Tomorrow.

Tomorrow morning at 6:45 I get on a plane in the tiny Rabat airport, a plane to take me home.

Today I packed up my life of the last 4 months into a 225 dirham suitcase from the souk that I'm not sure will make it all the way home.

I've been looking forward to going home for quite a while- home to see my family and friends, home to Christmas and all of the traditions that come with it, home to convenient consumerism and more equal gender relations. And of course, home to my cat.

What hasn't been following my dreams of home is the realization that in order to go home, I have to leave here. I can't put into words how strange it will be to not wake up tomorrow morning, eat breakfast with my roommate, catch a cab to AMIDEAST, and spend the day in classes and our little study-abroad-students-only room at the top of the program building. Strange to not see and hear cats everywhere in the streets, or the call to prayer 5 times a day. Strange to not dig around in my purse for a few dirham for the Malian and Mauritanian refugees with small children who sit on the streets on warm days. Strange to not go down to the hanut for chicken chips, or to a salon de the for a coffee and a crepe, or to be ordered to "kul!" constantly at every meal shared with my host mom. Strange to think that this was normal.

I didn't go through this on my way here because I was heading off into some great adventure, where I knew I'd be leaving "normal" at home.

But in the time that I built a new normal, I also built an interesting relationship with Morocco. I feel like I haven't been here long enough, but at the same time I know I wouldn't want to live here indeterminately. I fell in love with the mountains and I enjoyed the desert. I feel at home in Rabat but I'm not much of a fan of Tangier or Marrakech. I want to come back, but at the same time there are so many other places I want to see. I'm getting nostalgic, and I know that I'm wearing a lovely pair of rose-colored glasses because I'm leaving. But I know that there are parts of Morocco I'll always love and always miss. I know that being here has given me so much more perspective, and I know that the parts I love will always stay with me.

Well, here we go.

Feminist Reflections

Hands-down, my favorite course this semester was Gender, Islam, & Society. It was taught by a great Moroccan professor who's spent years evaluating the work of momentous Moroccan feminist Fatima Mernissi and studying in Canada, so her perspectives were very interesting and incredibly well-informed. The course started with a discussion of the original Islamic discourses as to whether the Qur'an or Islam itself are misogynistic, whether the prophet Mohammed was a feminist, and how much Islam changed the lives of women in the lands it grew from. It moved on to a debate on the hijab and the basis of modesty in women's wear, then women's rights in Islam and the legal systems that have evolved out of Shari'a. Then we shifted into Islamic feminism and modern Islamic women's rights.

The course was eye-opening for me, and I really enjoyed it. My term paper revolved around the evolution of the hijab as a representative of something other than observance of modest Islamic dress.


This is an image that's come up in class quite a few times, and always gets quite a few interesting reactions:

 

What's yours?

More food for thought: The world is in uproar over France's ban of the burqa in public spaces (in addition to the hijab, and all forms of religious expression, in schools). France based their ban on centuries of state vs. religion upheaval and the right to shield their secular nation from public displays of religion (also, couched it in save-the-repressed-Muslim-woman banter, which I don't buy). However, no one denies the right of Saudi Arabia to enforce the wearing of modest dress and head coverings for female citizens and permanent residents, based on their status as a Muslim monarchy. Who, if anyone, has that right?

One week?!?

I go home in a week?! HOLY CRAP! I'm feeling almost exactly like I did on the way here- I know it's happening, but not really. On that note, some quick reflections:

Things I’ve realized are the same everywhere (or the everywhere I know):

Babies.

Telling someone “one minute” and actually meaning ten.

Ramen Noodles.

Kittens.

Weird animated commercials.

Amusing dating service ads.

Pokemon.

... more to come.

Tense.

Time for a heavy post again. Sorry folks, this was due.

I've only realized in the past month just how much my physical demeanor affects all other aspects of me. Walking around certain neighborhoods of Rabat, or anywhere in Rabat a few hours after sundown, everything in the way I (and most other non-Moroccan girls) hold myself changes. These are in the times and places I want to avoid contact with men most- when I can feel them leering, when they call things and yell things, and when any response on my part would be to invite more attention at best and something I certainly don't want at worst.

