Drifting (Final Episode: Rabat and home again)

Rabat is not, like almost ever other major city in Morocco, a tourist destination. Rather, since it is the capitol, it is a place of work for most local and international governmental and non-governmental agencies. It is therefore, a city that takes itself seriously, and has no time to bother with impressing it's guest (which in itself is very impressive). Meanwhile, it boasts what must be the largest collection of pizzerias and ice cream shops in all of Morocco. Additionally, it possesses one of the liveliest, most diverse souq markets, a small but impressive flower market, an unexpected array of architecture, and of course, the ocean.

One day while wondering the streets of Rabat, Amber and I came across our friend Jack, who works in the mountains north of us in one of the coldest sites in Morocco. He had befriended some Fulbright scholars who are researching Morocco and who live in Rabat in a sweet condo overlooking the ocean. As it happened, he was headed to see them, and having never seen Rabat's shoreline, we asked permission to tag along. A short taxi ride took us from downtown Rabat to an intersection on a steep incline obscuring our view of the ocean just over the hill. We crossed it diagonally, passed a towering set of historic wooden doors, and entered into the most irresistible neighborhood of curving cobblestone alleyways. It was a quiet old adobe medina, whitewashed except for a strip of cerulean blue paint from floor to waist level. Turning a corner, we followed an undulating stone path, which forked into two dead-ends, one bowing of to the right and narrowing to the width of a thin human, and the other widening and dropping down a few stone steps, before terminating at a stout aged wooden door. Along this amusing trail we found our destination and stepped into the surprisingly modern interior of a condo- not unlike what you might expect to find in any American suburb -except for a flight of stairs which took us to a rooftop patio surrounded by other rooftops of staggered height, and overlooking the beach. There we lounged in the sun, watching the crashing waves and the surfers that road them preparing on the sand.

That place, so different from the high desert Berber village that I try hard to inhabit, was the other side of Morocco. And in it, I could see not only the differences between these two divergent pieces of Morocco, but also the similarities- the characteristics that define this country - diversity, conviviality, effortless beauty, and contentment (which I admit that I have sometimes mistaken for naivety or indolence). Seeing these familiar traits in an unfamiliar setting, invigorated my love of Morocco. As we sat and enjoyed the view, the warm sun, and the light breezes, a calm came over me. We chatted with Jack about the idiosyncrasies of Peace Corps living, and laughing about our unusual existence. Suddenly we came to an important realization; that a PCV was inevitably the first person to utter the age-old question, "Why did the chicken cross the road". First of all, you must acknowledge that in the majority of PCV sites, chicken road-crossings or a daily if not hourly occurrence. Pair that with the inexorable inquisitiveness and boredom of most PCV, and add to that the limited language skills of learning an obscure second language, and what do you get? An obvious and simple, yet elusive question, "Why did that chicken cross the road"? Actually, its a fair question. I see chickens cross the road all the time for no apparent reason. I mean why are they even near the road in the first place. Many times they just end up crossing back after a short time, and there are rarely more dangers to evade or more pebbles to peck at on one on side than another. So why did the chicken cross the road? Maybe in order to befriend and assist a previously unknown culture. Or to get to know another part of the world. Or to discover more about herself and enrich her soul. Or maybe she just saw something shiny...

Eventually we walked down to the beach, passing a sign that said in French "Hazardous Area" and had an arrow pointing down a steep trail, daring people, rather than dissuading them, to go down the path towards a stone lookout built up over the rocks and rolling waves. Then we walked down along the beach to a boardwalk dotted with fishermen, smitten couples, and men boiling water with portable propane tanks. We walked out to the end and lingered until we were drenched by an overreaching wave and decided to head back. Back at the condo we split ways with Jack and took our time walking back to our hotel through the evening souq. Along the way we ate some pizza, enjoyed some outstanding date flavored gelato with freshly made waffle cones, and bartered for a nice pair of leather shoes with some salesboys that spoke TaslHite. All the while we marveled at the general lack of attention we received as foreigners; a welcome change of pace.

