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").
On the one hand…
12 years ago
