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.