On the morning of September 11, a group of people took the hour and a half train ride to Rabat, the capital city. The contrast between the two cities was audible. Rabat was much calmer, there was a much more organized flow of people. We were warned and were testament to the fact that the military men that were scattered throughout the city would not allow photos or video. I managed to sneak some in despite the occasional protest or scolding.
How could I not try to document the scene? The three of us were eating pastries on the beach of the Atlantic Ocean. The booming call to afternoon prayer and the response of pedestrian traffic towards the Kasbah that sat atop the hill behind us. The space between the Kasbah and us was a cluttered array of tombstones. There was a fisherman on the ocean break before us. The bright red Moroccan flag waved in contrast against a white government building that jutted out into the water beside us. To the other side, as far as we could see there were mismatched housing projects lining up facing the beach. A busy highway separated us and the tranquility of the beach from the chaotic hustle of the city on the other side. So here we sat, while a whole country fasted for Ramadan, eating our delicious pastries and talking about the reoccurring theme of how big the world was with an ocean behind us and a country before us.
We spent a sweaty grueling two hours searching for the King’s main palace. We were laughed at several times as we asked in French for the palace. ‘pah-lah’ means palace, ‘pah-ley’ means can you say. Within these two hours we saw many other beautiful government buildings, not that we knew what they were since they were marked in Arabic. We walked into what we thought was the palace, but it was actually a university. That should say something about the magnitude and beauty of their school- step it up Miami. Here I was scolded again for trying to take a photo of two professors debating in a gateway between the city and the university. I got the photo through a technique I learned in the medina: open the shutter, place the camera at your hip, and tilt it up, snap.
Finally. (And I mean FINALLY, I cannot relate to you the discomfort of 90 degrees, rolling hills, and an attempt to adapt to the culture by wearing jeans and a conservative top) So finally, we found the palace. The guards made us relinquish our passports before we went in. This made us uneasy, especially when we ran into some French tourists that said they didn’t have to dole out their precious identification. I would say the palace was average. It was massive- but not the most impressive building I have seen. The trek there was what made finding it so worth it. I have navigated my way solo through Chicago, I have gotten lost on a school trip in Italy, I have found addresses in downtown Milwaukee, and I have directed taxi drivers that didn’t speak English. But, never have I roamed with two other girls in an African country’s capital city that speaks French and Arabic and successfully found a palace tucked away behind walls at the edge of the city and made it back to the hidden train station in time for departure.
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