7/15 Salt Dancing

Awakened to the singing of roosters (at 4:30), I laugh to myself the parallels to my first experience with prayer calls. I return to interrupted sleep bouts until 8, but regardless wake up refreshed. After a breakfast of that fried bread with jam and instant coffee mix (just add milk), I head to the salt fields for the day. Before going to the fields, we make a stop at the well, filling up our donkey (Barbara, whose colt we nicknamed Eeyore) with bottles to the brim. Packed and ready, we trudge over a mountain cut road worn by footprints long-past. The road winds to overlook the beautiful surroundings, mountains crown the horizon, and distant villages peak out in spurts. Above we see Katrina and Steph picking Humus [chick peas] with their host sister. We wave as we continue to various fields seemingly haphazardly planted and shrubs framing our trail. The trek reminds me of scouting hikes, and every so often a guava plant will pop up here and a cactus will there – I’m a blink away from El Rancho Cima back in Texas. To top off the deja-vu, rural villagers traditionally wear wide brimmed straw hats (which we also totted today, gifts from the villagers), so the countryside is dispersed among wandering sombreros. Clefts of rocks and iffy footholds lead us down the mountain to the heart, a valley where tarped “fields” of puddles await us. We first see a gaggle of 20 or so of these pools maybe 10’x20’, with a brick structure overlooking the field. This, apparently, is the old/traditional field, we will be working elsewhere. We continue on to a slightly smaller set of black tarps divided by half-foot high dirt walls. These tarps house maybe 15 pools, each glittering with various amounts of white diamonds. These are the salt pools, and as the water evaporates off crystal sheets of salt flakes are left. We take off our shoes, roll up our jeans, and wash our feet before walking around these ladies’ “pastures.” Our learning style is ‘monkey-see, monkey-do’, though we do have some upper levels to translate certain specifics. As the women mainly spoke Darhija, we had a grand time at charades throughout the day.

Three of us grab brooms and start sweeping the salt in selected pools to their most downhill corners. Meanwhile, the rest of us “dance” on the salt, breaking up the crystals to more bite-size pieces. Once the salt piles have been accumulated and ground down, we all jump down to scoop up the salt with small buckets and small hands, dumping each full load into large sacks. These scoops still carry some water with them, which either evaporates off or drains out from the barley sack. We pretty much fill up an entire sack with one pool; we resweep and rescoop each one down to its tarp, before sweeping off the leftover water to the nearby pools. Then, we move to the next pool, doing about 6 in all. All the while, we crack jokes and sing and dance, Rachel stopped by and teaches a group to Salsa, and Mely and I teach another to line dance. After making the obvious pun possible concerning Julia’s falling skirt being a-salt-ed (somewhere Jeremy is smiling), I move on to give each of the SIT group salt nicknames:

Sam – Kosher Salt, Naomi – Saltine, Mat – Saltan, Mely – Crusty (self imposed), Geoffrey – Basalt, Katrina – Salt Spice (referencing her Moroccan nickname, Barbie), Steph – Salt Lake (first to fall into the salt pools), Rachel – Saltza (thank Mely for that name), Fadoua – Melikat Milhe (queen of the salt – was there ever any question), Hanan – Oustaitha Milhe, Fraisa – See-salt (or Sea-salt, whichever you prefer), Kacey – Ninja Assault, Bradley – Salt Lick.

Around 1 we break for an hour, and are taken by the group to a large shady tree next to our stuff, and pegged donkeys. The villagers provide a wonderful meal for us: eggplant, meat, rice, etc. but the highlight were the fries, which we could hilariously eat with our salt-stained fingers for the perfect taste. We lounge about for another good 30 minutes or so, some students nap, while others joke and laugh about various knickknacks. But the village star is by far Rachel. During her stay here she has obtained an extremely impressive command of Darhija, and the village ladies and children absolutely adore every word in their conversations.

