Humanitarian Caravan Pictures Up...

Girl With Her Brother
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

Some Pictures from the AIESEC Humanitarian Caravan are now up... Including plenty of cute kids.

Same photoset, new pictures

The Days Are Just Packed

Out of necessity, I've begun "normalizing" back to life in MN. Today started off with breakfast at the Bandbox, where I surprised myself by eating solid food a day after the wisdom teeth were forcefully yanked out of my mouth. Then, off to see the grandmother, misc errands, and a movie date with myself to finally see Crash (a little emotionally heavy-handed, but not a bad movie, if contrived).

Anyways, as I'm trying to get at, as much as I left life here, it really didn't leave me. There's still things to do, people to see, and the same old responsibilities. One of those pseudo-responsibilities now includes getting some more pics up, which is just what I've done (thanks again for the pix Souad).

Old & New Pix

They're still mostly from the Sahara, or our goodbye party.

A Berber Girl in Erfoud

A Berber Girl in Erfoud
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

Merell Leading her Camel

Merell Leading her Camel
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

(A Few) Pictures Online!

Thanks to the wonders of MSN Messenger, I managed to get a few pictures from Souad today (thanks again!). So, I uploaded 17 random photos from our trip to the Sahara and a random little German-themed party we had at the apartment. I've already posted three, and the other 14 are on my Flickr page(photo hosting site).

Moroccan Photo Set

Enjoy.

Sun Rising Over the Sahara

Sun Rising Over the Sahara
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

That's me in the foreground with my ridiculous foreign legion hat.

Amine, Naoufel, Youssef

Amine, Naoufel, Youssef
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

Der German Party

More German Party!
Originally uploaded by Un Enfant Terrible.

Gabe and I (I'm on the left) at natalie's german shindig

Welcome to the Truman Show

This morning, my mom and I took a walk up to the local diner to get a big greasy American breakfast. As we stepped out of the house into the cool 60ºF weather, I took a look around. The sky was blue, the streets didn't smell like diesel, and there weren't any stray cats scampering across the sidewalk. In theory this would be a calming effect , but a vague sense of unease settled in. As we walked down the street lined with parked Saabs and Volvos, and said a cheery "good morning" to the new neighbors and their baby boy, I muttered out "welcome to the fucking Truman Show" (this was of course uttered out of earshot of the impressionable baby boy) under my breath.

Being back so far in the states (16 hours and counting) has been more interesting than I thought. Everything, from getting on the tram at JFK Airport, to seeing the multitude of blondes in Minneapolis, to adjusting back to speaking only English (I would like to apologize to the Sbarro employee at JFK Terminal 4 for ordering in French, and to the old asian lady named "Mickey" who took our tickets for not understanding "thank you" in Dirija) has been an adjustment.

Right now, sitting in my own room, drinking up the last bottle of Sidi Ali I have, pounding this out on my own laptop, I'm starting to grasp at how more filtered it can be here. Part of me misses the nitty-gritty, part of me doesn't. While it's nice to smell genuinely fresh air, have personal space, have domesticated cats around, and eat a big fat slab of ham, it feels somewhat surreal and even unearned. After dealing with an environment where people are so different, yet have the same goals in life, it's challenging to know that you can come back home to what you have.

One of the things that's made this part of the transition so much easier is the fact that, thanks to the wonders of the information superhighway, you can do pretty much everything except for be physically with somebody. I was lucky enough this morning to talk to somebody important to me online through MSN Messenger, and hopefully, once I get this DVD I got form Youssef working (if anybody from AIESEC Morocco is reading this - I've tried the DVD on 3 separate computers, none of them can access the data... do I need a program or something?), I can look at some of the pictures and videos taken in Morocco, and get some posted up on Flickr, inshallah.

N'Oubliez Pas Le Maroc

Today, I went over for my final trip to the Reseau Maillage office in Akkari with a tub of Jif peanut butter as a present. When I showed up, we busted out a glass bottle of Coca-Cola and some pain rond and had a little going-away party. One of the last things that Youssef said to before I got in the cab was "n'oubliez pas le Maroc" (don't forget Morocco). After giving the guys the obligatory double kisses on the cheek and reassuring them that I'd do my best to come back in the spring when I'm in Paris studying abroad, I got into one of my last petit taxis and headed back to the apartment to finally start packing.

On the way back, I unwrapped the white robe the two Youssefs had given me as a going-away present, only to realize it was the same type I'd gotten "married" in a few weeks back during my spurious wedding to Elizabeth. Looking over this robe, I finally realized I was heading out. There are still a few more goodbyes to say (I'm not planning on sleeping before my 4am car to Mohammed V airport), but I'm essentially done here. Back to the states for wisdom teeth removal and miscellaneous relaxation (how dorky would it be if I took up bird watching?), then DC, Paris, then?

Although I really have no clue where I'll be a year from now (and frankly, like it that way), what the guys at the association said to me today mattered. I know I'll always have amazing friends here, and Morocco is something that will always remain a part of my life. Since this'll probably be my last post from Morocco proper (I'll write a few follow ups and try to post some images on my Flickr photo account), I just wanted to say how much this summer here has genuinely meant to me. It's pretty rare that 9 weeks makes such an impression on a person, and I'll never forget Morocco.

A Syrian Movie Set

This morning was one of those where I woke up with a burst of energy that quickly dissipated. By the time I managed to make it to the local cafe around the crack of 11:00 am with my Mom and Merell, I had lost msot of my initiative, which wasn't a good thing, since I'd loaded up today with trips to the Necropolis of Chellah, the Rabat Archaelogical museum, the Royal Palace, and the grand souvenir-purchasing trip to the medina with my buddy Benaissa to help haggle.

Once my mother and I finally made it over to Chellah, we found the entrance blocked by what could best be described as 13th-Century Arab soldiers, replete with scimitars and composite bows. Thinking they were some kind of historically out of place tourist stunt, I attempted to get through the large pack of them, only to find myself walking onto what was soon described to me in hushed tones by a French man as a Syrian movie set. Looking in front of me, I saw the remnants of some medieval battle, with extras sprawled all over the inside gate of Chellah. While we were waiting for them to finish up some shots, a mercedes truck rolled up with whom were clearly the stars of the movie, these three big Syrian guys with impressively cut beards, medieval clothing, and Persol sunglasses. They soon crowded into the entrance way along with the other extras and an incredibly confused and bewildered Japanese couple. Soon, the scene broke up, and I managed to get inside the ruins to see some truly amazing gardens and some killer columns and Latin inscriptions (laugh all you want). The large number of extras milling around smoking cigarettes and playing with their swords only added to the ambience...

Budget Medical Care

Every now and then, there are still what I term "absolutely ridiculous Moroccan moments" here. For example, this morning, Gabe and and I were drinking coffee outside of our hotel in Meknes (Hotel Toubkal - total crap, don't stay there) when I saw an ambulance coming up slowly past us. The reason it was moving at such an incredibly low speed was because it was being pushed along by the guy riding shotgun, with the driver half-heartedly giving the ground a few shoves with his left foot while he attempted to steer the vehicle (not much of a challenge at his speed) through the streets of Meknes. Watching them edge into the intersection (and upon noticing, thankfully, that nobody was in the back), I couldn't help but start laughing, despite my better judgement. It was really the sheer absurdity of the situation, watching an ambulance being pushed through the streets (thankfully the driver didn't take it upon himself to simulate siren noises) at a snail-like pace that prompted it.

Gabe, upon viewing the same spectactle, had an identical reaction to the whole thing. After being here in Morocco for a certain amount of time, and after passing through what one terms "culture shock," there are still plenty of moments, where despite what you know and accept about another culture, that are just plain absurd. In these cases, they're all in the details, encompassing what else you know about the culture to comprise the full effect.

For example, in this case, I know that Moroccans don't really maintain their cars as well as they should, and rely more on fixing stuff when it breaks than regular maintenance. Additionally, instead of getting a tow truck, or anything along those lines, it'd be easier to just push the car back to the hospital, or wherever it came from than to wait around for others to help you.

Anyways, now that I've totally broken down and overanalyzed a previously funny situation, I'll leave it at that.

There and Back Again

Tonight, as I finished scarfing down a quarter of a chicken with fries around 9pm with the mother here in Rabat, I had one of those "I can't believe I was there today!"-type moments.

This morning, I was roaming the Roman ruins of Volubilis, situated 33km outside of Meknes. Looking out over the amazing Meditteranean countryside (Gabe, my Mom and I all swore it could have been Tuscany), I had one of the most peaceful and de-stressed times I've been able to manage here. It was something about the combination of the history of the place, the beauty of the surroundings, and the knowledge that this would be one of my final days in Morocco that added up to a surprisingly reflective experience.

