next generation of maneating soccer moms is alive and well here in Morocco. So if you signed up for it, I suggest you don't forget the goddamn Capri Suns.
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