After several kinds of transportation, including two planes, a van, and two trains, not to mention our feet, Rebecca and I finally arrived in Rabat. A shower and nap later, we took the winding road to my host family's tiny rooftop home, where I found my host Mother sitting in the salon. The reunion was lovely; my entire family was as thrilled to see me as I them. Little Aya had cut off all her hair, leaving beautiful curls on top of the little person I had long before affectionately deemed "jeja sagira deelie," or "my little chicken". Six year old Rabie had managed to grow even more, so that he now was even larger than his sister, and seemed to be exercising a good deal of independence, if his late night bike rides were any indication. Fedua had gotten married, and was now living in Sale with her new husband. That night, we were served lentils, fried fish, and a uniquely Moroccan salad of rice, tuna fish, corn, and mayonnaise. Not to mention delicious Moroccan mint tea, steaming hot, and small, elegant pastries covered in sesame seeds and honey.
Later, I was reminded how there is nothing quite like the experience of walking down the bustling streets of the medina during rush hour. It is pure sensory overload. Shopkeepers and merchants yell the bargain of their produce and knick knacks, while motorcycles zoom past, carts creek by with yells of 'balak' ('move!'), and women in djellabas and head scarfs put their heads down and push. The smells of mint, fried fish, garbage, and fresh baked cookies waft through the streets in puffs of smoke and people dance constantly as they weave gracefully and treacherously around one another.
It is chaos.
It is crazy.
It is real.
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