Category Archives: Rabat

Relishing Rabat: Our First Encounters

It’s orientation week in Morocco and it seems like all we can talk about, think about, and wonder about is our new home here in Rabat.

A colorful carnival just above the beach.

A colorful carnival just above the beach.

So far I’ve been happily exploring in sponge-mode. I’m soaking up everything I can, whether I’m making my way through the crowded souk (market), strolling along the river, drinking mint tea with new friends at the café, or listening intently to the new sounds of Darija, the Moroccan Arabic dialect.

Street art seen in Kasbah de Oudaias.

Street art seen in Kasbah de Oudaias.

We’ve been busy trekking near and far around the city with our cameras and have managed to see a lot in only four days. On my first day in the city, we entered the walls of the medina and made our way through a bustling marketplace full of everything from colorful spices and beautiful linens to knock-off DVDs and little plastic trinkets.

Yesterday, we ventured through Kasbah de Oudaias, where a grand 12th century gateway leads into a picturesque neighborhood of bright white and blue houses on narrow winding footpaths overlooking the Atlantic.

We also toured through the Roman ruins of Chellah and later discovered the intricate detail and elaborate architecture of the Mausoleum of Mohammed V, which contains the tombs of the previous Moroccan king and his two sons.

The Mausoleum of Mohammad V from afar.

The Mausoleum of Mohammad V from afar.

Exploring here so far has been breathtaking and everything is new and striking. But our first days have also been charged with a huge amount of anticipation for what’s to come in the next four months. Inside AMIDEAST classrooms, we’re preparing for everything from eating with our hands to dealing with street harassment to greeting Moroccans in Darija to understanding the stages of our own cultural adjustment.

Tomorrow we will meet and move in with our host families. Getting to be a tourist in Morocco this week has been incredible, but as I’m trying to read menus or wandering around a new area or struggling to respond to the Darija greetings of a local shopkeeper, I’ve also been constantly aware of my position as an outsider in Rabat.

The view up the street in Kasbah.

The view up the street in Kasbah.

More than anything, I’m excited to meet my Moroccan host parents and host siblings in the hopes that my four months with them will help me begin to understand what it means to be an insider in Morocco. There are many things that may never come naturally to me — for example, I’ve already discovered that most Moroccans speak at least three languages, and often mix or switch quickly between French, Darija, and sometimes English or Spanish — but I hope that through spending time in the home of a host family, making Moroccan friends, or developing my Arabic skills, I’ll begin to understand not only what I see from the outside when I’m walking the streets of Rabat, but what goes on inside Moroccan homes, and the values and beliefs that might guide the everyday cultural practices of the people around me.

A colorful boat anchored in the river between Rabat and Salé.

A colorful boat anchored in the river between Rabat and Salé.

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Filed under Area & Arabic Language Studies, Katie Lamb, Morocco, Rabat

Introducing Katie Rose Lamb – Fall 2014 Morocco Blog Abroad Correspondent

Hello all! My name is Katie Rose, and I am honored to be AMIDEAST’s Rabat Correspondent this fall. I will be periodically updating the Mosaic blog with photos and stories from Morocco over the next four months. I hope that my posts will serve as a way to document our undertakings and convey some of the things I learn and discover while abroad to those back home. I also hope that this blog will be a way to capture memories that my fellow AMIDEAST students and I can look back on in the future.

The next few weeks will be full of introductions. I will be introduced to a new country, new dialects and cultures, new foods, new peers and friends, a new host family and new professors. But first, let me start off by introducing myself.

I am entering my junior year at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, where I am majoring in International Relations with a focus on security and society in the Middle East. Outside of class, I am a Metro editor at The Brown Daily Herald and a tutor for a refugee family from Myanmar. I am also a coordinator for the Interfaith Exchange, which fosters community service and interfaith dialogue among high school students in Providence.

I spent this summer in Providence working in public health policy for the Rhode Island Health Center Association, and recently returned home to Portland, Oregon, where I am now spending lots of time catching up with old friends, listening to some great live music and hiking with my dog (and other family members) in the beautiful Pacific Northwest.

My friend and I at the summit of Neahkahnie Mountain on the Oregon Coast.

My friend and I at the summit of Neahkahnie Mountain on the Oregon Coast.

