Les choses qui me manquerai (the things I will to miss).

I will miss having friends with whom my only common language is charades.
I will miss speaking French every day.
I will miss making a fool of myself while trying to speak Arabic.
I will miss making a fool of myself while thinking I am trying to speak Arabic but am actually failing at speaking Berber.
I will miss everyday being a new adventure.
I will miss strangers inviting me to live with them.
I will miss having a half hour conversation every time I want to buy something.
I will miss the call to prayer.
I will miss riding in a taxi with five other people.
I will miss peoples readiness to like me.
I will miss strangers buying me soda on the bus because it is hot and I am a girl traveling alone.
I will miss eating with my hands.
I will miss the fresh sweetness of fruits and vegetables.
I will miss the colors of the souk.
I will miss being called "ma gazelle" by strangers.
I will miss the simplicity of an unprepackaged lifestyle.
I will miss squattie potties.
I will miss seeing the moon rise over the dunes of Merzouga.
I will miss playing pool on the kitchen table using only a broom handle and a bottle cap.
I will miss my friends here.
I will miss knowing that someone will want to help me no matter where I go.
I will miss the bright orange and yellow piles of spices in the madina.
I will miss walking by a whole cows head hanging by a butchers shop.

I will miss Morocco.
I will miss this place which has loved and tested me and has taught me to see myself and the world with open eyes.

Into the South

 I have visited many places here in Morocco, but none has moved and intrigued me like Merzouga. The ISA trip to Merzouga was our last excursion together and was by far the best. Daniel really got us the hookup on this one. After an eight hour bus ride from Meknes where we were able to watch the countryside turn from mountains to desert, we arrived in the abandoned looking village.

The town of Merzouga itself was not what I was anticipating. Being a tourist trap kind of place and all, I was under the impression that Merzouga would be a little more than a couple of dusty turban shops, a handful of mud and plaster homes, and a lot of sandy wind. However, it is not the town that brings the hordes of foreign adventurers anyway, it is the dunes. The dunes roll across the horizon just behind the oasis, spanning the fifty kilometers separating Morocco from Algeria. 
       The only thing between Riad Nezha, where we stayed (and I would suggest it to anyone in the vicinity), and the sun soaked dunes were the oasis date palms and gardens. Even from here you could smell the peace and calmness blowing off of the sand. The experience was not completed, however, until all twenty some odd Americans rode off into the sunset on camelback. We stayed that night in woven wool Berber tents with nothing around us but the dunes and the sun.

        When I came back to Merzouga again it was with my parents. Everywhere we had been in the mountains had been almost unbearably hot. It was not until we stepped off the bus and into the desert that we actually cooled off. Merzouga is so windy that sometimes it feels cooler than more northern cities. We were the only guests in Riad Nezha this time, giving it an entirely different atmosphere. The last time had been a mad house just with all of us students, and to add to that the Riad was fully staffed in order to accommodate and entertain us.  This time it was all peace and quiet.

       On the second day my friend Moha, the Riad’s young manager, tied his blue ten meter shech (turban) around my head and waved to the three of us as we slowly lurched away atop our camels. I do not know quite how to describe riding a camel. Although it is a must do for anyone coming to Morocco, do not be expecting a comfortable of even exciting ride. For one, Berber camels, it turns out, are not very smart. Malian camels for example, can be trained to go wherever you want them to, and can be ridden somewhat like a horse. Berber camels on the other hand must be led along by a man on foot, otherwise they will go wherever they fancy, which could be to the middle of the dunes. So a camel man walks along in front as your camel jerks and sways along giving you a worse crotch ach than a road bike. Despite the discomfort, there is something spectacular about seeing the sand whip and snake across the dunes from camel back. And one can easily imaging a world before cars and online banking.

       As we went I watched Rachid the camel man navigated us through the sand. Like most sounthern Berbers, he wore a shech and a sky blue robe (I of course forget their name) which blew around frantically in the wind. They all wear these well ventilated robes to keep cool, and they are always blue. Blue, they say, is the color of freedom. Blue like the sky, which as not limits. And really, I had never seen such complete freedom as I did in Rachid, who was tall and quiet and was born walking the dunes.

