Travel Flashback #1: Visiting the imperial cities with Dad

Today, I resolved to update this blog. I am perpetually shamed by friends who write way more diligently than I do, and by family and friends who request updates. I have no real excuse, except that the more time passes, the more overwhelmed I become. I am falling into the black hole of blog back-entries.

In an attempt to pull myself out of the black hole (please picture me clawing my way out of a vortex, shouting, "I will not let you win, Blogspot!"), I will take you back several months to March 19th, when I boarded the train from Rabat to Casablanca to pick up my dad from the airport. Dad had visited me in Egypt. He survived there and, as I often tell people, Egypt is about a million times more crazy than Morocco, but I was still nervous for several reasons: I'd planned our trip so we'd be traveling mainly but the notoriously insane Moroccan trains; debilitating stomach issues aren't uncommon for first-time travelers to Morocco; and Morocco can be incredibly overwhelming for travelers who don't speak French or Arabic.

Despite the worries floating around in the back of my head, I was excited to host my first Moroccan visitor. I often tell people that an unofficial part of my grant is being a tour guide. Fulbright emphasizes cross-cultural understanding, and I'm always excited to show around guests who would never visit Morocco if I didn't live here.

And so I greeted my dad at the airport. We made our way to the train, which would take us to Fes, our destination for that day. Our plan was to visit each of Morocco's four imperial cities: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and Marrakesh. All are accessible by train, and, since we didn't want to rent a car, this was imperative. While we waited for our transfer, my dad made an upsetting discovery: He had left his camera on the plane. Not his plane from Paris to Casablanca, but from Boston to Paris. Yikes. I handed my camera over to him and told him that it was his for the next 10 days.


To my delight, it wasn't difficult to find seats in our second-class car, and Dad was able to experience firsthand Moroccan train culture, where it is almost impossible not to engage in conversation with your fellow travelers. By the time we arrived to Fes, we had some new friends and several couscous offers.

Once in Fes, we made our way to the Hotel Batha, located right outside the medina and close to my old house. After getting settled, we walked up to one of the cheap restaurants near Bab Boujloud that overlook the city, where my dad enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the crowded market.

The next day was Friday, and so we opted to avoid the deserted Fes medina and take a day trip to Volubilis, ancient Roman ruins located near Meknes, another imperial city about an hour from Fes. We arranged for a grande taxi to take us to the ruins, and enjoyed the scenery and dodged the European tour groups that filled the site.




After we visited the ruins, our taxi driver took us to Moulay Idriss, a small but beautiful shrine town (dedicated to Moulay Idriss I, one of Morocco's most powerful rulers) with one of the only circular minarets in Morocco. We were guided up a winding series of stairs to a lookout point where we could see the whole city.


After spending a few minutes in the deserted Meknes medina (it was Friday, after all), we returned to Fes, ready to conquer the city the following day.

The next morning, we embarked upon my standard medina tour, armed with the fabulous Fes guidebook "From Bab to Bab." Shooing away faux guides and real guides alike (this was not my first time at the rodeo), we started at Bab Boujloud and made our way down Talaa Kabeera (the big slope), through the meat market...


... into Medrasa Bou Inania, which my guide book dubs the must-see building of Morocco. I don't know enough about architecture to make this assertion, but it sure it pretty. Also of interest, particularly to my Jewish readers: Directly across from the Medrasa is the former home of Maimonides, the superlative Torah scholar, who fled his birthplace during the Spanish inquisition and settled in Fes, where he studied at the university.


We made our way further down Talaa Kabira, stopping to see the honey and henna souks, until we reached al-Kairaouine, the oldest university in the world. At this point, Dad was getting hungry, so we stopped at and got some street food, then continued on our way to the Andalusian quarter, where we saw Medersa al-Sharija, one of my favorite sites in Fes.

Then we looped back up Talaa Kabira, stopped in to see the Medersa es Seffarine and making a stop at the famous tanneries on the way.


The next day, we took off to explore the Mellah, the old Jewish quarter of Fes. Following a walking tour in our guide book, we explored the synagogue and the Jewish cemetery, then made our way back to the hotel for a relaxing last night in Fes.


The following morning, we took the fast train to Rabat, where we spent 2 nights in my apartment and visited Rabat's two major tourist sites: Chellah and the Mousoleum. We also took advantage of Rabat's low-key shopping atmosphere and my dad was introduced to the joys of dirt cheap street food.

And then we were off to Marrakesh, a city I have a love/hate relationship with. The massive tourism industry is, to be quite honest, a little bit too much for this introvert. But my dad wanted to see it, and see it we did.

I would be lying if I said I remembered everything we did. I am no expert on Marrakesh, and, at a certain point, museums and tombs and souks start to run together in my head. But we had a great few days. (Except that my dad was finally hit with the inevitable stomach bug. It didn't seem to bring him down.) And I left the city with a more positive opinion of it, which is always heartening.


