and so it ends.

Le premier jour c’est dur et le dernier jour c’est dur.

Morocco seems to have finished just as it started. With the disconcerting feeling that I will miss the people I am leaving behind. When I originally thought about what this last post of mine might be, I considered listing all the parts of Rabat and Morocco I will be saddest to leave. Though now that the time is here I think this list is better saved in my memory than on this screen.

Instead I’d like to kiss the cheeks of Morocco, touch its hand then touch my heart. Shoukran. For things you might not even have realized, shoukran.

someone to watch over me

i am officially done with the academic portion of morocco. not that it was much to begin with, but i still let out a sigh of relief when i finished my presentation today. one of my close friends here is leaving tonight to go back to the states for her sister's graduation. i'm starting to get that twisted knot feeling (as if i haven't already hinted at it enough). i moved out of my homestay on sunday and am staying at hotel majestic, the hotel we first moved into when we got to morocco, for the rest of my trip. full circle. i think it's going to take me a few weeks to get used to the idea of not being here anymore.

since being here i've asked myself the same question many times: If I eat a piece of bread and no one sees it, did it really happen? according to my host mother, absolutely not. is she doesn't see me eat at least a loaf of bread at every meal she shakes her head and says What did you eat? Oualoo (nothing). considering this, it's been strange eating the past two days without moui telling me to Kouli (eat more). yesterday when i was with my friends at the grillade adil i kept glancing up from my plate looking for a nod of validation. for someone to pat me on the back for a stomach well filled. i left the restaurant feeling like my meal was incomplete. and it wasn't because the food lacked salt.

schedule for the rest of the week: dinner tonight with my friend and her parents visiting from the states, presentations all of tomorrow followed by henna at moui's house, goodbye dinner with the cccl on thursday followed by party time, free day friday, early saturday morning flight

last couscous friday

:( :( :(

(big sad face)

five day weeks

I’ve been teaching my host mother how to say the days of the week in English. She says with each student she learns a few English words and hopefully after ten or twenty students have come and gone she’ll have a good grasp on the language. Insha'Allah. At the moment, she’s got down the days of the week. Well, Monday through Friday at least. When I ask her about Samedi and Dimanche she always gets this guilty smile on her face as she shrugs and says “Free-day?” And I always laugh back, “No Moui, we just did Friday.” It’s been like this for three months now and I doubt she will pick up Saturday and Sunday in the next week. Eh, meshi mushkila (no problems). The way I see it, if Moui ever decides to come to America I’ll just stick her with some overworked Wall Streeter who also forgets his weekends.

Earlier today, I watched The Fox and Hound in Arabic. Even though fox and hound were speaking in clearly dubbed over voices that were slightly hilarious, I still felt teary during the scene where fox limps out of the water. I’m pretty sure Disney is something that transcends linguistic boundaries.

architectural marvel

It’s about 12:30 a.m. and I just stress ate my way through two packs of Halls. This stress being caused not by my rather daunting independent project, but the real fat-ass elephant in the room…my little over a week departure. Yeah, it’s an African elephant. I’m playing the ignorance is bliss game and mentally avoiding all thoughts of saying goodbye. I’ll let my eating habits take the hit for now. The rest of me can catch up on the subject we shall not speak of later.

The past few days have shown me a glimpse of what a summer in Morocco might be like. Heat, the kind that makes me drag my feet (more than usual), has hit Rabat hard. I continue to dress with a style of conservatism to keep with cultural standards even though my jeans stick to my thighs. The one protection I have against this heat flash is actually the medina. Somehow the walled quarters provide a constant breeze through the narrow streets regardless of the temperature outside. The Moroccans really knew what they were doing when they built the old city. Medina = architectural marvel.

never the right (amount of) time to say goodbye

A phone call that doesn’t end with a proper “Goodbye, I love you” gives me a chair pulled out from under type of feeling.

For the past few months my parents have kept in touch by calling my Moroccan cell phone using calling cards. This seems to be the most sensible option because telephone rates would be ridiculously expensive and calling through Skype is the type of thing that’s two steps too technologically advanced for mom and dad. The calling card, while practical, has the unfortunate problem of a minute warning: You have one minute left. Cue panic button. Like a nervous high school student taking the SATs, my parents and I rush to fill in all the bubbles before time is up… Weather? Beautiful. Studies? Going. Host family? Well. Money? Enough. News? None. Be careful? Will do. The phone cuts out, typically mid-word, and I silently mouth four words to give closure to the conversation. One of the things I look forward to most upon returning is a properly ended phone call.

I am now struggling to write a paper after spending an entire semester having done little to no work. Not that I’m complaining. Just giving you an update on Rohini in Rabat sitting at home with an open computer and blank Word document. Motivation, if you’re out there, please find your way to my fingers.

'cause that's the way it is

not that this is worthy of an entire post or anything, but the guy who owns the Internet cafe I'm sitting at just started blasting celine dion ("To Love You More"). the words international superstar come to mind. go team celine!

and now he's playing spice girls ("Viva Forever").

this is yang and my summer mix. ;)

franish

The people here speak French with a Spanish accent, rolling the r in words like après. The Saharan region used to be a Spanish colony, and only after the end of colonization did Morocco claim the territory as its own. As a result, the people here speak Spanish fluently in addition to broken French and the local Arabic dialect. Oh, the multilingual benefits of colonialism. :)

Also, the Arabic spoken here, known as Hassaniya, is much closer to Modern Standard than the darija of the north. Translation: I can understand about 50% of what is spoken to me about 25% of the time. Nothing worthy of a pat on the back, just a bit of validation for the past two years with Maha and al-Kitaab.

I’ve recently taken to buying cherry Halls cough drops from nearby hanoots. A friend confessed his own Halls addiction a couple of weeks ago and since that time I constantly crave the sour cherry, minty taste. Sometimes I fake a cough at the cash register to convince the shop owner (and myself) that I am making a worthy purchase. Most of the time I tell myself this is the same country where I could by Vicodin over the counter if I wanted to, so thank you I’ll take my plastic bag of Halls and be on my way now.

Note: Tomorrow is my last day in Laayoune. I take another twenty two hour bus ride back to Rabat where I’ll most likely stay for the rest of my time here. Only 18 or so days left. Let the countdown begin. :(

deep deep south

I believe I was indirectly propositioned for marriage this morning. I was sitting in an Internet café, making small talk with the waiter about him being Amazigh (Berber), me being Indian, etc etc. You know, the usual. Then he asked me the following questions in succession: (1) Are you married? (2) Are you looking for a husband? and (3) Can I get your number? To the first two questions I answered “no” and “absolutely not.” The third I dodged by taking his number on a slip of paper and silently vowing to avoid said Internet café. Not because I’m scared. Just that attention like this sometimes makes me blush. :-P

Since arriving in Laayoune I have found nothing but kindness from the people I have interacted with. Starting with the guy at the hotel reception desk who let me borrow his phone charger because I stupidly forgot mine in Rabat. And ending with all the associations I have been introduced to here who tell me over and over again that I am to feel so welcome as if I am a daughter or sister. Marhaba. I’ve said Shoukran so many times, I’m pretty sure the entire Sahara thinks it’s the only word of Arabic I know.

