Christmas Parties and Travels!

My next entry will be from London! I am preparing to leave Fes for the first time in months, what feels like years, to go to England for Christmas!

Three of the faculty at my school hosted a Christmas party this week that was amazing. I do enjoy the typical Moroccan parties, in which everyone dresses up, sits around and talks, is served food, dances, is served more food and talks some more, etc... This party reminded me just what it can mean to have a party: our hosts set out snacks and made the announcement, 'Since this is an American celebration, we are serving food help-yourself style. We are bringing around the tray of mini-pizzas to get you started, but after that, you are on your own to get food from this table!' They performed the funniest skit of making hot chocolate with one person's arms on another's body, and proceeded with other improv games and activites. For our student teacher who is finishing her internship this week and going home, we had a box where we all wrote her notes, and there was still plenty of talk time and eating time. The weirdest part of it all was when the party ended. It just... ended! We sang every Christmas carol we knew, and our hosts wished us Merry Christmas, offered out leftovers, and all the 30 people or so left. It was a great evening!

My roommates Dottie and Rachel should be back in Texas by now; they left on the train last night to fly home from Casablanca. I'll be returning to Fes the night after Christmas!

Princess for a Day

This was an exciting week at school. Between field trips, Tuesday off for lunar new year, student council elections, the arrival of the basketball hoop, Poetry Night, and the December Cup intre-high school soccer tournament, there has been little time to settle into our normal school routine. Friday was our bi-monthly half day for staff development, and we celebrated with a school spirit event: Traditional Dress Day for the whole school.

Although ‘traditional’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘Moroccan,’ that is the natural standby. Traditional dress days in the past have also yielded cowboy outfits, kimonos, and togas.

Traditional Moroccan casual-wear is a wonderful bathrobe-like creation called the djellabah that goes over any other clothes (usually ones that don’t match or don’t look appropriate for outside) and robes the wearer in a full-length dress of some bright color. They remarkably resemble wizarding cloaks, and it’s all I can do not to shout “You shall not pass!” at anyone walking toward me.

For this traditional dress day, I stepped it up a notch, to a kaftan-taksheta: beautiful formal gowns made for weddings and fancy celebrations!

Moroccan dress clothes are not really what Americans would call comfortable. There are multiple layers of stiff, rustly fabric, the sleeves fall well over your hands, and the skirt well over the feet. Wearing a Moroccan traditional dress is a big enough and complicated enough endeavor to be dubbed ‘and experience.’ But, you know, it’s not really about the dress.

Like so many of my experiences, I was surprised to find that, what I thought was the point, was really not the point at all. It was actually a means to an end. It’s not really about the dress. The dress is not the finish line, and the physical appearance not the aim.

The act of getting dressed couldn’t have been less dignified; I have never donned a taksheta by myself before, and I quickly discovered why Moroccan women put these on in a room all together. The satin has no give to it, the fancy decorative embroidery catches like teeth as it scrapes over my face, and each sleeve has enough fabric to considered an arm-skirt. When I finally have the first layer on, I have to tackle the second layer, still attempting not to drown in the first. The belt is wide like an obi, with lacings up the back. The train of the second skirt tripped me as I tied these up. You know what I did? I fell. I had a fleeting dream of catching myself before the reality of all those skirts and beading caught up with me, and rather than tear the skirt, I just let myself fall straight over like a bowling pin.

Finally I was dressed for school, with Moroccan make-up, which rivals theatre stage pancake, and ten million bobby-pins in my high hairdo.

Then I realized what the Moroccan dress was really about.

I walked into drawing class before the bell to the usual: squirrely students rushing about, chatting, riffling through papers, throwing things, and general manageable chaos. When I opened the door, the room fell silent. Students froze with papers half out of their bags and mouths still open from conversations, and the only sound was my deafeningly rustling skirts. “Miss,” one of them voiced, “You look like a princess!”

I have to confess that, at that moment, I felt like a princess, too.

We started class, with students drawing sketches for ten minutes each before a rotation. After about 5 minutes, one tardy senior opened the door, and I froze mid-attendance. She was beautiful in an untouchable way, like a porcelain doll, needing care, but somehow outside the daily life we shared. The rest of the room, too, had stopped mid-sketch to stare at her. She floated into the room without a trace of sheepishness at being late – and why should she be? Clearly, she was a princess.

