Home

My time in Morocco is almost over. It is hard to believe how quickly the time has passed. I know I have grown in some ways-become stronger or wiser, but the truth is that I can't tell yet. I still feel like it was yesterday that I stepped off that bus in a strange new city, crossing the street to live with a family I knew nothing about. The only real way for me to see that time has in fact marched on is to see my little niece TALKING to me on Skype, or hear about the wedding plans of one of my dearest friends. I know that time has passed because so much has happened at home. Being here in Meknes has almost been like an escape from the real world. I know I've done a lot, seen a lot, learned, experienced, and eaten a lot. I've made friends, and I've gained a family. But time? Time seems to have stood still.

One of my most frequently asked questions is, "do you miss home?" Yes. That's an easy one. I always miss home. From the moment I step on a plane to somewhere new, I miss home. The next question, "are you excited to go home", is harder to answer. Yes, I want to go home, don't get me wrong. I miss the people. I miss not having to think when I want to communicate in everyday life. I miss that comfort with the culture that you never realize you have until you are completely out of your element. Yet, even with all of the things and people that make me miss home, I don't know if I'm ready. Of course it should be noted that I didn't feel "ready" to come here either.

This city, this apartment has become another sort of home. It's the little things that make it home: when my host mom covers me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch; when, despite all odds, I'm able to carry on a really great conversation in French; when my host brother brings home a book in French for me to read-just because he thinks I'll like it. When I leave home, I know I'll be coming back. There is too much I love there to stay away forever. But, as I prepare to leave Morocco, I'm faced with the reality that in all likelihood, I'll never get to live here again. Yes, I will do everything in my power to come back and visit, but living here, with this family and these friends-that part is over. So in that respect, I hope the next week and a half pass slowly.

Three months isn't that long, but it is long enough. It is long enough to adapt. There are times when I'm walking down the street and wonder why everyone is looking at me. I feel so comfortable. I know where I'm going and how to get there. I forget that even though my blue eyes have seen all of these sights before, a lot of these sights still aren't used to seeing blue eyes.

Eventhough I look forward to resuming real life with my friends and family at home, I feel a pang of sadness when I think about leaving here in 11 days.

Food for Thought

Americans are independent, arrogant, fat, work-obsessed, nosy, stupid and rich-or so we've been labeled by the rest of the world. It shouldn't come as too much of a shock. In fact, if you watch American television or films, we make fun of ourselves daily for these very stereotypes. There are many other stereotypes that we attach to ourselves as well. I'm sure it won't take you too long to come up with more to add to my list. As with any stereotype, it isn't exactly true. Yes, we can find examples of all of these traits throughout America and probably even within ourselves, but for the most part, we can shrug them off as being stereotypes and nothing more.

Last Sunday some friends and I went to Kenitra to have a discussion on stereotypes with some Moroccan students. We weren't looking forward to it. I'm sorry to admit it, but it seemed like a lot of extra work and money, and none of us could really imagine much of a benefit. However, our professor was very excited about it, and so on Saturday morning, we prepared our presentation. The next day we took the train to Kenitra.

Our list of Moroccan stereotypes was short-almost nonexistent. Afterall, it isn't a country that a person hears a lot about in the states. To compensate for this, we discussed stereotypes for the Arab world in general. Our only stereotypes for Morocco specifically were about Moroccan men.

The list of American stereotypes from the Moroccan students was much longer and contained many of the stereotypes I listed above. In addition they listed things like, "all American men love football" and "all American women love cheerleading." They showed a clip from "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" and another where a foreigner was asking Americans basic questions that they of course couldn't answer correctly (or even close).

After both sides had given their presentations, we started to discuss. Our professor asked the Moroccan boys in the room how many of them had harrassed a girl on the street. They all raised their hands. None could really give an excuse, but even the girls, who admitted they too were subject to such harrassment, tried to defend that part of the culture while at the same time saying that they wished it wasn't that way.

When we discussed the American stereotypes, I think the Moroccans were surprised that we weren't more defensive. They criticized American television and films for giving the world this view of Americans. We admitted that the stereotypes were partly true and that those who are given the spotlight in our country are often the least deserving. However, we tried to impress upon them that when they watch our films and shows, they should see them as entertainment-not real life. Our real lives in America would never make it past a pilot for the most part. The Moroccans seemed more angry about the way the entertainment industry presented Americans than we Americans were.

After a lunch of sandwiches and pizza and a group sing along, we hopped back on the train. Nothing was really resolved, but we did have a lot more to think about, and we were all happy that we had gone.

The Sacrifice

First of all, I have to apologise for my long absence. I had a wonderful week break from school that I spent travelling around Morocco with an American friend, and as I sent her off to Minnesota, to the cold and the snow, I welcomed my aunt, uncle, and cousins for a weeklong visit. Now that everyone has left, and schoolwork has been caught up on, I can finally devote some time to blogging!

Eid al-Adha is the Islamic holiday that commemorates Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Weeks before, Anne and I had accompanied our family to a farm to pick out a ram for the holiday, but sadly, as the date drew nearer, we realized that both of us would be away from home for the actual holiday. Anne would be in Germany, and I would be in the Sahara with my friend. Both of us were very disheartened.

However, as luck would have it, one of my directors is actually from the Sahara region that Lisa and I would be visiting, and he invited us to spend Eid with his family. So, on Wednesday morning, Lisa and I woke to a wonderful breakfast overlooking the Saharan dunes, and then drove to Rissani to witness the sacrifice.

Every Muslim family, if they can financially afford it, is supposed to purchase and sacrifice a ram on this day. As we drove we saw rams being dragged, carted, and motorcycled to their fate. Like they had some sort of sixth sense, the rams seemed especially stubborn to do as they were told.

We learned that Eid in small villages has stayed very traditional. It is a community holiday, a holiday meant to bring friends and family together. Above all else, it is supposed to be a holiday of sharing. It is not permitted to sell any part of the ram, and a family should donate part of their ram to a family that cannot afford their own. To begin the custom a holy man first says a prayer, and then the sacrificing can begin. If a family does not know how to sacrifice their own, the holy man will perform the sacrifice himself.

The ram's feet were tied, and several men held the struggling animal on his back on the dusty ground. The man with the knife gripped the ram's head and ran the knife across its throat. Blood gurgled out, staining the hard, dry ground red. The men backed away quickly, as the ram struggled to breath. He gave a large thrust of his body, actually moving several feet to the side, and spraying blood everywhere. Then he lay motionless, defeated. It was the first time I had ever watched an animal die.

Immediately after, the body is strung up by a hind leg, and the head is cut off. The men in the family begin to undress the sheep, peeling its skin off in one piece, like pulling off a sweater. In fact, it reminded me greatly of how my parents used to say "skin the bunny" when they would change my clothes when I was little-only it seemed more morbid this time around. The women burned the head and feet. Every part of the ram would be used in some way or another.

