I am up very early Tuesday determined to get to the flower market to buy a large bouquet for the evening when we are scheduled to be guests of Majid and Nancy Slaoui - high school friends of my friends Doug and Patrick. They all went to high school together in Rabat during the early seventies at The Rabat American School. They now live south of Rabat on the way to Casablanca in a beach community.
Patrick and Doug coached me on what to do and where to go before I left for Morocco and Nancy found us our hotel in Casablanca - the Riad Salam. Majid has promised to cook us a real Moroccan dinner.
I go to the medina first where there is a small market that sells bouquets already made up with plastic doilies on the bottom, but this seems like buying flowers at the A&P back home with the blooms a little wilted. For Majid and Nancy's hospitality in inviting all 10 of us to dinner something a little nicer seems needed. I try to remember our way up to the flower district from our luncheon with Maria, the Moroccan art therapist, the previous thursday. I head past our favorite local eatery and stop quickly at a street vendor to llok at Moroccan coloring books in Arabic to bring back to my classes in the States. I realize how quickly I have adjusted to the streets of Rabat and they begin to feel familiar after the utter foreigness and disorientation of Fez. I do not have the 20 dh for the books and tell the young man I will return.
About a half mile beyond the Catholic Cathedral in Rabat
the flower stalls appear by the great open plaza where we had our tajin luncheon. Rather than cause too much excitement since I seem to be the only customer at this hour, stop at the first stall and begin to point out the stems of flowers I want to make a nice loose bouquet. This seems better than something pre-arranged. Lillies and irises and stock and a bird-o-paradise - un ouiseaux - to top it off! The flower stall owner throws in another. A grand bouquet. Fully satisfied I head back across the street. The vendor has wrapped it all with a big satin bow. But where is my change? A 20 dh bill? I head back to look among the flower buckets.
"Excuse moi Madame." the shopkeeper points out that my 20 dh has gotten stuck in my enormous head scarf.
The morning is spent once again in the medina. This time we stop in to see the
weaver. He shows Becky and
me the fine quality of his linens and woolens all woven behind the shop on the
family looms just as they have been for 100 years.
Dinner is served with a large
plate of kefta (spiced hamburger beef) to start.
Then there was couscous filled with vegetables and chicken. It was a huge plate placed in the middle of the table and this is Tuesday! We had learned that couscous was traditionally reserved for Friday because it precedes the holy day. Women take the entire day to prepare the couscous grains from scratch and then have a feast prepared so they do not have to work on the holy day. We ate our fill, said fond good-byes and were escorted back to the Splendide by van. The next day we would all rise early to travel to Casablanca by train for our tour of the psychiatric hospital.
Patrick and Doug coached me on what to do and where to go before I left for Morocco and Nancy found us our hotel in Casablanca - the Riad Salam. Majid has promised to cook us a real Moroccan dinner.
I go to the medina first where there is a small market that sells bouquets already made up with plastic doilies on the bottom, but this seems like buying flowers at the A&P back home with the blooms a little wilted. For Majid and Nancy's hospitality in inviting all 10 of us to dinner something a little nicer seems needed. I try to remember our way up to the flower district from our luncheon with Maria, the Moroccan art therapist, the previous thursday. I head past our favorite local eatery and stop quickly at a street vendor to llok at Moroccan coloring books in Arabic to bring back to my classes in the States. I realize how quickly I have adjusted to the streets of Rabat and they begin to feel familiar after the utter foreigness and disorientation of Fez. I do not have the 20 dh for the books and tell the young man I will return.
About a half mile beyond the Catholic Cathedral in Rabat
the flower stalls appear by the great open plaza where we had our tajin luncheon. Rather than cause too much excitement since I seem to be the only customer at this hour, stop at the first stall and begin to point out the stems of flowers I want to make a nice loose bouquet. This seems better than something pre-arranged. Lillies and irises and stock and a bird-o-paradise - un ouiseaux - to top it off! The flower stall owner throws in another. A grand bouquet. Fully satisfied I head back across the street. The vendor has wrapped it all with a big satin bow. But where is my change? A 20 dh bill? I head back to look among the flower buckets.
"Excuse moi Madame." the shopkeeper points out that my 20 dh has gotten stuck in my enormous head scarf.
Down closer to the hotel, I check in with the my 20 dh
change to buy the comics. The
young man has not only not forgotten me, but has wrapped them in a bag waiting
for me. This would never
happen in New York. I am
continually struck by the courtesy, honesty and goodwill of the Moroccan
people.
I buy some mint and rosebuds for Moroccan tea and several
bars of Argan oil soap.