It's said that when the British transported Greek ruins back to England, the poet John Keats looked at the ruins like "a sick eagle looking at the sky." Although my reaction wasn't quite so poetic, there's something about treading through ancient streets that gives one a sense of permanence and impermanence here. There's a sense of tangibility that everyone always craves - to be in what's familiar, to touch, to hold, or to be near someone. At the same time, as evidenced by the rock-strewn landscape, devoid of the original Roman Carrera marble (it was plundered by the Sultan Moulay Ismail for his grand palace in Meknes in the 18th century), in the grand scheme of things, nothing lasts forever. Be it my trip to Morocco, or even what's left of my 20s, 30s, etc. Being here has really taught me how to hold on to what I can, remember what I can't, and hopefully gain some perspective on what I should value in the future.

Marrakech by the Numbers

Number of fresh Orange Juice Stands in the Djemaâ el Fna: 50
Number of Western tourists in the same area: 1000+
Number of European men wearing capri pants: 300
Number of times I was referred to as a place name in the USA by a street vendor(ie: "Hey Chicago!"): 3 (Chicago, New York, Arizona)
Number of times I was offered Hashish: 3
Cost of a horse carriage ride to the Palace Badii: 40 Dirhams
Total cost of our small, cozy, and thankfully air-conditioned hotel off the main square: 760 Dirhams
Average Temperature: around 105 Degress Fahrenheit


Overall, Marrakech was quite the experience. For the first time, I really felt like a Western tourist, which was much more unsettling than I thought it would be, given the fact that I really don't consider myself one (c'mon guys, I work in Rabat!). The best part about the city was the architecture, which felt distinctly more African (it was the Berber capital) than its western counterpart cities in the North. Everything was a clay/adobe color with well-kept gardens, winding boulevards, and random Moroccan ornamentation.

My only problem was that since I've been in Morocco for over eight weeks, I've already had what one might term the "Moroccan Experience:" I've seen plenty of decorative arts, architecture, souks, and Moroccan character over my time here, and that made Marrakech slightly less enchanting. If one was on a trip, it would be a markedly different experience, but for me, the combination of a been there, done that feeling with the obnoxious vendors and petit taxi drivers colored my experience a little.

Ye Olde Itinerary

Well, since I have a full docket for the next week or so (ie: finally doing some serious traveling), I thought I'd let everyone know what's up.

Tomorrow morning (saturday), we're taking the train to the airport to pick up my mom's lost luggavge, then we're going straight to Marrakech to stay through monday. From there, we're coming back up to Rabat, then over to Meknes, Volubilis (old Roman ruins outside of Meknes), and possibly Fes. Then, back to Rabat for the last two days to say goodbyes, buy final touristy items, and drink plenty of Moroccan mint tea... Time's been flying by lately, and I'm going to be really sad to leave. Here's to hoping we get a hotel room for saturday night in Marrakech (everything is full... in theory).

The Mother Cometh

Today started abruptly with me slapping the alarm clock at 3:15am, groggily wondering for a few seconds as to why the hell I was awake. As I became more lucid, I remembered I had a 4:00am train to catch to Mohammed V airport to pick up my mother, who was coming in from Montreal this morning. After somehow managing to drub up enough motor skills to put a t-shirt over my head, I quickly brushed my teeth and started the 15-min trek to the Rabat-Ville train station.

What struck me first about the walk to the station was the eerie calm of the morning - there was barely anyone on the street, and Rabat for once seemed calm, a rare feat in a bustling third-world metropolis. About ten minutes into my walk, the silence was punctuated by the almost unearthly sound of the Muezzins' call to prayer throughout the city, broadcast live from the towers of various mosques. For those of you who haven't heard the sound, it can be somewhat disconcerting at 3:35 in the morning, since it assumes a supernatural quality in its rhythm.

After finding out that the time of the train had mysteriously been altered twenty minutes forward, to 3:40am, I hurriedly grabbed a petit taxi to the next station, where I managed to literally jump onto the last car of the departing train (this one was literally the "Marrakech Express"). I finally made it into Mohammed V Airport, picked up my mother, had a rather heated conversation with the lost baggage guy from Royal Air Maroc (seriously buddy, don't talk to my mother that way), and we went on our way back to Rabat, hoping that the luggage situation would resolve itself before we leave for Marrakech on saturday.

Back at the apartment, Tima came over and spent the next several hours lovingly preparing a chicken tajine - a great intro to Moroccan cooking for my mom. The highlight of that was that we needed some dirt to put under the charcoals to elevate them so they could cook the tajine properly. So, I went on a quest in the Nouveau Ville with a plastic bag and one of our plastic kitchen cups. Soon enough, I happened upon a dirt pile right off of the main road by our apartment. Swallowing my remaining pride as a dirt scavenger, I got down on my knees and began shoveling the dirt via the plastic cup into my plastic bag. In doing so, I can safely qualify that I officially received the weirdest looks I have ever received in my life from the passing Moroccans, a family of four stared open-mouthed at me the entire time (the idea of a Westerner scooping dirt in the street into a plastic bag clearly didn't compute). Anyways, with the dirt collected, the tajine went off without a hitch.

The rest of the say consisted of more mint tea, a trip to the casbah, and a quick jaunt through the medina. For the coup de grace of the evening, I showed my mom the best street food combination in Rabat - 2.50DH fresh-squeezed orange juice (aptly referred to by the mother as the best she's ever had) and 1DH warm coconut macaroons.

One of the most surprising parts of the day has been how regular everything still seems here. I'm really looking forward to showing her more around Rabat and the rest of Morocco, and for the chance to finally be a bona-fide Western tourist for a bit (albeit, one who hopefully has decent haggling skills by now).

Reflections on ESL

One of the biggest parts of my experience here on the Salaam Program was the two english classes that I taught everyday. Comprising a revolving list of characters, from 13 year-old girls to 33 year-old former soccer players, it was one of the most rewarding and exhausting parts of being here.

The most difficult part about teaching ESL is that it throws everything you've taken for granted about your language into disarray. All of a sudden, you find yourself analyzing the way you talk, your grammar, verb forms, etc. I've probably made more mistakes with English here now that I've started to think about what I say - instead of throwing a switch in my brain between present and past tense, I've become more conscious of the difference between all the different tenses and such. Often, students will ask me a question, and my mind will race, trying to formulate some sort of grammatical rule out of the nonsense that is a language taken for granted.

On the more positive side, there's been a fair share of interesting and downright funny experiences; I've had to do three closed-door sessions with my older classes where I explained in great detail how important the words cook, sheet, and beach were to pronounce correctly (I'm pretty sure the mis-pronunciations speak for themselves)... The worst part was that as I've already mentioned, I work right by the Akkari "Beach," so consequently, it's a frequent topic of conversation. Hearing about "beautiful beaches" from my students reduced me to tears of laughter more than once. Also, thanks to some of the grammatical irregularities you're bound to encounter in beginning english speakers, the word "cook" caused a few problems. While discussing hobbies, I had three girls in a row express their love for cooking by saying "I like cook." Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one to catch on, as some of the 16 year-old 50 Cent fans figured out why I was trying to stifle my laughter.

Another interesting angle on ESL has been the textbooks and workbooks we've managed to scrounge up. A lot of times, these books contain interesting lessons or grammatical errors. My favorite is a reading excerpt from the "Move Up" series of workbooks comparing my home state of Minnesota with New York City:

After New York, Minnesota didn't seem American at all. People walked slowly and purposefully, wearing yesterday's clothing, They sat for hours in cafes drinking lemonade and eating mountains of popcorn. They didn't argue about unimportant things. They arrived at church early on Sunday morning. They didn't have meetings. They didn't worry about investments. They didn't talk on car phones. They drove slowly, mostly in Chevrolets and old pick-up trucks and they parked carefully. The women all looked like someone's mother or daughter. It was like long ago. But this was America. And I wanted the noisy street life, crowds hurrying, people shouting noisily, taxis honking their horns...

This antebellum dystopian vision of Minnesota (which made me choke on my popcorn and lemonade) was followed up by a few questions, such as "Write down 4 things that people do in Minnesota. 1) They walk slowly and purposefully..." It also includes the same question on NYC, with response #1 already filled in as "They have meetings."

Overall, the best part of the ESL Classes were the students. They functioned as an amazing gateway to meeting people in Morocco I wouldn't have otherwise had any way of meeting. Out of those classes, I've met some of my best friends here, and have established contacts that hopefully one day, when I take my kids to Morocco, they'll be able to meet too.

