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 producing 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.