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.