First Impressions of Morocco

Ahlan wa Sahlan….Greetings from Morocco!

We’re living in Medina Meknes, a city in the north, in the Hotel Transatlantique. The hotel is really old and enormous, like a palace….a palace with a Discotheque. There’s a mountain view from my balcony and orange trees right outside my window. And there’s a bidet in my bathroom. That’s right, a bidet.  European, indeed. The first day we arrived I marveled at the bidet before falling into a deep, jet-lagged slumber.

And then, in the early dark hours of morning—as if in dream—the world was filled with a crackly disembodied voice, minor notes chanted in Arabic punctuating the stillness of the morning. Of course: the adhan (the Call to Prayer). I lay in bed in the otherwise-quiet darkness, and I listened. Somewhere else, Muslims were waking up to pray, one of five times throughout the rest of the day.

To be in Meknes is to be in a world infinitely distant from the world I know. The intricate mosaic tiles, stained glass windows, and ancient Arabic calligraphy painting the sides of buildings are reminiscent of a time way-back-when. People aren’t always running frantically to their obligations, but rather relaxing and enjoying the sunshine; perhaps sitting at a cafe drinking mint tea. The people greet each other warmly, in a manner more personal and intimate than the clipped exchanges we often see in America. And everywhere, dilapidation that gives such rich character to this city. Unlevel cobblestone streets, crumbling houses. It’s simple living, but Moroccans are so happy living simply! Yesterday I bought some nylon wire and clothespins and rigged up a clothesline on my balcony…I’ll be doing laundry just like everyone else here—in a bucket. You won’t find too many traffic lights in Meknes, even at huge 6-way intersections. If you’re lucky, there will be an officer haphazardly blowing a whistle to signal you to cross the street and seventeen cars won’t honk at you; otherwise, crossing intersections is quite the feat, but it’s clear that the locals are skilled at it, so I think after a few weeks of practice I won’t face Imminent Death every time I cross a street. I should also mention that cars don’t seem to stay on the roads, either—today I witnessed cars literally veering off the street onto a huge sidewalk, nearly hitting a bunch of pedestrians. It’s every man for himself. 

The Old City is total chaos, music and drumming all the time and honking cars and leather-skinned men pushing wheelbarrows full of fresh fruits and veggies up the hill to the suk. Inside the suk, deer heads and cow bodies hang from stalls. Live rabbits and chickens are in cages to take home for dinner. The overwhelming smell of raw meat, olives and spices, and animals permeates every nook of the market. Malnourished mangy kittens creep along the tops of the stalls, hoping for a nibble of meat. 

The popular garb for both men and women is a jaaliba, a body-length robe made of light material, in a million different colors and patterns. On the mens’ robe, there’s huge pointed hood that bears a striking resemblance to a Jedi robe.

Yesterday I witnessed my first public demonstration, and there was another small one today. We asked someone what it was all about, and he said they were protesting the arrest of a professor who openly expressed dislike of monarchism. As Americans, we’ve been warned not to be in the midst of any demonstrations because of the idea among some that Americans are instigating them. Needless to say, we watched the events unfold from the across the street, straining our ears to make out the Arabic words they were chanting. 

So far, I’m pretty impressed with how well I’m able to get around using my Arabic. Unfortunately, because Moroccan Arabic is SO far from what I’ve been learning, I can barely understand the person I’m talking to most of the time, so there’s a lot of exaggerated and comical body gestures involved in any conversation. And a LOT of miscommunication. It’s frustrating because when I address someone in Arabic, they usually don’t like to respond in Arabic—they hear my Western accent and assume I’m French, so they start talking to me in French. It’s also way confusing because they’ll frequently, without notice, drop random French words in conversation, leaving me clueless. The Moroccan accent is wild. Even though a lot of the words and verbs are words I know, they basically eliminate all the vowels in pronunciation, so familiar words are encrypted. (For ex., it would be like if instead of pronouncing backyard “baaaahk-yaaahrd,” someone called it a “bckyrd.” Exactly. Really confusing). Still, I can get around pretty well, and Moroccans are super friendly and always want to help you get somewhere. Hopefully by the end of the summer I’ll be a little more proficient with the dialect.

written by blog guest author, Arielle Levin

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