We spent three days enjoying the no-hassle, no-hustle atmosphere of Rabat, and then we got back on the train to Marrakech (actually we got on the wrong train and were told by the friendly ticket-checker to get off and wait for the our intended train at the next stop). But we made it back to Marrakech without further incident, spent the night in an inexpensive Peace Corps-friendly hotel, and were up early the next morning catching a bus back home. When we arrived home and picked up our house keys from the neighbors, their enthusiasm reassured us that we had not lost much ground with our community during our absence. What ground we did lose and more would soon be made up with our participation in the upcoming celebration of one of the most important Moroccan holidays, "L3id Kbir" (literally "big holiday").

Drifting (Episode Two: Tiznit, Home, and Rabat)

One evening in crowded center of Marrakech will enchant you, leaving you exhausted and wanting more. A second day will break the spell. Spending any more time than that will only irritate you. We took full advantage of our time in the magical city- buying handcrafted goods, visiting the obligatory souqs and stalls, making friends and drinking tea with vendors, and even crossing the path of a well-known actress currently filming the "Sex in the City" sequel movie- but when the time came to say goodbye, we were ready. And though it was fun to experience the more extravagant and free-spirited tourist lifestyle in Morocco, by far the most rewarding moments in Marrakech occurred when I connected to the local people in ways that only a PCV can. Seeing people's eyes light up when they realized we were speaking to them in TashlHite was priceless. And I was fascinated to find myself in arguments with people whose racism ferments deep hatred for the Berbers of Morocco, a people they insist are irreligious and barbaric. I may not have changed their minds, but I felt more like a local, and more like a Berber than ever before, arguing for the equal rights and respect of Morocco's indigenous inhabitants. So, while it was hard to say goodbye to Denise and Amber who were headed to Fez for more fun-filled city exploration, it was with pleasure that I put my volunteer hat back on, and headed back to the bled.

From Marrakech I took a bus to Agadir, where I met Jess and Marge from my CBT group. Together we took a taxi a bit further south down the coast, to their stomping grounds of Tiznit.

The Tiznit Provence is known for its vast silver market, its exotic argan nuts (supposedly grown nowhere else in the world), its conservative religious tendencies, and its lack of work (which correlates directly to a lack of males, most of whom travel elsewhere for employment). As result, only female Peace Corps volunteers are sent to the region and the area is affectionately referred to as "the convent". It was, therefore, with great caution and stealth that I smuggled myself into Jess's house, where we spent the evening making Thai food and watching movies. Early the next morning we exited Jess's village with equal surreptitiousness, returning to the casual, sunny city of Tiznit (Tiznit's sleepy beach community atmosphere reminds me of a very young San Diego). There we spent hours wandering the bright dusty streets witnessing what seemed like miles of silver shops. We ate delicious harsha (like flat corn bread) with honey and melted butter, in a cafe whose impressive display of pastries was improved by the constant buzzing of bees attracted by sugary glazes. We visited the two major Tiznit tourist attractions; the iconic adobe mosque spiked with logs, which supposedly help spirits climb to heaven; and the original city spring, steeped in legend and sadly mistreated. And before I left, we played Marge's recently purchased "Moroccan Monopoly", with property names, train stations and utility companies that we recognized from around Morocco! My only complaint was that the all-important "souq" was not represented on the board.... oh and the "chance" cards, sadly, were in French.

The next morning I left Tiznit on an early bus, and arrived home, just before dark, to a bitter-sweet homecoming. I felt homesick and missed my community, but I also sensed that my extended absence had distanced me from my neighbors and friends. Also, my language was out of practice, and Amber's absence (she was still away in Fez), made the house lonely and complicated my ability to reengage friendships with community members, particularly women (As you may have gathered, Moroccan culture does not openly accept friendships between people of the opposite sex. Any relationship between a man and a woman who are not related is assumed to be sexual. Of course, this varies from region to region, and is much less true in bigger cities. In our town it is okay to have mixed friendships if you are married, as long as the married couple is together. I doubt that I could even have a tutoring lesson with our female tutor without Amber present).

I moped around the house without direction, making very little contact with the community and inadvertently addicting myself to episodes of "Mad Men" (more on this later hopefully), before finally deciding to focus. By the time Amber returned, I had mentally reinvented my approach to working, and I was redoubling my efforts to assimilate in the community. Soon things started looking up. We had some really great interactions with people in the community, our language was seemingly on the rise again, and we were encouraged. Together we decided that the best thing for us to do, both for our sanity and for the sake of our work, was to stay firmly planted in our community for a length of time, and avoid further travel. I don't know if this is a Morocco thing or a Peace Corps thing, but the life we lead here is one of constant contradiction. Within days of our resolution to remain stationary, we were told that we would need to travel, with only one days notice, to Rabat for the weekend.

