Morocco: Coming Home - Beni Mellal, Part II
For two years, Beni Mellal, the forgotten city and home of the famous Berber castle Ain Asserdoun, was my home. As a Peace Corps Volunteer, my mobility was limited. There was the occasional taxi, sometimes I got around on bike, mostly on foot. That said, after two years I could say Beni Mellal was my home. When out-of-towners from Rabat or Casablanca asked me where a certain building was, I could tell them, even with the American accent. It only took 16 years and the partial albeit convincing face lift of a city to convince me that I no longer knew the place.
Approaching the city from Rabat was refreshing. Suddenly, Morocco has fast new highways, no potholes or donkeys to impede your progress. Granted, they come at a price, but so does every highway in Europe outside of Germany. When we approach Beni Mellal from the west, it takes a while for us to recognize the outline of the Middle Atlas Mountains, owing mainly to the haze in the area. But there it is, as we approach Beni Mellal. There's the Tasmit mountain, the most prominent feature of Beni Mellal that looms far above Ain Asserdoun at the water park. I hiked up that mountain twice, once I even walked up and down the mountain on the same day. In Morocco, people like to say 'Foc Figuig' (when you are doing very well) upon answering the question how you are doing. That means past Figuig, a Moroccan town in the outback. In Beni Mellal, you'll often hear 'Foq Tasmit', referring to the mountain. I wish I had more time, because then I would hike up the mountain a third time.
It takes me a while to locate the Mohammed V Boulevard, which was the Broadway in Beni Mellal way back when and still is, from what I can tell. I am shocked at how little I remember. Taxi, bus, foot, what happened? Progress, that's what. Between a laugh and a tear, I recognize that Beni Mellal has moved on and is doing quite well without me. The fountain on Mohammed V has water now, this in a town that is notorious for its weather in 'shor timinya', or month eight, or August. We are lucky. The weather is in the 100's, but I remember days approaching 120 degrees. Those are the days when you show up for work, have a glass of tea, go home for a siesta, then go or don't go back to work. I remember sleeping on my patio in my djallaba that I had had a tailor make out of mosquito net. And it was still too hot. 'Pal jehenem', as the Arab would say, or like hell. We survive Beni Mellal unscathed and in one piece. More than anything, I am worried about the kids. Liebi was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco herself. She knows about the heat as well as anyone.
Once I find my desert and mountain legs in Beni Mellal, I start locating things. There's the police station. I remember the police chief paying me a visit shortly after 9/11 and how I almost cried when he told me that everything would be all right, that the whole neighborhood would be watching what would be happening to me at my apartment.
The apartment itself takes a while to locate. It used to be the first building you could locate from the street that passed by the stadium. Not any more. There are three more buildings, but then I find the tell tale chevron shapes of the patio wall that are a dead giveaway. I flirt with ringing the doorbell, but decide against it. But this is where I spent most of my time, in this small area. Either in my apartment, the nearby 'dar chebab' or youth center, the basketball arena where I coached the team or the stadium where I attended the Raja Beni Mellal games. Memories.
Approaching the city from Rabat was refreshing. Suddenly, Morocco has fast new highways, no potholes or donkeys to impede your progress. Granted, they come at a price, but so does every highway in Europe outside of Germany. When we approach Beni Mellal from the west, it takes a while for us to recognize the outline of the Middle Atlas Mountains, owing mainly to the haze in the area. But there it is, as we approach Beni Mellal. There's the Tasmit mountain, the most prominent feature of Beni Mellal that looms far above Ain Asserdoun at the water park. I hiked up that mountain twice, once I even walked up and down the mountain on the same day. In Morocco, people like to say 'Foc Figuig' (when you are doing very well) upon answering the question how you are doing. That means past Figuig, a Moroccan town in the outback. In Beni Mellal, you'll often hear 'Foq Tasmit', referring to the mountain. I wish I had more time, because then I would hike up the mountain a third time.
It takes me a while to locate the Mohammed V Boulevard, which was the Broadway in Beni Mellal way back when and still is, from what I can tell. I am shocked at how little I remember. Taxi, bus, foot, what happened? Progress, that's what. Between a laugh and a tear, I recognize that Beni Mellal has moved on and is doing quite well without me. The fountain on Mohammed V has water now, this in a town that is notorious for its weather in 'shor timinya', or month eight, or August. We are lucky. The weather is in the 100's, but I remember days approaching 120 degrees. Those are the days when you show up for work, have a glass of tea, go home for a siesta, then go or don't go back to work. I remember sleeping on my patio in my djallaba that I had had a tailor make out of mosquito net. And it was still too hot. 'Pal jehenem', as the Arab would say, or like hell. We survive Beni Mellal unscathed and in one piece. More than anything, I am worried about the kids. Liebi was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Morocco herself. She knows about the heat as well as anyone.
Once I find my desert and mountain legs in Beni Mellal, I start locating things. There's the police station. I remember the police chief paying me a visit shortly after 9/11 and how I almost cried when he told me that everything would be all right, that the whole neighborhood would be watching what would be happening to me at my apartment.
The apartment itself takes a while to locate. It used to be the first building you could locate from the street that passed by the stadium. Not any more. There are three more buildings, but then I find the tell tale chevron shapes of the patio wall that are a dead giveaway. I flirt with ringing the doorbell, but decide against it. But this is where I spent most of my time, in this small area. Either in my apartment, the nearby 'dar chebab' or youth center, the basketball arena where I coached the team or the stadium where I attended the Raja Beni Mellal games. Memories.
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