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.

7/8 Wajeeb up the Wazzoo

Our teacher basically gave us an entire chapter to do for homework (wajeeb bezef - darhija). We just might make that mark of ch. 8 by the end.

Lunch again at the CCCL, and then we take a bus to visit an NGO promoting child education (instead of child labor). The Moroccan Identity professor is the head of Adros ["I learn"], and he tells of the history of NGO’s and their presence here. The three most prevalent movements have been the push from women’s rights organizations (changing the Mudawana), the Microcredit organizations (microeconomics, a small-loan system which has been very successful in Africa, and is used mainly by women), and national organizations (started by affluent individuals which may or may not have a knack for what they start). On an interesting note, there is now government accreditation mechanisms to keep these organizations from corruption, though NGO’s would prefer simple transparency ones. Also, we noted how NGO’s in some cases help perpetuate a lacking government. Major problems with them include how historically money has been allocated without regard to the NGO’s capacity (though many feel this is just a phase), capacity problems (low staff, inactive members, lack of space, and heavy reliance on funding), lack of professionalism, lack of specialization (org’s will try amalgams of projects so long as someone wants to fund it), and lack of accountability. After he finished one of Adros’s workers explained how they work, targeting both little maids and drop outs. They help kids get to education classes, as well as promote public awareness of child rights and help build capacity of local orgs.

The rest of the surfing group was too tired to go today, so I headed to my café to work more on the application, before returning home to homework that kept me up to 3 AM.

7/7 Fat Bears

Crash course in clothing today; we spitballed through two posters full of names, before moving on to more verb vocab. Lunch was at the CCCL, Fadoua tells a group of us how to say bear in Fusha, which we mispronounce, accidently calling her fat in darhija. Thus we learned how to say fat bear: "Dab dob".

Our afternoon lecture on clothing (hence our crash course) was completely in Arabic today. That’s all I have to say about that. Though I do have a picture of me in a Fez, which apparently means upward social class or something like that, and in the Sahara they wear black clothes so they don’t have to wash as much. On a funny note, when Naomi put on the black cloak and black head scarf she looked just like Aunt Jemima.

Medical School stuff at the café again. Each day I seem to come, order tea and a millie fois, and scarf it while I work as long as my battery lasts. Paying for the food, however, the younger garcon (who made my change the third day), was playfully trying to get me to pay in Darhija (using proper numbers, etc.) A good sign of acceptance as a semi-regular.

7/6 "Tu" form

I meet Modolu at the CCCL at 8:30 and we make the 30 minute trek up to a Protestant church. Modolu tried going two weeks ago but found himself in the Korean service, which was pretty small. Having only seen the outside I have no idea what to expect. We follow in a local girl but find only empty pews leading up to a small wooden altar at the front. The walls have a decorative mat pinned up about shoulder height, surrounding the space. A small staircase on the right leads to a smattering of pews on the balcony, as well as a small sound system. The architecture of the church is probably best imagined as one of those Tattoine sand huts from Star Wars, but larger. The whole atmosphere radiates a sense of humbleness, as the main window slit above the altar shows a crisscrossed colored glass pattern (not deep enough to be called a stain), which mixes from the hidden windows of light above. A white, older gentleman pops his head out and tells Modolu and I that the service is at 9:30. The man has on pants and a cool African shirt, which buttons at the top, if you could call the small sticks holding looped strings from the opposing shirt-side, buttons. The beige microphone rung around the man’s ear tells me this is the pastor of the church. Checking my watch I see we have time for a quick bite, so my companion and I head to the café across the street for OJ and warm croissants – which is perfect as I snuck out of the house this morning on an empty stomach while everyone was sleeping.

Back at 9:30 there are more in the pews but it still isn’t even at half capacity. We start singing some classical hymns as I rationalize to myself a sad possibility that maybe these are all the practicing Christians in the area. 3 songs in I open my eyes and the congregation has multiplied like loaves and fish. The place is now packed as the pastor leads us to sing in different parts. Even one of the singers is late, I guess this is just how time works in Morocco. The sermon today is on the church being one body. The guest speaker compares it to Fruit Salad, and how individual fruits (us) must work on changing for the better in order to make a fruit salad and blend our juices, as opposed to a simple fruit basket (stubborn in pride), which far too often parishioners become. We have an introduction for visitors somewhere in the service, and I embarrass Modolu by saying we were here studying Arabic, but when asked, say we can’t say where we’re from (mainly because it was funnier to decline the demand). The parish laughs some and we both feel welcome. After the service we talk to the pastor’s wife, they have a family and have been here 8 years. She studies French and is a fiction writer. Apparently the church is French Protestant, which explains the scriptures carved into two of the window coverings.