I think traveling — encountering new and different customs, people and places — is one of the most amazing learning experiences one can have. I’ve been lucky enough to travel to India, Guatemala, and several other countries in my lifetime, but I knew entering college that study abroad would be a very high priority for me because of the unique opportunity it would offer me to truly get to know a place by living and studying there for a more extended period of time.

As I gear up for my departure, I feel extremely lucky to be embarking on this huge adventure, but also nervous about jumping into this experience without knowing quite what to expect.

I chose to study abroad in Morocco in hopes that I will be able to improve my Arabic skills and experience life in a Muslim country while also encountering the many things that make Morocco so unique. I am particularly excited to study the intersections of Morocco’s Arab, European and African influences, and to see the collisions of new and old everyday within Rabat, crossing from the modern city into the medina.

Although I am nervous about language barriers and feeling lost or misunderstood in my new and foreign environment, I am really looking forward to forging new friendships, developing relationships with my host family and returning to the U.S. in December with an abundance of great stories to tell.

My brother and I at his 8th grade graduation. He will be entering his sophomore year of high school this fall.

My brother and I at his 8th grade graduation. He will be entering his sophomore year of high school this fall.

I am so grateful to my family, friends, professors and advisors who have supported me in preparing for this adventure, and I cannot wait to meet all my AMIDEAST peers and embark on this great journey together. Thank you for reading!

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From the top of the Atlas

I woke up with the early morning rays of sun streaming through the pane-less window. Underneath me I could feel the hard concrete floor, bare but for a couple of thin blankets for nominal comfort. The white-chalk graffiti on the gray walls was illuminated by the warm light, pronouncing the messages of mischievous local youth and of travelers long gone. Outside the window, a sprawling dry lakebed lay beneath imposing mountains capped with snow, and far off in the distance, from a nomad camp, a rooster announced the arrival of the new day.

blog 9 pic 1 IMG_5405 - Philip, EliThis was the second morning of a three-day trek through the Ait Bougmez Valley in the High Atlas. A bus to Beni Mellal, at the foot of the mountains, and then a grand taxi to Azilal through windy roads climbing up to the Amazigh town. From Azilal, another grand taxi twists through even narrower mountain passes and sharp drop-offs on a road paved only several years earlier. Prior to the road – our guide later told us – the easiest journey to Azilal was a two-day donkey ride in the summer. In winter, the snow would clog all the roads, and the inhabitants of the valley were entirely isolated.

More recently, trekkers and tourists have begun visiting the valley – marketed as “Happy Valley” in the various travel guides – with much more frequency, and many mountain guides and small hostels have popped up. Despite this, outside of the main administrative town on the paved road (which looks as if it escaped an old Western film), the way of life seems to have remained mostly unchanged by the introduction of modern amenities. Walking through the tiny villages, some only a cluster of mud-brick houses is like taking a trip back in time.

blog 9 pic 2 IMG_7086-  Philip, EliThe houses themselves are constructed out of a mix of mud and straw, packed tightly into molds, and set three feet deep. Surrounding the villages are intricately irrigated fields, divided neatly into small family plots. Each plot boasts a mix of wheat, vegetables and fruit trees, dotted with beautiful irises, poppies and assorted wildflowers. Young men use traditional wooden plows to till the land, women with scythes reap the wheat, and donkeys laden with building material, hay or vegetables are used to ferry from section to section. Chickens loaf around the houses or walk importantly through the fields, and hens cluck angrily at cats stalking their chicks. Other than the power lines extending from house to house and across the hills, this scene would have been identical one, two or even five centuries earlier.

Going plowing

Going plowing

We left the time capsule after the three-day hike, and the driver of the minibus to Azilal informed us he would be continuing to Marrakech. For a brief moment we considered the idea – a hostel in the narrow streets of the vast medina, fresh orange juice from the many carts at the square, maybe an interesting new scarf at one of the souks. Yet the minibus would be departing to Marrakech only the next morning, and the extra trip would not make sense. In that moment I suddenly internalized that yes, I am leaving Morocco. That I will not see the ancient red city again, will not get lost in the maze of streets, will not be frustrated by the nudging vendors, will not marvel at the sea of tourists red-cheeked and wide-eyed by the heat and the snake charmers. In just a few days, taking a train to one of the oldest cities in the world, or a few packed taxis to mountain villages passed over by time, will no longer be a possibility. And with this realization came a great sense of joy and accomplishment. For four months I have lived and traveled, breathed and listened and tasted and explored, sampled from every town or city or region, and grew to know a country packed with opportunities. Morocco, it’s been a blast.

