Saturday Souq

Today was my third and last Saturday Souq. Once again Driss and I made the trek through the hot and dusty streets, stopping to say hello with incredible regularity. With everyone that we met we discussed the heat, as always, as if some sudden and unexpected change in the weather had occurred.



Once at the souq, we wandered around, and I was, as always, struck by the particular mix of aromas. The smells of spices and incense, body odor and freshly killed animals, all mixed together to form the odor that is Morocco--neither good nor bad, or perhaps both.

We left soon after arriving, needing to escape the relentless rays of the sun. I bought a watermelon to bring to the house, and we helped women that we knew to carry their produce and other recently purchased items. They carried things on their heads and in their hands, and I knew that our assistance was as unnecessary as it was appreciated.

I leave here on Tuesday, once again convinced to stay one more day. If all goes well, I will be in Marrakech Tuesday night and I will leave on Wednesday evening on a flight to Madrid.

Rachidia's Women

The women here are a wealth of knowledge, strength, and humor. They never fail to amaze me. The amount of work that they do (they never seem to stop), the temperature and weight that they are able to bear, their unflagging laughter--they are all without equal.



Last night, I came home early, as I wished to rest and improve the state of my digestive system. I have been suffering from a bit of gastrointestinal distress, but I don't want to make a big deal out of it, since I fear that people here might feel bad and blame themselves for my illness.

Still, I did need to inform my caretakers of my stomach issues, as I needed to find a way in which to beg off from eating too much. And so, I limited myself to indicating my stomach, and telling them, "Not Good. A little not good." Everyone, of course, had an explanation, most of which centered on water temperature. Perhaps they were right, though I have been drinking cold water on hot days my whole life, and it does not usually make me sick.



Well, just as I expected, Driss's mother fell into a state of worry and caregiving, although she never stopped laughing at me. She made me lie down face first on the ground, and performed the following "medical procedure," which she explained is used on children with stomaches.

1. She lifted the back of my shirt and spit on my back.
2. She rubbed in the spit and pounded my back.
3. She made me lift my torso a bit and massaged my stomach.
4. She pushed me back down and pinched my back, lifting me slightly by my skin.
5. Another pinch and lift.
6. Another pinch and lift.
7. Another pinch and lift.
8. Another pinch and lift.
9. She said she was done.

And then she asked me if I felt better. Amazingly, I did feel slightly better.

After this strange event, she brewed me up a pot of tea made with crazy herbs, four different ones I believe, and made me drink cup after cup of it. And after a while, whether from the strange beating I had received, or the tea, or merely the sense of being cared for, I really did feel a lot better.

Nonetheless, I have still got diarrhea. But that's a whole different story that nobody wants to hear. Perhaps I will move along, eh?

This morning I got a cooking lesson from Driss's sisters Hadda and Yemna. Hadda woke me up early in the morning, knocking on my window and calling out my name. It took quite a few knocks, but I finally woke up and stumbled out to learn how to make melowia.

Melowia is a breakfast food, something like a mix between a crepe and a filo dough pastry. It is actually quite simple to make, though it is rather labor-intensive. Essentially, it is made of flour, water, and salt. With these ingredients, a dough is made. This dough is formed into small balls, which are then flattened into thin sheets and folded in on themselves (like a note passed to a friend in class).



This done, these little packages are allowed to rise slightly. They are then flattened out until they are about the size of a notebook, rubbed with oil and placed in a hot frying pan to cook. The women move the dough around the pan with their hands, their skin seemingly impervious to the heat and bubbling grease. (I, on the other hand, used a spatula.) When done, they are flakey and delicious, and are served either plain, or with preserves or honey.



This lesson done, I moved on to make bread with Yemna. As I have explained before, the bread here is baked in a clay oven heated by burning sticks and bits of palm. The dough is placed on a metal tray in the oven and moved around with two metal sticks (one of them, in this case, a thin piece of rebar). The fire is blazing hot, and bakes the flat bread very quickly. It is, in fact, hot enough to raise a rash on unprotected legs, as I soon learned.



I now understand why the women here wear so many articles of clothing. I will never again bake bread without the proper attire.



All of this done, we sat down, the entire family and I, to eat breakfast. Hadda and Yemna told stories about my cooking abilities (or lack thereof) and everyone laughed.

The breakfast tasted better than ever.

Rachidia at Sunset

My time here is coming to a close, and I am becoming nostalgic. My days are numbered (the number is three at this point--I leave on the fourth), and while I am excited for all of my upcoming adventures and plans, I will certainly miss this place and the people that inhabit it.

In four days I head to the insanity that is Marrakesh--to the crazy souqs and always busy Plaza of Djeema El Fna. And after two days there, I will fly out to Madrid, where I will sleep on the floor of the airport, just like in the old days when I used to dream of being homeless. And then from there, I will catch an early morning flight to Lisbon, Portugal.

I have already found a place for Ellen and I to stay there, so a bit of the pressure is off, though I will still have to find a place for my first night there (alone) once I arrive.

Do I smell a homeless guy adventure?

Probably not. I do, however, smell delicous choriço and linguiça and Sagres beer and super-strong coffee and Vinho Verde and caldo verde and arroz de mariscos and tremoços and percebes and all kinds of other delicious food and drink.

The change will be welcome, let me assure you. Morocco has truly delicious, healthy, wonderful food. Unfortunately, they have mastered only two or three dishes, and nearly everything here is a mere variation on the same theme. The same spices, day after day, served with the same meat (nearly always chicken), and only slightly different vegetables, all served with the same (albeit absolutely fantastic) bread.

It is all delicious, but as I say, the change will be welcome. My taste buds will scream with delight and fear as these new foods attack my grill like so many thousands of tasty little ninjas. Their little swords will slice me millions of times, leaving me reeling with the sensation of newness.

There shall be a conquest of gastronomy and a tournament of cuisine, and I plan to be there.

The Promised Land

So here is the tour of Driss’s home, as promised. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, I have had to make a number of short video segments in order to get the video up online.

