Sooq and Soot
It is good I learned to jaywalk in Manhattan, because every pedestrian - geriatric, handicapped or toddler - takes their lives into their hands when crossing the street in Rabat. And this is not a comment on Moroccan taxi drivers wielding dilapidated Mercedes from the year I was born across double-lines (where they exist) down four-lane roads through the country's capital city. No, I'm talking about my friend Asmaa, a pretty blonde with two little boys in a Honda SUV purchased with her husband's race earnings driving like a cabbie during rush hour in Times Square - while sending an SMS message - on the way to the market in her residential neighborhood.
Having survived many crossings of Rue Mohammed V in Temera, running across train tracks (no crossing lights or gate to warn of incoming freight) and traveling in a packed-so-tight minibus that it can't close it's doors (at 4 Dirham a ride, you get what you pay for in public transit), I'm beginning to wonder what I might encounter on this continent the further I get from Europe.
If the politically correct and pampered of my adopted city - Berkeley - could experience the commute to the center of Rabat, they might find less to complain about. Here, the bus doesn't even stop to allow passengers to on- or off-board, no matter their state of health or agility. They sure as hell aren't going to announce stops or answer questions.
Yesterday I suffered. The other runners warned me against this foolishness...but I've always been a proponent of "seeing is believing". First, running early in the morning and, second, going with Meriem and Rashid to the great sooq in Rabat. Nothing like being pushed and shoved in hot sun for hours after running in the morning during Ramadan (no food, and worse, no drink, until 7pm). Hours spent fighting crowds, hagglers, and the and smell of every food you are starving for and even more you can't bear the sight of.
I now know a version of torture - mint; dates, figs, cow's heads (uh, yes, really) dangling in front of me at every turn in a open-air market that makes the streets of Chinatown look quiet and empty.
I dared not let out so much as a whimper - well, perhaps I let loose a barely audible whisper of complaint - given that every one of the billion people pusing into me was just as thirsty as I.
We left with swollen feet, throbbing heads and, for me, a lovely jilbab to wear later that evening. I would be meeting Abderrahim Goumri (who came in second at the London marathon last year and holds the Moroccan national record of 2:05.30) and other members of the National Federation over coffee, after Iftar (the breaking of the fast at sunset, also refered to as breakfast, imagine that). While western dress would have been acceptable, it seemed to please my hosts for me to dress as they do. Siham, Mohammed's wife, kept saying my black and red jilbab was beautiful ("zwina") on me. I felt a bit like a pear in a potato sack but, hey, I'll take 'beautiful' in her eyes.
After the evening's breakfast the men went to the mosque to pray while I napped and the women joked about the usual things women discuss all over the world (need I say more...) The men came back and took me to the coffee house where Abderrahim Gourmi would meet me for an interview.
We had run together the day before when I kept pace for about a mile as he, Hassan Lahsini and two other elite runners warmed up on the trails. Eventually they hit stride and I was left choking dust only slightly less toxic than the soot I have been inhaling since I arrived on Sunday. I kept wishing for water, counting down the minutes until sunset and the break of the fast.
Last night was much more pleasant of an encounter with Goumri as we sat in the cool evening breeze drinking coffee and, for me, good ol' junky sweet orange Fanta. Yummy. Great interview and end to the day.