And then we made our way to Casablanca, on a train that was completely full in Marrakesh, it's starting location. And the three hours to Casa passed, the train became more and more full. When it came time to exit the train, we almost couldn't make our way past the pushy Moroccans who blocked the way and tried to enter the train before we had made our way off. I couldn't have been prouder of my dad as he used all his body weight to push through the sea of people with his luggage. After 10 days of being passive in the Moroccan crowds, he was finally bhal maghribii (like a Moroccan).

After checking into our hotel, we made our way to Hassan II mosque, the third largest mosque in the world behind the mosques in Mecca and Medina. Completed in 1993, it cost an estimated 800 million dollars. Think about that for a minute.
My favorite part of the mosque's tour was seeing the beautiful hammam (public bath) that was completed but yet to be opened, for administrative reasons. Whatever that means.

We returned to our hotel and embarked on an Art Deco walking tour of the city center, enjoyed some crepes, and people-watched a bit.

Our night ended fairly early, since Dad had to be up at 4:00 am to make it to the airport.

All in all, it was a really wonderful trip. Being a tour guide in a place that was recently foreign to me was incredibly gratifying; I proved to myself how much I'd grown in terms of language ability and understanding of Morocco.

I'm glad I was able to show my dad a good time; he's been calling it his "best vacation ever." And really, I'm not exaggerating when I say that this is a huge part of the Fulbright experience. Every co-worker, family member, and friend that he tells about his trip will have a better understanding of Morocco. And that, gentle readers, is the definition of cross-cultural exchange.

No complaints, okay? At least I wrote something.

Do I wear the shorts, or do the shorts wear me?

When I studied abroad here nearly three years ago (Ack, I'm getting old.), perhaps one of the most difficult things to adjust to was the lack of outlets for regular exercise. I am certainly not an avid exerciser. My relationship with fitness ebbs and flows, but I find physical activity, particularly jogging, soothing in times of stress. I'd grown accustomed to the plethora of fitness centers and jogging paths in America, and knew that if I ever wanted to go for a job in shorts and a tank top I would hardly garner a second look.

I quickly learned that my favorite form of stress relief would not be easy to undertake in Morocco. Living with a host family that watched me with the same hawk's eye they applied to their actual daughters, it would have been completely unacceptable (hashuma, even) to jog around the streets of Rabat willy-nilly, even if I wore my loosest yoga pants and a baggy shirt. I tried to satiate myself by doing crunches and Yoga in my bedroom, but it just wasn't the same.

When I found out I would be returning to Morocco for 15 months, I realized I needed an exercise game plan. I bought Jillian Michael's "Cardio Kickbox" (You may know her as the pint-sized task master from "The Biggest Loser") and a Pilates DVD on Half.com, and packed some modest exercise clothes just in case I found a good place to workout. The combination of Jillian, Pilates, and a pilfered Yoga DVD (all practiced in my bedroom) kept me sane for awhile (Jillian in particular proved to be a worthy adversary), but after a few months the routines had become rote and my enthusiasm was lacking.

One day, when my legs were itching for a jog and I was feeling particularly bold, I decided to take it to the streets. The mean streets of Fes. I wore yoga pants, a long-sleeved tee-shirt, and sunglasses. I was armed with my iPod, cranked loud enough to avoid most of the street harassment I knew was coming. My house was in the medina, so I walked through the narrow alleys until I emerged near the post office, a building that marks the border between the medina and the Ville Nouvelle.

And then I was off.

I felt like I was playing a game of human frogger as I dodged taxis, city buses, giant tour buses, pedestrians, bicycles, and donkeys in the crowded Batha square. Once I made it out of the congested area, it was easier to enjoy myself. I relaxed into my stride and lost myself in my soundtrack of horrible 90s pop music. I made my way towards the Ville Nouvelle, and then turned onto a dirt path that I realized later was in fact a path used by donkeys, horses, and other livestock to reach the local animal hospital. After awhile, I looped back, dodged traffic at Batha once again, and then made the 3 quick turns that took me to my house.

Tired, sweaty, but filled with endorphins, I assessed my run: It was a long way from the wooded paths and pristine air I was used to in America, but it could have been worse. While the air was far from clean, the street harassment wasn't as bad as I was expecting, although I did feel all eyes on me as I passed cafes and bus stops. Despite the minor inconveniences, It was worth it to keep it up, I decided.

In the following months, I ran a few times a week, and learned that some times of the day are better than others. My two regular routes passed large schools, and so if I attempted to run as class was getting out I found myself caught in a sea of secondary students. People continued to stare, but I attributed it to the complete absense of joggers in Fes, not to any overt hostility towards me. I remained self-conscious, but this mostly mainifested itself in my desire to run really fast. If people were going to stare, I could at least hussle so I wouldn't embaress myself more than I already was.

When I moved to Rabat two months ago, I immediately learned about two wonderful jogging opportunities. One was the beach sidewalk across from my apartment. Largely frequented by male soccer players, there are also families strolling and the occasional jogger. The upside? It's free. The downside? The air is dirty, cars honk, and it's possible to zone out and find yourself in a less than desireable area. The other find was the glorious Hilton garden. A large park filled with Eucalyptis trees, joggers of all shapes and sizes, and frolicing families, it is truly an anomaly in Morocco: A place where outdoor fitness isn't just tolerated, it's encouraged. The air is clean and I rarely get the dreaded "elevator eyes" as I trot around the 2.1 mile loop. The only downside was that it was a little far away from my apartment, so it was a 3 dollar taxi ride each way.