Obscure Message # 782 (ie: it's just a song)

Iron & Wine : A Passing Afternoon

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children til she lets them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling around the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone

cheers

An Ever-Growing List (Subject to Heavy Updating)

What I'm most looking forward to about America:

1. Going up to my place on Lake Superior
2. Pork...
3. An Oreo Milkshake
4. Chinese food
5. My Car
6. Functional Sidewalks
7. My own bedroom (I've been living with 10-14 people since I've been here)
8. A big fat juicy American Hamburger
9. Putting new songs on my iPod (who ever thought 3150 songs could get old?)
10. A Johnny Walker Black on the rocks

Identity

Every now and then, I'm lucky enough to go hang out at my buddy Youssef's apartment in Agdal, which is the ritziest quarter in Rabat(ie: most Western, since the bourgeoisie here is completely Westernized). While I'm there, besides enjoying enjoying the seemingly futuristic un-potholed sidewalks as I check out all of he cafes and western stores - everything from Diesel to McDonalds represents - I always take some time to engage in some cultural anth by watching "Hit Music Black" on Youssef's pirated satellite. Hit Music Black is beamed out of France, so in addition to all of the damn Akon, 50 Cent, and Destiny's Child, there's a fair amount of what I've termed "really angry French music."

This music, largely hip-hop, including everything from Kool Shen to MC Solaar to Wallen (right sp?) has become a really interesting parallel to my experience here in Morocco. It's pretty common for Youssef or one of the other Moroccan AIESECers to point out that the next clip up is from a Moroccan living in Paris.

These songs deal with intense issues, with some complaining about the lack of employment, such as the laid-back but serious "donne-moi un SMIC" (give me a job, SMIC = french term for minimum wage), while others, such as the French native Kool Shen, with his North African rapper compadres literally rap about throwing over the French Government, with deliberately incisive and violent scenes in their video for "sortez dans les rues" portraying the overthrow of a police raiding force (there are literally areas of Paris where the police do not go because it's too dangerous).

A lot of these problems involving Moroccans and other North Africans extend from the lack of ability (or attempt) of European Governments' assimilation models. These immigrants are thrown into housing in the outskirts of cities such as Paris, given no jobs (or shit jobs), no opportunity, and are separated from their mother country, often splintering their own perceived national identity. For example, if you're a Moroccan who lives in Paris, you're not living in your "home" country, the French don't really want you there, so what recourse do you have? Often, it's anger. These people are no longer North African, not quite European, and are left with this black hole of personal identity.

These suburbs have given rise to this new, angry, economically deprived group of immigrants. Through my time here in Morocco, I've been lucky enough to meet 7 or 8 Moroccans here who were born and live in Paris, but are back in Rabat on summer vacation. The consensus has been pretty much unanimous - they're not too thrilled with their situation in France, resent the French assimilation model, but have trouble reconciling that with the tangible benefits of a European wage, especially when almost every Moroccan I've met her has some family in Europe.

Another case comes from somebody I've met here who I've become very close with, an ethnic Moroccan who was born in Copenhagen, Denmark. She speaks Dirija at home with her family, Danish with her friends, and speaks impeccable American English thanks to the massive influx of American media into Europe (she even gets every one of our stupid expressions - one recent text message from her said: "where you at?"). However, the question of national identity is a slightly more sticky one - she doesn't really term herself Danish, even though she was born and grew up in Copenhagen. Instead, she might classify herself as a Moroccan living in Denmark, but that's not wholly accurate - her accent makes it clear that she's not Moroccan when she speaks Dirija to people. In truth, searching for a national identity in a situation such as hers can be difficult - what do you define as home?

I'm bringing this all up because before coming to North Africa, I'd had a few less-than-savory experiences with North Africans in Paris, and had experienced the French viewpoint on them - which is alarmingly negative even among the educated and more liberal people that I've met. For example, when my buddy Andrew was beaten up after a soccer game in Paris, and I mentioned that to one of my French friends while I was over there at the same time, his first question was "were they Arabs?"

This all has been weighing on me because I intend to study in France Spring 2006, possibly in Paris. Even just keeping into account recent situations, such as Oprah Winfrey being blocked from the Hermes store in Paris because they were recently "having problems with North Africans," I've tried to fit together as many pieces of the puzzle as I can here. What I've emerged with has been nothing sort of labyrinthine and incomplete jigsaw puzzle, with many pieces still missing. One thing I do know is that when I'm in Paris next spring, I'll have to seek out some Moroccans just to say "salaam aleykoom", or even to toss in an "insh'allah." I consider myself incredibly lucky that I've been able to glean something out of this experience that will hopefully help me in the future - now here's hoping for more dialogue...

One Day in the Life

Up until this point, I realized I have yet to describe a moderately typical day at work here in Rabat, so I figured I'd describe one of the most "Moroccan" (read: leisurely) days I've had here yet.

Yesterday (28 July), I got up at the crack of 8:45. After rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and sleepwalking into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I put on my clothes and Twins baseball cap and headed out to the local cafe with some of my fellow Americans. I got the "usual," a pain au chocolat and a cafe au lait with one lump. After relaxing at the cafe for a good 45 minutes, talking with Elizabeth, we took a petit taxi out to Akkari for work (with work winding down, we've stopped taking the bus, since it only saves you about 4 dirhams each way...). I got into the office around 10-ish, checked my email on the Association's computers, and did the morning greetings, catching up with some of the people that were hanging out there. At 10:30, I taught an ESL class for my intermediate students, we worked on business introductions and follow-up questions, then reviewed some grammar and had a discussion on American media in Morocco.

After that, we met up with one of our students, Hind, who took us back to her place in Akkari for an amazing lunch. We ate this delicious chicken dish served with a bread-like pasta, drank plenty of Mint Tea, and ate lots of fresh fruit for dessert, which included figs, grapes with seeds, and these curious fruits called "hindos" (?? on sp). I got to chat with Hind's dad, an old guy at 71, who had been in the Gaullist Army in the 1950s, stationed in Germany and Morocco. He brought out his old identity cards and service records, and being a total history buff, I loved looking through all of it.

Getting back about 2 1/2 hours later, I showed up just in time for class, only to be invited by the few students who were there yesterday to go hang out with them. Since class was kind of a bust, thanks to the combination of vacationing students and the lure of the nearby Akkari beach, I ended up hanging out with Youssef and Youssef, my Moroccan brothers here. Since one of the Youssefs is reputably the greatest soccer player to come out of Rabat (he's now 33), I went with the two down to the beach, tracing a slow and steady path to the soccer field the next quartier over. On the way, we stopped at an animal hospital, looked at some dogs, cats, horses, and donkeys.

Finally arriving at the Reseau Maillage field, I stuck around to watch a game of fast-paced and well-played soccer by kids around the age of 12. Youssef's team took on the challengers on a small, 40m long concrete field, staffed on either end by goalies guarding small goals. After hanging out there for a while, watching the kids literally head the ball around the field for 40 min, I took a petit taxi to head back to the apartment for the aforementioned Dutch Party...

"This is too Much Party!"

Ok, first off, imagine the title of this post being exclamed in a heavy (and annoyed/frustrated) German accent, repeated several times, followed by "we have a concert tuesday, party wednesday, Dutch party thursday, and bye-bye party friday! This is too much party!" If you've never met an upset German speaking English, this might not have the same resonance, but for the members of the Real World: Rabat, it's become golden.

This aforementioned statement, made by a rather perturbed German, who doesn't like this degree of craziness and lack of order, was in response to this week's busy social calendar. Several things, such as the Rabat Music Festival, and the fact that many of us are heading out within a week and half has created no dearth of social engagements.

Last night, for example, was the Dutch party, resplendent with Dutch and French flags (if the Dutch can't tell the difference when they buy them, how am I supposed to?) and a nice heavy dish of carrots, meat, potatoes, and milk, all mashed together. Served for twenty people, the whole meal went over well, and paved the way for a Dutch dessert, aka tea, chocolate, and small tea biscuits.

The highlight of the night came with the serving of the tea. For those of you that don't know, Moroccans love sweet beverages, from their hot milk with a drop of coffee and 3 sugar cubes, to their ridiculously sweet Mint Tea, they know how to up the sugar quotient. Imagine their surprise at being served weak Dutch black tea with no sugar. After a few nasty faces made by the Moroccans, I sat down next to them, watching them gingerly sip the tea with faces askew, or nibble gingerly at the biscuits, turning them over in their hands as they did so. One or two were enterprising enough to actually dip the biscuits in the weak tea.

