A Very Belated Update: Christmas and a Wonderful Start to 2015

I’m writing from the sunny terrace outside of the salon at the CLC overlooking the basketball court. It’s recess at the school across the street, and I can hear the happy screams of the children. The midday sunshine is has started to feel spring-like, and as the frigid mornings grow more mild I am realizing how little time I have left here. It’s been more than a month since I’ve written, and I have a lot to record.

Before my parents and Cordelia arrived in Casablanca, I traveled with the other Americans to the small seaside town of Essaouira. White-washed buildings hug the coast with the charm of a slowly crumbling colonial city. When the Portuguese controlled parts of the Moroccan coast, they called this city Mogador. Over the years, the town regained its Moroccan name, but the influence of the Europeans is still present in the old forts that rise above the city. 18^th century cannons line the ramparts, and buttresses hang out over the rocky coast. The city itself moves with the slow rhythm of a beach town. It is a quiet escape from the crowds and craziness of Marrakech. The beach stretches for miles of pure soft sand, and to the south the city disappears. Other than the distant windmills rising out of the fog, the beach is a natural expanse of sand dunes and rocks undisturbed by civilization.

We stayed in a hotel with an breathtaking view of the waves breaking along the rocky shoreline to the north. The city walls drop away directly down to the ocean, and I spent my mornings reading on the sunny rooftop deck and listening to the soothing crash of the waves. 

One morning, Seth and I ran down the beach for miles away from the city. It was early, and we stopped halfway into our run to watch the sunrise. In the middle of the empty beach, a river cuts through the sand dunes and distant mountains. A mile from the wide mouth where it empties into the sea, a small town is nestled into the green hills. The sun rose through the dissipating clouds over the minarets of the village, and we watched in contented silence as the rays slowly spread over the beach. 

We continued along the coast and found a jellyfish the size of a small table that had washed to shore. Later, we rolled up our pants and waded out to the ruins of an old fort at the tip of a curve in the beach. Eroded by centuries of crashing waves, the fort had degraded into a haphazard pile of sandstone slabs. However, you could still make out the ramparts, the buttresses, and the windows. 

When we returned to the city beach, there were already pick-up soccer games starting on the beach. Ignoring the frigid morning air, we ran into the freezing waves in our clothes. I floated on my back staring up at the brightening sky, rocked by the motion of the waves. It was two days before Christmas, and I had been sorely missing New England and my family. However, moments like this one, staring up at the stunning morning sky from the shimmering water of the Moroccan coast, made me realize how worth it this experience is. I will have other Christmases with the people I love, but I will probably never again spend my Christmas Eve exploring a crumbling colonial Moroccan city in wonderment.

On Christmas Eve, my friend Katie and I walked down to the beach at sunset. We watched the sun sink below the horizon behind the island that protects the harbor. A single minaret stands next to the abandoned fort, and our vantage point on the beach was perfectly positioned to watch the sun set directly behind the silhouette of the mosque. The long trails of wispy clouds were painted a surreal tapestry of pink and red and gold, and the colors reflected onto the draining sand flats of low tide. We stripped to our bathing suits and ran through the damp sand under the mirrored sky. The chill of the ocean took my breath away, and we submerged ourselves under the soft waves. The surface of the water was a shimmering pastel sheet in constant flux with the rise and fall of the swells. We stood knee-deep in the clear water of the harbor watching the last sliver of the glowing orb fall below the horizon.  As we walked back through the cooling night air, feeling the night wind pick up through our hair and whistle through the ramparts, I was reminded again of how experiences like this make my whole experience here worth it.

When we returned to our hotel room, we made hot chocolate and sat next to the French doors looking out at the city lights. I could hear the crashing of the waves as the tide receded, and we sat wrapped in blankets in the dark listening to Christmas music. The lingering chill from the water and the ocean breeze sneaking in through the cracks in the windowsill enhanced the warmth of the room. It was the one time that December in Morocco truly felt like Christmas, and we sat there listening to music and enveloped in the peace of the moment.