Nevertheless, I ran most of the time at the Hilton garden. My roommate Stephanie and my friend Kate also ran there, making the taxi costs more managable. And when Steph and I moved to an apartment much closer to the garden a few weeks ago, I found myself there nearly every day. I continue to be happily surprised by the garden's varied patrons: Everyone from what I can only assume is some sort of track team, decked out in red and green spandex and flying around the path, to elderly women in jelabas strolling leisurely and chatting with their friends.

Spring has sprung in Rabat. With warmer weather comes a need for a "less is more" approach to workout gear. I learned this the hard way when I nearly passed out doing my regular laps a few weeks ago. (Don't worry, the Moroccan track team was there to help me and offer me water.) The culprit? My baggy black yoga pants. I decided it was time to invest in some decently modest running shorts, so I made a trip to the market, where I purchesed a pair of bright red men's soccer shorts for 5 dollars. Lightweight and comfy, they hang to my knees but can be rolled up to a more American length easily. Even though I don't feel particularly self-conscious when I wear them in the garden, I do feel pressure to run faster because of them. As in, "Oh, if she's silly enough to wear those ridiculous shorts, she must be really fast." I'm not, but I still look pretty rad in my shorts, I have to say.

This weekend, I ran in a road race here in Rabat, my first race in almost 5 years. It was an 8-km (5 miles? I think?) run through the streets of Rabat with 20,000 participants in total. The cool part? It was a women's-only race sponsered largely by the government, and many of the participants were schoolgirls who had never run a race before. Some came from towns 14 hours away. The pre-race crowd was absolutely crazy- All of us packed together, pushing and shoving, waving Moroccan flags, and anticipating the starting gun. If you've ever had a sardine-like experience at a Middle Eastern bank or train station, imagine that and times it by about twenty. It's a small miracle nobody was trampled to death when the gun went off. The run itself was difficult but fun. I stayed with a group of younger girls for most of the race, and, as we approached the end, I was grabbed on either hand by the girls as we sprinted towards the finish line. Our final time? A decently respectable 47 minutes.

I didn't expect to re-discover my love of jogging while I was in Morocco, but it's been a wonderful way to take some time away from my books, Arabic dictionary, and computer and clear my head. I only wish I could be back in Cape Elizabeth for the Beach to Beacon this year! Maybe I'd be able to actually run it instead of eating bagels and cheering people on.

True Life: I'm a government researcher

It's been almost six weeks since I last wrote, but it feels like much longer. A lot has happened in my life, gentle readers, and I'll try my best to give you a partial update, probably in fragmented and spaced-out editions.

I am now an official Fulbright researcher. My language grant ended at the beginning of March, and so I'm one month into my nine month grant. At the beginning of March, I made my way down to the city of Agadir, a popular beach destination for Moroccans and foreigners alike. But I didn't go to work on my tan; I went to visit a truly remarkable organization, Oum El Banine.

The trip from Rabat to Agadir takes approximately 10 hours. I rode the train from Rabat to its final destination, Marrakesh, then took a bus from Marrakesh to Agadir. Along the way, I saw the famous (and truly bizarre!) goats in trees. They're exactly what they sound like. One in Agadir, I checked into a cheap hotel and made my way into the city's main square. Since it was still the off-season, it was fairly quiet, and I made more than a few Moroccan aquaintances who were puzzled by the presence of a non-Moroccan Arabic speaking in Agadir who had absolutely no desire to surf.

The next morning, I met with Marie, a lovely French-Canadian woman who is married to Hicham, an equally wonderful Moroccan man. They live in Agadir and work closely with Oum El Banine, one of Morocco's few NGOs that work specifically with single (never married) mothers. They had offered to be my tour guides for the day, and so we walked to OEB and conversed in an amalgamation of Arabic (Hisham is fluent, I am conversant), French (Marie and Hisham are fluent, I can understand but not speak), and English (Marie and I are fluent, Hisham can understand but not speak). Our first stop was the creche, the organization's day care center. OEB offers free day care for all the women that they work with, and also provides clothing and medical care until the children are two. The next stop was the administrative offices, where I met with some employees and the organization's founder, a truly inspiring woman. Our final stop was the foyer, an apartment with a capacity of seven where single mothers live in the last months of pregnancy and a few months after they give birth. Usually, these women have been cut off from their families, and the foyer offers them an invaluable safe space. I had a few very intense interviews with the women, thanked Marie and Hisham profusely, and made my way to the bus stop, where I had another 10 hour journey ahead of me.

Despite the grueling travel, I was inspired and energized by my visit with OEB. The organization's founder was generous enough to offer me an internship, and so I hope to move down to Agadir towards the end of the summer to finish up my grant.