P.S. I have no pictures because the sand destroyed my camera.

Oh look, a dromedary!

Whenever I think of what to write for the world (some of it anyway) to see, I get so  overwhelmed with all of the stories I want to tell, images I want to show and people to introduce. I feel a sort of duty to my few readers telling me I am obliged to write about every adventure or misadventure that has happened. Unfortunately, this sentiment encourages me not to write anything at all. I think this idea is somewhat a result of my classes (which are now over) at Moulay Ismail. One of the reoccurring themes within the classroom was the idea of us American students acting as ambassadors of Moroccan and Islamic culture to the west when we return home, and in our regular correspondence with family and friends in the states. I want people to understand this peculiar, spectacular, and loving country as I do, and for this I feel I must paint the most accurate image I can here on this blog. However, my dear readers will have to be contented with a scattered and vague portrayal of the past month as well as the coming ones. 

  My parents have finally arrived in Africa. I knew they would love it here. My family is always adaptable and hardy in just about every situation. It helps also that Morocco is somewhat like a third world version of the UP. On their second day in, I, the inattentive guide, had to leave them to their own devices while I headed off to school. When I came home I was surprised to discover that they had wandered all around the hectic and confusing Madina by themselves, drank tea with my shop owner friend Shukri, and had made it out again unharmed and without getting lost. I felt like a parent whose child has taken its first step without falling. We spent about a week together in Meknes, mom and dad getting their bearings and adjusting to Moroccan life while I took my last exams and said many sad goodbyes to my little family of displaced Americans. 

When all was finished, we headed off to Chefchaouen, a small city in the rif mountains. Everything on Chaouen in painted blue. We spent our one full day there hiking in the mountains with Heather, my beautiful belly dancing roommate, her boyfriend, and Hannah. Getting out of the city and into the mountains was just what us uppers needed. It was good to be away from the city after months spent in Meknes, and my dad was happy to be exposed to rural Moroccan life for the first time. The Berber women on their way to the villages bellow with loads of wheat or wood stacked high on their backs making their way past us and the little boys with herds of sheep threatening us with slingshots were all exciting and new for them both.

Since coming here I have become generally used to Moroccan culture and ways of life, so having to pairs of fresh eyes allowed me to reexamine my surroundings. I had forgotten that it in the west everyone is not so eager to help and to talk to you, and that it is not normal for shop owners to recognize you from days before. I had forgotten also how exhausting it is to bargain for everything you want to buy, or how fascinating the odd combination of old and new can be.

       

The Streets of Meknes

The city of Meknès is sometimes indistinguishable from an obstacle course. Merely crossing the street is a feat in itself. If there are even traffic laws I really don’t know, but even if there are there is no one here to enforce them. Danial told me one day that it was easy to drive in Morocco, where you have only to pay attention to what is in front of you. And what is more, there are no rules. What could be easier? However, this attitude makes it tricky for pedestrians. As for rode bikers, it surprises me to see any still living. Anyway, walking the three or so miles to school must be done with great caution. Dodging cars and gauging their speed has become a part of everyday life.

 As if this was not enough, cars are not the only thing that must be dodged. There are also packs of leering and catcalling men, donkeys, and motorcycle drawn orange carts. Another problem is that quite frequently, one can find rode signs set in the middle of the narrow, deteriorating sidewalks. This poses a problem when there is a pack of men on one side of the strategically placed sign, and cars zooming by on the other. The only choice is to duck under, all the while looking determinedly at your feet so as to avoid making eye contact with strangers. Once, however, I did not do so well maneuvering this obstacle.  I was walking with my head turned around laughing at Jennifer, who had just fallen off the raised walkway and onto fresh cement, when I actually ran into a big metal rode sign. With my face.  Since then I have gotten better at evasive walking, but there have still been some close calls. At any rate, I urge all new comers to stroll with caution. 

