LIFE is an ADVENTURE: June 2008

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Rabat Africa Festival with Jamie

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Life in Les Oudayas

Welcome to Rabat, the capital of Morocco.

A fascinating mélange of colonial French style buildings, an old labyrinth-like medina and a

building boom that is producin

g a vast new national library and stylish villas in the suburbs, Rabat is historical, charming and hectic.

It’s been 10 months since I have moved to Agdal, a chicy European quartier that feels more like southern France, with its myriad of trendy cafés and fashion obsessed shoppers wearing the latest styles from Mango, Promod and Etam. To escape the superficiality of Agdal, the chaotic crush of cars, scooters and buses that clog the city streets and the heckling calls from medina venders, I often slip away to neighborhood overlooking the city, perched on a cliff above the crashing waves of the Atlantic and the wide flow of the Bou Regreg River.

Les Oudayas is the oldest neighborhood in Rabat, most of which was built by Muslim refugees from Spain. Surrounding by stone walls, the most dramatic entrance is the huge door on top of the hill, the Bab Oudaia. As I walk under the cold stone archway, the noise of the city traffic dies down and the feeling of breathing in bus exhaust dissipates.

Once inside the kasbah walls, the rush of cars and clouds of pollution seem far away. Indeed, the one central street in Les Oudayas, Rue Jamaa, is almost too narrow for cars to pass, and only the very determined manage to navigate their vehicles along the whitewashed streets.

Continuing straight along the main thoroughfare, I pass by the familiar orange juice man, who presses fresh oranges for 4dh a tall glass; or about 50 cents. I stop by to say hello, and inevitably splurge for the cheap treat, enjoying the cold sweetness, the flecks of pulp that rest on my tongue and the thought that my mom would be proud of me for getting my daily dose of vitamin C.

Just across from his stand is the wrinkled old man who sells babouches from his stall, the traditional yellow slippers mixed in with bright pink, brown, woven and leather styles. The sandals and shoes hanging from his ceiling drift lightly in the breeze, and he smiles his toothless grin as I pass by.

Two steps further along the narrow cobblestone street, I stop at one of the three corner stores, being located at the junction of the main street and a smaller side alley, they are actually all located on a corner. I grab a bottle of water and a loaf of round flat bread; total: 80cents.

I turn up a narrow side street, just as the sun starts to illuminate the white and blue walls. Occasionally I see young boys like a walking Pollock painting, methodically recovering the old stone walls to keep them fresh and clean looking.

There are always boys playing soccer in the narrow street and little girls sitting on the door steps. "Salaam" I greet them. "Salaam!" they shout back.

After another right and then left turn, I am hidden deep in the quiet calm of the back streets. I knock on my friend's front door. Her house is an old Moroccan riad, completely open in the middle, with an uncovered skylight flooding the first floor living space with fresh light. As the house is snuggled between the neighbors, the only source of light is the roof top opening, which keeps the riad cool and well-lit.

We climb up the three flights of tiled stairs to the highlight of the house, the rooftop terrace. In fact, every house in Les Oudayas has a rooftop terrace. They are essential for drying laundry, storing unused furniture and old bicycles, watering plants, feeding chickens, spying on neighbors and other odds and ends.

As for this terrace, there are two levels. The first of the two has been furnished with whicker chairs, colorful pillows and a jungle of unruly plants. Across the hot terrace is a cool corner that has been covered with bamboo stalks neatly woven together. Three burgundy sofas line the alcove and the tiled coffee table and fat pillows add perfectly to the exotic charm of the rooftop escape.

Next to the alcove, a narrow blue painted staircase runs up to top platform. From here, I’m at the highest point in les Oudayas, except for the mosque that is just next door. Its stone minaret climbs up an additional 20 feet, topped off with the traditional three metals balls. Built in the 12^th century, it is the oldest mosque in Rabat.

At around 5:30, the call to prayer shouts out from the mosque speakers. The voice is shrill and loud, chanting out to the faithful. We sip our tea and listen as his voice carries over all of Les Oudayas and ricochets off the narrow alley walls. From our high vantage point, we can hear the echoing calls from the myriad of mosques that rise above the cityscape.

As the sun sinks lower, we climb up to the top of the roof to see the wild Atlantic waves crashing along the rocks below. The surfers are just coming out of the water, along the sandy beach and from the shore the cries of carefree kids drift up to us.

We open a bottle of wine and enjoy the warm breeze and chilled white as we marvel at the simplicity of life in Les Oudayas. From our rooftop perch above the rush and grime and daily hassles of the city, Rabat is all charm and simple beauty.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Jazz au Chellah in Rabat

Friday, June 13, 2008

ROOMMATES

This is the short story of six girls, three bedrooms, and one apartment. How we all came to live together is a mystery, but one that has consisted of the good, the bad, and countless cultural differences. Even after six years of living with different roommates, it is this year that has proven the most challenging, rewarding and educational.

When I arrived in Morocco, I hailed a taxi at the Rabat airport and recited the carefully address that my future roommate had emailed to me. On the drive into town, we shared the road with donkey carts, buses, bicycles, sports cars, trucks and rusty scooters over flowing with entire families. Like a broken record, the phrase, “we’re not in Kansas anymore,” kept looping through my head.

From our first day as roommates, we decided to become a family, complete with Dad, Mom, Crazy Uncle, Aunt Cythia and the kids. We made family dinners together during nights in, shared clothes for nights out, and became known to the ex-pat community simply as “les filles.” But as the year flew by, a certain tension started separating our family.

How could my Norwegian roommate be so passive and modest about everything?

Why was my Finnish roommate so opinionated and direct?

Did my American roommate realize that her sarcasm doesn’t translate into other languages?

Had my Moroccan roommate ever had to wash dishes before or clean up after herself?

Why was having a sit down meal so important to my French roommate?

How much was I willing to put up with to avoid direct confrontation?

Each of us came into this year with previous co-habitation experiences, but never had our living situations been so multi-cultural. We were six independent, savvy and successful women; could cultural differences really complicate things that much? Oh yes.

When living with five other roommates, with each one hailing from a different country, the things one might take for granted become moments for conflict or reflection. Reading meaning into indirect conversations, or how to take blunt comments with a grain of salt, became daily exercises in communication. I learned to keep more space between my Scandinavian roommates than those from the Mediterranean, to enjoy a late afternoon cup of espresso with the girls after work, accept my clothes being “borrowed” without asking, and to make vegetable tagines or good ole mac n’ cheese.

Despite the language barriers, disappearing food, endlessly dirty dishes, and differing lifestyle choices, we’ve somehow managed to keep our family together.

And this, I have come to attribute to one altruistic idea. Modifying our behavior for others is not always easy, or even a conscious act for that matter, but living well together starts with learning to think beyond one’s self. Having built-in friends with whom to cook dinner, watch movies and travel can be enjoyable, if an independent individual can learn to think collectively.

Thus, it’s not our differences that I will remember after this year, but rather, making ginger bread Christmas cookies, dancing in our living room until 6am, girl’s night out in Casa, birthday parties and weekend trips traveling. These memories are what make living with one apartment, with three bedrooms and six girls so unforgettable.