My back and jaw tense up, my footsteps are heavy, and my face is bleak. I move quickly and deliberately. I keep my head forward but my eyes down, with a blank stare, and have mastered not meeting peoples' eyes but still looking at their bodies (it's harder than you'd think, though needing to pay attention to the sidewalk [or lack thereof] helps). I startle easily, and generally am more observant. I listen for anything and everything, but especially the sound of footfalls behind me. I am aware of everything but respond to nothing.

And I am not happy. My mood goes dark like my body has gone tense, in a definite response to the way I carry myself. Perhaps more startling is that it all evaporates as soon as I get inside, away from where I need to look disinterested and undesirable. It's almost like I'm back in theater rehearsals, practicing dropping in and out of the walk and affectations of my character at a word from the director, but here I'm dropping into another person's skin for a quick trip from the taxi stand to the door of my homestay.

I always recognized how much my mood affected my body language; how much being happy could put a bounce in my step. Up till now, I didn't recognize how much my body language affected my mood. It's eerie.

Marrakech.

Pronounced: Mrrkesh.

Last weekend in Marrakech was an enjoyable one. We were there during the International Film Festival, so even more than regularly, it was swarming with tourists. This meant that 1) I realized I'm as annoyed by most tourists even when I'm a tourist as I am when I'm at home in Boston 2) harassment is worse where everyone is trying to make money off a tourist buck and 3) actually speaking a fair (conversational) amount of and being able to haggle in Darija meant we got better prices than tourists who spoke none.

While I did enjoy Marrakech, I can honestly say I wasn't that impressed. Don't get me wrong, there were some great things- the rose gardens were beautiful, as was Koutuobia mosque. The fresh orange juice everywhere was inexpensive and delicious (and safe, thanks to the hordes of tourists). But it was clean--too clean. The vender harassment was seriously terrible, and was one of the few things that got worse when we responded in Darija (still not sure why about that one). The medina was cool, but not remarkable by any means. It all felt a little too much like someone decided to make a marketable Morocco and fit it into a city, not like the real country I've come to know a little bit and love a lot.

I have pictures, but as I'm at home right now and they'll take approximately 47.378 hours to load, they will wait.

Hope everyone had a good week. I have 7 of 30 pages in term papers done. Whoo! (Bleh.)

Catch-Up Game

I realized earlier this week that I haven't uploaded photos in a very very long time, but better late than never, right? So here are some from our trip to Tangier and Chefchaouen and a bit of Eid.

Goat! I followed the advice of my host sisters and didn't get too attached to our goat, who spent the entirety of his time in our apartment trying to eat a fake plant.

MaaaaAAAAAAH.

Abandoned shell of a hotel.

Feesh market.

European architecture, quite prevalent in all of Tangier.

Pretty staircase.

Gas-cap streetlights were all over Tangier- none of them still in use, just there.

Tailor.

Prayer room on a private riad.

"Door of the Ocean"

...Which is fitting.

Hey, look! Spain!

Mosque fountain.

Kitty!

Tall Zack, small room. Great kebab.

The American Legation! For a brief return to American soil in Tangier.

A beautiful lantern in the Legation.

Preserved antique interiors.

Chefchaouen! Chefchaouen is known as a blue city- the entire city is painted in shades of this periwinkle blue and white. Unfortunately, I was sick the day we were there, so the only parts of the city I saw were the portions we drove through on our way out.

Paris! I went last weekend. Beautiful.

This weekend we're heading to Marrakech, where I will take many pictures and post them here sooner. Promise.

Taxi!

The past few weekends I've traveled to Europe, and it got me thinking about quite a few of the differences between Morocco and Europe/the US. One of those is taxis, and I don't think I've ever really gone into depth about them here.

There are two kinds of taxis in Morocco: gran taxi/taxi kabiir, and petit taxi/taxi saghrir. Gran taxis are white, everywhere, and are usually old giant mercedes or other large, old, vaguely boat-shaped cars. It's not uncommon for them to have a bench seat in the front as well as the back. For some godforsaken reason, the gran taxis take 6 (SIX!) passengers in addition to the driver. It's always uncomfortable, even among friends. They go from one set destination to another, generally across or between towns and cities. You pay a flat rate for every seat, negotiated before the journey starts and paid upon arrival. If you're a group of 4 and don't feel like waiting for two more passengers (or becoming very close, very quickly with two strangers), you pay for the empty seats.