Every repetition of this phenomenon was as dramatic, and each as natural. The production undergone in the morning was forgotten. Today, the girls were all princesses and the boys were all kings. The point of Moroccan dress isn’t the clothes, it’s the ceremony, the honor, and the respect that you do yourself and those around you, by stepping regally back from your careless, casual self, into a china figurine, admired, protected, and regal.

Catch Up

Here's what you missed:

1. School is more organized this year, and continues to get more organized each week. We have discipline now, and working internet, and we even take attendance in detention.

2. Amina is engaged! Her fiancee is an older Frenchman who is very calm and sweet to her. They are aiming for a summer wedding. Her parents are happy, and her siblings are excited for her. Her family doesn't understand her love of working, but her fiancee does, and says that if she is ever without a job she can help him out with his business, which is sort of a trade enterprise between France and Morocco.

3. I have started seeing an Arabic tutor once a week! I'm learning the finer points of grammar, most notably the difference between the four verbs that equate to various forms of 'taking' and 'bringing.'

4. My roommates have continued to visit with their American friends in Meknes, who came to visit last weekend, bringing Dottie a guitar that she had given them earlier! We are now a two-guitar household, and have been taking advantage of this fact.

5. I have spent a lot of time lately with three sisters who are my age and live together close to the city. They are a lively bunch, each with her own distinct talents and interests, and they know a lot of people around Fes. We had a birthday party for one of their friends recently and belly-danced around her living room for 5 hours!

6. The Eid Kabir, the biggest Moroccan holiday, was last month. I spent the time with Amina's family, and actually just lived with them for the week. We sacrificed a sheep, and I learned how to obtain, clean, and prepare everything from stomach and uterus to brains, lungs, and fat. And I did it with dignity.

7.I have had a few guests from Europe and America stay with me for a night or two here and there. It's fun to meet people who are just passing through Fes and get their impressions. It's also fun to tour them around the city and introduce them to everyone.

8. The weather hasn't changed yet. It's chilly, but not raining yet. It thought about raining, and we had 3 days of such intense rains that Casablanca suffered serious flooding, and the mountain highway to Ifrane, the major north-south road through central Morocco, was closed. But it's been dry for a week now. The rain should start any day now, and continue until the end of February.

You are caught up in Moroccan life! Insha'allah, blog entries will resume as scheduled this weekend.

Steve Is Smart

To be honest, the last two or three weeks have been hard. As much as I’ve tried to deny it, they have been homesick weeks. Of course I always miss my family and friends, but the magic of Morocco tends to overshadow any such sadness with amazement. The last two weeks have not been so.

I danced around the issue, even in my head. I worried that being ‘actually homesick’ meant I wasn’t seeing the beauty here, wasn’t appreciating how lucky I am to be somewhere so exotic. Mostly, I just didn’t want this to be the beginning of a long downhill that would stay on my heart for the remainder of the year. I forget sometimes that, although I am in an exotic land, I am still a not-so-exotic normal person, with normal-person ups and downs. Thankfully, my awesome fiancé Steve remembered that fact, and suggested that maybe I wasn’t having fewer adventures because I was homesick, but that the causality was reversed. Therefore, this weekend, I was resolute on doing something to appreciate Morocco.

I have climbed the Zalaugh mountain 4.5 times, but each hike is different. This one was the most unique yet!

I enjoyed my Saturday morning by sleeping in a little too late, which was completely acceptable to me since I didn’t have any hiking buddies (a lot of people traveled this weekend, and Amina had a potential suitor visiting to seek her hand in marriage from her father. It’s gone well so far). However, I wanted time at the summit, so I decided to taxi to the base of the mountain instead of walking out of the city cross-country. The taxi driver tried to charge too much, and I found another, strange taxi stand, who charged me much less (about $1), but still the price to go all the way to the next village! Since he was charging me to go to the village, I figured I would just go. The driver was very confused as to why I would go alone to anywhere I didn’t know a family, and kept asking me in Arabic, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” When I would respond affirmatively, he would demand, “Are you sure you understand the question?” and would then redirect the question through the husband of the woman sitting next to me, in French.