By noon we are back at the hotel, where Richard, Livingston
and Ikuko have arrived back from their adventure in the Sahara. They had a driver who arranged a
trip to Zagora and an overnight in a desert tent after a ride on camels. This adventure will have to wait
until next time for me.
Then Jennifer and Raquel arrive back from their adventure to
Marrakesh. They describe a lot of
mopeds whizzing around the grand market plaza and a tea salesman who sold them
both $50 worth of tea and other herbs including some very expensive magical
ingredient to make “The King of Teas.” Sounds like our adventure in the spice shop. Yet another adventure that will
have to wait until I return.
I begin to feel the end of the trip coming.
We all cab over to the Fondation where several groups of
very young children are scheduled
to work with us. We
will see each group for one hour keeping it time limited, which is already
progress from what we have done with the others. Again we have the room with numerous tables, which has
been much more conducive to group work and we plan to do paper bag puppets - a nice sustainable project that could
be replicated by the teachers when we leave and which also promotes
communication, sequencing and a whole host of other skills.
The children are really very little. I have a very shy, very tiny 5
year-old boy, another boy a bit older and a girl similar in age. I am not sure how much French
they speak so I communicate with gestures, pointing to eyes, nose, mouth,
etc… Raquel works across the
table from me. When we are
later given plasticine to make animals for the puppets, she makes animal sounds
to communicate with the kids and this seems to work. I make a little clay dog for the tiny boy and then
other boy and few more seem to need clay dogs too.
It is hard to call what we are doing with these children art
therapy because we do not know them, can barely communicate and will never see
them again, but we are certainly having a good time.
In the next group I have a much older boy, A with big
round brown eyes . He seems
so eager to be working with me, so earnest and willing to learn. He understands easily the concept o f
the puppet and makes everything including a baseball cap. He also wants a dog for his
puppet. When we finish with
the children, tea is served. We
have pictures and good-byes with all the kids and teachers.
We are back to the hotel by five and I have told everyone to
be ready by 6:30 so that Majid’s driver can collect us in his van. Majid comes as well in is
compact. Livingston and I climb in
the back and say hello to Thor, a Norwegian business associate of Majid’s who
is staying with him. We drive through the city following the
mini-van and Majid points out the strikers in front of the union building. He describes the different cities
in Morocco and how one is recognized for being from a certain place; those from Fez are Fassi, those from
Sale are Saffi. Majid’s father was
Fassi, but his mother was Berber and yet his last name is typical for someone
from Sale so it seems to get very complicated. He tells us about the World Music Festival in Fez each
June and the Pop Music Festival in Rabat in May. They’ve seen Whitney Houston - not long before her untimely death –
Sting, Elton John, Quincy Jones – top acts come each year and play all around
the city. We drive out to
the coast to a beach community where they live in a comfortable suburban home –
again seeming like an upscale California neighborhood.
Nancy greets at the door, a very warm and welcoming American
woman, who keeps a very Western home. Their three children are all grown and have been
educated in the US. Their oldest now lives in Casablanca
with the first grandchild.
Richard feels immediately at home because he is allowed to go off and
play the X-Box and we all relax a bit because there is no need to struggle with
the language barrier in this home. The drinks and wine flow along with a beautiful
spread of olives and nuts.
Nancy describes her life in Morocco as being in an expat
bubble. Her father was in
the military so she was used to travel and being in foreign lands, but she said
she only uses French now when she goes to certain stores and that she barely
speaks any Arabic at all.
She has two Masters degrees in special education and ESL, and has worked
for years in the American schools in Rabat and Casablanca with special needs
children from very wealthy families of the diplomatic and business class.
She describes a young boy from a Moroccan banking family who
decided to scribble on the desk.
She wouldn’t let him leave for the day until he had cleaned the desk up. The classroom attendants were horrified
because the boy was from the upper class. They told her, “Oh no miss – don’t make little R clean
up.” Nancy said the
boy had probably never dressed himself let alone cleaned anything is in his
life, but she insisted. When
the mother stormed into the classroom looking for him because she and their
driver had been waiting, the principal backed her up. Little R was made to clean up his mess probably for the
first and maybe the only time in his life.
She talked about the high school students she currently
works with a the American School in Casablanca and how they all need community
service in order to graduate. We
talked about the possibility of the students collaborating with art therapists
in the future through the Fondation if we return and do more work with them.
Then there was couscous filled with vegetables and chicken. It was a huge plate placed in the middle of the table and this is Tuesday! We had learned that couscous was traditionally reserved for Friday because it precedes the holy day. Women take the entire day to prepare the couscous grains from scratch and then have a feast prepared so they do not have to work on the holy day. We ate our fill, said fond good-byes and were escorted back to the Splendide by van. The next day we would all rise early to travel to Casablanca by train for our tour of the psychiatric hospital.
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