Realizing this was an exploitable situation, I sat down next to a few of my Moroccan buddies and informed them that this was actually "Dutch Chocolate Tea," and that you had to add some of the provided little dutch chocolates to the liquid. After doing it myself, most of the others warily did the same, pausing for a few seconds with the chocolate bar dangling over the tea, much to the confusion of the Dutch girls, who had just returned from the kitchen. After adding in the Dutch chocolate, a few of them cautiously sipped the surprisingly decent tea. Proclaiming it not quite ready for consumption, they brought out the sugar jar, with each person adding spoonfulls of granulated sugar to their respective small mugs. At this point, Ryan, Gabe, and I were laughing so hard that the jig was clearly up, but we ended up getting a few thank-you's from the attending Moroccans, who now happily sipped their noticeably sweeter Dutch Chocolate Tea.


PS - I know that I've already mentioned in my "Candy Shop" entry about the lack of diversity in music, but I'd like to note that I have now heard Celina Dion's "My Heart Will Go On," followed by THREE repeats of Akon's "Mr. Lonely," thankfully sung along to by the tone-deaf Moroccan internet cafe operator. I want to put a power drill in my ears.

Dispatches from the Front

A while ago, back when I moved into the apartment here in Rabat with 8 other Americans, I jokingly named it "The Real World: Rabat." Little did I know, my prediction wouldn't be wholly accurate. Instead, we've managed to trump any season of Real World with the sheer absurdity of our goings-on.

Ever since the Americans arrived, and started their whirlwind tour through themselves and other Moroccans, things have been getting and more complicated. Adding to this has been the addition of three new trainees: Merell and Bernadette from the Netherlands, and Nathalie from Dusseldorf, Germany. Add in frequent houseguests: Khan from Mali, three ladies from the south of France, Souad from Denmark, plus the omnipresent AIESEC members, and you'll come away with some interesting stories...

Without being as annoyingly vague as I've already managed to become, this traineeship in Morocco has been a lot more than a work experience, it's been an experience in drama, coping, women, cultural sensitivy (I swear one day I'll stop making fun of Germans...), and pretty much everything in between. As time begins to wind down (I'm out of here the 13th of August), and as I wait for my mom to come in on the 4th, I'm left with some time to think about everything that's happened here, good and bad.

At the risk of being cliche, the best thing I've learned here is not to sweat the small stuff, and keep the (imagined) big stuff in perspective. I've slowed down a bit, lightened up, calmed down, and have hopefully changed for the better.

In doing all of this soul-searching, I've been helped along by the Moroccan emphasis on people and warm personal interaction. I know I've already talked about hospitality/touching and things along those lines, but I just want to reiterate how great it's been to be able to get into a petit taxi, and by the end of the ride, come out as good friends with the driver... time after time.

A Weekend in the Sahara

Since it's now early Monday afternoon, and I'm in a semi-lucid state after one of the craziest and busiest weekends of my life, I thought I'd try to reconstitute some of what happened this past weekend on our whirlwind trip to Erfoud and the Sahara Desert...

The trip started out on Friday night with a 10pm overnight CTM Bus to Errichidia. Seventeen upbeat Westerners and Moroccans (including our recently arrived, and understandably bewildered Dutch trainee, Bernadette) slogged our way through the bus lines to appropriate the back few rows of the bus. The trip started off un-eventfully - given the fact that I can't fall asleep in moving vehicles, I witnessed a lot of hair-rising and beautiful sights on our 8-hour overnight journey. The initial part of the trip took us past Meknes and Fes, before we entered the passes through the Atlas mountains. At this point, the ride became increasingly like a rollercoaster, and less and less like a jaunt through the Moroccan countryside. Adding to the ride was the beautiful Moroccan sunrise, which illuminated the mountain passes (a little bit too much for my tastes, sometimes you just shouldn't look down).

After a sleepless night, we arrived in Errichidia early in the morning and took a grand taxi (an old, 1970s-era Mercedes - used as a shared-ride taxi for 6 passengers) on an hour trip to the desert town of Erfoud. The population of 7000 was composed almost exclusively of Berbers - the "more" indigenous people of Morocco - in comparison to the Arabs. Tensions were clear, when I got out of the Taxi and was beset by two young men hawking local necklaces, I responded with a perfunctory but clear "La" - Dirija for "No." The older of the two guys looked at me blankly, and responded in English: "what is this word, 'la?' I don't understand this word." After briefly flailing to explain myself in French, he responded further: "'La' is not our language, I don't speak it."

Basically, there are 3 popular Berber dialects in Morocco, and while they're almost unheard in the coastal cities, they enjoy a strong ethnic role in Berber Morocco. The reason that this man was able to respond to me in English - which was somewhat startling - is that, as was explained by Moroccans to me, ethnic Berbers resent Arabic being imposed upon them, and also resent French. It's not uncommon to find Berbers who know their local dialect and another language such as English instead of Dirija or French.

Anyways, once we decamped in Erfoud, we quickly found refuge from the absolutely stifling dry heat in our local friend's apartment. After laying down for a few hours, we ate a lunch of couscous and drank some local "fresh" sour milk before heading off to our three waiting Land Rovers. From there, we took the land rovers (with our professional guides behind the wheel, unfortunately) on the hour trip to base camp by the Sahara. Forgoing traditional roads, we made the arid and flat land our highway, rolling along at suicidal speeds through some incredibly rough and varied terrain. As a side note, seeing a Land Rover cutting up a swath of dust in its wake as it travels over the open land with the dunes of the Sahara in the background is one of those images I'll have with me forever.

At base camp, we unpacked our things and gathered a few provisions for our night in the Desert. Taking the guides' advice, I packed lightly - two large bottles of water, sunglass clips, and this foreign-legion-style hat that I'd picked up at REI back in Minnesota. From there, it was onto the Camels for a two-hour ride straight into the Sahara.

I'd like to take a moment to express my feelings on the subject of camels. Firstly, up close and personal, Camels are really fucking ugly. Possessed with random spots of fur, and smelling of God knows what, I found my enthusiasm slightly dampened before boarding. Once up on my vantage point, I took off my poor Havainas and stashed them in the saddle's rigging, bare feet hanging down. As we began our steady ride into desert, I found out several more things about camels: They are absolutely prodigious shitters. 50% of the time, there is something coming out of a camel's ass. This fact was reinforced by the steady trail of dried camel dung along our trail, marking the way better than the windswept tracks. Another thing is that camels require what can be described as a certain amount of testicular fortitude to ride. In plain terms, they reduce your crotch to mincemeat if you don't know how to lean back correctly (and by "you," I mean me). The quilts on top of the hump did little to quell my chafing, as I found myself disembarking an hour and a half into the ride out of sheer necessity to walk barefoot through the desert for the last 40 minutes (by the way, I lost track in the dark of how many pieces of camel dung I marched over).

We rounded the last dune to sight of three small lights far off, marking our campsite - a small encampment staffed by one incredibly nice old Berber man and a veritable army of scorpion-killing cats. Situated at the base of a 200 ft sand dune, we unfurled our blankets and laid down to watch the stars. The stars materialized as we finished our food - a local Berber dish of onions and "meat." And by materialized, I mean popped out all over the sky, visible thanks to the total absence of light pollution. After doing the whole "Holy shit! We're in the Sahara!" thing for the next two or three hours, we settled down and stayed up most of the night (for those of you keeping track of my sleep tally, through the second night, I had a measly cumulative three hours) watching the amazing night sky.

The next morning, we were up at 4:30 to watch the sunrise. Scaling the 200 ft sand dune to reach our vantage point turned out to be exhausting (climbing up almost-vertical sand is worse than one might imagine for the legs), but after a fair amount of cursing, we straddled the skinny peak of the dune, with legs over each side to watch the sun enter. And what a sunrise it was, as the light raced across the sand, signaling that it was indeed time to head back to the camels before it became blisteringly hot.

We rode back through the dunes (I don't think many people realize how varied the terrain is in the desert - it's almost mountainous with all of the dunes, with no real open spaces of flat sand). From there, a mercifully cold shower at base camp, and back to the waiting Land Rovers for a rather painful ride for my rear back into Efroud. After spending a few hours at one of the local pools, all 17 of us boarded ONE (the number one rule of third-world transportation is cram, cram, cram) four-wheeled horse cart for a 5 klick dirt road voyage to a small Berber farm outside of the town, where we quickly unloaded, at some local dishes of sheep, and sprawled out under palm trees in the still-oppressive heat. From there, we took the horse cart back, then a grand taxi to Errichidea (the different types of transportation I had this past weekend was mind-boggling: buses, land rovers, camels, horse carts, grand taxis, petit taxis). After pulling some strings - "we are all Americans from the US Embassy and need to get on this bus to Rabat or we will call your supervisor" - we all managed to get back to Rabat in one piece monday morning.