This was a sweet show of concern, but by the fourth time in as many kilometers, I was ready to just agree to the next town name someone suggested. Most of the passengers had left the taxi, save for a boy up front, and the couple beside me. We were about 20 km from Fes, and I saw a nice grove of olive trees with a trail through it. I bluffed that I had been trying to get here all along, and when the taxi driver pulled over for me, the couple got out as well.

I was excited for the trail ahead, and looking forward to spending the day walking and running back home. However, I had a serious cultural concern at the front of my mind. Moroccan ladies do not go out running in the countryside, and the young couple had already proven themselves the protective sort. I knew their cultural demands would require them to escort me to my destination unless I could get away soon.

I made a point of stretching out my feet, gesturing at my sneakers and the jeans under my dress – I told them this was my work-out, that I had done this before. Nothing doing. They were ready to come with me, with this poor young woman in her high heels and fancy satin djellabah.

I bid them goodbye, and looked around desperately for the least occupied direction I could find. “I’m going THAT way!” I said. Oh, they said, so are we.

We walked together a few minutes and came to a fork in the road. One bend was maintained and well traveled; to the left, a path that looked like a dried stream bed snarled. “Goodbye. I’m going THAT way!” I said. Oh, they said, so are we.

They were really very pleasant company, but the craziest thing was, they weren’t making it up!! A few minutes later, we arrived at their family’s house! This tiny village of 5 houses in the countryside had been their destination all along. Now I’m done for. I’m standing outside their house, and, of course, they invite me for lunch. And, of course, there is no polite way for me to decline. I stay for lunch.


The small house is FULL! Our small round table (think table for 4, or maybe 6 people) has 15 people packed around it! We are sharing chairs, but no one falling because we are too squished against each other. Everyone is still in pajamas, everywhere is muddy, and the courtyard is filled with about 60 people eating.

I’m very skeptical that 60 people actually live here. The house is composed of four long, low rooms of white-washed mud-brick walls and stick-thatched roofs. In the middle of these four rooms is the courtyard. The cow pen and sheep pen are behind the house, and the chickens and bees roam free. I learn that Hayat and her husband Brahim grew up here before moving to the Fes medina for work. The 60 people are all extended family of some sort, visiting for the weekend.

It isn’t until I try to leave after lunch that Hayat tells me why all the family is visiting. Her cousin is getting married, and this was the second day of the ceremony! Hayat and Brahim, sweet newlyweds, prefer to be outside themselves than caught up in fuss and flounce. The three of us went for a beautiful countryside walk after lunch, climbed olive trees and picked olives, trespassed through dangerous fields of intensely prickled brown plants, hopped a few streams, and lay on the honeyed earth to stare at the passing clouds. There was not a town for miles, and the thatched roof village houses disappear into the land, until we looked to be the only people alive in these beautiful golden hills.

We returned with minimal primping time for the marriage ceremony. Hayat’s oh-so-fashionable aunt loaned me a spare caftan to wear – a gorgeous deep garnet satin creation with silver trim, pure white embroidered flowers, and an under-dress of purple and silver netted lace. The groom rode over the far hillside on a caramel-coloured horse, completely covered in a white djellabah, and fanfared by two trumpeters and four drummers in the Rifi style of music.



At the top of the hill, he waited and the trumpeters played, while we all gathered around him and danced and yelled. He rode solemnly down the hill while we celebrated all around him. We all led the way into the courtyard, and the musicians helped him dismount. He had to not be seen for awhile, but the musicians played for us, and everybody danced around the courtyard energetically. Whenever anyone got tired, they retired to one of three ‘nap rooms’ for a couple hours, then returned to dance some more.

Eight hours later, the bride was ready to be visited by the women. We walked through one by one to take pictures with her, kiss her, and wish her luck and congratulations. There was more dancing, and more music, and more dancing… eventually even the Moroccan woman did get tired of the dancing, and mostly sat around clapping and talking. The three nap rooms turned out to be the bedrooms. First beds went to the older men, then to the couples, then the children. The young men and single women each had separate rooms (I think one each?) but I can only speak for the women’s room. There were about 25 of us, and all the mattress space was taken up by a couple of babies and young children. About 10 of the remaining women could fit lying down on the floor. Therefore, we took it in turns to sleep. I got to nap from 1h30-2, and sleep from 6-8am. The dinner meal happened at 2am, and was a tasty chicken tagine with fresh-made khubs bread. The most curious thing about the sleeping arrangements was actually that, the next morning, everyone complained about being tired and having to sleep on the cold mud floor. I thought no one would complain since we all were tired and stiff, but instead there was a sort of community about it.

