Allah in Arabic... and my last Moroccan post.

  Back in class on Monday morning we had a review for our Arabic final.  Although  I wasn't mentally prepared at all, and really struggled with learning the language, I was so shocked by how much I actually know.  I can read and write it, I can understand a lot of what is spoken, and although I lack the confidence to use the language to communicate with others, in a pinch, I could probably get by.

  In retrospect, I was really impressed with how valuable a tool the language was to accessing the culture.  The language is so nuanced, and so specific to the cultural, religious and political intersections that exist in Morocco that not knowing the language would have prevented us from accessing the culture as much as we have.  

  It is really impressive to look at the religious undertones of the language.  In greetings, for example, you greet someone.  Assalam Alakum, which means God's peace be with you.  When you ask how someone is, they respond bexhair, alhamdu illulah, I'm fine, thank God.  Even if you're sick you'd say, "I'm sick, but thank God."  You ask how someone is, how their family is, wish them well, all invoking God as the higher power, and when you part you say good-bye and that you will see each other soon if God wills it.  

 On our last day in class, our teacher sang the Middle Eastern version of the call to prayer.  We were literally moved to tears.  The people in Morocco really acknowledge how powerful God is in their lives.  They internalize his importance in their lives, embrace it, and you can tell how deeply people identify with their faith by how willingly they give everything up to Him.  Oussama really showed us how remarkable this religious identity can be when it is expressed so freely, the paradox being that it is so intimate but also so communal and public at the same time.  Coming from a place where public expression of faith and love for God is discouraged, being in Morocco has really been a beautiful experience because of how love for God is not only encouraged, but it is the cultural norm.  

A Great Day, Alhamdu llilah

On our way home to Ifrane, we stopped a few times.  First, we stopped in a quaint little Atlantic beach town called Assilah.  For the first time in my life, I can say I went swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, although I don’t think I have any photos to prove it.

After that stop we had one more, unbeknownst to us, which was a celebration organized by our tour guide and his family in our honor.  I wish I would have known because I wouldn’t have chosen to wear a tank top and yoga pants that day, which relegated me to having to wear a hot sweater wrap all day in the hot, hot sun.  Regardless of how uncomfortably hot it was, we were welcomed warmly and treated so kindly by these people that I can’t complain about that.

Our tour guide’s entire extended family was present, including their children and many close friends.  They welcomed us, gave us a brief history on their village, and taught us how to make that sweet Moroccan tea.

For anyone who is curious, it is regular green tea mixed with an obnoxious amount of sugar.  Then, they jam sprigs of fresh mint in the pot and let it sit and seep for about 20 minutes.  So yummy.

After the demonstration and the history of the village, they brought in a woman who was about my mother’s age who had been a political prisoner under the former king Hassan II.  We forget what it must be like to live in a state that is governed by a monarchy.  The US has been free of monarchical rule since 1776.  In Morocco, the current ruling dynasty has been in power for over 400 years.  It is the single oldest ruling dynasty in the world.  Japan and Britain are equally well established, but they serve only symbolic roles.  In Morocco, the king is the supreme law of the land.  As such, speaking out against him is illegal and under the former king could land you beaten, tortured, or sitting in jail. 

The woman we met was involved in demonstrations for democratization of the state.  She was about 18 at the time.  She was arrested and imprisoned for six months, awaiting approval from the king’s government officials as to whether or not she would be able to represent herself in a public trial and contest the charges.  She was held as a political prisoner for six months after that.  Finally, when Hassan II died and his son, Mohammed V took the throne, she was given retribution and has even been offered a government job.  Such reforms and reversals of former policies are common under the current monarch, making him immensely popular.  We have been told time and time again that the king is truly loved by all of the people of Morocco.  Barrack Obama (who Moroccans are convinced is Muslim, and a Berber) is probably the second most loved person in Morocco.  Hillary Clinton (also said to be of Moroccan ancestry here... don't ask) comes up in a close third. 

After our meetings, we played boules (the French version of bocce ball) and received Henna on our hands and feet, which is common for women to take part in for weddings and other celebrations.  The Henna artist was deaf, and very, very sweet.  All of the women except me practically ran her over because they were so excited to receive their Henna.  I remained indifferent and went off to play with the kids and watch the men play boules.  I think she took my indifference as a challenge because once everyone had finished, she had someone bring me over, made me put my leg on her lap, and proceeded to complete the most beautiful design from my pinky toe all the way up my leg.  Her little girl, Aida, sat on my lap the whole time and was so, so sweet. 

I declined to have my hands done, a challenge that she dealt with later, after we had eaten so much food we though we would explode.  Moroccans don’t take no for an answer when food is involved.  You will eat and eat and eat until it is obvious that you are totally physically uncomfortable and can’t move anymore, at which point you are allowed to stop eating food and are expected to eat copious amounts of watermelon.  At that point, you are expected to finish it off with more tea. 

