SQUATTING IN MOROCCO

It is quite amazing how two lands so close together geographically could be so far apart. On the north side of the Straits of Gibraltar lies Spain, the land of rich wines, pork in every conceivable form and pure opulence. Thirty five minutes, by sea ferry, to the south side and you enter Morocco, a Muslim territory completely devoid of spirits, strict in traditional practice and visibly oppressed. We arrived in Tangier, by sea ferry, at approximately 2:00 PM. To be completely honest, I was expecting far more chaos. There was still intense bidding for your interest, or more accurately your Dirham, a host of self appointed guides at your service, and nothing short of a wall street floor atmosphere at the local cafes where hosts nearly blocked your person to insist that you dine at their establishment. However, even in spite of all of that, I somehow expected far worse. It seems as if the government has recently taken steps to attempt to tone down the reputation that Tangier has worked so hard and through many generations to perfect.

We immediately realized that communication was going to be a challenge, so we vowed to do our best to be proficient in sign language, facial gestures and hand signs. We managed to locate the local bus station and purchase two outbound tickets to our first destination, the capital city of Rabat. With three hours to burn, we selected a small cafe, or in fact, it selected us, and then we proceeded to an internet cafe where we were actually able to make a reservation at the Hotel al Maghrib al Jadid. Making the reservation turned out to be a far easier task then actually locating the place, but that we shall get into later. We proceeded to check our emails and download the insurance form that we will need to attempt to procure a reimbursement from our insurance company for Idalis' brush with the European health care system. Before long, it was time to board a bus headed for our first destination. I should have known how the ride was going to go once I realized that my seat did not recline. Then, the air conditioning stopped working, well, not really, it actually started to just blow hot air. Then, I realized that the curtain was stuck and I was not able to block the sun that was beaming directly into our side of the bus. Then, yes another then, we realized that diesel exhaust from the exterior was working its way into the roof of the bus directly above our heads. We could not wait for the four hour ride to come to an end, at least that was until it did. Against our original intentions, we were not able to arrive in Rabat during day light to assess our situation and give us the ever so slightest advantage in getting our bearings established. Thanks to the help of some English speaking African mates, we were able to deliver the address of our hotel to our Petit Taxi driver. At first, he had no idea where it was, but after a few short conversations with his compatriots, 30 dirham and about fifteen minutes, we were dropped off right in the middle of a busy intersection, connecting four streets all thriving with an evening market with wares ranging from replica Burberry shirts to steamed snails. It was an incredible overload to every sensory organ you are blessed with as a human, and even a couple that I did not know existed. We had arrived in the heart of Morocco, the greatest show on Earth.

Once again, and by the grace of Allah, we were able to navigate down a couple of winding narrow streets, full of peering curious eyes, to eventually run directly into our small, real small, hotel. After checking in and then being relocated to a different hotel adjacent to the original one, belonging to the same owner, we attempted to pay. It was at this point that I almost lost all faculties and went into shock overload. I went to reach for my wallet, that would be the wallet with our ATM card, our credit card, our cash, licenses, etc., and it was not there. Not in the pocket, not in the front pouch of the bag, not in my waste line, nowhere. Can you say coronary? Well after some frantic and chaotic searching, I finally found it in the big pocket of the bag, not a place that I had ever placed it before. I am still not sure how it got there, but I credited it to a subconscious motion that must have taken place as my on board sensory circuits were on full tilt. Whew! Paid for the room found out the shower was not working, bathed in the sink and went to sleep with the equivalent of thirty cents left to our names. That is, at least until five in the morning, which is when the call to prayer begins! Melodically beautiful, yet strangely haunting, this was a reminder of exactly where we were.

The next day, even with day light, proved to still be a bit challenging. I asked Idalis if we could walk around the town a bit so that I may get my bearings, as I usually like to do in any foreign atmosphere. I quickly assessed the lay of the land and we proceeded to find some of the points of interest identified on the map. First, the main mosque, closed to the non-Muslim public. Next, the Royal Palace, where we were promptly stopped in our tracks and turned around. Finally, the Royal Medina, where the large solid wood door was closed and locked. This little experience and the ones which had occurred since our arrival in Morocco began to give me a staunch understanding and education in what we were dealing with. Not only is Morocco a thirty-five minute boat ride from Spain, it is also just across the Atlantic ocean from the US. Not a considerable distance by transit, but on overwhelming distance in all other senses. This may be the most distant civilization that I have ever encountered. Located in the northwest corner of Africa and part of a history that spans back to the origin of recorded civilization, Morocco has been in existence, well, practically forever. Even though it may not have always been called Morocco, its traditions, heritage, culture, have all existed far longer than the land where I come from. I found Morocco to be the most difficult of our destinations yet.