P.S. Sorry I don't have any pictures. If there had been a cameraman there as I ran face first into an iron post, I surely would have included his documentation.

A Village in the Atlas

Last Sunday we loaded up the ISA bus with sugar, tea, oil, couscous, and clothes to bring to a small Amazigh (Berber) village in the mountains outside of Ifrane. This was a joint effort between a group of American ISA students and facilitators, and some of the Moroccan students in the English department. Early in the morning all thirty of us piled into our rickety old bus and headed off. When it is just us Americans traveling together, the bus rides are relatively quiet and peaceful. However, that is not the case when about fifteen rowdy Moroccan girls are thrown into the mix. Soon, our old bus was swaying and bumping to the music as one girl after the other left their seats to join the dancers in the center aisle. The driver cranked up the volume, and soon we may as well have been in a dance hall. Nearly all of the girls knew traditional Moroccan dance, which is quite different from classic belly dance although it uses many of the same shimmying and shaking hip and booty movements. Even the driver, sick of being left out of the dance party, stopped the bus so as to get down with the girls, and proceeded to shake it like Shakira.

       After a while Fatima Zara grabbed the mic and started rambling away in a mix of Darija and English, explaining that if she stopped talking she would have a headache. Apparently this preventative method was not limited only to talking however, for she soon began singing her own rendition of Fergie’s My Hump. I never thought I would witness a proper (looking, at least) hijab wearing woman singing about her lovely lady lumps, but Fatima Zara is another brand of crazy and would proceed to break many stereotypes before the day was over.

       Eventually we turned off of the highway and onto a narrow dirt track which led to the village. Several times when the bus lurched and rocked over creek beds and ditches I thought the end had come, and that the last thing I would see would be the bus’s dirty green shag carpeted floor. Eventually, however, we reached the village alive and injury free. 

       The village was merely a series of tents and cement huts scattered about the wide open and rocky foothills, and was home to only thirty families, although we saw maybe half that. I am not sure exactly what I had hoped to find there. I think part of me expected to encounter the generosity and kindness that I have witnessed and read about in impoverished Native American communities. The stories my dad read to me as a child were often about starving Indian families who would share any scrap of food so that no one would eat less than another. Naturally I was shocked and let down when the villagers started bickering and fighting over who should receive the biggest bag of goods. These were people who had nothing and were now being presented with food that could be the next meal for their children. Naturally greed took over as each mother tried fiercely to win the most for her family. Yet still this attitude disappointed me.

       Because of this squabble we were forced to leave the village early. We delivered the last of the supplies to some families along the way and headed home. Although my first encounter with an Amazigh village was not as fantastic as I was hoping, it was still an eye opening experience for us as well as the Moroccan girls, and allowed us to spend time with each other and to bond over the shared experience.

Rain in Casablanca

The reality of Casablanca did not fit with the romanticized image I had had in mind. It was really just…Big. The streets were wide and open, and even the medina was spacious and clean. If I had been dropped there from a helicopter, I would not have known that I was in Morocco, or even Africa. Casa is a comparatively new city, and has been under the influence of Portugal and Spain since the 1500s, giving it a distinctly European feel. Being the fifth largest city in Africa, as well as home to over fifty percent of Morocco’s cars, it succeeded in making Meknes look like a friendly country village. Despite the warnings we had received concerning the safety of Casa’s streets, we did have some adventures that led us to some absolutely wonderful Casablanchins.

After eating a scrumptious meal of fresh caught fish at the Dauphin restaurant and spending a good half hour trying to decipher our bill and understand why we were short three hundred dirhams, a small group of us decided to find the ocean. This proved harder than one might think, simply because Moroccan streets are made especially so westerners have no idea where they are and will be forced to pay a Moroccan to show them. By this time night had fallen, and a torrential rain storm had picked up. Finally, after a good while spent under the awning of a carpet shop, we decided to ask an elderly djellaba wearing woman for directions. This in itself was a task, because she spoke little French and could not comprehend why we would choose to walk there at night, in the rain when it was perfectly simple to take a taxi.  But eventually we prevailed, and the kindhearted woman walked us all the way to Hasan II mosque, which we had visited earlier that day, and which stands beside the Atlantic.  Here the kind lady kissed us warmly on both cheeks and turned us over to a young couple who happened to be walking past.  The couple changed their course and walked with us to the mosque’s large courtyard like terrace, where we stayed for some time simply enjoying the lights on the zellij and the sounds of crashing waves. 

