Town Mouse, Country Mouse: The Other Side of Life

Perhaps the most original and extreme part of the SIT study abroad experience, the rural stay is also the most intimidating and terrifying—at least to the common, language-limited, introverted American girl. Leading up to the trip, our academic directors had very little detail to offer aside from informing us to be prepared to abandon hopes of running water. After a 3 or 4 hour bus ride, we stopped to meet with some local human development organizations in the town nearest our rural village. Another half hour down the road, we arrived at our new home for the week. Armed with a roll of toilet paper, flashlight, and two water bottles, I disembarked the bus, ready for an experience.

When I came around the otherside of the bus, I met Somaa, my homestay mother and female chief-of-household. For this latter reason, I was paired with another student to provide the family with more money (as they are paid for hosting us). Our house was about a ten minute walk from the central meeting point, which could hardly be considered center since the homes were spread out at varying degrees and distances from the road. Entering into the homestead, I first saw the open courtyard area with a pomegranate tree at the center. To the right was the main room, in which I met my homestay brother’s wife and child, Nadia and Amir. I was surprised to hear the sounds of a television upon entering the room. Apparently, my family was of the wealthier in the community (of course, this depends upon your personal determination of wealth, but here I assume a more Western approach for point). Not only were they among the families selected to have an installed solar panel for electricity (supported by the government), but they also had a television and DVD player. Anyways, my fellow student, Charles, and I met our new family, and while we awaited the arrival of our host brother, Mohammad, for dinner, we played with the baby and rested a bit. No one in our family spoke any language other than Darija, and the dialect itself was more of what our academic director referred to as ‘hillbilly Darija.’ (He can say this because he grew up in this village, and his father, whom we called by his honorary title of Hajj since he has made the pilgrimage, acted as our rural guide). So together, Charles and I managed to slaughter our Fus’ha training in hopes of communication. Our family was quite patient when asking us questions, and though I rarely understood exactly what was said, I was surprised at how much I did comprehend from context clues and other forms of communication. To say the least, this trip was the ultimate test of my language adaptability.

Though I would venture to say the visionaries that came up with the idea of sticking a bunch of American college students in the middle of conservative rural Morocco were not exactly in their right minds, I cannot say it was a terrible idea as far as learning a different lifestyle. These people lived in a self-sustaining, little-to-no-income community and for the most part seemed to be okay with their daily lives. I say okay because we got very different responses from the men and women of the communities when we participated in mediated discussions with each. On our second night in the village, we met at Hajj’s home to have a discussion with the village men. From politics to homelife, both sides of the conversation were quite intrigued by the other. Overall, the people had a surprisingly positive view of America and its lowly inhabitants, though considering the available resources (or lack thereof), this is not entirely surprising. What did prove to be intriguing was how little these people knew of American cultures. Though most of the men could recite a dozen American cities and seemed to be in the know with Bush’s actions, few knew anything about the lifestyles that we take for granted. Question after question compared village life to that which we knew, from religious practices to dating and marriage processes to family values. Do we stay with our family after we marry? Do we pray? Do we take care of our parents when they grow old? Do we pay for our education or do our parents? Do we have development organizations? And what caught me off-guard more than their reactions, was the realization that we had the same answer for every question – it differs. Through anecdotes and personal accounts, we managed to demonstrate most clearly that the American way of life is individualistic and cannot possibly be lumped into one category. For the people in the village, everyone was Muslim, everyone got water from a well, women always moved in with their husband’s family, and families lived together. All in all, the men indicated that they liked village life – they appreciated the forests and clear skies and with the exception of the frustrations of not generating income, seemed pleased with self-sustenance.

On the following day, we departed our families for the day to hike to another community a dozen kilometers away. After lunch there, we met with the women of that village to hear their point of view. Though not as inquisitive as the men, the women showed a profound interest in our lives, as well as a profound disinterest in their own. The picture painted by these women’s words was far more bleak than the idealistic scenery we heard from the men. Most of the responsibility in this type of society lies on the women, as the house is the central focus. From raising the children to cooking all of the meals to looking after the animals, the women kept the community going. Though a few men were able to provide minimal income from the nearby city and some tended to the fields, the women were doing the day-to-day toils. When asked if given the chance to leave the rural life, would they, every woman in the room replied most vehemently ‘yes.’ After returning from this discussion, I had a greater appreciation for my host mother and sister-in-law, for they truly did do all the work while my host brother wandered about.