Driss did all of the camera work, and we decided to exaggerate the « Moroccan-ness » of the video by dressing me in traditional Moroccan garb. My wardrobe consists of kandrissa (known throughout the world as Ali Baba pants), which are not very visible, a djellaba (the Ewok-like robe which I am wearing), the sesh (the thing wrapped around my head), and a pair of babouche (the funny yellow slipper-type shoes), which I do not think are all that visible either.

The videos show the majority of the house, though I did not enter the room where Driss’s sisters sleep, since I have never done so before. Note that the walls of most of the house are built with handmade mud bricks, a very common thing in this area. The construction of houses with earth keeps the house quite cool in the summertime and warm in the wintertime. The environment here, being nearly Saharan, demands such construction techniques.

I have yet to upload the final clip, which shows the backyard, but I will soon update this post. We will see if I get around to it. If I don’t, the backyard is an enclosed area of dry earth, which, when watered, works as a bit of a garden. There is also a an animal pen in which the family’s sheep are kept.

And…I apologize for any problems with the videos. I think that this is the last time I will decide to make any sort of video project in a country with third world internet connections. This small-time business has cost me way too many valuable hours of my life.

Enjoy !


Front Door and Television Room




« My Room »




Driss’s Room and Bathroom




Interior Patio and Garden




Salah and Youness’s Room




Kitchen




The Well

House Tour

Update:

I am currently working on trying to upload some videos in which I give a tour of my Moroccan home. Unfortunately, I had made one video, but it is too large to upload for the slow Moroccan Internet connection. I will therefore soon be putting up short videos (six, I believe), which when viewed in succession present a unified view of the house.

More soon.

Crazy Flight Purchases

How crazy has travel become?

I had planned on getting to Portugal by land and sea, taking buses all the way to the north of Morocco, followed by a ferry acros the Strait of Gibraltar, followed by a slew of buses and trains to get to Portugal. All this, colorful as it might have sounded on the blog, would have been a huge pain in the ass, and would have involved all sorts of uncomfortable and seemingly endless rides in rickety, dangerous transport.

Instead, with a bit of research, I have found flights from Marrakech to Madrid and then from Madrid to Lisbon. All this with a total price of around eighty-five euros. It would have cost me more to go by train and bus (the train alone from Madrid to Lisbon costs at least forty-five euros, seventy-five euros with a bed, the ferry is around thirty-five euros).

Truly amazing.

Moroccan Family Time

I wanted to write a short post expressing my gratitude to my friends here in Ksar El Barrani. As long as I have been here, I still am unable to describe the extent to which I have been accepted into this community. I am still unable to understand it fully, still unable to truly comprehend what has happened here.

When I think about my tenure here as a foreign visitor, I sometimes try to put things into a severely rational perspective. I think about the local economy, about the daily wages here as they compare to those back home. (My brother makes more money per hour working at Borders than I would have made in an entire day of wheat harvesting...and I only worked a half-day). I think about the real drain that I represent on the family's resources--on the water I use and the food I eat and the space that I consume.



I do, of course, try to occasionally help out, though too much would frankly be insulting, and money would be like a slap in the face. I have bought a cake for the family (they loved it--I had the baker write this great phrase--llah irhem u walidin, which means something like "may god watch over your parents") I have brought home chickens for dinner, and I try to do any work around the house that they will let me do, which frankly is very little.

Still, no matter how much I do, it is obviously not enough to repay them for all that they do for me. There is no price that I can put on their wonderful company, delicious food, their cleaning of my clothes or preparation of my bathing water.

How can one possibly repay all of this?

Most amazing of all, it seems that my mere presence is is enough...I do not mean this to sound narcissistic or self-aggrandizing, but there is no other way to say it. I love to be here, and they love to have me here.



Most of my time on this trip has been spent with Driss's family--with his mother, father, two brothers and the two sisters that still live in the house. In addition, Abdessamad, Driss's nephew, is often around, and there are many visitors. Every day and every night and every morning we eat together. We listen to music and dance, we laugh and sing, we try to understand each other through hand signals, basic Arabic, and the interpreting abilities of Driss and his brother Salah. Driss's father, Mohammed, normally a quiet, reticent man, has been laughing for what seems like days. Everyone seems suprised at his jolly demeanor. We share inside jokes within the family and repeat them incessantly, guffawing every time until we are near tears.



When I miss a meal at the Nabil residence, the next day they tell me how quiet the meal was, how normal. They tell me how sad they will be when I leave. Driss's mother tells me that I am her son, and that she is my Moroccan mother. They talk about the next time I will visit, about things we must do, about how happy they will be to see me return.

It is really all just quite mindblowing, and each day I am pushing back my day of departure from this town. I know that I must be in Portugal on the 21st of June, and I believe I have abandoned all notions of visiting touristic sites in other places in Morocco.

Ksar el Barrani has captured me, and it is hard to leave.

"Maraton" at Rich

Today's post will be quite short, as I am exhausted after a sleepless night and a day of relentless sun.

For some reason or another, I could not fall asleep last night until after two a.m., and today I had to wake up at five a.m. to join Abdelhak and some other friends in the town of Rich.

Rich, a small, somewhat charming town, would usually have played no part in my travel or tourism plans. Today, however, was different, as a ten kilomter race was taking place in the town, and a local girl was running in the race. Abdou had planned to go, in his capacity as the founder of a local association for atheltics and development. He invited me to join him, and so I did.

I can generally think of many things that I would rather do than watch people run. Nonetheless, I had a very pleasant and interesting morning. I watched with incredulity, as only today did I realize that it is possible to run well without 100 dollar sneakers, polyprelene clothing, and specially formulated dry-wick socks. Apparently, as I learned, people can run fast in just about anything.

Ever see a man in cargo pants do a consistent seven-minute mile? I never had, before today.

In addition, I had the chance to witness some of the Royal pomp and circumstance of the Moroccan state. The race finished, generals and colonels and ministers and governers stepped out from their ceremonial (shaded) box at the finish line, and walked in a parade of suits and uniforms to the main stage. There they were greeted with cheers and hurrahs and seemingly unprompted ululations from the brightly dressed women in the front lines of the crowd.

And that is about it. After getting back, I spent the rest of the afternoon (until now) resting, trying to regain a bit of my thinking capacity after my restless night.

