Friday Evening
My last night in Rabat. It is just past midnight and we leave tomorrow at 7
am. Sadness and exhaustion
set in. My bags are packed
and await transport by Grand Taxi with Khalid and Najib to Casablanca
Airport. Najar the manager
of the Splendide has arranged this for a cost of $300 dh or roughly $36 – just
what I spent on my red wallet. I hear men’s voices in the street below speaking
Arabic and think of the day and my interactions with Arabic speaking muslim
people. I am so grateful for
this experience and for a wider view of this world, which is an antidote to the
influence of an under current of Islamiphobia in American culture. Looking at the ceiling in my room, I realize for the first time that there is an arrow indicating the direction of Mecca for the purposes of prayer.
Dinner tonight was arranged by Hilda who consulted with Badr,
one of the staff at the Fondation, for a good recommendation for authentic
Moroccan food. We go to a
real Moroccan theme restaurant: Dar Naji on the other side of the medina and
Bab al Had. Najar, the
manager from the hotel, walks us over there and warns us to watch for
pickpockets. We enter
a hallway lit with filagree lanterns casting beautiful shadows. It smells of orange water. We pass by a host dressed in
white djellabah and fez, who pours water from a small pitcher over a basin for
each of us to rinse our hands – a cleansing ritual.
After we wash our hands we proceed up the stairs and are led into a tent where we sit on cushions with a young man wearing a fez and traditional costume, who prepares us tea. It seems just as if we are in a tent in the desert. The ingredients are all laid out on the table in front of us with a number of teapots and glasses on a silver tray in the center and a container with enormous sugar cubes. Idris, our host, is sweet, no more than 25, with a shy wide smile and very little English. I do my best to communicate in French. He tickles Richard who just wants his Sprite and is not interested in tea or tents in the desert having just slept in one.
Idris prepares the tea by putting the herbs in the pot with hot green China tea. He passes some herbs around for us to smell: mint, vervaine, and absinthe! He pours us all a tall glass in the traditional manner with the pot held high and the stream of tea falling from a few feet into the glass so it becomes mixed with air. After tea and photos we are lead to our table with cushioned seats and share a last meal of tajine, coucous, zaluke or eggplant salad and we share memories and thoughts about our trip together.
After we wash our hands we proceed up the stairs and are led into a tent where we sit on cushions with a young man wearing a fez and traditional costume, who prepares us tea. It seems just as if we are in a tent in the desert. The ingredients are all laid out on the table in front of us with a number of teapots and glasses on a silver tray in the center and a container with enormous sugar cubes. Idris, our host, is sweet, no more than 25, with a shy wide smile and very little English. I do my best to communicate in French. He tickles Richard who just wants his Sprite and is not interested in tea or tents in the desert having just slept in one.
Idris prepares the tea by putting the herbs in the pot with hot green China tea. He passes some herbs around for us to smell: mint, vervaine, and absinthe! He pours us all a tall glass in the traditional manner with the pot held high and the stream of tea falling from a few feet into the glass so it becomes mixed with air. After tea and photos we are lead to our table with cushioned seats and share a last meal of tajine, coucous, zaluke or eggplant salad and we share memories and thoughts about our trip together.
Afterwards we walk back through the fountains of the Bab al
Had. Everyone seems
content, but tired and not a little sad. The others walk ahead and Hilda and I pass through the
port together. We are an odd
couple, me a few feet taller, but we have passed through this culture together
in an easy bond. Under the port in
the dark sits an old woman looking particularly desperate. Hilda gives her some coins, because we
can’t take much Moroccan money out of the country. I stop and give her 1dh – not much and hold onto the
10 dh to give to my son.
“Good
karma,” we say to each other, to give some of the last of our dirham away. An eager bright eyed young man
runs after us. We think he
wants money too.
“Excuse
me, you speak English? French?”
“English.”
“Excuse
me. I was just
wondering. I am Algerian student. I see you give money to that
woman and wonder are you Jewish or Christian?”
“Christian.”
“Why
you gave money to the woman?”
He
is slim, with dark curly hair and very large, dark and open eyes. He wears a red v-neck sweater. I shrug.
“She
has nothing. I have
something. Why not?”
He
bows and says, “Thank you. God
bless you,” and goes off into the night.
Hilda and I agree that this is living. Living in a way, which means something; making contact with the greater world;
a feeling of goodwill between two cultures. This moment feels emblematic of our efforts here. We did not do so much in terms of
art therapy, there were some frustrations with the work, lack of communication, and disorganization, but in the larger picture it was
a great step forward and gesture toward understanding and potential for the
future.