The petit taxis have their own color in every Moroccan city- here in Rabat they're bright blue, in Fez they're red, in Tangier they're pale blue. They're generally small sedans, Fiats are common, and take 3 passengers in addition to the driver. The petit taxis pull over when you hail them (sometimes) if they have room, and you tell the driver what neighborhood you're going to. If it's the same one as the other passenger(s), you hop in and pay the fare from where the meter is when you get in to what it reads when you get out. Some days it seems like none of them stop, even when there's an ancient Moroccan lady waving her cane at them, some days the unofficial but rather permanent petit taxi stands are full and waiting for passengers. If you're a single female (or two females) the driver might not pick you up if he already has a male passenger; he might not pick up any lone male passengers while you are in the taxi. On the other hand (this happened to a friend), he might try to feel you up if you are alone and sit in the front seat.

Don't sit in the front seat.

Do bring a friend who's not afraid to yell at an overcharging gran taxi stand manager, if you're not yourself.

And don't worry, he won't actually crash.

"Foreign Language"

Or, Gretchenspeak.

I've created a new language all my own. In the semester of Arabic I took at Northeastern before coming to Morocco, we all amused our teacher with the random sputterings of foreign languages that we'd toss out into conversation, in our desperate attempts to not speak English. These interjections were usually in the languages we'd studied in high school- Spanish, in my case, often French, a little bit of German, etc. We laughed, our teacher was in turn bemused and frustrated, and we moved on.

For some reason, I wasn't expecting this non-English-language-mixup to continue.

I realized it was going to stay with me when I started speaking Spanish with one of the security guards in the program's academic building and said و as opposed to y (both meaning and). Forgetting the phrase for "bless you" in Arabic, I started using salu- bless you in Italian. Forgetting "excuse me," I started using pardon... which sorta works in French? Then I spoke to a Swiss couple at the Toubkal Refuge who echoed my sentiments- they both spoke 4 languages at varying degrees of fluency, and ensured me that their brains, outside of their native tongues, were blended messes of language.

I spent the past long weekend in one of my friends' grandparent's apartments in Madrid with a group of girls from the program. It was an incredible weekend; we all had so much fun and ate so much bacon. I also spent the entire weekend inserting the odd Arabic word or phrase into my Spanish.

I guess I've come full circle.

Random Musings, Take Two (or: Eat sheep, and study.)

Sheep smell.
Wet sheep smell worse.

I'm now expertly skilled at clothes-pinning underwear for maximum drying potential.
Expert hanging skills can't fight rain.

Dozens of buckets are useful for cleaning the room in which you slaughter a sheep and a goat.

65 degrees=depths of winter. Moroccans everywhere dove head first into their winter wardrobe on the first under-70 day here. My host sister left for class this morning in a fur-hood-lined puffy jacket, wool socks, and heavy boots, and when home wears heavy knit wool leggings under pajama pants.

Sheep: It's what's for dinner. And lunch.
A sheep part a day keeps the doctor away!
Sheep: The other red meat. (Goat: The other other red meat.)

If I were half as good at doing my Arabic homework as I am at avoiding it, I'd be fluent by now.
Speaking of which...

p.s. Hello to readers from Russia! I have no idea why you're here, but I like it.

Laughing Cow, laugh no more.

Here's a side story, venturing back before 'Eid:

At the midnight stop on our bus ride from Risani to Meknes, I believe I managed to find the singular hanut in Morocco that doesn't sell Laughing Cow cheese. On the way across the street to another hanut, I managed to forget how to say cheese in both French and Arabic, so when I got to the two men loading sodas into drink fridges in their hanut, our conversation went something along the lines of:

Me: "Uhh.... Salaam..."

Hanut Man 1: "Salaam."

Hanut Man 2: "Salaam"

Me: "Salaam...uhh... uh... cheese?"

