our trip to Senegal.

Fall Break, 2010.  Original plan:  visit Kate and Liz, my friends from GWU studying abroad in Senegal with Nora.  See some of “real Africa”, some tourist sites in Dakar, and the old colonial city of St Louis as per the recommendation of a friend, and eat some Senegalese “Yassa” with their host families.  New plan, after missing our connecting flight to Dakar in the gigantic Madrid airport and realizing that buying another ticket to Senegal would literally cost an arm and a leg:  Rome.

We arrived in Rome around 10am and got into a taxi outside of the airport, showed the driver a piece of paper with the name of the hotel Nora’s friends were staying at, and watched fascinated as we drove through Italy.   We waited for the friends at a café near the hotel, bought a simple breakfast of a cappuccino and a delicious croissant—essentially a glazed donut in Italy— and tried to absorb where we were.  Women walked by proudly dressed to the nines in heels and fashionable fall clothes, stopping to chat with other women and men in gregarious Italian, as the traffic passed.  No garbage on the streets, no rubble from never-ending construction of a questionably useful Tramway… we definitely weren’t in Rabat anymore. 

Mika needed to do work for a project at the Vatican, so we tagged along.  We wandered through that quarter of Rome, had our first divine taste of pasta at a cheap café, and stayed at the Vatican after Mika was finished with her research.  Theme of the trip:  “we found ourselves at/in…” .  We went inside St. Peter’s Basilica, then meandered over to the Castle di St Angelo, walking up to the top and looking out over the area around the Vatican.  I was astounded by the sheer beauty of the city and the landscape, one and the same, ancient and modern, modern built on top of ancient and people milling about it all. 

Fresh off the plane, touring the Vatican.

View of Rome from the top of the Castle St Angelo

One thing about Italy that we weren’t prepared for was the price of everything… cabs, coffee, everything was much more expensive than in Morocco, let alone than what they would have cost in Senegal.  As a direct result of this, we mastered the bus and metro system quickly when we couldn’t walk anymore, which made travelling around Rome not only cheaper but much more interesting.  Most of what we saw, we stumbled across while walking towards another destination.  On our way back from the Castle, for example, we walked through the Piazza Navona, a plaza with an elaborate fountain in the middle located in between alleys of apartments and boutiques.  It is reminiscent of the Montmartre area of Paris or an artsy district of Boston, or the Eastern Market of DC, with artists sitting behind their paintings and photos, people sitting under umbrellas at outdoor cafes, and mimes, musicians, and other street performers doing their thing.  It was more refreshing than I can say, to be around all this art and open human creativity. 

Art in Piazza Navona.

We stayed in Nora’s friends’ hotel the first night, so we went back there in time to tag along with them on their “free Tuesday night dinner”—they all told us that, even though we came during midterms week, we “planned” to come on the perfect night.  Of course we did!  Delicious lasagna, fresh fresh salad, and some sort of tart dessert… yes, please.  We slept in the next morning, feeling refreshed after our last night of “sleeping” in the Madrid airport.  Then we walked a few minutes and found ourselves at the Colosso and Colosseum complex.  It was all so well-preserved, considering, and walking through you could just imagine people living here thousands of years ago.  We tagged along on part of a tour, heard about the Vestal Virgins, then stood in line to get inside the Colosseum.  It hit me again, not that it hadn’t already about 10 times that day: we were in Rome. 

The Colosso

The Colosseum

Next stop:  find an internet café, and find a hostel for the next two nights.  We ended up booking one near Termini, the main train station and metro stop in central Rome, and were put up in a clean room with six beds.  We rested for a bit and then went back to the first hotel, to meet up with the friends and go out to the Hard Rock Café for someone’s birthday.  Is it bad that the best part of that night for me were the nachos I had for dinner?  They were unreal… how I miss nachos.  Everyone ordered nachos and/or burgers… a bit of Americana is all you need sometimes while travelling.  Yummmmm!!

Our last full day in Rome, we woke up late again and headed out toward the Vatican again.  We stopped for a breakfast of pastries and coffee at a café across from the Basilica De Santa Maria Maggiore, which we went into the day before, just ‘cause it was there.  Once we got to the Vatican, we climbed up to the top of St Peter’s Basilica, to see out across all of Rome.  We walked up into the dome, and then through a narrow door, up a narrower staircase, which narrowed more and more, the walls at an angle, the windows mere slivers of no-wall, until we reached the very top.  What a view.  See below. 

Sugar overload for breakfast in front of the Santa Maria Basilica.

Inside the dome of St. Peter's Basilica.

Smallest staircase ever up to the top of the Basilica...

View from the top, overlooking the Vatican.

After the treacherous descent from the top of the Basilica, we rushed to the Sistine Chapel before it closed to tourists.  It was packed with people, and a guard kept shushing everyone and trying to stop people from taking pictures.  It was—is—absolutely mind-blowing to think that one man painted this entire thing by himself.  And the way it is painted is entirely three-dimensional, so when you’re inside you think you’re in a vaulted chapel, but think about it—it’s just one plain room.  I think the best part of it was the blue.  People are painted all over the walls and ceilings, over a base of blue blue sky.  It was beautiful. 

After the Vatican, we wanted to walk by the Pantheon on our way back to the hostel.  We found ourselves in the Piazza Navona again, and then walked through an alleyway to be met by a sample of ruins, and the Pantheon and piazza around it emerged.  The sheer size of the Pantheon was overwhelming.  In the surrounding piazza, a band just so happened to be playing, so we sat and listened for a while.  Why people don’t set up outside of the medina in Rabat and play, I don’t know… It’s something I hadn’t even realized I’d been missing, reminded me of New York and DC.  We consulted the map (again), and realized how close we were to the Trevi fountain.  Thinking we’d see it the next day, we kept walking, and then literally ran into the street it was on.  It is the hugest (?), most elaborately carved fountain I’ve ever seen, with waterfalls basically flowing from statues, all built into a building.  We each sat on the ledge of the fountain and tossed a coin over our left shoulder with our right hand, and made a wish.  We met up with Nora’s friends later for a last dinner of delicious crepes: prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, and spinach.  YUM.