The people we met were so kind and so hospitable that it reminded me for the first time of when I was in Cambodia.  I think that having the kids around really make a big difference for me and make me feel more at ease.  In Cambodia, I would just sit with my girls, quietly taking in their young energy around me until something became important enough that you needed to share it with whoever was sitting next to you.  By that time, they knew exactly what you meant, even if you couldn’t speak the same language as them.  Perhaps it’s because they had been sitting with you for so long and taking in the same surroundings that they know what you are going to say before you even say it.  It was the same way with the woman and her littler girl.  The three of us sat there for hours, talking only when it was important, but establishing connections the entire time.  It’s amazing what kind of intimacy can be cultivated when you are sitting in near silence. 

Before they sent us on our way, they called for the local music group to come and play some traditional Moroccan music.  We sat in a circle and enjoyed while the musicians played and some people danced.  It was very interesting that they thanked us for coming, started up the music again, and sent us on our way.  Apparently, it is Moroccan tradition that you have the music accompany your honored guests’ departure, which was a kind gesture.  Before I got on the bus, I felt someone grab my hand and turned to see that it was the woman that I had spent most of my day with.  She had tears in her eyes and grabbed me and kissed me four times.  Then she put her hand on her heart and said to me, “Inshallah.” 

Again, I knew exactly what she meant.  I hope we will meet again, if God wills it. 

I put my hand on my chest and said back to her, “Inshallah,” we both smiled and took leave of one another.  We both knew that it would be the first and last time we saw each other.

After getting back on the bus I started thinking about the first day I was here.  I wrote about how our luggage was lost and how frustrating it was to hear the word Inshallah thrown around in what I perceived to be a very dismissive manner.  When I first arrived here, Inshallah meant that people refused to accept responsibility for things, especially lost luggage.  Now, on the 29^th day, it has taken on an entirely new meaning.  Today it meant that there was something in this universe that is greater than any of us.  No matter what we want to happen, there is a greater plan at work.  Despite what we want in our hearts, everything is subject to those rules that govern the universe, those things that we will never fully understand.  Inshallah, if God wills it.  I finally understood and internalized what it meant.  It made me think, that’s exactly why I’m here. 

   

Tangier and the Mediterranean Coast

In Tangier, we stayed at the Rif Atlas Hotel.  The Rif are the mountains in the north of the country, and the Atlas are the mountains in the south, so it was interesting that the hotel was called both of them, and that we were at the beach.  Tangier reminded me a lot of Rosarito, but dirtier, bigger and more populated.  We only had one day to see the place, so we set off pretty early in the morning for an American-Sponsored museum.  It took over half an hour to drive there and it turned out it was only a five-minute walk from our hotel.  Ahhhh… Morocco. 

When we arrived, I was one of the first ones to the door and I laughed out loud and asked, “It’s Saturday isn’t it?”  Someone said yes.  No one bothered to check before we left, but the museum was closed on Saturdays.  Perfect.  I guess we were just hoping it would be open, Inshallah. 

That being done and over with, we had some time to kill so of course I found myself lounging by the pool.  It was a beautiful, beautiful day, so it was a great idea.  For lunch we left the hotel and went to a seafood restaurant.  I had the best paella, which I haven’t eaten in a long, long time.  It didn’t come close to Chiya Venice’s paella, but it was still pretty amazing.  I was so full when we were finished that I wanted to go back and sleep.  I felt bad lounging by the pool all day on my only day in the town, so I decided to head off with a few other girls to check out some of the sights. 

We saw Cap Spartell…

Spain…

And Hercules’ Grotto, where he is said to have come and rested after completing his 12 labors. The Grotto was beautiful and very interesting.  There were a whole slew of vendors inside the caves selling their wares, something that you would not expect for a natural wonder. 

At the end of the tunnel there is a beautiful cave entrance.  It is very famous because the silhouette looks like a mirror image of the continent of Africa, something I noticed only after taking pictures of it.  It was really beautiful and I was glad to have gotten to see it.  Tangier, check.  Next stop… Ifrane.  

Hiking the Rif

The morning after we visited Chefchowan, we headed off into the Rif Mountains to go hiking.

            We got lost several times on the way there, and what was supposed to be a 20km drive turned out to be about a two-hour bus ride.  But hey, When in Morocco…  Honestly, everything takes two hours with this group here.  We are perpetually late for EVERYTHING!

            The scenery was beautiful on the drive, which took my mind off of the longer than we expected drive, and the mindless jabber that happens all the time on the bus.  (THANK GOD for i pods!)

            At one point we came to a valley that was so green and beautiful that we had to stop to appreciate it.  Cows and sheep were scattered across the bright green grass, a little river ran through the middle, and the brown, green and pink mountains looked beautiful against the bright blue sky.  It was really amazing.