Hanut Man 1: "...Chips?"

Me: "Laa (no), urmm..."

Hanut Man 2: "Urhh..." (gestures for me to look into the shop)

Me: "Ah!" (pointing at the cheese I see on a shelf) "Hadtha!" (this!)

Hanut Man 1: (points at the tuna next to the cheese) "Hadtha?"

Me: "Laa..." (pointing more to the right of the tuna)

Hanut Man 1: "Hadtha?" (pointing at the can opener next to the tuna)

Me: "Ah... laa..."

Hanut Man 2: (gestures for me to come behind the counter)

Me: (Picking up cheese, but only wanting one wedge, not the whole package) "Ahh... Wehd?" (one?)

Hanut Man 1: "Tetakelem al Aarabiyya?" (You speak Arabic?)

Me: (thinking he was trying to teach me how to say cheese in Arabic) "Bil Aarabiyya?" (In Arabic?)

Hanut Man 2: "Tetakelem al Aarabiyya?"

Me: "Ah! Shweeya!" (A little)

Me: (seeing the entire clear plastic container of singular Laughing Cow cheese wedges sitting right in front of me on the counter) "Ah. Hadtha."

The streets are alive with the sound of sheep,
with Maa-AAAH they have bleated for a thousand years.
Our tables will be blessed with the taste of sheep,
and they'll Maa-AAAH no more.

Happy 'Eid, everyone.

Mmm, meat.

Had chunks of red meat on top of spaghetti for dinner last night. Definitely wasn't beef, and that's all I know.

On the other hand, preparations are starting here for Eid al-Adha, a holiday commemorating the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son Ishmael by sacrificing a sheep (as God gave to Abraham to sacrifice instead of Ishmael). The sheep are bought a few days in advance, and I've been well forewarned by my host sisters as to the quality of sleep I'll get in a neighborhood of balconies and bathrooms full of sheep. I've also been warned (by a still semi-traumatized host sister) to not get too friendly with the sheep in the days preceding the Eid, like she did a few years ago.

Our wonderful program director/fairy godmother's email about Eid advises against watching or participating if we have a weak stomach as "the process is very bloody and messy." The sheep is slaughtered, gutted, and skinned on the balcony, then butchered to be eaten over the next month or so. Each family brings a portion of their sheep (or cow/multiple sheep, for large families) to be distributed to families unable to buy their own sheep. The day of the slaughter we'll eat the liver and head, then the day after lunch will be stomach, entrails, and chopped lung. Hooves are served with couscous, then the next few days are barbeque-sheep-filled.

Somewhat surprisingly, I'm not nervous for the slaughter and I'm actually excited for the food. After 5 years of vegetarianism (halted for this trip), I figure if I wouldn't kill something myself, I shouldn't eat it. This is the first chance I've had to actually kill something and eat it (though my host dad will probably do most of it), so we'll see if I do as well as I hope (or potentially have a complete breakdown). I've watched enough Anthony Bourdain to be excited for not-so-normal food, especially considering how well my host family cooks. With the unfortunate exception of my younger host sister, whose culinary skills we sampled a few days ago-- over-cooked macaroni salad with grated canned lunch meat and olives, anyone?

I'll keep you posted...

A Whirlwind Week

My week of travel through Morocco's High Atlas mountains and the Sahara desert was incredible, wonderful, and generally amusing. I went with three friends from my program, and we had a great time.

Saturday morning we hopped on a train to Marrakech (... and now you have Marrakech Express stuck in your head) and took a gran taxi to Imlil, a small mountain village that serves as a stepping-off point for many hikers in the High Atlas. My travel-mate Caitlin had yet another (serious) question as to whether she had any marriage prospects back in Alabama, this time from Abdu, our guide/host at the Imlil refuge. So of course, for the rest of the trip, we imagined Caitlin as a crazy American gone native in the High Atlas, married to Abdu with a hostel and a backyard full of baby goats.

