Rabat, Morocco.

30.08.10

I felt like I fell asleep in a club last night. There was a recording of a woman singing in Darija
with the pitch of Alvin the Chipmonk, a truck that perpetually backed up, and the chorus of
Moroccans shouting me to sleep. Ramadan means 1. Muslim Moroccans have bumped back their
schedules, coming out mostly after the last call to prayer of the day (though I think the night
noise is typical), followed by dinner, and 2. I fast between meals.
I had an incredibly easy time getting to Morocco. I found Americans at the airport who locked
eyes two seconds to long, just enough to give you the scared cartoon lobster about to be boiled
look, and that was our recognition, therefore ice breaker. The people here are nice, excited people
looking to just get this once in a lifetime experience. We’’re staying in a hotel until Friday, when
we meet our host families. My two roommates are Kelsey and Kim. Kim came in at around
9:00pm last night. Kim has had a much more interesting and life-threatening time getting to
Morocco, so I’’ll tell you about that first.
Kim missed her flight at the Charles DeGaulle airport because they wouldn’’t hold it for eleven
minutes after the bomb scare in the terminal she went through security in. Once in Rabat, she
took a cab. Whereupon her cab didn’’t want to turn around to deliver her to the hotel, backed up,
and promptly hit a child in the street. The child is fine. Later that night, her boyfriend (who is
either incredibly sweet OR controlling) was worried he hadn’’t heard from her, because her
father called him wondering. He somehow found the address to the hotel online after searching
on the SIT facebook page, found the hotel number, called it, didn’’t understand Arabic, called his
mom (who speaks French) and had her call the director of the program at 2:00am, then wrote
Kim to say, ““My bad if the director’’s mad at you.”” Honestly, he was being the sweet,
concerned boyfriend, not the controller, I was being facetious;)

A man in the Medina offered me a bite of his sandwich today. I bought some pants and tried
them on, wedged between a mirror and a shower curtain. I went to my first Moroccan
supermarket today too, and survived crossing the street.

Everyone here is friendly, but not overly friendly. The harassment factor isn’’t as huge as I was
expecting, and definitely not as big as Cairo. Never have I ever felt so silently objectified though.
I tried using an Arabic keyboard today. I’’m getting the password for the school internet
tomorrow. The school is gorgeous! It’’s a converted house, four stories tall. The tile and mosaics
are out of this world. These arching cutouts are held up by white pillars and there are blues, reds,
golds, blacks, and greens everywhere. The terrace on the top floor has a panoramic view of
Rabat, and you can see the Sultan’’s palace, the ocean, houses, and minarets.

The call to prayer is absolutely beautiful. I’’ve missed it. I’’m off to bed, I need me sleep for the
““drop off”” tomorrow. ““Drop off”” being literally dropped off somewhere in Rabat, and I have
to find my way home. It’’s an I get lost tomorrow so future me doesn’’t get lost then, kinda thing.
It’’ll be useful if I don’’t get rabies or dengue along the way, Inshallah.

I learned ““nan”” which means ““yes,”” ““miftah,”” which means ““key,”” and ““schuma,””
which means ““shame on you.”” As in, your cat call was horrible, you can do much better than
that, shame on you.

Peace,

Raleigh