After our tourist outing proved to be futile, we retired to the back corner of yet another internet cafe where we managed to update the blog, check our emails, research the train and attempt to make reservations for our next destination, Marrakesh. After our computing, we decided we needed to go to the beach, the main reason that I even wanted to visit Rabat. A chance to surf! We worked our way through the medina, where we were staying, to the far back corner where we finally laid our eyes upon the Atlantic ocean and the Oudayas Surf Club. The current reigning leader of Morocco, Muhammed V, seems to have taken a liking to surfing and bodyboarding, and so have the youth or Rabat. So much so, that he constructed a posh surf club immediately in front of the local surf break. I could hardly control myself as I dragged Idalis by the hand at a break neck pace to the front door, to find that it was closed and locked! Desperate to surf, I decided to knock. An older and very tired gentleman opened the door. I did my very best body language interpretation in attempt to rent a surf board. He answered, “WE CLOSED, NO RENT!”, and proceeded to close the door in my face. In absolute defeat, I moseyed down to the sand where I ran into a dread on the beach who had earlier given me directions to the surf club. His name was Bocal and he was apparently the local ripper. I asked him about the surf club and he advised me that with Rhammadan only six days away, businesses were closing down and people would not be working. I asked if he knew anywhere that I could rent a board. To my amazement, he offered to loan me his. He asked where I was from. I said, “Miami”, he said, “Oh, Kelly Slater!”. Go figure, never would I have thought that Kelly Slater would come in handy on my trip. He walked me down to the break, showed me where to get in, where to sit and how to get back out when i was done. He also told me I could drop in on anybody that I wanted. I didn't! For one divine hour, I surfed Rabat and satisfied the intense craving I had to get into the ocean and to enjoy some waves in a foreign land. The line up was similar to home with a mass at the point, a lot of hooting and hollering, only in Arabic, and an all around good vibe. I returned to the shore, gave Bocal his board back and told him how much it meant and that he made the whole trip to Rabat worthwhile. We then decided to walk over to the “kiddie” beach, where the waves were a steady waist to chest high and hundreds of people were crowding the faces with boards, buoys or anything that floated. It was incredibly crowded and everyone was battling to catch a wave in any manner possible. I will not be surprised at all to see young Moroccans begin to make a showing in the competitive surf world. I believe the phenomenon to be relatively new and maybe a result of the King's affinity for the sport. I was also rather shocked to see that the ocean front property in Rabat was occupied by graves of the deceased. An indication to me that perhaps past sentiments did not include a reverence for the ocean or its power? Idalis decided to jump in as well. We saw very few women in the water, and those that were had clothing covering most of their bodies. So out of respect, Idalis decided to get in fully clothed.

I think that though both of us have been somewhat shocked and educated by our experience in Morocco thus far, Idalis is the one that has had the brunt of both. This is a very harsh land with very harsh and oppressive practices, from a Westerner's perspective. In most instances, it was me that had to ask for directions, place orders or communicate, as the men would generally not interact with her. She has also been clad in dark clothing that covers most of her body. I think she has had it rough and has a much better understanding of what the women of this culture may endure on a daily basis. We are definitely strangers in a strange land! As I write this, we are sitting in a first class berth on a train headed to Marrakesh. The ticket costs us about 170 dirham each, which is the equivalent to about twenty dollars US. We had to walk through second class to get to these seats and the expense for first class was definitely worth it! Thanks to the gentleman we met on the bus from Tangier to Rabat, whose name I cannot remember, for the tip! If you read this blog, we appreciate all the information you gave us and we hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday before you return to Holland!

And, oh yes, this post would not be complete without a description of the title, “Squatting In Morocco”. In addition to all of our other experiences, there is one that I shall always treasure. I had read about it, been warned about it and heard horror stories about it. If you guessed squat toilet, you would be correct. It may sound a bit strange, but I started to become disappointed when the 'urge' did not seem to be present. But low and behold, on the final day of our stay in Hotel Marrakesh, which was actually located in Rabat, I finally got my chance. With enthusiasm and childlike curiosity, I stepped into the stall and proceeded to conduct my business, Moroccan style. It really was no big deal. In fact, I was explaining to Idalis that I think it might actually be a healthier way to go. It is a much more natural position than sitting and almost induces a much quicker and efficient movement. Without running the risk of losing readers, I will leave it at that and just say that I am delighted to have checked that activity of off the 'to do' list!