Sunday morning we set out for the Toubkal Refuge, at the base of Jebel Toubkal, North Africa's highest peak. We planned to make the 5-6 hour hike to Toubkal, spend Sunday night at the base, hike Toubkal on Monday, and head back to Imlil Tuesday night. We left Imlil at 9:30 am and early into our hike we met a friendly British man who asked us if we had rubbers: "...what? -Rubbers? You know, waterproofs? For your feet. There's a meter of snow at the top, and 20 centimeters at the refuge!" Ah well, we figured, maybe it'll melt. On we marched.

En route we discussed what would be the perfect captions to our travels:

"All paths lead to Toubkal." 

"Goddamnit Gretchen, why are you so good at Yahtzee?!"

"The path to Toubkal is paved in donkey poop." 

"You need the nutrients."

8 hours later, we plodded into the Toubkal Refuge, wet and freezing. It started to rain about half way through, and the altitude hit just after that. Then I remembered that I'd only ever gone on a few day hikes before, all at least 6 years ago, and started to ask myself why I thought that trudging up the side of a mountain would be "fun." Nevertheless, there wasn't anywhere between Imlil and Toubkal except for a few poorly stocked shops (which always had Snickers, thankfully) and a mosque, so we kept going. We got to the snow an hour and a half before we got to the Refuge, and by that point I had already decided that I would most certainly not be attempting to climb the summit.

The Refuge was over-priced and freezing cold inside and out (45 degrees in our room by 10pm), so Monday morning Zach and Caitlin (the best in shape and better equipped out of the four of us) hiked around the Refuge for a few hours, probably 1/3 of the way up the mountain, took some pictures, and at noon or so we headed back down to Imlil. The return journey took 6 hours or so, and through the course of those two days I decided that I didn't need to worry about not having exercised since getting to Morocco, because I had done more than enough in 34 hours to account for two months of laziness.

Tuesday morning we headed back to Marrakech, where I had the best Kefta a la Oeuf tagine I've had here (don't tell my host mom), spent the night in a youth hostel, and set off Wednesday morning for Ouarzazate.

In typical Moroccan fashion, our bus to Ouarzazate left the station an hour and a half late, drove into the middle of Marrakech, picked up 4 more people than there were seats for, drove back to the station, deposited some very angry and very vocal passengers at the station to wait for the next bus, and finally headed out for Ouarzazate. Ouarzazate was a very interesting city- it's home to one of the oldest kasbahs in Morocco, which set the scene for many a desert/arabian movie (Prince of Persia, Lawrence of Arabia, Gladiator), but wasn't a city before the French arrived. The French army built a barracks there to support their presence in the western portion of Morocco, and constructed a small city around the barracks. There are no French left, but the giant central square and wide boulevards lined in lamp posts attests to their presence. We also had a frustrating 1 hour search for ice cream, after being disappointed to learn that the bakery with a flashing ice cream cone sign hanging outside did not, in fact, serve ice cream. (Which may have been because it's now November, and the majority of Moroccans are regularly wearing heavy winter jackets, despite the fact that it's 73 degrees outside.)

From Ouarzazate we haggled our way through three gran taxis to get us to Risani, the town from which we departed for Merzouga, part of Morocco's Sahara. We were picked up by the desert tour guys, met with two friends, given a few hours in a local riad/hotel, and set forth into the Sahara atop a four wheel drive SUV (no really, on top of it, it was great). The tour guys dropped us off at the edge of our dunes, where a Bedouin guide and camels awaited us. We rode our camels into the bright orange sunset-lit desert and spent that night in tents, where it rained miserably. Our tent was covered in 'plastico' to prevent us from being wet in addition to coated in sand- I say plastico because our Bedouin guide spoke Berber, a little bit of Darija, a little bit of English, some Japanese, and Spanish almost fluently, so for the second time this semester myself and Ana did all of the communicating.

The next day we rode our camels to have tea with a Berber family (which normal Moroccans do all the time, it totally wasn't just for tourists), where I made friends with another Sahara cat. They all had dark amber eyes with black lids and rims to protect from the sun, and were incredibly friendly. Our guide explained that further in the desert they follow caravans and eat scorpions and other undesirable creatures, while where we were (closer to the edges) they eat birds, lizards, and tourists' food. That night we headed to an "oasis" (again, totally natural, definitely not just for tourists), played some Gnawa music, and took showers(!!!).