A few days ago, the first time I checked my email here, I saw that I had received a somewhat panicky message from my mother telling me that she can’t believe I decided to come here (here being the Western Sahara) by myself. Then, later that night I received a similar panicky phone call. I can’t lie; the idea of traveling alone gives me the same uneasy jolt that I’m sure my mother’s stomach is feeling right about now. Only now it’s been a few days since my entry into Laayoune and when I look around I can’t help but see just another city where kids play soccer in the street. In fact, if it weren’t for the white jeeps with their big black “UN” labels sitting outside the Hotel Nagjir, I might forget about the conflict altogether.

Someone told me tonight that if I were to keep my mouth shut and not say a word, people would mistake me for a native Saharan. Unfortunately, I get this blank stare on my face when someone shoots me a rapid question in Arabic and it kind of throws off the whole act. Not that I mind revealing my true identity. As it turns out, Shah Rukh Khan is a sensation that’s hit ALL of Morocco, including its most southern parts. My “Indian origin” is a straight path into the hearts of the Moroccan people.

size ten feet are about a forty two here

it's a running joke in my family that my brother and i share my slippers. i will wake up sometimes in the morning, needing to go to the bathroom and searching for the plastic blue men's slippers i bought because they were the only ones that would fit my feet. my host mother will walk in, laugh and tell me Nourredine went to get his hair cut. and i can't help but shrug in a what's mine is yours kind of manner. after all, you're never really part of the family until you've shared an article of clothing.

i turned 21 last night and took two shots of tequila to commemorate the occasion. it wasn't exactly the big bang type of celebration that typically accompanies 21's, but a) i'm sick (unfortunate, i know), b) i have interviews today for my independent project and c) i didn't want moui to see me in a drunken state. anyways, the 21st anniversary of my birth has come and gone, and now i am moving on to more important subject matter...

my independent project. i'm looking into the economic and social development of the Western or Moroccan Sahara. hence the 22 hour bus ride to the deep deep south of morocco. i have an interview in about twenty minutes, which will mark the official beginning of my research. wish me luck.

i stared UP into his eyes

I met the Moroccan Yao Ming tonight. Two meters tall, which I don’t know how to translate into feet, but I’m guessing far above six feet. My head came up to just below his shoulder. And in Morocco, where everyone seems to be 5’6” and below, Yao stands out like a tulip in a field of dandelions.

nearing the end

I finished my last class of Arabic this morning. We had a final exam followed by a cooking lesson on how to make couscous. Don’t get too excited…my lack of finesse in the kitchen doesn’t change from one continent to the other. I will return from Morocco without the slightest clue how to knead dough or use a tajine. A disappointment, now, to multiple families and multiple mothers.

This weekend is officially the end of our homestay and the beginning of the independent study project (ISP) portion of the program. For the next three weeks we’re all supposed to be conducting independent field research on a topic of our choice and then at the end of the program, our last week here, we present our findings and hand in our final papers. Unofficially, even though I’m supposed to leave home tomorrow, I’ll be staying with the ElMoudden family a little longer. Well, technically, I’ll only be here in Rabat a few days at the beginning and then a few at the end of our ISP, but since it’s a question of me avoiding saying goodbye, I am giving my homestay an extended deadline.

So, here’s the plan for my next three weeks…in Rabat for a few days, day trip to Casablanca, travel down to Laayoune (city in the deep south of Morocco, a region formerly known as the Western Sahara), in Laayoune for a week or so, make my way back north hopefully stopping in Marrakech and Essaouiara, in Rabat for the last few days.

Boy does time fly. ;)

By the way, the bus ride to Laayoune is about twenty two hours. Be ready for some great bus stories next week.

mistaken identity

Since I seem to be recounting my time here in terms of weekend excursions…this past weekend I ventured to Chefchaouen, a town that’s built into the mountains. The entirety of our visit to Chef was rained on which made for cold feet, but also a beautiful misty mountain view. All the buildings in the city are white washed with blue accents and the town has a laid back feel which (along with the large amounts of weed you can find there) attracts a huge hippie crowd. In other words, stoned shopkeepers and grungy European tourists jumbled together among white and blue walls in a city on a hill. That’s Chefchaouen for you.

During our weekend trip, my friends and I naturally resembled the many tourists who were in Chefchaouen at the same time as us. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten to a point in my time here where I take serious offense to someone confusing me for a tourist. Having lived here for two months I think I deserve at least a notch above tourist. Anyways, here are a couple of mistaken identity stories from the past two weekends.

One of the shopkeepers we walked by in Chefchaouen thought he’d try a clever sales pitch by pointing to us and saying I know who you are. American students studying in Spain. This is the point where I would like to brush my shoulder off and rattle off in perfect Moroccan Arabic, Actually, I have lived here for two months, I study Arabic in Rabat, and yes I know you’re trying to rip me off. Only problem is that my brain isn’t quite ready to deliver that entire sentence in Arabic with perfect fluency. So, instead I settled for a La shukran (no, thanks), which seemed to be enough Arabic to make said shopkeeper smile. Case of mistaken identity #1

Two weeks ago, after arriving in Tangier we had to take a taxi to get from the train station to our hotel. Now, in Morocco, there are two types of taxis that you can take: (1) petit taxis which stay within each city’s limits and run on metered pay, and (2) grand taxis with whom you negotiate out a price. The petit taxis are usually the safer bet because when there’s a meter involved I’m less likely to end up on the short end of the money stick. Upon exiting the train station, we were immediately harassed by grand taxi drivers who offered to take us to our hotel for the “discounted” price of ten euros or a hundred dirham. Mistake #1, I AM NOT EUROPEAN. Mistake #2, I know for a fact that cab ride is supposed to cost at most fifteen dirham. So, instead we crossed the street and attempted to flag down a petit taxi. The first few drivers we encountered refused to turn on their meters, the first guy asking for thirty dirham and the second one asking for fifty dirham, claiming that our bags were so heavy he needed extra pay. We scrambled out of those taxis just as quickly as we had jumped in, saying Hshuma (Shame on you) along the way. Eventually, a third driver picked us up (with meter) and we ended up paying about ten dirham for the whole ride. Case of mistaken identity #2

up north

When I recall India train rides, three words come to mind. Stuffy, hot and smelly. Though I’m currently in a country far from any form of Indian transport, I rode the same three word train from Tangier to Rabat this past Sunday. To put things in context, last week was a holiday for all the schools here, making our Sunday train the Moroccan version of post-Thanksgiving break airports. In the course of a four hour train ride I sat next to (1) no one, then (2) a ten year old boy who tried desperately not to doze off on my shoulder, then (3) a larger older women whose linen djellabah kept rubbing up against me, then (4) a girl and her sister who kept fidgeting with the tray table, then (5) a cute four year old boy who I gave chewing gum to, and finally (6) a chubby toddler who kept wiping sweat from his face with a crumpled up tissue. Suffice to say, I made it back to Rabat and welcomed the sea breeze with open arms and sweaty pits.