Entrusting keys and cat to our lovely neighbors, we begrudgingly made our way back to Marrakech, where we quickly caught a train to Rabat. Despite our misgivings about traveling, I was excited for the opportunity to take the train, which seem to be an elusive and luxurious form of travel compared to the souq buses we normally employ to traverse the countryside. At the very least, the path of a train promised less severe curves and was therefore less likely to cause nausea. Also, I discovered the added benefit that you can get up and wonder the halls when you are bored or need to stretch your legs. By the time we arrived in Rabat, although still plagued by the guilt of impermanent progress in my site, my ire had dissolved to mild indignation, which over the course of the weekend, would be overcome by the soothings of Rabat.

(learn what makes Rabat such a great city and why the chicken crossed the road in the next riveting installment soon to come)

Drifting (Episode One: Marrakech)

Life in small town Morocco has recently expanded it boarders. I fall in and out of sleep pondering where I am. A hotel in Rabat? A fellow PVC's living room floor? A kasbah in Taznght? Marrakech? Tiznit? A train?
The blurring of time and space began about a month ago when Amber and I left for training in Marrakech. We met up with a gaggle of volunteers for an evening in the city of Ourzazate before splintering into various travel groups heading to different Halloween parties scattered about southern Morocco. Amber and I attended a party held at a breathtaking, meandering casbah, with a beautiful garden entrance, candles lining the stairs, tasteful painted trim around doors and windows, and hanging plants adorning the multi-level courtyard. As the sun set on the adobe village, the din of costumed Americans, chatting, dancing, and preparing refreshments, echoed off the ancient mud walls.
The next morning we woke early, and walked the mile or so across low fields to the main road where we caught a transit to a bus station. Soon, we were making our way up one of the most difficult passes in Morocco winding through the Middle Atlas Mts. towards Marrekech. We arrived in Kech some 5 hours later and chose the least pushy of the taxi drivers accosting us as we exited the bus station to take us to our training hotel. The hotel was a bit outside the central tourist sections of Marrekech, surrounded by newly built suburban complexes and mellow streets. And since I didn't really venture further than the neighborhood pizzeria for the first week, this was my first, albeit naive, impression of Marrakech.
Training flew by. We told stories, exchanged ideas, problem-solved, worked in groups, listened to presentations and enjoyed the quality food and company. In the evenings, nightly potlucks formed in the shared bungalows, complete with kitchen, where unmarried volunteers stayed (married couples were accommodated in tradition hotel rooms). After dinner, people hung out around music circles, caught up with their email in the lobby, grabbed taxis to the city, or took advantage of the hotel's showers and hot water. All in all, a very relaxing and rejuvenating week- much needed for the weeks to come.
We checked out of our hotel Saturday morning and headed to the Kech airport where we picked up Amber's mother. We dropped our bags at a fun riyad buried in the winding alleys sprouting from the edges of the famous Jmaa Al'Fna. And there, for the first time, we hung up our volunteer hats, instead donning tourist hats, and walked out to the busy square. As promised by tourist magazines and travel books, Jmaa Al'Fna was bursting at its mortar seams with rich foods, extravagant spectacles, and unique scents and sounds. Lined stalls of nuts, and dried fruits sold by the kilo. Orange juicers shouting invites in numerous languages from behind their carefully stacked citrus pyramids. Tea vendors standing next to karts with large copper kettles steaming in the cool night air, pouring glass after glass of piping hot spiced tea, sweet and pungent, like liquid cinnamon. Women sitting on wooden crates offering to paint intricate henna designs on the hands and feet of passers-by. Whirling dancers accompanied by drummers and men playing long droning brass trumpets, high-pitched but hollow, as if muffled by history. Snake charmers blowing penny whistles and prodding hissing snakes, putting cigarettes between their long fangs. One man brought his thick snake and hung it around my neck. "You take picture! You have camera?" I told him in TashlHite, "Excuse me, but I don't have a camera". He gingerly removed the snake suggesting I come back later. "Encha'llah"(god willing), I said.

(Check soon for the next evocative installment of "Drifting" in which I part ways with Amber and Denise and head south to the beaches of Tiznit)