More soon. Enjoy the photos below.

SEX in Morocco

Well, my anthropological inquiries keep producing juicier and juicier insights and social secrets....Read below.

I had a very interesting conversation today with a young Moroccan. This 23 or 24 year old man and I discussed, over about the course of an hour, such topics as marriage, the role of women in a Muslim society, divorce, and, incredibly, even sex.

While I do not wish to mention the identity of this fellow, I must say that I know him quite well, and that his integrity and honesty are not to be doubted. He is a very serious young man, to the point of exaggeration at times, and is quite devout in his religous practices. His insights and information are always quite helpful.

As we spoke about all of these topics, I asked him when he wished to get married, and he told me that he wanted to wait until he was thirty four or thirty five. He explained to me that changing societal norms had made this a possibility, as opposed to the era in which his parents were married, in the late 1960s or early 1970s. At that time, his father was twenty years old, and his own father (my friend's grandfather) decided that it was time for him to get married. His bride (my friend's mother) was a mere thirteen years old, still a young girl.

Apparently such marriages were not uncommon, though they are now. Men would marry very young girls, and they would wait until they were of child-bearing age before engaging in sexual relations. My friend described this age with a hand motion that indicated the growing of breasts.

With all of this in mind, I asked my friend a question that I have recently been asking of many people--What about sex? In a society in which the "purity" of the woman is paramount, what does a young man that wants to be married at thirty five do about sex? Does he remain celibate? Does he visit with prostitutes, as many of my somewhat less religiously-observant friends apparently do? Does he find a girl who is not overly preoccupied with her own "purity".

The problem, see, is that sexual purity here is not a matter of debate. Most men (at least according to my friend--I have not conducted any scientific research) will immediately divorce a woman if there is no staining of the nuptial sheets on the wedding night. This divorce could take place as soon as one or two days after the wedding itself (often a week long affair on its own).

And so, any woman that has sex before marriage risks a public social shaming, ostracization, and an embarassing return to her natal home. Luckily, modern laws prevent the use of the traditional punishment here, apparently espoused by the Prophet himself--death by stoning. Still, her punishment is not something to be taken lightly.

So, I ask again, what are young men and women to do? Sex is natural, and obviously impossible to completely control, especially in a society that is more and more open to globalization, foreign values, and the like.

Well, dear readers, the answer from my serious young friend suprised me a great deal, even though I heard a similar statement from a friend just a few days ago.

They have anal sex.

That's it. That is the answer to the maintaining of feminine purity, the prevention of pregnancy. This is how young people have sex and keep the hymen intact. This is how young people show their love and express their sexual desires.

They have anal sex.

I have little more to say on this issue for today, and I think that I will just leave it at that--give the readers something to chew on.

Only eleven or twelve days left in Morocco...stay tuned.

Gendarmes of Rachidia

Characters:

Policeman #1
Policeman #2
Young American Man

Setting: The hot streets of Ksar El Barrani, around one o'clock in the afternoon. The Young American Man is walking to the store, tired and dirty after a long morning of wheat harvesting. He notices a police jeep, thinks that their presence is strange in this small town that rarely, if ever, sees police. He greets the police and continues walking.

Note: Most of the following conversation takes place in Darija, the local Arabic Dialect. This is a simplified and shortened version of the original, much longer conversation.

Policeman #1: Hey, you, come here.
Policeman #1: How are you?
YAM: Well, thank you. And you?
Policeman #1: Fine, thanks be to God. What are you doing here?
YAM: I am a tourist.
Policeman #1: You are not from the Peace Corps or another organization?
YAM: No, I am a tourist.
Policeman #1: How long have you been here?
YAM: About a week.
Policeman #1: And how long will you stay here?
YAM: About another week.
Policeman #1: And what are you doing here?
<em>YAM: I am a tourist.
Policeman #1: Where are you staying?
YAM: In my friend's house.
Policeman #1: Where does your friend live?
YAM: (pointing in the general direction of the house) Over there.
Policeman #1: Where over there?
YAM: (pointing again, now wondering what the policeman would like to hear, since their are no street names, no landmarks, no way of describing the placement of a house besides "over there") Over there.
Policeman #1: Okay, and your papers?
YAM: In the house.
Policeman #1: Go get them and then come back here.

FIN

Follow Up:

I left the police and began walking toward the house, not worried at all, since I had done nothing wrong, but annoyed that I was being asked to furnish my documents for no reason. As it turned out, the whole process was painless. I got to Driss's house at the same time as the cops (they followed me in the jeep), showed them my paperwork, and they left soon after, explaining that this was all "for my safety".

I tried to imagine what exactly they could or would do for me in case of some sort of act that would contribute to any personal danger to me. I could think of nothing.

But Morocco is like this. I must register with my passport at every hotel, and the relavant paperwork is delivered by the hotel personnel to the local police station every evening. Here, the term "Big Brother" is not a big exaggeration, and I am sure somewhere there is probably a file on my comings and goings between Morocco and other countries.

What was truly amazing about this whole occurence was the reaction of my various host families here in Ksar El Barrani. While I felt bad to have brought the police to the home of my friend, Driss's parents were adamant about the fact that I had done nothing wrong, and in fact worked to rectify the situation within the town.

You see, they were sure that the police had not just happened to see me on the road, but rather that they had been alerted to the presence of a foreigner, and had come looking for me to find out the reason for my being there. In fact, just the day before, the semi-official mayor and professional police snitch had stopped by the house to check on some "routine paperwork". Driss's parents found this coincidence a bit too coincidental, and one day after the run-in with the police, I came home to find the Snitch-Man sipping tea with the family.

They had confronted him, told him to stay out of their business (and also, in order to discuss this all in a civilized fashion), invited him over for tea. He, of course, denied the whole thing, though they remain convinced, and he has now got the message.

Abdelhak's family was just as supportive (word travels fast in the town). His mother told me that next time the police ask what I am doing in the town, I should tell them: "My mother lives just over there. This is my town and my family is here. My brothers live in that house, and my aunt is there. Now Goodbye."