One of the random American students I meet tells me the French service’s music is supposed to be wonderful, so I decide to stay to get a taste. Modolu stays for a bit, but speaking no French soon leaves the noise to return to his family. The French service is definitely more up beat, more people are swaying and raising their hands during the worship (also seen, though fewer, in the English service). With a drummer, electric guitar, basist, keyboarder, and piano player, as well as three singers, they definitely get a little more pump in their praise. My French allows me to join in with the songs projected on the screen, one about Jesus’s blood washing us whiter than snow, and two others about God’s love and sovereignty. On an interesting note, they use the “tu” (familiar form of the “you” pronoun) when they sing to God in the songs – I really enjoyed that point. They even have one song in Arabic, which I could actually follow, kinda. This service also has a guest speaker, a woman who annunciates her French and speaks slower. I know French must be her second language, and she even slips up and gives some English names for the people in the sermon. However, her rhythmic pronunciations really make her words clear, perfect for a foreigner like myself. She speaks of being broken, disheartened, and a stranger in the land, but God sees all and will meet us where ever we are - so look to Him. After the teaching we share communion and songs before closing announcements. During closing songs the worship team really steps up, and the entire congregation dances with the swaying song in their pews. Me and my neighbor keep up the percussion clapping as the band then moves to an encore song outside the projected tunes, that definitely wasn’t in French. As most of the congregation was black I assume it was Swahili or some other country's language, but I did catch a Halleluiah now and then. It was amazing!

Reinvigorated, I now go to the café to work more on my medical school apps.

7/5 Exceptional

I would like to reiterate how exceptional my family is. First of all, they don't assume girls that come home with me from class are my habeebatee's (darlings), like other host families apparently do. They are much more relaxed with my schedule changing last minute as opportunities arise, which wouldn't even happen with many families in the States. Most of all, unlike the stereotypical male, my Moroccan father helps out a lot, going shopping, cooking certain specialties (namely fish, fries, and sometimes chicken), setting the table/putting it away, and serving the rest of the family first (including the mom). I also got a chance to witness some PDA between him and Nezha; it’s nice to witness how they still actively love each other, as well as just through service. Before I got from Hemza that he worked at Redal, which I see written on the sewer systems. Asking Mohamed I find that Redal is actually more of a waste managemenet company in Rabat, and he worked with the power cables/electricity (which they also do). He retired in 1999, and is now 69 years old. We had his homemade fries over chicken for dinner. Fried foods are amazing. Today was a work day for medical school apps. No idea how I’m going to figure out where to apply. Also, it’s nice to finally sleep 8 hours.

4th of July - !عيد استقلال سعيد

We answered last minute questions in class today before taking our Midterm. There were some subjects on there she didn’t mention but it wasn’t too bad. Afterwards we all head to TGI Friday’s! It was probably the greatest mid-program pit stop we could ever have. The entire group made it down there but Geoffrey and Rachel, and Fadowa and Hanan join us as well. We expected every American in Morocco to be there, and for all we know they were, but the place was basically just the 17 of us with a few other families. As we walked in we were greeted in French, but that disappointment was soon washed away as we looked upon walls filled with knickknacks from the US. I checked around the restaurant to see if anyone had beaten us there, including the restroom. They have a hose bedee in the stall, and my curiosity shot my shoe with it. Oh well. On my way back to the table a very large, strong black dude gave me a smile that had this sense of elation in it that I couldn’t quite understand. A little while later this guy comes to our table and introduces himself. Rusty Rutherford (or something like), this guy was the manager who whole-heartedly welcomes us to his establishment. He was from Orlando, Florida and was extremely excited to have Americans here. He invites us to come as often as we like, and made a point to shake every person’s hand at the table. We order 2 Three-For-All’s as appetizers, and pretty much everyone gets a strawberry lemonade. We get typical Moroccan service, and have to wait about 30 minutes for our appetizers, and another 30 for the meal, but we didn’t care, as we talk about everything we miss at home. They also have the Wimbledon on, which brings smiles to Whitney and Fadowa, who are huge fans. The rest of us make jokes about tennis at their expense. Honestly, how pompous it is to rub it in the loser’s face by shooting up the points at the beginning and telling those having bad games that they at least have 'love'? As far as food goes, I ordered a barbecue burger that I load with fries and literally have to use two hands to hold. I would have taken a picture of it, but I ate it too fast, as it was amazing. The cook came out to talk to us for a while too. He was also American, which gave me a little more hope in the food. And Egyptian Heinz’s ketchup! It was a little diluted, but still the best condiment I’ve had since I arrived. To finish off we order almost every desert on the menu, and share the Mud Pies, Oreo Delights, and steaming Brownies melting the vanilla ice cream above. Everyone has a blast, our smiles holding even as we chew our food.