Preceding miserable train ride was a weekend of fun in the northern Moroccan sun. Tangier is the port city at the very northern tip of Morocco where, on a clear day, you can look out at the ocean and see a faint outline of the southern Spanish coast. Highlights of the weekend: the Kasbah, uphill walk, panoramic view, beach tackles, sand writing, the Cave of Hercules, picnic lunch, Bel Canto, wine and cheese, gin and tonic (and lemon).

While on the beach, a man attempted to sell us hashish. Actually, his sales pitch began with multi-colored wallets and when we refused those, hash was naturally the next product to offer. Apparently, along with the beautiful beaches and ocean views, Tangier also offers the largest supply of cannabis in the country. After refusing hashish man, he randomly appeared later, when we were having dinner at a restaurant, trying to sell assorted nuts to the customers. A jack of all legal and illegal goods.

When I think about it sans drug dealers and trains, Tangier is one of the most beautiful cities I have seen in Morocco. One of those places that beckons for second and third visits. I hope to return at some point during the rest of my time here.

On another, completely random note, tonight, my host mother had me translate and write out a letter for her to send to former students. At the end, she told me to finish it with the line Je vous quitte avec mon stylo, mais pas avec mon coeur. It roughly translates to I leave you with my pen, but not with my heart. That one made me smile pretty big.

the sky is falling

Our ceiling broke.

Birds have apparently entered our ceiling from the roof and picked away at some of the planks. I noticed it a little over a week ago when crumbs of ceiling began sprinkling onto my bed and a wooden plank bent over my pillow in an unnatural downward direction. Then, last night, a bit more than sprinkles came down and luckily neither my sister nor I were within range of this roof cascade. When I came back from school today, all my things had been moved to the other salon; a new home in my home.

So, why am I telling you all this? Well, other than the rather amusing mental image of me dodging pieces of falling ceiling, Moui said something to me today that I’ve had a hard time shaking off. She joked that the broken ceiling salon (also the blue salon) was my room for the first part of my time here and now the red salon will be my residence for whatever time is left. Now I can’t seem to get it out of my head that my days are measured as the time I have left here. Cue ball dropping.

I caught a glimpse of it somewhere between the sunshine and the flowers on the car ride away from my home in the village. It being that uncertain type of goodbye which can’t be followed by I’ll see you soon/later/sooner or later. The type of parting that makes you go for the seventh or eighth kiss on the cheek just in case a reunion isn’t in the books. With my little brother Haj, I went for ten. Mama Haja got an even dozen.

The weather here has taken an ugly turn for the worse. It is the coldest and rainiest I’ve seen Rabat in the over two months I’ve been here. From what my dad tells me, I understand it’s blizzarding in Colorado, so I suppose a bit of rain is nothing to complain about. Just got this itch of a feeling that I’ve seen the sky fall one too many times during the past few days.

the village

Me; Nourredine, our car driver; Daoud


Mama Haja; Haj, my four year old brother; Rug weaved by Mama; Fouzhia, my eighteen year old sister


Baba Mustafa


Nadia, my ten year old sister


Me; Fouzhia


My finger; Flower

Haj


Khalifa, my sixteen year old brother; Spider-man

oops i forgot to post this before i left...

tomorrow morning i leave for a week in a rural village...

things to expect:

weaving
painting
planting trees
cow milking
guard dogs
fresh butter
hiking
no running water
lots of good alone reading time

i'll you know post-village how it goes.

better than an ipod

I have two favorite times of the day here. Both happen earlier than I would ever wake up in the United States.

The 5 or 5:30 a.m. call to prayer. I’m not actually one hundred percent certain of the time at which it occurs, but the morning call to prayer is beautiful to listen to. Sometimes I wake up to it, sometimes I don’t. My favorite are those times when I’ll wake up, lie in a semi-conscious state in my bed, listen to the prayer while staring at my ceiling, then fall asleep again before waking up for school.

The morning walk through Rue Boukron on the way to the Annex at 8 am. My friends and I have unofficially nicknamed the street I live off of “the smelly street.” Rue Boukron is where the food souk in the medina is located and so the “smell” is a mixture of fresh meat, fish, vegetables, dried fruit and nut stalls that crowd together on either side of the street. When I walk down Boukron early in the morning, I get a rare glimpse of all the shopkeepers setting up before the workday starts. Live chickens being unloaded from wooden crates, the woman who sits on the corner snapping peas, vendors washing down the ground before setting down open boxes of produce, the olive guy placing olives into neat pyramid form, hot metal plates baking fresh bread, the dried fruit man we always buy dates from, a trail of recently slaughtered animal blood draining into the sewer, loading trucks maneuvering through the narrow street. Sometimes I will pass a mother with a little boy and Spider-man backpack in tow and on these occasions I smile a little more.

This is my morning soundtrack.

the bathroom is my dear friend

The first week we were in Morocco, a doctor came to speak with us about staying healthy while we’re here. He seemed rather certain that about 90% of the group would fall sick at one point or another. So, really we all knew it would hit us at one point or another it was always just a matter of when. Well, now it’s hit and passed and I’m crossing my fingers that what I had was like the chicken pox of stomach bugs. Painful, but one time and you’re done for life.

Just in case my medical optimism falls through and I start to go through Immodium tablets like candy, I do have a remedy. During Rohini sick time, my host mother cooked up all sorts of healing foods that are supposed to be good for the stomach…tea made from an unidentifiable leaf, coffee made from the same leaf, a salty combination of rice, lentils and vegetables, and the true natural healer, cumen, which Moui made me eat plain in powder form then swallowed with water. In the end, a trip to the pharmacy cured all.

Moroccan pharmacies, by the way, are like an open door for drug addictions and hypochondria. Last Saturday night, when I felt like a porcupine was tearing up my stomach from the inside, I looked for the nearest of these green cross buildings, reported my symptoms and almost immediately received medication, no questions asked, no check-up needed. Don’t get me wrong, when you’re sick in the stomach the last thing you want is someone questioning the legitimacy of your loose bowel movements. I’m just saying…if you want cheap and accessible drugs, look for the green cross.