Friday morning we headed back into Risani for a tour of the city and mini-lesson on the different ethnic groups who've traded, moved, and settled through Risani over the years. Friday night we boarded a bus (same company) to take us to Meknes, where we'd get a train back to Rabat. After some seat-haggling with an angry old Moroccan woman, we were on our way. We stopped for a bit at a tiny town, where there were bathrooms and food, and kept trucking. We got into Meknes at 2 am, I fell out of the bus, we hopped on a train, and got into Rabat at 6 am.

It was a crazy crazy week, and I enjoyed all of it (eventually).

BAM.

My bag for an entire week of travel. I'm pretty proud of my light-packing skills.

As for the actual travel, I'll be spending the next week hiking in the High Atlas mountains with friends, including up the highest peak in North Africa (Mount Toubkal). From there we'll be spending a night in Marrakech and a night Ouarzazate, where Lawrence of Arabia was filmed, then gran-taxi-city-hopping to Merzouga in the Sahara for two days of sand and camels. And more sand. And probably a bit more sand, just for good measure.

See you in a week!

Calligraphy Lesson Extraordinaire

About a week ago, the program I’m here studying with (AMIDEAST) had a calligraphy lesson for anyone interested. I went to see what it was about and really enjoyed it. The lesson was given by a friendly unassuming man with a very heavy accent but flawless English. Unsurprisingly, his name was Mohammed. Mohammed told us about the history of calligraphy, that it was born in Mecca and worked its way up and around the Mediterranean to Turkey, east into Iran, south into the Arab peninsula, and west through North Africa. From the Maghreb it jumped into Spain, across the Pyrenees, and into France, where it was adapted into the Latin alphabet. Across the Arab world, differing styles developed- some more decorative, some more flowy, some with sharper corners.

Mohammed brought out his calligraphy pens and had us copy a series of Arabic letters, correcting our form. He showed us the giant traditional wooden “pens” that I’m certain he can use but that I am just as certain I couldn’t, all of which differed slightly depending on the region of calligraphy they’re use for.

He wrote our names for us:

(Yes, that says Gretchen. Actually, Kretsheen, but there isn’t a hard G in non-Maghreb/Egyptian Arabic.)

Then Mohammed pulled out a 50 dirham bill and pointed to the Arabic script all over it, and told us it was his handwriting.

…What?!

Yes, he said, he won the last Gold Medal in the world calligraphy championship (again, what?), and as a result the Moroccan treasury asked him to re-write the script on all Moroccan currency.

So that was pretty cool.

Finally!

I've been attempting to write a post for 4 days now. With no warning, the university email address I used to create this blog no longer had access to Blogger. It took a few days for me to get in touch with Northeastern's IT department to figure out what had happened.

When I finally reached them, the IT department asked if I received the email from them detailing exactly what I'd have to do to avoid loss of access to Google programs, and that if I didn't fulfill the required steps in time that I would have no option but to wait for Google to contact me. I responded no, that I did not receive the email from the Northeastern University It Department, because it was caught in the spam filter of my Northeastern University G-Apps account, WHICH WAS SET UP BY THE NORTHEASTERN UNIVERSITY IT DEPARTMENT.

Somehow they failed to see the irony in this.

Anyways, it's been a good week.

This past weekend was spent in Assilah, a fishing town about 3 hours north of Rabat. Assilah is a beautiful town with an almost completely intact Phoenician wall:

And plenty of Spanish tourists, so for the first time my language skills were useful. We went to see the town itself, but also to travel to beaches nearby before it got too chilly. The guidebooks (and our Moroccan friends) said to visit Paradise Beach. Saturday morning we had a light and cheap breakfast at a cafe in town, then headed to a hanut to buy snacks for a day at the beach. The shop owner got to talking to Emily and told us he could find us transportation or we could walk, that it wasn't far. 20 minutes, he said. We flagged down a covered pickup and bartered for a bit before determining that it was just too expensive. The hanut owner told us of course we could walk, it was 5 kilometers, maybe. Off we went.