We had breakfast of hirara soup and bread with honey, and I played with the kids. The courtyard was as full of bees as if there were a cultivated hive in the center. They kept landing on us, and our food, and getting tangled in our clothing. But they weren’t very aggressive, so we played with them.

The whole environment was so pastoral and sweet. Many people were related both by blood and by marriage, which made it very confusing to keep track of, but they all just treated each other – and me – as family. I had the sense that this family put all they could into the ceremony, and everything was just shared. Everything from caftans to bread hunks, from slide-y shoes by the door to chairs around a table, was MADE into enough to go around.

It was a beautiful lesson in community taught by beautiful people – the protective couple I had thought so hard about how to leave kindly did, in fact, escort me all the way back to Fes. Sunday afternoon, nearly 24 hours after I had planned to come home, the three of us taxied back together. It was a fitting conclusion for the adventure, ending just as it began, with the three of us crushed in the back of a full taxi.

On the way home, I admired all that I had missed admiring in the Moroccan landscape. I wondered about the people we passed, and their lives. I couldn’t even bring myself to go back to my apartment, and instead took my schoolwork to my favorite café to work while I watched the world go by. It’s a world I love, an exotic and magical place.

It just took an adventure of the sort that could only happen here to remind me of that. Although my count for climbing Zalaugh is still at 4.5.

Henna Study

The first time I had an offer of henna, I was nervous about going to work with it. Because I was in the company of my boss's girlfriend, she called him and asked what he thought about us getting henna. His reaction? "That's great, I'm so happy for you! All the students will be pleased."

Henna is a sign of celebration. Used traditionally for marriages, the bride has henna painted on both sides of her hands, up to the elbows, and tops and bottoms of feet, all the way up the ankle. The groom receives only small designs on each palm, one a circular dot pattern, the other the name of his bride-to-be. Though henna is now used for many occasions, it is always a sign of joy. Imagine that your best friend just got that big promotion she'd been working toward forever. How happy for her you would be. That is the emotion that accompanies henna.


Henna comes in all colors, but the natural henna is orange-ish brown, and is a powder made from the henna plant. It's a dermal pigment, staining the skin for somewhere between a week and 6 weeks depending on the skin and the care. From the powder, it is made into a paste and applied using a (non-needled) syringe. The colored hennas have some chemicals in them to dye them- Candace got a black henna last year that burned like acid on her skin.


I started learning about henna from many Moroccan friends, and took a few packages back to America. My cousin Charlotte and I stayed up terribly late making henna for the first time. She has become one of the best hennaias I have seen, and she makes all her own designs!

The Moroccan designs are relatively free of dots (compared to Indian henna) with repetition instead of the teardrop shape. Marrakesh henna is bold, just a couple flowers with the rest of the hand blank. It has extreme contrast and floral patterns. Fessie henna traditionally had a geometric pattern covering the whole hand. More modern Fessie henna is floral, with bold flowers in the midst of filler spirals and teardrops. The whole hand is covered, but the design stands out in the middle. Casablancan henna has very little contrast. The swirls dissapear into the hand. The design is barely evident, but it is intricate and expansive.



I've been collecting pictures of henna. Some of these are mine, some have been done by others in the Fessie community.

Moroccan Tech Support

The internet is NOT working here more often than it IS working. School has proven the only reliable network. Because of the 4 hour time difference from here to New York, I am often logging on to Skype late at night. Fortunately for me, there's a cyber-cafe next to my house that is usually open late.

Last night, I had a moment of shock as I walked into the Cyber. The man at the counter said "broken. broken." It was indeed broken. The computers were all in a pile in the middle of the floor. Desks had been smashed to rubble. The glass windows of the cabinets had been broken and shards were splashed around the room. All three men who work there were milling around looking busy - a rarity! I picked up my jaw and asked what happened. "Broken. Re-decorating." The man at the counter said. ...I guess... But they shushed me out the door and told me to check back another day.

