Disclaimer: This is a joke based on the reality of living in Morocco as an expat.
I’m Gonna Die in Morocco…
…by accidentally creating a giant fireball with my stove’s gas tank.
…in a fire in the dar chebab (youth center) or one of the schools, because the windows are barred and we’re always locked in from the outside. Morroco = fire hazard.
…from a scorpion/camel spider invasion.
…after a sleeping (and rabid) dog I’m photographing jumps up and bites me in the face.
…from walking on tile floor without shoes (according to Moroccans).
…by tripping on the tiny, arbitrary step that seems to exist in the middle of most Moroccan rooms.
…by getting hit by one of the cars/motorcycles/bikes that drives way too close in order to get a better look at the white people.
…by eating too much. For one thing, the food is delicious, so why wouldn’t I gorge myself? For another, Moroccans attribute having eaten too much to be the cause of any illness, ranging from a cold to a hernia.
…getting pecked to death by my pigeons. They’re very territorial, and I’ve been sleeping on the roof.
…getting rabies from a wayward bat. See above.
Well, I’ll be fine, but apparently my unborn children will die if I sit on the floor.
…from drinking cold water.
…by trying to do “man work” around the house, like screwing in a lightbulb. (I was literally told by a man that I would fall and kill myself if I tried to climb a ladder.)
…from petting my semi-domesticated street dog, which—according to the neighborhood children—has AIDS.
…from being force-fed scalding hot tea when it’s 130+ degrees outside.
…by drinking scalding hot tea that hasn’t been poured eighteen times to ensure a four-inch layer of foam at the top.
…sweating to death.
…after jumping out a window the next time someone tells me I know “nothing” in Arabic.