We returned to Marrakech for Christmas Day, and I went to church in the morning to watch Katie sing in her church choir. The city’s single church is situated right next to a mosque in the newer French neighborhood, and the service was packed full with tourists and locals alike. Although I do not usually go to church on Christmas, it was nice to be in a place that was celebrating. Christmas in Morocco is, obviously, just a normal day, and it was lovely to be in such a festive atmosphere and hear the beautiful carols that Katie and her choir sang.

That night, Margaret came over to my house and we made Christmas dinner for my host family. We cooked a huge vat of spaghetti topped with a spicy tomato sauce and baked chicken parmesan. We served the dish on a red platter along with brie and hot apple cider. Zineb and Oumaima decorated the table in the salon with a beautiful tablecloth and candles, and we spent the meal laughing and eating in an incredibly festive atmosphere. I wrapped some presents and candy for Yassir and put them under the miniature Christmas tree in my room, and he opened them with all the excitement of a little kid on Christmas morning. After dinner, Margaret, Zineb, Oumaima and I bundled up and climbed the ladder to the top of our roof. We lay on the tiles wrapped in blankets and gazed at the stars in the clear, cold night sky. Margaret sang Christmas carols, and her soft high voice rose over the sleeping city. I realized again how lucky I am to be here, even without my family, at Christmastime. I am so blessed to have found a new family here to celebrate with, and I can’t imagine a better Christmas in Morocco than my Christmas with the Ibarkis.

As we stared at the stars, my family was boarding a plane in Boston and traveling across the Atlantic. The next morning, I got on an early train to Casablanca to meet them. I sat next to a professor from the north of Morocco who studied at Kenyon and now teaches at a university in Ohio, and I passed the time talking with him. I met my family at our hotel, and it was so wonderful to see them again. They got their first glimpse of Morocco in a walk through the markets in Casablanca at twilight, and then we relaxed in the hotel together for the night. One of our family Christmas traditions is to watch The Grinch together, so we all bundled up in our bathrobes and gathered in my parents’ room. We exchanged gifts and watched the movie, and yet again it felt like Christmas in Morocco.

Unfortunately, I was very sick for most of the trip, but we still managed to have a good time. We started out early the next morning and visited the impressive Hassan II mosque in Casablanca, a modern and opulent construction that towers over the city from the Atlantic coast. That afternoon, after a long drive and a wonderful lunch, we arrived in the magical city of Fes. Over the next two days, we explored the winding, labyrinthine streets of the old city. We visited an old Quranic school in the depths of the medina, watched leatherworkers dying impossible quantities of leather in the ancient tannery, and wandered through markets packed with glittering wedding decorations, ornate sweets, wood carvers, leather workers and spice vendors.  

The ancient city of Fes spreads through one of the valleys between the foothills of the Middle Atlas Mountains, and we climbed to a high vantage point on one of the hills outside the city to take in the view. Leather from the tannery was drying on the hillside, and behind us fertile farms stretched over the rolling hills as far as the eye could see.  Fes was sprawled out below us in a mysterious puzzle of red roofs, green tile, and crumbling stone that somehow blended together with a stunning continuity. We gazed out at the city from beside the Merenid ruins on the hillside, taking in the strong stone walls and winding lanes from above. We watched the sun set from our hotel and spent one more night in Fes before we continued onwards.

The next day, we visited the Roman ruins of Volubilis, a key town for Roman traders on their way to Spain. I had never seen ruins of this scale, just an old Roman theater in Cadiz, and I was blown away. The town was situated on the top of a ridge overlooking fertile flatland, and the gray stones rose up dramatically against the rainclouds in the distance. The remnants of an old temple and the columns of a central meeting place still remained, topped by haphazardly constructed storks’ nests and surrounded by the preserved foundations of houses. Some houses still had their original mosaic tiles on the floors, and it was incredible to see the intricate designs still there 1,700 years later. 