Most of the group all has plans to travel this weekend, so we part ways, as I’m staying in Rabat this weekend. Mely and I catch a cab to Chelah, where the jazz festival was, as it is also a bird sanctuary built on Roman ruins. During the ride, we make small talk in French with the nice driver and other lady passenger, and the latter invites us to her house for tea. She worked in a hospital with sick children, and spoke only of how she cared for them, so previous comments on hospital corruption and greed are certainly not the steadfast rule here. When she leaves we continue conversing with the cabdriver, who is Berber and shows off his many languages. It is really nice to have Mely, another French speaker, to help keep the topics going.

Chelah is beautiful. We start off by straying off the path, taking some countryside photos before returning to the bird side of the paradise. There are seriously birds singing everywhere, and somehow we make it through without any nasty bombings from our upstairs neighbors. The ruins contrast a snapshot of nature surviving man’s self-destruction, and nature’s beauty clothes the entire hillside. We explore the entire bird-town, and even find the cat-ghetto, where I’m pretty sure a family lives. The edge of Chelah overlooks a sort of vineyard, and we stroll off our meal with our singing companions.

After a cab ride back and a quick nap, I go out with Hemsa for soccer at 7. At the beach, we play past the sunset for at least two hours. I’m solidifying more of the unstated rules, such as the sidelines extending from the hot part of the sand, to literally the ocean (even, as in our case, when it is a soccer field length away). You have to call your own fouls, and your team claps if you get really close on a shot or do any sort of slide or bicycle kick. Also, if you even tip the sandcastle goalposts it’s considered not a goal, which keeps the contestations to a minimum. I start off playing horrible, but soon pick up my game with an assist and goal. Once again, score, and gain your team’s immediate trust. I start guarding the guy on the other team who thinks he’s the greatest player (who way too often cherry-picks goals). Our team happens to be excellent at defense, but they really needed a forward who can move to make a play happen, so I try to fill that spot (key word "try"). By far my favorite moment happens when I block their narcissist champ from scoring, and dribble through their entire team, including one nutmeg, before scoring on their goal-sitting keeper. My team loved that. We play for hours, even wearing out Hemsa, who sits for a while on the sidelines to rest. As players get tired, more cycle in, and when you need a water break, you need only to go to the ocean for a quick dip before returning. Also, there’s isn’t much of a focus on the score, and conversely no one really cares if a team has one person extra, as the focus is on everyone playing. Seriously, soccer here is more like a dance. I’ve noticed even if I’m open I won’t get a pass if I’m just standing there forever (if you’re on offense) and goal scoring opportunities are often foregone if its too slow and easy. Instead the forward will pass back to the defense, and the team will try to set up another run. Shinguards aren’t needed as everyone is controlled enough to almost never hit, though this group plays more like soccer in highschool, meaning you have to play the man as much as the ball (which is more my style too).

We wear ourselves out and Hemsa and I dribble down the streets on our way home, just like Paul and I used to do returning from the field. We stop to play with the neighborhood gang (in the Little Rascal sense), and there’s no difference in treatment between me and any other local kid, as we mess around with soccer moves and fake-outs in the lamplight.

7/3 "Man is beyond criticism."