Musicians at the Pantheon.

Trevi fountain.

Our last day in Rome:  A last leisurely morning at the hostel, then we wandered around by the Spanish Steps to find a café for breakfast.   As we walked down a narrow street lined with high-end stores, we heard music and found a woman sitting in between a café and a flower shop playing the cello.  Of course, we ate breakfast at that café, and then continued wandering.  We walked to the Ministry of Culture and Heritage, a formidable white building with two gigantic iron flying horses on top that we had seen from wherever else we were in the city.  After finally figuring out what it was, we walked back past an archaeological site of an old fish market/village to the hostel, and then to the train station.  After getting to the airport and waiting 6 hours for our delayed flight, we finally made it to our hostel in Spain.  We met our two other friends in the same hostel at breakfast, who had spent their weeks off in Spain, and then left for home—Rabat.  Hamdullah!

Home sweet home :-)

Meknes and Fez

Two weekends ago, our entire program went on our first trip together to the imperial cities of Meknès and Fez.  Fez is the oldest city in Morocco, and was the first capital when the country as we know it today was first established in the 8^th century.  We took a bus to Meknès, which was the capital of Morocco in the 17^th century under Moulay Ismail.  First stop was the old Stables of Moulay Ismail, and then to the prison where we descended into a stark, dark basement holding room where holes in the ceiling let in light and also, in the old days, food lowered down from the ground above.  From there we walked around the medina and into the Musée des Arts et Métiers Traditionels de Meknès, a traditional art museum converted from one of the king’s riyads in the past.  Some rooms were preserved as originally furnished—unbelievably ornate—while in other rooms where rugs, pottery, and woodwork in the traditional Meknèsi style the floors, walls, columns, and even ceilings were tiled (zellij) and embellished.  After lunch of couscous and juice—any kind or combination of fresh pressed juice you can imagine—we continued on our way to Fez.  At one point we stopped on a mountain road to look down into the white-washed city of Moulay Idriss, named after the 8^th century king of Morocco and off-limits to non-Muslims.  Inside the city is a mosque of the same name, which is a point of pilgrimage for Muslims.  It was a spectacular view, nestled into the mountains and looking like a white oasis in the rugged landscape. 

Outside one of the doors to the medina in Meknes.

A traditional riyad room maintained in the Musee.

Our next stop was Volubilis-- called Walili in Arabic, which is equally as fun to say-- an archaeological site of Roman ruins (and now a UNESCO World Heritage site).  Structures like Roman baths were still intact, as were some of the elaborate tiling on the floors depicting various scenes and characters.  From the top, you can see little towns tucked away into the mountains, and again the vast, dry openness of the landscape. 

The center of Volubilis.

On a mountain overlooking the city of Moulay Idriss.

From Volubilis we continued on to Fez, checked into our hotel and proceeded to explore the medina, which is the largest and oldest medina in all of Morocco.  We wandered through the labyrinth, passing stalls and stalls of fresh meat—I mean fresh as in skinned animals displayed everywhere— and then herbs, and then the jewelry/clothes/general artisan products sections.  It was like a much, much larger version of the Rabat medina that I’m familiar with, “a medina’s a medina” as someone said.  The most obvious distinction, aside from the sheer size and crowdedness of the thing, was the behavior of the people working there.  The Fez medina is a major tourist attraction, and as a result walking through the medina for us means getting hassled and accosted and pushed to buy things and pay for services.  If you stop walking, it’s all over.  We soon realized that, and found refuge in a little ice cream parlor, named “Disney Channel”, of all things, tucked into one of the alleys. 

The lobby inside our hotel in Fez.

The next day we went on an actual guided tour of the medina, with a professor from Al Akhawayn University in Ifrane.  First stop was at Madrassa Bou Inania, built in the 14^th century as a religious school and mosque.  In addition to all the tiling that I pretty much expect to see everywhere by this point, even on ruins, the walls were all constructed of wood and stone elaborately carved in Arabic and Maghrebi script.  We walked through the “dormitory” area, which consisted of very small stark rooms, meant to encourage a life without distraction for the importance of the studies.  We left the madrassa and meandered through to the Nejarine Museum, dedicated to historical regional woodcrafts and located in the metalwork section of the enormous medina.  After the tour, we found some more souk sandwiches, which are enough to fill you up for an entire day and cost approximately $2 American, and then started off on our own tour of the medina to find the famed tanneries. 

Center of Madrassa Bou Inania.

Maghrebi script and zellij on the walls of the Madrassa.

The metalwork area in the Fez medina.

Outside the Nejarine Museum in the middle of the medina.