I am truly amazed at the way in which these people treat me, as if I were honestly a member of the family, and not just some random Westerner that somehow happened upon this crazy, hot, dusty place in the South of Morocco. Every single day I am surprised and grateful for everything that I have here, so thankful to my Moroccan "Mothers" and the rest of my Moroccan "family".

The Butcher

Today I killed a chicken.

Yet another of many firsts for me here in Morocco.

I have wanted to kill a chicken for a long time. This has not been a dream based on a desire to cause suffering or pain to any creature, but rather a desire based on a personal conviction that if I eat meat, I should be ready to complete the necessary steps to change an animal into a meal.



As it turns out, I can do it. And to be honest, without making myself out to be a budding serial killer or a cold-blooded SOB, it was not all that hard.

I bought two chickens from the shop, as in this way I could be instructed on the first and practice on the second. The process is simple. I was told to place the chicken on the ground, and using my feet, pin the wings and feet to the floor. Then, after giving thanks to God (Bismillah) and placing the forefinger of my left hand in the chickens mouth (thus supporting the neck), I was to draw the knife across the chicken's neck twice.

As it turned out, the knife was quite dull, and I don't think that I even cut the feathers on the first few swipes. Once I realized this, however, I finished the job in what I believe was a relatively painless operation for the chicken. The shopkeeper and my instructor told me that I did a very good job, though I think that I nearly cut off my fingertip in the process.

After the chicken has been killed, it is placed in a plastic container (basically a garbage can) to hold it during the infamous post-mortem convulsions. From these convulsions, I know understand, comes the expression, "running around like a chicken with its head cut off".

I have included a video below, though I imagine that many will not have any interest in watching it. Watch if you will, though you have been warned of the content. It is, however, a much less traumatic viewing than you might think.



I have also been meaning to discuss Moroccan hygiene for some time, and so I think that I will take this opportunity to do so.

First, Muslims as a whole, as far as I can tell, are very clean. There are, of course, exceptions, but in a religion in which one is meant to wash one's self five times daily before prayer, it should not be surprising that cleanliness is a common virtue.

Nonetheless, the hygienic infrastructure can be somewhat difficult to accept for a foreign visitor from the first world. In Driss's house, for example, there is one small room with a crooked wooden door that is reserved for all one's daily hygienic needs. In that tiny room, all of the normal toilet activities take place, as well as the process of the Moroccan "shower".

Most toilets here are what are called "Turkish toilets", which are basically holes in the ground connected to a plumbing system. There are often foot-shaped areas in the general depression of the toilet. These, quite obviously, indicate where one should put one's feet. Below is a picture of a basic Turkish toilet, though they vary greatly in quality and luxury. Some are much more "rustic", to use a gentle term.



Now, without going into too much detail, for fear of making this the most off-putting post I have written, Moroccans (like much of the world) do not generally use toilet paper. Thus the "right-hand rule" for eating, touching of others, etc. The left hand is the dirty hand, and not to be used for many other purposes than cleaning one's self.

In addition, to supplement the lack of toilet paper, every toilet room is equipped with a water faucet, and generally a small bucket. Ideally, though this is most common only in houses, there is a bar of soap.

So, that is the toilet. In general, though many are shocked by these practices, this seems to be a very clean process, and people are very careful to wash their hands and other body parts with great attention and care.

As for "showering", the American shower that I have always known and loved, is not very common in most of Morocco. The only exception, I believe, is hotels, which often have showers, and the homes of very wealthy Moroccans, where showers and Western-style toilets are both common.

Rather than shower, Moroccans use either the "hammam" (a traditional, communal bathing house) or heat up water in their homes to use for the purpose of cleaning themeselves. In Driss's house the process is as follows:

First, I tell Driss's sisters that I wish to take a shower. They heat up water and prepare the bathroom, placing a towel, soap, and a small stool in the bathroom. Once the water is hot, they place two large buckets of water in the bathroom, and let me know that I can enter. What follows is truly a pleasure.

I sit on the stool, and using a smaller bucket, pour warm water on myself. I soap up, rinse off with buckets of the water, and repeat. What is amazing is that I have honestly come to love this Moroccan version of the shower more than an American shower. There is something nice about the whole affair, though I imagine that this is aided by the fact that I am not allowed to play any role in the preparations for this process, and that everything is provided for me.

Okay, well that is it for today. I am off to relax with my friends Radwane and Driss at the vegetable shop / butcher where Radwane works. We are preparing a delicious tagine to eat outside the store before heading off the large town souq.

More soon. Sorry if anyone found this blog's content less than enjoyable today.

The Good Harvest

I can now die happily, as I can truthfully write the following sentence:

Today, while harvesting wheat, I spent quite a bit of time thinking about the importance of bread in the Moroccan diet and gastronomical culture.

Well, almost truthfully. To be honest, I mostly thought about cutting wheat and trying not to cut off any fingers.



Yes, ladies and gentleman, I cut wheat today. Perhaps this is not the most heroic or exciting of activities, but believe me, for someone raised in the upper-middle class suburbs of New Jersey, this is a feat on par with the first human landing on the moon. Growing up, I could not even tell you exactly where bread came from, beyond that it came from flour. I am not sure that I could have come close to explaining the process by which flour is made, nor correctly identified the useful parts of a wheat stalk.

As I am sure that many of my fellow citizens of Suburbia still could not. And so, today I consider myself fulfilled, one of my many dreams and desires having been made a reality.

As for the story behind the current braggadaccio: I arrived at Abdelhak's house the other day to find his father and some other men eating lunch there. This is not a common occurrence, as Abdou's father generally eats at the work site (he is a painter) and rarely returns home for lunch. He explained to me that he had been working in the fields on the hasada, the harvest, and asked if I would like to join him the next day.



Now, don't think that I didn't notice the glint in his eye or the slightly joking tone of voice. I think that he was amused by the thought of the visiting American working in the fields. Nonetheless, I decided to call his bluff, excited by the opportunity to learn something new and work in the fields.

I must say, the work was everything that I hoped it would be. It was hard work, tough on the legs and back and arms. One is constantly crouched or bent, and constantly slicing with one hand and pilings stalks of wheat with the other. Their are large, prickly bundles of wheat to pick up, and huge bags to fill and then place on a donkey's back. The sun is bright and absurdly hot, and in the fields there is no protection from its relentless rays.