This is my first experience doing human subject research, and it's an infinitely tricky field. Developing trust is essential, particularly in my field, where most of the women I hope to speak with have been through extremely trying experiences and face difficult choices in the future. Having an internship will let me work closely with these women, and hopefully they will feel comfortable enough to open up with me.

I've visited two other organizations so far, both located in Casablanca. Beyond these visits, I've spent the past month continuing my Arabic studies and taking advantage of Rabat's wonderful libraries to work on a literature review. The biggest challenge has been budgeting my time: I have no classes, no 9-5, no obligations to speak of. It's wonderful but also daunting. A few days have been spent watching The Office in bed with lots of Coca Light, but I'm mostly proud of my research so far. Getting out of the house is important, even if it's just walking down the street to a coffee shop to read an article. So far, it's been an interesting lesson in time management, which isn't my strongest skill.

Beyond my visit to Agadir, the highlight of my reseach so far has been the annual MACECE symposium, which started last Thursday and lasted until yesterday. All current Fulbrighters presented their research findings at the conference. It was a three day orgy of academia, fueled by coffee and pastries and filled with presentations on women's issues, water management, Islamic jurisprudence, and tourism development, to name just a few. Many of us had only recently completed the six-month CLEA grant, and so our research is still in it's infancy. But the opportunity to receive feedback was wonderful, and I made some great research contacts.

My presentation took place yesterday morning. My roommate had an unfortunately timed bout with food poisoning the night before, and so I spent the better part of five hours bringing her to the hospital and then to Rabat's only 24-hour pharmacy. Of course, when this all began my presentation still wasn't ready (Yay, procrastination!), and so my stress and fatigue compounded and compounded, culminating in me bursting into tears in a taxi cab while Stephanie puked out the door and a handful of Moroccans stood by, watched, and yelled at her that she needed to drink buttermilk. Jealous?

Needless to say, my spirits were lagging the following morning when I applied about a pound of cover-up around my eyes and attempted to attain the perfect level of coffee consumption: Enough to be awake, not enough to be jittery, and timed so I wouldn't have to pee during my presentation, which started at 9:00 am.

I was on a panel with two other researchers, both of whom research women in politics/society as well. I spoke last, and my presentation was pretty much a blur. I'm not the best public speaker in the world (Okay, I'm a flat-out awful public speaker.), but I was happy with my paper and the massive revisions I'd made in the past week.

Then came the moment of truth: The discussant. Each presenter is charged with finding a discussant to comment on his or her paper following the presentation. In my case, I asked my adviser, Dr. Fouzia Rhissassi, one of the most prominent academics in the country and the UNESCO chair on Women's Rights. Yes folks, she is a Big Deal. We met Monday to talk about an early draft of my paper, and she was less than thrilled with my work. I was told, in no unclear terms, that if I didn't make massive revisions she would be unable to offer positive feedback. Point taken, I worked my butt off on the paper throughout the week, but I wasn't particularly confident that she would be pleased with my work. So when she took the microphone, I was nervous. Probably more nervous than I've ever been, ever.

But she had nothing but nice things to say! She said I had developed a fine critical voice and was impressed with my research so far. Readers, this was a highlight of my life so far. Even though I was exhausted and over-caffeinated, I was happy and proud of my work.

Last night, I slept like a baby. I slept for nine glorious hours, and have done nothing today but drink coffee and read. Novels, not research. Tomorrow, I'll be back in the groove, following-up on contacts and visiting libraries and polishing up my paper, but that's tomorrow.

Little House of Horrors

Over the past 5 years, I’ve moved approximately 9 times. While every living situation has it’s up and it’s downs, I can confidently say that I have never been overcome with such a profound urge to bolt as I am now.

How did I wind up in this mess?

You may want to get a cup of coffee or something, because this is going to be a long one.

I’d always planned on moving from Fes to Rabat to start my research after I ended my language grant. Rabat, Morocco’s capital, is home to government offices, libraries, NGOs, and, most importantly, a beautiful beach. It's a great place to start research and spend the summer. And so my Fessi roommate Stephanie and I embarked upon the great housing search approximately six weeks ago in the hopes of moving to Rabat in mid-February.

Trip One:

We took the train to Rabat (anywhere from 3 to 6 hours, depending on how lucky you are) Thursday evening with high hopes and good spirits. After enjoying the hospitality of fellow Fulbrighter Chris, we spend the better part of Friday walking around and scoping out the city. Each area in Rabat has it’s own personality, and we wanted to get a feel for each before began looking for places. We saw only one “apartment” that day, an overpriced medina house where we would theoretically rent the middle floor of a three floor house. There was no kitchen, the top floor was a construction site, and the bottom floor was home to a family of eight. The whole scenario was so ridiculous that I almost blurted out, "Seriously?!?," but was able to bit my tongue until after we left the house.

Throughout Friday, we also made several attempts to contact various simsars. A simsar is roughly equivalent to a Moroccan “real estate agent,” but is in reality a mostly unemployed Moroccan man who hangs out a lot and thus knows of housing vacancies. As anyone who has used a simsar will tell you, they are a cruel and fickle group, never truly listening to your housing desires and taking advantage of you at every turn.