After the skin was taken off, sprinkled with salt, and left in the sun to dry, they cut open the sheep. Organs poured out. As the family disected the animal, I wished I had paid better attention in biology lab. Organs were cleaned with water and separated into different basins, depending on how they would be used.

When the work was done, we had tea and cookies, and shortly after, we were brought ram skewers hot off the grill. The family sat around talking and joking. This is the holiday everyone comes home for. Neighbors are constantly stop by, and the family is so large it is hard to keep everyone straight.

Lisa and I voyaged into the desert by camel to camp that night, but everyone else in those villages was staying up late ,munching on ram, visiting friends, and laughing with family.

Rules of the Road

On account of Eid, the University was shut down for a week, giving students the opportunity to flit off across Europe and Africa. I chose to stay in Morocco to discover a bit more about the country, and one of my best friends from the States came to explore with me.

Saturday, November 13, was my birthday. It started with some surprise gifts from my roommate, birthday wishes from the family, and then I was off on a train ride to Rabat. Well, actually Sale. Sale was an adventure in itself, so I'll leave that for another blog. I picked Lisa up from the airport without too much difficulty, and we found a budget hotel close to the train station in Rabat.

The next morning we were up at 4:30 to catch the 5:30 train to Marrakech. The train was not so prompt as we were. It was delayed by an hour, and we were sleep deprived and hungry. Marrakech was huge. Djemma al-Fna was all that I had heard it would be. Snake charmers, herbalists, musicians, comedians, monkeys, hedgehogs, and acrobats. We munched on some freshly roasted sheep and wandered the souks. I was horrified at the prices that were demanded for the goods-escalated 6 times that of what you would be given as a price in Meknes. We were able to barter a few things down to acceptable levels, and on the whole, the day was pretty fantastic! At night, Djemma al-Fna becomes even more enchanting, as portable restaurants fill the square with smoke. Eerie Eastern music fills the air, and the other attractions try one last time to entice customers.

The next day we rented a car in downtown Marrakech to begin the road trip portion of our adventure. Driving in Morocco, need I say more? We somehow made our way out of the city, picking up a map on the way. Soon, we found ourselves winding through the High Atlas. Our little golf cart (as we fondly nicknamed it) whined when forced to climb the steep hills, and she shook when she went too fast on the downhills.

In Morocco it isn't taboo to pass on curves or hills or curves on hills. In fact, I learned that for many, uphill curves provide the best opportunity to pass if your car has enough power. I think I would have been much more intimidated at the prospect of driving in Africa had I not lived here for a few months. I've had the opportunity to see how Moroccan's drive, so I knew the system or lack there of.

Having a car allowed us the freedom to make stops wherever we pleased. We pulled over and hiked to the the top of a mountain. The big stop for the day was in Ait Ben Haddou, a small kasbah that has been featured in many films-Star Wars, Lawrence of Arabia, and Gladiator, to name a few. It is one of the most picturesque cities I have ever seen. It looks like a giant sand castle on the side of a hill. The residents of the village are just beginning to learn how to take advantage of their historic town, but it is still off the beaten track enough so as to still have an almost untouched feel.

We spent that night in Ouarzazate-the Hollywood of Morocco. It reminded us of a ghost town. It isn't tourist season, and I don't think any major productions were in town. We ate at a restaurant with about 50 tables, and we were the only ones there.

The next day we drove across flat southern Morocco and stopped for a hike in the Todra Gorge, which awed us with its size and changing colors. As the daylight waned, we drove toward the desert where we let the golfcart rest for a while and opted for a more traditional form of transportation. After our Eid experience, we climbed aboard our trusty steeds (by steeds I mean gallumphy camels) and headed into the Sahara Desert for a picturesque sunset and camping under the stars.

On Thursday we drove back up to Fez, through the High Atlas where we saw snow capped mountains, throu the Middle Atlas where we saw pine trees and rivers. We drove through landscapes that looked like Arizona and through landscapes that looked like Ireland. It was absolutely gorgeous.

There are only two rules of the road in Morocco-yield to the right (an old French rule for roundabouts), and each man for himself. As we pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton to return the car, I realized that I had adapted much too quickly to these rules-America, watch out!

You Can Call Me Klum

A couple of weeks ago, while sitting in the cafe at school, one of the Moroccan students, Sukina, approached me and asked if I would be a model in her fashion show for the forum. I was flattered, and seeing as I'm studying abroad, and what happens in Morocco stays in Morocco, I told her I'd be happy to. After all, what's so hard about walking across a stage in a dress?

This week we all gathered at Sukina's apartment to try on our Takshitas. Her mother designs and perhaps makes dresses, so there was a plethora to choose from. As I looked around the room I saw all sorts of jewel-tones and gorgeous black takshitas with splashes of color. I leaned over to a friend and whispered that I'd be happy with any of the dresses, except perhaps that light pink and white one. I don't do too well in pastels. Sukina then announced that we could all choose the takshita we would like. As I sprung to my feet, torn between a brown and orange dress or a black lace and green dress, Sukina grabbed my arm.

"I want you to wear this one," she said as she pointed at the frilly, light pink dress.

I won't lie, my heart sunk a little. As luck would have it (or skin tone or short fellow models), I was told to switch dresses with a girl who was tripping over a dress that was far too long for her. I happily put on the brown and cream satin takshita and looked at myself in the mirror that Sukina's mother held in front of me.

"My mother says she would like you to wear her green takshita," Sukina said, and I gathered from the way that she said it that this was a fairly big deal. However, I'd be left wondering what this dress would look like until about a half hour before the show.

Today was a jumble of meetings that were postponed and meetings that were just a jumble themselves. One thing I have grown to appreciate is the organization in America. A person organizes a meeting, and the others show up on time. The leader speaks, and the others listen. In Morocco, one's head spins as 15 girls try to talk at once, and no one pays attention to what is going on.

The show time seemed to arrive quickly, and all of the girls looked fabulous in their attire. The men looked handsome in their jalabas as well! We strutted our stuff on the stage, and it was quite a rush to hear the audience yell and clap (and even shout my name) as I posed awkwardly at the front of the stage. I have a newfound respect for models for several reasons. The first being that it takes a lot of time and stress to get a show prepared. The second reason being that it is a lot harder to pose than one would think--you become so much more aware of your body, and it doesn't seem to work the same way when you're out on a stage with no other purpose than to show yourself off. The third reason is that I thought it was perfectly acceptable to reward myself after the show with a pistachio ice cream bar-something a professional model would surely never condone. So I guess what I'm saying is, you can call me Klum tonight, but tomorrow I'll be perfectly happy to go back to being me!

