When It Rains in the Desert

The weather has changed in Marrakech, giving us colder temperatures and undulating clouds in exchange for the heat and haze. We've been waiting for the winter rain for almost a month, and two days ago, it finally arrived.

I was teaching my AP US Government class this past Thursday when the speakerphone piped up, informing us all that afternoon sports, including the much-anticipated basketball tryouts, were canceled because of the rain. Cheers and mild groans were quickly subdued by an American student who was laughing. Canceling sports because of a little rain? He's from the south, so I reminded him of the difference in impact between six inches of snow in the north versus half an inch of snow in Alabama. We're in the desert here in Marrakech, pretty much. Rain messes with everyone's habits and rhythms, I told him.

My understanding of Marrakech's weaknesses regarding the rain was naïve, to say the least.

I went on a doomed mission to try to open a bank account here this morning, and while I was out, it started raining again. Suddenly the men who sell sunglasses on the street by the mall had umbrellas in their hands. Suddenly everyone's hood was up over their head. Suddenly the breakneck pace of Marrakechi driving slowed to a more moderate clip. Without missing a beat, the city adjusted, begrudgingly perhaps, but adjusted nevertheless to the change in the weather. It was left to the tourists and new arrivals like me to trudge around in our ballet flats and wet hair, because the seasoned veterans of Marrakech were doing just fine.

I slodged and slushed my way home after my failed attempts to open a bank account today. My flats are still wet, inside and out. I consoled myself with some pastries and coffee from my usual morning coffee stop. (They know my order now. I've achieved a life goal of becoming a regular at a good coffee shop.) It's about a block from the coffee shop to my apartment building, and I was working up a good toddler-like level of anger at the universe for my wet shoes and my failed mission. Stupid rain. Stupid puddles.

I pulled it together to smile hello to the head security guard at my building. (We've become morning buddies ever since I started buying coffee before the bus comes. I suspect I'll want to write more about him, so let's call him Adam, since that's a very popular name here. The emphasis goes on the second syllable. A-dahm.) Adam greeted me with his trademark warmth and sparkling eyes.

Hello! Ça va?

Ça va bien, merci! (French for: "I am well, thank you!" I am a habitual liar when you ask me how I am. And then, to distract myself as much as him from my bad attitude:)

Il shta!! (Darija for: "It's raining!!")

Oui, il shta! Zwin bizef. C'est bon. (Darjia: "Yes, it's raining! It's very pretty. It's good.")

He looked at the rain coming down and smiled like he and the rain shared a secret. Then he laughed good-naturedly at my wet hair. It dissolved my anger at the universe in that very second.

Now, I'm sitting in my warm apartment and reflecting. I thought I knew how to handle the rain, and I do: I can handle the rain in my home country, where I have a car and an umbrella that stays in the car and rain boots in my closet should I need them. But moving to a different continent means leaving the car and the umbrella and the rain boots behind. Moving to the desert typically means that you leave rain behind. And typically, you do; it's said that Marrakech is sunny 300 days out of the year. So when one of the other 65 days comes along, you forget for a minute how to cope. You leave your rain jacket at home, and don't buy an umbrella. You leave your nice boots in the apartment, and then blame the universe for your wet feet. It's okay to have a little temper tantrum. You're not used to the rain here. Hopefully, you have someone like Adam who will smile at the rain and help you remember that it's good for the plants, for the earth, and even for you sometimes, to be rained on. Sunshine all the time makes a desert, as the Arabian proverb goes.