We were told that the tanneries were located far in the middle of the medina and that our best bet would be to pay someone to take us there, but we decided to try to find them ourselves.  We walked back to the metalwork district (amazingly we remembered how to find our way through the twisting, cramped alleys), where we began to be accosted by young boys asking, “You want to see the tanneries?  This way, this way!” each pointing in a different direction.  We finally escaped from one boy who had been following us through the alleys, only to be taken to the tanneries by his friend—when we got there, we spotted the first boy hiding behind a wall watching us.  He was with another boy, all about 12 years old, who earlier in the day had shouted insults and obscenities at us in Arabic (which we understood, thanks to our Moroccan friends).  Eventually, we got to the roof of a leather goods store which looked down over the tanneries—huge stone baths filled with different substances for cleaning, treating, and coloring the freshly skinned leather.  Our little guide explained what each substance was for; there was one area, the little boy explained to us, where the baths were filled with the technically-named “pigeon shit”, to thoroughly clean the leather.  We were shown to a “pharmacy” of pungent herbs and spices afterwards, to replace the tannery odors.  The owner of course tried to entice us to purchase something, of course, after giving us a lengthy explanation of each herb and their properties.  That was the Fez medina—everyone trying to get money from tourists, by any means possible, and turning any would-be stroll into a blindered brisk walk.  The shopkeepers get frustrated: we were walking out of the medina after seeing the tanneries and a man was offering us the menu to his restaurant, so we said “leh, shokran” (“no thank you”), as we always do.  We passed him, and then heard “leh shokran, I HATE LEH SHOKRAN!”  Oy vey.  Sorry, mister, but I hate “You want to eat here?  Good price, 70 dirhams…”  C’est la vie.

Overlooking the dying baths in the tanneries.

The rest of Fez:  MacDo (with elaborately carved ceilings) for dinner on a rainy night; one of the king’s many palaces (one in all of the major cities and regions of Morocco); and a synagogue in the area just outside of the palace where the Jewish population traditionally was located.  One last tour through the medina for traditional Faissi soup at a hole in the wall soup stand (literally, a hole in the wall), 5 d’s for a bowl of hot buttery, garlic bean soup with a hunk of bread.  Also a stop outside of the Karouine university and mosque, located inside the medina as well, which was founded in the mid-9^th century, and is still operating today as an academic and religious education center.  It was eye-opening to see the dynamics of this city, so old and yet modern in parts, the people so tough and jaded, making a day of exploring a run to preserve your sanity.  As with every trip I’ve been on so far, it’s made me look at Rabat in a new light.  I’m spending this weekend not travelling, and I’m realizing again how nice it is to be able to walk down familiar streets, seeing the same shopkeepers, going to the café where the owner knows us and will talk to us about where we’ve been in Morocco or how we find the Arabic language.  Rabat is such a balanced city, small for a capital city in my opinion and kind of sleepy, especially when compared to bustling, high-rise Casa.  But it’s a place where I can carry out my life, not the same as home in America of course, but in a way that makes sense here. 

Fez at night: fountain and MacDo

Palace at Fez

Faissi soup in the medina

Looking into Karaouine.

Catch-up: hammam, wedding, Rabat, etc

Monday after our weekend in the dusty mountains, we decided to go to the hammam, the traditional public bath house, to get the layers of dirt scrubbed off of us.  Going to the hammam was something I had wanted to do since I came here, even though I was a little uncomfortable at first with the idea of bathing in front of other people.  But, we're all girls here, etc etc, and to be honest by that time I was so grimy that I just didn't care (in general, our level of hygene has diminished, maybe to 2 or 3 showers a week, but it's better that way.  Gas is expensive, and people really don't need to shower every day!  It's not like we're going to the gym all the time or anything, clearly).  Anyways, we went to a hammam in the medina, and on our way we bought a "kiis", a little scrubby mitt that you use in the hammam, and a small towel-type mat thing to sit on.  Once we got into the hammam, we bought this special henna soap and paid our 9 dirham to get in, and we went into the changing room.  Then, you fill up buckets of water, and basically took a bucket shower in a big, warm room.  We went into the next room, which was really hot, and proceeded to get scrubbed down by the female attendant.  She flipped me over like a dead fish and scrubbed layers of skin and dirt off that I didn't even know I had; I knew I was dirty, but I didn't think it was that bad!  I came out about 3 shades lighter, literally.  It was maybe the most relaxing feeling though, laying on the hot floor getting years of grime scrubbed off of me. 

Our bathing timing was strategic (as always), because that night we had a mock wedding at the program building.  There was live music and a woman doing henna, and the bride and groom (kids from the program) wore traditional dress, and were carried in turn on this litter by 4 men.  There were Moroccan students there, too, and there was a lot of dancing and singing involved.  We all had to wear traditional clothes, so Nora and I borrowed Rihab's djellabas and Rachida's jewelry.  It was so much fun, and everyone had a great time.

 Musicians in Room 2,3 of AMIDEAST for the mock wedding.

Dancing

 Bryce and Sara, the happy couple!

 Sara in the traditional bridal costume and litter

Bryce

 Nora and I in our borrowed djellabas

With Doha, our wonderful program manager/travel advisor/third mother 

Henna!

We spent the weekend in Rabat to sleep and catch up on work, with midterms coming up as well as our fall break week, during which Nora and I are travelling to Senegal to visit some friends from school.  After our MSA class Friday morning, we took the train to Casablanca in order to get vaccinations for our trip, met some friends for lunch, and then took the train back to Rabat... all in a day's work.  Over the weekend we went to a movie (called "The Dealer" in English, but filmed in Arabic/Ukranian...), went to a cafe/restaurant with live African music at night, and also found an American softball game on Sunday morning where our team (AMIDEAST) was playing.  There is an American primary school in Rabat, with a YMCA-esque complex in the back, complete with a basketball court, baseball diamond, lap pool, and field for soccer/etc.  It was kind of like being in a limbo land, especially because almost everyone playing was American, with American accents and American mannerisms.  I cheered in the dugout with another girl and one of the program directors at AMIDEAST, a fantastic gay Scottish man dressed in an orange button down shirt with matching sneakers.  In between asking us to explain the game, he would shout "Smashing!!" or "Bloody hell!!" alternately, often cheering for the other team (which he attributed to Scotland's history of losing at games)-- no pun intended. 