We walked through the old gates and on the stones of the Via Appia, taking in the ruins of the arcades and neighborhoods. It’s amazing to me that these ruins still exist at all, and the fact that they are in Morocco absolutely blew my mind. Since everyone in my family loves history and we all took Latin all one point, we were fascinated and spent about half an hour longer at the ruins than our guide was expecting us to. He was a middle-aged man from a nearby town who spoke broken English and was incredibly excited that I knew some Arabic. In the hour we spent there, he told us many stories about the ancient town and helped us navigate the ruins with a better understanding of the place.

Later that day, we visited the imperial city of Meknes. Fortified with three walls by a paranoid ruler in the 14^th century, Meknes is an impenetrable town. We visited the remains of the same king’s granary and his deserted stables. The walls were overgrown with ivy, and I felt like I had stepped into a mystical secret garden. By chance, the American ambassador to Morocco was also visiting the granary at the same time we were, so we got to see him and his entourage.

After Meknes, we continued south to the coast to the capital city of Rabat. Rabat has the comfortable, clean feel of a very moneyed city – the streets are wide and well-kept, the market is beautiful and calm, and there are long walkways stretching along the Atlantic coast filled with walkers and families. We visited the Chellah first, a lush garden of flowers and blooming trees built around the ruins of a Roman and Islamic city. The Roman city was lost to history hundreds of years ago until its excavation, and now a few remnants – the stones of the market, gravestones, and a headless statue – are scattered throughout the grassy hillside. Down below, a small complex from the 12^th century still rises above the treetops. A small minaret tiled in the style typical of Andalusia marks the old mosque of the settlement. An earthquake destroyed much of the region long ago, but the minaret stayed standing. The garden is high on a hillside overlooking the wide, fertile delta of Rabat’s river, and the clear air is a haven for storks. Their nests cover the ruins and the trees, and the constant chatter of their beaks fills the air in an oddly peaceful racket.

From the Chellah, we continued on to the Oudaiyah, one of the oldest parts of the Rabat medina. Surrounded by fortified walls, the Oudaiyah is a charming town painted blue and white that is balanced on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Atlantic. No motorbikes or cars are allowed inside, and the residents still make their living in traditional ways. The town is peaceful and slow, the calm broken only by the occasional tourist and the calls of street vendors. We walked along the narrow streets taking in the sights, and eventually found ourselves in a massive plaza overlooking the Atlantic. You could see up and down the coast for miles, and we watched the waves break and roll into shore. We climbed down the steep stairs to the ancient fort below and explored the crumbling walls, the cool ocean breeze quick and lively on our faces. 

After wandering around the town, we left the ocean behind us and continued on south towards Marrakech. As we got closer, the climate began to change from the damp chill of the north to the bright sunshine and warmth of the south. We passed through the low hills to the north of the city, and my family was blown away by the stunning view of the snowcapped High Atlas in front of us. The mountains are massive, and they tower high on the horizon from hundreds of kilometers away on the flat plain. In Marrakech, we dropped my family’s bags off at their hotel and immediately headed out to Amarchiche to introduce them to my host family. From there, one of the best nights of my year commenced.

We asked the taxi to drop us off at the entrance to my neighborhood, and we walked past the pickup soccer games and sleeping dogs towards my house. I showed my family the incredible view of the mountains from my house, and suddenly we were interrupted by excited honking. Zineb had just picked up Yassir and Oumaima from school, and they stopped the car beside us. Yassir ran out of the car to introduce himself to “Michael Jackson” (his name for my dad), and my host sisters took Cordelia with them in the car.  From the very beginning, my host family and my family got along incredibly well. It was wonderful to watch my dad and my host dad try (and succeed!) to communicate with each other. I’ve always thought they are incredibly similar, and I was so happy they were able to get to know each other even with a seemingly insurmountable language barrier. My host mom and host sisters, in their typical fashion, were incredibly welcoming and warm, and with some translation help my mom and host mom were able to talk as well. We ate sfaa, my favorite Moroccan dish, all together that night. I will always remember my two families sitting around the massive round table in the salon that day, the air filled with laughter and the delicious scent of steaming cinnamon pasta. 