We elected to stay along the coast, which didn't have a road directly parallel to it. The views were excellent, the terrain not so much. Everyone was in beach gear (sandals, long skirts, sundresses), and after 10 minutes we were outside the city walls. Walking along the wild Moroccan countryside got to be a bit difficult. The plants seemed very focused on protection- literally everything had briars, prickers, or thorns.

A half hour later, we ran into a 'military' building surrounded by large, thick walls topped with barbed wire. The friendly (potential soldiers?) Moroccans at the gate told us not to worry, go around their compound and just keep going, it would only be another 2 kilometers. 20 minutes, they said.

A half hour after that, we got to a farm and met Mohamed. Mohamed inquired as to all our marital statuses, asked if we'd like to join him for tea later, and led us to the edge of his property where we picked up a dirt road (whoo!) that Mohamed promised would bring us to the beach in another kilometer. Less that 20 minutes, he said.

10 minutes later, a group of Moroccan men sped past us on a horse drawn cart, stopped a ways ahead, and picked us up and brought us to (finally!) the beach. We climbed down a 30-foot cliff to the beach itself, and were most definitely in paradise. It was the most beautiful beach I've been to, and worth the crazy journey.

 On a happy and surprising note, my 50 dirham sandals managed the entire trip.

Protest.

I knew coming to Morocco that I’d feel closer to the Middle East/North Africa uprisings and Arab Spring movement both physically and culturally, but I didn’t realize how encompassed I’d feel by protests from all sides. I’m taking an entire course on the Arab Spring here, which is a very interesting study of the “conditions that preceded the uprisings, regime reactions, the role of external players, and prospects for the future.” Thus far we’ve studied the beginnings of the movements and their place in the Arab world, why they are unique among other movements for political reform, and what they say about democracy in Islamic nations. We closely follow the developments and effects of the uprisings as they progress, and pay special attention to the Arab Spring as it affects Morocco.

Before arriving here I checked on the status of protests in Morocco daily, both to stay informed of the general situation and to watch for developments that would place Morocco on the State Department’s travel watch list, which would in turn prevent me from coming. Aside from two exceptionally large protests that turned violent in a few locations, the majority reported by western media were portrayed as peaceful and for varied reasons: unemployment and the economy, women’s rights, Amazigh representation, etc. None were ever in objection to the king or monarchy.

Living here, protests in Rabat are at least a weekly occurrence. They have mainly focused on unemployment (demanding more state jobs or against the lack of opportunity to use high-level degrees obtained from state universities) and political change (following the pro-democracy uprisings earlier this year, the King made referendums to his power, largely viewed as inadequate). Carrying signs and pictures of the king is a common practice while protesting, to show continued support for the crown, even while protesting lack of political reform. Until yesterday, every Rabat protest I’d heard of was peaceful.

Yesterday I walked out of Bab el Had, the main entrance to Rabat’s medina, with my Moroccan cultural partner to find hundreds of people, mostly men, quietly congregating. She told me they were there to protest, to which I replied that they seemed calm. She said that yes, they were calm now, but now always. A half hour later, after I had returned home, a large and angry protest broke out. One of my classmates was passing through in a taxi, and was forced to get out because the protesters weren’t letting traffic through. The police arrived in force and relatively quickly dispersed the protest. The group of people at Bab el Had were showing support for a protest led by imams, which had worked its way from the front of parliament, down the main avenue, to Bab el Had. For the first time, the imams were allowed to protest, something they had been attempting since June. (Moroccan imams are not permitted to preach their own sermons. The Moroccan king is the leader of the faithful, the “final arbiter” of Islamic matters within Morocco, and so provides sermons for all imams. They were protesting this and their low pay, though not against the king but against the minister of religion.) And even though yesterday's protest did not remain peaceful, there were no reported injuries or deaths. (The majority of more recent protests have been peaceful or non-lethal, excepting those in the Western Sahara.)

Then, of course, there are the protests back home. Occupy Wall Street has been in my news roundup since it made the news, and Occupy Boston was on my facebook even before it made the news. Yesterday (last night? It’s hard to keep that straight with the time difference…) at Dewey Square the police got involved, and a friend of mine from school was arrested (glad to hear you’re ok, Tori). I'm somewhat disappointed to be missing something that seems so atypical at home, yet it happens so regularly here.