The weather is getting considerably colder here, although the phrase "cold country with a hot sun" still holds true in the afternoon.  It's rained a few times, but according to Moroccans it's not until November that it really starts raining, and once it starts it doesn't stop.  I admit, I miss the New England fall, even the DC fall... there's nothing like that. 

In addition to classes, our program hosts various speakers-- one from the US State Department last week and three young people from the Peace Corps this week-- and offers the opportunity to teach English at a youth association once a week.  I went with a group of students to the association a few days ago, after planning a first lesson for beginners, only to find that we weren't teaching but were having a meeting with the board of directors of the association (wafae).  Us four American girls walk into a room of about eight middle aged Moroccan men, who proceed to serve us tea and traditional corn bread.  We discussed, mostly in French, how we were going to conduct our classes, and how many of us would be teaching each class.  There are roughly 1,000 children aged 10-15 at the wafae and as we're teaching classes of 40 maximum, only about 80 can attend.  According to the director, "only the best" get to go.  We are teaching for free, and these students are competing fiercely for a spot in the class.  This meeting brought to light the situation of kids here, and the priorities they have/the paths they see fit to take to improve their lives.  Our taxi driver on the way home commended us on "helping the Moroccans", a statement I found a bit difficult to handle.  There's a fine line between giving people the skills the want and need to move around in the world and imposing our culture/our Americanism upon people. 

Today alone was unordinally packed with extra lectures and events; in my Francophone literature class, Abdelfatah Kilito (the author of the book Dites-Moi le Songe which we read) came to speak with us. He spoke slowly and passionately first about another book he has written, roughly translated as Don't Speak my Language, on the idea of language and identity.  This is huge in Morocco, where French holds strong colonial connotations but has been around for so long that it is enmeshed in the rapid Darija street speak.  It was a really unique experience to have time to discuss Kilito's literature with him.  Immediately after that, we went to visit the LDDF, La League Democratique pour les Droites des Femmes, for our women's studies class.  We didn't have much time here, but we were shown a presentation on the work of this organization to promote women's rights and empower female victims of conjugal violence in Rabat and the surrounding cities.  The organization reaches out to youths too, both male and female, to spread awareness about various topics related to women's rights and the position of women in society.

Next post: Fez/Meknes with AMIDEAST, and Senegal/Madrid!

The Festival that Wasn't

Two weekends ago, we decided to do some interactive learning and visit the small town of Imilchil for the annual Berber marriage festival which we had been studying in sociology.  We had reserved a room in a "hotel" in Rich, another emall town about 3 by bus from Imilchil. Both towns are in the Middle Atlas Mountains, and both are very rural and difficult to get to.  Five American girls and our Moroccan friend Amin, we boarded the night bus at 8:30 pm on Friday.  Amin, being a Moroccan, could not understand our desire to go there-- neither could our brother, who did not even know of the festival.  It's interesting to see how the differences between Berber culture and Moroccan culture appear. 

Night bus to Rich

The night bus was over-crowded, and I was lucky to get a seat and not have to sit/sleep on the floor like some people did.  I ended up sitting next to a man who, upon establishing that I speak a little Arabic and he spoke a little English, asked me The Big Question: "Do you believe in God?"  Just like that, like "Do you think it's cold outside?"  That's just the thing: in America religion is more of a touchy subject, up there with politics and sex as not-appropriate-dinner-conversation.  Maybe because we were going to be stuck on the bus for the night, or maybe because it's Morocco, but I ended up talking with this man, Abdulhuk, for the majority of the ride, in between trying to sleep and our far too frequent stops at food stands on the side of the road.  He was pretty open minded, when I could get a word into his energetic, passionate, and insistent ramblings about the nonsensicality of the Cross of Christianity and the intelligence of the Jews who, alas, had done something wrong in the eyes of God.  As someone who is not strictly religious and doesn't adhere to a doctrine per se, I found everything he said very interesting.  Except, maybe, the last part before I played the exhaustion card: Abdulhuk: "Do you pray?" Me: "No." Abdulhuk: "Do you give alms to the poor?" Me: "Yes, sometimes." Abdulhuk: "Ok well yes. Inshallah we will meet again in Paradise."  What a guy.

Sleepy town of Rich at our arrival at 6am

I awoke as we were pulling into Rich, around 6am.  The landscape was breath-takingly beautiful at dawn, just vast expanses of dusty plains and mountains in the distance dotted with trees, and the lone paved road stretching on.  After checking into our hotel rooms, experiencing the turkish toilets (oh, yes.) and freshening up (as much as possible, understandably), we went to a cafe and had some strong, far too sugary espresso.  Amine then proceeded to make friends with every other man in the vacinity (as is the Moroccan way, for a man, anyways), including a driver who offered to take us to Imilchil, even though he'd never been there.  We squeezed into the van, Emily in the trunk, and started our drive through the mountains.  It was, once again, undescribably beautiful.  Our driver began stopping roughly every 20 minutes at little apple farmer tents on the side of the road, making friends and talking with the farmers and leaving with a few apples, which were thrown into the trunk of the van along with Emily.  Johhny Appleseed pulled over by the side of a river so we could  wash and eat the apples and drink the fresh mountain-river water.  I can only attempt to describe the colors of the mountains there, ribbons of sediment undulating for miles and miles-- kilometres and kilometres-- with little towns nestled at the base of mountains.