Anyways, the point of the story: cumen + a shit ton of antibiotics = cured stomach. Keep your fingers crossed that it’s a lasting cure. :)

the never-ending story part two

okay, i was over-ambitious again. the new plan is to recount the second half of my trip in bullet form because i don't think i have the energy to write out a lengthy account (you'll understand if you keep reading). also, i'm sure that none of you (except for maybe teesa :-P) would actually sit and read through my overly descriptive descriptions. so, here it is quick and fast:

Day 4 (the day Rohini got sick in the stomach)

-top bunk + diarrhea = no fucking good
-long bus ride to marrakech through the high atlas mountains
-weather along the way: sunny but cold, rainy and cold, then SNOW
-stopped for a pizza lunch in the middle of the mountains
-fed some stray dogs with our bus driver, hassan
-downed a vegetable pizza with hot sauce, a decision i would later regret
-winded down curvy mountain roads without throwing up (Colorado has cured me of any potential car sickness issues)
-arrived in marrakech
-checked into a smelly hotel with clean bathrooms (i know, paradox)
-wandered through jemaa al fna (the main square in marrakech) and bought a yogurt shake
-stayed in bed instead of risking dinner (which was supposedly the best dinner of the trip)
-vegetable pizza out

Day 5 (the day Rohini took the guided bus tour)

-didn't set alarm
-woke around 11, the latest i had woken up in a very long time
-fun bathroom time
-long shower
-put on clothes and pulled myself together for a little
-wandered towards la koutobia, the tall minaret that stands out everywhere in Marrakech
-crossed the street without being hit by bus, motorcycle or horse-drawn carriage
-bumped into some friends and wandered through the market with them
-tried to bargain for scarves but had neither the energy nor the money
-took a stab at lunch
-found my fellow sick friend and convinced him to accompany me on the guided bus tour of marrakech
-paid 130 dirhams for a red pair of headphones and a matching double decker bus
-saw the sites of marrakech from afar at first and then close up with the zoom of my camera
-got off at the bahia palace, which was an overrated, glorified residential home
-walked through the markets with more energy and bought two scarves
-felt good enough to shower, dress in my nicest clothes and sit down to dinner
-resolved to go to club pacha (supposedly the biggest club in north africa?) with the rest of my group
-stomach had different plans
-in bed early and passed out before the group left for the club

Day 6 (the day Rohini fell in love with Essaouira)

-long bus ride in the morning
-stomach on the mend
-arrived in Essaouira and checked into a cute little hotel near the sea
-ate a bit of bread in a seafood restaurant with a great view
-bought the best two scoops of gelato i have ever tasted in my life (coffee and caramel)
-strolled along the beach
-pretended to read my book while actually staring down some men playing soccer on the beach
-got sand in my eyes
-wandered into an expo and spent way too much money
-took a stab at dinner (steamed potatoes which i covered in hot sauce)
-went back to gelato store for round two (vanilla and yogurt...the yogurt was like an less healthy pinkberry)
-went back to the expo and spent even more money
-showered with a shitty showerhead and no shower curtain
-passed out on my bed with thoughts of essaouira as my future honeymoon location

Day 7 (the day Rohini gave a tour of El Jadida)

-quiet bus ride back to Rabat only ten of us decided to come, the rest stayed the weekend in essaouiara
-stopped in el jadida for a picnic lunch on the beach
-gave the essential in-depth tour of the little town including the cistern, the ramparts and the yummy ice cream shop
-felt pretty ill on the second half of the bus ride (stomach pains i didn't know i could feel)
-arrived at home ready for my host mother's healing and sleep

the never-ending story part one

The idea was that during my Southern Excursion I would take time every night to write a brief summary of the day’s events, my thoughts, etc. Unfortunately, my over ambitiousness did not materialize into any actual writing (with the exception of a short excerpt describing my first day). So, I will now attempt to recreate the happenings of a rather lengthy week. Keep in mind I returned on Friday with that peculiar feeling of having been away for months.

Day 1 (this I wrote that night)

A long bus ride is like a comfy friendship; extended passages of silences without the jittery uneasy stop and go of a new acquaintance. Today, Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera was my sole companion for the six hour bus ride through the Middle Atlas Mountains.

When I used to think about Morocco I imagined what I typically see in the medina in Rabat. White-walled, flat-roofed buildings crowded together next to sand, palm trees and the ocean. But the minute you leave the city, you’re hit with a wave of green…hills and hills of it. This year it’s especially the case because of the large amounts of rain that we’ve seen. The countryside is so lush and beautiful that I want to break out in song Sound of Music style.

Not much else to report for today. We’re staying at a Kasbah-transformed-into-hotel and my two friends and I by luck got placed in the biggest room. Actually room doesn’t even begin to cover it; this is the honeymoon suite. And just like honeymooners, we’re lounged on our king size bed reading Marquez, Dante and Marquez (in that order). Oh, and stealing the toilet paper.

Day 2

Long bus ride part 2. Not that I minded in the least. Bus gazing, iPod in and head leaned against window, is something I could do for days straight. The second row on the left side is unofficially my reserved seat. And by reserved I mean that I shoot dirty glances at anyone who shows even the slightest trace of stealing my nook. At the end of our bus ride we stopped at a fancy hotel in the middle of nowhere for a poolside lunch. Lunch was a Berber specialty, known as “buried bread,” which sounded good as I’m sure all things novel and exotic do, but the end consensus: HUGE letdown. My own vegetarian adaptation tasted like a shitty samosa. All thoughts of lunch, however, were buried almost immediately upon exiting the hotel.

Waiting for us outside were five Land Rovers each with its own bad-ass looking driver. I picked out the most bad-ass looking driver (the words quiet but lethal come to mind) and jumped in the back seat. We started off driving on roads, but after a few minutes we crossed a river Hatari style and began exploring unpaved territory. Lahcen, our driver who by this point I had equated with hunter, pro-wrestler and ex-convict, made sure we hit all the rough patches. My head still has a few bumps from coming in contact with the top of the car a few too many times. When the rover stopped for a short break, we got down and could see the red-orange dunes of the Sahara desert in the distance. Yes, the Sahara desert. The next time we stopped, we were in it.

Once in the Sahara desert we ditched modern technology and opted for more antiquated transport, a.k.a. the camel portion of my trip. Since I know you’re curious, one hump and no not as uncomfortable as I thought it might be. My buddy’s name was either Akhbar or Abkhar; I couldn’t really understand what my camel driver said. Either way, he saw me through our short trek, peeing on some of the other camels along the way.

Post-camel we went barefoot. A list of things I did in the Sahara…rolled down a dune, drew in the sand, took a million pictures, chatted in broken Arabic with the drivers, and caught the sunset. I don’t know what more to tell you…it was all somewhat of a surreal, poetic experience. On a less dreamy note, I effectively got sand everywhere and I carry my Sahara souvenir in a nook somewhere under my big toenail.

Post-Sahara was dinner. And post-dinner was a private performance by a Gnawa band. Our whole group, including my professor, got up and danced the rest of the night away. Clapping hands, tapping toes and swaying hips…the way it was meant to end.

Day 3

Wake early…hike to the top of the biggest dune…catch my breath while watching the sun rise…pose for pictures with my feet sinking into the ground…watch the sun rise some more…kick up sand running down the dune…eat a big hotel breakfast…SLEEP on bus.

Check, check and check.

