Walu. That’s my Darija word for the day, thanks to Hassan
(the potato-sporting handyman). Walu means “nothing” – as in, “When I turn on
my lights, there is walu.” That is how my long, hot day ended.
But, first, let me say “Happy Islamic New Year.” It is,
indeed, a holiday today. This was determined late on Saturday night. I am
honestly not sure how this is communicated to everyone. Maybe there is a group
chat that I am not aware of, but somehow everyone seems to figure it out. When
an Islamic holiday is approaching, we just have to wait to see if it will fall on
the day marked on the calendar, or if it will perhaps be the day before or the
day after. I look at it kind of like a snow day in Vermont. You don’t really
know if it’s going to happen or not. You check the VPR website and refresh
every 5 minutes. When you finally see your school pop up, you do a happy dance
and celebrate an unexpected day off. In my mind, that’s what all Moroccan
school kids were doing on Saturday night. They were peeking out the window at
the moon and waiting for the call.
The “holiday” meant that government offices and businesses
were closed. The rest of the world carried on as usual. I enthusiastically took
to the streets to explore the souqs in the medina and the shops in the
“nouvelle ville” where I live. What a contrast.
The day began with multiple
near-death experiences with donkey carts and trailer-toting motorcycles in the
narrow alleys of the central market. I wound my way through the streets without
a clue where I was going – confident that I would eventually wind my way out.
When things got a little dark and twisty, I attached myself to a group of
Japanese tourists with a guide and tried to blend in. I figured the guide was
getting paid to lead them out of the labyrinth at some point. I eventually
struck out on my own (pretending I’d just been stuck behind them) when the
alleys got a little wider, and I could see the sun again. Magically I ended up
at the Marrakesh Museum, so I figured I should visit since I might never find
it again. Originally built as a palace, the museum features an inner courtyard
covered in Moroccan tilework and the original palace hammam.
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| Inner Courtyard of the Marrakesh Museum |
From the museum, I wound my way through endless alleys with
vendors of every kind. Eventually I found myself in a square where it appeared
that the local vegetable market was setting up. I saw a rooftop terrace, and
decided it was time to sit down for a drink. I was thirsty, but, more
importantly I was counting on that rooftop view to figure out where in the
world I was. So, I trekked up three flights of stairs to find a spot in the
shade under a thatched umbrella, and I was met with exactly what I needed – a
view of the Koutoubia Mosque. I knew I needed to head toward the mosque to
eventually find my way out. I settled in for a Coke and a smile. Just as I was
thinking how ridiculously hot it was in the shade (97 degrees today), water
misters started spraying mist all around the terrace. My smile got bigger. I
thought I’d died of heat exhaustion and gone to Arizona. Drinking a Coke in the
mist in Marrakesh overlooking a street scene from the movies down below, I
pinched myself to make sure this is not a dream. Again.
Once I made my way out of the medina, I headed back toward
the swanky section of town – the part with the modern shops, the marble walks
and fountains, and, most importantly, the air-conditioned grocery store where
food has price tags, and there is no haggling needed. On day three in
Marrakesh, this is definitely my safety net. I’ve got to sharpen my bargaining
skills before I’m ready to take on those veggie vendors in the medina. For now,
Carrefour is a welcome respite from reality. I cruised the air-conditioned
shops, found the English “bookstore” (which seems to be a front for a bar), and
scalded myself on a metal trash can. Note to self: Even when that little metal
door on the can says “push,” do not do it when it is 97 degrees.
When I made it back to my apartment six hours later, I was
hot and tired. Sporting jeans and a long
sweater in sweltering heat in an effort to stay covered is a challenge. I took a cold shower and relished the chance
to wear a tank top and shorts in my own space away from judging eyes.
That’s when the power went out with a snap. I have mentioned
that the light fixtures are a bit dodgy. There are a few outlets with similar
issues. I have a circuit box right in the apartment, and I have had the
opportunity to flip a few switches already. So, when the lights went out, my
first instinct was to just check the circuit box. Everything appeared to be in
its proper position. I pushed a few random buttons here and there in hopes of
firing something up. Nothing. Walu. So then I did what I usually do. I decided
to put my faith in the Universe. I decided that this was probably one of those
building-wide power failures, and that some proactive neighbor would notify the
right people, and that the power would magically be restored in due time. Then
it started getting dark.
To be honest, I was most annoyed about having to actually
get dressed in my modest clothes again to deal with this situation. And, of
course, there was the small nuissance of not knowing exactly how to deal with
this situation at all. I decided the first step was to figure out if anyone
else had power. There are switches in the hallway that light the stairs, so I
figured that would be a good test. I was tempted to dart out in my scanty
shorts and tank top, but I was afraid to offend the neighbors I have not even
met yet. So, I struggled back into my uniform, and went into the hall. I
flipped the switch, and everything lit up. This power situation was, evidently,
a personal problem.
I made my way downstairs, and my root-vegetable wielding
angel, Hassan, was just locking up his office (with a Domino’s Pizza box in one
hand – lest you think this place is too glamourous). In French I tried to
explain my situation, but lacking a deep vocabulary about electrical systems in
any language. The extent of my message was, “I have a little problem. There is
no electricity in my apartment.” Hassan said, “Walu?” Through great powers of
deduction, I decided this meant “Nothing?” So I responded in my best
Darija-French, “Oui. Walu.” Hassan scurried away, and I wondered what kind of
vegetable he would return with to restore my electricity, but he was just
putting away the pizza. He followed me up the stairs, opened the circuit box,
and, with just a finger, jammed in the black button with force. The power
snapped back on, and we were in business. No potato needed. No carrot needed. Walu.
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| Medina Graffiti |
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| A terrace with a view (and a mister!) |
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