And yet, it is fun. Everyone talks and laughs (not that I understand much of the talk), and there is constant coming and going of men with donkeys (they transport the wheat out of the fields). Everyone takes breaks to sip tea and eat 'khobbs mwarrak', a delicious, thin bread flavored with meat grease and spices, which is much more delicious than it sounds.

Now, I can imagine that the life of a farmer is not an easy one, or necessarily all that "fun", but here in Rachidia, it seems that most people have a regular profession or trade as well as a small plot of land for basic necessities such as wheat, animal feed, etc. And in this way, farming (I imagine) provides a bit of a change from daily life for the locals as well, as most of the work for crops such as wheat seems to be at harvest time.

And, while everyone working at first looked at me with a half-smile and a look that said, "whitey won't last ten minues," by the end of my work day (a half-day, as whitey was going swimming), everyone was telling me how well I was doing, my cutting abilities had vastly improved, and I understood the basic steps of the entire harvest process. I even think that I actually provided a helpful service.



As far as the "importance of bread in the Moroccan diet and gastronomical culture", I think that I will leave that for another day, though it is something on which I would like to elaborate. For now, my sunburnt skin, my blistered hands, and my tired body say that it is time for food, rest, and sleep.

More soon.
(Oh, and Jerz, I'm wearing sandals)

Rachidia Continues

It has been a long time since I have written anything worth its salt, but I hope that today I can make up for some of my recent absence.

Things have been good here, and I continue in Rachidia, with no definite date of departure. At the moment, I am thinking of staying until the 14th, at which point I need to begin to work my way up to Portugal.

My days vary in their activities, though every day has a number of similarities. I seem to do a lot of walking or cycling, a lot of sitting around doing nothing, and a lot of eating and drinking of tea.

Yesterday, for example, serves as a perfect average day here for me. I woke up early and headed off with Abdou and his brother to visit with all the friends and family that work in the painting business. We hung around for hours, tried our hand at waxing the walls (they have some very strange ideas, at least for me, regarding painting here, many of which involve glitter), cooked lunch (my first real tajine-it was simple but delicious), hung around some more, took a walk around the nearby university, fell asleep in the grass, and went back to the house that was being painted.

After hanging around some more, Abdou and I rode our bikes over to the town zoo--a very nice park with three or four sad cages filled with sad animals--and walked around a bit before heading back to our bikes, and ultimately, back home.

After taking a quick "shower" (more in a moment regarding hygiene), I headed over to the house of some other friends, Hassan and Said. I had been invited the night before to have dinner there, and Driss and Abdou were to join me. There, for nearly three hours, we were stuffed with food and tea. Everything was delicious, but the quantities were absurd, and as a guest, I am spoiled to the point of being ridiculous. Not to mention that only today did I learn a nearly failproof manner of denying more food or drink. More on that soon as well.

Needless to say, we left the full and exhausted, after having listened to multiple cds of local bands and seen every photograph in the house. A wonderful time, though full of traditions that can at time be somewhat tiring.

While this sort of day has been typical for me, I am starting to see that the typical day for locals is not quite as idyllic. Now, obviously life is difficult here. I am not so naive as to not realize that nearly everyone here wishes that they had more. Nor do I think that the men sitting around idle at their jobs would not like to be working, if only there were work to be had.

Nonetheless, I am not sure that I realized the extent to which violence, death, drug and alcohol abuse, and the like figured into the daily life of many here.

I began to notice this with news of universities around the country, and the violence between various groups, political and cultural, that exists. The most prevalent problems seem to be between the Amazigh (Berbers) and a group known as the 'Camaradas' (Che Guevara wannabes, as far as I can tell). The day that I arrived in Meknes, a 'Comrade' had been killed, and two have recently been killed here in Rachidia. That would explain the military presence around the University, I guess.

As if this were not enough, the wedding that I attended the other night (which I left early to go to sleep) was also the scene of acts of violence. Apparently some people from a neighboring community came to the wedding (all such events are held outside, and there is therefore no attempt to control attendance--all are welcome to attend certain parts of the ceremony). They had apparently been drinking, never a good thing for Moroccans (read: often inexperienced and/or socially outcast). Around four in the morning, various fights broke out (all contained within that same group) over silly affairs. Knives were drawn, bottles were broken, and blood was drawn. Later on, this same group set fire to a local man's handcrafted cane fences, which lie prone in the road at all times, ready to be sold.

I continue. Yesterday at Meski (the local natural springs where I often go swimming), a man and a woman, (a prostitute), fell into the water after having drank quite a bit of Mehhya (a local spirit, very strong, originally a Jewish beverage). When they pulled themselves out of the pool, the woman spit the water in her mouth in the man's face. He promptly began to beat her up, she returned the blows, cops were called, and they were both hauled off in handcuffs.

And to complete the trifecta of local blood and violence, a few days ago, again at Meski, a man fell from a palm tree while retrieving his bag (people often put their bags high in the tree so as to deter any theft) and died while waiting for an ambulance.

Now, all of these acts and accidents are not here described to highlight dangers of Morocco. Morocco is, on the contrary, a very safe country (note that all the violence described was within specific groups with specific grudges, and furthermore that I don't often climb palm trees). What I do mean to describe is an omnipresence of "real life" that seems to be quite expected and accepted here.

Fights happen, as does death, and people don't seem all that fazed by things. Driss is eighteen years old, and saw this young man die on the ground next to what is basically his town pool. I saw him later that day, and he did not seem disturbed or overly upset. In fact, he only told me about this today. If I had seen such a thing, I think that I would have nightmares and be unable to think of anything else, at least for a few hours, if not days.

This is, of course, but one of the many ways in which life here in Morocco differs vastly from life in the US and many other countries. This is the theme that I would like to begin to expand on in this blog for the remainder of the trip, and I hope to not fail in this plan. For today, I would like to present a few interesting points and thoughts about marriage.

First, let me get this out of the way, and leave this clear and simple. Cousins get married here all the time.

I guess that I should not be overly surprised, but I am.