Grammar day at school today, and we also reviewed for the midterm tomorrow. Our test tomorrow will cover Sun v. Moon letters, counting up to ten, vocabulary from every chapter, adjectives, possessives, nationalities, verb conjugation, prepositions, gender agreements, and plurals. At break I talked to Matt about H-town things, like missing the ‘House of Pies.’ He exclaims that he loves having someone who understands Houston here, and I must say I agree.

Another mid-day surfing lesson today, but before going I had lunch with the family. I know it’s a bad idea to eat before swimming, but there were two very nervous highschoolers at the house and I wanted to help them out like I was. The CCCL has brought a group of highschoolers to Morocco, to both experience the country, as well as do community service. Today was the day they ate with families, and so the program just used families already hosting college students. Adam and Marea (I’m sure I misspelled it), were shyly sitting in the living room when I walked in, and it both somewhat mirrored my first few days as well as showed me how far I’ve come here. I help them feel more at home as we share tea and cookies, and we have a conversation with the family about what everyone is doing (3 cheers for French translations!) They didn’t even know about the right-hand-3-fingers rule, so I decided to stay for a quick bite to show them the ropes. They basically follow my lead as we eat salad (carrots, pasta, & beats), and a veggie-meat dish with bread. I pick up my hobz (bread), rip off a piece, and dig right in, and I’m sure they appreciated someone to imitate. They were both very polite and Marea wants to be a premed, so I give them advice on both Morocco and college life before running off to another 1:30 lesson.

I got the snot beat out of me by the ocean today. Baby beach showed up in full force, along with a current that kept us paddling the entire time. We finally got some real waves, but after being tossed like a puppy’s favorite ragdoll I only had the energy to get up on a couple. I also learn the method to go under a crashing wave which you don’t want to ride. While facing the wave you pump your arms down to get your board into the water of the wave. You then dive under the wave and use your knees to help you pump the board back up. That’s all great in theory, but unfortunately these rental boards are mainly a heavy foam, which prevents it from diving under. Thus, “diving through a wave” only succeeds in preventing me from washing up on shore, and instead each wave only knocks me back 10 feet or so. But I somehow made it out there for some nice rides (and even more nice tries), including one that I rode on my knees, as my arms were giving out. Shafi complemented my style though, noting that these waves were much harder than any we had ever faced so far. The kicking right before a wave comes definitely helps for the speed, and I can somewhat make up for my tired pushups by throwing my body into doing the worm to help get up on the wave. We walked back that day very tired, but very pleased.

Afternoon lecture was on the Representation of Women in the Media. You can probably guess how most of the lecture went, we talked of the paradox of Moroccan feminist glossies claiming to be different from the West, yet posing Western fashion in ways that emphasized women’s submissiveness. A good term for it is the promotion of a patriarchal male gaze, objectifying women in the very fashion they seek to curtail. The speaker points out that education concerning the media is much lower here than in America, so women actually belief that a behavior of submissive sexual promiscuity is a promotion of freedom. We briefly touch upon modeling styles of Pygmalion and Lolita which have extended to Morocco as well, and interestingly mention how 1 copy purchased is shared between maybe 100 people, so readership can’t be evaluated accurately. I ask what he would view as an appropriate representation of women, but he only gives me a political answer of how it shouldn’t be. This and other questions were answered blandly but then we moved to talk about harassment. We ended up talking on harassment for 30 minutes longer than the lecture was scheduled, covering how it can both stem from sexual frustration, as well as the culture local guys grow up in. Apparently there is a saying in Morocco that roughly translates as “Man is beyond criticism.” While women are heavily demanded to be in fashion, a man’s appearance and actions can’t be questioned by her. I find the same unequal push against women in the States, but no where near as bad as he was talking. Further, the perverted narcissism of harassment unfairly takes away the choice of any relationship possibilities from the objectified women, continuing an institution of submissiveness. Though the speaker wasn’t on the same par as we might view one pushing for equality in the states (for instance, he interrupted several of the girls in his presentation), it was nice to see some at least trying to take steps in the right direction. He also has a book coming out in English “A Moroccan in New York.”

Home consisted of studying my butt off; praise God for Coca Cola.

7/2 "Lend me your wall."