Monday evening we arrived in Ouarzazate, a mountain town well-known for its film appearances (the scene in Babel where Cate Blanchett gets shot was filmed just outside the city limits) and the presence of a large film studio. In the town there’s also a non-profit organization that houses girls from nearby villages while they attend school. We ate dinner and spent the night at the girl’s hostel and I became a one-time celebrity in this Moroccan Hollywood. After discovering that I was Indian, a group of girls crowded around me, asking me to sing Hindi songs, dance and take pictures with them. I was hesitant at first, but then during dinner one of the girls told me that Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On is her favorite English song. Well, that sold it all for me. I sang, danced, posed for pictures (some just of me), and even gave out my email. I made a swift getaway before anyone could ask for my autograph and in true hostel style I passed out on the top bunk of a bed.

Couscous Friday!!!

It’s couscous Friday!

(Every Friday, we go home for lunch instead of eating at the CCCL and most of the families here prepare couscous for Friday lunchtime)

Tomorrow we take off for our southern excursion, the part of this entire trip I am most excited for. During the next week, I will ride a camel, hike up sand dunes, ride in a land rover, spend the night at a girl’s hostel, drive through the Atlas Mountains, listen to Gnawa music, eat lots of bread and dates, explore Marrakesh and chill in Essaouira. I hope I’m making you very jealous right now. :-P

Peace out for the next week or so.

all in good time

so i lied...

i made the decision a couple of days ago that i'm not going to put up pictures from here until after i get home. some might say lame (which i would have had someone told me), but i do have my reasons:

1) the internet connection here is mad slow so posting would take a ridiculously long time

2) i already have 500 photos and am sure i will be well into the thousands by the time i leave...if i post pictures now people will be sick of seeing morocco by the end of it

3) i'm trying to get on facebook as little as possible because every minute i spend there is one less minute i spend experiencing the culture here. in general, i'm trying to use the internet minimally, just for talking to my parents and a few friends. if you couldn't tell i write a lot of my blog entries beforehand and just spend the necessary five minutes it might take to post.

so, ok, i'm pretty lame, but i've made my decision and i think i should stick with it. in the meantime, there are a few pictures other people have tagged of me in case you need proof that i'm actually here and not pulling a jayson blair. :-P

ok, that's all for now.

return to infancy

The idea that showering everyday is a prerequisite for cleanliness is very much a Western one I’ve discovered. Here, it’s not so much a question of how often you shower, but rather how hard you scrub. How I learned this concept…well that’s an interesting story.

During our orientation week, the public baths, or hammams, were mentioned quite a few times as one of those Moroccan experiences we would have to try out. My initial impression was of a less glamorous spa with a large hot tub and bathing suits, but what our academic directors described was more like a nude exhibition in a sauna. A couple of weeks passed by after that first week and various girls came to school with stories of their hammam experiences with sisters, mothers, cousins. I got a little curious and finally this past Sunday I decided I would check it out myself and see these public baths firsthand. I should add that we’re doing a project on the hammam culture as part of our field study class and so my expedition had academic undertones as well. ;)

Unlike the other girls in my group, neither my mother nor my sister could accompany me on my trip to the hammam. My mom was on her period and my sister was in the middle of watching a Bollywood film I bought for her. So, I decided to brave it alone…sort of. Before getting there, my mom assured me that everything would be alright because one of the women at the hammam would show me the ropes and make sure that I was taken care of. I would just have to give her fifty dirhams afterwards as a thank you. Once we got there, all my impressions of bathing suits seemed like a not too funny joke. My mother told me to strip down to my underwear (no bra) and then, clutching a towel tightly against my naked body I entered the world of the hammam.

My companion, the one who would show me the ropes, turned out to be a short-haired, large-breasted, big tummy woman who snatched the towel from my death grip and told me to sit down. I obliged. I made the mistake of fidgeting with my underwear and she ordered me to remove them as well. So, yeah…I was completely nude. She then proceeded to soap every part of my body leaving out only the really private one which I gladly took care of myself. Using a black glove that’s anything but gentle, she scrubbed off every ounce of dirt and dead skin from my body (I’m not exaggerating, the dead skin was falling off in clumps). When she wanted to get my back, I curled up into the fetal position and clenched my teeth while she scraped down my rear side (yes, all of it) with the sandpaper glove. Then, with scalding hot water she rinsed me off. Following my lather, scrub, rinse session I sat in a steam room, to nab a few relaxation minutes before I left. As a final departing note, the woman grabbed one of the large tubs filled with water and dumped the entire thing over my head. I’d say I definitely got my fifty dirhams worth.

My thoughts and notes about the experience:

-The nudity’s not so bad. After the initial shock I realized I was in a room with all kinds of naked women and got over my own exposure.

-Everyone watches everyone. It’s very much a part of the culture here to observe other people.

-As one of the few place meant exclusively for women (they have separate ones for men), the hammam is sort of a sacred female space. It’s where they come to hang out with their friends, chat about the latest gossip and spend some time on themselves.

-Being scrubbed down by another person (once you get over the awkwardness of it) is actually quite nice. My hammam buddy got the spots I might normally have missed and the whole bathing experience felt like a comfortable return to infancy.

Overall, I give it two thumbs up. If you’re ever in Morocco, try out the public baths.

el jadida

This past weekend was one of those rare occasions when we did not have a scheduled excursion nor did we have any obligations to stay at home. So, a group of four of us took off Saturday morning for a tiny city about three and a half hours south of Rabat called El Jadida (“The New”).

The city is supposedly well known for its fish dishes and while I myself did not indulge in this regional delicacy, I did accompany my friends to Restaurant Tchikito a place described in the guide book as “an authentic experience.” Likewise, upon arriving at Tchikito the first thing we saw was the kitchen, set up right near the entrance with full fish (head, eyes and tail included) fried in batter and hung in plain view as if to warn “Leave your squeamish stomach at the door.” Luckily, after three weeks in Morocco, particularly after witnessing a chopped off camel’s head in the markets of Fes, squeamishness is not a word my stomach concedes. My friend signaled to the waiter with three fingers and he returned with three plates of fried goods. For myself, I ordered my latest drink of choice, a Fanta Citron, and pulled out the bottle of DanUp vanilla yogurt I had secretly stashed in my purse. While three hungry faces polished off the entire cast of Finding Nemo, I too finished my shake in a matter of minutes. The aftermath of lunchtime: three plates of piled up fish bones and one empty yogurt bottle.

Following lunch we wandered through the older part of the city which was formerly inhabited by the Portuguese. The guide book really only recommended one monument and we just so happened to stumble upon it while walking through one of the smaller markets. The Portuguese Cistern is an underground chamber with a vaulted ceiling that reflects a mirror image onto a thin layer of water that is constantly on the ground. An opening in the center of the room lets in just enough light to make the pillars, arches and reflections perfectly visible. The vault had such a sense of both mystery and architectural history I felt like Indiana Jones uncovering a dreamy archaeological find. I took what must have been hundreds of pictures until my friends insisted we see the rest of the town.