I certainly wasn’t expecting to read about protests from my corner of the world when I left it to come to a region in active uprising, and it definitely makes me ponder.

It’s an interesting time.

شاطئ

Things you'll find on a beach in Morocco that you won't find on a beach in Massachusetts:

      Camels!

     Donut men!



     Women in hijabs!

          ... but I didn't take any pictures of those.

A list of random musings.

Random observations and commentary from Morocco:

• Street signs, road markers (when present), traffic laws, and traffic police are all . . . suggestions. Drivers defy all of them, usually at least three within the same trip. Taxis follow this rule but are completely safe- enjoyable, even, if you're not too anxious of a person.
• Prickly pear are delicious.
• Shower curtains are underrated. Taking a shower with a hand-held shower head and no shower curtain is an interesting experience.
• The ability to take showers is also underrated. I shouldn't complain.
• Moroccan teachers, in Morocco, don't accept "I was running on Moroccan time" as an excuse for tardiness.
• Buckets, buckets, everywhere. There are always at least 3 (and up to 9) in our bathroom.
• When line-drying underwear, make sure to use a clothespin on each pair, or else receive a chiding from your host mom (translated through your host sister) regarding the perils of unsecured underwear and windy days.
• It's not pork, and that's really all you need to know.
• Justin Bieber is truly inescapable. So is facebook. ...So is Laughing Cow Cheese?
• Number of times my host mom told me to eat today: 14. 

            My host sisters keep a tally.

Culture Shock

About 9 months ago, I sat in one of Northeastern's older lecture halls with every other NEU student going abroad in Summer or Fall 2011, being talked at by various faculty. One of the central themes was culture shock. I sat not really listening to the Australian professor tell us about how she coped with culture shock, thinking it was foolish that they bother to tell a sprawling hall of students, who were in large part going abroad to party, about the stages of culture shock and how to cope. I knew I would be heading to Morocco with an extremely open (and excited) mind, and I also knew exactly when I would be coming home. I presumed that culture shock affected those staying in foreign places for indeterminate amounts of time, or for good, so didn't really bother with it all.

Stupid me.

The culture shock here has been (and continues to be) an interesting roller coaster ride, though thankfully it never dips too low. I find it mostly arises when I feel most out of place, which isn't generally when I expect it to be. One of the moments I was hardest hit by it was in a giant Maroc Telecom store, looking to buy a USB modem so I could have wifi at home. I walked into the store and had absolutely no idea what to do. I didn't understand the signs, whether I was supposed to wait in line or sit on the benches, or who I should be talking to, and I had no way of communicating my frustration. A minor (internal) freak-out ensued, after which I was completely successful in buying a USB and even in the process mused with the Maroc Telecom representative about the universal language of exclamations (Aaahh! Ok!).

There are also moments at the other end of the spectrum, the times I really enjoy being here and feel comfortable in the culture. My host mom and I have finally worked out a good balance to our "Kul! Kul!"/"Ana shabaat! Alhamdulillah!" ("Eat! Eat!"/"I'm full! Thank God!") exchange, which happens at every meal we eat at home. These moments have been occurring more often that the former, but my general state seems to be evolving into attention to but peace with the culture around me. And that's a pretty good place to be.

Photos from Fez

This week is incredibly busy academically, and there's a post saved for further edits before publishing, so for now, here are some photos from our weekend trip to Fez.

 A beautiful gated entrance to the King's palace in Fez.

 A view of Fez (or roughly 3/5 of it) from one of the bordering hills.

 Bird!

 An interior view of the dome in one of Fez's mosques, this one in the heart of the old medina.

 The world's oldest water clock!

 The qiblah wall in the madrassa in the Fez medina.

 Mosaic tilework, a Quranic verse divider, and carved plasterwork in a madrassa in Fez's medina.

 Kitty in the Fez madrassa.

 A caravanasserie-turned-woodworking museum in Fez.

 Roman tile-work in Volubilis.

 Roman ruins at Volubilis.

 A ceiling-less ancient stable in Meknes.

Arched doorways in a riat-turned-museum in Meknes.