We return to the fields for another hour, but as work depends on evaporation rates, we are pretty much done for the day (I learn later that we pretty much finished all the work for both days). We head back to the village, but along the way Hanan slipped on the aforementioned loose rocks, twisting her ankle. Opposed to taking a donkey back, she quickens her breathing, but we keep her talking, getting her water and wrapping her ankle with Mely’s donated skirt. Unfortunately, the skirt was thick and eventually untied while walking back (I wish I could use her hijab but that wouldn’t work culturally), and after retying it once she said she didn’t need it a third time. By then the shock of the fall had worn off, so Fadoua and I just continued to help her slowly hobble up the road back home. By the time we made it, Hanan was just about walking on her own, and with a few words of encouragement by Sam and I trying to use our small amount of complementary-flavored vocabulary, she made it back to the cushioned couch. We get her some more water and an instant icepack from the first aid kit, as she sits and rests with an elevated ankle. Meanwhile, the family heats a bucket of water for us, so we could take a “shower.” Unfortunately told we wouldn’t have such an opportunity, I didn't bring any soap and thus only rinsed off before lounging about for the night.

7/14 Brikcha

Breakfast at the hotel. 3 hour trip to Ouezzane, where we eat at Farrah’s house. A guide took us around (though our tour was extremely shortened – we did see the green mosque) and we picked up batteries for later. Back on the bus for an hour trip to the village.

We were warned many things before coming to Brikcha. Heat, no running water, hikes to our host families, non nearby hospital, heat… I suppose those were there. But in general the village was pretty well off. There was a small walk to the center, but it was on a gravel road – not exactly the mountain climbing I was picturing. At their center, we waited to find our host families, and we would be split up (mostly) by twos. After an hour, I found out that I would be living with Kacey at the cooperative leader’s house. I don’t remember her name exactly, but it means ‘dream’ in Arabic, and I remember it was pretty. Apparently we were waiting because some families were being switched around last minute. Life in such a rural setting is very laid back, and our SIT program was often rushing behind the scenes to try to make all the hiccups work. We took a walk down mountain paths to the various houses with adobe facades roofed by metal sheets. Entering ours, we noticed walls of nailed up plastic sheeting mimicking tiles (which I later found out were hiding a chickenwire mesh holding the wall materials standing), and a typical style of couch wrapping around the walls of the main room, all facing a TV. I wasn’t even expecting electricity, let alone a TV, which was quite an interesting juxtaposition for a village with no running water. We dropped off our bags, and learned our house would have an infestation of teachers – it was nice having them to translate, but then again each conversation was a popquiz (every silver lining has a much larger dark cloud that wants to drench on your life). Nevertheless, I get the feeling our family is one of the better off in the village.

With lighter loads Kacey and I went back outside to greet the family. While doing so, we were greeted by an entourage of children with a soccer ball on its last leg. I think I prefer it that way, the half flat, worn to patches ball stripped everything commercial from our games. All that was left, was soccer. We had a grand time watching the kids show off their moves, while showing them some new ones and making sure everyone got their turns. For about an hour we just passed around with some quick bouts of juggling, and when Kacey and I teased them with keep away it turned into “get the guy with the ball” (or when it started rolling down the mountain, just “get the ball”). At dusk the father took Kacey and I to the café. We learned some new Arabic words along the way (star, moon, sheep), as we walked to the top of the mountain where the café was. Of course, while there I couldn’t miss an opportunity to try out the banana juice (for you who haven’t caught on yet, I have become a banana juice connoisseur), which was mainly just the fruit (fresh, but nothing has yet beat the malted shake of Rabat). Matt met us there with one from his family (the age spread is very encompassing amongst the members – he didn’t know whether this was his father, brother, uncle, or family-friend). We finish our drinks and play each other in billiards, unnumbered yellow and red balls slightly smaller than in America but still good. All around us were village males playing Parcheesi with metrical regularity. While waiting for Kacey and Matt to finish their game, I watched a group of older gentlemen play cards, in what seemed like Shanghai Rummy best I could tell. We left the café after about an hour and walked home drenched in moonlight.