Hasan II Mosque was built by Hasan II, the father of Morocco’s current monarch.  The plan for the mosque sprang from a Qur’anic verse that states “the throne of Allah was built on water.” So Hasan declared, "I want to build this mosque on the water, because God's throne is on the water. Therefore, the faithful who go there to pray, to praise the Creator on firm soil, can contemplate God's sky and ocean,” and thus the fifth largest mosque, with the world’s tallest minaret was built in Casablanca.

At night the crowds of tourists and worshipers had dispersed, and the around the gigantic tiled and embossed walls hung a peaceful silence. Bismah, the young woman who had taken us on as her responsibility, told me in very excited and rapid French (which she maintained for the hour that we spent with her) that this was the place where young lovers come to be alone and whisper sweet nothings under the eye of Allah. 

When at last it was time for us to head back to our hotel, Bismah and her husband gave me their phone numbers and told me that if ever I should find myself back in Casa, I was welcome in their family’s home for couscous and tea. It was yet another reminder of the generosity and warmth found in the hearts of Moroccan people.

Tchaikovsky meets Mohamed

The first thing I did when I arrived in al Maghreb was to start asking everyone I met if they knew any traditional violinists. I was determined to find the musicians I had come searching for, although I was not sure what the plan would be when I found them. I began asking every Moroccan that chanced my way, “do you know a violin player?” Reminding myself of the children's book, “are you my mommy?” I almost always received a variation of the same answer, “I have a friend who plays, but I haven’t seen him for about a year…” But I held on to my glimmer of hope, because even if violinists were only vaguely known of, at least they existed; and it was all up to me to find them. And then, just several days ago, luck joined my forces (or perhaps it was perseverance and nagging finally pulling through.)

I went to join a group of friends for coffee at the Prestige cafe one night where I was met by my good friend Younes, who introduced me to a young man whom I had never seen before. “This is Idriss,” he said, “my violinist friend I told you about.” My brain did a little break dance there on the spot while my head threatened to split in half due to the idiotic grin stretched full across my face. It turns out Idriss studies Arab classical violin at the music conservatory here in Meknes, while his father is a professional (!!!) violinist and all around musician. And yes, they can both play the violin on their laps.

I ran into Idriss again on campus a few days ago, and we made plans to go to see a symphony orchestra concert that evening at the cultural center in La Ville Nouvelle. I could not tell you what I expected to find there as I have ceased trying to imagine how anything will be in Morocco, after realizing that the reality rarely matches the image, for better or for worse.  However, stepping into the concert hall was like stepping out of the third world and into the first. It was as though Africa was on one side of those glass doors, and Europe or America on the other. I was, admittedly, a bit shocked at first. The high ceiling with dozens of lights forming a symmetrical star shown down upon the backs of plush strawberry red and royal blue seats, while the walls were paneled with tastefully modern wooden trim. There was one thing, however, that was added as if to ensure that no one quite succeeded in forgetting where they were. On either side of the stage sat a gold framed 5’ by 3’ foot picture of King Mohamed VI. Oh yes, and there was another hanging front and center above the orchestra.

The concert itself was entirely lovely, although I did find the whole thing a bit ironic. I have always said that I believed Russians were the most artistically and musically talented people in the world, with some exceptions of course (China has some awfully good child violinists). So here I am in Morocco, the country and culture I have longed to know for so any years, listing to a Moroccan orchestra play Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto No.6, with a young Russian violin soloist. It was just too much. And in case that was not enough, the piece played after intermission was Tchaikovsky’s symphony “Pathetique,” which I played with the Marquette Symphony Orchestra in December, the last concert I was in before leaving the states.