We walked along the beach for that unknown, doesn’t matter period of time that you might associate with beach walking. El Jadida’s cafés warmly greeted us on the right while crashing waves beckoned to us from the left. I opted to keep my dry clothes and turned right. Out on the café’s terrace we sat sipping overly sugary coffees and watching groups of men play soccer on the beach.

After a large pizza dinner, two scoops of gelato, and a few glasses of wine, I polished off the weekend with a long and heavy Sunday sleep.

And that is the story of a simple weekend in El Jadida.

:) = :)

As an international relations student, Samuel Huntington’s “Clash of Civilizations” is one of those arguments that I know by heart. I’ve discussed and debated it in too many classes and honestly I could do without seeing Huntington’s thesis for a while. So, when I saw that my reading assignment for yesterday was none other than my fave Huntington, I wanted to scream a little. What was interesting about yesterday, however, was the format in which the discussion would take place. As a teacher at Mohammed V University, my professor invited us to join one of his classes and discuss the article with his students. For those of you who may not know about Huntington’s clash, here’s a brief summary:

Since the end of the Cold War, a new world order has emerged in which the fault lines of conflict are culturally tied as opposed to the political and economic motivations of the past. What Huntington eventually comes to describe is a clash between the Western civilization and the Islamic civilization in which the differences between these two cultures stand in opposition to one another. This opposition is the new source of tension and conflict.

Now, imagine a room with American exchange students sitting on one side and Moroccan graduate students sitting on the other. A visual representation of Huntington’s clash? Maybe the tensions were a bit high in the beginning as they naturally would be when two groups are set at odds with one another. But then, somewhere in the middle of our discussion, a Mohammed V student raised his hand and offered his own take on the supposed rift between us and them. He described two children playing with two different toys, one expensive, and the other cheap. Then he said, “Even if the toys are different, the smile is the same. We all sleep the same way, and we all love the same way.”

I can’t say that I’m idealistic enough to fully believe this myself, but his thought did make me smile. a lot.

why i have no pictures of fes

to have forgotten my camera would have been a rookie mistake. no, i decided that i wanted my battery to be fully charged (as opposed to just 3/4 charged) so i left it at home plugged into a socket in the wall and didn't realize until we were halfway to meknes (our first stop). sad face. it took me a while but i eventually came to terms with the fact that i will have no pictures of fes. that didn't stop me from continuously thinking, wow my camera would have taken an amazing picture of that, but hey no point crying over battery chargers in wall sockets.

while i was busy not taking pictures of fes, here are a few things i did do (presented especially for you in list form)

-we took a guided bus tour of meknes, one of the four imperial cities in morocco
-i walked through the roman ruins in volubulis and sat in the orgy room of what used to be a brothel (probably the most painful portion of my camera-less weekend)
-a mute/deaf man tried to walk us back to our bus despite many refusals and then asked for money
-the guys in our group were pulled on stage during dinner and forced to bellydance
-we saw the tanneries in fes, which smell pretty bad, but are amazing...if i recommend one sight to see in fes, this would be it (this was the second most painful camera moment)
-i was almost run over by a donkey in a very narrow street
-i haggled with a man over some fes caps
-a man on the street offered to give us all his camels (a really twisted moroccan fantasy?)
-a couple of friends and i decided to wander through the medina and then walk all the way back to the hotel, but were luckily stopped by a woman who spoke english and informed us that it would take over two hours to walk back to our hotel...we ended up taking a cab
-i ate spaghetti for dinner which sounds so unauthentic, but was my first dinner that wasn't steamed vegetables

a few other thoughts about fes...the vendors are SO much more aggressive than in rabat. even glancing at one of their products means to them that you're interest. and pointing? forget about it...you're a prime sales target. the medina (or old city) in fes is also the largest in north africa and it's very easy to get lost in the narrow, winding streets. some of the streets are so tiny that we could only walk through one at a time and even then it was a tight squeeze. obesity is simply not an option for the citizens of fes.

i'm back to the daily rabat routine now which means it's time for lunch at home.

i forgot to post these before i left...oops

Thursday, February 12th

This weekend we leave for our first excursion to Fes, Meknes, and two other cities (I forget their names). It seems unreal that I’ve only been here for two weeks. I already know my way around the medina, for the most part, I’ve taken over three hundred pictures and my companions feel like old familiar faces. Apparently people who did this program in the past said that time flies by and the three months were over before they knew it. I’ll have to spare judgment on that until my time here is up, but here are my sentiments on time in Morocco so far. Right now, it feels as though the days are both too long and too short at the same time. I cover a lot of ground each both literally and figuratively, but the end always seems to come too soon. I know it sounds impossible, but I swear it’s true.

Today, our lecture focused upon the hijab and its cultural/religious history here in Morocco. A few facts about the hijab that I didn’t know before and will now share with you.
-The term hijab was not popularly used until the 1970s when the Iranian Revolution took place.
-During the 1980s many in Morocco considered the hijab unacceptable because the women who wore were associated with plots to overthrow the regime.
-Women see the head covering as their own interpretation of the Koran making it a symbol of female empowerment.

Our lecturer, Farah, expressed a few concerns about recent trends in the reasons why women will wear hijab. She told us that she has spoken with women who hold atheist beliefs, but wear the hijab as a form of legitimacy because they feel they will attract less attention and be taken more seriously. During this discussion, I thought back to my first day at home here. The first time I saw my sister, she was wearing hijab. Then, the next day when we left the house to buy bread, her head was not covered. In response to my confused looks Mi explained that Amal does not usually wear the hijab, but the day before she hadn’t washed her hair and didn’t want anyone to see it. I know that a majority of women still wear because of religious reasons, but I do wonder about what exactly the hijab has come to mean for the women who wear it. Is it an expression of religious belief? A fashion statement? A protection against harassment? A way to gain legitimacy? A symbol for independence? A form of separation? A cover-up for bad hair days? I’m not sure, but I get the impression that no two women would answer the same way.

Friday, February 13th

Friday night movie! We went for a Moroccan film that’s caused quite a stir here. It’s called Amours Voiles (Loose translation…Love and the Veil) and tells the somewhat racy story of a woman who has sexual relations with a man out of wedlock. There were a couple of nude scenes which made the entire male audience go wild. I wouldn’t say it’s the best acting, but I think it’s a worthwhile watch particularly if you know the cultural context. Doubt any of you would be able to find it, but if you can, check it out.