I asked Driss the other day how a friend of ours had met his wife, as I am quite interested in the marriage traditions here. Basically, I was aware that mothers are often responsible for the organization of what is essentially an arranged marriage. This is not to say that freedom doesn't enter into the equation (at least for the man, I am not sure about the women, though I think they too have veto rights). On the contrary, I have spoken to many young men who tell me that they have told their mother to find them a wife. They seem to accept, and even enjoy, this passing of the marital buck. The mothers, it seems, get to work with enthusiasm.

Anyway, I asked Driss how this friend of ours had met his wife, and he began to describe--"Well, she is the daughter of his mother's brother".

"You mean his cousin?" I asked him.

"Yes, his cousin," he calmly replied. I continued to ask about the wives of other men that I know, and in the two or three cases I asked about, all of the marriages were marriages between first cousins.

I must say, I found this quite shocking, though I say again that I should not be surprised, as this happens all around the globe. Still, it is weird to see something so accepted in one place and so socially unacceptable in another.

Now, I must also say, and I mean no disrespect (although, cultural relativism aside, I find cousins to be a bit too close genetically for marriage) that, as far as my untrained eye can tell, this custom has its consequences. Just in this tiny suburb of a tiny city, I have met one person with Down's Syndrome, one man referred to as "crazy", but who obviously has some sort of mental retardation, and one deaf man. I have seen children and grown men with thumbs growing off of their thumbs, and more cross-eyed people than I have ever before seen. In general, people seem fine, and healthy, often healthier in fact than most Americans, but the percentage of birth defects seems too high for it not to be a direct consequence of this kind of marriage.

All that aside, I must say that a Moroccan marriage is a glorious affair (read my old post on that from last summer) and something not to be missed, if possible, by anyone visiting Morocco.

Okay y'all, that's it for today. Off to the desert-like roadside with some friends, a guitar, and a hookah. More soon on hygiene and more.

Update from Rachidia

I am unable at the moment to write much, but I wanted to share some photographs of my recent activity here in Rachidia.

Things are going very well, I have been keeping very busy with visits to families and associations, meals and walks and bike rides. I am slowly but surely learning to speak Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, and this is very exciting.

Enjoy the photos. More to come soon, including an analysis and description of Moroccan bathing techniques and an exposé on marriage in Rachidia.


A visit to the workplace of friends (they are painters), and a shared meal (tajine cooked on site by yours truly and Abdou)



Wire sculpture by Chris Pancho Bond, constructed while waiting in the hot sun for lunchtime to arrive and the workers to stop working.



Woman carrying huge bag of something very heavy. It is balanced on her head, at times slightly aided by the fingertips of one hand.



With Driss and Rdwan at the weekly Souq (market)



Watermeon (dlah) at the weekly Souq.



Helping out at the bookstore in the binding of my Darija textbook. (A photocopy of the Peace Corps language guide for Morocco--Copyright rules here are as closely followed as they are in China).



At class with Abdou and his professor, Aziz.

Rachidia Still

I have finally sat down to tell a bit about what I am doing, where I am, and how I got here.

I left Azrou the other day in a bus for Rachidia. I had planned on stopping over in the town of Midelt, but upon consulting the guide book, I decided that Midelt had little to offer, and that I preferred to go straight on to this town.

The drive here was incredible--a constantly changing landscape that swung like a pendulum between the extremes for which this country is famous. Verdant landscapes of crops and grassy hills were followed suddenly by rocky, hot, dusty terrain. Just as suddenly, mountains came in to view, and the contrast between the hot country of the low altitude and the snows of the mountaintops was stunning.

In truth, it was a terrible ride--all bumps and vibrations, the inside of the bus hot, stuffy, and filled with noxious fumes. The view, however, more than made up for the wretched travel conditions, and I truly enjoyed the ride.



Arriving in Rachidia, I took a "grand taxi" out the "suburbs" (which are all called "ksar")to meet my friends. Everyone in the taxi looked at me is if I were crazy, unable to comprehend why I would possibly want to head out to the suburbs of Rachidia. Rachidia itself is a strange destination for a foreigner. The suburbs are even stranger.



I have been busy these last few days, visiting with old friends, swimming at the local natural spring (La source bleu de Meski), walking through the oasis at the edge of town.

I have been sleeping at Driss's house, and his family has been so incredibly welcoming and generous. Every time I turn around, someone seems to be giving me a gift or forcing food down my throat, asking if I need anything. They are amazing, and very helpful as well in helping me to learn Darija, the local Arabic dialect. Driss's parents and sisters speak no French at all, so our conversations are quite limited, but I am quickly learning, with the help of Driss and his brothers, words and phrases that help me to communicate, and day by day I speak more (but still, in the scheme of things, very little).

My language learning has been, I hope, something of a good time for them as well, as every time I open my mouth, the entire room (no matter where I am) laughs until I am afraid that they will piss themselves. I believe that I destroy Arabic with the best of them.

This is not to say that I speak all that badly for a foreigner. It is, in fact, quite rare for any foreigner to speak Darija, and so I believe that people here appreciate my interest and my modest attempts. Still, it is a very difficult language, filled with strange and complicated sounds (one letter here is often described as the sound of someone being strangled, and another is basically a strange "k" noise pronounced at the back of the throat).

I have also spent a great deal of time with Abdou's family, with whom I stayed the last time that I was here. It is very interesting to see the way in which Abdou relates to the community, and he is a very good person to know, I believe. He is currently training to be a nurse, and so is very active with a number of health-related organizations here, providing vaccinations, hygiene awareness, and the like. He is also involved, through these contacts, with other organizations and associations, and yesterday I had the opportunity to visit a local women's cooperative with him.


These local women, with the assistance of a couple of Peace Corps volunteers, are working to market their handicrafts and art as a way to supplement household income and preserve artistic traditions of the community. Their work is beautiful, and they seem to be doing quite a bit to advance their cause.

Today, in fact, I will visit another local cooperative with Abdou, as we have been invited by one of the women involved in the association here in Ksar El Barrani.