I still had about 15 minutes before meeting Steve online, so I wandered off in search of another internet cafe. I'm going to be really honest here, and admit that, since I thought I was only going next door (the internet cafe really barely counts as leaving my house) I had gone down in my slippers. Not Moroccan slippers. Bedroom slippers. Fuzzy ones. With leopard spots. Just make sure that's a part of your mental image of this whole adventure.

I found another cafe (about 2 blocks of slipper-walking later), but they were just closing for the night. The man informed me that I was out of luck, because this was the only internet cafe in the city. "I just came from one over there," I told him. "No," he said firmly, "there isn't one over there." ...yes. "No, one over there doesn't exist." He must've thought I was a tourist and hoped I come back to his shop the next day (or maybe he noticed my feet). I told him I lived over there. Well, he said, then you know that there aren't any other internet cafes over there. Sometimes you have to choose your battles, and my battle was to see Steve in about 5 minutes. I left.

I found another Cyber about a block away. Here's when the story really gets funny. It was a big cyber, spacious, looked quality. I greeted the man at the desk and he showed me to a computer. When I turned it on, it displayed an error message in French about the key board being disconnected. 'Oh, let me get that,' says the man. He reaches in front of me... and starts hitting the keyboard, smacking each key with terrible fury!!! Maybe he thought he could SCARE the computer into working for him. Big surprise, it doesn't work. He keeps hitting it, while I read the error message, walk around the machine, and plug in the keyboard. The man is satisfied when it starts working again, because he had hit it and fixed it.

The computer boots up, but the mouse doesn't work. I'm happy to troubleshoot my own problems, but the man is still standing there, and he picks up the mouse. He taps it a few times, a reasonable gesture. Then he takes the mouse in his hand and starts whacking it into the computer screen!!! I have to act fast before he breaks it! I race to the back of the computer and plug in the mouse.

The computer appears to be working, but it's yellow. It's the standard windows desktop, in all shades of yellow (which is surprisingly stressing). I push the button at the bottom to adjust the colors and start fiddling with the settings, but the man comes over and, with no warning, smacks my monitor! He grins at me, makes a fist, and starts jabbing the monitor. "Gently!" I say. "Don't break it!" He looks surprised, and laughs hysterically! He looks back at my yellow monitor, winds up his right fist, and all-out PUNCHES the screen dead center!!!

I expect him to put his fist through it. But instead, the second his fist shakes that monitor, the colours snap back to normal! Shows what I know.

I'll end my story there. Lather, rinse, repeat with the microphone, the webcam, and then the Skype program itself. At least I was comfy in my slippers. When I finally did get to talk to Steve, it was the sweetest victory of my week.

Which is just what it should be.

For Real

Destinations are fun. Actually, more than that, destinations make TRAVELING fun. This is a great traveling story.

Instead of the usual weekend wandering of finding whatever adventure, fortunate or unfortunate, I could run into by walking around Fes, I set a destination. Destination: Algeria. Never mind that the border is closed. And has been since 1994. We've talked a lot as teachers about not lowering expectations for our students; I thought it was time to put the same in place for myself. What are laws when I have determination and a smile? Smiles get you anywhere in Morocco.

(Spoiler included for Mom: I didn't knowingly do anything illegal.)

I hopped on a night train for Oujda, and prowled around the city a little. It's bigger than I expected for being the only civilization this far east. Then the fun began - I started my frontier search! The frontier line, or border line, of Algeria is 12 kilometers from Oujda, and it took the involvment of 3 different colors of Taxi's and one swanky 5-star hotel, but I was finally in the front seat of a golden taxi on my way to Magrib-al-awsat: "The Middle West" from "The Far West."

Out of town, we encountered the typical barrenness between countries who have been known to claim each other's land, interspersed with Party Houses. Yup, they're really called Party Houses. In the desert wasteland, beautiful castle-like Casba's with neon lights proclaimed themselves "for rent," and possessing "a room appropriate for ANY party."

