I’ve just finished Jeffery Tayler’s book about his trip across the Sahel in Africa. So I found his other journey journal, called “Glory in a Camel’s Eye,” on Amazon and extracted this nugget.
“In any case, I discovered a distraction that brought me closer to Moroccan life than any job with the Peace Corps ever would: Moroccan women. The first year I didn’t dare engage them; the second year I found I couldn’t resist. They glided down Marrakesh’s alleys of dung levened dust, their kohl-daubed eyes alert, their breasts swinging under the silk of flowing djellabas, their hair glinting with the warm tints of henna. The prospect of marrying a rich (to them) American made me attractive enough, as the did the chance to dabble in pleasures of the flesh with a forbidden Christian; they knew that Nasranis would not despise them as whores for sleeping with them.
The instructors said not a word about the evening paseo, during which single men and women strolled the downtown avenues, arranging trysts after exchanging little more than stares and smiles. They didn’t mention sbagha (painting) the practice whereby a Moroccan woman, desirous of maintaining her virginity yet determined to get off with her lover, vigorously ‘paints’ her clitoris with the tip of his erect penis. Nor did they tell us anything about the prevalence of prostitutes, often veiled, who worked the crowds of the big cities at dusk, searching for clients as the call to prayer sounded.”
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