Apologies for the length of the post, but the sheer amount of stuff we did this weekend hopefully necessitated it. Suffice to say, one of the craziest weekends of my life (man, I'm just chalking up crazy experiences over here), and despite functioning on a grand total of six hours of sleep for friday, saturday, and sunday nights, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Wait, No Hummus?!

After a conversation with Andrew on AIM yesterday, I realized I should probably talk a little bit more about some misconceptions about Moroccan food. First off, I have yet to find hummus or falafel here. None. Pita bread is similarly scarce - I can purchase it in the supermarket, but I have yet to find it on the street or anything. You're much more likely to find either pain rond or baguettes. Normally, when Moroccans serve bread here in Rabat, you'll get a pain rond and some sort of tomato-based dipping sauce. Often, the bread functions as the silverware - you'll use a piece of bread like a pincer to grab food from a communal plate, such as one used for tajine or couscous.

Another thing. Couscous is really only served on fridays. Everybody loves it, etc, but it's a special dish for friday, which is a Muslim holy day (people often pray for several hours, or something along those lines). Additionally, it's normally at lunchtime, not dinner, which becomes the big meal of the day.

It's pretty common to find pizza, sandwiches, burgers, rotisserie chicken, chickpeas, tajine, and stuff along those lines in most sidewalk restaurants. The most common accessory is french fries - which I eat about twice a day... Most sandwiches come with a sack of french fries, or a street vendor will just throw them on top of the sandwich before he wraps it up. I think this is largely a remnant of french colonization, as are the ubiquitous sidewalk cafes.

I literally go to a cafe here every morning. It's not uncommon to find as many as two on one block, all with basically the same schtick: old guys outside sipping cafe noir, cafe au lait, or misc cold drinks. Inside, there's normally one or two overworked waiters, who sell various drinks and juices and normally a small selection of largely french pastries - croissants, pain au chocolat, apple tarts, and other local stuff. It's totally french, and I love it. The only annoying part for me is that it's hard to separate Morocco from France in that regard. While these cafe goings-on are uniquely Moroccan, I almost feel like I'm in some random French city.

An Afternoon with Al-Jazeera

Yesterday, we had a reporter from Al-Jazeera visit our apartment to ostensibly give a presentation on the Arab World after 9/11. After this guy opened with Huntington's Clash of Civilizations, a theory with so many holes in, it's not even worth addressing, I knew the presentation would go nowhere. Soon afterwards, I *found out* that the Jews had left their holy land a long time ago because they wanted to make money because that's all they cared about. After this comment left a third of the Moroccans in the room nodding their heads (admirably, not the AIESECers), I figured it was time to leave. Knowing that A: this guy's english was poor, and B: he wouldn't answer any of my questions directly, I decided to put on the Johnny Cash and lie down for about two hours, all the while hearing loud voices in the main room of the apartment.

After the session, I talked to the rest of the Americans, who came out rather frustrated because the directness of their questions was not reciprocated with direct and clear answers. As the rest went to lay down, I thought more about what this guy had been saying. And once again, I'm ot trying to be Tom Friedman...

The way I see it is this - there needs to be a paradigm shift in regards to how we communicate cross-culturally. One of the big limiters to this ideal state of open discourse is open minds and open education. Any Arab who comes into a conversation on the West and the East with such strongly preconceived notions (don't worry, I'm not only picking on Arabs, everybody needs to be more open) about the enemy, the opposition, or whatever one will term it will never come away with anything positive.

The problem with this prevalent victim mentality in the Middle East is that when you're a victim, you're owed redress. Everything else is tertiary until your the wrongs against you have been righted. The proliferation of this victim mentality on both sides, and the accompanying stereotypes and falsehoods about one another makes the necessary discourse literally impossible.

Possibly because I come from an academic background, where I believe strongly in information (I don't even want to tally how many books I've had to read as a history major), I hold this view. Whatever the reason, I don't really know how to effect change in this type of circumstance. All I can hope for is that people get a chance to talk with other people, no matter what preconceived notions there are (ie: I maybe should have stuck around for the discussion, despite the headache it would have caused...). I was going to end with that immortal, ahem, Rodney King quote, but instead, I'm just going to think about this more. I think misinformation is the greatest sin in this new age of information.

Pour La Sante

Although it's been temperate ever since I've been in Rabat - normally in the 80s and 90s, and sometimes even dipping to the 70s - I've been interested in why people literally don't drink water here. For example, being an American and all, with our 8 glasses a day, I'm always lugging around my oversized Nalgene bottle (with my 89.3: The Current sticker representing). When I'm at the apartment, you'll normally find me with a glass of water, or something along those lines by me (Arab Coke = less sugary + more drinkable). At meals, I can pound down four or five glasses of water (waiters hate me) on a light day. This extends to most of the other members of room, such as my fellow Nalgene-carrier, Mr. Ryan Burbach.

This has only compounded my surprise at the lack of water people drink here. Part of this was recently explained to me by some of my Moroccan friends, who I've found out, are kind of like Europeans in their weird health habits. For instance, Moroccans believe that drinking water during a meal is bad for your health. For some reason, they believe it'll expand your stomach too much and make you sick. This was backed up by the newly arrived dutch trainee, Merrell, who, gasp, agreed with them (by the way, if you're counting, that's now 11 people in one apartment). As a counter to this, I drink exorbitant amounts of water during meals to show them they're wrong, no negative effects yet, besides bloating...

These weird health principles also extend to vitamins, or vitamines en francais. Moroccans love to talk about how many vitamins things have, especially things like fish, which they extoll for their vitamins, and various fruits. However, for digestive reasons, it's a good idea here to eat fruit by itself (so the vitamins don't get diluted?), and at an isolated time during the day. My friend Ziad eats fruits every day around 5pm, so that he can fully benefit from the vitamins... I tried introducing my Centrum Chewables to some of the locals, but they hate that chalky texture (eating a Tums almost sparked a health crisis for one - lots of sputtering and gagging noises).

Doesn't Anybody Understand the Prisoner's Dilemma?!

Yesterday was quite possibly one of the most exhausting days I've had here in Morocco. Waking up at the crack of 7:45 on a sunday, I grabbed a quick shower and headed down to the far side of the Rabat Medina to board the first of two buses that would ferry us all out from Rabat to one of the poorest areas ringing the city.

Once we were there, we encountered pure chaos. AIESEC and several other organizations had banded together to create basically a large-scale free medical clinic on the site of a school. Expecting around 600 Moroccans, we were deluged with over 900. This influx of people was a recipe for chaos, as people rushed the tents to register (where I happened to be working). For the next 5 or so hours, I worked as literally desperate people (who have no other access to health care) tried to get their children and themselves to the front of every line.

The experience was made more challenging by the fact that nobody understood French - it was definitely strictly Dirija. I used what I knew - salaam aleykoom, labas, and stuff along those lines, but the best form of cultural communication was definitely being warm and having a smile on your face. I understood where they were coming from, and what this meant to them, so it definitely diluted any frustration I had - it's difficult to get angry at someone who needs something so bad.

Anyways, definitely a moving experience, felt like I was more on the Peace Corps than an AIESEC Traineeship for one day. Also put city life in perspective for me - I work in what would be described as the most "popular" of popular quarters (to use the french lingo that they use here), but it doesn't compare in poverty to the rural poor I encountered up close and personal on Sunday. Honestly, anybody who can do work like that for their career, I salute - it's some of the most draining and frustrating (but also rewarding) work one can do.

A Moroccan Wedding... Mine

Yesterday was capped by a party out in Akkari with the guys from Reseau Maillage (the boyz). After giving a presentation on Politics, Economics, and Consumer Culture to the local english-language university and attending two yawn-inducing information sessions, I was ready to cut loose.

Unfortunately, my ability to cut loose was curtailed as soon as I showed up at the office for the party. I was quickly shuffled into a back room, where I was instructed to remove my shirt. Before I knew it, I was decked out in the traditional male ceremonial robes - something you might see around Fez. After being transported to yet another room, where I found my teaching partner, Elizabeth, resplendent in the traditional female dress, I was informed of our impending nuptials. Following male instinct, I tried to escape the ceremony, only to find out there was no way out. My exits were blocked and I felt like I was witnessing the end of my ahem, illustrious, bachelorhood.