On the days when we did not have a scheduled activity, Charles and I quickly fell into a routine. Just after sunrise, we ourselves would awake from our beds of mats on the floor of the main room, where Charles, Mohammad, Nadia, Amir, and I all slept. After folding the many blankets and returning them to the floor-to-ceiling stack on the far wall, Somaa would bring in the table from her room, and we would gather for breakfast. On one morning, I arose early to help bake the bread, but I proved quite useless as the dough was already prepared and all that was to be done was shaping the dough and putting it on the skillet. For our morning meal, we would have a large stack of what appeared to be giant pancakes, though they were actually honey and butter-soaked loaves of flat bread. Though appetizing at first, after a loaf or two of this sugary food, I was usually ready to be ill. This is the point where the language barrier would become irritating. According to custom, the guest has to eat and to refuse food when offered is a huge insult. So if you are full and your host offers you more food, you have to take it. Luckily (or so I thought), I had been equipped with a list of words to indicate “I am full.” Among them, ‘barracka’ (meaning blessing), ‘shbet,’(‘full’) and ‘sofee’ (‘finished’). None of these worked with my family. Somaa was the master of guilt trip, and by the end of the week, I knew how much I had to eat to please her (which was about a meal and a half more than I wanted). Because I was a guest in her household, I could not be aggressive about it, and eventually, I adapted (though my extra stomach I now flaunt would beg to differ). After breakfast, we joined Mohammad and our goat-herd neighbors in the fields with the goats. Usually, the guys would just hang out by a few trees while the goats ate the hay they provided. A few times, we walked the goats into the valleys, and we would wander up the hills to explore. Lunch was usually a tagine, with again far too much food for me. After lunch, the family generally just sat around. Most of the chores for the women were finished in the morning. Apparently my family was also one of the less active, as I compared with fellow students later and they seemed to be kept far too busy with fieldwork and craftwork. By the end of the week, Charles and I grew stir crazy and learned how to escape on our own (which was more difficult of a task than I had expected since they followed us everywhere and independence was not easily translated culturally.) Dinner came around sunset and sleep shortly thereafter. For an entire week, I woke and slept according to the sun and for the first time in my stay here in Morocco, I felt well rested – even with sleeping on mats on the ground.

Aside from learning what it is like to live away from society in a homestead with no running water and limited electricity, I found a new sense of beauty, away from the city. Though I was frustrated most of my stay due to cultural boundaries dictated to the women of the area, I thoroughly enjoyed living amidst nature and in cooperation with the earth. Most of all, I returned to Rabat with a new sense of appreciation for my life there, where my family understands me despite language boundaries, where I have some sense of freedom, where I am no longer a guest, where I have begun to feel at home.

Escape to Paradise

We’ve quite a bit of catching up to do. In fact, it has been so long since I composed a thorough entry, I have to reference my journal to remember just where all I have been. I shall start on the 23^rd of October, when I was on the train home from a weekend of escape with friends. To follow that adventure was the end of Ramadan and a little school before it was time to embark upon the most extreme experience to date – a week in a rural village (which is to be covered in the next post for simplicity)

After the fantastic and relaxing weekend in Essaouira with my friends, we decided to take advantage of the first part of our 5-day weekend (for the end of Ramadan) and travel again. To ensure a good time, we went to Asilah, where one of us had already been once before. We crashed at an auberge by the sea that was run by a very friendly gentleman and his family. For just 30Dh a person (roughly 4 USD), we shared a room with couch-like beds. Though not the epitomy of comfort, the auberge was perfectly situated by the sea and far enough away from the medina to be comfortable. Our first night, we broke ftor at a restaurant then went in search of entertainment, which we found in the form of climbing the kasbah walls and enjoying live music in a sketchy café. The next morning, we woke at our leisure then embarked on a several kilometer hike to Paradise Beach. Along the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic, we wandered from paved road to dirt road to meandering footpath and wound up at a vacant stretch of clean beach (or so it appeared from the high slope). When we arrived, we found it not as deserted or clean as we had hoped, but after walking a little ways, we found ourselves a personal sand dune with no trash. After only one nuisance offering to be our guide, we were left to ourselves to play in the sand, practice yoga, and take a chilling dip in the Atlantic – which brings me to a brief tangent –

Everytime I mention the Atlantic, I am certain that most of you are thinking of the quiet seashores of North and South Carolina (perhaps even of Florida), where the waves of about 5 feet (at most) crash on the sandy beaches; however, this Atlantic is far different than the African Atlantic. In parts of Morocco, including the shoreline we hiked to arrive in Paradise, sheer cliffs of several meters drop into the Atlantic, with no beach present at all, while at other parts, the oceans waves roll up to a clear sandbank (such as Paradise), but the waters are far different. The abundance of shells which I always associated with the beach are not present, and the waves at this particular beach broke several meters out. Proportionately, I was swimming in the same part of the surf that was the few inches I floundered in as a small child, but on this side of this vast ocean, the water was 3 to 4 feet several meters away from the actual break of the waves. So point of the tangent: the Atlantic is way cooler here than at home!

For the way home, we tried to hitch a ride with a donkey and cart, but it was full. Eventually we made it to a road where we caught a taxi and went for dinner. The next morning, we again woke to our leisure and eventually headed home as the end of Ramadan was predicted to come soon!

