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| Rabat, 11 PM | Sunday, March 30th |
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| Rabat, 11 PM | Sunday, March 30th |
"Welcome to Morocco. A thousand times, welcome." TOURING CASABLANCA AND RABAT
-- Dris, of FezWhat a harsh day, so unexpected. "I am in Morocco" & "I am on the African continent" repeat in my head in a languid attempt to break through the miasma of 48 hours with no sleep, a tiring (but uneventful) 9 hours flight, and a mind and sun out of sync. I expected when we arrived in Casablanca to settle in at a hotel, take a nap for a few hours, brush my teeth, then take a relaxed and easy day touring the city before going to bed early.
Not a chance.
We landed in Morocco and hit the ground running, dragging our luggage close behind. KTI (Kasbah Tours International) is apparently Morocco's official tour guide. They combined our ABC tour with a few others until we filled a bus and then an exhausting day of touring 2 major cities (Casablanca and Rabat) began. It was a ridiculous plan.
By bus, we drove around Casablanca, then Rabat further north along the coast, stopping at various locales to explore them in more depth. From 10 am or so until 6 p.m. we ran around at a breakneck pace. Often we would only be allowed 10 minutes from the moment we left the bus to return, under threat of being left behind. In fact, when Noemi and I arrived late early on, we were publicly berated by our tour guide, Idriss (e-driss), by numerous other tour group members, and applause followed from the backrows of the bus. Relax, folks, we're on vacation! It felt like second grade.
The subject and pace of these tours are certainly not satisfying so far and not how Noemi and I would prefer to do it. I joked to Noemi that after this trip we'll be excellently informed regarding what sites in Morocco we would actually like to return and see.
However, even with the stress-inducing tour guide, the occasionally inane questions of the elderly, over-traveled tour group members, the sense of separation from the country due to our glass-enclosed bus
(like a zoo, turned inside out), the frustrations of the Muslim culture's hypercritical sexism about physical intimacy which prevents Noemi and me from being our regular affectionate selves... even with all that, Morocco's seduction was quick and painless.
Miscellaneous Photos:
The architecture alone is enough to cause one to feel the desire to prostrate oneself in awe and admiration. The psychedelic patterns, the abstracted lithography, the mixed-media crafts and styles, and the sheer immensity of the doors and walls and minarets and roofs drives one to the ground under the weight of their might. And this pressure is borne with the fear that, at any moment, it will lift and be gone.
At first, it was the doors to the King's palace in Casablanca, but then the mosque (the third largest in the world) named after the current King, Hassan II, accompanied by its minaret (the largest in the world), swept me away. From its position overlooking the Atlantic, the waves crashing underneath, I could have lost myself in its spiraling patterns for hours. (This was what led to the "In the future, those who are late will be left behind" incident.)
By the time we FINALLY arrived at our hotel in Rabat, Noemi and I only wanted to do three things: 1. Go to the bathroom, 2. Take a shower and brush our teeth, and 3. Get as far away from our tour group as possible.
And we did.
We arranged to travel to a restaurant recommended by Liza, located inside the walls of the old city, or medina. Medinas are composed of tall, tight, winding alleyways - too small for cars to pass - which appear as plain white walls to the outside observer. The sidewalks are barely wide enough for one person and the street is no better, all cobblestoned and cracked, continually challenging the visitor to jump and hop from side to side to avoid tripping.
However, every doorway is a passage to a lush garden residential courtyard, decorated with tiles of intricate patterns, or a beautifully designed restaurant, or a store. For 15 American dollars, we arranged for a taxi driver to take us to the front entrance to this maze... then wait as long as necessary until we returned. As we had no sense of the public transportation system, this sounded, at the time, to be a good deal, but later realized we were being had.
He handed us over to a guide at the gate of the medina who, for another ten dollars, walked us through this Minotaur's maze until we arrived at a nondescript door.
Knock, knock.
It opened, revealing a small but magnificent two story restaurant, designed in intricate detail and hosting ten large tables, each surrounded by lush couches for lounging as you ate.
We took our seats as two musicians appeared, one with a hand drum and the other with a common folk string instrument of the country. They played beautiful music to drift away on for the few lucky hours we got to spend there. Three candles were lit at our table as rose pedals were scattered about. Rose water appeared and was poured over our hands as towels waited to dry them. The rose scent lingered in the air for some time. Two lovely bowls of olives arrived at the table (which, to my surprise, I enjoyed) and we placed our order.
Six small plates of spiced beans, potatoes, and other vegetables were placed surrounding the candle (Fine salad it was called), along with their large, ceremonial platter of delicious grain bread. As Noemi ate the salad, my dish, Pastilla, arrived, a flaky dough covering pigeon, rice and raisin dish, with sugar on top. It could have served as a meal in and of itself and it killed me to leave half uneaten. Next, Noemi received vegetarian cous-cous and I got a pear-topped goat thing, called a Tajine (referring not to the meat, but the bowl-like plate it came in and the style of cooking).
Noemi and I were blissfully dying, sure each bite was our last, struggling to stay awake, awash in the realm of the senses - the smell & tastes of the food, the feel of the pillows & the high open space, the waves of the lulling music.
Still, we ordered more: five finger pastries (there were five pieces, not one with five fingers).
Not a bit of dessert was left, nor any energy on our part as well. I could have slept where I lay, drifting up into the high spaces of the restaurant, lost in its patterns, driven by the melodic rhythms of the musicians.
After paying the bill, the restaurant host held open the exit door and immediately a guide appeared, taking us two blocks, then passing us off to a robed man with a lit lantern. He unwound our way back through unrecognized passageways until we appeared at the point of the medina's wall where we had first entered. "Bon Appetit," our waiting taxi driver said as he held open the door. We gave some money to our latest guide and traveled home.
It was a magical night. And for the first time Noemi and I got what, in many ways, we had come to Morocco for: an exotic and beautiful culture where we could experience being in love.
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