Crowd. Cheer. Chanting.
Crowd. Not like they’ll tell you when he’s actually going to arrive...
Wait. Crowd. Cheer. Cheer. Crowd. Ow my foot. Hot.
Don’t know how to swear in Arabic.
Remind self to ask tutor.
Ow. Tall crowd. Hot. Foot. Cheer. Cheer. Crowd.
Proceed to antici-wait.
Not like I’ll be able to see him over all this, right?
“We could to a community clean up--at the park or something!” Oh, silly Peace Corps volunteer with your eager ideas that from time to time come into fruition, but usually get stuck in seedling form, buried too deep in the dirt of “you can’t want they project more than they do.” Thank you pre-service training.
I can see the lack of appeal to the project. Within a day and a half of picking up discarded plastic bags, dusty bottles, and cigarette butts, it will look exactly the same as before. But the point is sensitization, right? It’s the hope that having spent a free weekend picking up crud in the hot sun, participants think twice about chucking that chip bag next time. That’s the important part, isn’t it?
Maybe even plant some trees, paint the walls, brighten things up a bit! Hmm... who would pay you say? Understandable. Yes I’ll look into it. Yes we can once again “ich’allah” the idea into next month.
No go. Lukewarm reception. Let’s move onto ideas people will actually do (Ping-Pong tournament anyone?).
Then, one day out of the blue, it happened. “It” should be italicized or put in bold, capital letters, because this is no normal “it.” IT is the single announcement that suddenly made city beautification not only a likeable idea, but a matter of pride and patriotism for the residents and job-security for every official in town.
The king is coming to visit.
I had always thought there was exaggeration in the Moroccan joke that if you want to clean up the town, just spread a rumor that the king is coming, and watch the magic unfold. But as soon as I saw every single shop and home owner take to the streets with a bag, broom, and a bucket of paint, I became a believer. I single handedly witnessed the transformation as that main road which was in the rebuilding process for two months suddenly re-opend, complete, in four days. Someone filled the holes in the streets. Murals popped up on walls overnight with no trace of an artist. Johnny Appleseed must be heading international and diversifying into the palm tree business, because all of the sudden, the once-barren streets were lined with them. I watched in awe as my youth club donned donated caps and shirts, filled 30 garbage bags, swept out a donkey-parking-lot, and painted the curbs a patriotic red and white. Flags flew over doors, out windows, across buildings, and above streets, as if everyone in town keeps at least six stored up in their attics. Funding? What funding? No problem. It was as if everything materialized through royal magic (supplies as well as unwavering motivation).
Even returning to my own street (a part of town unlikely to receive a royal drive-through) I witnessed the fervor. The whole neighborhood was out sweeping, or slapping paint onto curbs and houses. I walked under my neighbor who was up a ladder, rolling a new brown over the identical old brown wall color, and considered jovially asking him if he’d like to hop over a few feet and paint my house too. I reconsidered though, because knowing Moroccan gregariousness, I was afraid he actually would have.
When the day came, I didn’t even recognize my dusty little town. It had turned into a jewel of patriotism and hastily-readied care. Some grumbled about the process, stating that people will care for the city for a few days and then everything will go back to normal (I have to admit, I was a little afraid that as soon as the day was over, someone would come to uproot the trees and bring them to the next royal visit site). But seeing the cheering crowds coming out to witness the new king’s first visit to their city, coupled with all of the pride and excitement that preceded it was even worth it for the grumblers. The national pride was contagious. As I ran into a 6-year old girl from my youth center on the big day, she turned to me with an orange popsicle stained face, held her little Moroccan flag up in the air, and proceeded to brag that she had heard that MY king was being replaced soon, but HER king was going to stay with Morocco for his whole life.
I have to admit, I was a bit star-struck when the moment came. I just sort of happened to be at the right place at the right time. No one knew exactly when he would be arriving, so I had gone home in the afternoon for lunch, but soon after arriving, I felt the odd beams of excitement (or eeriness) as my entire neighborhood had become a ghost town since everyone was leaving for the middle of town. So I left the dishes in the sink, and caught up with the crowds.
By the time I got there, the crowds were impenetrable, and everyone was still excited, but had become hot, parched, and tired of standing. The situation reminded me of New Year’s Eve on
The crowd was grew louder, and beginning the royal chant, and I could feel everyone surge forward. He must be near. Since I couldn’t see over the heads, I resigned myself to jumping as high as I could at strategic intervals, hoping for a glimpse, but then I caught the eye of one of my students. He and a friend had propped a bicycle up against a wall behind me and were precariously balanced, standing straight up on the seat and handlebars. The waved me over, and hoisted me up so I could stand on the tire (yes, stand up on the incredibly stable rolling thing Chris). As we clung to the wall, balancing like circus bears on a unicycle, the royal precession arrived. First came a parade of royal guards shining in French-style military uniforms, but holding onto tradition by topping off with turbans. Then traditional white jallaba-clad holy men came through, making a jostling sea of red fezzes. Finally, strolling out in between stressed out guards in black suits and ear pieces, there was King Mohammad IV, head of state and leader of the faithful, looking suave as usual in a suit, tie, and stylish sunglasses giving us all the royal wave. I had an amazing view of him greeting the crowds for about 45 seconds, and that’s about the time our bike toppled over.
The rest of the day I ran around with the crowds playing “where will he pass next,” a game in which we all bolt in different directions hoping that his motorcade will pass by so we can him waving out of the sunroof. I managed three king-sightings, which I though was pretty good, but some of my students got four or five, so I lost. But I still felt like a champ. Partially because I had just achieved multiple royalty-sightings in one day, but mostly because, on that day, I was the volunteer who had the cleanest, most environmentally conscious site in the Peace Corps--and all it took was a stop-off on the royal itinerary.
(The King of Morocco)
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