The evening I returned home was my final Ftor, as ‘Aid al-Fitr was the next day. On Tuesday, we all woke around 9:30am and was disappointed to see everyone changing out of their pajamas, as I had hoped for a Christmas-like approach to a festive morning (involving a slow meal in comfy clothes). Instead, everyone adorned their kaftans and traditional wear to receive family in the home. In Fes and Rabat, the women stay inside on the first day of celebration to receive family visitors, while the men make the rounds of the homes of cousins, uncles, brothers, sisters, etc. Because my homestay father is too ill to travel around, we had many family members come throughout the day – which meant LOTS of tea and cookies for me. In general, ‘Aid al-Fitr here in Morocco was less of a celebration than I had expected and what I had heard of from Oman; however, it was a restful and cheerful end to a month of challenge.

After ‘Aid, we returned to school on Thursday and Friday for two more days of class before the rural stay; however, I did not actually make it on Friday due to the worst of illness I have had here. I know I have not kept up on daily basics with most of you, but I have had a general trend of unceasing illness during my entire stay. Contrary to logical thought, I have not had many stomach-related issues, but rather a plague of head colds. On this particular Friday, I was unable to rise out of bed before 1 in the afternoon, at which I managed hitch a taxi to the doctor, which of course was an experience in itself. Aside from worry about an enlarged thyroid (which proved to be okay on the echogram), I was sent home with a few meds and an order to rest. Unfortunately, the next day I had to board a bus for several hours of driving to my rural stay. I did get well (enough).

Dated October 20th

Yesterday morning at 6am, I arrived back in Rabat after taking the “Red-Eye” bus from Essaouira. Our weeklong excursion throughout Southern Morocco took us from last Saturday until Friday morning, after which a few of my friends and I opted to stay in the lovely fishing town of Essaouira for a few extra days. From journeying through the Middle and High Atlas mountains and eating lunch with Barbary Apes to riding a camel into the Sahara desert at sunset to navigating the winding souqs of Marrakesh, this week brought me full circle in the Moroccan experience and could not possibly be recounted in anything less than a small novel – a novella, if you will. Since I have neither the time nor space to attempt such a feat, I challenge you to take me out to coffee when I’m back in the States and ask me about the Southern Excursion. For now, you will have to wait until I can find some decent way of posting photos. I will put a brief outline of what I did, but be forewarned it does not begin to touch on the experience itself.

On Saturday, we boarded our attrociously large tour bus and headed East toward the Atlas Mountains. After about 6 hours in the bus, we arrived in Rissani, a quaint little mountain town in the Middle Atlas Mountains (think Blue Ridge with less trees). While there I actually saw the first deciduous tree in Morocco, which by the by was changing colors and for the first time it felt like Fall. Even in this high elevation, the temperatures were still more like late August in Chapel Hill. We went just outside of Rissani to the cedar forest for lunch, where we were interrupted by some curious Barbary apes. They put on quite a show for us, and provided mild entertainment throughout the afternoon. After a brief rock-climbing exploit to watch the sunset, we rested up for the next day.

According to the schedule, Sunday was to be the big day. After the longest drive of the week (8 full hours), we began to catch sight of sand dunes. We had climbed in elevation into the High Atlas Mountains (according to my south-west friends, it looked very similar to Nevada) and ended up in the Sahara! After checking out the irrigation system (yes, I am still technically ‘in school’), we headed to the auberge where we would be staying the night. On the edge of the desert, our little kasbah (Berber-style architecture made of clay and straw and constructed very similarly to a classic castle style, only smaller) was the perfect resting spot for all 30 of us. As soon as we arrived, we jumped onto camels and marched off to the dunes to see sunset. I RODE A CAMEL IN THE SAHARA DESERT! So that happened. Then we returned for dinner and had the evening free to explore the dunes, which I did, a lot.

The next morning, we said goodbye to our desert home and left for Ouarzazate, the hollywood of Morocco. Such films as the Last Temptation of Christ, The Hills Have Eyes, have been filmed here. Aside from the swanky hotel in which we stayed (with the most amazing shower in Morocco...they are very limited here), I did not see much of the city thanks to typical traveling illness.

On Tuesday, we headed for Marrakesh. The ‘must-see’ tourist spot of Morocco, this hustle bustle city is known for it’s shopping. With specialized souqs for fruits and nuts, leather-working, slippers, bag-making, black-smithing, jewelry, and carpets, the hundreds of hanoots (shops) in the souqs provided prime entertainment and money-spending opportunities. After wandering the souqs for a bit, we began some buying sprees with intense haggling experiences. On Wednesday, we toured a few museums and gardens then wandered the souqs some more to kill time until sunset. After Ftor, we went back out to where musicians, story-tellers, and mystic healers gather crowds and fill the main square with performance circles. To those of you familiar with the Carolina experience, the square was very similar to post-Duke-victory Franklin Street (substituting sober Moroccans for the crazy drunk college students and lanterns for bon-fires, but with similar enthusiasm and of course, the infamous drum circle!). By Thursday morning, I was ready for a rest.