Eating apples in the Atlas

الله ، الوطن ، الملك

God, Homeland, King

Imilchil-- no festival in sight

 Berber souk

We finally arrived in Imilchil 4 hours later, found a restaurant with Berber tajines (characterized by potatoes, olives, and other vegetables stewed over chicken or beef), and were told by Amine that we would not be seeing the marriage festival, afterall.  At that point, all we could do was laugh, and finish our tea and tajines.  Turns out, the music and activity happens at night, but we had been driving all night and day and would be driving all the next day too, so we (Amine) decided to turn back early.  We went to the huge marriage festival souk nearby and walked around for a bit-- being a Berber souk it was different from those we're used to in Rabat and elsewhere, it was much, much larger and with lots of silver and Berber rugs.  After only half an hour of walking around, we headed back to Rich.  Of course, our van got a flat tire and we pulled over on the side of the road (read: ravine, as we were driving through the Middle Atlas Mountains).  Us girls got out of the car, laughing, and wandered around the rocks and the dried up river, because honestly what were we going to do?  A truckload of Berbers saved the day-- careening around the mountianside, they stopped up ahead of us a little and got out of their van, climbing down from the little pen-like structure on top of the van.  Too many cooks in the kitchen-- or Berbers in the van-- so some of them started talking to us in some kind of sign-language, which we eventually understood to mean they wanted us to take their picture.  They fixed the tire somehow and drove away, and we went home to Rich.

Berber men save the day.

We got on the bus the next morning with no troubles, heading out on the 8 hour return trip to Rabat.  On the whole, uneventful, except for Mustapha the electrician.  My friend Meera was sitting in the aisle seat, sleeping with her legs crossed, and her skirt had risen just above her knee.  Mustapha was sitting on a stool in the aisle of the bus (too crowded, but meshi mushkil (no problem)), and all of a sudden he reached over and pulled her skirt over her leg to cover it.  She woke up, startled, and he said in Darija, "I am Muslim", with a shrug of his shoulders.  Shuma bazaaaaf.  That's pretty much the attitude of men here as far as I've seen, especially as you get into the poorer areas of the city, or the more rural areas of the country.  I try to air on the safe side, which means being uncomfortably layered always.  The rest of the ride, he attempted to talk to us, but we weren't really in the mood.  Got back home, did some homework, called it a weekend. 

View from the top

Something to note: originally, Amine was not coming with us on this trip, and once he decided to come, we did some things differently from how we had planned.  As helpful as it was in terms of navigating prices and directions, we didn't stay in Imilchil because he was tired, and he had made an agreement with the driver to get back to Rich at a certain time.  It goes back to the gender issue, the pros and cons of having a man with you (not necessary at all times).  Oh well, guess we'll have to come back for the festival next year :-)

Life post-Ramadan, or "the fifth week"

As I feared would happen, I've let a few weeks go by without posting, and now it's catch-up time.  Part I: "normal life".

Our days of going to pool halls after school and to the beach at 11 o'clock at night are long gone, replaced with never ending Arabic "tamriins", readings on feminist theory and family structure in the Maghreb, and-- my favorite-- french novels by Moroccan authors.  Hard to believe, I know, but we actually are supposed to be studying while we're here for the semester!  Who would have thought.  It would be a lot less of a drag if I didn't have a crazy woman named Fatime for both my MSA and Darija classes... she's a bit of a space-case, which isn't an ideal quality for an Arabic professor.  And it's tempting to learn about contemporary Moroccan culture by socializing and exploring the city with our new Moroccan friends as opposed to reading endless articles.  Et voila, one paragraph of the mundane academic grind. 

Hotel dinner before Hurricane Fatima hit... 

Day at Controbondi Beach

Apparently my frustration with classes and sheer exhaustion that characterized the last week was a symptom of the "fifth week" of being here in Morocco.  Doha, our program director/travel agent/den mother/troop leader warned us that around this time, we would begin to feel not home sick, but maybe a little overwhelmed and worn out by certain aspects of daily life here.  Maybe it's just that the differences of carrying out a daily routine here as opposed to back home (in "the States", as I've scarily caught myself calling it), are becoming more and more apparent.  For me, things like diet and exercise are drastically different here-- that is to say, they're non-existant-- so that's probably a big part of it.   My friend Anna keeps saying she's going to join a gym and asking us to come with her, but to be honest I wouldn't go, I know it.  It's not that I'm being lazy, really, it's that it's such a foreign concept, literally, for Moroccan women.  People stare at the few joggers that pass by like they're walking through the street naked or something.  So, I walk home from school instead of taking the bright blue petit taxi, and call it a day. 

So to back-track, two weekends ago (the first weekend after Eid al-Fitr), Nora and I decided to be tourists for a day in Rabat.  We went to the Tour Hassan and the Mohammed V Mausoleum, the largest monuments in Rabat both dedicated to past kings.  The Tour Hassan was built to be a minaret of a great mosque towards the end of the 12th century, but when the sultan overseeing its construction died, the construction stopped.  The minaret is only halfway built, along with the rest of the walls and columns which now create a sort of maze pattern where people mill about taking pictures and kids play.  When we were there, our 12 year old neighbor Mamoune (who looks like he's about 9) popped up in front of us on his bright red roller blades, and proceeded to use the columns as an obstacle course.  The Mausoleum was equally impressive, if not more-- elaborately tiled in green zeliij patterns on the outside, you climb the stairs from the ground of the Tour Hassan mosque columns are to get inside, and find yourself on a balcony of the perimiter of the building.  The inside walls are an array of colors and patterns of tile, and stained glass windows.  If you look down over the railing from the balcony, you see the tombs of the late King Mohammed V and his sons King Hassan II and Prince Abdallah.  There is a place at the back end of the floor where a man sits reading the Qur'an for most of the day.  The whole expereince of being inside was very humbling: the obvious love and admiration that the Moroccan people have for their king and the beauty of both the royal and religious traditions were overwhelming. 