            We continued our drive back up the mountain when we stopped again to ask for directions.  I, as I always do, had to use the restroom again (I am the worst road trip companion, for the record, and I will never, ever claim to be anything other than that).  So I stopped to talk to the owner of the café who invited me in and introduced me to his family.  In Morocco, if anyone introduces you to someone you must at least shake hands with everyone you meet.  If you don’t shake hands, you will usually kiss the person on the cheek, twice, once on each side.   Kissing is more common with people of the same sex (women as well as men), or who are closely related to one another.   

            It is customary, if you shake hands with someone to touch your heart afterward.  It is a symbolic gesture that you are truly touched to meet that person.  The kissing greetings are more nuanced and I am so baffled by the codes, which govern them that I can’t even begin to explain them.  Most of the time, there are two kisses, one on each side, like the French do.  Sometimes however, there are four kisses, each kiss alternating sides.  Other times, there is one kiss on one side and two quick air kisses on the other.  Other times there are four quick air kisses on one side followed by four quick air kisses on the other.  If this paints a picture of how confusing it is and how difficult it is to greet someone (or take leave of them) when kissing is involved, then I have illustrated my point exactly.  The point is, I can’t explain it, nor do I understand it, I just go with the flow when I meet women who are kissers and not hand-shakers. 

            The man was telling me about how the village that was established there was done so with some investments from foreign countries.  It was established for education about and conservation of the beautiful forest that surrounds them.

We drove through the mountains until we came to the head of the trail where we were going to take our hike.  I decided about two weeks ago that I have been treated like a tourist since the second I got here.  As such, I decided that I would start dressing like one too.  So, out of the Italy clothes stash came the short shorts, which I am way more comfortable wearing when it is a hundred stifling degrees outside.  I was wearing them the morning before we left and I got chastised by more than half of the group (little did they know who would come out on top of this one!)

            When we arrived at the head of the trail, our guide started marching off immediately and speaking to me in French- do I look French?  Because I really didn’t think so.  At first the trail was straight and flat and we were walking between the bushes, but after about 600 meters, we took a turn down to the river bed.  The guide said something to me and I heard something about “do you know how to swim?”

   “Oui! J'aime nager!” I responded, although I had no idea why he was asking.  It was hot, so maybe we would get to hop in the river.  I had no idea. 

            After about 5 minutes he asked me again, and I gave the same answer.  He said, “Swim, very good,” in English and said something else in French, gesturing and drawing a line at his waist.  At this point we were climbing over rocks and jumping over water.  At one point we came to an area where jumping to a dry rock wasn’t an option.  He turned to me, beamed a huge smile and said, “You, swim!” 

            I looked at him like he was crazy, which made him look at me like I was crazy.  I told him in French that there had to be another way.  He shook his head.  I tried Arabic.  He shook his head again.  I tried again, one, last, feeble attempt in English.  “You, Swim.  Yes!” He repeated. 

            It was hot.

            C’est la vie!

            Off came the shirt and shoes and in I went.  The water was freezing, and my lungs contracted in my chest.   The rest of the group came around the corner and looked at me wondering what the hell I was doing, and then they realized that I was embracing the same fate that they too were faced with.  I have never seen some of the people in our group so shocked before.  It was awesome. 

         

            We had an hour and a half hike, upriver.  It was exhausting, I couldn’t believe how dangerous it was (the first real adventure we have been on so far, that’s for sure), and I couldn’t believe that no one knew what we were in fore before we began.  I was so glad to be wearing shorts (thanks for the comments about me showing too much leg, because I know that I was more comfortable than anyone else was)!

 About half way through I was exhausted.  I asked the guide how much further and he said 20 minutes (you have to double the time for this group though).  I asked him if there was another way out, or if we had to go back the way we came.  He made a gesture and said that we were going to continue straight… lost in translation.  At the end of the hike we came to God’s Bridge.  It was a beautiful, natural landmark created by hydrologic erosion.  We stood there in awe of the amazing, omnipotent power of water and how beautiful it was when it settled in… there was no other way out. 

           

            The joke was for sure on us.  Three hours later, several marriage proposals by the toothless guide, soaking wet tennis shoes and starving from deciding to skip breakfast, I had to laugh.  It was the best example of being completely at the mercy of unfamiliar territory that I have been craving desperately since I have been here.  It was great.  It was beautiful.  I loved every second.

 

Chefchouan- Where the sun meets the sea.

Chefchowan may be the most unique place we’ve been so far.  On the way to Tangier, we decided to stop through a small rural area for the day.  Chefchowan is about 100 km outside of Tangier and is a mountain town in the middle of nowhere.  Let’s face it though “the middle of nowhere” applies to almost every place in Morocco.  When traveling around it is really mind-blowing to think of who discovered particular areas, and why on earth people wanted to settle there.  Practically every place is so hot and so dry that you’re sticky in an instant after you step out of doors.

