Rabat Ups and Downs

I was sort of sad to leave Rabat today because there were a few things that I had hoped to check out and didn't have time to see, but I'm thinking of spending a bit more time here on the way back to Casa (I'll probably fly out of Casa when I depart from Morocco). Rabat sort of snuck up on me. When you ask Moroccans for advice about where to go and what to see in their country, when the subject of Rabat comes up, it's usually all they can do to stifle a yawn. Imagine the reaction if a foreigner asked an American about Akron--Rabat probably elicits about the same reaction. When you ask about Rabat in a hopeful tone, sometimes they sneer openly, sometimes they just look at you with pity. Even the Rough Guide calls it "a little bit dull"--and these authors found things to like about Taroudant and Agadir!

Well, taste in cities must be similar to taste in people. Everybody has fans and critics. I liked Rabat, and I would have absolutely loved it if the men had behaved with basic respect towards women. But way too many of them didn't. Interestingly, this was supposed to be among the most comfortable places in Morocco for women, and in fact, the harassment was awful. I swear, there must be no women on staff of any of the guidebooks I've used, because they never seem to accurately gauge the male behavior. In some places, they warn that it's terrible, and I find the people there perfectly polite and hospitable, and then the book predicts an easy time and every third guy is making kissing sounds, saying suggestive things, or following me (believe me, though, they melt away fast when you confront them directly in Arabic. Cowards.)

Sexism notwithstanding, I don't totally understand Rabat's reputation as a boring city: it has a lot going for it. The coast is gorgeous, with one of the best beaches I've seen in Morocco, set alongside cliffs on which the kasbah and medina were built. And the kasbah and medina are terrific for aimless strolling. There are extensive Roman ruins located in the city at a site called Chellah. The souks are fun and less packed and hectic than other cities, the restaurants are a little more varied than elsewhere and still reasonably priced, it's walkable, and there are some really friendly people there.

But the constant barrage of stunted, idiotic comments and behavior really drags down the visit. Interestingly, Rabat was the first Moroccan city where I think the majority of women weren't wearing headscarves--though there were tons of women who were. Those without covering were probably just barely a majority, but in most of the rest of the country, a clear majority cover. But at the same time, taken as a group, and obviously with notable exceptions, the men in Rabat were mouthy, vulgar, and not a little bit repulsive. I hasten to reiterate that this wasn't all of them, not by a long shot. I met some great men in Rabat. But the climate was noticeable and worse than other places I've visited. None of it was threatening, and when confronted they deflate like popped balloons, but it really wore on me.

I kept wondering: why are (some) men so invested in acting like asses here? They really seem to work hard at it, and for what? Does it make them feel powerful to put women down? Are they so deprived of contact with women that they'll do anything to get attention, like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum? Do they use the harassment as a means of "teaching" women what is acceptable behavior? Who teaches them that this is acceptable? The community enforces all kinds of behavior here, so why isn't this stopped? Or is this behavior itself a form of enforcement. . . against women?

I also wonder about the women I see covered from head to toe when it's over 100 degrees outside. I'm curious how many of them are covering out of genuine personal piety based on their own interpretation of the Koran, and how many have simply been so worn down by all of this crappy male behavior that they'd rather suffer the heat and cover up just so that they're a less obvious target? If they are doing it because of family pressure, are the families concerned about piety, are they trying to shield their daughters and wives from disrespectful men, or are the men in the family insisting on it out of self-interest for their own honor?

When it's stifling hot outside, with the sun pounding down on you and the heat sucking all the moisture out of your eyes and your lips like you're in an oven, a woman must have a really, really good reason to be wearing a head covering and a long sleeved djellaba over a shirt and pants. And believe me, they feel it--it's not like you can just get used to it. I was seated next to a lovely fully covered woman on the bus to Essaouira, and the bus was even warm for me, in my t-shirt and capris. She was absolutely suffering, and I rummaged around in my bag until I found some papers for her to use as a fan, for which she expressed fervent gratitude and fanned like she was trying to fly.