Soon, the door was thrown open to reveal thirty clapping and loudly laughing Moroccans. After my embarassment/surprise was thoroughly entered into the photographic record, I watched as a speech was given, and refreshments were served. Resisting the urge to get bombed at my wedding (not to mention the lack of alcohol), I made the acquaintance of one of the local men who worked as a clown. After spending thirty minutes in a conversation with him composed exclusively of pantomiming and weird clown pantomimes, I extricated myself so I could put back on some less oppressing clothing (don't get me wrong, the robes were comfortable, but definitely toasty. Couldn't imagine going through a whole real ceremony in them). Back into my "could you point me towards Connecticut?" outfit of seersucker shorts and a polo, I finished up the party, figuring out ways to avoid my new bride to be to limit any more compromising photo ops.

Anyways, after another day of conferences and heavy eating, I'm sitting in my buddy Youssef's apartment (yet another one), watching "Hit Music Black" on the telly. Tomorrow I have a humanitarian medicine caravan thing at 9am, and so goes another weekend. Next weekend is going to be the Sahara though, so always stuff to look forward to...

Shit Happens

The beach near Akkari, where I work, is to say the least, treacherous. Lacking any sort of sand, it's more a collection of cliffs, small pools, and craggy rocks, beset by a rather nasty Atlantic Ocean that frequently whips waves at the shore. Given that, I was somewhat surprised to find out that it was also a popular local swimming destination for primarily the male residents of Akkari.

Local activities include wave dodging on the craggy rocks, taking dips in the low pools, and balls-out swimming in the roiling ocean. Admittedly, they don't throw people unprepared into the sea, but no matter how you swing it, it's one dangerous pasttime. Last time I was down there with some buddies, I managed to scratch up my leg dodging a ridiculously large wave, while Badre received a nasty cut all the way down his right forearm that'll leave a serious scar.

Given all of this, and other behavior I've seen here that one might file under Culture Shock, I've been reevaluting what's important. After seeing how people cross streets/highways, drive, eat medina food, and regard life, I've hopefully come away with a modicum of perspective on the subject.

Americans are undoubtedly concerned with personal security - one might even argue to such an extent that it can actually inhibit enjoying life. I've already talked about my toning down of my squeamishness quotient - to what extent can one enjoy life without regard for the possibility of negative consequences. Should I jump off that cliff into the ocean, should I climb onto the back of Ahmed's rickety Peugeot moped without a helmet, should I try running across the street before the bus gets there? These types of questions have come to permeate every day here, and the longer I stay, the more I've been apt to err on the dangerous side (don't worry Mom).

I guess there's a way to do things safely, there's a way to do things without regard for consequences, and there's a middle road where sometimes shit can happen. Now I just have to figure out how to walk the line.

Gettin' Friendly

Lately, I've been reading An Army At Dawn by Rick Atkinson. It's an exceptionally well-written account (even won the Pulitzer) of the US Army in North Africa. One of the things that Atkinson touches on is cultural preparation for American GIs in North Africa - ie: what to expect, and how to deal with it. One of the most prominent parts of the training is this: if you see two guys walking down the street, holding hands, they are not, I repeat, are not, gay. They're merely friends showing friendship.

Coming from America, where I've always felt we're way too uptight about physical touching - especially between male friends - this has been a not-too-difficult adjustment for me. Just now, as Youssef (a different one than Youssef 1/2) was showing me some new english software he got for the internet cafe here in the office, he put his arm on my back. It wasn't creepy, sexual, or anything with suspicious intent, it was merely a way to show that we're friends and that we're close. When I cross the street to go to lunch, it's not uncommon for Kamal to grab my hand, and even back at the apartment we've managed to tone down some of the squeamishness if somebody puts their arm around you.

This even extends to the French practice of kissing on the cheek - which is very common here in Morocco, even among men. You don't normally (of course, there are always exceptions) plant a big wet sloppy kiss on somebody's cheek, it's more of either an air-kiss or a little peck. Obviously, this contrasts strongly with the American high-five, or distant handshake (maybe a hand on the shoulder if you've known the guy ten years...).

While I understand and remain very sensitive of inappropriateness - especially in regards to male/female goings-on - this has honestly been a breath of fresh air. It's not that I've discovered a heretofore unknown side of myself, ahem, but more that things are just more comfortable this way. You have friends, you have warm relationships with them, and there is touching or kissing on the cheek, but there's nothing about it that's sexual or inappropriate.

That Time When I Fished for Comments

Since I'm over here and all, if anybody has any questions about Morocco, or anything they want to hear about in regards to culture, religion, how good the hashish is (kidding) drop me a line in a comment or send me an email.

Football

I thought I'd get away from the geology metaphors after the last post and talk about the most popular activity in Morocco. Football is, without a doubt, the national pastime of Morocco. People don't "play" football, they do football. It's incorporated into everything to such an extent that I have yet to hang out with "the boys" without seeing a football around (by the way, for us Americans, fotball = soccer). You walk down the street juggling a ball, you practice goalkeeping on the beach (and then get yelled at by mounted police) and just plain do whatever you can with a football whenever it's available.

For kids, it's a way of life. One of the surest sights every day when I walk around Akkari in the morning is kids playing football. They'll play with whatever's available - tennis balls, little bouncy balls, or, if they're lucky enough to have one, a real ball. Kids form up quick teams, designate goalkeepers, and play in side streets all day.

Part of the reason for this, I've found, is how freaking simple it is to organize soccer, compared to any other sport. All you need is a ball, any ball, and you've got a rudimentary game going. No field? Use a street. No football? Use a tennis ball.

One of my heretofore private shames here in Morocco has been my lack of skill with the ol' kicking bag. In layman's terms, I can't play soccer worth shit. The few years of rec soccer as a young one haven't been as helpful as I've hoped, and normally I've relegated myself to the sidelines with the pathetic declaration, "pardon! je joue le tennis." Never before have I been so conscious of how damn bourgeois playing tennis is. Watching these kids play the game with such ebullience definitely gives me that whole "if I had to do it again" feeling.

Plate Tectonics

Morocco, as does any culture/society, has certain parts of its culture which I've termed the groundwork, or bedrock of society (and without attempting to become Tom Friedman, I'll try to go into it now).

For example, if you were to go up to an American and tell him/her that freedom of religion, or freedom of speech were not inalienable rights, and that you didn't agree with them - you'd encounter a rather hostile or confused person. Just as we regard certain parts of our society as so integral that changing them would amount to a tectonic shift, the same is true of Moroccans.

Islam, heterosexuality, the King Mohammed VI, and several other ideas form the bedrock of Moroccan society here. Religion is not part of the culture, religion is the culture - even explaining the concept of Atheism (depending on what day you ask me, I might classify myself as one) is so bizarre and foreign that most people that I've even talked to about it literally don't understand it. For example, my friend Badre believes that if I read the Koran, I will become Muslim because it will move me so much.

As far as sexual identity is concerned, you ARE heterosexual. Outside of some liberal enclaves like Marrakech, homosexuality just is not even on the table, not an option, not even to be spoken about. My cabbie on the way home last night, after inquiring if Elizabeth and I were married (sorry bud, we're just teaching partners), told us this story about a lesbian couple that got into his cab, getting quite animated in the process. It was literally something incomprehensible to this cabbie.

For Moroccans also, the king is the state and the state is the king. This guy is a descendant of Mohammed himself - you don't talk bad about descendants of Mohammed unless you want to get a tajine smashed over your head.

What's made this so interesting for me, is that, coming from a place where there is such free discourse, I've essentially had to reign myself in (don't worry, no big blunders yet). Moroccans are an incredibly warm people, but it can be difficult having certain subjects off the table. Luckily, some of them are so common-sense (israel and palestine, anyone?) that the margin for error is pretty small.

Octupi Please

I was making an exit from work today when I was stopped by some of "the Boys," including the two Youssefs, Taoufik, and Khalid. We BS'ed for a few minutes before one of the Youssefs handed me something wrapped in tinfoil. Looking at the strange and bulging package, I inquired as to what was in it. Youssef happily grabbed it back to me, and unrolled the aluminum foil to reveal two dead squid, both about half the length of my forearm. Smiling from ear to ear (quite like my first fish fry experience), I thanked him and the others profusely before asking about what exactly I was supposed to do with it (they got a good laugh out of my asking where I could buy a fish bowl). Turns out, that Octupi can be eaten raw, but it was captured yesterday so ostensibly it wasn't fresh enough - a theory I am not willing to test. So, the best way to cook these squid is just in a skillet with "jus natural" as they informed me.