We finally crossed paths with our simsar, Muhammad, on Saturday morning in Hassan, a nicer part of town near our language school and close to the train station. We had previously told him we would like a two-bedroom apartment, furnished if possible. We also gave him a price range (no more than 4,000 dirhams). He took us to two apartments that day. One had one bedroom, the other had three. Both were completely out of our price range. Typical.

Explaining to him that the price was extremely important to us, he said he knew of a place in Ocean. Ocean is a more modestly priced area where many Fulbrighters live, and, although the street harassment rivals Fes, it's in close proximity to a huge, wonderful vegetable market and is within walking distance of our language school.

Stephanie and I remained cautiously optimistic. But when we arrived to the apartment, we realized that we weren't in Ocean, but were instead in Der Jamee3, an area we'd already ruled out due to the completely sketchy vibe we'd gotten the day before.

Irritated with Muhammad's lying ways, we decided to call it a day. To add to the frustration, he demanded money for the day’s work, which we flat-out refused to pay.

Trip Two:

This day holds the noble distinction of being the worst day I’ve had so far in Morocco. A week after our first excursion, we decided to try our luck again. Stephanie and wanted to take the fast train from Fes to Rabat, which is only 3 stops and is usually on time. We arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. Except that our ticket line’s computer was broken, and so we missed the train by about 2 minutes. And the next train left late and took forever and was smelly and hot. We arrived to Rabat hungry, dirty, and frustrated. After a frustrating exchange with our simsar about where to meet him, he came to the station and brought us to another apartment. This one was fully furnished, nice, and in a decent area. But of course the simsar had lied about the price, and so we left the apartment in a hurry after an awkward exchange with the landlord about how much we were willing to pay. And then, of course, our simsar’s cell phone died, so he couldn’t make any phone calls, and we couldn’t see any other places.

This day happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, and we had originally planned on heading to the Rabat Marine House to watch the game. But I was tired, thirsty, and vaguely sick to my stomach. I hadn’t used the bathroom in 8 hours. I did not want to socialize. I just wanted to sleep. I went back to the train station and bought a ticket for the next train to Fes. And then it started to pour. I mean, really pour. So of course the train was late, and of course once the train arrived I had to stand for the first 45 minutes until a seat freed up.

We arrived back in Fes 12 hours after we left, thoroughly depressed about our situation.

Trip Three:

We received a call from Muhammad telling us about a great place that just came on the market. We make our way to Rabat with positive attitudes on the earliest train Saturday morning.

The first place he took us to that day was a furnished apartment in Ocean. It was a good size, and it was literally right on the ocean, giving us an amazing view of the beach.

Stephanie and I decided we liked the place enough to venture to the landlady’s apartment to negotiate a price. We made our way to Centre-Ville, where we arrived at the tallest, swankiest apartment building in Rabat. One wall of her grand salon was literally nothing but floor to ceiling windows, with a panoramic view of the city. Clearly, she is labas aleeha, a Moroccan expression mean very well off.

After some tea and small talk (she sends her daughter to Al-Akhawayn University, the only private university in Morocco; her son plays Playstation all day), we got down to business. She would rent the place to us furnished or unfurnished (everything was new, she assured us). For furnished, it would cost 4500 dirhams a month, slightly more than we’d originally said was our maximum price. But the thought of moving into a place that had everything was just too tempting- We’d heard story after story from friends about the hassle of purchasing couches, beds, fridges, etc., and it seemed way less stressful to move into a place that was mufarajah (furnished).

And so we decided to go for it. We paid 2 months rent upfront and gave our simsar a commission of a half month’s rent. We’d call her when we arrived in Rabat from Fes the following week to get the keys.

We left her apartment ecstatically happy. We’d found an apartment! Right on the water! Furnished! We were no longer homeless!

We treated ourselves to a gourmet pizza lunch and boarded the next train to Fes with a huge weight off of our shoulders.

The Rahlah Kabeerah:

The following Saturday, we made our way to the 7:50 am train from Fes to Rabat. Much to our dismay, we'd both accumulated lots of stuff in Fes, and if our friend Addie hadn't helped us transport our belongings it would have been next to impossible to make it in one trip. Thankfully we had an extra pair of hands, and the trip went smoothly.

When we arrived to the apartment building, the incredibly kind doorman let us in, and her son took a break from playing Playstation to bring the house keys over.

As we started to get settled, we realized some things were amiss. There was definitely, definitely more stuff in the kitchen the first time we saw it. There were no pots and pans, only a few plates and mugs, and next to no silverwear.

The problems didn't stop there.

The shower head is detachable, but the part that theoretically attaches it to the wall isn't the proper size, and so showering is a cruel misadventure in dexterity, which I sadly lack. Equally annoying is the toilet: The toilet bowl takes approximately 20 minutes to refill after it's been flushed.

The apartment is also incredibly noisy. Stephanie's room faces the main road, where traffic whizzes by at all hours. I have the pleasure of being situated next to a construction site, where work begins promptly at 8:00 am and goes until 6:00 pm, without a lunch break. Very un-Moroccan, and very disruptive to my sleep habits.