Dear John

Dear Moroccan Man,


It has now been two months, but I fear my feelings have not changed. Yes, when you immitated a dying cow that one time, it did make me laugh, and thank you for telling me daily how beautiful I am in English, French, Spanish, and even German occasionally. That is very kind of you to say.


The truth of the matter is that I fear your efforts are fruitless. It is creepy when you follow me, and when you stare at me for so long. I try my hardest not to get annoyed when you sit down next to me in cafes and refuse to let me sip my coffee and do my French homework, or when I walk past you in the street and you call me "baby" or "sweetie." Kissing noises are never an attractive sound, and thus, they will not be a good way to capture my attention, and they certainly are not the best way to start a conversation with me (neither is hissing). Frankly, I like my relationships to start in a little less stalker-esque fashion.


So, just so you know, I'm not lost when you see me, and I don't need directions. I did not come to Morocco looking for a husband, and telling you I'm barren is more fun than admitting that I'm just not that into you. And finally, I'm not actually married, but I do appreciate how quickly it makes you walk/run away--like I'm stricken with the plague, and I appreciate how you don't even need the proof of a ring.


Sincerely,

That American Girl You Harrass

P.S. Keep your hands to yourself, if you value them.

REAL Morocco

Last night was the start of the Forum. The Forum was started a few years ago by an ISA group in Meknes to promote intercultural understanding on important world issues. It has steadily grown in size, and this year we have students from Spain, Morocco, China, Belgium, and perhaps a few other European countries. The topic for this fall is Ecology (or the Environment). I was shocked how last minute the preperations seemed to be, and unfortunately, ISA involvement seems to have been mostly replaced by Moulay Ismail faculty.

The openning ceremony took place at the big theater in town, and we saw a mix of Moroccan and Spanish music. The final band-Berber drummers-got the whole audience to rise to their feet and dance for 45 minutes straight. After the concert we headed to a hotel for dinner. I sat at a table with some ISA friends, two Belgians, and a Berber man, Aheem.

Aheem is in his 30's and very willing to talk about anything Berber related. During the dance, he had showed us how the Berber's dance to the music, and when he sat at our table, he invited all of us to dinner at his house. His house is 12 hours by bus away, but it's the thought that counts, right? I'm not sure how our conversation started, but he began telling me about himself and the Berber people:

"I am a poet. I have written 2 novels, but I cannot get them published. It is hard to get books published in Morocco. You need money, and you need permission from the Library. I cannot get permission because my books are political."

Naturally, I asked him what his books were about.

"My book is political. It is about the Berber people and how Morocco is not their country. It is about how Berber is not a language in Morocco. If I speak Berber, they tell me, 'No, you must speak Arabic.' But, I love my language; it is my mother language. It is part of my culture. The Berbers have a verbal culture. They cannot read and write. If people ask you about Morocco-real Morocco, tell them: The people write with their mouths, and they read with their ears."

At my request, he delved deeper into Berber culture. Always starting with a quiz for me.

"Do you know why the Berbers dance like they do?" I shake my head. He continues, "In the desert, where I am from, the people dance in two lines. One line is men. The other line is for the women. They face each other, and they move very slowly, because it is very hot in the desert. Where I come from it is very hot, so the people dance slowly.

"In the mountains it is cold. The people dance in a circle-man, woman, man, woman. They move very fast, because it is cold in the mountains. You see? That is why the Berber people dance."

"You know about the rainbow?" He asks me. A simple shake of the head is all that is needed before he continues. "In Berber we call the rainbow the wife of the rain. A long time ago, when the people needed water, the women would go to the water source and dance for the god to give them water. Then, they would sacrifice a girl." I naturally stopped him at this point to see if I had heard that last line correctly. I had.

"After the rainbow appears after the rain, the Berber people say that is when the girl is meeting the god of the rain. When the romans came, they taught the Berber's there is only one god, so now we have other traditions."

That prompted me to ask about religion.

"The majority is Muslim. Then there are Christians. There are Jews too, but only in one or two villages. Some people believe in other gods. It is like the United States. Morocco is like the United States. There are many groups of people. Your ancestors are European, no? You know how I know?"

I responded, "My blue eyes."

"Yes. In the United States you have Europeans, and the African Americans, and the original people of the west, cowboys."

I corrected him on this little American history mix up, telling him the original people of North America are called Native Americans or Indians.

He then asked, "so these people really do exist?" I assured him that they did.

"Do you know about tattoos?" He asked, changing the subject. When I told him I did not, he told me. "When the Berber woman has tattoo," and he drew a line with his finger down his chin, "it means that she is ready for marriage. She cannot get that tattoo until she is ready for a husband. When she has a tattoo like this," he said as he traced a line down the middle of his forhead, "it means that she is married. Then if she is divorced, she put a circle here," he said as he traced a small circle on his left hand.

"When I was young," my new friend told me, "I asked my mother one night to tell me a story. She told me, 'We are a story. The Berber people are a story.' I did not believe her then. Now I believe her."

Going to the Chapel... wait, not quite....

This weekend, the long awaited marriage arrived, not that I actually knew the people getting married or anything, but who wouldn't want to see a traditional Moroccan/Berber wedding?


We started our day with a round of henna. We had been told that our maid does henna, and for the wedding, we thought it would be fun to try. Henna is a natural dye that stains a person's skin and can last for weeks. It comes in all different sorts of colors, but in Morocoo it is usually an orange color. It is applied with a seringe and a steady hand. Professionals make elaborate designs with fine detail. Our henna was not so intricate, but it was a fun experience.


Getting ready strarted with a trip to the hairdresser. Majda got her hair done first. Anne and I both sat transfixed as we watched the ladies curl her hair using nothing but a circular brush and a blow dryer. Then they would roll up her hair and pin it. When they unpinned Majda's hair to actually put it up, her hair fell onto her shoulders in loose curls. Anne was next and her hair was prepared in much the same way, but when the ladies went to put up her hair, they needed more poof, so they reached for a bag of hair clippings that they stuffed under a layer of Anne's hair. I feared my hair would suffer the same fate, but luckily, with crazy teasing, I learned how thick my hair actually was.


We came home and did make up and nails. I was the resident make up artist. Majda distributed jewelry-gold, pearls, and stones. Amina helped us all climb into our takshiitas. We had just enough time to pose in the living room and at the grand piano for some pictures, and then we three ladies headed for the marriage! We arrived at about 9:30 pm.


The wedding was at a big new hotel over in the same neighborhood as the school. There were carpets leading up the path to the door, and traditional drummers lined the carpet. An espresso stand was right outside the door too, to start prepping the guests for the long night that was ahead of them.