It was love at first sight. Walking into the medina of Essaouira, one cannot avoid noticing the laidback atmosphere as completely opposite of the hectic life in Marrakesh. Throughout the lazy seaside fishing town, the reminders of previous ex-patriate communities lie in the prevalent cafes and galleries. Because of the relatively high rate of tourism in this small town, the local Moroccans hardly gave notice to our presence as we wandered about the white-washed medina. At the port, we watched dozens of blue-painted fishing boats come in from the sea just in time for the fish auction. On the first night there, the group played football (soccer, for you crazy Americans) on the beach until sunset. Though the group was scheduled to leave Friday morning, a few friends and I lingered in the town for a few extra days. We wandered the streets and galleries for all of Friday. At the highest part of the fortified wall, we watched the sun set over the Atlantic. On Saturday, we lounged around from café to café, then ended up on the beach for a nap before sunset. At 10pm, we caught a red-eye bus back to Rabat and on Sunday at 6am, our vacation was over.

A whirlwind tour of all things Morocco led me to my favorite spot in the country (thus far!)

**Addition November 7th, 2006: Sorry to post this so late. I've had it written but have had limited internet access until now. A more recent post to come soon!

Before I get started, I would like to apologize in advance should this post seem to be of the format “This happened and then this happened and then I did this.” I fear it is most inevitable when trying to inform you all of the adventures of the past week or so. From a tour day in my own home city of Rabat to an unguided excursion with assignments in Casablanca to a weekend retreat with three friends to Tangier, I have been quite the little jet-setter (sans the jet).

On Saturday the 23^rd, a group of us decided it was time to see some of the sights in Rabat. So we embarked from our center in the afternoon after lunch (this is the day before Ramadan) to walk all the way across town to Chellah. Site of the ancient Roman city of Sala Colonia and later the Merenid necropolis of Chellah, these ruins are now over-grown with fruit trees and wild flowers. From the viewing platform overlooking the entire site, one could clearly see the storks who have taken over the Islamic complex with car-sized nests on top of all of the tallest trees and columns, and even the tall minaret. My interesting fact for this trip was found in a walled pool that still attracts infertile women hoping for conception bearing hard-boiled eggs for the eels that lurk under the waters! For the entirety of the afternoon, we wandered about imagining the previous civilizations that lived in this now ruined land. For now, I am still in disbelief that I am living in a city that has a history predating the colonization of my own country!

On Wednesday the 29^th, our academic directors informed us that we were to take an unguided excursion to Casablanca. We were divided into groups, given research topics and 170Dh (about $20), and sent on our way. A short 45 minute train ride away, we arrived and immediately went to see the big attraction – the Hassan II Mosque. Built in the late 1980’s of nearly all Moroccan products, this mosque is the third largest in the world and boasts the tallest minaret at 210 meters. Not to forget its state-of-the-art heated floors, retractable ceiling, and spray of lasers pointing to Mecca, the entire financing of this monument was through imposed taxes and some private donations.

For our assignment, my group had to hail a taxi into a different neighborhood to find the Association Solidarite Feminnine – an NGO sponsored organization that works to prevent the abandonment of children by single mothers. In the society structure in Morocco, single mothers are often ostracized by friends and family, and as a result they often view their child as the root of their problems and do not create a relationship with the child. The small building housed in the middle of a lower middle class neighborhood serves as a center for teaching these women necessary skills for finding work, maintaining a household, and developing a relationship with their child. They currently have 56 clients, and the women are allowed to stay with the program for up to 3 years, at which point they are on their own. I personally believe this organization is quite essential and well put together. Though still small, the organization is working toward self-sufficiency and growth.

After lunch at Pizza Hut (because nothing else was open due to Ramadan), we hopped a taxi to the Jewish Museum in a suburb of Casa. Though more of a gallery, the museum reflected the coexistence of Jewish and Islamic people in the history of Morocco. The only one of its kind in any Islamic country, the halls of this former Jewish orphanage held artifacts of former synagogues and homes. Though dwindling in number each year, the Jewish population in Morocco has historically been a larger minority, and in turn, Morocco has been an example of religious tolerance.

We finished our day in Casablanca as tourists at Rick’s Café. Yes, as in from the classic film. Built in 2004, this piano bar closely mimics that of the movie, and we were pleased to watch the sunset from our nook that overlooked the medina.

After hitting a small wall with communication difficulties, a weekend in Tangier with some of the girls was a perfect retreat. We hopped the morning train on Saturday and arrived in Northern Morocco around lunch. Tired of the GO,GO,GO mentality of tourism, we opted for a more laid back approach to the city. We checked into our little hotel—a converted home set back from the street up the hill from the medina. For only 400Dh (about $45 USD), the four of us stayed in one room with toilet and pseudo-shower (more of a hose by the toilet). After a snack, we intentionally got lost in the city. From the beaches near a very Westernized strip of hotels and restaurants to the Kasbah in the old medina, we did not find a place where we could not view the Mediterranean, Atlantic, and/or Spain. At one point, we were following a wall that we though would lead to the Kasbah, and literally fell through a doorway to the most breathtaking overlook in the city. Feeling as though we had sufficiently explored the new and old medina in our 5 hours of walking around, we retired to our room until after sunset, when the city would awaken. Because many people stay in to rest until after sunset during Ramadan, the streets become quite busy after about 8pm. Men and women alike flock to the streets in search of food and entertainment after a long day of fasting. Tangier is no exception to this trend, as we found while trying to find food for dinner. Cafes were packed full of men, and most eateries were likewise full. After some pizza and ice cream, we called it a night.