My dad and Yassir played soccer in the courtyard, my mom talked about education with my host mom, and Cordelia chatted with my host sisters. Yassir was thrilled to have found two new playmates – Michael Jackson and Cordelia – and he never stopped moving and laughing the entire time that they were here. As it grew late, we drove my mom and dad back to their hotel and Cordelia slept in my room with me. After everyone else went to sleep, we dressed in warm clothes and brought blankets to the roof with Zineb and Oumaima. We sat there talking under the vast starry sky, cuddled together in our warm clothes.

The next day was New Years Eve. We explored the huge network of souks in Marrakech, and I took my family to my favorite rooftop café overlooking Djemma al Fna. From the corner of the square, you can see the vast crowd moving below among the vendors, snake charmers, and musicians. The unintelligible blur of conversations rises up with fiddle music and smoke from food tents, and the shimmering lights below draw your eyes downwards. We drank steaming tea and ate dinner above the square, and listened as the evening call to prayer rose from the minarets over the lively city. That night, Cordelia and I stayed in a beautiful riad-style hostel deep in the medina. We went up to the rooftop and midnight and watched fireworks explode in the distance, listening to the crowds in Djemma al Fna and the festivities around us. Watching the fireworks over a maze of minarets and alleys with Cordelia next to me was a wonderful way to start 2015, and I am excited for what this New Year will bring.

The next day was my family’s last day in Morocco. After breakfast on the stunning rooftop of the hostel, Cordelia and I met up with my parents early. We walked along my favorite running route, a long park-like street with an incredible view of the mountains. I took them to see my school, the CLC, and to the beautiful Yves St. Laurent gardens, and we walked away from the bustling hub of the city out to my house in the Amarchiche neighborhood. My host mom had prepared a massive plate of couscous, and we gathered in the salon to eat together. My dad and host mom exchanged cooking tips, and my host sisters and I taught my family how to eat couscous with their hands.

A side note: Eating couscous without a spoon is a true art. First, you have to pull meat and vegetables from the steaming center to the side of the rounded communal dish and mix them in with the tiny grains of pasta. Next, you take the mixture in one hand and roll it back in forth in your palm using your fingers -- without using your other hand, as using your left hand is rude – until a compact ball forms. You then pop the ball into your mouth and construct a new one. I have not yet achieved the mastery of the couscous balls and I still end up with a fair amount of couscous on my lap, but in the next three months I hope to improve my expertise.

After our meal, my host sisters and I gathered buckets, soap, and all the necessary items for the hammam, the Moroccan bath. No trip to Morocco would be complete without a trip there, and we did not want my family to experience the tourist hammams. Instead, we took them to the fancy hammam next to my house.  The rooms are steamy and warm, and we hired scrubbers to clean my mom and my sister. An hour and several layers of skin later, I think they were the cleanest they’ve ever been. In my next post, I will explain more about the hammams, which are a very important part of life Morocco.

We returned to my house and ate a delicious dinner of beef and prune tagine, one of my host mom’s specialties. The food was delicious, and I loved being able to share yet another meal with both of my families. My host sisters dressed my mom and sister in traditional Moroccan takshetas (formal wear), and we stayed in the salon talking late into the evening. 

As with all good things, my family’s trip had to come to an end. They left very early the next morning after a family sleepover in their hotel room (I slept on the floor, naturally). Before they left, they all expressed to me how happy they were that they had been able to meet my host family and see what my life was like here. My parents were quite resistant and apprehensive, understandably, when I told them that I wanted to spend a year in Morocco with a family we had never met. However, they know now that I am in very good hands – I cannot imagine a host family better than the Ibarkis – and that my life here is safe and happy. I always knew that I had made the right decision coming here, and it makes me really happy that my parents seem to think the same thing now.

This post is already seven pages long, so I think it’s time to stop. I will write very soon about January, a month that was full of new adventures and the happiest month here yet!