The icing on the cake is by far the fridge. The day after we moved in, it stopped working. I found a local mechanic, who told us the compressor was broken. It would cost 1200 dirhams to replace to part. We paid, of course. We needed a fridge.

We asked our landlady to come over to talk about the problem (after all, she had told us that everything was new, and new fridges don't have broken compressors), and she immediately began telling us (yelling at us) that we broke the fridge and that it wasn't her fault or her responsibility. She wouldn't pay for it, and we would just have to deal with it. She even went as far as to call the repair man, talk to him in rapid Arabic, and then report back to us that yes, he confirmed that we broken the fridge. She didn't budge, and we were completely powerless. Hilariously, throughout this exchange, she constantly referred to us as "her daughters." I wish I had the guts to respond, "Your poor daughter!," but I didn't want to incite even more of her wrath.

When the repairman returned the next day to replace the part, he assured us that we did not break the compressor; it was just an old part.

At this point, we decided that we wouldn't be staying longer than the two months we'd already paid. In addition to the constant noise (which, admittedly, isn't our landlady's fault), she is an evil, stingy liar, and neither of us want to give her any more money than we already have.

Over the past 2 weeks, we've slowly but surely gotten settled, shoving ugly knick-knacks in the closet and rearranging the broken furniture she gave us. But the whole situation is transient, and it's difficult to feel completely comfortable knowing that we'll be moving in 5 weeks. We also will have to face our evil landlady's wrath soon when we tell her we're moving out, which adds to the stress. And, typically, a week ago the fridge stopped working again. This time, it was the fan, which cost another 600 dirhams to fix. This time, we didn't even bother calling her. Clearly, she doesn't care at all.

As for where I'll move when our lease runs out, I still don't know. The path my research takes over the past few weeks will play a big part in my decision. I'm making some NGO visits in the upcoming weeks, and if any of these groups are receptive to me working closely with them then it might make sense to leave Rabat and settle elsewhere. Or maybe I'll stay here for the summer and then move cities again in the fall. A lot is uncertain, and uncertainty stresses me out.

As awful as our landlady is, I'll be a little sad to leave this view behind.

B'salaamah, Senoir Qibsh.

Perhaps my most memorable in Morocco thus far (and trust me, gentle readers, there have been many), was my experience during Eid Al-Kabir (Eid Al-Adha). This holiday, which marks Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac to the Lord, is celebrated by Muslims around the world. (As you may recall, the story ended on a happy note when the Lord replaced Isaac with a ram at the last minute, rewarding Abraham for his willingness to make an immense sacrifice for his faith.)

This year, Eid Al-Kabir took place in early December, and so this entry is both cursed and blessed with the gift of time to reflect and ruminate on my experience. While I doubt I can add anything that hasn't been said before, I wanted to share this unique experience with my family and friends that read this blog.

So, the facts. Moroccans celebrate Eid Al-Kabir with the sacrifice of a sheep (qibsh), which is followed by eating nearly all of the animal.

In the weeks leading up to the Eid, subtle changes occur in the medina. Knives, barbeque sets, salt, and cumin, the accoutrements of Eid, are on display on every street corner. Moroccans drag reluctant sheep through the streets to their homes, where the sheep will live until they meet their maker. The sheep often live on the roofs, and so the bleats of sheep that seem to know what awaits them adds to the usual cacophony of roosters and stray cats in heat that make up our daily medina soundtrack.

Here is a photo of my friend Susannah's sheep, who we nicknamed Senoir Qibsh.


Our landlord Mustafa and his mother Fatima invited my roommate Roz and I to their home for the holiday. Not wanting to 1) Offend our wonderful landlords by refusing their invitation, and 2) Miss out on this singular experience, we accepted. We'll only stay for the sacrifice, we told each other. Whatever happens, we will not eat innards.

When we arrived to our landlord's apartment, the sheep was already up on the roof. The families in the building must have staggered themselves, because our group was the only one there. Our small group was composed of Roz, Mustafa, Fatima, a family friend, a butcher, and me. (Similar to Jewish dietary law, the sheep must be butchered in a specific way, and trained butchers are in hot demand during the Eid.)

The butcher and the friend held down the sheep, said B'ismilah (in the name of Allah) and slit it's throat. After the sheep stopped convulsing, the family decapitated the animal, drained the blood into the roof’s drain, and skinned it, the last of which involved poking a hole in the skin and blowing into the hole, effectively loosening the skin from the body. Then they went to work on the innards, cutting everything out and placing them in a large bowl.








Afterwards, we made our way downstairs, where Roz and I drank tea and watched Men in Black while Fatima prepared lunch. This is when Roz and I started to panic and doubt our resolution to avoid eating innards. We knew that brains take a day to prepare, and so they wouldn’t be on the menu. But what other organs would be presented to us? As we watched Fatima bring bread, cumin, salt, and soda out to the table one by one, I felt like we were in some insane parody of “The Tell Tale Heart,” in which every passing minute compounded our fear. It didn’t help that the decapitated carcass sat just feet from us on a spare table, slowly dripping its remaining blood into bucket.