When we pulled around the mountain and got our first view of Chefchowan it was late afternoon and the sun was low in the sky.  The medina is nestled up against a hill (like so many other Berber cities) and it glowed blue and white against the green and brown backdrop of the hills.  Chefchowan is unique because it is characterized by its buildings which are all painted indigo on the bottom and white on top.  Although we have asked the question several times, there is really no discourse that explains exactly why these colors are chosen and used in this particular way.  It appears that blue and white are just common colors used in the Mediterranean and the blue and white could symbolize sea and sky, or many other possible explanations.

The medina was beautiful and, like so many other medinas, remarkably cool once you began to make your way through the streets, regardless of how hot it may be outside the medina.  The Moroccan plaster architecture and the fact that the towns are built on inclines enable cool breezes to make their way down the medina’s narrow streets, which makes a difference in the temperature inside versus outside the medina.  Being it was early evening, many people were out and about, children were playing in the streets, ladies sat in the doorways watching passers by, and men sat in the shops and gathered in cafés.  Unlike other medinas, the ambience and attitude in Chefchowan was very relaxed and peaceful.  You could feel it around you.  People seemed very content and happy to be out and about socializing with one another. 

We walked through the medina and a man invited us into his house to use the restroom (after several hours on the bus, a few of us girls were dying).  Thankfully he had a western bathroom (there is about a 50/50 chance of having to use a squat toilet here, which is a lot like Cambodia, but I am feeling a lot less adventurous on this trip than I was then.  I’m going to chalk it up to old age ;). 

His home was beautiful, done in a traditional Moroccan style with the skylight in the middle that connects all floors.  I joke that this architectural aspect serves as the Moroccan intercom.  You can be on the top floor and very easily convey something to the people two floors down by simply speaking down the skylight to the lower floors.  I can imagine that it would be very hard to sleep in these houses because of the fact that you can hear everything that everyone says or does, anywhere in the house. 

We walked through a beautiful garden (there are many private, walled gardens here, just like there are in Europe).  In the garden, there was a French family celebrating a wedding, and they were all dressed in formal Moroccan dress.  It was really very strange to see Europeans dressed in Moroccan traditional clothing, but they seemed to be having a great time and not worrying about how silly they might look.  As usual, we did some shopping, and for some reason the prices were so much lower here than they were in other medinas.  For anyone planning a trip to Morocco, Chefchowan is definitely one of the major places you should do shopping.  It was great.  After it started to get dark, we proceeded on to our hotel.  Now, if the town of Chefchowan was in the middle of nowhere, then there are no words to express how far away our hotel was from civilization. 

            About thirty minutes after leaving Chefchowan, we arrived at what looked like a little old ranch house in the middle of nowhere.  I was so surprised that it was where we were staying because we have stayed in so many nice hotels that this one seemed to be a total anomaly.  But, sure enough it was, and it was very cute.  It was a little old ranch house that was converted to a bed and breakfast.  When I got upstairs to my room I laughed out loud because it literally looked like Barbie had come and done the decorating.  Everything… and I mean everything was bright pink.  That is, except for the fluffy gold metallic rug.  It was awesome! 

            We ate dinner on the terrace, which was very nice.  Very bug infested, but very nice.  As a matter of fact, there were several insect-related disturbances during that meal come to think of it.  Bugs in hair, in water glasses, down shirts, it was mayhem.  I of course saw the opportunity as a perfect time to play a couple practical jokes here and there and reveled in scaring people.  Mind you, I am the worst at two things:  lying and scaring people.  Not tonight.  The buggy environment worked in my favor and I got a few good jokes in.  Of course, everyone else had the last laugh when someone tickled me with a piece of lavender on my neck and I totally jumped.  Hahahaha….. But after the bug adventure at dinner, I headed off to Fulla’s Barbie Pink Getaway and went to sleep.  

MSG dreams...

... are the most wild things ever. We have been eating back at the university the past two days and all of us are having the craziest dreams/ nightmares. I had one today in the middle of the day that scared me to death and I couldn't wake up from it. When I finally did, it took me about half an hour to get over it. Neurotoxins in the food? Lovely! Can't wait to be on the road again and free of infested food... time for some real Moroccan food again. PS- I researched MSG a bit and there is no reason it shouldn't be illegal. I can't believe what it does to your body!

Off to Tangiers on the Mediterranean Sea tomorrow! I can't wait!!!

Hammam

(This photo is not of the Hammam we went to, ours was much more "rustic," if you will.  I grappled with whether or not to share this story on here, because it is of a personal nature, but I really feel like it explains an aspect of Moroccan culture that is not often exposed, so I found it hard not to. Enjoy!)

            I have been wanting to visit a Hammam ever since I was 13 and my mom and grandma visited Turkey.  My mother came back from Turkey with stories from the public baths that they went to and I remember her saying that it was the “coolest” experience that she had while she was there. 