7/13 “ ‘Balack!’ If you hear it twice it’s already too late.”

‘Fez, the donkeys not going to stop for you.’

I awoke from another rare 8 hour sleep. Today was all about the old medina of Fes. We started off the day by driving up to the fortress that overlooks the city. The view was magnificent, and the medina of Fes extends through the hillside like spilled milk. The city was packed, and seemed to keep going with no rhyme or reason. The guide confirmed this last point, and warned us to stay together while confronting the maze of alleyways known as Fes. After our photo-op extravaganza, we drove down the valley and entered the medina gates, wallets and purses once again by our front pockets. It wasn’t long into the city that I lost complete since of direction. Alleys alternated between up and downhills, and after every half block we turned down another stretch of them. The only constant besides our lost feeling and the guide (aka lighthouse) was the skinny paths and tall corridors. These last two points, in fact, were the main causes for the first one.

Our guide warned us before entering that donkeys and carts will pass by us often. They won’t stop for us, and to keep from becoming roadkill we must pay attention to the “Balack!” which serves as a warning call for all would-be speedbumps. “Listen for the ‘Balack!’ as we go,” he joked “and if you hear it twice it’s already too late.” This advice was the greatest use to us all day, as we randomly (and constantly) had to shift to niches left and right to dodge the incoming traffic.

Our first stop was the Jewish quarter, where we got a feel for the city, and visited the famous synagogue there. We kept wandering, and the guide took us to two of the oldest mosques in the city, the first also serving as the oldest standing school in the world. The latter, a religious school, we ran by before the guide quickly moved on to more ‘trucs,’ and I almost got left because I just had to get my picture ‘Whooshing’ in front of the school. The guide’s rushed ‘show and tell’ continued throughout the day, and as a result my memory card almost filled up while my legs correspondingly were running on empty. Along the way we met other tour groups and visited other mosques and schools (an etub [cool] one of which named after the ablution pool in the middle casting an obstacle illusion to its depth), as well as the largest tanning factory in the area and a sowing factory. The closest I had been to a tanning factory was having seen pictures of tanning salons, so first seeing the hundred some odd vats, I didn’t know whether the red ones were blood and brown were poop (they're not). Workers pulled skins from vats brown, red, white, black, and everything in between, and shuffled around like ants seen from our third story shop window. The smell was overwhelming, and every student in the group held tight to the sprigs of mint given to us on entry, which we whiffed unreservedly. The store owner explained to us the various colors, and the white is apparently the lye used to clean each skin, which afterwards must stay in each appropriate vat for days to obtain the best colors. The store itself held a royal amount of purses, shoes, belts, seats, jackets, backpacks, more purses, and more shoes. Again, the shop was a huge tourist trap, so I didn’t buy anything, but our guide was better than the first, and he warned us sternly to bargain heavily for anything we wanted.

Our last scheduled stop in Fes was to watch the weavers at work. Explained how they make the rugs and scarves from agave, wool, and cotton, we were then used as models for the owners to show off their wares. It was slightly expensive (50 DH), but I decided to buy the Tuareg blue ‘thoob’ I was wearing around as my turban as a souvenir – hopefully it will remind me of all the smiles we had while wearing the different styles of headcoverings that day. Somehow we made it back to the bus and back at the hotel most everyone crashed or went swimming.