Morning class was extremely productive, as we now know more verbs than just “I am”, which actually doesn’t exist (*in the Arabic language 'be' verbs are implied in the subject if there are no other verbs). Unfortunately we then came back from our coffee break and just wrote for an hour and a half with a dictionary. I hate wasting time on such things we can do at home, and whenever I write using a translation dictionary I only end up trying to go to far and getting over my head. This was, in fact, what happened, and thus in my rewrite I’ll stick more to the basics.

We got our surfing lesson moved to 1:30 today. The workers normally eat at this time, and they were extremely packed today, but Shafi said he’d teach us anyway because we are his friends. Man, I love having a local in your corner. We went to the baby beach, which was in high tide. Walking over the concrete soccer pitches and roasting sand (which turns all our feet a not so pleasant shade of red) we notice two things. First of all, the waves are crashing right at the edge of the beach, if you could call them waves. Second of all, I think all the fish, anemones, sharks, oysters, crabs, and other sea creatures must have had the flu today because the beach looks like they all threw up at once. The beach is littered with trash (including used contraceptives), and is a shade of khaki that would make even desert-squad soldiers cry. We stretched out regretting our decision to come. But we underestimated the ocean. Not the garbage day part, we all got slimed and had to walk over questionable materials, but the first part. Despite the fact that the waves were breaking so close to shore, high tide was creating an interesting type of wave, which was higher than any we’ve had on the baby beach so far. As one wave receded another would crash on top, so riding the high wave both made for a slower break (good for learning) as well as kept us high enough to not catch our fins in the sand. I even caught a few perfect rides today! But coming back we definitely scrubbed as hard as we could in the showers.

Afternoon lecture was about Art & Traditional Spaces in Morocco. An architecture professor talked to us about the buildings and artwork we’ve been seeing throughout our stay here. She said you couldn’t define it as Islamic, Arabic, or even Moroccan art exactly (which sounds to me like a cop-out way to “sophisticate” things without any substantiation), but she had a good point focusing on the local influence to each of the former categories. The basic foundation throughout is “control.” The medina gates and streets keep things safe, the ghetto style of historical districts controlled prices, the neighborhoods control visitors, and even the “L” shaped entrances to houses controls privacy. As per other interesting points, apparently the densely packed community seen today was a result of colonialization, as the medina was once only 1/3 built, the other 2/3 being for space and parks/gardens. Also, before building a new household would have to ask the existing neighbor if they could “Lend them their wall.” Though a supporting new wall was actually built by the neighbor, this was a symbolic gesture which showed homage to the existing community (though the neighbor could indeed “take his wall back.”.) Lastly, she also mentioned how the gender segregation we have talked about was more a social segregation, as women could leave the household, it just meant they were poor or a slave. To women of the time, this indoor “prison” was seen instead as a “privilege.” I’ve noticed a lot of the speakers overlapping points recently, which makes me feel more confident in my current understanding of Morocco.

Back home is Shae and Kassie’s last night. We talk about our best times and say goodnight and goodbye. Kassie suggests I visit more museums before I go, as that was her biggest regret. I don’t know if I’ll take her up on it though, I enjoy living like a local more than a tourist.