The taxi driver cautioned me about having my camera visible, and I stowed it in the folds of my skirt. 4km from the Frontier, we pulled up to a one-lane obstacle course. The signs indicated that it was a police checkpoint, but it looked like a stunt driver's test to me. Our mul-taxi swerved into the opposing lane to avoid the car laden with haybales that barreled toward us. We needed to be in the opposing lane anyway to avoid the first row of nails protruding from the asphalt. The taxi driver passed the first row expertly, skidding the taxi out on the way back to the right to avoid the next row of nails. He threaded the obstacle course like he could have done it in his sleep at 50kph. I have a reference for Hollywood's next stunt driver.

We arrived at the frontier. Though it has been closed since '94, none of the Moroccans here seem to know why, other than "Algeria closed it for political reasons." I didn't ask the Algerians their opinion. They were too busy telling me to get back to my side of the line.

Don't picture me fighting past trenches of armed men, or anything. There were plenty of barracades and barbed wire, but a clear path right through the border. Not seeing anyone, I figured the checkpoint must be on the other side, so I walked through.

No one there either.

Must be further up ahead.

I kept walking.

50m from the barracade, I realize nobody cares. I scout around for some officials, and go out of my way to talk to one of the policemen Gendarmes there. He tells me no, this is still Morocco, the frontier isn't for another 500 meters, at the foot of some cool looking mountains. No Algeria for Laura.

I was a little dissapointed, but had a great time chuckling at their security system. After all, I had known my goal was impossible from the beginning. I get back in the golden taxi, talking with the driver about the mountains. He doesn't really like them, but his sons like to go there. Go there? I thought no one from Morocco could go there. No, no one from Morocco can cross the Official Frontier. To get into Algeria, you have to go around!!!!

He offers to show me, not waiting for my answer as he swerves off the road into a cactus patch! Seriously, this guy could be the next 007 for the way he handles this golden taxi. We land in a tiny trail between the prickly pear and a concrete wall that hadn't even been visible from the road. There, he says, is Algeria. No more barbed wire; this part of the border is guarded on the Moroccan side by cinderblocks, and on the Algerian side by cacti!

We bump a little farther down the cactus patch - I will not call that spot a road. Nobody would.- until the borders open up. No more cactus, no more cinderblock. This is less than a kilometer from the fenced and baraccaded frontier where I talked with the Gendarme! Welcome to Algeria, Laura.

I got out and took a few pictures, tipped the taxi driver 100% (sill less than $1) and we were bumping back through the cacti and into Morocco, back to Oujda in the golden taxi.

The Touch of Summer

The roaches have gotten used to having the place to themselves. I was told that two summer-school teachers would be staying in my apartment during July and August, thus taking care of my rent and utility bills in my absence; apparently they were moved at the last minute to another teacher’s abode after my roommates and I left. There are bills lying all around my house... I’m not sure who put them inside... and since they are not dated, it’s difficult to tell which have been paid and which haven’t. In the morning I’ll ask Amina to speak with my guardian, Simo, with me. Some things are just too subtle for me to try using my clunky Arabic.

I am safely back in Fes! Through Boston, Iceland, London, and Casablanca, I finally arrived at the Fes airport far too late at night, and was picked up by Ginger, who was so gracious to offer her automotive assistance at 2am, and Abdul, keeping her safe! Although I was only in the air for 14 hours between USA and Fes, it was a 29 hour transit (including the time difference). Whew. I actually spent a good part of the waking hours on the flight staring at my sparkly engagement ring, and feeling overwhelmingly girlish for doing so.

Dawn is breaking over the train station. The morning call to prayer is deliciously intricate, and achingly familiar, like the briefest of summer rains after a drought.

I can’t bear to close my eyes; I feel like I need to take it all in again – my apartment, with its white tile floors and bright soft blankets, and the city. My view out the window gets clearer every minute as the sun comes up. Bright laundry hangs from my neighbor’s balconies. The cement near the roof across the street is starting to grow moss. The hanout’s Fort Knox thief-proof door stays tightly shut, because I am sure Si Mohamed is sleeping in after a late night of Ramadan feasting. It promises to be a hot summer day. Summer has left a thin film over my apartment, like dew, but made of liquid heat. Everything is slightly sticky, from the bags of spices I left in the cabinets, to the skirts still in my bathroom closet. It’s refreshing to set everything up again. I had fun re-moving in to my apartment here. And nothing compares to the adrenaline rush of battling giant cockroaches.