The reception hall was a very large circular room with 50 foot ceilings. About 25 tables filled the room, all with 10 chairs around them. The tables were covered with white table cloths and the chairs had white coverings as well. We sat at a table near the door, and unhappily, near the traditional Moroccan band. Not that the music wasn't good, it is just that it was incredibly loud. The guests sat mute while the songs were played, and then in the two minute breaks in between, we could yell pleasantries at one another over the noise of our ringing ears.


Waiters in the traditional penguin suits brought around bite-size cakes and freshly squeezed juices on shiny silver platters.



The bride's entrance was completely spectacular. She was carried in a carriage on four men's shoulders. They danced her into the reception hall, and she smiled down at her guests wearing a beautiful white and silver dress. Her make up was much lighter than her skin tone, revealing the culture's belief that lighter skin is more beautiful. When the song was completed, she was dropped off at the stage that held a couch and crystal chandeliers. Her groom met her there. They sat on the couch together and people crowded around, taking turns to climb the stairs, sit on the couch, and have their picture taken with the couple.



For the majority of the night, I took pleasure in people watching. The women's dresses were fantastically ornate. Some dresses didn't even cover the ladies' shoulders and others had slits up the side that would rival Hollywood's red carpet style. The fabrics ranged from silk to satin to velvet. Every color was represented, and every style could be seen. The bride and groom continued to take pictures with their guests, and I watched as they somewhat awkwardly exchanged rigid conversation. Majda assured us that it was an arranged marriage, and I wondered what the first few months of their marriage would be like, quite different from the first few months of marriage that most of my friends are now enjoying ;)



When the traditional Moroccan band finished its first set, a traditional Berber band across the room started playing. Their sound system was equally as loud, but their instruments were much more exotic! Then traditional Berber dancers took the floor, and Anne and I joined a group of young people and we joined hands and did a simple dance as the Berber dancers did their traditional almost belly dancing-like dance.




Dinner started at 1 am. The bride and groom had disappeared for a while, but when they reappeared, the bride had changed out of her white and silver takshiita and into a green takshiita. There were 4 courses for dinner-pastilla, bread with olives and peppers, sheep with potatoes and carrots, and fruit for dessert. It was absolutely phenomenal. Waiters floated around the tables, bringing out silver platter after silver platter, refilling one's coke, or pouring mint tea. We left shortly after dinner (2am) with our dresses fitting a little tighter.


Majda supplemented our experience by explaining what would be going on for the next 6 hours of the wedding that we would be missing. The bride would be changing takshiitas 3 or 4 more times, each takshiita for a different purpose. For example, there is a special takshiita for actually signing the marriage papers. The bands would continue to play, and people would continue to dance. "If you've been to one Moroccan wedding, you've been to them all," Majda joked.

Top Ten

I've been in Morocco for almost 2 months now, so I figured it is time I list for you my favorite parts about life here!

1. The Food:

From couscous to tajine to dates to yoghurt, I love the food. All the main dishes in Morocco are mostly vegetables-fresh vegetables. They're cooked until soft and served either with bread or couscous. Couscous days make any day spectacular! The vegies piled high on a bed of couscous and the deliciously sweet date, raison, and onion sauce on the side. It is impossible not to gorge oneself into a food coma. I think this is the reason why couscous days in our family are not necessarily always on Friday. Instead, couscous is served on days when everyone has the afternoon free. As for snacks, I love getting dates and trying all the different kinds of yoghurt this country has to offer-pistachio, mango, date... mmm!

As for dessert, Moroccans usually lay out a plethora of delicious fresh fruit-melon, grapes, pomegranates, and other kinds of exotic fruits that, as far as I know, we don't have names for in English. If you prefer more of an American style dessert, bakeries can be found on almost every block and they sell a delicious assortment of cookies, cakes, and French goodies like eclairs!

2. Mint Tea:

It is deliciously refreshing and warms you up from the inside out. It makes getting up so much easier-not because of caffeine, but just because I look forward to drinking it! Plus, I think there is just something so culturally important with drinking tea, that you just feel more Moroccan when you have it. It is at every event, every major purchase, and every visit. It is welcoming and comforting, and just so... Moroccan.

3.Riding to school with your arm around some strange man and your foot caught under a Mercede's front seat:

Yep, grand taxi adventures! The grand taxis are big, old Mercedes that shove 4 people in the back seat and two people in the front passenger seat. Yes, six people can fit, but no, they don't fit comfortably. By the time you have situated yourself in such a manner as to allow the last person in to sit and close the door, you realize that your arms are not at all where you would have prefered them to be, but to move them would mean hitting 3 or 4 people in the face and then once you moved them, there wouldn't necessarily be a better place to stash them. Then your foot falls asleep, and you begin smelling armpit from the guy next to you (no one really wears deoderant here). Alright, it doesn't sound fun, but it is an experience. And personally, I love any good experience!

4. Studying in the cafes:

The first reason I like this is because I feel kind of bad ass sitting with all the men. I refuse to go upstairs to the "women's section." I prefer sitting outside where it is sunny and smokefree! The other reason I love it is that you can get an espresso for less than a dollar, and they let you sit there for hours. I people watch, read, and do homework, and I hardly ever get bothered. Sometimes I even get to practice my French a bit with the waiter.

5. Hammam:

In my first description of hammams, it may have come across as a kind of scary thing, but in all reality, it is relaxing and quite lovely! Hammams are a very social event in Morocco. It is where women go to gossip and even talk matchmaking. Once again, for only a few dollars, you can relax in a nice warm room for as long as you like, get a massage, and walk out feeling the cleanest you've ever felt.

6. Weather:

Two months in, and I can count the rainy days on one hand! The skys are clear and sunny 9 days out of 10. Sure, it was hot to begin with, but now it is hovering right around the mid 70's which is such a beautiful temperature, especially for a girl from Minnesota where October usually means 40's or 50's (if we're lucky).

7. My family:

I couldn't have asked for a better place to live in Morocco. My family is so open, down-to-earth, and fun! My host mom loves a good dance party in the living room. My little brother is obsessed with Michael Jackson and American films. My older brother is such a talented musician, and my host father is such a sweet man and is very patient with my French. They have made Anne and me part of their family, not just people who stay in their house and eat their food. They love to take us to new places and make sure that we experience everything Moroccan.

8.The variety:

From mountains to ocean to desert, Morocco has it all. I've gotten to swim in the ocean, hike in the mountains, feed a monkey out of my hand, stroll down city streets, and barter in ancient labrynths. All of this, and my adventure is only about halfway done. I still have yet to experience the legendary Marakech and ride a camel in the desert!