7/1 Blogs like this are why I retain vocab like a retarded sea-monkey

Today’s class is basically a crash course for everything we mentioned in the program-checkup yesterday. We cover weather and seasons, as well as add the corresponding nous, vous, and ils form (for all non-francophones that’s the we, y’all / you(formal), and they (masc.) forms). For some reason we don’t get the they (fem.) form until ch. 19; but don’t worry, as Molly points out, the book makes up for it by teaching you how to say “My father works at the United Nations,” first thing. Whew, I’m sure glad they go straight to the survival vocab. We review possessives for our test Friday, and she lets us do the vocabulary words at home (my suggestion, as its basically just memorization). Finally the class is moving more at my pace. We also cover some outside the book knowledge, like ‘this’ verse ‘that,’ etc.
Lunch at the center today, but because of the long trip and recent sickwave hitting the students, our lecture is canceled. That meant time for priceless sleep, or in my case, the bollocks with sleep I want to go surfing. We can’t get our lesson scheduled until 6, so I decide to stop by the tutoring time (first time it was offered) where Hanan helps me with oral and tells me to slow down and annunciate in my reading. When it comes to learning languages one can never do enough reading, though according to Hanan our class can’t do enough reading. I exaggerate, but we are all over the dart board in our reading levels. Still waiting for the surf, I do the usual Yay-I-have-internet routine: check email, facebook, talk to however is on the previous, sign on to skype, see that no one’s on skype so sign off of skype, check MCAT scores, you know, the usual.
So on to surfing, today is mediocre at best. But I can work with mediocre. For instance, I can now almost sit perfectly still on my board in a rolling ocean. In other words, the waves sucked. The beach was packed and the baby waves that actually broke were breaking close to shore, so not only was I playing Liquid Pacman© dodging divers, I also had about a half second to get up to ride the wave before my fins stuck into the sand. But the sucky-waves backfired, actually pushing me to improve my getting-up speed and style. Not bad for a bad day.
On the way back to the house I run into Shae, who lets me know its Kass’ birthday, so I grab some cash and double back for the only birthday gift I can figure works for such an occasion, Nougat Wonder! Nuts and sugar in the perfect combination, now with 6 flavors, and bought by the kilo. I figure I can’t go wrong and buy half of one. At the house Ameena has returned from her exams for today. She is in the retaking portion of the BAC (think SAT’s with a vengeance): today was Arabic and English, tomorrow is philosophy, and the next day is geography. I take some pictures of the family and our “Macoroni and Cheese.” Afterwards we play and watch Zahira climb over Nezha like a monkey, it was the second cutest thing I’ve seen yet (the first being a Kristen’s neighbor girl maybe 2 years old who came up to her, Modolu and I, and just looked up with lips pursed, not moving and waiting patiently, unwaveringly for a kiss [greeting style].) Unfortunately, I couldn’t take a candid shot of the mother-daughter teasing, as Nezha has to make sure she is presentable before every picture (not in a narcissistic manner, rather in a cultural one).
Shae and I talk about politics and harassment in Morocco, as well as projections for the future. Apparently, even though the recently changed family code has roots in the Koran, it is flexible in comparison to the criminal law of Morocco, which is extremely strict. Unlike American judges, Moroccan judges don’t have any margin in their punishments. Queerly enough, this strict criminal code trumps the family law in practice, so while the newly progressed family law allows more a equal status of wives that includes the ability to disobey their husband, the criminal code still makes it illegal for women to leave their husbands in abusive relationships against the male’s will. This is why women’s shelters are rare here, though they do exist. Kassie comes in and enjoys the gift, and then it’s back to واجب (homework) for me.
It’s very late now, but for those of you dying to know my MCAT score… it’s good to want things. But it does seem like I’m going to medical school, and I don’t have to retake it (studying here would have been an impossible necessity). A trillion thanks again to all the MCAT prayers for me and my friends.

6/30 "CCCL = Three Times Crazy & One Times Learning”

Arabic class today consisted of many Arab nationalities – talking about it later, we figured out Al-Kitaab was written in emphasis for UN translation work. It makes perfect sense, as ch. 1 taught the word for UN, and ch. 2 the verb for translate; meanwhile we don’t even know our colors or the weather yet.

To make up for missing Jamaeya (Friday) my family had couscous for lunch. Amazing as always. I also had the interesting experience of changing “zones” as after I started eating, the mother sat down next to me and I had to shift over closer to the corner. It worked meshy-mushky and I even grabbed a quick nap before heading back to the center.

Today was the Mid-program evaluation session, basically they wanted input on whether anything (lectures, class, homestay, excursions) needed immediate attention (there will be an ending session where we give advice for future programs). Following are some comments from others’ homestays. Some people are having trouble with late dinners (i.e. midnight 30) and others have to skip dinner and sleep. Curiously enough, Whitney’s family asked her to buy some of her stuff (which apparently is a practice other CCCL students started, not the family). We all have various experiences trying to help, while Steph can help with half the house work (which she does so the “little maid” aka – girl, child labor doesn’t have to do it all [on a side note she will be changing families, as the program does not allow students to stay with families practicing child labor, which is a problem here]), Mely isn’t allowed to help (though I don’t know if she actually insisted, which is the culture - to help despite declination) and neither is Josh (because he is a guy). There is a joke in Morocco that “men cannot do two things at once,” i.e. they can’t stand and talk or help around the house and watch tv. This is just a generalization though, my family is nothing like that, and while the mom does cook most meals (excellent cook), the father has cooked fish for us, and I’ve seen him help with taking out the trash (I’m gone for much of the day so I can’t list off all the ways he helps - but I get the feeling he helps where he can). Likewise I’m allowed to help in some ways, though I haven’t had the time to wash my own clothes (they use a washing machine I don’t know how to use) I do help carrying dishes and serving for meals. Hopefully I’ll find more time to help as time goes on as well. I definitely get the feeling my family is more modern and understanding. On a very depressing note, one of the girls was full on groped yesterday in the market. She was even with her host sister, and though this event was more of the extreme sort, nevertheless, sexual harassment one of the biggest problems here. By the first week all the girls in our program had pretty much zoned out all others while walking down the street, even other students, which makes it hard for a fellow student to catch up to walk with them and wane some of the catcalls.