On Sunday, we opted for a more tourist approach. Our first goal was to find the Kasbah and the museum housed in the former Sultan’s palace. After some prompting from helpful locals, we navigated the myriad alleys of the old medina and found what we had sought. The museum effectively displayed the great influences that have influenced and inhabited Tangier – from the time of the Romans to the Spanish Inquisition, this city holding the pivotal position guarding the Mediterranean has had quite a history.

Our museum-lover desires satiated, we headed back through the medina in search of St. Andrew’s church. On the way, we passed through the market with the Riffian women in their red and white striped skirts and richly-colored yarn-accented straw hats who come down from the Riff Mountains every Sunday and Wednesday. St. Andrew’s Anglican church was built in the late 19^th century on land given by the King. A beautiful collaboration of Arabic and European influences, the small sanctuary features the Lord’s Prayer in Arabic above the chancel and classic Moroccan molding over the altar in the tradition European lay-out.

We opted for lunch at McDonalds, again because of Ramadan. McArabias are quite the spectacle with seasoned meat patties wrapped in a pita and served with the standard fries and soda. While I am on the topic, the sodas here are a thousand times better than in the States. Sprite actually tastes like lemon and lime, rather than corn syrup. After a bit of research, we have determined that this difference is actually accounted for in the ingredients – they do not use corn syrup here, but rather prefer pure sugar. Though just as bad for you, the soda here is far better.

To finish our weekend in Tangier, we chartered a taxi to take us to the Caves of Hercules a few kilometers out of the city. Know as the welcome sign to Africa, this naturally formed cave has an entrance in the rough shape of Africa when seen from the ocean. We were able to explore the cave, as well as the cliffs around it. After an hour of playing on the rocks and taking in the spectacular blues of the ‘other side’ of the Atlantic, we headed back to town along a scenic road that gradually rose above the coastline until we could see the beach extending for miles alongside rolling hills and cliffs. I must say that the Atlantic is far more beautiful in Africa than in the Carolinas (though I may love our beaches).

After a lovely, relaxing break from the intensity of school, I still feel rejuvenated and am now expectantly awaiting a week-long excursion to Southern Morocco starting this Saturday. Travelling through the High Atlas Mountains and the Southern deserts, we will end up back on the coast in Marrakesh and Essouaira at the end of the week.

Fastidious fasting

Ramadan.

One of the five main pillars of Islam, observation of the month of Ramadan occurs during the 9^th month of the Islamic calendar (which is Lunar based and therefore changes every year according to the Western calendar). From dawn until sunset, all Muslims of adult age and good health are forbidden to eat, drink, or partake in sexual activity. As a resident in a country that is 99.9% Muslim, I find that fasting is not so much a religious requirement as a social inevitability. Although we are not required to fast by any means, we are encouraged by several sources (program directors, guide books, host families, etc.) to at least attempt the fast during the first week or so to gain the experience. Now entering into day 3, I find that most of the local people with whom I have conversed ascribe a certain respect to those who choose to partake from free will. Those of you who know me well know that I love a challenge of will power, and along that line, I intend to continue the fast through the entire month (with the exception of travel, which is also granted to muslims).

The logistics of a daily fast. The premise of sunrise to sunset fasting results in the reversal of sleeping and waking patterns. During the course of the evening and night, we eat three meals to make up for the daytime. The first meal to break the fast comes during the call for prayer at sunset (around 6:30 pm here). At all times during the year, the calls to prayer of the several mosques in the medina can be heard loud and clear from anywhere in the city – particularly from the open roof of my old medina home. Once the call begins, we gather around the table to take part in the traditional ‘break-fast’ which consists of Harira, a soup mixture of vegetables and beans and the occasional meat, and an ecclectic collection of sweets, including dates, mini-croissants, and other goodies. After a serving of the traditional mint tea, the family lingers in the living room to watch some of the special Ramadan programming on television (one comedian does a special show only during Ramadan). After a while, the family disperses to go about their own business – going out for errands, reading, doing homework, or my host mother’s favorite, sit around and talk. My personal choice is to nap until the second meal around midnight. This meal usually contains the typical dinner spread with Tagine or similar main meal with bread and fruit for afterward. As soon as this is finished, we all go to sleep until the final meal just before the sunrise call to prayer at 4:30am. In talking with my fellow students, I have found that my family has the more abrupt approach to this early meal. Some students have a light breakfast of yogurt or bread placed by their bed, and they merely wake to eat. Others do not even eat this early morning snack. In my family, our mother comes into the room, flips on the light, and yells “Kuhlee, Kuhlee” (eat, eat!). We all have to wake and drag ourselves to the kitchen table for coffee, mint tea, biscuits, and occasionally yogurt-like sweets. As soon as possible after this meal, I head back to bed only to wake at 8am for my 8:30am Arabic class.

