My Parents Visit Morocco
When my parents announced to me that they had bought plane tickets for Morocco and really would be visiting me here I asked them what they wanted to see while they were here. I had grand ideas about trips up to Fez and Sefrou or across the Atlas to the Sahara so they could see Ait Ben Haddou or ride camels across the dunes to spend the night in nomadic Berber tents. When pressed as to whether they would prefer camping in the dunes or hiking in the Atlas my parents replied they really just wanted to see me. Given how my parents have spoiled and doted on me for the past 25 years that answer shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. I decided I wanted them to see my town, then I wanted to show them around Marrakech and I wanted to go out to Essouira.
My parents arrived the last day of Ramadan and after a night in Casablanca I whisked them off to my town on the un-express train that goes south to Marrakech. It was only about a three hour train ride, followed by an hour in a grand taxi from Ben Guerir across the flat desert wasteland to Kelaa, but with the jet lag they were exhausted by the time we arrived. (Un)Fortunately this was the first day of no fasting, which means we have to go around to everybody's homes to wish them happy holiday and drink tea and eat cookies. We went directly over to my host family’s house to have a large and very traditional couscous lunch to celebrate being able to eat again and my parents’ arrival in Morocco. I’m not really sure if they were conscious enough to remember all of it. We finally got back to my house so they could rest by early evening when Fouzia (downstairs neighbor and landlady) sent her son Badr up to invite us to tea. I said my parents were tired and Badr came back up in a minute with the message that Fouzia could bring tea upstairs to us. Mom laughed and assured him (via my translation) that they could make it downstairs for tea in a couple minutes.
I had planned to spend three days in my town with my parents, taking them around to all my friends’ and neighbors’ homes, and perhaps one day taking an afternoon trip to some nearby waterfalls or hiking in the foothills of the Atlas. Due to extraneous circumstances (all my parents’ luggage being lost and Dad developing pneumonia!) we spent most of our time resting in my house and shopping for the bare necessities my parents needed to make it through another ten days in Morocco.
The next part of the agenda was three nights in a traditional riad in Marrakech. After several unsuccessful trips during the summer to Marrakech to find the perfect riad I had reserved one online. So much for living close by being an advantage. Actually, Marrakech is by far my favorite Moroccan city and I am so happy that’s it’s also the closest one to me. Though I find the petit taxi drivers there to be the most argumentative and most likely to rip you off, there are so many other wonderful things Marrakech has to offer that I don’t let surly taxi drivers ruin my day (anymore). So, I ended up finding the perfect riad online. A riad is something particular to southern Morocco and a must-do in Marrakech for those who can afford it. It’s basically a large house with an open-sky courtyard in the middle. The really big ones have extensive gardens and swimming pools in the middle with luxurious rooms around the outside. I didn’t reserve the very top end, but since my parents were paying I got one that looked really nice to me and was deep in the warren of alleyways close to the spice souk. I thought the winding walk from the main square of Jma Lfna through the tunnels and souks would be fun for them. I made the reservation before I knew Dad was going to come down with pneumonia.
So we didn’t get to everything on the itinerary I had dreamed up for our four days in Marrakech. Mom and I walked around and around the souks and gardens. Even Dad amassed his energy enough for excursions to some gardens and a palace. He was wise to skip the souks in favor of lounging around the riad and rereading my copy of The Milagro Beanfield War. I was so happy to see him taking refuge in a book I brought to read when I am homesick and need something to comfort me. (I’ve only read it twice in the past year.)
After the wild city we took a bus out to the coast to rest up some more in the calm little town of Essouira. Though riads are the thing in Marrakech, where the interminable hot summer months make the tile floored, tree covered courtyards a must, they aren’t really done much in Essouira. The cool thing there is the apartments. When you arrive in town there are always people waving keys surrounding your car or bus, offering to rent you an apartment. I’ve stayed a hotel in Essouira, but with other people and staying more than one night an apartment really is the way to go. We skipped haggling with the key-wavers in the street since I had reserved (online) an apartment owned by a Brit named Jack that lives in Essouira.
