Marrakech, Site Visit, and Waiting for Mohammed VI

I’m sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Tazi at noon in Marrakech amid gaggles of European tourists all drinking Spéciale beer at 25 Dh apiece and dressed in ski jackets. Having been the first of my fellow trainees to arrive by bus this morning, I’m enjoying some respite from lugging my backpack across the city.

We first arrived in 'Kech a week ago. Four of us, having traveled by grand taxi, train, and petit taxi, were required to stay one night in the city. Not being allowed to travel at night, our journeys took two days of travel to complete.

Marrakech is a haven for tourists; the main open square, Jemaa el-Fna and its surrounding winding mazes of the medina are ripe with fake exoticism. Snake charmers, henna artists, men in funny hats, and leashed monkeys attempt to lure you over. At night steam rises through the brightly lit caravan of food vendors, and one fully expects to run into Anthony Bourdain, camera crew in tow, or some other Travel Channel pundit capturing scenes of “real Moroccan culture”.

A walk down some of the more uninviting alleys presents one with a grittier, non-tourist affiliated vision of life in Marrakech-- motorbikes and taxis weave deftly yet perilously between pedestrians through the narrow, broken streets. The modern, flashy marquees of Jemaa el-Fna are lost behind the walls of dingy buildings adorned with electrical wires and caged-over windows.

A week ago we saw this for the first time on our way to Site Visit, a period during which we met and lived with our new host families, introduced ourselves to the PCVs we would be replacing, and spoke with the artisans with whom we would be working for the next two years. After two months of floating, it’s nice to have a home, or at least, to know where my home will be. The moving isn’t over yet, as I’ll still have to arrange my own living quarters sometime early next year, but this is a big step. I have a new hometown, and it’s an exciting prospect.

My site is located in the High Atlas region. An hour southwest of Marrakech, the town of approximately 16-18,000 is nestled beneath both tree-topped and snow-capped mountains. The area is biodiverse-- in parts it is desert-like, with thickets of cacti and scrubby almond trees-- in others it is lush with green vegetation. A river valley divides the upper and lower areas of town; there are beautiful Shire-like expanses with soft grass and lazy trees. In other spots palms and tall reeds wave gently.

I live in the lower area of town with a host mom and her son who is twelve years my junior. Unlike my last host mother, I call this woman by her first name; her demeanor and attitude are more like those of a cool aunt, and she treats we with generosity and kindness. I have a freedom here that was completely absent during my stay with my host family in CBT. Perhaps to due my improved language ability, the personalities of my new family, or a combination of everything, I am regarded as an adult with actual functioning ability-- a refreshing home environment. My host brother is mesmerized by soccer, and takes advantage of our time together by involving it in ninety-nine percent of our discussions and activities. Interestingly, he is more fascinated by the spectators than the activity on the field, pointing to the TV when they chant, move and react as a group in that crazed way soccer fans do. “Winner spectators! First Africa!” he says.

Moroccans have a way of obscuring the beauty of their architecture; behind an indiscreet building façade or rusty steel door might lay a majestically tiled abode, or a green courtyard garden, all tucked away behind walls. Ducking under a concrete entranceway, one comes to the door of my host family’s house. I’m spoiled with running water, TWO bathrooms (one of which has a Western-style toilet…jeez I might as well be living the royal palace) and a room to myself on the third floor. Well, that’s not entirely true; I share the area with a twelve-year-old turtle named Something In Arabic I Don’t Remember who spends his days in the concrete outdoor are just outside of my room. Also nearby is a small staircase leading to a roof area directly above my room. Technically being the fourth floor and due to our location in town, it provides a fantastic view of the sprawling town, surrounding douars, the arid flat landscape to the north, and of course, the comforting embrace of the mountains.

The town offers every amenity a PCV could ask for-- internet, cafes, shops aplenty, daily and weekly markets, and transportation. The two primary groups of artisans consist of potters and carpenters. The SBD Volunteer whom I’ll be replacing worked with the potters; I have the option of choosing. There are lots of possibilities for work. These first few months will consist of getting to know the artisans, letting them get to know me-- “hanging around” basically-- becoming known, a familiar face, and developing language. Integrating. It’s possible I will teach English to some of the youth I’ve already met. Word spread quickly of my presence in town; apparently one morning a crowd of girls gathered to meet me. I don’t know; I wasn’t there, but I think we can safely assume it’s true. You know, just like back in America…….uhh…....

Anyway, the town seems wonderful and I feel very grateful to have been placed there.

So there is a little joke in Morocco I’ve fallen for a few times so far:
Did you hear? The King is coming today!
Really? Woah, that’s so cool, omigod, etc. etc.

It’s just a ploy to make fun of gullible people. Turn on the evening news and you’ll see footage of him shaking hands with various officials and lucky members of the public, visiting hospitals, ribbon cutting ceremonies, various inaugurations, etc.. The King is Morocco’s rock star; they adore him. I’ve seen his portrait in probably every home and business I've visited throughout the country.

Last Wednesday I received a text message stating that the King was indeed actually-- well, maybe coming and that people were beginning to gather along the main road into town. I headed up at about 9:30 a.m. and found a good spot on which to stand. So I stood. Guards in uniforms of different sorts patrolled the streets; barricades were raised, as were Moroccan flags and a giant picture of the King. Maintenance workers swept the streets, bands of men in white djellabas arrived with their hand held drums, and the crowd grew.

Two hours later the sun was beginning to move overhead and shine in a harsh, burning way, and the feisty old women around me jabbed with their elbows to gain precious inches of ground nearer to the street. We waited. Miniature Moroccan flags were handed out as well as cardboard printouts of the King, which the women grabbed for violently and kissed adoringly. The heat of the sun, the ache of standing, the anticipation, the trance-inducing frenzied drumming and maniacal singing transformed the crowd into a wild beast, at which point I relinquished my ground for the comfort of shade and a brief sit. Five hours had passed.

It was at this point that I heard someone calling my name. I turned to see the other PCV in town, a Youth Development Volunteer standing next to where I sat. She introduced me to a British family living in town that happened to be waiting as well, a couple with six beautiful blond daughters all named names I would choose for my own children. The parents were in need of another pair of shoulders for their little ones. After another hour of waiting, we heard the crowd roar-- people surged forward against the barricade. I hoisted one of the girls up, stood on my toes, and above the sea of tiny red flags I saw the King standing and waving through the roof of his car as his motorcade swept through town.

After six hours of waiting the King, for five seconds, really, truly did come to town that day. Omigod.


(check out the photobucket link for new pictures of my site and the surrounding area)