Although I have only gone through one full day of fasting in which I have classes (Ramadan started on Sunday), I find that it has not greatly affected my performance; however, I do notice slight difficulty in maintaining attention during the 3 hours of Arabic. I now use my entire lunch hour to be on the internet, rather than the last half. As much of the other businesses in the medina, the center in which we have class has adjusted its hours to Ramadan and closes at 3:30pm rather than 7pm, which means we are booted out directly after our lectures. This situation is for the best, as we all should be resting during the day since we are not eating; however, many of the locals take it upon themselves to continue an active lifestyle during the day, regardless of the fast. My sister went with some friends to a local park, and she noticed hundreds of people running and exercising in the middle of the afternoon. I admire these people, for although I welcome a challenge to my will power, I prefer to keep the games with my metabolism down to minimum. For now, I plan to work out with my sister at the local gym between the ‘break-fast’ and late-night dinner. Through it all, I find the hardest part to be abstaining from liquids, as I am prone to dehydration in everyday life. In fact, the fast, I dare say, would be quite easy were I able to drink during the day. Older children are often required to fast, but they are allowed to drink during the day on every other day. Should it come down to it, I may start this children’s fast. For now, though, I am enjoying the experience, and learning far more about the religious aspect of the culture and society during this time of reflection and prayer.

Snails and Orange Juice

A Few Observations about Daily Life in Morocco.

I suppose I will start this post with an explanation of the title. Based upon my experiences thus far, I do believe I will be returning to Morocco later in life for the sole purpose of drinking the orange juice. I don’t even like OJ in the States, but here, you cannot lose. It is the wonder drink. My most common source is a French Pattisserie near the hotel where we stayed the first week in Rabat. After a long day of classes, my friend Emily and I often retreat to this safe-haven (one of the few cafes that is not only male clientelle) for a nice, tall glass of heaven. Unfortunately, the other most common treat for Moroccans is served on the street outside our café around 5 – boiled snails. The odor that drifts along the sidewalk near these vendors is one of the most unique and unusual I have ever experienced. I have not yet discussed with any locals the draw of such an odd commodity, but the people come in droves to these stands to get a bowl of steaming snails, which they pick from their shells with straight pins or safety pins. The strangest part of this all is that the same vendors that sell orange juice during the day switch over to selling snails at night. I can honestly say I will never get orange juice from said vendors. For now, I rejoice in the refreshing glass of OJ I find in my little niche in the big city of Rabat.

Harassment. During the orientation week, while explaining what we have to look forward to this semester, our academic directors cited only one negative experience that is unavoidable and most irritating – street harassment. Apparently, in this society, it is acceptable for men to call out to women in the streets, or even follow them. Granted, the cliché American construction worker can occasionally be a bother, they couldn’t hold a candle to these Moroccan men. I have seen a man walking in a manner that indicates a determination to reach his destination – until he spots a foreign woman or a woman in less clothing than full cover. At which point, the man turns a full 180 and seems to have no other business than to follow this woman. Because we’re easily identified as foreigners, the girls in our program are particularly victimized. Now, I have personally not experience a moment when I felt threatened, but I have had several occasions where I had to change my course or plans because of the irritation of men following me or trying to get me to speak to them. Some of them go so far as to come up beside us and talk right into our face. The problem here lies in the fact that if we respond, we grant them the permission to continue heckling us. The only advice the program advisors could offer was to ignore them unless they physically touched us, which they will rarely do. Now that I have become comfortable with the city, I find that the harassment is not a huge issue. In fact, a few of my girlfriends and I have made a game to see who gets the most creative responses. These guys will try every language and every catchy phrase they can (although their language skills in general are so limited that they are not quite like American pick-up phrases.) One of my personal favorites was when an older guy, perhaps in his late 60s, passed by Emily and me and responded with “Alhamdillilah” (meaning “praise be to God”) in quite a skeezy voice. Although this does contribute to one of the few frustrations I have with my lack of independence here in Morocco, I find that I am not phased by the harassment as long as I am not alone.

Traffic. In the past three weeks, I’d like to think that I have re-mastered the art of crossing the road. Unlike the States, where we usually wait for both sides to clear completely before making our way across the street, in Morocco, one doesn’t have that much time. The locals here do what we call “halfsies” in which they go halfway once the traffic from the left clears then wait in the middle until traffic from the right clears. Often, to achieve this in adequate time, one has to step out nearly into a car. Should said car decide to veer a little to the right at just that second, one’s foot could very well be run over. In addition to the peril of crossing the road, navigating the roads in a vehicle is equally dangerous, and the drivers here are quite creative. Most of the cars here are tiny little Fiats or something of the like. On the main roads, traffic is just thick and drivers impatient. There seem to be no rules regarding passing or maintaining lanes. In the small alleys in the medina, in which most of my life here is centered, cars are allowed to come, although most cannot fit. The few that do have the guts to enter the medina often come with little regard of the people walking around the area. As an alternative to the cars in the medina, many people have motor bikes. These guys are dangerous. They really do come winding around corners and shooting through straightways without hesitations at major crossings. In honesty, if I am to obtain an injury while here in Morocco, it will probably come from a motorbike. Our program guidelines require that we do not ride motorbikes while here, a guideline which I am thankful to obey. For now, I am happy wandering the streets of the medina and dodging the traffic.

