Moroccan Time

Casablanca --> Fez/ Ifrane June 23rd

Woke up in Casablanca this morning to the unmistakable sound of traffic that seems to be a common thread that all growing urban centers share. 18 out of 20 of us are still in the same clothes we traveled in, and everyone is a little grouchy. I have a change of clothes, but a mystery bug bite directly on my spine that is an uncomfortable reminder not to sleep with the windows open again.

Angela and I decided to head out of the hotel and see if we can get her a t-shirt and me some sandals because my tennis shoes were making my body temperature rise incredibly. I was just looking for plain rubber slippers, which were out of the question in Casablanca. It is the tourist center of Morocco, so a cheap pair of flip-flops were non-existent. We were relegated to the tourist-y, over-priced (although beautifully hand-made) Moroccan sandals. At a little under 200 dirhams, or about 18 USD, I have no doubt that we were severely ripped off, but after 20 minutes of walking around in the sticky heat, bartering was out of the question. We probably made that merchant's day.

After returning to the hotel, we hopped on a bus to Fez (air-conditioned, thank God 'Alhamdu Allah') and four hours later, arrived at the University. After being crammed in close quarters with the added drama of lost baggage and jet-lagged teachers, it was nice to check into our own rooms and shower. (PS- I've been dubbed the sleepy one because I slept the entire plane ride- both actually- and the whole bus ride too... but I was still tired when we got here.)

Not wanting to nap, although it is what my body desperately wanted to do, I went with a group of people to the local town to but some items that were still in their bags (still nowhere to be found).



Now, the good part....



The ride to town was beautiful, like Napa in the summer. Sprawling grass fields sprinkled with sheep, cows, and donkeys, groups of women sitting huddled in the shade under the trees and the occasional small Moroccan farm house spread out to the left and right of the bus. Although it was late afternoon (around five thirty), the sun was still high and hot in the sky when we arrived in town. Men found shade in the cafes that lined the streets (no women allowed in cafes in this town), little boys played soccer on the sidewalks, and taxi drivers shouted over one another to try to catch a fare. (Petite taxis were red in Casablanca, and are green here.)

Groups of women hustled here and there running errands wearing the traditional caftans, while little girls chased after them (all in American dress). Older women sat on the curb sides in entryways and storefronts scrutinizing people passing by and striking up conversation (usually in French, a clear residual impact of their former colonization), with anyone who seemed interested (or interesting) enough. Their caftans are floor-length, long sleeved and often hooded dresses of bright colors, beautifully woven with embroidered designs down the front middle and the face in the hood. It is the traditional Islamic dress here, but it is not uncommon to see a younger woman, my age walking alongside an older female relative wearing skinny jeans, a tank top and high heels. Although, doing so is sure to solicit some unwanted male attention. Here, it is not rude for people to stare and make comments about you, so they often do.
Also reminiscent of their former French colonization is the architecture, city layout and the ubiquitous cafes in the cities. Azure reminded me a lot of Montmarte, the city overlooking Paris. "An excellent comparison," noted one of my colleagues, "it's artistic but a bit edgy." As we went about our business of replacing lost things and acquiring Moroccan cell phones ( for about 280 MAD or 30 USD), some Moroccan men came up and struck up conversations with some of the men in our group. They would not usually speak to the women because men usually do not engage with women outside of their own families in public spaces. It's seen as improper to do so, unless she is traveling with a male relative. There is also a clear and distinct cultural expectation for women also to abstain from conversing with a man she hasn't previously met.
One of the men who came up to us became friendly with David (who I've nicknamed the "Ambassador" because of his uncanny ability to make friends with anyone, anywhere). The man, Aziz, invited us to his studio in the old medina where his female relatives make rugs and other tapestries. The women were shy and quiet a first, but gradually became more social and began talking to us in a mixture of French and Arabic. Although the women were in a private space, they were dressed very modestly. The youngest of the three sat behind the loom that was affixed to the wall, creating the beginning of what would be a beautiful woven blanket or rug. After a while, the oldest woman made us tea, a flattering offer because of the offer of friendship it encompasses.
The ritual of tea is a very standard custom for Moroccans. It is a ritualistic sign of appreciation for whomever you are serving the tea to, and as such, it is impolite to refuse when it was offered to you. Our driver was growing impatient and wanted to get back to the bus, but became more relaxed when the tea came around because he realized we weren't going anywhere at that point. I have no problem accepting it when offered to me, aside from the fact that it would be very rude if I did. I've quickly come to appreciate the sacred ritual for the sole reason that it is the best thing I've tasted since I've been here. The tea Moroccans serve is a mixture of Mint and green tea, mixed with an overwhelming amount of sugar (dental health is a huge issue here, as you can probably guess). The tea is fortunately served in small quantities, as drinking excessive amounts would surely send someone into some sort of sugar overload or diabetic shock. We sat and enjoyed the tea in Aziz's studio which was piled high with pottery, leather slippers, woven mats and leather cushion covers (which I have become completely obsessed and enamored with) and other ancient-looking trinkets. When we had finished, we made our way back through the old medina, the bustling downtown, and to the bus and headed back to the university.
On the way back to the university, the sun had settled to a lower spot in the sky and cast a warm yellow glow over the valley. Women gathered outdoors, more than were out before, as dusk is a very common time to walk around in Morocco (being that the day is so hot). There was a group of women huddled together in the valley, conducting some sort of business, I'm not sure what kind. It was beautiful though, in stark contrast to the yellow valley was a mass of moving bodies, their bright caftans blending together in a sea of color. Two little girls rode a donkey through the yard adjacent to their home while their father tended to their yard. A mother and her two children sat in the shade under the trees on a stairway leading down to a cool, picturesque pool of water in the middle of the park. While quiet and peaceful, the countryside is still so vibrant and full of life and movement at this time of day. Truly beautiful and enchanting to behold.
Just before we arrived back to campus, I heard someone say to Azeb, "I hope we get our bags tonight!" She responded, "We won't, but maybe tomorrow." Whoever posed the question grumbled and I giggled to myself... "Maybe never," I thought... Inshallah... Welcome to Moroccan time.

Lesson of the day... expect the unexpected in Morocco, where time is relative and the people here have nothing but time. Bon Nuit.