In general, things are great here. Similar to last time, I must occasionally demand (very subtly and gently) a bit of autonomy, as Moroccan custom would not have me spend any time alone at all. Moroccans seem to always be together, and even such solo endeavors as writing emails are group activities here. Unfortunately, my own upbringing and culture has made me unable to handle such constant and close proximity to people, and so I occasionally go a bit crazy with the desire to spend some time alone. So far, though, it has been good, and everyone has been very understanding of my strange and foreign customs.

Not much more to report at the moment, as it is difficult to tell all that I am doing and experiencing here in short period of time, but I will write more soon. For now, I have included above a short video of the beginning of the bus ride here, as well as a couple of photos. One is of the internet cafe that I use here in town, one is of Driss's mother.

Only more three more weeks here in Morocco, as on the 21st I must be in Lisbon to meet Ellen at the airport.

More soon. I hope that all are well.

Rachidia

I just found out yesterday that only foreigners call Errachidia by that name. Locals call it Rachidia, and so from now on, so will I.

I do not have much time to write at the moment, and so I will keep this post short, and reserve the space for a few photographs. Soon I will return with a full report on the happenings here in Rachidia as well as the previously promised videos and photographs of my journey from Azrou to here.

Below you will find photos of the following:

--Me with my friend Driss, sleepily sipping tea
--The creation of my new (somewhat too large) sandals by Abdelhak, the brother of Driss. Amazing, really, how quickly that man can make a shoe.
--Driss's Aunt. I have a nice picture of his mother that I will post soon.
--Driss's sister with Driss. His sister is (good naturedly) telling me not to take her picture, not saying that she is No.1

I hope that all are well.

Ksar el Barrani, Errachidia

I have arrived in Errachadia, and I am currently in the suburb of Ksar El Barrani, visiting with friends.

I am not sure how long I will be here, but I am no rush to leave. It is wonderful to see these people after so much time away, and there is much to do and many more people to see.

The drive here was beautiful, and I have some videos and photos to share, which I will do tomorrow. For now, off to eat and then to sleep.

I will write more soon, as soon as something happens and I have more time.

Ifrane

After my last post, I decided that it was time for a walk, a real walk. I started off down the road toward Ifrane, a town about 18 kilometers (around 11 miles) from Azrou, unsure of how far I would go.

The sun was quite hot, but the altitude and the occasional breeze kept the temperature reasonable, and I found the walking to be very pleasant. I walked along the main road between the two towns, keeping to the shoulder for shade and protection from vehicles.

I ended up going all the way to Ifrane, and the exercise and time in the hinterland was everything that I hoped that it would be. To be honest, I have found myself at times on this trip wondering why I have returned to Morocco. The places that I visit no longer hold the same mystery as they used to, as my familiarity with the country and many of its towns and cities have robbed me of a bit of the old excitement that I used to feel.

This walk, however, reminded me of my reasons for returning, refueling my desire to learn more of this country and to meet more of its inhabitants. At one point, about five kilometers into the walk, I crossed the road to sit outside a shop. Some locals were there, enjoying the shade as I was, and we began to talk a bit. They asked where I was going, where I was from, etc. I ate a bit of bread and drank some water and said goodbye, commencing once again my walk to Ifrane.



About a minute down the road, I turned back, called by one of the men with whom I had been sitting. He waved me back, and I returned, wondering why he was calling me. As I approached, I saw a silver platter sitting in the shade. Bread, butter, and tea sat there, and the man told me, "Eat, eat."

I sat back down and followed his instructions. Soon a woman came out, her young son clinging to her skirt. She gave me more tea and said hello, smiling at me. She made her son say hello to me and kiss my cheek. He then ran to hide shyly behind his mother's leg, peeking out on occasion. Each time that he did so, I would make a face at him, and he would hide again, laughing.



I continued to walk, passing little stores, school children, and other people walking. The air became slightly thinner as I moved farther up in the mountains. Suddenly, after passing rather humble houses, I came upon a spot where construction workers were busy building what appeared to be a palace. They worked on both sides of the road, building turrets and towers, walls and irrigation ditches. The place was huge, and extended far up the mountain and down into the valley. After asking a number of people (French only goes so far outside of the big cities), someone finally explained to me that someone from Abhou Dhabi was building some sort of resort there. Truly a strange contrast out there in the middle of nowhere. I took a photograph, but it was impossible to do justice to the place.



Down the road I went, passing a grouping of touristy shacks selling fossils (quite a common item for sale in Morocco) and other trinkets. I took some pictures of the monkeys that were hanging around the place, spoke with some guys in the area, and continued down the road.



Ten kilometers or so later, I reached Ifrane, a beautiful, strange town. Ifrane is home to an elite university called University Al Akhawayan. The University is based on the American system, and classes are taught in English. From what the Lonely Planet Guide Book tells me, this is place for the Moroccan political and economic elite, and the town and its inhabitants give the same impression.

It was bizarre, leaving the wooded mountain landscape and entering Ifrane. There, the roads are wide and lined with huge, shade-providing trees. A massive park takes up much of the town, and sprinklers and gardeners alike hydrate the vegetation with intensity. Children with book bags passed me by, looking at me, one occasionally saying, "Hi!" before nearly falling down laughing, seemingly amazed by their own courage. At one point, I stopped someone to ask for directions to the town center. "Do you speak English?" he asked me in response to my own question in French, "I speak English more fluently than French." This alone is an anomaly here in Morocco.



Even stranger than the presence of English in this small town was the architecture, which betrayed the town's history as a creation of the French "Protectorate" in the 1930's. Nearly all of the houses resembled nothing so much as Swiss chalets, complete with gardens and fountains. It should come as little surprise, then, that only 20 kilometers away lies one of the premier Moroccan ski resorts.

I finished my tour of Ifrane with an espresso, sore and tired. Some men at the cafe asked me how my walk had gone, and responded to my questioning look by explaining that they had seen me many miles before, at the site of the tourist shacks and the monkeys (Barbary apes, actually). The taxi ride back took only fifteen minutes, and in that short time, I saw all that it had taken me three or four hours to walk.

Tonight: calm relaxation, a nice dinner, and an early bedtime. Tomorrow: Midelt.

