N'Oubliez Pas Le Maroc

Today, I went over for my final trip to the Reseau Maillage office in Akkari with a tub of Jif peanut butter as a present. When I showed up, we busted out a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and some pain rond and had a little going-away party. One of the last things that Youssef said to before I got in the cab was "n'oubliez pas le Maroc" (don't forget Morocco). After giving the guys the obligatory double kisses on the cheek and reassuring them that I'd do my best to come back in the spring when I'm in Paris studying abroad, I got into one of my last petit taxis and headed back to the apartment to finally start packing.

On the way back, I unwrapped the white robe the two Youssefs had given me as a going-away present, only to realize it was the same type I'd gotten "married" in a few weeks back during my spurious wedding to Elizabeth. Looking over this robe, I finally realized I was heading out. There are still a few more goodbyes to say (I'm not planning on sleeping before my 4am car to Mohammed V airport), but I'm essentially done here. Back to the states for wisdom teeth removal and miscellaneous relaxation (how dorky would it be if I took up bird watching?), then DC, Paris, then?

Although I really have no clue where I'll be a year from now (and frankly, like it that way), what the guys at the association said to me today mattered. I know I'll always have amazing friends here, and Morocco is something that will always remain a part of my life. Since this'll probably be my last post from Morocco proper (I'll write a few follow ups and try to post some images on my Flickr photo account), I just wanted to say how much this summer here has genuinely meant to me. It's pretty rare that 9 weeks makes such an impression on a person, and I'll never forget Morocco.

A Syrian Movie Set

This morning was one of those where I woke up with a burst of energy that quickly dissipated. By the time I managed to make it to the local cafe around the crack of 11:00 am with my Mom and Merell, I had lost msot of my initiative, which wasn't a good thing, since I'd loaded up today with trips to the Necropolis of Chellah, the Rabat Archaelogical museum, the Royal Palace, and the grand souvenir-purchasing trip to the medina with my buddy Benaissa to help haggle.

Once my mother and I finally made it over to Chellah, we found the entrance blocked by what could best be described as 13th-Century Arab soldiers, replete with scimitars and composite bows. Thinking they were some kind of historically out of place tourist stunt, I attempted to get through the large pack of them, only to find myself walking onto what was soon described to me in hushed tones by a French man as a Syrian movie set. Looking in front of me, I saw the remnants of some medieval battle, with extras sprawled all over the inside gate of Chellah. While we were waiting for them to finish up some shots, a mercedes truck rolled up with whom were clearly the stars of the movie, these three big Syrian guys with impressively cut beards, medieval clothing, and Persol sunglasses. They soon crowded into the entrance way along with the other extras and an incredibly confused and bewildered Japanese couple. Soon, the scene broke up, and I managed to get inside the ruins to see some truly amazing gardens and some killer columns and Latin inscriptions (laugh all you want). The large number of extras milling around smoking cigarettes and playing with their swords only added to the ambience...

Budget Medical Care

Every now and then, there are still what I term "absolutely ridiculous Moroccan moments" here. For example, this morning, Gabe and and I were drinking coffee outside of our hotel in Meknes (Hotel Toubkal - total crap, don't stay there) when I saw an ambulance coming up slowly past us. The reason it was moving at such an incredibly low speed was because it was being pushed along by the guy riding shotgun, with the driver half-heartedly giving the ground a few shoves with his left foot while he attempted to steer the vehicle (not much of a challenge at his speed) through the streets of Meknes. Watching them edge into the intersection (and upon noticing, thankfully, that nobody was in the back), I couldn't help but start laughing, despite my better judgement. It was really the sheer absurdity of the situation, watching an ambulance being pushed through the streets (thankfully the driver didn't take it upon himself to simulate siren noises) at a snail-like pace that prompted it.

Gabe, upon viewing the same spectactle, had an identical reaction to the whole thing. After being here in Morocco for a certain amount of time, and after passing through what one terms "culture shock," there are still plenty of moments, where despite what you know and accept about another culture, that are just plain absurd. In these cases, they're all in the details, encompassing what else you know about the culture to comprise the full effect.

For example, in this case, I know that Moroccans don't really maintain their cars as well as they should, and rely more on fixing stuff when it breaks than regular maintenance. Additionally, instead of getting a tow truck, or anything along those lines, it'd be easier to just push the car back to the hospital, or wherever it came from than to wait around for others to help you.

Anyways, now that I've totally broken down and overanalyzed a previously funny situation, I'll leave it at that.

There and Back Again

Tonight, as I finished scarfing down a quarter of a chicken with fries around 9pm with the mother here in Rabat, I had one of those "I can't believe I was there today!"-type moments.

This morning, I was roaming the Roman ruins of Volubilis, situated 33km outside of Meknes. Looking out over the amazing Meditteranean countryside (Gabe, my Mom and I all swore it could have been Tuscany), I had one of the most peaceful and de-stressed times I've been able to manage here. It was something about the combination of the history of the place, the beauty of the surroundings, and the knowledge that this would be one of my final days in Morocco that added up to a surprisingly reflective experience.

It's said that when the British transported Greek ruins back to England, the poet John Keats looked at the ruins like "a sick eagle looking at the sky." Although my reaction wasn't quite so poetic, there's something about treading through ancient streets that gives one a sense of permanence and impermanence here. There's a sense of tangibility that everyone always craves - to be in what's familiar, to touch, to hold, or to be near someone. At the same time, as evidenced by the rock-strewn landscape, devoid of the original Roman Carrera marble (it was plundered by the Sultan Moulay Ismail for his grand palace in Meknes in the 18th century), in the grand scheme of things, nothing lasts forever. Be it my trip to Morocco, or even what's left of my 20s, 30s, etc. Being here has really taught me how to hold on to what I can, remember what I can't, and hopefully gain some perspective on what I should value in the future.

Marrakech by the Numbers

Number of fresh Orange Juice Stands in the Djemaâ el Fna: 50
Number of Western tourists in the same area: 1000+
Number of European men wearing capri pants: 300
Number of times I was referred to as a place name in the USA by a street vendor(ie: "Hey Chicago!"): 3 (Chicago, New York, Arizona)
Number of times I was offered Hashish: 3
Cost of a horse carriage ride to the Palace Badii: 40 Dirhams
Total cost of our small, cozy, and thankfully air-conditioned hotel off the main square: 760 Dirhams
Average Temperature: around 105 Degress Fahrenheit


Overall, Marrakech was quite the experience. For the first time, I really felt like a Western tourist, which was much more unsettling than I thought it would be, given the fact that I really don't consider myself one (c'mon guys, I work in Rabat!). The best part about the city was the architecture, which felt distinctly more African (it was the Berber capital) than its western counterpart cities in the North. Everything was a clay/adobe color with well-kept gardens, winding boulevards, and random Moroccan ornamentation.

My only problem was that since I've been in Morocco for over eight weeks, I've already had what one might term the "Moroccan Experience:" I've seen plenty of decorative arts, architecture, souks, and Moroccan character over my time here, and that made Marrakech slightly less enchanting. If one was on a trip, it would be a markedly different experience, but for me, the combination of a been there, done that feeling with the obnoxious vendors and petit taxi drivers colored my experience a little.