9. Seeing friendly faces:

Nothing says that you actually live in a place quite like running into friends on the street or at the store. I feel like I've finally gotten used to the cheek kissing, and I've been improving on my French skills, and my Arabic skills for that matter!

10. The new lock:

For those of you that don't know, I'm not exactly a morning person. I dread rolling out of bed, and it takes every ounce of my strength to behave like a kind, conversational person before 8am. Therefore, the tiniest things can make the morning go from bad to almost unbearable. Before I lost the key, the sticky lock was one of those little things that made mornings just that much worse. I'd sit at the door for a solid 3 minutes, cursing under my breath while I tried to get the darn thing to budge. Post key incident however, mornings are a little bit better, the lock slides easily away!

Baa, Ram, You

Oh weekends! Always lovely, and always over too quickly! This weekend I enjoyed staying in Meknes. I hung out with fellow ISA students, visited the Medina, had a girls' night, and woke up Sunday feeling tired but happy! Weekends are usually the only time it works out for me to run because of my school schedule and refusal to wake up before 6:30 am. I usually run with Alaina, a fun girl from Seattle. Yesterday, however, Majda asked if she could join us on the run. So at a little before 7am, Majda and I headed out the door to go meet Alaina. We have a usual route that I absolutely love, but we switched it up yesterday and ran through town. Majda kept up for the first kilometer but then slowed to a walk and told us to go on without her. In the middle of our run, we were joined by another Moroccan runner. She kept pace with us for about a kilometer but then also slowed back down to a walk. We finished our run feeling in shape and kind of like rockstars.


I ate breakfast with the family, and Moustaffa's brother from Casablanca came over. We discussed American films made in Morocco, and it was an excellent opportunity for me to practice my French. Then Anne sang while Amin played along on piano. SOOO impressive, he just listened to her sing and made up the music as they went along.



In the afternoon, Majda took us kids to a farm to pick out a ram for Eid, the holiday that celebrates the Abraham and Isaac story. The farm was right on the outskirts of Meknes, and we were greeted warmly by the owner and his wife. They had a young son who must have been about 7, and the Mrs. had a baby girl tied around her back. We talked for a bit and then went over to the barn to pick out our ram. There were only 35 or so rams, but it was still a process to pick out the ram for this most important holiday. Most of the large ones had already been tagged (by tagged, I mean that their ears had been tagged) for other people. The Mrs. would pull out a ram for Majda to inspect, then we'd go into the barn to look at more, then another would be pulled out. The odd thing about sheep is that the one that was being taken out of the barn, resisted with all its might, while the others tried to sneak out the door behind the chosen one. It is like the older sibling that HAS to go to school but doesn't want to and the younger sibling that desperately wants to go to school and tries to sneak onto the bus.


By the time Majda had decided on which ram was perfect, the Mrs. had headed to the kitchen. The owner is a pretty old man, so I don't think he does much manual labor anymore. Thus, Majda sent me into the barn to drag out our ram. Then Anne and I held the horns as the owner pierced his ear with the tag that marked him as ours. I couldn't watch.

Financial matters were settled, and mint tea was brought out. Then the Mrs. brought out some Moroccan crepes and bread with freshly squeezed olive oil. I had never had fresh olive oil before, and I wasn't sure if I ever would again, so I enjoyed every bite of the delicious treat!

And I know what you're all thinking, how can you finish off such a "Moroccan" day? Well, with Russian music and dance at the big green dome in Meknes of course!

The French System

Moulay Ismail University operates under the French system, which, if you are like I was, doesn't have much meaning. After seeing the school in action, however, I'm starting to get how things work. Anyone who graduates from secondary school can enter Universtiy, but it is not guaranteed that they will be able to enter into their desired field of study. Space limitations and competitive exams limit the number of students allowed in certain fields. Then, once school begins, classrooms remain empty for the most part as students only show up for their exams.

School for us foreign students started almost immediately after we arrived in Morocco. The Moroccan Students began their classes about a week or two ago, and by beginning classes, I mean that students were on campus, but that doesn't mean that their professors were. There is a complex system of signing up for classes and getting approved for the classes you wish to take, so no one is ever really sure about when classes will actually begin. When we would ask, the professors would shrug and say, "sometime around October." Then, once one has finally obtained the schedule one would like, and classes start, other issues keep seeming to erupt. Almost everyday there is some sort of demonstration in front of the administration building. Students gather in a circle and chorus some catchy arabic protest. Most of the time it is just a small group, with people joining and others breaking off on a semi-regular basis.

Yesterday, I had class at 4pm, and when I walked in the gate, I instantly saw and heard a much larger group of students outside of the administration building. Naturally, I was curious, but I sidled past the group shyly and headed to my class, like the good American student that I am...
I learned later from a professor, as the students marched through campus singing their protest, that they were upset over the--how should I put it--Americanization of the University. Apparantly, the University has grown weary of the subpar attendance rate, and hence, high failure rate. Their solution was, therefore, to institute attendance policies in the classroom, much to the student's chagrin.

The whole thing seemed kind of odd to me. You work incredibly hard to get into your University program. Then you have to jump through all kinds of hoops to get all the classes you need and have your schedule approved. Then, after all that, you show up to campus only to protest having to go to class? Well, I guess that pretty much sums up the French system.

Here's Looking at You, Kid

Oh boy! This weekend was a whirlwind of adventure. We clambored on the bus early Saturday and headed west! First stop was Casablance, a modern city and the industrial hub and main port of Morocco. The beach was beautiful, and palm trees lined the French-style streets. The most tourist stop in Casablanca was at the Hassan II Mosque, on of only a few mosques in the world that allows non-muslims to visit the interior. It was erected partially over the ocean and boasts the highest religious minaret in the world (200 meters). Construction of the mammoth mosque took 6 years (1987-1993) and 12,500 craftsmen and workers. The mosque covers 20,000 square meters. That's about 215,278 square feet for you Americans.

That night I visited a book store and bought some French classics and a Moroccan cook book, had a complete meal for under 3 dollars, a large bowl of ice cream for more than I paid for my dinner, and watched as a man tipped over an escargot table in anger. That evening, accompanied by a few friends, we went out in search of Rick's Cafe. In case you don't know, Rick's is the bar from the movie "Casablanca", and eventhough "Casablanca" was filmed entirely in Hollywood, there is a knock-off bar for suckers like me who feel they "have to" at least see it! We had to get two cabs to take us, and it turned out that neither of the cabs knew where Rick's was. By the end of the trip, Julie and I were in the back of our car singing "Que sera, sera" and interjecting with "C'est la vie!" They finally, I think out of exasperation, dropped us off in front of a castle-like building and insisted it was Rick's. We climbed the stairs to find a deserted restaurant, that looked nothing like the Rick's in the movie. After getting directions from a nice young Moroccan girl, we were able to find our way to the cafe. Though it wasn't an exact replica from the movie, it was very fun and fancy. They had some fake gambling tables to sit at, and a piano in the middle of the first level, that was playing "the song" as we sat down upstairs around a small table and ordered cocktails. There was a television that was playing the movie silently, and we talked and sipped our cocktails to the sound or our very own "Sam", every now and then laughing at the representation of Casablanca in the movie-monkey's sitting on lamp posts, and everything so spotlessly clean...