Ah! And one more piece of exciting news. I will be returning to Europe and the Iberian Peninsula earlier than expected. Ellen arrives on the 21st of June in Lisbon, and we will spend six days soaking up the sun of the Portuguese beaches, before I need to head to work in Southern Spain. After she leaves, I will have one week to kill before work begins, and I hope to visit some of the weirdo hippie encampments in the mountains outside of Granada.

More soon.

Photos

It is ten o'clock in the morning, and so I have done little today, but the Internet is so cheap here (fifty cents an hour) that I decided to treat myself before going out for a walk.

I have some pictures of the last few days which I will place below. Some are from a small children's parade in Meknes (notice the young boys holding a picture of the King. One of them has a paper hat that makes him look like a condom. Just like a bachelorette party.) Others are from here in Azrou: a picture of the landscape, one of the view from my hotel window, and one of a billboard with a photograph of the King.

In case it has not become quite obvious, the King is a very important figure here in Morocco. He is NOT like the Queen of England, who is basically a mere figurehead. Here in Morocco it seems that the Parliament is a figurehead, and the King is all powerful. Nevertheless, this King has been quite liberal, and has been a major force in creating new freedoms for Moroccans. This is not to say, however, that these freedoms have reached a level that many countries would deem acceptable. Freedom of the press, for example, is still something of a chimera, and most newspapers, even those of the opposition, fawn over the royalty in a truly sycophantic fashion.

One exception is Moroccan journalist Aboubakr Jamaï, editor of the newspaper Le Journal Hebdomadaire. His writings, quite independent and quite frank, have resulted, most recently, in a 350,000 dollar fine, and "rumors have it that he plans to self-exile".

Even the opposition newspapers, such as L'Opinion, however, display a bias (not that journalistic bias is anything rare anywhere in the world) that can be shocking to Europeans or Americans. I have included a somewhat blurry photograph below of a political cartoon from this newspaper. The caption reads, "It is a Palestinian activist". Notice the way in which the Israeli is drawn.



While this may be shocking, it is perhaps important to consider the way in which the US and European press often depicts Muslims and Arabs, or the recent controversy over the depiction of the prophet Mohammed in European newspapers. Bias and prejudice are certainly not limited to the Muslim world

Still, it is shocking to speak with people here about Israel, Palestine, and the politics of the Middle East in general. Anti-semitism is quite common, and it is not uncommon to hear seemingly rational, very friendly people on the street voice their negative opinion of Jews with few qualms.

Interestingly, the Jewish presence here in Morocco was quite large until the 1950s. After the beginning of the Spanish inquisition in the late 1400s, Jews and Muslims alike took refuge in Morocco, and lived in relative peace for hundreds of years. Most Moroccan cities boast a Jewish cemetery, in fact, and it is said by some that the blue color of the walls in Chefchaouen is a legacy of the Jews, though many locals will deny this fact. Unfortunately, the independence movement of Morocco in the 40s and 50s gave rise to a strong feeling of anti-semitism, and most Moroccan jews fled to Israel at this time.

Enjoy the pictures below, leave a comment, and check back soon.

Azrou

I have arrived in Azrou, a fairly sleepy little town about an hour and a half south of Meknes. I have done little today besides stroll around and read a newspaper, as I am feeling a bit under the weather and need some resting time.

Besides that, nothing of great interest to report. More soon, with some photos of Azrou.

New Town and Shave

After doing some internet work yesterday, I headed out into the New City of Meknes, curious to see what lay outside of the old quarter and general Medina area.

I walked through the streets, cracking on sunflower seeds and marveling at the differences. Here, the McDonald's rose as high as the mosques of the old city, and the cinemas boldly displayed movie posters of seductively posed women clutching at men.

Hip-hop style, that new lingua franca of the fashion world, dominated the fashion of the youth, and steely-eyed young men with stone faces walked like cartoon rappers down the street.

Bars were in evidence, though still quite discreetly, hidden behind the darkened windows and closed doors of "pizzerias".

Young women walked, their long robes not quite long enough to hide the baggy camoflauge trousers that they wore.

I continued walking, turning down a side street, wide and cobblestoned. The place looked like an MTV video, packed with people in baggy clothing and shirts emblazoned with the faces of American rappers and international pop idols. Tupac passed, and then Eminem. Che Guevara's face flew by.

A young boy approached me, perhaps around fifteen years old. He asked where I was from, and I told him Albania. He immediately made me nervous, staring covetously at my bag, which I cinched tighter around me. He followed me down the street, slapping friends five as we passed them in the cafes. I asked him what he wanted. He asked me if I was Mafia, and laughed, sneering at me.

His conversation was impossible to follow, he recited the names of French and Spanish cities, asked me again if I was "mafia" and then offered to sell me something which one sticks up one's nose. Heroin or coke, I was not sure, nor was I interested.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked him.

He sneered again and continued to walk with me. I shoved the package of sunflower seeds into my pocket, blocking off access to my money. I cinched the bag tighter and continued to walk, waiting for the moment when this local punk would try and rob me.

It was funny, really, that the first time in this trip that I have felt nervous was right then, intimidated by a fifteen year old who obviously knew everyone on the street, had no fear, and seemed intent to rob me. I continued walking, not scared, more annoyed that my walk should be interrupted by this need for care, for caution. Suddenly, just as he had appeared, he disappeared, saying goodbye and walking back the way we came.

I only understood a few moments later, when I too saw the police officer that he had obviously seen before me. I continued on my walk, undisturbed.

My friends have just left town, heading off to Casablanca, and in a few hours I too will leave, for Azrou, a small town about one and a half hours from here. I decided to clean up today, before leaving, and changed my clothes, took a shower, and got a shave.

This is something that I do from time to time, and I generally regret it as soon as I have done it, wondering why I shave, get mad at myself for doing so, and then do it again. Still, there is something attractive about changing one's face so easily.

I went to the barbershop, and the man took care of me. He lathered up my face and used a straight razor, wiping off the foam on a nearby sponge, until my skin felt like silk. He finished up by putting aftershave and skin cream on my face. It was a pleasant experience, though somewhat soured by what I believe was an absurd price for the work (twenty dirhams). Nonetheless, it is done. Check it out below.