I was married on the road, conceived my daughter on the road, turned from girl to woman on the road. I acted, interacted, taught and learned on the road. I was introduced to Buddhism in Tibet, to Islam in Morocco, to Hinduism in India, to apartheid in South Africa. The road was my university, my church, my true love.
How alarming then, while travelling in Africa, to discover I was pregnant. I panicked. Now I would have to choose between travel and motherhood. But I soon discovered that in the heart of Africa I didn’t have that choice. I would have to stay pregnant. In desperation I vowed to myself that motherhood would not limit my love of exploration, of experience with people and places, would not curb the adventure. Somehow I would find a way. And so it was.
This book is the story of how I found that way, how my love of travel and adventure was shared with my daughter, Ronit. How she participated in my journey, how that journey became her journey; how we grew to better know and understand each other, how Ronit became my best travel companion.
The adventures described here take place mainly in Morocco, when three women, a fifteen year old girl and an eleven year old boy, travel in a beat-up Volkswagen into the wilds of Morocco. But the book also describes how, as soon as was possible, Ronit was exposed not only to fascinating adventures with countries but, due to lucky circumstances, to adventures with some of the most fascinating and talented poets and musicians of our time, including Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Seamus Heaney and Irving Layton; adventures which shaped both our lives. This book is the story not only of extraordinary travel adventures but also of extraordinary people adventures.
Some readers may be dismayed or even shocked by my unorthodox approach to motherhood, shocked by the risks, the dangers, the daring that Ronit was exposed to, especially in Morocco. But others may be inspired by knowing that motherhood need not be the end to travel and adventure, may find the adventures and experiences described here a way of opening the gates to their own promises of adventure. If its true that appetite comes with eating, perhaps the tastes experienced here will develop into a wondrous appetite.
Travelling today, in many ways, is easier than when I did it. The possibility is greater now than it has ever been. As Hilary, the renowned mountain climber said, “the greatest loss is not taking the adventure.” I hope this book inspires you to take it, or at the very least to participate in the journey of someone who did.
One
Travels in the Womb
“I’m taking Ronit to Morocco for a year,” I announced with measured composure, and then held my breath, fingers strangling the telephone receiver, grateful that I was in London and my former husband, Shimon, in Montreal.
“You’re doing what?” Shimon hurled at me, his voice hurtling across the Atlantic and exploding with disbelief and outrage.
As my eyes squeezed shut against the sting of his disapproval, and my ear numbed as though struck, I was suddenly reminded of another voice on the telephone, fifteen years before, using those exact words, “You’re doing what?”, in that exact tone. I was very young then and in the last stages of pregnancy with Ronit. The doctor had instructed me to phone him as soon as the contractions began, day or night. But I kept delaying the call. I was feeling dislocated, fearful, having returned home to Montreal only weeks earlier after a long, wonderful absence travelling the world, because I needed somewhere to have a baby. The problem was I didn’t want to have a baby and dreaded going to the hospital, knowing that once there, I would have no choice. Finally, just after midnight, I phoned the doctor, compounding my fear of the hospital with that of waking him.
“My contractions have begun,” I announced brightly, belying my multiple anxieties. I could hear his yawn.
“How long apart are they?” He sighed sleepily, and I could tell he was pondering the perversity of yet another female who insisted on giving birth in the middle of the night.
“They’re coming every few minutes.” Suddenly he was wide awake.
“What are you doing?” His voice was shrill and I detected an edge of alarm.
“I’m going to have a shower and go to bed.”
“You’re doing what?” he rasped, spitting that same disbelief and outrage in those same words. I repeated my agenda with dwindling confidence. “You’re getting into a taxi and going to the hospital, pronto, right away. I’ll meet you there.” He hung up.
Shimon and I couldn’t afford a taxi, so with heavy heart I woke my father and he drove us to the hospital. An hour later Ronit was born.
Now, fifteen years later, Shimon’s voice had that same resolute quality the doctor’s had all those years ago, and I shuddered at the recollection, my resolve threatened.
“You’re not taking Ronit to Morocco.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? I can’t believe you’re asking that. It’s suicidal, that’s why not.”
He proceeded to recite a litany of disasters involving people we knew; friends robbed of everything, money, clothes, tickets, passports, everything; a close friend imprisoned for months in a filthy cell; female friends, especially vulnerable, harassed and pursued to the point of despair; police extracting bribes; and drugs, drugs and more drugs; the list was endless and accurate.
“And you ask why not? If you want to get yourself killed, that’s your business, but what do you have against Ronit? You’re supposed to be her mother.… And what about school?”
“School’s no problem,” I said quickly, grateful to circumvent the heavier issues. “She’s a year ahead anyway. I’ll just take her out for a year. They’re used to that in London,” I improvised. “It’s no problem.”
“It’s no problem? It’s nothing but problems.” I could feel his frustration, his exasperation at having no control over my decisions and his daughter’s life.
“How about if I take her to Morocco for six months and you take her to Canada for six months,” I offered.
“I don’t even want to discuss it. If you take her to Morocco, I’m cutting off my support cheques.” With that he hung up.
But stopping Ronit’s meagre support cheques was hardly a deterrent. It would just mean adding waitress work to my supply teaching to earn extra money, and hitchhiking instead of taking buses and trains to conserve it. It would make things a lot more difficult for us — not really what Shimon wanted, but he had to do something to express his opposition.
I understood his worry. Shimon had never been to Morocco. The sinister stories he heard had fermented in his imagination until Morocco became one gigantic tale of horror, peopled by dark lean men with alligator jaws who snapped up foolish ladies like me for breakfast, saving the succulent ones, like Ronit, for dessert. It loomed like some faceless monster with a terrible heart, unpredictable, unknowable. It was different for me. I had been to Morocco. It was not a life-threatening experience. But I knew it would be impossible to convince Shimon of that. I remembered the terrible fear my parents suffered when I was in Northern Ireland and the Canadian press reported incident after incident of shootings and bombings. They begged me to return, fearing for my life. It was impossible to convince them that I was in no danger; that despite the bombings and shootings, life was entirely ordinary; that imagining the horrors in Northern Ireland was far worse than being there; that life endured with stubborn normality behind the headlines and horror stories. But that was no consolation for Shimon. For him only the dangers were
