Currently I’m sitting in a hotel lobby in Amman, Jordan, working out WordPress on my phone. We were sent here last minute to fill out visa paperwork (yes, that’s still not sorted). Until I get back to a proper computer, here are some pictures from walking about today (if they all load). There are hills here, it’s refreshing.
Hassan Tower was meant to be the tallest minaret in the world. Began by Sultan Yacoub al-Mansour in 1195, it was intended to be nearly 200 feet tall and wide enough to allow a horse to carry the iman to the top for the call to prayer. A mosque was to be built around the bottom of the minaret, but construction on both the minaret and the mosque stopped four years after it started due to the Sultan’s death. It’s still impressively tall, and as a ruddy-brown sandstone tower it stands out against Rabat’s mostly white buildings. I didn’t think to take more pictures, and this doesn’t truly do it justice. Go look at Google images to get the full effect.In the shadow of Hassan Tower is the Mausoleum of Mohammed V; the grandfather and the father of the current king are entombed here. The architecture of intricate carvings and white gleam is a striking contrast to Hussan’s ancient tower and ruined columns. The Mausoleum was built in the seventies, but happily avoids concrete and shag carpeting. Inside is entirely covered in breathtaking mosaic patters, and from a balcony tourists can look down on the marble tomb itself.
The Chellah is the oldest human settlement on the mouth of the Bou Regreg river, from the time of the Phoenicians. Romans built a major port city on the same site, and after them, Arabs used the abandoned city as a necropolis. Later a mosque and a zawiya (Moslem monastery) were built on the site.
On the tally of personal victories, I figured out the panorama feature on my iPhone, so you can get something closer to the full effect.
The Roman section of ruins was difficult to comprehend. I’m on a quest for history and beautiful things, but looking at a Roman tombstone, touching a Roman tombstone… it didn’t click, it felt otherworldly. The best my brain can do is a theoretical sense of awe. I saw artifacts two millennia old!
To finish it off, we caught a glimpse of a traditional Moroccan dance on our way out. Note the pointy slippers; everyone wears them in Morocco, and they’re the most comfortable shoes ever. More on that another time:
There is far too much from Morocco to fit in one post, so consider this the first installment. More to come soon.
I visited my dear friends, Muireann and Will. Will, who grew up in and around the Middle East, works in Rabat overseeing students studying Arabic immersed in Moroccan culture. Muireann, a true epicurean, Latin scholar, and fellow DC traipser and boxed wine consumer, met her love and moved to a castle in Morocco. (I hold this makes dubious her claims of not being a princess.) Their home is in Kasbah Oudaya, built in the 12th century between the Atlantic and the Bou Regreg River. I’m sorry, let’s review that, shall we: built in the 12th century. They live in a UNESCO World Heritage site. That’s what delights me about Morocco: ancient history is used and lived in and trudged upon. One can pick up milk and walk home on a street that’s seen nine hundred years’ worth of similarly prosaic errands.
I wish I had more substantial history to share on the kasbah, but Wikipedia was less than forthcoming. In lieu of knowledge, I offer beauty:
Oudaya seen from the river
The walls up close with the somewhat confusing date of 1315; things seem to be built in stages on top of each other:
Inside the walls, the streets of the neighborhood:
Their home is a charming two-story, with tile floors, wood beam roofs, a and traditional Moroccan atrium. There’s more natural light than the average Moroccan house; houses in the old quarter have no air conditioning, so sunlight is the enemy in summer heat.
The river view from their balcony. Please note that precipitation still exists in the world, a fact easily forgotten in Kuwait. Clouds have never before moved me so deeply.
Gardens, a museum, and a selection of lovely doorways are kept at the bottom of the hill:
But by far the frenzied, endearing, absolutely maniacal star of the home was Zenga (Arabic slang for crazy). We cuddled, we scratched, we laughed, we cried. J’adore tu, fou petit chat. (And you too, Google translate.)
I returned from Morocco yesterday and have abundant pictures and stories to share. The summary is, I am seduced. I feel about Morocco how I felt about my first boyfriend: completely, deliriously, irrationally infatuated based purely on good looks and circumstance. I’m done for; the only way out now is happily ever after or a tearful ice cream binge watching Casablanca on repeat.
While I collect myself, here are a few quick bits on Kuwait I wrote before I left. While you read, I photo edit and dream of Africa.