Steph and I wanted to go back to the medina, so we got advice on where to head from Fadoua and the guide before he left. I didn’t have the cash, so I went to find an ATM (after testing a nearby café’s banana juice – not as good as Rabat’s), and with the help of a local college kid (who prayerfully didn’t hustle me for money but just wanted to practice his English– I met him at the café, so I figured if he was a hustler he was at least off duty) finally found an ATM that worked (we tried three to no avail). Getting help from locals is a crapshoot in a tourist city. In Rabat, the case is almost always they are being friendly (if you're a guy) and love the chance to practice English or French (and Arabic vice-versa), but in a city heavy with tourism you never know. But he was extremely friendly, apparently came from the Western Sudan (he was an Amazight), and was studying Japanese. To pass the time he taught me some, which I politely forgot so he could teach me again. I returned to the hotel to pick up Steph, and we caught a cab to the inner-city. The cab driver was friendly, though Steph brought up the interesting lack that often taxi drivers will speak mainly to the guy, even answering a girl in the front seat by talking to the guy in the back. This cab driver did that once or twice, but I was the one sitting in the front so we gave him the benefit of the doubt.

The plan was to check out some shops and chill at a café (recommended by Lonely Planet/Rough Guide) before returning for dinner. One shop we stopped at had extremely talkative owners, who invited us to their house as we left. This friendly behavior is quite common here, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been invited to strangers houses (don’t worry mom, I never took up any offers, but it’s still nice). We returned to the café and Steph had the great idea to buy sweets before we got their, as their cheaper on the streets. She gets some carmel delight thingies, and I get my mille fois (which minus my café’s icing aren’t as good), and I get some laughs from the shop keeper when I demand he speaks Arabic to me, even though clearly we can both speak French. At the café we go to the roof and snack (again, the banana juice is not as good as Rabat’s), and speak of the glories found in moments, which may or may not be possible to record (and sometimes are better without). We have an amazing and peaceful time, an excellently blessed little adventure.

Similar cab ride back, and after dinner I stop by the pool to join Naomi, Kristen, and Whitney for some synchronized swimming and water jogging. Back in my room, Geoff, Mat, Modolu, and I break down how our classes are going and the various highlights of the trip before drifting off to bed.

7/12 "Volubilis!" *insert Gladiator accent

After a 3 hour bus trip we arrive in Meknes for a guided tour of the city. The tour guide jokes that he is the laziest guide in Morocco, as we will be taking the bus to the various locations. The real reason for this is the amount of things we will be visiting. We start off taking pictures by the huge Medina gates. Some of us set up watchdogs and dodge the cars to take quick pictures in front of the magnificent gates, while others trudge uphill to the “garden.” I could probably count the number of flowers there on two hands, but this was just the beginning. Back in the bus, we drive to other gates surrounding the medina, far larger and far ‘dressier’ than the first set. Obviously our previous pictures of the gates just wouldn’t do any more, so we renew the medley of flashes. One such gate over looking the souk quarter (far less touristy than Marakech) had a tiny art exhibit inside. What better fun to have with a handful of paintings than interpret them, and as our explanations got farther and farther fetched, the halls of the exhibit echoed with more and more laughter. Another jump on the bus took us to what the guide informs us is the world’s largest exhibit. Walking around the royal silo’s I can’t help thinking of the Aegean stables. We wander around the halls for a while and find the newest part, ironically the only section overrun with plants. The guide informs us that the newer side was built in a rush and thus was lower quality (obviously). There was a huge earthquake in 1755, so large it destroyed much of the monuments here. The main part of the silo, however, was still intact, though the guide shows us a fault in the refurbishing, an area where they walled over the small holes. He explains the small holes in the walls of the silo help suck out the moisture and keep the walls from bowing out and the humidity low. FINALLY! Since I arrived in Rabat I’ve wondered what those holes in the walls were for. I guess they’re not because the original architects were fans of pigeon nests, after all. The entire venue has this peaceful aura of stability; built a thousand years ago to literally house three years of food for the entire army, and it’s still kicking. On our way out we notice some Arabic writing over the dusty doors. It must be Arabic for ‘Wash Me.’ We continue to the only Mosque in Morocco open to non-Muslims. It also serves as the tomb for Moulay Ismail, and the guide tells us we can take some pictures. It either isn’t prayer time, or not many Muslims frequent the tourist mosque, but either way we won’t disturb anyone with our cameras, so I take mine out for some quick memory markers. Leaving the mosque we turn the corner and follow the guide into a Berber shop, where they are carving silver animals and (of course) the hand of Fatima into the black metal pieces. As the Koran forbids the portrayal of humans and animals in icons that include art pieces, Berbers (PC term Amazerie) are the main creators of such pieces. The store is pretty cool but obviously this section of the tour is just to lighten our pockets of those heavy dirham. I remember reading about how guides bring you to shops they have deals with, those shops raising their prices for tourists and giving the guide a cut, so I decide against buying anything here.

