Take the train from Casablanca going south...

            Sorry it’s been a while since I wrote – I was going to write up for our trip to Marrakesh, but since I got food poisoning while there it took me a while to work up the energy to write this. And as soon as we got back I had a paper due, and then it was my birthday, and it’s been one thing after another. So here’s something to quickly bring you up to speed:

            There was a ‘long’ weekend recently. I put the quotation marks because we only really had Tuesday off, for the Green March, but we all took Monday off as well to make it a four-day weekend. Luckily one of my professors was at a conference in Beijing, so we didn’t have to worry about making up that class.

            We left for Marrakesh early Saturday morning, taking the train that by necessity curves up through Casablanca and Rabat first before sliding into the southern part of the country. Because of this, the trip took some six-odd hours. We arrived at two thirty in a haze of heat, much to the delight of us mountain-bound students.

            Right away we could tell that this city was very touristy. The taxi drivers all cited outrageous figures at us, more outrageous than usual. We were able to get one for a more or less reasonable price, and set off in a sketchy white van (yes, we willingly climbed into an almost-windowless white van). Marrakesh is the city that everyone thinks about when they think about Morocco, with its pale pink buildings and warm, almost tropical feel.

            The petit taxis in Marrakesh are all an unflattering tan color, but other than that what I noticed the most was how sprawling the city is. We made our way to our hostel, which turned out to be the best part of the trip, particularly when Maggie and I spent a large portion of our time sitting on the terrace staring at the awning and playing with the turtles.

            The hostel entrance was a wooden door tucked inside an alley, easy to overlook. All of the staff were utterly fantastic and accommodating, letting us use their kitchen and cooking breakfast every morning.

            Our room was on the second floor, with four bunk beds (eight mattresses altogether) and a bathroom. There we met these kids from Rhode Island, Liam and Max. They had just flown in from the frigidness of Sweden, and were spending a few days in Marrakesh before doing a Sahara/Essaouira trip and making their way up to Spain.

            We explored a little around the giant square, which was filled with orange juice stands and women offering henna, men with monkeys on leashes (depressing) and men playacting at snake whisperer. We walked around the madina and found food, and in general had a good time.

            We got back to the hostel and spent most of the night on the rooftop terrace with the boys, drinking and swapping stories. We went to bed as the boys stayed up to discuss politics with a German couple.

            The next day we went to a garden thing in a different part of town, which was very cool. The other girls could tell you more about it, I’m sure. All I remember is that it was beautiful, and created by some guy who liked importing plant species. Afterwards we hung around the area, shocked by the prices of the touristy places. Then we went to get food at the grocery store to cook dinner.

            We also went to the Madrassa, the historic Quranic school. This was one of my favorite parts of the trip, because the architecture was absolutely beautiful. The rooms that the students lived in were austere to say the least, and as I walked through the halls I could picture the students walking through the halls, pondering great theological questions and discussing the nature of the Qur’an at mealtimes.

            That night Louise and Halcyon made stir fry, which was absolutely delicious. Unfortunately, its fate was not in my stomach, and that night I discovered the food poisoning that Maggie had come across earlier.

            The next day, Maggie made the smart decision of staying in the hostel, while I thought I’d be okay going with the other three to the Palais Bahai. The walk literally felt like a walk through hell. I was in hell, I mused to myself as I stolidly put one foot in front of the other, trying my best to ignore the insistent pestering of the street merchants and the leering calls of the teenaged boys and young men that seem to occupy every city center.

            The Palais was cool, but I ended up never leaving the central room, having found a place to sit. We took a taxi back, got gelato on the way to the hostel, and I promptly collapsed as soon as I made it up the steps to the terrace. The turtles were sunning themselves, and I grabbed the baby one and watched it crawl on the table. Maggie was feeling much better after a nap, so I decided to follow suit.

            The other three girls went on short shopping trips in the madina or made food, and the next day we took the 9 o’clock train home instead of the 1 o’clock.

            I would like to take a moment to explain to the folks back home part of why our experience in Marrakesh was not all it could have been. For one thing, two of us got food poisoning, and two more felt some affects when we got back on campus that week. For another thing, we were five girls traveling without any guys.

            You would think this wouldn’t be a problem. Five capable, college-aged girls, fully responsible and more or less travel-savvy in Morocco after living here for two and a half months. What could go wrong?

            The harassment in Marrakesh was the worst that we have come across in Morocco thus far. Shakira, Lady Gaga, Spice Girls, and Kim Kardashian were the most innocent. Far more aggravating, and less inventive, were when the guys would simply call, “Big ass!” or in some instances walk up to one of us and say “Fuck me”, as happened once in a hair-raising and offsetting instance. Then there’s the clicking of the tongue, calling us like cats. Of all the things in Morocco that is the one thing that bothers me the most. I understand that it’s a different culture, and that all of Morocco is not the same as the touristy madinas, but that doesn’t make it ok with me.

            Rant aside, since then my outlook has brightened considerably. I know it sounds like I’m hating on Morocco, but every time I start thinking I’m ready to go home something happens to change my mind or give me pause. I’m able to make myself understood in four languages now, fluent enough in Spanish to give me hope for the others. Strange acts of kindness in everyday settings – from my roommate, or the guy who sells almonds and hot cashews at the marche – remind me of how it feels to fall in love with this country. For all of its flaws, which I’ve seen more and more of after being in the class of a veritable expert on Moroccan society, I’m definitely going to be sad to leave this place.

            There’s something about the people here that makes me wish America weren’t quite so technology-oriented. With face-to-face communication so undervalued and “inefficient” in American eyes, I’ve come to appreciate the emphasis the Moroccan people place on network maintenance and socialization. That ties in with the whole time sense thing. Being on time isn’t as important as catching up with a friend, which isn’t necessarily bad, just a different hierarchy of importance.

            This upcoming weekend we’ll be traveling to an oasis town with Dr. Shoup, the one who seems to know every merchant in a five-mile radius and has an anecdote for every situation or statistic. When we come back, we’ll have exactly thirty days until finals are over. I’m not sure where the time went.