We left Marrakech ,and all the revelations found within, via train. It was a journey that started at the palatial train station, where after surprisingly little hassle we had our tickets and were on the platform. After boarding the train, Ollie plugged into his phone and drifted off to the sound of being able to afford Spotify Premium. I, on the other hand, spent five hours awkwardly avoiding eye (and foot) contact with slightly disgruntled middle-aged Moroccan men sat opposite me. Fun fun fun.
Arriving at 17:30 in Rabat, Ollie re-entered the real world and we were excited to leave the stuffy train. A new city awaited us and Rabat was in our good books from the get go. The drop-in temperature from 40°C in Marrakech to 25°C in Rabat rolled over us immediately and it was a nothing less than a blessing. Walking through the centre of the city, from the train station to the only hostel we could find in the whole city (a surf school), we could instantly see a difference between the rest of Morocco and Rabat.
Rabat was the modern cosmopolitan heart of the country, buzzing with business people and other non-suit wearing locals going about their lives among the wide avenues of a forward thinking modern city. Whereas the pervading impression of previous cities (Fes and Marrakech) was an eclectic sensory overload which emanated from the street culture. With those cities’ images focussed on the majestic antiquity of Morocco’s past, Rabat felt like a breath of fresh air. A new and exciting opportunity to explore.
Once we found our way through the medina area, which felt a lot more like a tightly knit market than the medinas beforehand, we came to the surf school/hostel and got settled in. The room was a comfortable dorm with an absolutely heavenly shower (which was extremely spacious and hot) however, before I took a shower that could’ve spanned over several hours, we went in the search for food.
Food
We had heard food in Rabat was cheap as chips. Maybe misunderstanding the comparative phrase as a demand, maybe hungry for fluffy fried potato, we set off on a mission for chips. We eventually found some in a grimy and dingy off-brand fast food restaurant. The meat and chips weren’t great but it was only 28DHR so we couldn’t complain. Deciding fast food was the way to go that evening, we made a stop at a street food vendor at the entrance to the medina, which was sending out an olfactory bat signal that only the strongest of men could have resisted. I am not one of those men, nor do I want to be. The stand was cooking up a perfect storm of barbecued meats, red sausages and onions. Ollie and I were in the eye of the storm, gazing upon the delights, eyes wide with hunger. We ordered quickly and got our enormous meat filled sandwich quicker than you can say ‘uncontrollable salivation’. However, Ollie quickly came to a startling realisation. The meaty treat of only 10DHR quickly became something of indiscernible horror. It contained offal. Ollie’s delicate sensibilities could not handle the thought of entrails in a sandwich and so after one bite he was on a fruitless search for a homeless person to give it to.
Seeing as we had spent so little money on food we decided to have a dessert. Nearby, were a few pastry and biscuit stores, one of which had an inexplicably long queue which we tried waiting in until we realised our patience wasn’t up to the task. We went to the one next door, scouring the shelves and airing on the side of caution. Most people coming to the store were buying boxes of these sweet treats but we just wanted to try several different biscuits. Once we explained what we wanted, we were given them by the man, who then refused money. We were naturally overcome with love and admiration for a man who had given us free food. However, we were under no illusions that the man knew his treats were incredibly tasty and that we were suckers for food. In other words, he knew we’d be back. Bees to the honey pot. There was nothing we could do. The man owned us. We were Hansel and Gretel, and he was sitting pretty in his gingerbread house.
Exploring the city
After a roof terrace breakfast, we followed Nicki Minaj’s undying wish and went to the beach. A short walk took us where we needed to be and not feeling full of enthusiasm we went to the end of the rocky pier thing and sat down. Sitting on the sea defences looking out at the fortified sections of the city and the infinite horizons of the ocean made for a very chilled morning. After an hour or so, dehydration and hunger became an issue so we set out for the fortified section of the city where the streets were blue, the buildings were pretty and there was a little blind kitten. We found the sustenance we were looking for in a small café where they sold suitably small paninis. They were just enough to satiate us, so feeling replenished, we took a taxi to Chellah.
Chellah is a fortified medieval site on the outskirts of central Rabat. It is now described as a necropolis but has served many purposes from a Phoenician trading site to a Roman colony. Seeing as my French and Arabic skills were, to put it best, diabolical on a level to cause insult, reading about the incredible site was a little difficult. Therefore, any information you find on this blog will no longer be from the first-hand accounts of a person ignorant to most of human history (me), but in fact the bottomless treasure trove of information that is Wikipedia. So, if anything you’re in good hands for this post.
We entered through the dramatic gate and into a sprawl of pathways leading to various architectural sites. In my eyes, we had stumbled into an arboretum with impressive exotic trees initially dominating the view. However, as we moved deeper into the site, my excitable tour guide/ friend/ terrible translator/ terrible person was starting to get feverish at the thought of history. The sight of all the old stuff had got Ollie’s ancient history juices flowing and he hopped from signpost to signpost pretending to understand the French inscribed there. I, however, was quite content looking at the intricacies of the ancient plot, enjoying the centuries of history on display in the stonework. From the Triumphant Arch of the Romans to the remains of the Great Mosque of Salā, finished in the 12th century.
Getting out of Chellah after being told off by a guard for venturing around supposedly out of bounds areas, we headed back to the hostel for a kip. Not being one for a midday nap, I made use of the terrible Wi-Fi before our second double dinner splurge. Dinner no.1 was at Dar Naji where we had a lovely tagine filled evening, this was quickly followed by meat of the street (with Ollie avoiding the offal sandwich, instead opting for the chicken kebab). Finally, after having our fill of meat, our favourite man’s long game became clear. We walked towards the hostel and as if by magic, we had a box full of biscuit treats. We didn’t have a choice in the matter. Less than £5 and we had an endless supply of pudding. Well, by endless I mean until the following morning. They were too damn moreish. I wasn’t the only person that thought so, a Peruvian lad called Santiago who donned a very sumptuous moustache came out of the woodwork to have a chat and a snack. It was obvious he came for the snacks but he was a lovely lad with sterling facial hair so we didn’t complain.
Final thoughts
We were initially unsure whether Casablanca or Rabat would be the most worthwhile to visit but after our little stop in the capital, I was convinced we had made the right choice. Rabat genuinely felt like a city that I could live in, while it might not have been as exciting as Marrakech or Fes, it felt like a cosmopolitan capital for real people. We felt relaxed and the least sweaty we had been in weeks. It’s the little victories.