The next day we headed to Rabat. We saw some of the old quarters, some roman ruins, the burial site of the past two kings, and had free time to wander the medina and visit the beach. The beach in Rabat was quite different from the beach in Casablanca. The beach in Rabat was made up of rocky cliffs. We hiked around on the rocks, tried to pry snails off of the rocks, and even made friends with one of the Moroccan fishermen. On the way back to the bus, I needed a bathroom break, and Olivia accompanied me to a gas station where the men were nice enough to let me use their facilities. When I came out Olivia mouthed, "I told them you're married."

The man proceeded to ask me, to verify my friend's story. I nodded in agreeance, and he asked where my ring was. Then he asked my husband's name, to which I replied Monsieur Skoy. I don't have too much of an imagination when put on the spot! We were able to get away from the station without any dates or proposals and even managed to find the bus eventually!

It was a very fun weekend, one that had me saying, "play it again, Sam."

Clef

Today started out like any other Friday. I woke up, had a marvelous homemade breakfast (today it was cornbread with apple butter and tea), and got ready for class. I cursed the same lock that always sticks when I try to undo it in the morning and waited for Anne. I locked the door behind us with my key, and we climbed into the elevator. I hastily shoved my key in its designated pocket, reaching behind my head to do so. Then I made the 2.5 mile walk to school with Anne.

On Fridays I only have Arabic. I put my iPod away in the key pocket for class, and during break I grabbed my coin purse out to buy a date breakfast bar. After class, I talked a bit to some of my classmates, and four of us made the walk home. We stopped at Label Vie for snacks, but as I had already taken my coinpurse out of my bag at school, I never took the bag off my back. We bought snacks and walked back towards homebase. The only real excitement were the dates we were eating and when we saw a man on a small motorcycle get hit by a car. Don't worry, he was mostly fine, probably just had a broken leg...

I'm sure by now, most of you can see where this is leading. When I got back up to the apartment, I reached into the key pocket, but couldn't feel the key. No problem I thought. Maybe I just put it into the wrong pocket...I was reaching behind my head when I shoved the key in my bag. So I rang the bell for Aisha to let me in. However, when I searched my bag, the key was nowhere to be found.

I texted Anne and anxiously waited to see if she could find my key in our classroom. No. So I took matters into my own hands. I walked to the taxi stand, and took a Grand Taxi to school. The whole way I was scanning the sidewalks. I went to my Arabic classroom, interrupted the class that was taking place (don't worry too much, it was an ISA class), and asked if anyone had found a key. Nope. Then I went to the front gate and asked the gaurd if anyone had turned in a key. Nope. Of course it is important to remember that the majority of these conversations took place in French with wild hand gestures, so it was not so easy, but I did get my point across, and I was not able to find my key.

I walked home, retracing my steps, crossing the streets at the same places along the way. Nothing. When I got to our building, I sat on the steps outside and waited for our doorman. I asked if he had found my key, nope. By this point, I had already resigned myself to the fact that I would not find my key. In fact, I had been practicing my speech in French for Majda. Planning out all the words I would need to tell my story and explain that I would pay for everything. I'm much better at talking to myself in French than I am talking to others-the nerves get to me!

"Ca va?" Majda asked as I walked in the door. "Non," I replied. When she asked why, I launched into a much choppier version of the story I had rehearsed on my walk home. "S'arrive," she assured me--roughly translated, "stuff happens." She was convinced, after hearing my story that it had fallen in the elevator, and the night guard had found it. She doesn't trust the night guard. Therefore, it was necessary that we change the lock, toute de suite. We finished our tea, and took the day doorman ("very good" in the words of Majda) with us to search for a lock.

Shop after shop shook their heads as we walked in. No locks like the one we needed. Finally we hit the jackpot. For about $17, I was able to replace the old lock with a shiny new one. I still felt guilty for all the trouble I had put Majda through, so I ran down to the bakery before making my way upstairs. I purchased a variety of cakes, and dodged all the "How are you? Fine?" comments as I wove my way back to the apartment. Majda was confused at me having bought dessert, and I didn't know how to say that it was because I felt bad, so I just shook my head as she assured me in French that it wasn't necessary.

Even now I can't help but to think that now I'll never have to deal with that sticky lock again in the morning. Twenty dollars isn't too bad of a price to pay for that!

Matchmaker

Saturday we visited Fez and then went wine tasting. It was an excellent day. We saw all sorts of artisans at work and tasted the legendary (?) Moroccan wine ;) The real adventure happened when we got home, however.

First, it is necessary to describe my family and their relationships. The names have been changed to protect the innocent... and to simplify the situation. From this point on my host parents will be known as "mom" and "dad". Dad had two sons (A and B) with his first wife, and his first wife passed away when the boys were adolescents. Dad then married Mom and they had one son (C) together. Mom has a younger sister that we'll call Sara. Okay, now the story can begin.

A couple weeks into our stay here we learned that A was engaged to Sara. However, the purpose of Saturday's dinner was to make that engagement official. We had dinner at Sara's parent's house (or Mom's). We were greeted warmly. On different occasions we have had the opportunity to meet most of the adults in Mom's family. We were brought up to the second floor of the house where there was a formal living room. Anne and I ended up being seated in between Dad and Sara's father. Mom mouthed to us while we sipped our tea and ate our cookies that Dad was about to start discussing the marriage of their children.

I sat transfixed as the two men discussed the match. They spoke in Arabic, so I was not able to understand word for word, but Dad started the conversation and seemed to do most of the talking. It was a serious conversation, and everyone besides the two fathers sat mute in the room, watching. I don't think that there was ever any doubt that the match would be anything but approved of, but nonetheless, nothing seemed to be taken for granted. A and Sara were also in the room, but they sat just as quietly as the rest of us. It was strange that the two persons who this matter affected most said nothing.

I doubt that I will ever again be witness to such a situation. No, it wasn't the kind of arranged marriage that one usually thinks of, but it was in a way being arranged by the fathers. It was up to Dad to convince Sara's father that the match was a good one, and Sara's father had the power to approve or disapprove the match-the final say. Coming from a place where a man asking the father's permission is seen by many as an outdated tradition, it was definitely a unique insight into a different world.

