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.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
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
Friday, March 20, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, March 16, 2009
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 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.
Friday, March 13, 2009
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. :)
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. :)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
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
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.
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.
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