Fun with Fred: the Morocco Edition!

For those of you who don’t know, I really love my dad. How could you not adore this guy….

Daddio had some “business” in Uganda. Mhhhmmm. Whatever that means. But what is really exciting is that his globe trottin’ led him to Morocco on his return trip to America. A week with Fred Ice? God bless my parents indeed!

Last time the Quinns invaded Morocco , we stuck to Marrakech and Tamslouht (much to the confusion of everyone in Tamslouht- “Weren’t they bored?? Why didn’t you take them somewhere interesting?!!!”). So, for round two, we had a new strategy: Casablanca, Rabat, and a little mountain town (Oulmes). This meant seeing a new selection of Moroccan topography….beaches, mountains, cooler weather- a little diversification from the desert, desert, and desert that they saw last time.

I met my dad in Casablanca at the airport. For someone who lives in Atlanta and has experience navigating that massive airport on numerous occasions, I’m not quite sure why I had such difficulty finding my dad. This airport is like a two-story house (rather than a maze, if you will). Our plan was to meet at the baggage claim….a plan with a fatal flaw: no one I asked knew what a “baggage claim” was. Even when I performed a very extensive human charades, emphasizing the round movement of the baggage belt, I felt as though I wasn’t effectively communicating the site where I was supposed to be finding my father. By some swift (and most likely accidental) brush with fate, I literally ran into my dad hanging out in the middle of the airport. DADDDDDDDD!

After a taxi ride back to Casablanca proper, we dropped off his massive bags and headed out for a night on the town. Casablanca reminds me of, well, any unmemorable, big, international city. Lots of big buildings, lots of English, lots of very not-Moroccan looking people, lots of busy rushing around….but we enjoyed it anyways. After locating a decent tajine restaurant, we sat, chatted, and enjoyed a really calm evening in the big city. Despite this relaxed schedule, my mother still chastised me for keeping him out too late. “Your father is getting old, Sarah.” I think those were her exact words.

The next morning, bright and early, we had a mission: Dad had to go to Rick’s Cafe. Yup. Rick’s Cafe. We’re in Morocco, and the one thing my dad wants to go see is a fake cafe from a movie that wasn’t even filmed in Morocco. Meh….why not?

Unfortunately for us early-risers, it didn’t actually open until 12. We were a little too enthusiastic with our waking-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn-to-get-to-rick’s-cafe-strategy. However, we did beat the other two American tourists there. In light of our little Murrica party, two ladies who were cleaning the street in front of the cafe were very entertained by the enthusiasm we expressed towards the door of this building.

We kept walking along the coast and ended up at the biggest mosque in Morocco (and the 7th biggest in the world!): the Hassan II mosque.

Not too shabby, right? Apparently this monstrosity- located literally right on the edge of the water- was finished in 1993 and required a substantial tax increase for all Moroccans. For us tourists who didn’t have to pay any money for its creation, it was pretty impressive. And big. Everything was really, really big. Check out the scaling of the doors as compared to my 6ft tall father. Kinda makes you wonder what they have inside those doors….but, of course, it remained a mystery. To enter the mosque, you had to pay a hefty fee of 120 DH per person- about 13 bucks. When you’re on a Peace Corps budget, that’s like, 2 weeks of meals right there. With no sympathy from PC if you blow it on “cultural experiences.” Next time…

After the mosque, we walked along the beach for a bit- however, due to the great amount of direct sunlight and the fact that I have pretty much adapted the inherent Moroccan aversion to the sun, we beelined for a cafe to, ya know, relax.

A few hours and a cab ride past the Mall of America- I mean, the Mall of Morocco- later, we found ourselves in none other than “Florida beach.” That’s right. Florida. Home away from home! We had been driving along the coast for quite some time when the driver pulled over in a gravel parking lot. The smell of fish was in the air (as it had been for the past 30 minutes of coastal cruisin’, but let’s just say it was a little more….visceral.) My dad and I got out of the car, walked through a little fish market, and found ourselves here:

Fishermen collected our meal about 50 ft from our plastic deck chairs. Behind us, working at a grill, several men prepared the freshly-caught fish. It turned out to be one of those meals your stomach never forgets- probably because it is never able to shrink back to its original size afterwards.

We walked off the meal on the infamous Florida beach. Dodging pick-up soccer games, dogs chasing the waves, and the frigid rising tide, we faced a lot of adversity. However, we were able to once again resume relaxation at yet another cafe (not that you’re counting, but yes, that’s number three for the day, including the place we ate for breakfast).

The next day, we took zee train to neighboring beach-side city and capitol of Morocco, Rabat. We spent the day hanging out with my dad’s tuberculosis buddy- first, at a cafe, then, a walk through the old medina to another cafe, then, dinner, then, one more cafe to end the evening.

Our last day in Rabat was touristy-sights day. A stop at the Hassan II mosque, a boat ride across a river, lunch with some people from the Sahara, a tour of the Peace Corps office, and, of course, paying our respects to the massive catholic church.

After our Moroccan beach tour, we headed back to Tamslouht for one whole day. Dad and I went to souk, got some work done with the free wifi, took a walk in the olive orchards, and did a lot of eeeaaatttiiinnngggg. Massive heaps of olive and bread for breakfast, tangia and multiple side dishes for lunch, and not one but TWO couscouses for dinner. Not to mention multiple coffee and tea breaks. Gotta relax sometime in between all that chowin’.

Our last day, Saturday, involved a field trip excursion to a nearby mountain town, Oulmes. I’ve been once before, and it never fails to amaze me how green this brown, dusty country can be in some isolated paradises. This green haven of wild and free nature is a mere 45 minute drive from Tamslouht:

It was a motley crew for our mountain trip: Mustapha, my counterpart and life coach, Hassan, my science teacher and English student, my father, and myself. We arrived in the mountains pretty early in the morning, so we passed the time walking around and took a lot of pictures. From the beach to the mountains, it was quite a change in the scenery. And. So. Green. We met a small Berber kid on our walk who I was momentarily tempted to snatch and keep forever. His name was Amin and he had all of the makings of a future heartbreaker. After giving him a half-full Sprite bottle and watching him shamelessly chug it and chuck it, we ended up at a billiardo, where Hassan and Mustapha teamed up against my dad and I to play some Moroccan pool. I won’t discuss who won. It would be bad PR for America. Afterwards, we brought some tables and chairs down by the river and proceeded to have tea and tajine in the midst of mother nature. Dad regaled us with tales of the microbes that dwell in the waters a few mere feet from us unsuspecting earthlings. Everyone managed to enjoy the food anyways.

Our short time in the Marrakech region ended with a night perched atop Cafe France, overlooking Jemaa El Fnaa during sunset.

The last day of my dad’s trip was quite an endurance-tester. We drove all the way to Rabat in the morning and spent the day bouncing from meetings to cafe to cafe. At night, we headed back to Casablanca and slept in the airport parking lot for a few hours. Fitful nightmares ensued for all, and a bug managed to bite my thumb and make it swell to a size memorable of my left eye in El Jadida. We said goodbye to my dad around 4:30am. When I got sad in a way that can only happen when you’ve just spent a great week with your dad and have gotten no sleep in the past 24 hours, Mustapha said to me, “I think you’re forgetting that you’re going to see him again in a month.”

And then I got really excited again. I will literally see my dad and EVERYONE else in 18 days. Not that I’m counting. And, as always, GOD WILLING!