On the way back from the movie tonight, we watched as a homeless man tried to steal a blanket from a homeless woman. The woman was screaming phrases in Arabic that I didn’t really understand, but all I could do was feel sorry for her and keep walking by. As we passed the scene, a second man, completely unrelated to the entire dispute, tackled (I’m talking a full out takedown) the thief, returned the blanket to the woman and started beating the crap out of the first man. If we were in the United States I feel like a good many people would have seen an old woman being robbed, sympathized for her and then passed by not considering it their responsibility to help. My friend’s host brother told us that what we saw was a mild case compared to what usually happens. It is not unlikely to see groups of ten or more men beating someone up for a sin they committed against Allah. The words duty and responsibility really mean something here. I somehow feel safer knowing that. I feel like if I really needed it, I’d have a gang of ten Moroccan men looking out for me.

minus the smiley stickers

Tonight’s festivities…

Puppy chow. No, not the Purina kind…though that is what first came to my mind. Apparently, it’s also the name for a peanut butter, chocolatey cereal mix? Anyways, my friends here decide they would like to expose their Moroccan families to American food/obesity by making some of this “puppy chow” and I decide to tag along for the ride. So, we set off for the nearest grocery store in pursuit of every cavity causing ingredient we can find. [Side note, since being here I crave chocolate daily. I don’t always indulge, but damn, I do want it all the time.] Anyways, after thirty minutes of trekking alongside some major highway and crossing several roads which aren’t meant to be crossed, we find it: Marjane. Only it’s not really a grocery store…more of a MEGAstore with everything a person could possibly want including an ice cream shop and a Pizza Hut. And I think to myself, Wow, a Moroccan Walmart.

Once inside, chocolate cravings are satisfied, ingredients are bought and some over-ambitious man with a full cart almost cuts us in the check-out line. With plastic bags in hand, we begin our long walk back from the middle of nowhere and I think to myself Wow, this is the least cultural experience I have had since being here. Someone (up there) must have heard because while passing under a bridge, my shoe gets stuck and my bare foot sinks six inches deep into pure, authentic, 100% Moroccan mud.

Now I’m allowed to say it…I got down and dirty in Morocco.

family of four plus one

I think I had my first family bonding experience tonight. First my mother, sister and I sat down and discussed the pros and cons of tampons vs. pads. Then, my brother came and we switched the topic to that of music…Indian music in particular. I searched my iTunes for what limited Hindi songs I have (believe me there aren’t many) and played a few of my favorites. My brother tried to imitate my neck and shoulder movements which was pretty hilarious. Then, my sister described her relationship with her boyfriend (neither her dad nor her brother know…mom does), who is apparently her eighth (?!). Then, during dinner, I threw out a few Moroccan Arabic words…brd (cold), eya (yes), la (no), safi (enough), naas (sleep) and madukduk (tired). Overall, I’d say today was an A- on the family front.

I also wandered around the Hassan II mausoleum earlier today with a few of my friends. I'd tell you it was beautiful but I think I've used that word way too many times to describe Morocco. So, instead, I’ve made it my goal to put up a few pictures by the end of the week since I’m sure you’re all curious to see what this place looks like. :)

Since being here I seem to get tired around 10 p.m. (which btw is actually dinnertime). So, I’m usually in bed by a little after 11…which is right about now (as if you couldn’t tell by this sort of unmotivated post). Sleepy time for me.

OH, I got the best pick up line yesterday. Here it is.
Hey you, you’re beautiful. Pakistan! Pakistan! Come here, talk to me. You like Morocco? I will build you a palace here.

Should’ve taken him up on that offer…

fashion faux pas

I just bought leopard print socks. For those of you may not know, imitation animal clothing is not really my style. But hey, new country, new style, right? Not that leopard print exactly screams of Morocco, but hey, I’m going to work it.

Tonight post-dinner we watched a show that was like a Moroccan version of Judge Judy. Divorced parents with a custody battle on their hands; a lawyer defending each parent and then three judges to make the decision.

My host mother is a chatty type. While I was reading my homework for tonight, (a task that proved to be difficult considering I haven’t done schoolwork in how long?) she sat down next to me and shared essentially her life philosophy. She told me that the reason she continues to go to the CCCL and ask to host exchange students is because she wants to change the way Americans see Islam. She does not support war; she doesn’t believe in killing others. All people, she told me, are God’s children whether they be Christian, Jewish, Muslim, American, Indian…whatever they may be. And she cannot support anything that would harm someone who is just as human as she is. The word Islam, after all is a derivative of the word salaam (peace). I smiled to myself because here in front of me was a tiny Moroccan woman smarter than 90% of the world’s politicians.

To test her I asked, What about Amal? What if she decides to marry someone who isn’t Muslim (musulman)? She told me that it’s not up to her. It’s her daughter’s choice and in the end, c’est la coeur qui decide (it is the heart that decides).

it's a hole in the ground

I have not quite mastered the Turkish toilet yet. I think I underestimated how difficult it would be. I remember doing it all those years ago in India, but then I realized that India was a good seven years ago and my bum’s been used to something else for quite some time now. Anyways, I’ll spare you the gory details on this. Just know that the toilet is a work in progress at the moment.

Last night I watched a Hindi movie with Amitabh Bachchan followed by Back to the Future in French. Marty McFly has never sounded so hilarious before.

I now have a Moroccan name. I don’t think Rohini was something the fam could handle and apparently all of their past students chose a new name. So, now I go by Iman. It’s the name of a girl I used to babysit for and I always thought it was very pretty. According to my host mother, by the end of this trip, I’ll be so used to Iman that I won’t even respond when called by my actual name. I laughed and thought to myself, We’ll see about that. I think there are too many people who call me Ro or Roho or Roni that it won’t disappear so easily…but we will see.

I get the impression that the fam finds my vegetarianism to be somewhat of a joke. During conversation I will randomly hear the words pas la viande and my father will roll his eyes at the food. Also, mealtime is like rapid back and forth Moroccan Arabic time and as the only person who has no clue what’s going on, I look from side to side like a clueless tennis spectator. Just in case you were wondering, I got that metaphor from my father who kept pointing to me and saying tennis in a French accent. Despite the language barrier I seem to be enjoying my time in this new household and everyone seems to be extremely accommodating.

Note: This entry was written courtesy of the free Internet at Café Arab, where in the course of this post I spilled a drink and made a complete fool of myself. I also dropped my fork twice at dinner the other night making me a class A Moroccan klutz.

like an unclaimed baggage

Yesterday night I was provided with a white sheet paper. On it, small details placed in list form. Family name: Lmoudden. Mother: Rabia. Father: Lhossein. Daughter: Amal. Son: Nourredine. Languages: Moroccan Arabic, French, English (few). Room: Shared. Toilet: Turkish. Water: Hot. Animals: None. This is what I knew of my host family twenty four hours ago. I descended the stairs of the CCCL with a pretty heavy feeling in my stomach. I consider myself to be someone who is pretty easy to get along with and also someone who is respectful of others. So, I was never really nervous about the idea of insulting or being rude to someone who has so warmly welcomed me into their house. Still, being handed a sheet of paper with four foreign names and then proceeding downstairs into a sea of faces out of which I was to find the one which I belonged to…brings out that twisted knot in your gut feeling.