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Filed under Area & Arabic Language Studies, Eli Philip, Morocco, Rabat

The Weekly Souk

Alongside highways and small roads, in large towns and tiny villages, exists an incredible phenomenon. Once a week, folks gather from the surrounding countryside to central locations throughout Morocco, and out of the dust, the weekly souk is formed. The villagers use any movable platform to ferry their wares to the souk. Old trucks are packed with sofas and chairs, hollowed-out minibuses stocked with sheep – bellowing out the windows, overloaded ancient vehicles with sacks of household goods. Then the donkeys. Donkeys pulling huge carts laden with goods, donkeys carrying large packs dangling on either side, donkeys moving entire families on their backs. All these, machine and beast, funnel to the well-used souks, clogging the roads and slowing passing traffic to a crawl.

For those not in a hurry to continue driving, the sight of the telltale congestion is a boon. In a small village in the desert north of Errachidia, the souk was tiny, consisting of a dozen stalls for vegetables and assorted products. A ten-minute walk around produced beautifully woven colorful bread plates, handmade using palm date fronds. Other souks are much larger, and some are absolutely massive. Many villages have specific plots saved for the exclusive use of the weekly hustle and bustle. The stands, booths and stretched tarp remain abandoned and silent, until the big day when a human flood descends into the stalls. Outside the designated area, peddlers display their merchandise sprawled out on the ground. Anything from clothes to old electronic devices can be found, but the bulk is often second-hand goods, broken wares, or what may be called ‘antiques.’ Searching through these can be tedious, but may yield retro Ray Bans frames or old leather bags. In one such place I found an old cigarette box from the 40s, stamped with the words “Produced specifically to prevent sore throat.”

Most souks are laid out with specific sections selling different goods. Each row, and in bigger souks even several rows, are dedicated to a different product. All the produce sellers will be concentrated in one area, often the grain sellers – with heaping mounds of barely or sacks of flour – will be nearby. The clothes rows are packed with scarves, jellabas, dresses, pants, suits, socks, produced locally or in China, for a price cheaper than can be found anywhere else. Next will be household products, ranging from shampoos to brooms to tagines. Heaped among them are traditional natural soaps, dried rose flowers, spices and other raw products for home use. The edges of the souk contain the ‘heavier’ sections. The meat market is one such section. Whole cows or sheep hang by the stalls, and the butcher will cut slabs according to the customer’s desire. Hearts, liver, kidneys are all available, and it is completed with chicken-slaughtering booths. Another edge, sometimes adjacent, is the food court, where freshly butchered meat is brought, grilled and served right away. On the outskirts is the livestock market. Sheep, goats and donkeys are sold and bought, either ridden out of the market, or packed tightly into the large trucks and taken back to the farms.

blog 8 pic 1 IMG_4776 - Philip. Eli

Some souks have areas that are unique. The souk in Azrou of the Middle Atlas, for example, is known for its local carpets – and some wealthy tourists come from all around to purchase unique designs. In a souk in the valleys outside Marrakech, I saw a whole district of blacksmiths producing yard tools, heating the iron in fire till it’s red and pliable, and working it into the desired shape.

The weekly souks in Morocco are incredible places. Almost anything can be found, and they provide a glimpse into a way of life that in many ways has remained unchanged for centuries. It is a place for community building and strengthening relationships with neighboring villages or folks from far-flung areas. The souks are not a tourist attraction, existing entirely for Moroccans, and in fact the tourists sometimes become an attraction themselves. Most importantly, if you stumble across a weekly souk in your travels, remember: bargaining is the only way to shop here. Good luck!

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Jews of Morocco

Signs of Jewish culture are everywhere in Morocco. Adjacent to the ancient walled medinas of Moroccan cities stands the Jewish quarter – Mellah. The name, meaning salt in Arabic, is likely derived from the location of the first Mellah, built among brackish swamp near Fes. Historically, these walled-and-gated communities were built with the dual purpose of protecting Jewish Moroccans from riots, as well as restricting their expansion to other parts of the city. Over the centuries, as Jewish populations expanded, the Mellah was bursting at the seams. Only with the French occupation were Jews finally permitted to live outside the walls of the crowded Jewish quarters.

