The next day we wandered into the market area of the Medina at around 2pm for some lunch, but once again found it sparesely populated. It turns out that like in Spain, Morocco also has a siesta, from about 1 or 2 in the afternoon until around 5 o´clock. At three, all the shops were closed and the streets were really empty. We meandered curiously through the Medina, past the Ouderia, between the two great cemetaries and down to the beach front. That´s where we found the missing population of Rabat: sunning themselves on the beachfront, drinking coffee and paddling out into the surf. In Rabat, there is a fertile and rapidly expanding beach and surfing culture developing which, unlike in many other countries I have encountered, has earned the respect and acceptance of the Mainstream population. It still seems to be in it´s early stages, but is also known for it´s social youth work and for increasing Moroccan environmental concern (from absolutely zilch to something), especially concerning local beaches and other areas.
Over the next day or so, Beth, Barry and I got to know the layout of the city and met literally dozens of locals who invited us for mint tea (aka.´Moroccan whiskey´)´and meals. Rabat is one of the few major cities in Morocco not known as a tourist centre and although it does see its fair share of tourists, one gets the feeling that despite the ´capital city´status, Rabat is more like an extensive village: everybody knows everybody else´s business. Friendly travellers, it seems, is everybody´s business, and every friendly person we encountered was eager for us to meet their entire families! Moroccan´s pride themselves on their hospitality to strangers, which, coming from grab-what-you-can Europe, is sometimes so all-embracing it can become unnerving!
Later in the afternoon, the markets opened and scores of people emerged in their immaculate evening best for all night food and frolic. The place was packed and we wandered around checking out the range not just of exotic products, but of the people themselves: the Moroccans wore ´traditional´clothing of every description, from ornate T-shirts to full garb from head to toe. There were ´Moroccan ninja´women walking beside girls with pony tails wearing boob tubes. There were board shorts, baseball caps and kaftans. There wer Nike runners, alligator skin stilettos and camel leather sandals. I come from Australia, where over seventy percent of the population is of British descent and where even in the cultural ´salad´that is Melbourne, there is a distinct culture of conformity. Here, I was overwhelmed by the sheer variety of constumes, faces, crafts and cultures all mingling together with seemingly few cultural prejudices or cliquish snobbery. I will never call someone ´typically Moroccan´again! There was also a visible police presence, nevertheless, that evening confirmed that Rabat was less geared towards the tourism than towards the local industry.
Late that evening, Beth and Barry decided they had had enough and were eager to get back to Malaga in Spain by the next afternoon (one day early), but I was reluctant to rush off so soon. I decided that, if I was sensible, Rabat was not such a dangerous place to stay alone for a few extra days and get to know a little more about Moroccan culture. After all, when would I get a chance like this again? So I bade them farewell at the bus station that night then approached the nearest police officer and asked for help to get a taxi. He not only got me a taxi and organised a realistic price for me back to the Hotel Gaulois, he also gave me his personal mobile phone number to keep with me just in case I ran into any problems while in Rabat. When I arrived back at the hotel, I was greeted by the friendly desk clerk who, when he discovered my friends had gone on ahead, gave me a room upgrade and a heap of common sense advice about safety, fun and historical monuments around Rabat and Morocco in general.
Although I was naturally worried about being a woman alone in Morocco, it was clear that Rabat was a much safer and a more relaxed tourist front atmosphere than many other places around Morocco. The people in Rabat went out of their way to be friendly and to make me feel safe and secure. Also, helping out if anyone looks to be lost or in trouble is such an innate part of their culture that, far from being attacked or mugged, I was often swamped with numerous good intentioned souls trying to ensure that no one harassed me! (and, of course, ensuring that I had eaten enough food that day, that the directions I had been given by someone else were accurate, did I need a place to stay ... etc.)
The next day I woke up to find the streets jam packed all morning until around 2 o´clock in the afternoon. I wandered around all afternoon, lost in the throngs, the flags and the celebrations. I wasn´t sure what was going on, but everyone was in a good mood. It turned out to be the birthday of the Kind of Morocco that day: the beaches were packed, celebrations all around and the ancient monuments lit up with neon decorations! Of course, as the capital of Morocco, the seat of Government and the home of the Royal Palace, Rabat was packed out and exploded into festivities. Before I had arrived in Morocco, I was not even aware that it was still governed by a King. Suddenly, his photo was everywhere, gold framed in every business and home. Flags waved and everywhere I was told the new King was bringing an era of open relations and change in Morocco: there had been a dramatic increase in employment, international trade relations, economic growth, personal freedoms, women´s rights and police presence. Crime had plummeted, although some spoke of the conditions in Moroccan prisons as still fairly horrifying and needing much improvement. Also, I came to discover that while the Moroccan pharmacies and doctors were suprisingly comprehensive, the hospitals were considered places you go only as a last resort in an emergency and likewise needed more attention.
Over the next few days I got to explore the Medina, the Ancient Kazbah overlooking Sale´and Rabat´s beaches, the old cemetaries by the foreshore and I meandered through the Kazbah´s royal gardens. I got ornate henna tattoos all over my arms, my hair cut, ate good food and drank orange juice freshly squeezed in front of me (for about .30euros a glass) and spent time in the markets searching and negotiating for the perfect sandals (came out with Berkenstocks!). I also took my time to buy heaps of spices in bulk and choosing presents from the exotic Moroccan range to send to friends and family back home. Sometime that afternoon, whilst walking around the market, I discovered a man selling live turtles and chameleons. While I was standing nearby, a child upset one of the boxes, spilling haqnd-sized turtles everywhere. I helped the stall holder gather them all up and for my efforts he insisted I take the two week old chameleon I had been ´communicating´with from his collection. I tried to refuse, but the little thing looked up at me with one bulging eye and curled his little tail around my fingertip. I fell helplessly in love! (see photo gallery!)
That night, at the Hotel Gaulois, I pulled my chameleon out and tried to feed it some lettuce I´d procured.
"What´s your name?" I asked it, "Is it Jubjub?" It remained obstinately still.
"Oscar? Terrence?" I felt a little like I was talking to Rumplestiltskin.
"Rumplestiltskin?" No response.
"Gus?" He cocked one eye in my direction rapidly, then slowly turned his head and started crawling towards me. So, that was how I met Gus.
Next time on Tempest Trails:
- Sun, surf and camping Morocco?
- More Moroccan hospitality.
- Tempest surfing in Morocco?
Some Tempest Time.
Some Tempest Channel