            In Morocco there is a clear distinction between public and private spaces.  The public is highly dominated by masculinity, to the point where women in Morocco are viewed to some Westerners as highly subjugated and treated like children or animals.  While there are some clear discrepancies between the public discourse between men and women, there are spaces where women have been liberated, and even dominant, for centuries.  Those are the private spaces that society has set aside and dedicated specifically to women.

            I have changed the focus of my research while I have been here to focus more on this private/public space distinction.  I am focusing specifically on storytelling, and the differences that take place between men and women’s stories and story telling.  Traditionally, storytelling has been a unique art form in North Africa.  Just as a man might be a talented artist or carpenter, he might also be a great storyteller and be known for that in the community.  Coffeehouses and town squares are venues where men typically would share their stories, almost always to other men.  Their subject matter dealt with politics, daily life, religion, history and real-life accounts.  Women, on the other hand have taken storytelling and made it into an art that is entirely their own.  

Women in Morocco and other Islamic states were once relegated entirely to private spaces, namely their homes.   Women in Morocco are more recently becoming more integrated into the public domain, but there are still clear distinctions between what is appropriate for both men and women.   Traditional women’s stories have made up for the lack of access to information about the outside world by invoking their creativity and imaginations in storytelling.  Women’s tales, told to other women are rife with magic, folklore, superstition, the supernatural and sexual fantasy, the latter being something women are not particularly known for in Islamic, Arab countries.  They are rich, imaginative stories that often depict women as the brave heroines who often outsmart a stupid man or an evil mother-in-law.  I really wish Disney would get a hold of these and give those princesses a run for their money.

            Anyway, with my focus being on the differentiation between public/ private, masculine/ feminine spaces in Morocco, and the experiences that my mother shared with me from her travels in the Middle East, the allure of the Hammam has really appealed to me and I was excited to get a chance to go to an authentic Hammam.  I was especially interested in finding one that was not used to having foreigners and where many local Moroccan women go two to three times per week.  Looking back, it is an experience that I won’t soon forget and I was so excited to have the opportunity.  (Sorry, but as you can imagine, there are no photos to accompany this story.  In the spirit of Moroccan women’s stories, I will do my best with imagery to help paint a better picture.)

            I hopped in a cab with Angela and headed for the old medina.  I had a map and a very vague idea of where we were going, but I wasn’t too worried when we left the hotel.  That confidence faded quickly as the driver (with a lazy eye) dropped us off at the back entrance to the old medina.  I quickly referred to my map, devised a game plan, shared it with Angela, took a deep breath and thought, “Here goes nothing.”

            We walked in the gate and turned left down the narrow cobblestone footpath lined by shops on both sides.  I feigned confidence that we knew our way, because I didn’t want to get stopped by young men offering to be our guides.  After about thirty seconds into the medina, I knew we had no idea where were going.  I stopped and asked a group of three women huddling in an alley who referred me to a shopkeeper who spoke English.  I asked him where to go and he pointed toward the direction that we had come from and said, “You see the girl with the oranges?  The door is right past her.”  I thanked him and we turned around.  At this point, the guide book was out, a first for me on this trip, and I was ready to beg my way to the place that we were trying to find.

            We walked past the girl with the oranges as the man that helped us shouted something in Arabic to her.  We stopped at the entrance to the Hammam and I mumbled a few words in Arabic and a few in French… I have no idea what I asked.  A few people yelled, the men out front shouted at the girl at the orange stand and a big, giant Moroccan woman grabbed me by my arm (not lightly) and dragged me inside.  She motioned for me to take off my clothes and I thought to myself…When in Morocco...

            Angela and I were at a loss, and for a second doubted we were even in the right place.  She told me to ask the lady that grabbed us, so I grabbed my guidebook, indicating to her the place we wanted to go and she looked at me like I was crazy.  I remembered the part where she spoke only Arabic, so my English guide book meant nothing to her (seeing as the text isn’t even written in the same direction).  Also, illiteracy rates among women in Morocco are astronomically high, so she had a 50% chance of being able to read it, even if it was in Arabic.  One of the young girls there acknowledged my struggle (I have no idea what Angela was doing at this point) and came over to try to bridge the communication barrier.  At this point, I was so anxious that even my French was failing me because I couldn’t think straight.  I asked her to ask the lady how much it was, and the lady told me hand over my wallet.  I have no idea why I complied.  Luckily, she only took out a hundred dirham, (about 12 USD) and said, “This much.”  Then she motioned to Angela to cough up the same amount. 

            After we stripped down to just our underwear (at this point we were in basic survival mode and just watching what the other girls were doing) the lady grabbed me by my arm again and dragged me into the dark tile foyer into the Hammam.  It was two huge adjoining rooms tiled from floor to ceiling, heated from underneath by fires in an underground furnace.  She dragged me over to a wall, made me sit down, and walked off yelling something in Arabic that I didn’t understand at all. 