When the formalities of the occassion had been finished, we moved on to dinner and dessert. It was like Thanksgiving. The whole family was together, the children played while the adults talked, and everyone ate too much.

Smurftown

One of the things I admire most about other countries is the way the people always (or at least more often than not) take care of their visitors. Yes, sometimes they expect to be reimbursed monetarily, but I'd say that at least half the time the people do it out of a sense of duty to welcome guests to their country.

Last weekend five of my friends and I went on an adventure north to Chefchaouen, "the blue city." There is no real direct route from Meknes, but we were confident that we'd be able to make our way there. We left early in the morning from the public bus station in Meknes. The bus ride was long, and we knew that we'd need to transfer when we got to a certain town. We rode patiently and watched the countryside roll past.

The bus often stopped to let off travellers and pick up new ones, and therefore the pace of the trip was rather slow. At one point the bus stopped in basically the middle of nowhere, and the man in charge of collecting tickets came back to tell us that this is where we got off. Of course we were confused, since this didn't look anything like a town, and we had been told by our directors that we'd go to a town and then hire a Grand Taxi to take us the rest of the way. The man insisted, and we, like good adventurers, went along with it. The man helped us off the bus and led us to another bus that we hadn't seen, he explained this bus would take us to Chaouen. He was under no obligation to find this bus transfer for us, but he did, despite our confusion and protests.

The bus to Chaouen was much more crowded, and the smell I've come to associate with public transportation in other countries (the smell of armpits that have never known deoderant) hung heavily in the air. The man that takes the tickets made sure that each of us had a seat-even making a Moroccan man move to the very front seat so that I would have a regular seat.

Chaouen was all it was cracked up to be and more. All of the medina was blue and white. . Even many of the streets were painted white. The colors instantly made one feel cool and tranquil, and the whole town was perched on the side of mountains, making the view breathtaking.

While looking for a hotel, we encountered a man who owned a carpet shop that spoke very good English. He ushered us inside, and promised the best prices-of course. As we were leaving, a blonde haired girl walked up to Raoul, the rug man. She was American and was very excited to meet other Americans. She was on her way to have tea with Raoul, and we ended up joining them. After tea, of course, discussions turned to business and we were shown carpet after carpet-wool, cactus fiber, camel fur... all colors and designs. One small rug was bought, and we left intending to return the following day.

The rest of the day was spent happily exploring the blue town and purusing the artisans' shops. We hiked up one of the mountains a ways to watch the sun set over the town, and we grabbed sandwiches for dinner. The night, for me, was spent in a far less pleasant fashion, and I was not really up for much exploring the next day. I loved Choauen, but after being so sick, I was very happy to return home. Majda fussed over me, giving me instructions on what to eat and what not to eat, and I crawled into bed that night very content. Even though Chaouen might be more beautiful than Meknes, Meknes has become home.

War Zone

Moulay Ismail University is located in the Zitoun neighborhood of Meknes. It is approximately a 50 minute walk from Hamriyya, where I live. The University is inside of one of the old walls left over from hundreds of years ago when walls were still a necessary line of defense for all cities. I study in the Fac du Lettres part of the University, otherwise known as the liberal arts section.

Inside the wall of the school, several buildings are linked together with a covered walkway that protects students from the sun and the rain. The buildings are simple, and the classrooms are too. We American students have all of our classrooms on the top floor of one of the buildings, and enjoy such luxuries as air conditioning and freshly painted rooms. Previous students must have complained that the heat of the classrooms interfered with their ability to study.

Every day of class presents a sort of battle. Most of our teachers speak at least fluent French and Arabic. Many are Berber, so they speak the Berber language as well. English, on the other hand, still presents many with at least some degree of difficulty, which is by all means understandable. However, even though it is easy to respect them for how much they do know of English, it is easy to get frustrated when they don't understand a question. Often we find ourselves asking what homework is due, only to get an answer totally unrelated. "Alif can be a consonant or a vowel. But the rules are not important now, we will turn back." Usually, we resign ourselves to the nonanswer answer that we were given, but occasionally, we find ourselves playing tag team trying to explain the question that we have. "Is unit 2 the only homework due Friday?" Response: "We have finished Unit 2 and Unit 3. You can give me Unit 2 today or tomorrow. Whenever you have finished." And the more we try to clarify, the more frustrated everyone, including the professor, becomes.

In French it is much the same. The teacher asks us to translate French text. "Isn't it," he questions after we have given the translation, "to meet an accident?" And, despite our best efforts to explain that in English it is more appropriate to say "have an accident", the professor lets it go only grudgingly, saying under his breath "I saw 'meet an accident' in the dictionary." French is better for me since I have had several classes before and therefore can understand when the teacher speaks solely in French. The beginning French students, however, are having a much more difficult time, as they do not understand their professor who speaks 80% of the time in French.

To add to the general confusion in the classroom, a Moroccan Air Force base is situated just across the street from the school. We are convinced that the favorite game of the pilots is to see how close they can fly their F16's to the University's buildings without actually running into them. The buildings shake, and our ears beg for mercy as the jet engine rumbles above us. Class is put on hold until the thunder of the engine fades into the distance. Without fail, my heart leaps into my throat every time. It is very unsettling to hear the roar of a fighter jet so close to oneself.

Classes meet for usually about 3 hours per session, which is an extremely long time to sit for one class even if one is completely interested in the topic. Thankfully, there is always a coffee break in the middle of the time. There are two cafes on campus, the students' cafe and the professors' cafe. The professors' cafe is directly below our classrooms, and conveniently international students are allowed to use that one. We usually shuffle down there and lounge on the couches and chairs while sipping some coffee or tea.

In the smaller classes, the professors always ask if they can give us a ride back to Hamriyya, and we happily accept their kind offer. The rides home also provide an excellent opportunity to practice our language skills and learn more about Morocco and the lives of our Professors.

Yes, school has settled into a sort of routine, a comfortable routine that I've grown very fond of, despite school being a sort of battlefield.

Property #3

1. Apartment in the city

2. Beach house on the Atlantic

3. The farm

The farm is only 15 km from town and is comprised of 8 hectares of many kinds of fruits and vegetables. Moustaffa explained that it is a small farm, not like the ones we have in the States, but I think 8 hectares is a substantial plot of land for one family's fruits and vegetables. It was truly a picturesque setting, nestled between large hills. The arid, brown countryside is not what one normally thinks of as beautiful, but I've come to really appreciate the rustic, untamed beauty of this area of Morocco. The only patches of green now are the groves of trees, but the rolling fields hold the promise of bursting into life as soon as the rains come.