I did get a big kick out of bringing the squids home and sticking them in the fridge with the aluminum foil on, only to inform various residents of the apartment that we got this "absolutely amazing" food from work today that they have to come and take a look at. Melissa didn't take the *reveal* moment so well, there was shrieking and cursing.

I guess the moral of this whole deal is that I'm becoming less and less squeamish - the only way that's been happening is by being repeatedly put in uncomfortable situations... c'est la vie.

A Ten Dirham Sandwich and a Street Brawl

Last night, Ryan, Melissa, Tima and I went down to the medina on a quest for our new favorite ten dirham sandwich. You must understand, this thing is ridiculously finger-licking good, full of turkey w/ spices, potatoes, rice, mayo, spicy sauce, and olives, all crammed into half of a pain rond.

As we entered the medina, we were confronted with the traditional sights and sounds of this crazy gathering place. Shops angled out onto the streets, vendors had rolled out blankets with pottery, kitchen supplies, and everything else one can imagine. In addition, there was the street food - some of which I've already talked about: fresh-squeezed jus d'orange (made with these amazingly sweet local oranges), grilled meats, tajines, sandwiches, fresh fish, and anything else that somebody has been enterprising enough to sell.

On our way to what we now term "the sandwich place," we ran into a mob of people, from the middle we heard some angry yelling in Dirija. All of a sudden, three men burst through the side of the mob towards us, yelling, pushing, and partaking in the obligatory removal of shirts. Soon, things got more physical, as they started fighting right in the middle of the street, much to the consternation/curiousity of onlookers (I just want to state that this is not some sort of common occurence). We had to push through the other side of the mob to evade the brawl, which took a few minutes because of how tightly packed everyone was. As we were on our way, I looked back and saw one of the guy's heads hit the ground hard, hopefully he wasn't concussed. Just as that happened, the police showed up and broke up the whole thing - I assume the guys were hauled off to jail.

London

Sorry for the tardiness on this post, but I thought I'd talk a little bit about the London terrorist attacks in terms of what I've experienced here in Morocco, a Muslim country. Firstly, thanks to the wonders of the internet, information here was pretty easy to find - by cobbling together AP Reports, stuff from Al-Jazeera, Google News, etc, I was able to get a decent picture of what was going on.

When I first heard about what happened, I got goosebumps and immediately started checking information on the internet. Of course, all I heard from my friend Badre was "did you hear about the bombings in London?" Reactions from my friends here were incredibly uniform - contrary to a misinformed public perception, people were greatly saddened and angered by it. Nobody that I've talked to in any way expressed anything but that to me.

Furthermore, the people here are greatly angered by the misuse of their religion, their life, as a tool for violence. One of the most commonly equated terms for terrorists here have been the "Mafia," or criminals. These terrorists are not regarded as brothers in arms, but people who sully the name of a beautiful and many-layered religion that I am only beginning to understand.

I really do extend my greatest sympathies to London and to the UK, as do all of my friends here in Morocco, who share in my outrage and sadness for these abhorrent attacks on humanity.

Masculine Cultural Anthropology... Otherwise Known as a Day with the Boys

Yesterday, I got to hang out with Youssef 1, Youssef 2, Taoufik, Khalid, and Simo, all guys from Akkari who are either in one of my english classes, or are somehow involved with administration here. I've tentatively (for lack of a better name) termed us "The Boys," or if you will, "Da Boyz."
These guys are all in their late twenties and thirties, and a total blast to hang out with. We started off the day by buying a ridiculous amount of viande hache (ground "meat," not, mind you, ground "beef") from a local vendor. We paid some local guys to fry it up on their grill in the center of Akkari while we pulled up some chairs, BS'ed with some local residents, etc. Then, we ate some kefta - think small seasoned hamburger patties you eat with onions, olives, and pieces of bread.
After that, it was off to the beach, where I broke out my Xtreme Water Sportz camera. After posing for a ridiculous amount of pictures - including pseudo-Hawaiian Leis we fashioned out of kelp - we hit the water, where I tried their favorite thing, surfing without a board. Since the waves were coming in rather hard, you could kind of ride the crest of a wave all the way into the beach from rather far out, definitely a fun time. We then chilled on the beach, played some soccer, were informed we could not play soccer on the beach by mounted policemen, and engaged in other types of male bonding.

It's been nice here to establish relationships with some of the local people, will definitely be the most rewarding part of being here. Anyways, I'm late for class, so I gotta roll. Cheers.

Where the Last Type of Transportation System Fails

Well, since I've already talked about my problems with planes, buses, and cars, I guess it was only a matter of time before I had a problem with the Moroccan rail system. Namely, on the way back from Casa yesterday, 1km outside of the Rabat-Agdal train station, our train... stopped. Of course, this wasn't some sort of casual, "ok folks, we've got another five minutes because the train in front of us is behind schedule," kind of stop. Instead, it was a rail-screeching, lights going out, things falling out of the overhead bins kind of stop.

After the confusion died down, a moderate chaos settled in, as some people ran for the exits, while I just sat there dumbfounded. Soon, from the windows we could see a slow and steady exodus of passengers from other cars making their way to the upcoming train station (shining like some sort of electrified Oasis, 1km away). So, we all got off the train and began the march to the station. Of course, the tracks and area were littered with sharp rocks, glass, etc, so it was kind of like being in a minefield of sharp pointy things. In the dark.

Anyways, we eventually reached the train station, a bedraggled and much more humble crowd than when we started our return to Casa. Luckily there was some Tajine waiting at the apartment, so we got to eat, etc.

PS- I'll try to get some pictures online at some point. I don't have a digital camera, but some other people around do, so at some point I'll get them online and hosted on Flickr so I can make them viewable on the blog. Cheers.

If I Hear "Candy Shop" One More Time...

Since we have a break in the AIESEC conference here, I thought I'd talk a little bit more about the Sports Club. One of the most obnoxious things was the constant, blasting pop music. Gwen Stefani, 50 Cent, Usher, all being played at ear-splitting decibels by these ridiculously loud speakers at an otherwise calm pool. While I'll be the first to admit the merits of hearing "Get Low" when I was down 1-3 in my tennis game there, all the recycled music is too much.

As far as 50 Cent is concerned, all the kids love him here. Seriously. Also, Celine Dion enjoys a status here that one might have found in the states circa Titanic. I can't go into the fucking internet cafe without hearing "My Heart Will Go On." To follow that, here it's perfectly masculine and normal for a man to name Celine Dion as his favorite singer. Hard rock also semi-represents - while Metallica is popular, watered-down posers like Linkin Park are also occasionally heard. Anyways, it's probably time for some AIESEC dances here :/ so I'll get rolling. Cheers.

Le Sport Club

Up to this point, my experience in Morocco has revolved around two polar opposites - working in a quartier populaire such as Akkari, or doing the high class thang with more privileged members of Moroccan society.

Yesterday, for example, I spent a day, at the invite of Youssef, VP of Reseau Maillage, at the Bank al-Maghrib (=Maghreb, the collective term for North Africa) Sports Club. Played some rusty tennis on nice clay courts, lounged by the pool, worked on my, ahem, "jump shot," and ate plenty of burgers and fries - plus the obligatory "Whiskey Marocain," otherwise known as Mint Tea or The a la Menthe.

It was a good time, I got to spend some chummy time with Youssef talk about his plans to travel and buy a Mercedes SLK in Germany next year, etc. What makes these experiences valuable, besides getting both ends of the spectrum of life in Morocco, is that the people here that I've met, who are more upper-class, are genuinely concerned with the people in Morocco and their greater community. Of course, I dislike amking blanket statements - and this is also a byproduct of me meeting people that are in contact with the NGO I work with, but it's definitely reassuring to see.

Anyways, I'm revisiting Casablanca for the day - I'm in a lab in a school here right now. We're working with the new Casa chapter of AIESEC, so we'll get to play some AIESEC Orientation games, etc... should be a good time. The unfortunate part is, I definitely still dislike Casa - wipe all romanticized Humphrey Bogart images from your head. This is a thrid-world metropolis founded by the French in the early 20th Century - it has very little culture and identity that I can see, and is definitely just too much for my tastes. Cheers for now.

So Much For a Day Off...