Doha, our homestay coordinator, had arranged a 4 – 5 pm meet and greet with our new families and of course, I’m standing on the side of a room looking up and down every person I see asking myself Are you my mother? Like the lost duck in that children’s story. Pretty decent looking waiters with trays are walking around and I position myself by one of them shoving cookies down my throat to ease my nerves. 4:30 rolls around (I’m seven or eight cookies in) and Doha walks over to me, takes the sheet of paper I have clenched between my fingers and says “Lmoudden…no, not here yet.” At this point, there’s still a group of seven or eight of us “homeless” kids. But one by one, like puppies in a kennel, people are picked up by new families and so the group gets smaller in size until there are only two of us left. Now it’s 4:45, the chances of them coming are looking pretty slim and I’ve completely lost track of the cookie count. We sit in the entrance hall to be certain that they won’t miss us. Doha comes by and glances at our papers again. It’s ok. They know who you are. They will find you tomorrow. Not a comforting thought. No one wants to be the kid who’s family didn’t show up on the first day. My hands are shaking now and my one buddy and I are talking about anything we can to take our mind off IT. I can feel the tears swelling in my eyes, but I look at his face and try to answer and ask questions about school, family, sports, friends, anything. Families start to leave around 5 and now other students come around sharing stories of their new little sister and older brother. I can feel the dam breaking and I consider finding a private place to let it out. Just when I’m about the reach the peak of an emotional breakdown (around 5:10), I see the door open and a short woman wearing djellebah and hijab, points her finger to me as if to say you’re mine. I wipe away the tears, smile back and kiss my new mother on the cheeks. My friend who sat with me through the hour and ten minute roller coaster gives me a sad/happy look…the last man standing. I try to flash him an encouraging smile, but am swept away by Mi (mom).

So, here is what I’ve learned of my new family so far… My sister, Amal, is very excited that I will be staying with them because she is a huge fan of Bollywood movies. Her favorite actor? Shahrukh Khan of course. My brother, Nourredine, works during the day at a French center and studies at night (comptabilite which if my memory of Vockrodt’s class serves me right is accounting?). My father, Lhoussein, is a vendor at one of the stores in the medina and from what I understood (though I could be wrong…my grasp of the French language is seriously being questioned right now) he sells teapots. My mother, Rabia, is a very sweet woman and has already told me on numerous occasions that I am not a stranger (l’etrangere) in her house. I am a part of the family. The house itself is large. We live on the second floor and there are two salons which act as both a living room and a bedroom at night for the daughters in the family. There’s a beautiful open space in the middle which lets sunlight into the house through yellow accented arches. There’s also the kitchen, the dining room where the TV is always on, the toilet and the shower (al doosh). And of course Nourredine’s room and Mi and Ba’s room.

I am beginning to get the feeling that I did the right thing, choosing this program.

on the streets

Harassment. Apparently there’s a lot of it here. Though, if you ask me it’s kind of refreshing in a twisted only Rohini would think this kind of way. The guys who check you out on the street, and believe me there are a LOT of them (not being cocky…these guys would hit on anything that moved) are different from the guys you’ll hear in the states. It all starts with eye contact. I’m not talking about a glance. I mean locked eyes, they don’t back down. Once eye contact is made we take things to the comment level. A few things we’ve heard…fantastique!…I love you...konichiwa (for my Korean friend)…welcome to Morocco…hello, how are you baby…sexy, sexy, sexy. And those are just the ones that we could understand. We’ve also heard our fair share of Arabic phrases that just go in one ear and out the other. During our harassment seminar today, my academic director told us a Moroccan man’s best compliment is to compare your beauty to that of a gazelle. Gazelle eyes are supposedly the most beautiful and for you to reach gazelle status is kind of a big thing. But really despite the things they may say to you at least these men genuinely look you in the face. Not that there’s much else to look at since no one wears anything remotely revealing. I’m just saying it’s nice to be harassed for your face instead of your…other assets.

a couple of journal entries

due to a slow internet connection i have been slow in posting these...

Day 1

Today I made my first Moroccan friend. We were walking in the medina on the way to the Center for Cross Cultural Learning in the middle of a rare Moroccan rain storm. Without the rain boots and raincoat I had packed away so carefully in my luggage I was a stranded soldier in the line of precipitous fire. I began to run convinced it was the only way to save my already sweaty body from a second drenching. Before I got far however the bullets stopped, and I looked up to find that I was covered. A black umbrella held at the very bottom tip by a man shorter than me barely reached over the top of my head. But, it kept me dry. I turned and smiled at him…c’est d’accord, je suis avec une grande group, c’est d’accord. Il a dit, non, je vous garde, je vous garde. Merci a mon premier ami en Maroc.

Day 3

Leave it to me to find the only Colorado reference in all of Rabat. The owner of the Café Glacier Colorado is perhaps one of the sweetest men I have met here. Apparently, the joint is named after said owner’s distant relatives with whom I share a beautiful state. And despite the fact that I was drinking from a Coke bottle labeled in Arabic, I did feel a little bit at home. :)

This morning we had our first true solo wandering of Rabat. As part of an exercise (“Encounters of a First Kind”) my fellow students and I were dropped in various parts of the city with the goal of safely making it back to the medina and the CCCL. From my understanding, Rabat is basically broken down into two parts: the medina and la ville nouvelle. The first is known as “the old city,” a collection of narrow winding streets where every step brings with it a new smell, a new color. La ville nouvelle, or “the French quarters,” is styled after European cities with broader made for car streets and beautiful hotels/apartments/houses. My drop off was right outside the city limits at the gate leading into Rabat. As I navigated through la ville nouvelle trying to find the medina, I was nearly hit by a car, catcalled at by thirteen year old boys, and assisted by a very kind military officer. No worries, friends, I did make it back and not once did I pull out the map I had secretly hidden in my purse. I feel a little more confident and secure knowing I was able to make my way through this new hometown.

the pre-departure jitters

excitement with a twinge of nervousness. my sentiments exactly.

between two large suitcases i have managed to stuff all the insect repellent, textbooks, socks, clothes, band-aids, sunscreen, and "feminine products" that i could possibly need these next few months. each is filled to the brim and barely beneath the 50 pound weight limit. one of my first goals (the first of many) for this semester abroad is to use up every ounce of toothpaste so as to clear room for moroccan goods.

i feel slightly anxious at the thought of leaving tomorrow. the type of travel anxiety that makes me check my purse multiple times to ensure that yes, my passport is still there. goal #2 for this trip - do not lose passport. this jittery feeling i'm sure will settle down upon my arrival in morocco and my first glance at a beautiful country.

now, to steal a line from "leaving on a jet plane." my bags are packed. i'm ready to go.

as-salaam alaykum

i will be setting off in a little over a week for morocco, a country i've been told is absolutely beautiful; i'll give you my first-hand account of this very soon. and though i am still at home, i've decided to mark today as the unofficial beginning to my semester abroad because i've finally begun to gear up for the months ahead. (note, to me, "gearing up" = doing laundry and buying insect repellant)

as part of my preparation for leaving the country, i wanted to start this blog to keep everyone back home clued in on what i'm up to. feel free to read it and comment please. and if you decide blog comments aren't your style, i expect to receive lengthy emails. ;)

cheers to a new year and a new semester!

i hope to have more to report back to you in a little over a week.