I absolutely love Essouira. It’s an easy two and a half hour bus ride from Marrakech and the climate is always a welcome relief from the interior. In the summer it’s cool and breezy and in the winter it’s actually warmer than anything close to the Atlas. There are some volunteers near there, but I don’t know any of them well enough to invite myself over to their houses on the weekends. I have to wait until I can take vacation to go out to the coast where they get to live all the time. Yes, I’m jealous.
Mom and I started our adventuring the first afternoon with a spur-of-the-moment boat ride out to the islands that guard the entrance to the bay. The old part of town, still walled and looking every bit the fortress it used to be, is on the point at the northern end of the bay. The cannons are original though both Dad and I agreed the wooden wheeled carriages they rested on must be recent replacements for the benefit of tourists. Our apartment had a great view of the closest island to the port, which has a solid round fort on it, cannons aimed towards the entrance to the port.
Some other islands a bit further out were the first stop on our hour-long boat tour. We putted up under cliffs where our guide/captain pointed out some of the endangered falcons that nest in the cliffs. Conservation groups have pressured the government to make the islands off-limits since this is one of the few nesting grounds they have left in the world. I don’t know the whole story, but I think that’s the gist of it. After watching the birds and marveling at the cliffs we went around to the other side of the island away from town to watch the sun set by the old prison and mosque that were constructed with convict labor. Several smaller forts on the island are still bristling with cannons pointed out on the bay.
The trip flew by far too quickly for me, though I suspected every night that Dad was praying to wake up in Boise. We left Essouira and went back to Kelaa for one more night at my place - i.e. one more late evening sitting around Maryam’s house chatting - before we went back to Casa. I had completely forgotten to call ahead and reserve the not-so-expensive hotel near the train station, so we were forced to stay in the ultra luxurious Hayatt Regency in downtown Casablanca. It was amazing and Dad really was well enough (or perhaps close enough to escaping Morocco) to enjoy it. I was in awe that anything so ostentatious could exist in Morocco and my parents were also struck at the contrast between my dusty town and the modern center of Casa’s booming metropolis.
At the airport Mom decided she wouldn’t spend her extra hour sitting around waiting to board, she demanded to be taken to the lost luggage room just to see if she could find anything. Hers actually was there (clearly marked with my Moroccan cell phone number) but Dad’s apparently hadn’t made it. It was too late to check luggage onto their flight and Mom said her bag was mostly full of presents for me and my friends anyway, so she left it with me without even opening it and the two of them rushed off to their gate.
I tried not to think too much about them leaving and took the train back south to Ben Guerir. I snuck into first class and distracted myself by chatting with an orchestra group from France that was touring Morocco. They had just played Meknes and Rabat and were on their way to Marrakech for a concert. They talked about how talented the Moroccan classical musicians they work with are and how much they do with few funds, experience or instruction. I thanked them for encouraging the arts here and they congratulated me on the work I’ve been doing here. It was a great ego boost.
In Ben Guerir I stopped at the Dar Chebab for a quick game of flag/touch football with Bart and his students before going home. I have to admit I have never played football before and was as ignorant of the rules as the Moroccans but it was so much fun I didn’t really care if I knew what was going on or not. So I went home full of endorphins and with an inflated ego which helped keep me from thinking too much about how long it might be before I see my parents again.
Even better, the next morning my host sister Esma from Sefrou arrived to spend a few days with me. Kelaa was the farthest south she had ever been and we decided to go to Marrakech on Monday, which was a holiday. November 6th is the anniversary of the Green March, which was when Hassan II directed Moroccans to march south to the Sahara. Kelaa and all the towns we passed through on the way to Marrakech were covered in new Moroccan flags and we saw several parades and local festivities along the way.
It was fun being the guide again in Marrakech, since I had gotten my act together pretty well with my Mom. This time was quite different though since I was guiding a Moroccan, we were on a very different budget and I had to explain everything in Arabic. We had a great time though and even did some stuff that was new for me. We stayed much longer at one of the snake acts than I ever have. Usually I just pass by and look quickly but don’t stay to listen to the stories or watch the whole act. Esma had never seen anything like this before, so we watched one act for about a half hour. I should have taken pictures but somehow didn’t think of it. I suppose I’ll have another chance.