That Sunday, we had a small field trip to a rural village about 40 minutes outside of Rabat where one of the AIMDEAST professors lives on family farmland.  This was a stark contrast to the traffic and urbanity (?) of Rabat.  It was Sunday, so we walked through the big weekly souk where stalls stretched for rows and rows, selling food, clothes, items of incomprehensible use, and meat-- lots and lots of animal limbs, heads, livers, just lined up for the taking.  We all marveled after at how the meat section of the souk was not as jarring as one would have thought, because why wouldn't fresh meat be on display in a weekly souk?  Guess that's called assimilation... After the souk we went to our professor's house, where we met his wife and daughter and proceeded to sit on oneof about 20 pouffy chairs and low couches.  She cooked delicious vegetable, raisin, and meat couscous for lunch, which we all ate from the same bowl with our spoons, as is customary.  We were served buttermilk to drink, which I did not drink... I can only go so far with some of the food here.  Nora and I have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy for the food our mom makes us, because it's so delicious but I know that if I knew what was in it, I might not be able to eat somethings. 

Anyways, after lunch some people made homemade bread, the kind we use to eat our dinner at night and have as a sandwich sometimes.  We left the rounds to rise, and walked over to the barn to see all the cows and goats and sheep.  It reminded me a bit of the farms back home, except the cows were much bigger.  On our way back we checked on the bread, which some of the women who worked at the house had put into the big earthen oven outside to bake.  By the time we were back inside, the bread was done.  We had fresh orange juice and bread for a snack (because it was necessary after all of that couscous...) and then we went home.  It was refreshing to get out of Rabat and into such a rural environment after having been in the city for two weeks, and it was eye-opening to see the other half of the country at work.

To be continued...

Ramadan/Eid Mubarak Sayeed!! and "leh shokran ala wejib"

Last Friday we celebrated Eid, the end of the Islamic month of Ramadan where people don't eat or drink until sundown.  The call to prayer sounds from the minarets and after a quick prayer (or long, depending on religious preferences and customs-- my family isn't extremely religious), the family rushes to the dinner table to break the fast with ftour.  Hamid (baba) would rush into the room, yell "Allahu akbar!" (God is great!), and then run to the table to eat.  It's an extremely difficult thing to do, I can only imagine a whole month of this.  Nora and I decided to fast for the last few days of Ramadan, which only ended up being 2 days because Eid came on time; they weren't sure if it would be Friday or Saturday, because of the lunar cycle-- this further exemplifies the use of "inshallah" for anything in the future, because the future is uncertain.  Anyways, I found during fasting that you aren't hungry all the time, just tired and devoid of energy. Nora found that she got thirsty more than hungry, and I would have hunger pains occaisionally but then find a way to distract myself.  What made it difficult for us was the fact that we had to get up early to be at school for 8:30am.  Most people, during Ramadan, are allowed a modified work schedule, and school doesn't start until after Ramadan.  I can only imagine the Muslim people on  my program; one of my friends was fasting during the orientation day where we had our Rabat Challenge in the 110 degree heat, and had to go home early.  But our family, notably our host brother Yacine, would sleep until mid afternoon.  That helps a lot, because then you only have to wait a few hours until you can eat.  He would occaisionally go for a run right before ftour, which to me seems like a death wish but I guess it keeps his mind off the hunger.  Our second day of fasting, Nora and I came home from a 7 hour day of classes and slept right up until ftour time.  When we woke up, Mama Rachida said she was worried that we had "stopped breathing" because of the hunger!  But the whole family was impressed and pleased that we participated.  It's such a cultural thing here, not only religions-- even if you're not actively fasting, you basically involuntarily have to unless you can make your own food during the day (or have your amazing host mother pack you a lunch...).

We expected to have a big family gathering and lots of activity on Friday for Eid, but the family took a very relaxed approach.  We woke up late and had breakfast (that was maybe the hardest part of our 2 days of fasting-- I love breakfast in the morning), and stayed around the house expecting to go to Sale (the neighboring city) to visit Rachida's family whom we've visited before.  Nora and I took a walk after a few hours of relaxing, and when we came back Rachida informed us that we weren't going to Sale because she didn't feel well, but that Yacine was going to take us out.  We have a very busy social life compared to most people on our program, by virtue of our siblings and our good friends on the program, but we think Rachida thinks we don't do anything but homework.  False bizzzzefff...

The ladies: Loubneh, Rihab, Hajjar, Rachida, Nora

Last Monday, we went to Sale for our little cousin's 3rd birthday party.  His name is Nasser, and he is zwiin bizzeff (very cute).  I love babies and kids, but I think Moroccan babies might be the cutest... they all have big brown eyes and curly dark hair and little picket-fence teeth, and are super affectionate.  Nasser had a Spider Man-themed party, and it turns out that all little boys are obsessed with Spider Man here.  Because it was Ramadan, we didn't get over there until about 10pm, and didn't cut the cake until almost midnight.  All the kids were still running around and rough housing, like all boys do, that late at night.  Nora and I sat with the kids while the adults and our host siblings visited in the kitchen, as happy birthday music played continually from an extremely loud stereo.  The family lives in an apartment, and all I could think was that in the US there would have been a noise complaint immediately, between the music and the kids and all their noise.  Everyone seemed to know and understand that it was a birthday party, and people kept coming and going. 