If the motive behind this kind of covering is personal piety, I think that is a tremendous and beautiful and completely humbling act of worship performed by amazing women every day. If it's to try to avoid the attention of cretins, it's tragic that other amazing women have to resort to it.

I don't know the answers to any of these questions. I know that I hate the way some men treat me here, but at the same time, experiencing this kind of thing is exactly the point of travel. This makes me understand other people better, and it definitely makes me understand my home differently. It makes me appreciate things that I never noticed before, like taking for granted that my male friends and colleagues regard me as an equal.

That was a lengthy tangent when I really just meant to write a brief note about the last few days in Rabat. But my feelings about the city are inextricably entwined with how I got treated there. I loved so many of the things I saw and did in Rabat, but there was this horrible undercurrent that spoiled my mood again and again. Still the stream of poor behavior would have been even more intolerable in a place that I didn't otherwise like very much. So to write about this conflict is to write about my Rabat, I guess.

By the time I left for the train today, I feel like I had walked most of the city over the course of the past three days, and I could find my way around with ease. Besides going through every inch of the kasbah and most of the medina, I checked out Chellah (the Roman ruins), the Ville Nouveau (the part of the city that outgrew the medina, originally built by the French during the protectorate period), the grounds of the city's grand mosque, and the mausoleum of Mohammed V. I didn't have time to get to the Archeological Museum, which is supposed to be small but among the best in Morocco. Maybe I'll spend the night in Rabat on my way back to Casa for my flight to Italy.

My two favorite parts of the city were the kasbah and Chellah. The kasbah is a walled part of the city, the oldest in-use part of what is now Rabat. The kasbah was founded in the middle of the 1100s AD (followed by the medina around the 1700s and the Ville Nouvelle in the early 1900s), and a massive door in the kasbah wall has been in place since 1195 (I'll post a pic of it). This part of the city is a tiny peninsula jutting out into the sea, towering on a cliff over the water. It's primarily residential now, with some riads, a couple of boutiques for tourists, and a few stands selling groceries. Most of the houses have blue doors and some kind of blue detailing, which makes the streets picturesque. Off the main road, the paths leading to the homes are tight and maze-like, and it's easy to walk for a few minutes without realizing that you're in a dead end, in a passage so tight that you can touch the walls on both sides of you at once.

One of my favorite parts of the evening in the kasbah last night was passing a group of kids who must've been about ten years old. They were kicking around a soccer ball, and one of them overshot. For quite possibly the first time in my life, I kind of caught the ball with my foot and shot it gently back to the kid who was coming for it. It actually looked like I knew what I was doing (I don't. At all. I'm such a faker.) The kids congratulated me in English (!) and we chatted for a bit. I love Moroccan kids--they absolutely blossom before your eyes when take the time to stop and talk with them and really listen. I also try hard to talk with kids in Arabic because it's so much fun when they help me with my pronunciation and stuff. Good times. (And yes, I'll be careful to double-check the words they teach me.) ;)

One last story: earlier today, I also visited Chellah, the deserted ancestor city of the kasbah. Chellah stands outside the current walls of Rabat behind its own set of walls. Chellah was abandoned for the kasbah in 1154, but before that it had been a busy port city for a thousand years. Both Roman and Islamic details were evident: part of a mosque was still standing, with tile fountains that still held color even as they've started to crumble, and nearby there was a Roman arch and a trading post dated from 200 BC. I love the feeling of walking through places like that. Weeds were growing over almost everything, and storks had nested on the merlons of the minaret, but the artisan who made the zellij tile for the fountain is still living on, in a way, a millennium after his death. I'm confident that nothing I do or create will survive that long. There's some perspective for you, right?

Anyway, I have concluded that Rabat is kind of like an exasperating friend. A frienemy, as the 'tween girls say. Lots there to love, but every now and then it's determined to make you suffer.