Mint Tea. Moroccans love mint tea. And by love, I mean they have it whenever they get an opportunity. Every afternoon, when I come home from school, we have tea. And it’s not your standard hot tea—it’s sweet, sweet, sweet hot mint tea. They like sugar here, which is nice, until you have it constantly every day. When guests come, we have lots of mint tea. When we go to cafes, the most ordered drink is mint tea. When we eat out, the meal ends with mint tea. Throughout the suqs, vendors sell the trappings of tea – several varieties of mints, multi-packs of beautifully decorated tea cups, stacks upon stacks of tea kettles. Although I may get sick of the tea while I am here, I do believe it is one of the habits that I will try to apply to my life at home. Tea after classes? I think so.

MMMmmm Good

Now that things have once again fallen into routine, I thought it a good time to update on the general life in Rabat, Morocco. From the daily meals to the market experience, life here is drastically different from that in the States and far less Westernized than I had expected.

Food. The first questions I have received from most people regards the food. What do we eat? When do we eat? How do we eat? Usually I am tempted to respond as such – I eat food at meal times. But of course that does nothing to satiate your curiousity, does it? The typical Moroccan family eats 3 – 5 times a day (except Ramadan which I will address at in later post). This typical family also eats around a table in the living room or family room from a large common bowl. Islamic tradition dictates the use of the right hand only when dipping into the common bowl or platter. Using bread as a utensil, one dips into the main dish, commonly called Tagine (after the large clay conical ‘crock pot’ used to cook the food). Usually, tagine is made with chicken or veal and potatoes. This meal is the ‘typical Moroccan meal.’ Throughout this past description, I emphasize the words ‘typical’ because as most of you know, ‘typical’ doesn’t typically apply. In my home, dinner is usually far lighter than Tagine with familiar meals as pasta and sauce, flavored rice, or meatballs (my favorite).

My day is typically as follows. Every morning, my mother wakes with me to fix breakfast (against my insistance that she rest) which consists of coffee and milk and some bread item—a roll, some french bread, or Hasha (a biscuit very similar to corn bread, only better!) My walk to the center where we have our classes takes about five minutes, and I go every morning with one of my fellow students who lives with the family downstairs. From 8:30 – 12:00, I have my Fus’ha class (Modern Standard Arabic). We have only 5 students in my class, and our teacher does not speak English – only Arabic and French. Luckily, two of the girls in my class speak French and aid in translation from time to time. Although I am starting to pick up on some French, it is quite difficult to actively learn three languages at one time. In general, my Fus’ha is proficient enough to get the point across with my teacher (thanks to my lovely summer class with Usteth Nasser). After Arabic, we have lunch at the center, which is cooked by the most wonderful of people, Brahim. He is truly a great cook. We usually have Tagine or some other equally delicious meal. After lunch, we have our seminar. The topic of this changes daily, but the two generic types are Cultural Studies and Field Study Techniques. We have FSS once a week and the other days are CSS. We have just completed the unit on Women and Religion and are moving on to Cultural Representation in Morocco. Usually, we finish class around 3 or 4. The center, where I find my wireless, is open until 6, so I typically stay there until I finish up my emails. Then, it’s all up to me what I do. Today (Thursday) I went to Marjane with my American Moroccan sister and my friend Emily. This expanse of Westernization is very much like a super Walmart combined with a mini-mall. Truly an experience. At home, I study or read until dinner around 9:30pm. Pretty soon after we eat, it is typically time for sleep.

The late dinners derive from the tradition for stores and workplaces to close for up to 2 hours during lunch to allow for a large meal and ‘siesta’ (pardon the cultural transfer). Even though this traditional no longer continues, the Moroccan people as a whole have yet to adjust and continue to dine quite late comparatively.

For now, I will leave this post, but I will post again soon about Ramadan, as I know you are all wondering how that works in a country that is 99.9% muslim.

Into the Mountains...

Greetings from the wanderer! As of this weekend, I am a travelled Moroccan. After an exhausting 48 hours of touring, I have experienced my first time returning to Rabat as ‘home.’ Our first excursion, “The Four Dynasty Tour,” took us through Meknes, Mouley Idriss, Volubilis, and finally Fes.