My favorite thing about being here is the unceasing, and genuine hospitality of the Moroccan people. If you reciprocate with warmth (stop laughing, I've somehow managed to turn on the charm), it pays dividends, since there are so many amazing people here. Take for example what's just happened within the last few days... Today for example, before walking into class, I mentioned to one of the guys who works at reseau, Badre, that I hadn't been getting much sleep lately (partly due to Drama in the Real World: Rabat house - although nothing directly involving me, thankfully). Before the end of the day, everybody at the office had asked me how I was doing, etc, if I needed a break or whatnot.
One of my students also walked in today after my last class got out at 4pm, with a friend, who had a very firm grip when I shook her hand. Turns out that the reason why was that this girl's friend did Henna - a type of impermanent tattoo. So, got some free Henna on my arm, a very masculine and understated, ahem, floral design (at least it's not pink...).
Friday I'm going to go to a local sports club to play tennis with one of the VPs of the Reseau Maillage Organization, a great guy named Youssef. After that, got a hot date ;)
Saturday, I'm going fishing with a bunch of the guys from one of my classes. On a sidenote, squeamishness definitely has a shelf life in Morocco, I've become a lot more accustomed to fish/really gross animal carcasses hanging out of boucheries.
Oh, and this is the part that I still get a huge kick out of. I don't think I've mentioned it before, but two of my students are world-class thai boxers who live in Akkari. The bigger one, Ahmed, is this muscular and lean mass of a guy who's the Moroccan kickbxing champion. The other, and slightly smaller one, Anouar, is the world champion in his weight class. Next weekend, I'm invited to Casablanca for a gala to celebrate him... won't miss it for the world...

Can I Help You With That?

Now that I'm about as settled as can be (and without gushing, having an absolutely amazing time here in so many different ways), I thought I'd talk a little bit more about my initial reactions to Morocco.

Firstly, my reactions were pretty much grouped into three categories:
The first was," Oh, that's reallly amazing/exotic/different (in a good way). The second was, "jesus christ! Is that guy really trying to cross a six-lane highway with his 3 year old son!" Otherwise known as the "I can't believe they just did that" reaction. The third type was more of a humorous reaction, either at the sheer ridiculousness of what was happening, or the perceived humor of the situation.

For example, with the third one, it's common here in Morocco to see people carrying duffel bags or beach bags around. However, this is not a one-person job, in Morocco, it's one person, one handle. It's pretty normal to see people walking down the street, carrying a duffel between them, or even shopping bags and smaller things.

For another example, liquor in Morocco is really only supposed to be sold to foreigners, but in practice, there will typically be large number of moroccans in the liquor section of our local supermarche. For example, we were making some Gin and Tonics at the apartment last saturday night. Having quickly ran out of Gin, Gabe foudn himself making a run back to the supermarche. At the supermarket, he encountered literally a swarm of inexperienced Moroccans in the liquor section. While Gabe went in to buy one bottle of Gin, two different Moroccans managed to drop two bottles of wine on the ground at separate times, leaving shattered glass and wine all over the floor... this only added to the chaos (as people really don't like to hang out in a liquor store in the first place here), as people rushed for the exit. So... for us Americans, it seemed pretty damn funny (maybe you had to be there) to see all of these crazy, inexperienced Moroccans swarming a liquor store on saturday night, knocking over bottles and freaking out.

A Minor Altercation...

Just got back from Lunch with Kamal and Elizabeth - we ate at this place that served skewers and fried fish. On the way back, we ran into a friend of Kamal's, who was by two other guys, one of whom appeared pretty damn drunk. As Kamal was talking to his friend, the guy who had clearly been drinking, after three attempts, managed to slur out "comment-t'appele tu?" I said my name back... three times, before he managed to get some idea of what I was saying. Then, he started asking me about my nationality and started to move towards me, Kamal grabbed him by the arm as he started yelling at me, before I started becoming visibly mad. Kamal dragged the guy back over to the stoop where he was sitting and delivered a few harsh open-faced slaps at the guy, and he managed to be quiet for long enough to say our goodbyes... First time I've been in a situation where I've actually felt the threat of bodily harm (not including crossing the street, driving in cars, etc...).

Pictures From Essaouira

My buddy Naoufel has some pictures up on his blog from our trip to Essaouira for the world music festival. His address is: http://naoufel.nomadlife.org/
Enjoy

German in Morocco

Yesterday marked my first German class in Morocco. In said class, I found out that I have zero clue how to pronounce the German language, so we'll see where this whole flight of fancy thing goes.
The one thing that seems nice about German is that there are some clear phonetic similarities in the language - since English came from German - and the grammatical system does not seem ridiculously hard. I think I'll stick it out for another few classes so I can talk to Ben in German when I get back to GWU.

The Stray Cat Flophouse

Without having this post descend into overly infantile animal sex jokes, I just want everyone to know that I sleep no more than 15ft away from what can accurately be described as a seedy stray cat, pay-by-the-hour motel. Last night, these cats were at it until 2:30am, sans cesse. For those of you who haven't experienced the copulation noises of a female cat in heat, let me put it this way, it doesn't sound like an altogether pleasant time for the female. Basically, it's this constant screeching, followed by one huge yowl after a few minutes. Admittedly, some of us found it funny at first, in a whole, "dude! those cats are totally having sex!" kind of way. However, you'd be surprised at how fast the noises get irritating.

Speaking of noises, as we were leaving the apartment sunday morning, we were beset by two Moroccan men outside of our apartment who played some rather obnoxiously loud music for us on their drum and metal hand clappers. After giving them a dirham to leave us alone, we were left wondering aloud why that type of a tourist trap would find its way into a residential neighborhood in Rabat at 9:00am on a Sunday. Turns out... that these guys make their living by playing their obnoxiously loud instruments outside peoples' apartments until the residents throw down a few dirhams to make them leave.

Recapping the Project

As I've already stated, my project over here is rather large, and if anybody knows anybody in the sports/sportswear industry, I'd love to talk to them. It's a great cause, and any contacts in the US or elsewhere would be greatly appreciated.
Here's some info:
There are two teams of thirty (already with a coach and all the players chosen, ie: they have everything but the materiel) who need jerseys, shorts, and shoes (and possibly warmup suits, although that's of tertiary consideration). Additionally, the team needs some money, around USD 1000 for transportation of the players, since they will be in a real national league.
These two teams are all made up of local kids in Akkari, a local neighborhood I work in. These kids are not affluent, or even middle class, and are unable to finance the uniforms etc.
Also, they have a "terrain" for a soccer field, although it needs to be leveled, etc, even goals put in. To put it in perspective, the only open land they have is a thin stretch between a busy motorway they have to cross and the rocky beach of the Atlantic.

Score One for Me

Totally stared down a pickpocketer today as he was edging toward Elizabeth's bag. Feels nice to be aware, not a neck-craning tourist.

Weekender Edition®

Since this was such an amazing weekend - so amazing that I literally didn't have time to get on this blogger thing since last thursday, I figured I'd do a quick wrap-up.

Friday started off with couscous, ridiculously good couscous made at the office by one of the guys with more culinary experience (by the way, everybody who works in reseau is a guy, as far as I know, despite the fact that my classes are 50% women). Contrary to popular notion, Moroccans ONLY eat couscous on friday, so it's pretty normal to be invited over for couscous by people you meet - sometimes you have to choose between multiple invites. After the couscous, we got down to talking about my big project here in Rabat (besides teaching english and doing cultural stuff at the center). And, suffice to say, it's pretty big, but I think it'll be manageable. To sum it up succintly, the local reseau office that I work in - Nouvelle Rencontre - is starting two soccer teams with all the best players from Akkari that'll be in a national league, in total, 60 kids. These kids, aged 12-14 and 14-16 are going to need shorts, shoes, jerseys, money for transportation to away games (around USD 1500). In addition, they have a piece of land that they want to turn into a soccer field (read: an arid peace of dusty and incredibly uneven land by the ocean). So, I'm going to be getting into contact with the US and German embassy to talk about funding - I am going to contact various sports companies, Nike, Adidas, Umbro, etc also. If anyone has any hints or leads, don't hesitate at all to drop me an email or leave a comment here.

On saturday, we made burgers. Big fat juicy american hamburgers grilled by moi for the Moroccan AIESECers at the apartment to celebrate an early July 4th. Later, we went out to, get this, "El Ranchero," to party (I never thought I'd be in a tex-mex dance place in Morocco...). I rolled with my Johnny Walker Black, and even partook in some dancing, definitely an amazing night, one of those days where you can't wipe that stupid grin off your face.

Today was on par with yesterday, as we went to the Moroccan version of a beach-side barbeque. We swam, made merry, ate fish (the same type as in my previous fish entry) and ate these amazing fish tajines. It was held by my local chapter of reseau, so I got to see a lot of my students - who quickly found out (and exploited) the fact that I am terrified of crabs and little octopi (as another side note, these are the "jumpy" crabs, so you never know what the hell they'll do next). I watched in shame as everybody played soccer ten times better than me, worked on the ol' farmer's tan (still there...) and talked with some amazing people.