Finally, lunch was served. Roz and I eyed the meat kabobs (neither of us had any idea what type of meat it was), made eye contact, silently weighed our options, and dug in.

The meat was chewy. And smoky. And wrapped in fat. I tried to keep my bread-to-meat ratio high, and followed every bite with a large gulp of soda. Fatima’s eyes were on us as we made our way through the kabobs, and so I tried my best to fight my gag reflex, keep a smile on my face, and not think about what I was eating. Roz did the same.

When we left, we thanked Fatima and Mustafa profusely. And, despite the greasy, charred taste that wouldn’t leave our mouths, we meant it. They opened their home up to us, not because they had to, but because they wanted to share the holiday with us. And I’m truly grateful for their hospitality.

Roz has a motorcycle, and, as we made our way back to our house, the streets were smoky with makeshift barbeque pits, where young men cooked sheep's heads. As we entered the gate of the medina, the streets literally ran red with blood. The slight rain only added to how surreal the experience was; it looked like the apocalypse.

I left the day with a mixed perception of the Eid. In many ways, the holiday has become less about the sacrifice's religious origins and more about the expensive rituals (and associated status). A nice sheep will set a family back more than 100 dollars, and families that can't afford a sheep sacrifice a smaller animal, like a goat or a chicken. Shortly before the Eid, a girl in the hammam asked me for money so that her family could buy an animal. This is not uncommon. And it seems to me that such a spiritual event taking on such a capitalistic dimension is the antithesis of the holiday.

And yet it is difficult to deny the impact of an entire nation (not just Morocco, but the larger Islamic ummah) celebrating the holiday together. It's about more than eating a sheep's brains; it's about faith. Not just individual faith, but collective faith. It's something Americans, raised in a nation of "secularism" and religious plurality, may have a difficult time fathoming. Even though I am not Muslim, there's immense power in the though that the King of Morocco and families in the slums of Fes, and everyone in between, celebrate a moment of faith, of belief, together.

And so the contradictions, and the beauty that lies within them, continue.

PS- I finally found out what sort of meat I consumed several weeks later, when my Arabic teacher asked us about our Eid experiences. "What did you eat?," she asked me. "Bouchra, I don't know." "You don't understand the question?" "No, I have idea what I ate."

After much discussion, she decided that I ate the sheep's pancreas. Bi Sahah. And B'Salaamah, Mr. Qibsh.

In which I went skiing in Morocco.

Perhaps the biggest misconception about life in Morocco is that the weather is perpetually warm. True, spring is balmy, summers are brutally hot, and fall is temperate, but, at least in Fes, from approximately mid-October until mid-March the climate is horribly, horribly cold. The absence of central heating and insulated walls makes the temperature all the more awful. At the moment, I can see my breath in the house. My roommates and I have developed several coping mechanisms for dealing with the weather: We sleep with many, many blankets, constantly wear spandex and long-sleeved shirts under our clothes, and use a Butagaz, essentially a gas tank with a metal grate on top that acts as an archaic space heater.

In Fes, the temperature hovers just above freezing, and so rain, sometimes sleet, pounds down on our house, the sound amplified by the plastic roof that covers our open courtyard. Further up in the mountains, the rain turns into snow, creating the perfect conditions for a Moroccan ski adventure.

That's right. My first ski trip since high school took place in North Africa.

Our ragtag group of skiers gathered at 7:00 am last Saturday morning. 14 in total, we piled into our rented van while the rest of Fes still slept. Most of us dozed on the bus as we climbed further and further up into the mountains. Along the way, we passed through the town of Ifrane. I'd driven through Ifrane a few times before, but it never ceases to make me smile. France developed the town, which is situated about 45 minutes from Fes, as a resort village in the 1920s. The architecture is firmly European, the trees are neatly groomed, and joggers and recreational bikers abound. The drive through Ifrane is like passing through the Swiss Alps for ten minutes, only to be plopped back into Morocco again once you reach town limits.

We reached the Mischliffen resort an hour or so after we left Fes. Several inches of powdery snow were on the ground, and we took the opportunity to throw some snowballs and marvel at the fact that we were several inches deep in snow. In Morocco.


After some scrambling to find "suitable" boots, skis, and poles for all of us (Suitable is a relative term. My skis were a good foot taller than me and appeared to be about 20 years old. I did only pay around 5 dollars for all of my equipment, though.), we hobbled over the basin, where people were skiing, snowboarding, sledding, and generally taking in the scene. There were about 4 trails in total, but when we first arrived none of rope tows were running, and so we skiied around in the basin for awhile until one rope tow started up (50 cents per run).

After a truely meskeenah fall off of the rope tow, I began my first run. I quickly realized that super long, un-curved skis are extremely difficult to control, and so my hopes of parallel turning were replaced by a strong desire not to wipe out completely. I failed at even this modest goal when I took a spectacular wipeout on an icy patch.

The top of the run was pretty beautiful, though.