After a two hour bus ride from Rabat, we arrived in Meknes, one of the four Imperial cities (along with Rabat, Marrakesh, and Fes). Unlike Rabat, the city appeared more spread out and intertwined with neighboring fields and farms. Our first stop was in the Moulay Ismael Granery and Stables. The granery, with its domed ceilings and three-foot-thick walls was still in good condition (even after a severe earthquake many years ago). The stables did not fare so well because the roofs were flat and thus not earthquake-sustainable. The design of the stables, however, was flawyless in practicality. Built as rows upon rows of large, wide columns, the perspective allowed the slaves in charge of the thousands of horses to view hundreds of them easily from a single point. From an aesthetic perception, the stables were singularly phenomenal. Along the tour of Meknes, we also viewed the tomb of Mouley Ismael and the Bab Mansour, the most famous gate of the many walls.

Another 45 minutes brought us to Mouley Idriss and Volubilis. Perched atop a prominent mountain range that grows out of nowhere in the Moroccan plains sits the small town of Mouley Idriss. Named after the first prominent Islamic ruler and home to his tomb, this small community seems to have been arbitrarily placed in the mountain scenery. Most of the people move goods with the help of load-barren mules because of the narrow and steep alleys that wind about the medina. Our group received lunch at a traditional house overlooking the city, and after the traditional Moroccan tea, we had to leave this lovely village. A seemingly misplaced relic of Roman times, Volubilis was once a substantial city a few miles from Mouley Idriss. Shook by the same earthquake that destroyed the stable roofs in Meknes, the entirety of Volubilis crumbled years ago. Archaeologists have since reestablished parts of the temple of Apollo, the Forum, the city Gates, and other sites. We decided to extract at least 3 facts from the tour of Volubilis, and the 5 that I recall are as follows:

1. Olives upon Olives – Olives are differentiated according to age, not species. Green olives are the youngest, followed by red and black olives. The blackest of the black are used to create olive oil.
2. The origins of “horny” – In one of the exquisitely designed mosaics that remained almost wholly preserved, Diana is depicted bathing with her nymphs. A stranger, Action, is spying on her in a corner of the mural. When she learns of his dishonorable actions, she condemns him to a life as a deer. Therefore, in the mosaic, Action is depicted with horns and perceived as a ‘horny’ man!
3. Selfish about their Art – The mosaics in the homes of the Romans were always upside down from the entrance, because they believed that the viewing of their artwork was a privilege only allowed to those who are invited inside the room.
4. “Ass Backwards” – A common form of entertainment and also torture as depicted in another of the mosaics involved a blindfold, a donkey, and one unlucky fellow. In the depiction, a man is shown with his eyes covered riding a donkey backwards, which is apparently an unfortunate experience.
5. Smelly Socials – The latrines present in the Roman ruins are meant to allow for several people to be seated at the same time, and archaeologists speculate that the latrines were quite a social experience.

Just before sunset, we had to leave the ruins for Fes, where we enjoyed a lovely dinner in the most tourist-y restaurant I have ever entered. The entertainment provided a melting pot of Moroccan and Arabian entertainment from musicians to belly dancers to a magician. Although the intentions were innocent, I could not help feeling as though I were witnessing a mockery of the culture – an imitation of the reality in which I had been immersed for two weeks. After a restful evening in a swanky hotel, we embarked on an extended tour of the medina in Fes—and by extended, I mean 4 hours followed by lunch and another 2 hours. Features along the way included the Royal Palace, the Jewish Quarter, the southern fortress, a traditional plaza (with hammam, ferran, fountain, and mosque), the Qarawiyine Mosque and University, the blacksmithing area, the tanneries, Moulay Idriss (son) Mausoleum, and the caravanserai (weaver’s market). Quite an exhausting experience, this tour took us through the labyrinthe that is the Fes medina. Over 9,000 streets twist and turn through covered and open markets and homes.

The people in the medina were far more aggressive than those in Rabat, and at times, I found myself overwhelmed by the tenacity of the merchants and harassers. Apparently, I have “the look of an American, but the face of a Berber – the eyes of a Berber” – just one of the many creative lines thrown to me while walking through the medina. Lunch brought a relaxing moment and a blood sugar boost. After lunch, we went to the Bouananiya – the most amazing of the Fes sites and one of the lesser known. This madrassa (school) was originally an Islamic school. As you enter into the main courtyard, your gaze is pulled upward to the open sky by the myriad designs on the walls, gates and pillars. Within the courtyard, there is not a blank, untextured surface. Every door and wooden support is intricately carved with patterns, and every wall is either carved plaster or tiled mosaic. The sheer workmanship in the room took my breath away.

After a few pensive moments, we were whisked away from the medina and granted an evening free to collect our thoughts and enjoy the city as we pleased. As presented to us by our program directors, this weekend was intended to enlighten us to the tourist experience in Morocco. I personally hate being a tourist. I have never felt more uncomfortable and stressed as I did walking the narrow streets of a crowded city as a group of 14 to 28. After this experience, I opted to return to the hotel and relax at a café with friends – a most pleasant experience. After a light dinner at the hotel with the group, my friends and I wandered in search of a taste of America – pizza. We succeeded in finding a restaurant just before closing and were most graciously received by the waiters, for whom I am sure we provided much entertainment. After a taste of home, we returned to rest for our voyage back to our new home – Rabat.