Ryad, Rihab, and Nasser (birthday boy/Spider Man)

Ryad trying to blow out Nasser's fireworks candle

A word about gender relations/being a woman in Morocco:  Having a Moroccan man in your group of friends is a magical thing-- no other man will look at you twice.  Situation number one:  Nora and I were walking home from a cafe the last night of Ramadan, and as we walked men kept calling to us and would walk behind us a few paces, then as we didn't engage they would leave.  Two men were following us for a while at one point, so we made a beeline for a womens and children's shoe store and pretended to be engrossed in the plastic sandals at teh back of the shop.  We stayed in there for about 10 minutes, and then the shopkeeper man looked at us and nodded, making the sign that the men were gone. Needless to say, if we ever need plastic sandals, he's our guy.  A little while later, another man was following us closely and talking at us.  I was busy staring straight ahead and walking with a purpose, but Nora had reached a breaking point and rolled her eyes.  He noticed this, and asked "what's wrong?", and she turned around, held up her hand, and firmly, loudly said,  "baad minnee afaak!" ("Get away from me, please!").  Mr. Man was stunned, repeated, "baad minnee...?" and stood still as we walked away.  Good to know that the phrases they taught us in Survival Moroccan Arabic do in fact work, especially when coupled with the good old American "hand".  This is just a fact of life here, though.  There's no point in being here if you're going to hide in your room as soon as the sun goes down.  It's how you learn, and being able to take care yourself and navigate these kinds of situations is an invaluable skill.  Moroccan women get the same treatment, but because they are part of this culture, they have different ways of dealing and avoiding.  As Americans, we can  do some things that only men do here (like hang out at pool halls and cafes late at night, providing we have a Moroccan male friend with us, of course), but we get harassed like women.  It's a strange strange world, but for every challenge and difficulty, there's a kind shop owner or our brother's friends who tolerate our lame attempts at Darija. 

This is where my new favorite phrase comes into play:  "Leh shokran ala wejib", the response to shokran ("thank you") and meaning "Don't thank me for something I want to do."  The shoe store owner said this to us, the Meditel teleboutique man who recharges my internet modem and my cell phone says this to me, people use this response regularly and I think it is beautiful.  In a phrase, it encompasses the Moroccan sense of hospitality and kindness.  Even the shabaab (young men) use this phrase, when they're not too busy cat-calling to white girls.  Bismallah!

View of our table in our room, set up with coffee and sweets-- this is how we do our homework.  Oh, Mama Rachida...

"Where are we??" oh right, Africa...

Friday after our 8:30am fusHa (MSA) class, 10 of us got on a train in Agdal, Rabat, headed for Asilah.  Asilah is a more touristy beach town about 3 hours north of Rabat, and we were looking forward to finally going to the beach during the day and getting some sun.  Nora and I had originally planned to go with two of our other friends, but due to various circumstances (only explainable by the phrase, "welcome to Morocco."), our two friends did not come, and we ended up going with 8 others.  Needless to say, we made quite a spectacle.  A pack of 10 Americans with backpacks (and in one person's case, an over-stuffed suitcase on wheels-- for an overnight trip) are pretty conspicuous. 

There were so many times on the train ride where I took a picture of the scenery, and was amazed at how little the resemblance was.  There's just no way to describe some of the sights here.  As we pulled out of the Agdal station, and then through the main Rabat station, the sprawling buildings and outlying shacks were left behind us and all we could see was dry, scrubby farmland on rolling hills, with the city mosque's minaret still visible if we looked back.  We sped past fields and fields of dry earth in a grid; sheep or horses or cows were grazing on some of the blocks and you could make out a lone herder if you looked hard enough.  One thing we kept seeing were fields of yellow melons, over and over again.  I had never tasted a yellow melon, but that would change later in the trip...  When we weren't marvelling at the scenery, at the stark buildings of some towns and the explosive colors of laundry, rugs, and paint of others, we passed the time playing Rummy. 

Countryside leaving Rabat

We arrived at the Asilah train station, and made our way to the main road.  One petit taxi finally came along, so three people went on to Christina's House, the "guest house" where we planned to stay.  The rest of us waited some more, then made our way back across the tracks to the front of the station, hoping to have more luck getting transportation.  There were no cars of any sort back at the station, so we walked to a main intersection and began flagging down any vehicle that looked as if it would take 7 people.  One finally pulled over-- an unmarked white van, out of which jumped a very enthusiastic, toothy-grinned man.  Through broken darija, French, and English, we found out that he would take us to the guest house for 15 dirham each.  We asked the price again and he said fifty, and we all immediately said "leh leh leh leh, welliwelliwelli", which basically means "wooooahh man, no way".  We bargained our van-ride into town down to 30 dirham for all of us (= less than 5dirham each, which is basically fifty cents).  The drivers were surprised that we spoke Arabic, like most people.  They mostly just kept looking back at us and grinning/leering. 

We finally got to the guest house, which we found by directing the drivers to the "hammam jedida", or the "new hammam", and were welcomed by a man named Nabil.  He offered to show us around the town, so we walked with him to the old medina (one in every town) and the beautiful kasbah, and through the markets which were packed with people buying food right before their ftour.  We went back to hang out at the guest house while Nabil went to have ftour with his family, and then realized that Nabil was not so much a friendly resource to use if we wanted, but a chaperone-esque type figure, included in the price of our stay (or added to it, as it would turn out). He insisted that all 10 of us go to dinner at a paella restaurant he knew of, and do everything else together, too.  He knows everyone in Asilah, so we went to his friend's restaurant.  After dinner, he left to buy fruit with two people from our group, so me and a few others left the house to explore a bit on our own.  We found a cafe and walked down by the boardwalk/beach near the kasbah, and it was refreshing to wander around without our overly enthusiastic guide for a bit. 