            The lady came back, with a scarf wrapped around her head and wearing the biggest pair of black panties I have ever seen and nothing else.  She grabbed Angela first, put a blob of brown Henna soap in her hand and motioned for her to wash herself; I was next.  She then put on a red mitt and started scrubbing Angela from head to toe, when she was done she threw a bucket of water over Angela’s head to rinse her off.  When it was my turn, she grabbed me by my arm and effortlessly slid me across the soapy floor toward her like a rag doll.  She scrubbed my back, my hair, my legs, my feet, my arms, my stomach, my face, and almost every last inch of my body until my skin felt like it would fall off.  She scrubbed me so hard that my hard-earned tan from my day by the pool in Marrakesh was completely rubbed away. 

            When she finished, she tossed a bucket of hot water over my head and spun me around my ankle, laying me flat on the hot tile floor.  She massaged my back and neck and shoulders while I laid on the warm ground.  I haven’t had a massage since my back was hurting in Merzouga, so it was like a dream.  I was so relaxed, that is, until a huge screaming fight broke out in the lobby of the Hammam.  I was in a daze from the steam and the big lady’s elbows into my back so I had no idea what was going on.  Angela asked me, “Do you know what they’re talking about?”  I had no clue and although people kept trying to talk to me, I just ignored what was going on around me.  After my massage the big Moroccan mama grabbed me by my arm again (surprisingly I don’t have the bruises to prove it), pulled me to my feet, and dragged me into the lobby where the screaming was happening.  By that time a group of women had congregated in the lobby, and one asked me in French, “Avez-vous parlé à la fille avec les oranges?” (“Did you talk to the Lady with the Oranges?”)

            I stood their wet and shivering in my underwear because it was cold in the lobby, and tried to figure out what was going on.  When I finally figured out what she was asking, I said I hadn’t talked to her and recounted the story of how we found the place, the three ladies on the street, the man that spoke English who told us how to get there, and how she grabbed my arm and dragged me in.  Then I realized what was going on.  The girl with the oranges was trying to claim that she had brought us in to the Hammam and wanted a commission from the 100 dirham that we paid when we arrived.  After I realized what was going on I tried my best to clarify the situation, and the big lady who still had a firm grip on my upper arm shouted something to the effect of, “I told you so!”  She looked at me with a look that said, “Thank you,”  then she spun me around again, patted me on the butt and sent me back into the Hammam.  At this point I had lost every shred of dignity that I had come in with and nothing was surprising to me at that point.

            When I went back in, I explained to Angela what was going on and she laughed.  By then the interest of the other girls had piqued so I had to try my best to relay the story to them in French and we laughed.  While Angela got her massage, I went with the other girls into the furthest room in the Hammam, which was exceptionally hotter than the outer two.  The girl who had come to our rescue in the beginning came over and brushed my hair, which was knotted and matted with Henna soap.  She said that we were the first Americans she had ever seen in the Hammam and that she had been coming there since she was nine years old (she was nineteen).  Based on the experience that we had, I wasn’t at all surprised.  After the girl was finished brushing my hair, we lay out on the hot stone slabs on the floor and relaxed in the steamy room.  A little girl lounged in a bucket next to us with her arms and feet spilled decadently over the sides, eyes closed, her hair in a bun on top of her head.  Another little girl was in the other room screaming because she didn’t want to take a bath.  A third was wearing her mom’s too-big flip-flops and dragging a bucket half her size full of water across the slippery floor.  Women aged nine to ninety sat in corners, totally at ease, in the dim light that came from the small holes in the ceiling, obscured by the steam in the room.  They were chatting with one another, joking and telling stories.  It was an aspect of Moroccan culture that men would never see and certainly not appreciate.  When all was said and done I felt more comfortable and relaxed than I have since I’ve been here.  I forgot about missing home, I forgot about my research, and I forgot about everything else that has been weighing heavily on me since I’ve been here.  I allowed myself to be completely taken up in the time and place, and for the first time I was able to reflect on how rich this experience has been so far.  This day, in no uncertain terms, is one that I wouldn’t trade for anything.    

Catholic Church in Fez

L’eglise Saint Francis of Assisi

            I haven’t been to church since I’ve been in Morocco, and seeing as I usually go one or two times a week, I’ve felt a little unbalanced the past couple weeks, especially being so far from home.  So, when we got back to the hotel on Saturday night, I researched some Catholic churches in Fez and was able to find one near the hotel. 

            I am traveling with another colleague of mine, who I have actually worked with before because she is affiliated with another school in the Archdiocese of Los Angeles.  She showed an interest to go with me Sunday morning, so she and I  hopped in a cab around 10:00AM and headed for the church.  Fortunately, when we arrived, we realized mass began at 10:30, so it worked out perfectly. 

            It was interesting to me because I almost thought we were in the wrong place.  I told Beate, “I think this is it, but it looks very sterile.”  No signs on the outside, no street address, no cross like you would normally see in a church in France, Mexico or the US.  We went inside and were surprised that there were only very dark-skinned sub-Saharan Africans inside.  One young man came up to us and, of course, started speaking to us in French, which fortunately I can understand and Beate speaks beautifully, as she’s a German ex-pate. 

