Moroccan Menstruality

I spent the majority of January traveling throughout Morocco and came to realize over time that I would return not only with nothing to declare at customs, but -more importantly and much to my dismay-also nothing of interest to post relative to the topic of alternative menstrual products. It comes as no surprise to me that they are not available off the shelves of pharmacies, super-marches, souks or hanouts.

The language barrier separated me from conversing with most women as well…so I learned nothing about the “secret women’s business” of Al Maghrib. I held out with the alternate prospect that I would be somewhere between Marrakech and Chefchaouen on my period, with or without my menstrual cup, and worst of all -in front of a Turkish toilet contemplating my next move on limited toilet paper and without a power flush or nearby sink. In fact, I had hoped for days that this might happen so that I could report to everyone something delightful or awful. The closest I came to experiencing Morocco with a menstrual cup was a funny conversation during which the suggestion of "alternative" uses for the alternative cup arose:

"When you come back from Morocco, make sure to bring hashish back with you!!"
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Put it in your period cup. Then if a dog smells your crotch, you can just wave it off like it's normal."

I did try to share this moment with a male Moroccan friend and was sensitive enough to note that if I grossed him out, he could stop me. Really, I don’t think he understood a word I said. I talk fast…and in English…and some Spanish. My French and Moroccan Arabic were limited to few words.

Needless to say, the cup remained empty of anything and everything. While I took a risk of being without it by forgetting it at my home base (Fes) while traveling to other cities, I never did get my period...until the day before I left.

Interestingly enough, my friend who I was visiting, had planned to take me to a hammam (a bath house/spa of sorts that is reputed for sloughing layers of dead skin, warming souls, leaving everyone squeaky clean and providing an overall relaxing experience while shedding body image shame and embarrassment away with that dead skin). She too had just started to bleed and was using a tampon. While discussing social norms/taboos of Morocco, she suggested: "it might not be kosher to go to a hammam while on one's period.” Determined not to miss the experience, I assured her that she with her string tucked, I with my undetectable cup, and we with underwear on (it's only acceptable to be topless) would be fine - and sure enough, we were.


Although we survived the hammam, I managed to experience worse luck in my travels. With a load of baggage to deal with, I spent little time in the bathrooms while waiting hours for my flight –this after spending all night on the train. I managed to check and empty the cup before take-off, however, I spent a total of 12 hours in flight with a few hours here and there for a layover. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I recalled that I was not only bleeding and filling the cup, but also that I hadn’t been to a bathroom in long enough. Perhaps I am becoming accustomed to “free-bleeding” (no shame here)…for sure enough, I had the feeling in the seat of my pants that something wasn’t quite right. I discreetly glanced at the seat and saw a token rose petal and did all that I really could do at the moment: cover it with the blanket and go to the rest room.

So it goes - these pink underwear will never be so light pink again. Black pants are lucky to be black. There was nothing I could do but cover my thumb and index finger in blood that had never quite experienced Madrid nor Morocco, blood that had lined and filled and shed and tried to escape only to fill again. I prayed I wouldn’t drop it in the toilet and double checked with minor apprehension that the toilet was not an auto-flusher. (With my cup-dropping mishaps, I am slightly afraid that one day the toilet will take it…though I highly doubt this.) I used more toilet paper than I had in all of my North African journey and stuffed it in and around that little spot of the crotch of underwear where it is lined with an opening (go check – there is an extra sewn layer open at one end on many pairs of bikini bottoms – at least ones from GAP). I sighed – 5, 6 more hours? It seemed like forever.

What would you have done? I’m interested. If it had been VyNL or another of my close friends sitting next to me, I certainly would have attempted to casually let them know only to double over in laughter and repeated attempts at producing the story with a straight face. I contemplated letting a flight attendant know so that at landing, the stain could be tended to, but Iberia features employees who speak mostly Spanish. I’m not saying they couldn’t navigate English, but my pride forces me to use my language skills-and a Spanish menstrual vocabulary isn’t one of my skills. “Yo deje sangre en la silla” (I left blood on the seat)…”es de mi chocha”…(it’s from my crotch)…“Puedes limpia la?” (Can you clean it?)…that would go over nicely, muy suave. My new friend and reason for not being able to get out of my section without waking her up was from Colombia and also spoke mostly Spanish.

I never did tell the flight attendants. I returned to my seat, emptied and stuffed and put my faux leather coat over the seat. I sat in varied positions so as not to continuously smear any remaining damp blood into my coat or the seat. At one point I had to laugh because Erica (from Colombia) asked me to hold her white coat while she got up. As I went to get something out of my own bag while she was in the bathroom, I nearly sat on her white coat. I could only imagine what I would say if I managed to deposit a red letter on her sleeve. Souvenir? Fortunately, it never happened. When we landed, I covered the seat with the blanket from the airline once again –much like everyone else covers their seats. I shared this story with my boyfriend who claims he had a friend who was a flight attendant. He was certain that in the time between me landing and the flight taking off once again, the attendants will have gone through each seat, cleaning out garbage, collecting blankets and pillows and spot-treating such stains they find. And the stain will come out. I’d like to get my hands on stain remover that works so well on my blood. Hey, then I’d have pink underwear again.

-Schwinn-