Kenabky ala al-ard

Last night I went to bed tired but content after a great day in Rabat, but at some point during the night I woke up to a wave of nausea that sent me racing for the bathroom. I clung to the toilet in agony, knowing something big was about to happen, but not sure whether to sit on the bowl or just hang my head over it. I spent between thirty minutes to an hour on the floor of the bathroom, moaning, whimpering, and half-sobbing "damn you Morocco, damn you straight to hell." Surprisingly, my stomach slowly settled down, and I was finally able to get up and crawl back into bed.

Until a couple hours later, when I woke up with my stomach screaming just one thing: RUN. Twenty minutes later, feeling as if I had nothing left in my system, I returned to bed. Even this morning, my stomach is still going through its own Arab Spring. I'm writing this post to distract myself, but I'm still racing to the bathroom every ten minutes or so at the hint of another spasm of unrest.

I promised to write about Rabat today, though, and this seems like a good opportunity (oh god stomach cramps whyyyy?).

Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:30 and walked with my friend James* to the train station so we could catch our 5:30 train. We were leaving early so that James could attend church in the morning (Rabat has one of the only Orthodox churches in the country). Once we arrived in Rabat, James asked a taxi driver to take us to the church and the driver said he knew where it was. Ten minutes later he dropped us off in front of a synagogue. We decided to just find it ourselves on foot because we knew it was nearby. After a long search we finally ended up at the gates of the church, but unfortunately the gate was locked, the intercom was unresponsive, and the posted schedule was in Russian, which neither of us could read.

So with a maalesh (never mind) we hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the government district. Interestingly enough, he took us back to the train station, which is located in the district. We walked around, taking pictures of the Parliament, the Palace of Justice (a courthouse) and various other buildings. In a park across of the Parliament, protesters had hung banners stating: "Military prisoners of the War in the Moroccan Sahara demand his Majesty the King Mohamad VI intervene for their just treatment. Long live the King" and "We spent 25 years in the prisons of the enemy and we didn't see the rights of the nation" among others. As far as I know this refers to the ongoing conflict between Morocco and Mauritania over land in the Western Sahara. Other signs stated the protesters had been camped out in front of the Parliament for 61 days.

From there we took a taxi to the mausoleum of Mohamad V, where the remains of two previous kings of Morocco (Mohamad V and Hassan II) are buried. The grounds are very beautiful, with an open court yard full of old columns facing a tall sandstone tower. The site is an unfinished mosque whose construction began hundreds of years ago. On the end of the grounds across from the tower is the tomb of Mohamad V, which is guarded by (surprisingly friendly) guards in traditional military dress. There is a man sitting in one corner of the tomb reading the Quran silently to keep vigil over the tomb (he sits so still I first thought he was a wax figure).

The mausoleum overlooks the ocean, so we decided to walk down to the beach. To get to the best spots of the beach however, we had to walk through the old city, which was packed with people. It had a relaxed feel, though, as the shopkeepers were less aggressive than in other cities. The alleys were full of European and American tourists, holding copies of the Lonely Planet guide to Morocco in front of them as the walked (don't do that) and asking their guides the proper prices of souvenirs in loud English ("Mohamad! How. Much. Is. This?).

As we exited the walls of the old city, we passed by an old citadel that also overlooks the ocean. A man inside said the citadel was used for defense by Moroccans, the Spanish, and the French. There is a historic prison inside, which he said we could enter for 11 dirhams. We declined because we had used our small change.

We walked to the beach, which can only be accessed by walking through a sprawling graveyard. The juxtaposition of gravestones in front of people playing on the beach is, needless to say, weird. But the beach itself is very cool. A long stone walkway divides the beach in two. On one side, huge crowds play in the waves and sit under umbrellas that young men offer you wherever you walk. Parasol? Parasol? On the other side are rocky tide pools, beyond which surfers ride in powerful waves and bail out before they are smashed against the rocks.

At the beach we met up with some friends in our program and split up into two groups. James, Anna* and I walked back into the old city to find food while the other students went to find a restaurant elsewhere. We stopped at a little stand where the server was incredibly kind and talkative, praising our limited Arabic. The food was very good but I strongly suspect it's the reason for my current illness.

After eating we explored the old city for a few hours and then headed back to the beach to wade in the gentle waves until it was time to go home.

All in all a successful day in Rabat (oh god stomach cramps I hate you Morocco I hate you so much).

*James and Anna are not their real names.