            The young man welcomed us, asked where we were from and got to talking to Beate about the church and its parishioners.  He said they were mostly French people living in Fez, the pastor was French, and the rest of the community were Christians from other countries like the Cote’d’ivore, Togo, Nigeria, Ghana, Sudan, and other countries, and they were mostly college students studying in Fez. 

            He invited us to stay for mass, and even asked Beate to do the readings, which thank God, were in French.  After a while some French citizens came in, a few sisters who were living in Fez, and even a Filipino couple who were living there for work.  Mass was beautiful, given in French.  Thank God I go to a Spanish-speaking church because I have trained myself to be able to recognize the parts of the mass in other languages, which was immensely helpful.  The French version seemed a lot longer than the Spanish or English version though. 

            I asked Beate at the end of mass what she and the man were talking about before mass, as I only got bits and pieces of it at the beginning until it tapered off into a more intense discussion that was well beyond my level of understanding.  She said that the man she was talking to was explaining why there were no Moroccans at the church.  It was something that I hadn’t thought of before.  She said that there is such a stigma with being associated with the Catholic church that people are afraid to participate in the faith publicly.  Morocco, for the record, boasts its multiculturalism and religious tolerance.  All the guides and lectors we have had have stated this “fact” over and over again.  However, it must be noted that Morocco is an Islamic state and there is no separation between politics and religion.  Religious scholars are consulted when political reforms are made because the religion is so deeply intertwined with the political structures that are in place here.

            Apparently, according to this man, Moroccans that have come to the church are chastised by the rest of the Moroccan community.  Whereas it might be accepted for people to follow Islam loosely, the question of openly practicing another faith is looked on with great distain.  People who have come to the church have been arrested, beaten, or worse if they find themselves at the wrong place at the wrong time.  The pastor had even been called to the office of the civil authorities to explain what a person was doing at the Catholic church one day. 

            It was disturbing to me to find this out, true or not, because I have been here so long and found Moroccan people to be so accepting.  While the story could be fabricated, I doubt that he would have made it up.  It was just another reminder that we are traveling somewhere that is distinctly different from our country.  I have no doubt that the majority of the country is tolerant to religious diversity, because I have seen it being played out, even in asking for help finding the church from various people.  No one treated us with distain.  But, there are some people here who are of a very fundamental Islamic background, and those people might perhaps hinder the integration of other religions because they fear what could happen to the socio-political structure if it were to become secular, rather than Islamic, as it has been for centuries.  

Fez: The old Medina

Fez is one of the cities that I was most excited about visiting on this trip.  I read Susanna Clarke’s book A House in Fez where she recounts her project with her husband to acquire and restore a riad (or home) in the old medina of Fez (an adventure just as full if surprises as my trip has been).  Now that I have been traveling through Morocco for a few weeks, I have really come to appreciate and see for myself the anecdotes of this unique culture (so different from my own) and have really come to appreciate all the things that are uniquely Moroccan. 

            We arrived in Fez on Saturday morning after only an hour of travel.  (Ifrane, where we are staying is about one hour up the road from Fez.)  First we went and visited the Royal Palace in Fez, which used to be the capital of Fez until Morocco became a French protectorate in 1808.  After the signing of the protectorate doctrine in Fez, the Berber tribes who lives in the Rif and Atlas Mountain chains became hostile toward the French there and created enough of a raucous that the French finally moved the capital to Rabat, where it stands today. 

            Because it was the former capital, Fez boasts some of the oldest buildings, universities and neighborhoods still in use today, and some of Morocco’s greatest treasures are considered to be in Fez.  The palace was a huge, sprawling estate, surrounded by ramparts that seemed to go on for days.  We were not permitted to enter the grounds, but we were allowed to meander around the reception courtyard and photograph the main gate that leads to the royal palace.  Apparently, the king’s wife is from Fez, so the royal family spends some significant time there during the year. 

            After visiting the royal palace, we moved onto the old medina, which I was very excited about having read so much about it in Clark’s book, and from hearing about it from both Moroccan and American friends that have visited.  We walked through the blue gate, the main entrance to the medina into the produce district (souk).  The people, sights and smells hit you immediately.  People are hustling here and there, donkeys (“petit taxis” within the medina’s walls because there are no cars allowed) wait patiently in the middle of the streets while people shop for their groceries. 

The butcher shops are a sight to behold.  Whole dead goats and sheep hang with their red flesh adorned by flies, a smell that is putrid at first, but you become quickly acclimated to it.  Their heads are available for sale, separate from their bodies.  I have yet to find out what for.  Interestingly enough, in this souk we had the divine pleasure of seeing fresh camel meat, only identifiable by the camel’s head being mounted on a post outside the butcher’s stand.  It was a first for us.   