The tour of Meknes at an end, we head to a small region and again jump down the bus steps. The first thing that strikes us upon leaving our air-conditioned transit is the Doctor-Suess trees. Dotting the hillside, skinny trunks and thin branches with tufts of hair at the end surround us. I feel like I’m in “Oh the Places You’ll Go,” and can’t get the images out of my head as we wind through the hillside medina to lunch. Somehow we make it to what appears to be a bed-and-breakfast, though if location is everything, this place has nothing. This first-impression, of course, is wrong, as the inside is both furbished fabulously, as well as hides a glorious rooftop vista. Inside, Mat reminds me that I miss Shipley’s donuts (why would you bring something like that up?!?), but I quickly forget this when our chicken tangine comes out. We chill at the house for a while before returning to the bus and driving just outside the town, to Volubilis. Geff, Mat, and I start exclaiming “Volubilis!” like gladiator warriors as we get off the bus at the Roman ruins.

First Impression? ‘The term ‘ruin’ suits this place well. There’s nothing here!’ But walking up the hill we see the ancient city unfold behind the rocks. Another glorious view awaits us atop the hillside, along with the scorching sun, which makes sure none of the ruins are hidden in the shade. Once again, earthquakes have ravaged the town, and much of what we see has been rebuilt from excavations. The excavations have not yet finished, and the arena has not even been found yet – I guess I’ll just have to come back to see how things are going in a few years. We did see the Temple to Jupiter (group picture!), the market, public washrooms, hot tubs, hammams (again, it’s not just an Islamic practice, actually they were first started by the Romans), the gates, some rich peoples houses (replete with their gorging chamber), and the brothel (I have some interesting photos with an *ahem* iconic rock in the foreground). Apparently the city was used by the Romans as both a bread basket and olive oil source, and it’s built on a very strategic high ground. After the tour we strolled back to the bus for a quick trip to a Fes hotel, where we checked in and konked out. I recharged the metaphorical batteries, worked a little on my medical school essays, and chilled at the external spiral staircase overlooking the now star-topped Fez.

7/11 Andalusian Dreamscape

Read comics in class today, as well as introduced the past tense. If I could just add a couple more verbs I feel like I would be able to finally survive ‘sans francaise’ here. I finished shearing my personal statement to fit TMDSAS today as well. O Happy Day!

Afternoon lecture was first a breakdown of our trip to Fes, and the village Brikshaw, our trip from Saturday to Wednesday. They call this ‘4 Dynasties in a weekend.’ At the village we will be mining salt and helping with chores, as well as any other community service we can think of. I’ll let you know how it turns out, n’sha allah.

We ended the day with a second music presentation at the CCCL. Andalusian music. It was absolutely delightful. Andalusian music is the equivalent of classical music here, except there is a vocalized portion to some of the songs, that is literally poetry. Farah read us the Arabic lyrics, and Katrina read the English ones. I felt quite accomplished while listening because I could actually read along in the lyrics at the speed (mostly) of the singer. Our performers were a group of five in traditional dress, with white cloth trimmed with lightly goldened lace. My favorite character was the drummer, whose silver drum reflected our atrium’s blue sky, while he parumpumpumpummed the soul of the poet’s song. Taking it all in, I caught Abdu al-Rahim dancing in the main office area - the music was definitely addicting. Everyone who wasn’t trying to steady a recording camera was tapping their foot to the pulse. I closed my eyes to listen and could see myself being pulled across a simpler time by the hand, while my best friend led me through an Arab neighborhood freshly built. The unchipped paint reflected glorious fun, as my imaginary friend and I ran through the dreamscape. I definitely have to grab a copy of this music.