Marrakech Synagogue

Marrakech Synagogue

Today, the Mellah remain poor, but also serve as tourist sites. Its uglier past ignored or unknown by the current Muslim inhabitants who boast of the coexistence between Jews and Muslims in Morocco, and insist on showing tourists the Jewish synagogue – for a fee, of course. Yet, though a few synagogues in the old Jewish quarters still operate, to find contemporary Jewish Moroccan life one most look in the Ville Nouvelle – the modern European-style areas of the city.

I found the Jews of Fes at exactly such a location, a beautiful synagogue tucked away in the new city. It was the holiday of Purim, celebrated by reading the Book of Esther, drinking, exchanging gifts, and, of course, a large feast. Finding the small Jewish community not only allowed me to celebrate the holiday, but also provided a window into a part of Morocco that is fast disappearing.

Torah Scroll of Fes

Torah Scroll of Fes

Once a large community, today only about sixty Jews remain in Fes, and most are in their sixties and seventies. Nonetheless, a feeling of a tight-knit, vibrant community permeated the beautiful courtyard of the cultural center, and the decorated interior of the synagogue. Entering the center, I felt as if I stepped into a different Morocco. Though the designs on the wall, the heat of the day, and the food – delicious pastilla, harira and salads – were all clearly Moroccan, the atmosphere was distinct from the predominantly Muslim culture outside.

The old men sat joking and shouting in a unique accent of Moroccan darija, mixed with French and Hebrew. Wines and whiskies lined the tables, and all were munching on sweets and candies prepared for the holiday. I spoke with one old man about how the holiday was practiced back when the Mellah was still full of Moroccan Jews. He took a bite of a sweet baked good, and in between chews, began reminiscing.

Purim Feast

Purim Feast

‘Gambling,’ he said, ‘is discouraged by Jewish law, except for on Purim. During the holiday, shoppers would go to the bakeries to purchase sweet cookies and cakes, but they wouldn’t pay. The shopper would place a five or ten dirham coin, and the baker would wager the equivalent in baked goods. Then, they would play cards. The winner would take it all. Some folks would take home five kilos of cookies without paying a single dirham!’

Today, the tradition is gone, though the old men still play the same card games. The community is aging and seems to be quickly disappearing. Those still living in Morocco are quite content, and are not interested in leaving. For me, this was an incredible opportunity to catch a glimpse of a culture that was an integral to the fabric of Moroccan life and history, and to see my practice and traditions in a new and unique light.

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A Joke in the Desert

My favorite parts of Darija (local Arabic dialect) class are the little Moroccan jokes inserted in our book. Our teacher, a small, grandmotherly and bubbly lady, excitedly explains the punch lines over and over until we finally understand, or at least until we satisfy her with our confused laughter. Until this past weekend, I assumed that these jokes were intended to serve merely as a taste of the culture or perhaps good-natured entertainment.  The important and useful parts of class were the dialogues and vocabulary for purchasing fruit and vegetables or reserving a hotel room. My trip to Merzouga this past weekend showed me otherwise.

Traveling to the Sahara desert is a serious trek. Merzouga, the town adjacent to the largest dunes in Morocco known as Erg Chebbi, is a train ride and overnight bus away. The only reason to make this over twelve-hour journey is for a camel ride through the magnificent dunes, which draw tourists from all over Morocco and the world. We arrived before the dawn call to prayer, and other than fellow groggy passengers and a few waiting guides, the town was deserted. Our camels were leaving for the desert in the cooler evening, and we spent the morning and afternoon hours napping with intermittent excursions to the dusty streets of the town.

Dusty Merzouga

Dusty Merzouga

In Merzouga itself there is not much to see outside the mud-walled houses, a few souvenir shops selling the meters-long iconic blue scarves, and a bunch of turbaned-men lounging and sipping on sugary tea. We spent most the day in the shade, drinking water and looking forward to our expedition into the desert. As the temperature began to slowly drop, our guide called us, and the trip began.

Getting on a camel is an experience in itself. The trouble starts once atop the sitting camel, as the dromedary stands on its hind legs first, causing the rider to lunge forward, tilting at a dangerous angle and holding on for dear life. Then the front knees rise, throwing the rider violently backwards, until equilibrium is reached with the camel standing upright. I thought that was the scariest part, until I had to get off the camel. This process in reverse is much more terrifying.

