Lundi

There are no actual traffic laws in Rabat. People could stop at a red light if they feel like it, but most of the time they feel like beeping their horn and giving some rude gesture to the drivers in front of them and the pedestrians that who dare to get in their way to cross the street. This is what I thought at first, of course. But then I learned that it's common courtesy to honk when the light turns green because often the car at the front of the line won't see it. All of the taxi drivers you meet are polite and some even try to get to know you better.

 I walked all the way from Hotel Oumlil to the Amideast office at 8:30 a.m. only to find that when I got there I didn’t need to take the Arabic placement test. I have never taken an academic course in Arabic before. So I had about two and a half hours to kill and I decided to walk back to Oumlil. Which street was I supposed to turn on? I tried to find out where I was by asking three people for directions in French. I understood them all perfectly, but there were three different sets of directions I had to follow and none of the kind people that helped me knew street names. So was I supposed to turn near the palm trees, at the round about, or go straight for a long time? I decided to take a cab.

My first cab experience was definitely memorable. I got in the car, told him where I needed to go in French and got an English response. “You are not Moroccan. Where are you from?” Well, no I’m not. So I responded, “I’m Pakistani.” I wasn’t quite sure if I should say that I’m American due to our notorious reputation abroad, but he was on to me. “So you speak English? How? Do Pakistanis speak English?” And I said, “No, they don’t, but I can speak English because I’m also American.”

“Oh, so that is why you are so beautiful. You are like beautiful rose.  A métisse. You have the beautiful eyes and the beautiful smile…” And he kept going with the compliments. He loved the fact that I’m Muslim and practicing Ramadan. He also kept telling me that he loved Pakistan, though I was used to that response from Moroccans. He then told me that I could practice my Arabic, French and Darija with him as well as ask any questions I wanted. “Do you have a phone number?” I wasn’t comfortable with giving him my phone number so I said I didn’t have a phone. It wasn’t completely false. I was using a pay-as-you-go phone without any minutes. 

He was persistent. “I can give you mine and you can call me sometime. We can get some coffee or tea after ftour. I would love that. Or even if you just called me to ask me questions. I would love that.” He almost missed the hotel because he wasn’t paying attention to the road. “Oh, here is my stop!” I was saved, Alhumdulillah, although I did leave with Mohamed’s number in my purse.

Another thing I discovered on Monday was that it is very hard to fast in this Muslim country.  Fortunately there are two other Muslim girls, one from Ghana and the other from India, who I can gripe with about the little difficulties. Everything opens at different hours each day and doesn’t stay open for long. I had to walk around for hours to find places to buy an adapter, a transformer, and shampoo. I was pretty unsuccessful for about four days before my schedule and the shopkeepers’ schedules were aligned right.

About an hour before ftour until an hour after ftour, there are approximately three places in Agdal (and it seemed like in all of Rabat) that are open for ftour. The days when the Amideast program didn’t schedule dinner were interesting. We all wandered in the dark in attempts to find food, like the millions of street cats we saw each day and night.   

The hotel said it offers sahour (breakfast before dawn) to everyone each morning. I can safely say that is a bluff. The hotel forgot to wake us up three times and one of those times we fasted without food. The other two times, we were self-reliant and managed to fill our stomachs with the food we collected from ftour and the hanoot next door.

Despite the problems, Ramadan is generally a wonderful time in Morocco. People are especially sweet and happy and they’ll help you with anything.  For one sahour, my friend and I went down to the hotel restaurant and the chef whipped us up a tray of crepes, cheese, yogurt, fruits of all kinds, and juice. He also gave us an enormous bottle of water for free after he sat down and talked with us in bits of French and Darija. The traditional food during Ramadan is incredible and I am never hungry, only thirsty from walking around under the sun. But the breezes here swiftly lower your hot body temperature. I’m positive that when I leave this place I will go through withdrawal, in part because of the delicious and sugary mint tea.

Monday evening we had ftour at Tagine wa Tangia, a restaurant close to the Medina. After ftour, we walked in small groups along the boulevard of trees resembling Champs Élysées and through the narrow swerving walls of the old Medina. There we saw vendors with heaps of mismatched shoes, tight and loose fitting djellabas, bags of lentils, western clothing, and random knickknacks. Most of the vendors are young men who try to pick up the pretty American girls with their broken English or offer to sell you some hasish. We also encountered a large group of men praying in the street.