7/10 Never Pinky-Swear

Normal day in class, except that Hanan told us she’s getting married August 9^th. She invited us all if we happened to still be here, but sadly we will all be gone. Her fiancé is an officer in the police, so the conversation actually matched perfectly with today’s vocab. As much as I don’t like how the book is set up, I’ve actually had to use several vocabulary words (like “in reality…”) the day after we get to them.

Afternoon lecture was in Arabic again today, but I really feel I comprehended most all of it – as it was a cooking lesson. Douha, the lady who set us up with our homestay families made Couscous in front of us, showing us how a little water (and salt) are added to the flour to get the grains, and slightly more water is added to the dried grains and its put in a pot over meat, onions, lentels, oils and spices in water. The meat is cooked in this broth, and its steam is used to cook the couscous (two times for 7-10 min. each time). I couldn’t really write up a recipe, as she basically just eyeballed everything. She then topped it off with onions, cinnamon, and raisins, caramelized with honey (YESH!) and we got to taste test her lesson. Amazing! Also, while we waited for it to cook, we took flour mixed with enough water to make a dough ball. After kneading the dough, we put oil on our hands and table, and popped off little dough balls. We each kneaded the balls, and flattened them into flat circles, which we then folded into thirds first vertically, then horizontally. The end flattened layered-square was then cooked over oil to make an amazing fried bread snack, perfect with honey.

Surfing sucked today. The waves were less than existent. I grabbed a long board for this second to last time, so I was able to get up way easier than the shortboard I had been practicing on. Feeling confident I starting learning how to turn. Apparently, as your feet are straddling the middle balance points, to turn you just move your weight to turn either toe side or heel side. When turning toe side, the weight shifts to the balls of your feet, and your heels rise, and vice versa. Other than that it just takes practice to learn the limits of your board. One of the girls took a shortboard thinking the waves couldn’t possibly be as bad as everyone was saying, and as a result she was having a repulsively bland time. I switched boards with her for the rest of the day, and I even managed to get up on a couple waves with the short one, though it was considerably harder if not impossible for some sized waves. Tired of waiting forever for the big waves to come, I talked to Shafi and told him I would practice paddling, though not too far. Julia came with me, but when we left everyone followed our wake. We didn’t go as far as before, and stopped maybe half the distance to set up “camp” and play games. We got on our boards and tried running over everyone elses board, as well as stood up to do backflips and the like. Because our time was cut short yesterday, Shafi let us stay two hours with change today. Too bad it was two hours + of flat water. Our group was joined by two others, who are studying Arabic and working at a summer camp for kids. The one from London, Nadia, is pre-med, and told me of how the process works over there (BMAT, which isn’t as big as the MCAT, and admissions mainly based on interviews, bigger than the US).

After showers back at the surfshop, the core group chilled at the café above the club, while we sipped on juice to a setting sun. Absolute beauty, unadulterated peace. The kid of one of the workers was playing with us, and we had a great time, though he was rather persistent with the girls, which he obviously had a 10 year-old’s crush on. Side note, pinky swearing here, actually is sign language for “It’s on,” and will start a conflict, while the same action with your thumb actually means truce (“Ca fit”). We also found out that this kid was the reason we didn’t go to “Hawaii”, as he slashed the tires of Ocean’s van. I thought it was just a kid acting out, but when asked Lemetha [why] he motioned us that he punctured the tire to breath in the compressed air – aka, he huffed it to get high. I was reminded that it’s been a while since I’ve seen kids sniffing glue here, but here was a reminder how sad a reality the drug prevalence is.