One man operates the farm, and there is too much fresh produce for one family to consume, so the rest is sold at the market. We picked eggplant, pomegranates, lemons, and zuchinni. The zucchini is not what we call zucchini, and despite some research into squash types, I cannot seem to find it's name. It resembles a pumpkin, but the shell is mostly green with some yellow-orange spots. It can grow to be quite large-up to 50lbs or so. If anyone knows what we Americans call it, please let me know!

On the farm there are also olive groves, nut trees, and who knows what else. I feel like we only saw a small portion, but I'm sure we'll be going back every now and then.

Moustaffa has owned the farm for 20 years, but I don't think anyone has lived there in that time. There is a small house that we saw, but it looked like it had seen better days. There were also two old wells and a happy babbling brook!

Spaghetti

Ever since orientation, I have been hearing a lot about Hammams. Hammams are Moroccan public bath houses that become particularly popular in the winter when it is cold, but many Moroccans take advantage of them all year long. For these first few weeks in Morocco, two of the most popular questions to ask us Americans is if we have gone to the Hammam, and if not, if we will go to Hammam. Everyone follows up these questions with some sort of statement about spaghetti. It took me a while to realize what they were saying, but today I got to see it first hand.

This Saturday started out how every Saturday should start. I got up at around 7 (I know what everyone is thinking-Evie doesn't wake up at 7 when she doesn't have to, but actually, I don't think I've slept past 7 since I've been in Morocco), put on some cotton capris, a t-shirt, and running shoes and went for a jog around the new part of the city. I've been trying to run at least a couple of times a week, and I've found two parks that are near each other that are pretty laid back. There aren't as many stares or yells of "hello...hola...how are you?" Today I ran in the park and found a rode that led into a very nice neighborhood on top of the hill that had a great view of the medina across the valley. Gorgeous! I'll get pictures sometime, I promise. When I got back, I showered and had a lazy coffee morning, which made me miss my Houghton girls immensely!

I had a Hammam date with 3 other girls and Iman, our female director, at 10:30. The hammam was a simple building, nothing fancy at all. There was a small changing room where one removes all of their clothes except their underwear, grabs a big bucket, and takes their towel and soaps into the actual bathing rooms. The bathing room is kept warm, but not sauna hot. The bathing room had concrete walls and a stone floor. A red pipe and blue pipe ran around the room with spigots every few feet. We sat down on our mats, filled our buckets, and dumped warm water over ourselves-always warm in the beginning. Next, you make a mixture of a sort of natural soap that resembled grease and henna powder, and use this mixture to loosen the dirt on your body. Then you rinse this mixture off of yourself and wait for one of the scrubbing ladies.

The scrubbing ladies (I'm sure they have a real name, but "scrubbing ladies" will have to suffice for now) are old, overweight Moroccan ladies that use this sort of scrubbing glove (you bring your own glove, it isn't that communal-don't worry) to basically strip your body of all the dirt and dead skin cells. You lie on your mat with your head on their unshaven leg, and they scrub almost every inch of your body. I thought this part would be more awkward than it actually turned out to be. The ladies go about their job so mechanically, and they are so grandmotherly that I actually felt very comfortable and relaxed. And yes, I saw first hand what was meant by Hammam spaghetti.

When the ladies have finished with you, you wash up with your own soaps, and when you have pampered yourself enough, you return to the dressing room to return the bucket and pay the equivalent of $5 for everything, a small price to pay for that oh so clean feeling, and a truly Moroccan experience!

You Can Stand Under My Umbrella

I've lived in Morocco long enough now to know that Moroccan Walmart is called Marijane. Cub Foods is LabelVie, and the medina is the equivalent of an American mall combined with the Family Dollar combined with Goodwill combined with a farmers market.

Today I took my second trip to the medina in Meknes. The medina is the old part of the city. The streets wind around in no particular pattern, stores spill out onto the street, and people are everywhere. It's a giant market, a stage for snake charmers, musicians, and dancers, and a dream for people watchers and adventure seekers. It seems as if there is never a dull moment in the medina.

I went to the medina today with my host mother and my little brother. The only thing I was really interested in buying was an umbrella. I didn't bring an umbrella, and rainy season is just around the corner. I wasn't successful. I am pretty sure I saw everything else in the medina. I saw rings, necklaces, rolex watches, gucci sunglasses, beach towels, guess tshirts, huka, tajines, lamps, swords, carpets, dresses, backpacks, books, fabric, doughnuts, olives, meat slabs, dates, and the list goes on. We saw a guy steal a box of shirts and the Moroccan police tackle him. We saw a snake charmer with 6 different snakes. We saw a water man or two. We saw everything... except for my umbrella.

The medina really is fascinating. It is a mixture of everyday life with those things that you feel must be put there just for tourists, but then, upon closer inspection, you realize that it is locals that crowd around. Everywhere you look there are people. The people span all age groups, and all degrees of modesty. There are young women in capris and tank tops and then in front of her is a lady with only her eyes visible.

There are different quarters or districts if you will--jewelry, fabric, food. Within the district stores deal almost exclusively in those products. Then there are the streets that are just a conglomeration of every kind of store. You could wander for hours, you could get lost for days, and you could buy anything your heart desires-except an umbrella.

Mountain Monkeys

Today we hiked! We took the bus up into the High Atlas. We stopped at Ifrane which is more Swiss than Moroccan. The buildings all loook new and have high sloped roofs. There are manicured parks with green grass and working fountains. For only being a little over an hour away, it felt like we had jumped continents.

Next we went to our guide's farm for a traditional Berber breakfast. His mother had laid out the spread of a lifetime for the 30 of us. There was the regular Moroccan bread that has become a staple in my new diet here, but there was also some sort of cornbread and a kind of tortilla thing. There was freshly made butter, marmalade, and honey, and let's not forget the Berber whiskey-green mint tea! After our very delicious and filling breakfast, we hiked out through the fields to the mountains. The mountains had large trees, hundreds of years old, and there was very little undergrowth. Our guide pointed out interesting plants along the way-one that is good for asthma, one that cures indigestion if boiled, one that acts as an herb for cooking.

Before I knew it we were in a little clearing with large, furry monkeys all around. Some people took horseback rides around the forest, but I played with the monkeys. They would take bread right from my hand. There were babies that were playing with their mothers, and big males hulking around trying to get the most out of the tourists that had arrived. One monkey stole Anne's bag of chips and ran away. A baby monkey was in a tree nearby, and I couldn't help but give the cute little one the majority of my bread.

The next stop was another hike, but this one led us up to a gorgeous view of the Moroccan countryside. Daniel and Iman (the directors) may have regretted their decision to bring us up to on top of that cliff after watching some members of the group playing and hiking too close to the edge, but everyone made it back down to the bus safely.

Sorry if this blog is not quite as exciting, but think of it more as a carrier for the photos.