Today I had the luxury of waking up quite late, but the momentum picked up quickly as soon as I got out of the shower and my host parents' son, Hameed (not his real name) told me, "We're headed to the beach." "Now?" I asked. "Yeah, grab your bathing suit."
So I hopped in his car and we drove to meet some of his friends who would go to the beach with us. Hameed is a couple years older than me and is a master's student in economics in Dar al-Bayda. His friends we met up with are all classmates of his at university.
We met his friends in front of an apartment building near downtown. Three guys pulled up in a small Renault and greeted Hameed with a handshake and a air-kiss on both cheeks. We hopped into the car and and began driving to the beach as I was introduced to each of the guys. First there was Jihad: tall, lanky, and the archetype of the Arab macho guy. When I hear Moroccans speak amongst each other, they often sound angry, and Jihad was no exception. I quickly came to realize, however, that this is just what Arabic sounds like when spoken animatedly.
Then there was Osama, who was driving. He was much more reserved and asked me a lot of questions about studying in the United States because he wanted to get an MBA from an American university. ("Wait, did you say their names were Jihad and Osama? Are you just being offensive?" No, imaginary reader, those were their real names. I wished them the best of luck on applying for student visas, but...well, you know. And finally, there was Yusef (not his real name), a quiet guy who was celebrating his last day in Morocco before traveling to Saudi Arabia for the Hajj.
The guys were really nice, and a good group to be with. The trip to the beach confirmed that guys are basically the same the world over. Osama played DJ on the radio, alternating between American hip-hop and French and Spanish euro-trash pop. Jihad pointed out attractive Moroccan women, laughing in English, "You don't have girls like this in America, do you? Beautiful Moroccan girls!" He and Yusef chain-smoked in the back of the car the whole way.
I thought we were going to the Corniche in Dar al-Bayda but about two hours into the drive, I asked Hameed and he told me we were going to a beach town near Rabat that had one of the best beaches in Morocco. And while I can't objectively verify this, I think he was right, because the beach was wonderful. The day was warm and overcast, so fortunately I didn't burn. The beach was a long strip, crowded with tourists, both Moroccan and foreign. Modern, adobe houses lined the beach and a resort hotel marked the end of the strip. The waves were very rough, rising up sometimes ten feet before crashing down onto the sand (and unfortunate swimmers).
Still, the water was full of people. Children walked up to us and asked in Arabic, "Do you want to sit under a parasol? Only ten dirham." We decided against because of the cloud cover. Other children and young adults walked the beach carrying baskets of candy, trays of pastries, crates of ice cream, and pots of coffee, announcing their wares in shouts as they walked by. We sat on our towels for a bit and Jihad smoked a blunt of hashish he had been rolling in the car. Hameed explained that while hash is illegal in Morocco, it is very abundant in the country and widely used among young people.
We watched Osama and Yusef hit a small ball back in forth with wooden paddles they had brought with them. Many others were playing the same game so it looked like a common beach activity. When we got bored we ran into the water, which was comfortably warm, and swam in the waves for a while until we were exhausted and our ears were full of water.
In the car on the way back we were stuck in traffic when I suddenly heard gunfire. I was visibly concerned and Osama laughed and explained that there was a local festival going on nearby. Sure enough, we soon saw a large fairgrounds full of tents, where members of a Moroccan military cavalry were riding horses back and forth and shooting off their rifles intermittently.
Back in Dar al-Bayda we stopped at a pizza place where I tried the barbecue chicken pizza (a food I have been missing while in Morocco). It was even surprisingly good, though at first I was skeptical about eating barbecue here. The restaurant had two posters of San Francisco, which was funny to see. When Moroccan restaurants try to add an American feel, it often goes hilariously wrong, such as the mural of a sexy Native American woman at V.I.P. (Very Italian Pizza) in Meknes.
We bought a couple of sodas and hung out for a bit before heading back to the house. After Hameed finished his soda, he tossed the can onto the street and told me to do the same when I was done. I told him I would wait to find a trash can, and he replied, sympathetically, "there are no trash cans." This was true, and trash was littered absolutely everywhere. So I sadly dropped my can right there. Sorry, environment.
On another sad note, I don't have pictures of today because Dar al-Bayda has a notoriously high petty crime rate and a white guy snapping pictures is to muggers what a raw steak is to hyenas.
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