7/9 Juggling family life and medicine

Only class in the morning today, - we read newspapers for the second half of class (I got all the letters down, and can at least pronounce the words I have no idea the meaning of). After a quick change at the house I ran to surfing at 1:30. Waves were perfect for beginners today, and I really felt like I got it down. I was jumping up just fine with the push-up today, and I even pulled off a 180-fakie… once. Back home everyone was napping (generally from 3-5ish), so I ate the leftovers alone. Sadly, these “peaceful” lunches remind me of eating back in America in between classes. Quick memory lapses like this keep my going. I snag a quick hour nap before Hemsa and I go to the beach to play soccer. I am torn between having to apply to medschool, which rips me away from hanging out with the family, so I made today about spending time with Hemsa (as the other young male he is the one I “should” bond the most with).

We met up with Marjuan and juggle/pass around in the tiny beach high-tide left us. Others join in, and we break the out of bounds water rule, as our keep away extends into the Atlantic. Eventually four of us end up playing ‘monkey in the middle’ to tippie-toe depth. It was here I met my Habeebatee. Kareema, and Kareem joined our game, and Kareema wanted to practice her English while we played, so I talked with her about school and what I studied and was doing here, etc. At one point our game went a little too far deep, and she started struggling to stay up. I gave her my arm as a buoy, while we came back in a little, and afterwards she told me she loved me. Awkward. I tried as best I could to “let her down easy”, as I first thought she was joking. She seemed adamant, however, and really wanted to come to America (which most likely led to her aforementioned confession of passion). Her tone was a little too serious for me, so I thanked ‘my friend’ and kept changing the subject. To top it all off, I had to juggle this conversation speaking in French, while Hemsa and Marjuan and Kareem all laughed in the back. Eventually they got too cold (the water was freezing), and we made it back to the shore while my 'lover' decided to stay in the pond. We went back to juggling, which we kept at for about an hour (the water was really cold, and the high-tide kept the beach too packed to really get a game going). At one point in time they passed to a girl dressed in a skater outfit (minus the shoes), and I was happy to see someone of the opposite sex join in for a while (she was even better than a couple of our group-members). On the way back home, Marjuan invited me to join them in going to “the street,” which I later learned was Mohammed V.

Back at the house we met up with Modolu and headed to the hammam. This time there were more people, and it literally served as the “guy night” for all the Moroccan men, as I thought it would. I couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about, but my father joined in, while I explained to Modolu everything I had figured out about the hammam. We leave squeaky clean (I opted out of the masseuse this time, saving up my 30 DH for souvenirs), and I take a picture of ‘the guys.’ Back at the house Modolu and I join Hemsa’s friends and end up walking all the way to the park between a church and mosque. On the way I talk to the friends in French, and we compare school systems. At the park I whip out the hackysack, and show them how it’s done. One of them calls me Beckham, as I show off the different moves one can do. Curiously enough, though they all play soccer, only one could really keep the sack up, as they weren’t used to the sand sack / size. We leave after a while, and my legs were pounding with fatigue. Then, sadly, Hemsa’s group saw a group of three girls walking down a main street which happened to be mostly empty. Three of the group take off with a brisk walk to catch up to the girls, one whistling, one actually whistling (with a whistle), and another muttering some type of catcall. Modolu and I were not pleased, but only really knew how to show our displeasure saying "la" [no] and not following their amble of disrespect, despite the fact that Marjuan tried to pull us to keep up and join in. The girls duck into a Pastry shop which was closing, and I glance in to see their reaction as I follow a ways behind Hemsa’s group. To my surprise, the girls were not pissed off, but rather interested to see who was checking them out. I'm not sure if this is the Moroccan girl way of ‘checking someone out,’ but I did see Marjuan giving Hemsa a highfive after whispering something to him about the girls. Lastly, Marjuan and I had a long conversation about different nations (I can’t believe how useful country names in French are), and he jokes that many come to Morocco looking for jobs, but Moroccans don’t even have jobs. I think back to the protesters and laugh along with him. Back home Hemsa, Modolu, and I have a midnight dinner, before Modolu leaves and I die after finishing my homework.