            The question of camel meat has come up a couple times, mostly when I’m joking about what’s in the kefta, or minced meat, that they prepare like meatballs in tajins and other indigenous dishes.  Kefta has also been adapted into Italian dishes such as spaghetti and kefta.  I like to joke with the people eating it that I hope they enjoy the camel… which is supposed to be very good, but in our minds has the same appeal as eating a horse or a donkey.  It was more interesting than disturbing to have this affirmed because people have been very unclear about how available the meat of a camel is and how easy it is to buy.  Another cool Moroccan food were tubs of fat mixed with meat that they use for breakfast with eggs or on toast.  Kind of like Moroccan Chorizo. 

    There are beautiful fruits and grains overflowing in baskets and carts for sale.  Everything you can think of is available to purchase from beautiful peaches and grapes to pomegranates and giant watermelons, lentils, navy beans, hariza and always, always, always the distinct smell of saffron fills the air.  I have yet to have the opportunity to cook, and I hope we will before we leave, but I am definitely getting some great inspiration for some Moroccan flavors and dishes.  Don’t worry, we’ll skip the camel.  It will probably be difficult to get a hold of in the states anyway. (If you look in the picture above with the man in the foreground, you can see the camel head hanging from the awning.)

            About half way through the souk there was a doorway that led to the madrasa, or the old Qu’ranic school.   This phenomena is so common here, it’s uncanny.  You’re just walking along and all of a sudden you’re someplace important that is so well camouflaged that you can’t find it without a guide.  Apparently, even the guides have been known to get lost from time to time in the labyrinth of the medina sometimes.  The madrasa was beautiful, very well maintained and preserved, although, from my understanding it was only a few hundred years old. 

            We spent some time at the madrasa then continued through the souk in the medina.  Every now and then our guide would comment, “There’s another mosque… here’s a madrasa… here’s a hamaam… there’s a university…” and we would have had no idea had he not been with us.  By the way, the most polite, intelligent and well-mannered guide we’ve had thus far, in my opinion.

            We toured around the medina for quite some time.  At one point we visited the government building where the protectorate agreement was signed with France, which was really beautiful.  I looked up at one point and discovered that there was a terrace on top and was able to convince our guide to go up.  He gave me two minutes, so I ran up six flights of stairs to the top, was absolutely exhausted, but it was well worth it.  At the top of the stairs was  a huge covered terrace where you can see the entire old medina in Fez.  The photos I was able to take probably do it no justice, but it was really beautiful. 

            We also visited a silk cooperative where I was able to buy beautiful Moroccan fabrics that were woven by a man on a giant hand loom.  Apparently, it takes them about a week to finish one tapestry, and all the colors were so beautiful, it was so hard to decide.  I probably paid way more than I should have, but it was still far less than I would have paid in the states and well worth it for the quality. 

After we spent some time walking around and shopping we ended up at the tanneries.  I had completely forgotten about them since I have been here, but they are something that has always intrigued me.  The tanneries are where they die the leather for use in Moroccan slippers, handbags, clothing, luggage and other leather wares.  Although I know that the tanning process consists of one phase where they let the skins soak in ammonia and pigeon droppings, I was not prepared for the appalling smell that we would have to endure when we arrived.  The man sitting at the front passing out sprigs of fresh mint leaves made it pretty evident.  There are so many unpleasant smells in this country that people simply deal with, the reality that they were acknowledging the fact that the smell was going to be awful made me realize that we were in for something intense.

And intense it was.  Walking up the winding staircase- and they’re all winding here- the smell gradually built up so that the point where we actually reached the rooftop the ammonia was burning our eyes and lungs- probably exacerbated by the intense heat that day.  Down below us spread a courtyard of vats and vats of ammonia where leather hides sat soaking, waiting to be dyed.  To the right of the ammonia pits were the vats of dye- reds, oranges, and browns, where men used their feet and long poles to apply the dye to the hides.  After a few minutes I became totally nauseous and my eyes were burning, so I had to make a break for it, but it was a very interesting experience.  I was shocked that some people in our group stayed up on the roof to purchase various leather products, despite the putrid smells.  My clothes still smelled when we got back to the hotel.

 

            After the tanneries, we went to a factory where the zelijj, the Moroccan mosaic tiles are manufactured, and were able to witness how the tiles and the pottery are made. 

            Before we made it back to the hotel, we were able to go to a panoramic lookout of the medina as the sunset.  There was a beautiful view and a cool breeze, and there were hundreds of local Moroccan people there enjoying the afternoon and the scenery.  It was a very nice end to a long day.

 

            That night, most of the other teachers went out to celebrate our tour guide’s birthday.  They left the hotel at 11:00 at were out ‘til 4:00 in the morning.  I was so glad I opted to stay in because when I was up ready to go the next morning almost everyone was still in bed or going back to sleep.  I had a whole day in Fez to enjoy the next day!