The same day that Chris touched down on Rabat soil, I met three Norwegian born and raised
Moroccan/Turkish guys in my hotel lobby who wanted suggestions on where to go in the city. By invitation the following night, the trio accompanied my friends and I to Reservoir’s Tuesday Salsa Night. It just so happened that 2 of the 3 of our new friends were professional competitive breakdancers, so after the salsa swirling subsided, a few of their impressive moves were showcased on the dance floor. In the meantime, Kellye (the other Wellesley intern) busted out an Irish leg jig that would outdo any Celtic on the court. Nights like these, with a random assortment of friends (and dance moves!), capture perfectly the diversity of the life and the people here in Rabat. As great as Rabat is, there comes a point when one must spread one’s wings and take flight from the nation’s small capital. Our so-called wings, in fact, are the train tracks of Morocco, an easy and affordable way to get around the country. Our destination two weekends ago was Marrakech, where my friend Samir picked us up from the train station and swept us off to the Bank al Maghrib’s clubhouse that puts its employees up for their vacation. We spent the entire day poolside, soaking up Marrakech’s intense rays. It is virtually impossible to do anything other than lounge around during the day, as the heat of this landlocked city is unbearable. Like the freshly-squeezed orange juice that you can conveniently find on the streetside, your energy is squeezed out by Marrakech’s blazing sun, leaving behind a lazy heap of pulp. Days in Marrakech only begin to ripen in the late
afternoon, at which point people come out from hiding (or in our case, out from a really nice resort) and begin to flock the main square. Whether it is its history as the ancient location for public executions, the snake charmers that sit side-by-side cobras, or the blankets covered in herbs and healing porcupine quills, la place Jemaa el Fnaa exudes an aura of magic and mystery. A sense of marvel fills you as you sip Moroccan mint tea on top of a rooftop terrace that overlooks the maze of stalls and their ascending smoke. The cherry on top of our fabulous day was our trip to Théâtro, a discothèque that is la crème de la crème of the clubbing scene. Living up to its name, the club finds itself in an old theatre, and features tin men (no joke!) lighting fireballs to a techno music backdrop. The next day was just as magical, as we visited the well-known Ménara pavilion embedded in a garden of olive trees that marks most postcards of Marrakech, later watching a belly dancing performance with the surprise company of the Norwegian Moroccans we had recently met in Rabat. From mystical Marrakech one weekend, to old-Fashioned Fes the next. I’m learning that although each Moroccan city shares a similar framework (medina > the Ville Nouvelle >. outskirts), they each differ greatly in character. Fes is the country’s oldest imperial city, founded in the 8th century. Its medina serves as its face, its creased wrinkles being the narrow and coiling pathways that reflect its epoch years. Donkeys pass pedestrians who have surrendered to the reality of losing their way in the medina’s beastly labyrinth. Despite deciding last-minute to visit this antiquated city, we were surprised by the immense hospitality we received. My friend Younus who is the receptionist at the Salon Esthétique that I frequent put me in touch with his brother who served as our tour guide for the day, inviting us (note that we had never met before) to his house where his sister prepared a delicious 3 course tajine meal for us. His uncle proceeded to give us a tour of a tannery, where the hides of camels, sheep, and cows are cured and transformed into the leather that is used to craft shoes, bags, and coats. Smelling the stench of dead beast and seeing the strenuous labour of barefoot Moroccans really tugs at your conscious, forcing you to consider the materials and sweat that goes into the birth of a product such as the purse that you so instinctively grab each morning on the way out of your house. Aside from the realities of animal slaughter and third world manual labour, we found comfort in our accommodations. A friend of a friend of a friend (that’s how it works here in Morocco) was hotel sitting and let us stay in an empty riad for a hugely discounted price. I’ve become quite accustomed to Morocco’s semi-shady hole-in-the-wall hotels – they are, after all, an essential component of any (regular/ starving/ cheap) student’s life. So staying in The Purple Room (yes-it had a name!) of a riad – a Moroccan house closed on the exterior, organized around a central patio and fountain – was absolute bliss, amplified by sunset wine and breakfast omellettes on the riad’s terrace, sandwiched between a good night’s rest on a (purple) canopy king-sized bed.
This past week was highlighted by some good old UWC company, something you can always count on as being memorable. Ghita (Morocco), Jorge (Guatemala), Jorge’s girlfriend (Puerto Rico), and I met up in Casablanca, where Ghita and her family were kind enough to host us for the night in her gorgeous house framed by blossoming trees of every colour. As my fellow UWCers know very well, the network of this crazy cult of a school is close-knit and assembles itself at random. Wherever we are on this earth, we tend to gravitate towards each other, sparking old memories and creating new ones. So here we were, 3 UWC-USA alums reuniting... in Morocco, of all places!
On to the next week, titled Kellye’s Last. The last this, the last that – one more chapter in a series of adventures.
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