Dining room of Christina's House

View of the kasbah walls in the old medina

Zelijj tiling on a door in the kasbah

More beautiful doors

Saturday morning:  woke up and had breakfast prepared by Christina herself (crazy British woman with too much cash to burn).  We were waiting downstairs when we heard a knock on the door; walked outside and found a spanish-moroccan man with a dark moustache and a hat waving us over to our horse carts, arranged for us by our trusty Nabil.  Ten Americans, six horse cart men, three horse carts, and Nabil... we were off to the beach!  The carts made their way out of the rocky streets of the neighborhood, past fields of farm/trash/sheep, and onto the highway, where our horse cart raced the others as well as the cars on the road.  We saw a cluster of white-washed buildings with the ocean behind them, and thought that was where we were headed... and then we past them.  We finally veered off the highway onto another dirt path, and bumped along closer and closer to the ocean.  We finally rounded the mountain and the saw the ocean... that sight was worth all the bumps and bruises of the horsecart.  As we wound our way down the mountain, we saw thatched roof houses and straw umbrellas.  We had found Paradise Beach!  It was impossible to believe that we were in the same country as Rabat.  We were, actually, in Africa. 

Preferred mode of transportation to the beach

As Nabil knew the restaurant man from the night before, he also knew the horse cart men and a man who owned one of the seemingly deserted restaurants on Paradise Beach.  He told us which lounge chairs to sit on, because they were cheaper than others and in front of his friends' restaurant.  Note:  we were not told the price of anything so far.  Whenever we asked, Nabil just told us "don't worry, just enjoy!"  I was skeptical ever since we met him Friday afternoon.  We swam for a while in the beautiful turquoise blue water, and then Nabil told us we were going to a cave to get argan oil, which is really good for your skin and hair.  Some people went with him, I stayed back to swim and lay on the beach with some others; Nabil was confused why everyone wasn't flocking after him.  Around three, we were really hungry so we asked Nabil if we could go somewhere for lunch.  He shepherded us into the restaurant, where his friends were lounging and sleeping(because they're all fasting).  There were no menus or anything to suggest that the restaurant was actually open, but Nabil told us that they would make anything we wanted.  The owner came over eventually and told us that he could make us fish, shrimp, sardines, or salad.  After much negotiations, we had delicious fried sole and calamari.  Plain and simple, it was delicious. 

More beach lounging, and then everyone had to head home to their families for ftour.  Nabil coralled the horses and their drivers, and we threw our backpacks and ourselves back onto the carts.  Naturally, the horse pulling my cart was derranged-- even though he had the heaviest load (6 people on the cart), he ran ahead of the other two, bouncing so much that we had to clutch the wool blanket covering the cart so that we wouldn't fall off.  One of the other cart drivers was "radio Asilah", and kept singing "I am a disco dancer, dan-sah! Disco! Dan-sah! Disco! Dan-sah!"  We stopped once on our trip across the dry farm fields to help a few scrawny boys get their van out of the sand.  Then we continued along, and reached the highway, where our horse sped up even more.  We passed cars with little old men in the front seats, probably scarred for life at the degree of "harram" ("forbidden") going on on the back of our cart, with our skirts flying everywhere and our butts practically falling off the back of the cart.  Our horse was so energized and going so fast that our driver took a "long cut" off-road, so it could blow off some steam.  Hamdullah, we finally made it back onto the highway, where our horse slowed down a little bit to a manageable gallop. 

Asilah

Horse rides on the beach

Back at the House, we got off the horse carts and prepared to pay.  Things got a little dicey, because Nabil was insisting that people pay for the horse rides that some people took while on the beach.  We tried to negotiate, but the language barrier and the amount of people giving money and receiving money helped in us getting ripped off for the first time.  Next, we told Nabil that we were trying to get to the train station, because there was a train that left at "six-something". He said we could take the horse carts, because there probably wouldn't be too many taxis in the neighborhood (which is true).  He had us all pay in advance for the ride to the station, and we hopped back on the horse carts!  We finally got there, getting more looks from everyone rushing home for ftour, and the drivers pulled right up to the station platform.  As we got off the horse carts, the drivers looked at us and said, "deniro??" Nabil had pocketed the money!!  We began re-negotiating with the drivers, trying to explain that Nabil had their money, when a station officer came us to us and demanded to know what we were doing on horse carts, and where we were trying to go.  When we said Rabat, he told us that the train going to Rabat was coming in 5 minutes!  We threw some money at the horse cart drivers, and rushed into the station to buy our tickets.

The last of us were buying our tickets just as the train pulled up, and we began queing and pushing our way onto the cars.  We literally had to stand on top of people and on top of bags, and the doors of the train stayed open as we pulled away from the station.  We got a little separated, but at least we made it on!  People were grumbling and sulking, and as the sun set lower and lower they kept checking their watches and getting antsy.  Then, all at once, people cracked open the bottles of juice they were clutching in their hands, and opened plastic bags holding their own personal ftours.  Ftour on the train!  People do a complete 180, from being grouchy and mean to gregarious and pushing food onto anyone in sight.  We ate dates as we sped along the countryside.  Sidenote-- you can't smoke during the day on Ramadan, so eveyone lit up on the train, too. Talk about fire hasard. 

Crowded train leaving Asilah

At the first few stops, some people got off but more got on.  I ended up spending most of the trip standing up in the bathroom, with some bags, some melons, and a young couple who I think exchanged numbers on that train ride-- how romantic...!  My backpack and my friend Johnathan's were in the middle space between two cars, and at one point he caught an old woman stealing from his bag.  He launched the backpacks over to me in the bathroom-- of course they'd be safe there! Eventually, enough people left so that we could get actual seats on the train, and we moved into a first class compartment, everyone finally reunited. 

View from the train door

We pulled into the main Rabat train station a little worse for the wear, bought the first water bottles we could find, and wandered through the medina to get some ice cream and relax.  I was so happy to finally be home, with Rachida and Rihab and to sleep on my wall couch!  I woke up to a prolonged call to prayer around 4am, but slept like a rock after that. 

If our trip had been any longer, I'm not sure I would have survived.  Staying home this coming weekend for Eid al-Fitr, inshallah.