1) Cory and I went to the animal section of Friday market. Once again, we come to a topic that deserves its own post, at which time I’ll lecture about animal rights, empathy, and first world problems, but in the meantime, hey look, birds! And bunnies! And snakes! And a goat!
2) We had “Dress like a Fairy Day” because there is truly nothing on earth loved more by elementary school girls than fairies and princesses. It almost helped them pay attention… and then their wings got tangled. Sadly, pixie dust blocks iPhones, so photographic evidence was not obtained so skeptics and believers will go on debating the existence of fairies.
3) Arabian Dress Day: the girls were so proud of themselves, and so, so adorable:
Infinitely less adorable, but just as proud of ourselves:
4) That. Face.
5) Downton Abbey: is killing me. Someone, please, start watching….. throw me a bone. Give me an ear to lament to, or a shoulder to cry on. (Muireann and Dorothy, I’m looking at you.)
6) Zumba classes: I chaperone that now. High school seniors couldn’t find another teacher so they showed up at my door because someone told them I was “nice” (nice, pronounced “can’t-say-no”). Nothing has made me feel more white than a room of eighteen-year-old belly dancers and a Russian dance instructor.
Morocco pictures will come soon, I promise. I’m too smitten not to talk about it.
We’re in our last day before Eid holiday, and I’m counting down the minutes until I land in Morocco (3,075). Distracted or not, I have to stay at school another period, so I sit watching my clock tick; as a fellow teacher put it, “I’ve never been so excited for an Islamic holiday.” Thinking about it like that, I wondered why we get the week off in the first place. I present the cliff-notes of my queries. I promise I’ll write something other than a history lesson next time.
Disclaimer: This is about as accurate as I’ve gleaned from conversations over a week, and whatever research I did in half an hour. If you take this as gospel truth, I don’t know what to do with you.
In Islamic tradition, Eid al-Adha is a celebration of Abraham’s faith in sacrificing Isaac, Hagar, and Ishmael: at God’s command, Abraham nearly killed Isaac in sacrifice until God stopped him; also, Abraham led Hagar and Ishmael into the desert with faith that God would not let them die. In both cases, God rewarded Abraham’s faith and spared the lives of those he loved.
Eid is the culmination of Hajj, or “the pilgrimage”- the famous pilgrimage to Mecca. Before Kuwait, I was under the impression the pilgrimage originated with Mohammad, but Hajj comes from the exile of Hagar and Ishmael: Abraham sent them into the desert where they wandered the hills of Al-Safa and Al-Marwa (now, Mecca). When Hagar and Ishmael were about to die of thirst, an angel brought water from the rock for them to drink; the spring- the Zamzam Well- is still in Mecca, and historically it’s the reason Mecca actually exists as a city in the desert.
At school, we had a Hajj ceremony. The girls dressed up as pilgrims and mimicked the path of Mecca, we drank water from the Zamzam Well, and in sacrifice I kid you not- they slaughtered a lamb. (To be fair, they didn’t slaughter the lamb in front of the whole school, just in front of the soccer team during practice the day before.) I enjoyed the ceremony and the prayers, even if I couldn’t understand them; it was traditional, it was ancestral, it was a chance to see in what all the students- in what this whole country- is rooted.
I understand now why authors have agents: remebering to write is absurdly easy to forget. Mea culpa.
This past weekend, a few of us ventured to the Friday Market. Different from the Souk, Friday Market is a massive outdoor flea market crossed with a 4H fair. When I say massive, I mean massive on a state fair level; it would take you a day to walk and see everything. We didn’t even attempt to see the animals, that’ll be a whole afternoon unto itself.
By far the absolute coolest thing found was a Soviet medal awarded to mothers of the USSR who raised 7 or more children: “материнская слава III” translates to “The Order of Maternal Glory”. Cory snatched it up for a mere 1.5KD. For anyone reading in New England, we need to pick up a couple of these for Auntie Anne and Auntie Margo. Keep your eyes peeled.
Next up in the category of despot relics: an authentic postcard from Nazi Germany.
Moving on to general history, an Arabic newspaper from the day Princess Diana died:
In modern life, we find herds of incredibly tacky toy cows, slowly treading their way into the pavement, one water bottle rotation at a time:
A bowling trophy:
And some less unique things:
And the girl in me loved the clothes:
So that’s where your Christmas/wedding/baby presents are all coming from. I’ll try to avoid the cows, but you never know.