By Mary Jo Roepke
Special to U-WIRE’s Washington Bureau

RABAT, Morocco — From the window of an Air France 737 over Morocco’s capital, it’s hard to tell where the suburbs end and the race of date and fig trees begins.

Here in Rabat, fig trees reach the desert first. There, the spindly date trees make their last stand before a few brave ones trail off into what looks like an endless dirt field. It’s hard to call them groves because their edges are jagged. They lack the vibrant patchwork of green and yellow French fields, many of which I passed en route to Morocco from Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. Narrow roads that look cloudy and dusty, even from this far above, zigzag through them. Black, roundish tents group in clumps along the roadside.

Peering out, I scan the roads and fields for camels, oases, anything to make this Morocco a few hundred feet below — the actual Morocco — look anything like the photos I’ve already seen.

Two semesters ago, when I first imagined myself studying abroad, I saw myself in India. When a friend suggested Morocco instead (she spent time here studying Arabic), I researched the country online and was immediately smitten. Because of its location on the fringes of the Arab world and the tip of Africa, and its status as an ex-colony of France, Morocco is a place where diverse Mediterranean cultures continue to meet. As a student of international affairs, languages and anthropology, I’m attracted to this place. It seems to have so many identities, all at once.

This m?lange of identities becomes apparent instantly when you begin to speak with Moroccans. For most Americans who are more or less used to the use of one, all-purpose language in the States, the linguistic environment of Morocco can be confusing. The vast majority of Moroccans speak the Moroccan dialect of Arabic as a first language and begin to learn French in elementary school. English is not widely spoken, but this is changing as the government begins to promote the learning of English.

Moroccans here smile when they hear American speak and it makes life much easier because English is anything but widespread.

So what about Arabic? Unless you speak Derizha, the Moroccan, Tunisian, or Algerian dialect of Arabic, it’s unlikely you’ll be understood very well. You could also speak classical Arabic, called “fus-ha,” if you are lucky enough to run into a Moroccan who continues the tradition.

The currency exchange in the airport arrival terminal trades American dollars, one of which currently buys about 11 Moroccan dirhams. Bills feature a serious-looking portrait of the late King Hassan II and are adorned with patriotic themes on the reverse side. If you remind him, the teller will give you enough coins in denominations of 10dh, 5dh and 1dh.

Among the many uses of these coins, you can use these right away with the porters, who don’t have change for large bills but who will happily lug your bags for a nominal fee of about 15dh. Don’t be fooled by the appearance of these guys; even thought they’re mostly somewhat scrawny-looking and in what appears to be their late fifties, they’re quite
strong and are undaunted by an 85 or 90-pound suitcase. They’re easily spotted by their blue coats.

The currency exchange stays open from the morning (about 8 a.m.) until evening (around 10 p.m.). Operating hours are rarely precise in Morocco and are subject to the last-minute whims of employees with temporary closings spaced more or less evenly throughout the day. If you get to the exchange during one of the breaks, have a seat and wait it out. This is the only currency exchange in the airport, and due to national and international currency restrictions, dirhams aren’t tradable outside of Morocco. Unless a former traveler to Morocco has slipped you a few coins, this will most likely be your first encounter with Moroccan money.

If you’re feeling burned out, like I was, the nameless coffee stand down the way from the exchange sells delicious, strong Moroccan black coffee, caf? noir, as well as caf? au lait, at 7dh a cup. Take it away with you in a plastic cup if you’re in a hurry, or enjoy it in a miniature coffee mug at the standing counters along the wall (no Starbucks “Venti”-sized coffees here).

Coffee in hand, speeding away from the airport towards my new home in the mountain town of Ifrane, seeing the figs and the tents and the dust up close, I decided Morocco looks much more intimidating from 1000 feet.

Mary Jo Roepke is a junior at The George Washington University. The opinions expressed here belong to the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of U-WIRE.