After a few trips down the open trail, a bunch of us decided to hike over to an unopened trail. This was perhaps my worst idea ever. Hiking in ski boots while knee-deep in snow and carrying skis on your shoulder is extremely difficult. Making our way down the ungroomed trail was even more difficult. Out of fear for our lives, Stephanie and I opted to take off our skis and walk down the mountain/slide down on our butts. The final straw proved to be getting my boots back into my binding at the bottom of the run. In case you're wondering, it took 2 friends 15 minutes to shove my boots back into my skis. Yikes.

We finally made our way back to the lodge, where we enjoyed some hot chocolate before heading to Azrou, a beautiful little town in the mountains, for lunch.


On the way to Azrou, we stopped briefly at a cedar forest which is famous for its Barbary apes. Apes were chilling in the road, climbing in the trees, and aggressively begging for food. As Stephanie posed for a photo, one of the apes attacked her leg. Barbary apes do not mess around.


After lunch, we made our way to our driver's family's house for tea. The house is located in a Berber village, and the landscape was incredibly beautiful. More importantly, I got to play with the family dogs a little bit.


We boarded the van once more to make our way back to Fes. 12 hours after we departed, we arrived to our city once again, and once again the city was dark. While my shins ached for the next few days and my socks took nearly a week to dry, I can now proudly say that I went skiing in Morocco, and lived to tell the tale.

Najib: Muul a-Taxi/Guardian Angel

As I write this entry, I'm sitting in the international terminal of JFK, awaiting a flight back to Casablanca. As many of you probably know, I returned to the United States for the holidays; it was a wonderful break filled with friends, family, and all the American culture (read: beer, pizza, and Chinese food) I could soak up. But I'm not going to tell you about how much fun my vacation was. Instead, I'm going to tell you a story that should restore your faith in humanity.

Let's start at the beginning.

Fellow Fulbrighter Susannah and I booked the same flight from Casablanca to New York. The flight departed at 11:30 am, which meant it would be difficult/impossible to leave from Fes in the morning and make our flight on time, since Fes is a good 4 to 5 hours from Casa. So Susannah and I decided to spend the night with friends in Rabat, only an hour away from the airport, and to get an early start in the morning.

After a fun girl's night filled with junk food and a terrible movie ("The Women"- don't see it),
we rolled out of bed at 5:35 am, and left the house with our 120 some-odd pounds of luggage at 6:10, hoping to catch a cab to the train station for the 7:00 am train from Rabat to Casa.

When we exited the apartment, It was pitch-black and freezing cold. As we trudged along the sidewalk that runs next to the beach, it became glaringly obvious that no taxis were passing our way. After about a mile and a half of walking, I was close to crying tears of frustration, and my arm muscles were shaking from dragging so much stuff. Why do I always overpack?!?

Just as we were about to admit defeat and resign ourselves to the 7:40 train (which wouldn't be a total disaster, just a little more stressful), an unmistakable blue taxi emerged out of the fog like a beacon of hope and miraculously stopped mere feet from us to let of its sole passenger and pick us up.

With a taxi secured, we made our way to the train station, chatting with our driver in Arabic along the way. I noted with happy surprise that our muul a-taxi (taxi driver) had turned on the meter. Generally, taxi drivers in Rabat don't object to using the meter, but when passengers have many heavy bags it's customary for the driver to charge a higher fee. When we arrived to the station, our driver only asked for the metered fee. Pleasantly surprised, we insisted that he take a tip, and we made our way down to the platform.

We'd arrived at 6:45 am, in time for an earlier train to Casa at that time, and so we loaded our luggage onto the train, content with ourselves for making it so far, so good.

But, holy crap.

As we transferred our bags from the platform to the train, I did a mental check of our many possessions, and realized that Susannah wasn't carrying her small purse, which contained her only true possession of importance- her passport.

Trying to keep calm, I asked,"Susannah, where's your purse?"

Her face crumpled. I could see her entering panic mode (rightfully so). We needed a plan- Did she remember having it in the taxi? Yes. Okay, great. At least she didn't drop it somewhere along the sketchy beach sidewalk. But what to do now?

I waited on the platform with all our bags while she ran upstairs to scope out the situation. Nervously chatting with the station's employees, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. None of them were good. If she didn't have her passport, there was no way she could make our flight. Period.

But then!

I saw Susannah coming down the escalator, purse in hand, just in time for the 7:00 train.

You see, Najib, our taxi driver, noticed the purse immediately after we exited the taxi. He was planning on taking it to the police station, but when he looked in the bag, he saw the passport and airline tickets and realized where we were headed. He decided to return to the station, where he was able to give Susannah her purse back. Najib was truly our guardian angel that morning, and I will think of his kindness every time I'm on the verge of cursing Moroccan men.

And so we triumphantly boarded the train and made our way to Casablanca, where we caught our flight to the United States to experience what can only be described as reverse culture shock. And now, three weeks later, I'm prepared to go through it all again. While my jaunt to the United States was fun, I'm ready to dive back into my studies and experience the emotional roller coaster that is life in Fes again.