Everyone pretty much enjoys that Arabic class is all in Arabic, and I’ve already mentioned the unpractical-for-beginners UN slant. Concerning the excursion, the hotel we stayed at was very nice (except for room 32, Sam and I’s, which seemed tossed together as an afterthought beside the dusty storage area, with lights sticking out of walls by the wires, though it did have a shower (without pressure)) and the program had a relationship with both the ones we stayed at, so we knew our stuff would be safe. Lectures were seen with an amalgam of opinions, though most all agreed it was tough with some readings given last minute, others of us also wanted more in depth, as specific details are interesting but usually swept away because of time constraints. Overall though, the program has a great atmosphere, replete with jocularity, leading to nicknames like Fadowa’s and the CCCL standing for “3x Crazy, 1x Learning.”

The lecture that followed was on Historical & Cultural Identities in Morocco. By far the three greatest influences here are the Berbers (PC term being Amazighis), Jews, and Arabs, though French, Roman, Spanish, Andalusian, and Africans also have influences. Curiously enough, the independence movement from France colonization was described as a revolution from French control, not French culture, which is promoted here. The speaker mentioned that the French language has an economic and social prestige, which isn’t hard to believe. Morocco is a melting pot without a mainstream culture as strong as the US. Hassan II (the previous king) described Morocco as a tree, whose roots extend to Africa, branches to Europe, and trunk securely Arab. The multiple identities we covered were always shifting, and the speaker describes them as a practical, pragmatic thing that can be changed to optimize the situation (see Hassan Zemmaouri or Leo Africanus). He also mentioned the three movements in terms of changing generations the newest (like America) focusing more on the self, while also identifying more with a global culture. Describing themselves, three generations ago would have started with their tribes, later generations with ‘Arab’ or ‘Moroccan,’ and this generation with ‘Muslim’ (global ID of the Islamic Umma).

Also, on the way home from the internet café we totally passed a Moroccan peddler returning home with his wares who was whistling (the first ever Moroccan I saw doing this). They do exist!

6/29 Fireworks glazing rooftops

7 hour bus trip back. I notice the trip isn’t so bad with a settled stomach, though it is still tiring to be in there for that long. Pretty much everyone sleeps, and we have a picnic lunch at Jamela on the beach. I notice they bring out the coveted peanut butter, which otherwise I have never seen while here. I go for the nutella rip-off chocolate spread myself. Bread, tuna, coke, and chips - a champion lunch. Also, there are camels on the beach. Mely and I take pictures on them, and though the guy tries to tell me 20DH I get him down to 10 for the shots. Steph is an amazing photographer and you’ll have to see the shots.

We finally arrive at Rabat by 5, where I write for a while, as Hanan, our teacher, was kind enough to not give us homework during the trip. Modolu comes over, and we go to Kacey’s house to watch the final Eurocup match between Spain and Germany. There are some questionable calls and the game is pretty slow moving, though Spain manages to pop one in before the half. I can see fireworks over the rooftops of Rabat; I guess for Spain’s goal, but I’ll have to ask later. [The next day I asked Mohamed the father, but he says Rabat doesn’t have the set up for fireworks. I definitely saw them though. I guess they must have been for the game, as he did say there were fireworks in Tangiers and Spain for it.] After the game Naomi and Kristen come over, but the family isn’t comfortable with the girls being over. It’s odd because this family has had 25 students before Kacey, and they had even invited Dooler to rest for a while earlier without Kacey even there. However, with us and girls in the living room the family is uncomfortable, so we leave and walk the girls home.