Camels in the Desert

Camels in the Desert

Once on the camel and away from town, the brief hassle of mounting the camel immediately faded away. Rolling dunes of warm, reddish sand stretched as far as the eye could see. The desert is too beautiful to try and express in words, but I hope the pictures do it justice.

Dunes

Dunes

As the sun set over the desert, we settled in for dinner in the small tents nestled between the dunes. Our guide, a young Amazigh man from Merzouga, invited some friends over, and we all shared a delicious tajin. We discussed the proper length of the scarves (they thought that anything shorter than 5 or 6 meters was useless), learned some words in the local Amazigh language, and were implored over and over to eat more. After dinner and some drumming, our guide declared it was time for telling jokes. They shared some local jokes, which can only be fully appreciated by people who live with the sand, heat and dry wadis of the desert. When they ran out of jokes, we were asked to share. Tentatively, I began telling the one from class, using darija mixed with words in Standard Arabic, some English, some Spanish, and a healthy dose of hand motions. At the punch line, they actually laughed, probably as much from the joke itself as from my attempts at saying it. For me, the success of the joke transformed the situation from just tourists coming to see the dunes, to fully experiencing not only the landscape, but also the people and culture as well. A little darija, even in the desert, can go a long way.

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Surfing with the King

Friday was already going to be an adventure. I was convinced by a couple of friends to try surfing at one of the surf clubs along the coast of Rabat. Overlooked by Oudaya, the ancient cliff fortifications, the shore provides Rabatis some open space – albeit strewn with discarded bottles and plastic – to play soccer or swim. I have never been surfing before, and the idea of attempting to balance on a board in the tumulus surf seemed ludicrous. Yet, I relented, even at the cost of missing the weekly family couscous lunch. Warm noontime sun bathed the streets of the city as we flagged a cab towards the medina. We wore jeans above our bathing suits to remain modest throughout our journey to the beach.

Oudaya

Oudaya

Large crowds were awaiting us at the medina. As we stepped out of the cab, a festive mood greeted us, and the excitement in the air was palpable. Mobs of onlookers thronged past the main square of Bab al-Had to a smaller, fenced off entrance in the medina’s walls. Men donned in white jalabas – the traditional Moroccan dress – and red caps stood waiting, surrounded by policemen along the periphery of the temporary fence, a protective barrier from the pulsing crowd. All around, young and old Moroccans were holding small red and green Moroccan flags and clutching pictures of the king. A troop of young, rowdy school children briefly halted their horseplay and erupted into a chant in praise of their king. The cheer spread through the crowd, accompanied by a burst of red of the waving flags. Somewhere from within the enclosure a drum was striking a beat.

Suddenly, royal guards donned in white capes and holding large flags streamed out and assembled in formation alongside the path leading to the small gate. Other guards rolled magnificent traditional carpets, covering the sidewalks and tram rails. Traffic stopped. Anticipation filled the air. The whole crowd leaned precariously forward, risking tipping over for a brief glimpse. And then, a motorcade of sleek, back limousines and police motorcycles pulled to a stop in front of the entrance to the medina. The door opened, and to the sound of cheers and trumpets, out stepped a man in a golden jalaba: the king. Smiling and waving, the king passed by the flag bearers, the advisors clad in white, and the stiff policemen, and entered the medina for the Friday afternoon prayer.

As the crowd dissipated, I reflected on what I had just experienced. Seeing the king was a goal I really hoped would be realized, and after just three weeks in Morocco, I saw a figure that looms larger than life for Moroccans, though most have never seen him in flesh-and-blood. As an American, used to a vibrant media and democratic system, it is almost unbelievable to suddenly live in a monarchy, where the ruler is sanctioned not by the will of the people, but by God and history. Yet, as unfamiliar as this is for me, even the pro-democracy activists I have met did not wish to see a Morocco without a monarch, desiring instead a more reserved, ceremonial role for the king. All were wary of what a future without a king would look like. The king, they say, holds Morocco together.

Ocean in Morocco

Ocean in Morocco

We left the square and the king behind, and walked along the ancient reddish walls of the medina towards the glimmering blue of the ocean. Young men were playing soccer on the beach, couples were sipping tea in the seaside cafés, and a few brave souls were surfing in the waves. Such serenity is difficult to find in the intensive pace of life back home, and for a moment, I could understand why many Moroccans would like things to stay just the way they are.

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Filed under Area & Arabic Language Studies, Eli Philip, Morocco, Rabat