Five Things I Missed About America

My trip back to NY has been round-about. Last week, I flew from Fes to Casablanca, from Casablanca to London, and from London to Keflavik, Iceland. I had 12 hours in iceland, from 10pm-10am. I expected to sleep in the airport most of this time, as it was nighttime and Keflavik is not known for its night life. Sure enough, the town was dark, everything was closed, and everyone was sleeping. But it was LIGHT! I had forgotten that Iceland is above the Tropic of Cancer, so in the summertime it never gets dark!

I wandered out of the airport, about 3km to the village. I stopped to sketch some of the bushes of Blue Lupine that grew in vast fields there; it was beautiful! The landscape stretched out a few kilometers of flat fields of lupine and lichen and little alpine flowers before disappearing into a ubiquitous sea-mist. I walked to the water, climbed over the boulders surrounding the harbor, and put my feet in the Icelandic sea. I was lucky to be dressed Moroccan-traveler style - wearing ALL the clothing I was bringing home at once - or it would have been cold.

The next morning, I flew from Keflavik to Boston, sitting next to a couple returning from an Icelandic honeymoon. Excited from their travels, they were eager to show me pictures of their adventures, so I got the highlights of the rest of Iceland: geysers, lava fields, volcano, waterfalls...

I spent the rest of the week in MA at my family reunion, on a little island with my extended family, hiking, swimming, horsebackriding, singing, and eating good American food. I went with my family and Steve to my cousin Jennifer's wedding at a casino on the beach of Atlantic City, and am now back in Schenectady with my cat, Tsen.

The night before I left Morocco, I was walking around Fes with Mel, another American teacher who will be switching to a different Moroccan school in the fall. We listed so many things that we would miss about Fes, and, looking for a happier note, she asked what I would be happy to have in America for the summer.

1. My family - my parents and sister, but also everyone that I got to see at the reunion and Jennifer's wedding.

2. Steve - as an adventure buddy and the ringleader of the pack of gamers, and someone with whom I can share anything, it's nice even to be in the same time zone as him, much less the same city.

3. Dancing. All kinds. Message me if you're in my area and you want to come. It's my favorite social activity.

4. The ability to take food and a book outside and sit on the grass in the sun.

5. Cake. Maybe because Morocco excels so well in desert department, they don't do so well with the desserts.

It is a bit funny to be back in a culture that shouldn't feel foreign, but does. I've lived almost my whole life here; this culture should be so ingrained in me that it's effortless. But it's not. Not entirely. At least, not yet.

The Princess!

On Friday, I went to one of the expensive shows at the Sacred Music festival. There are many shows taking place all around Fes, every afternoon late into the night, and they are roughly classified by 'expensive' or 'free.' Every night, there are 3 free shows, by some local or smaller bands, out in open venues or Plazas around the city. I was at the beginning of one on Thursday (which, of course, started late) and it was really fun! The music was very energetic, and there were a lot of people. However, I was there by myself, and so I got hassled by Moroccan men more than it was worth, so I left. Suzanne and Candace went later (with some male friends) and had a more positive experience with the crowd, although they said it just continued to grow throughout the night, until it wasn't even comfortable to watch the show. It was really THE place to be, I guess! I'm reminded of the many times in myths and stories that some type of 'box of duplication' comes up, where anything you place inside (money, food, jewels) becomes twice as much. It sounds like this show, in it's walled-in plaza, was like that. Except that somebody KEPT opening and closing the door, making twice as much, four times as much, eight times as much...

Back to the Princess. On Friday night, I went to one of the 'expensive' shows. It was the performance of the Cambodian Royal Ballet, which I am deeming a misnomer, since the dance they performed was not in the slightest remenicient of a 'ballet.' I will now call it the Cambodian Royal Cambodian Dance Troup. They did traditional Cambodian dance.

Before they began, suddenly everyone in the audience stood up and pressed towards the isles! Like a good crowd member, I followed suit. Between the Moroccan women in front of me and the Spanish guy behind me, we all figured out the cause of the disruption - the Princess!! I suppose she's called the princess becasue 'Queen' implies too much political power, but she is the wife of the King Mohammed VI. She is his ONLY wife, and he is the first Moroccan King to take only one woman. Islamic law dictates something to the effect of "men should have no more than 3 wives" (someoen correct me if that's not quite right) so most kings have taken 3 to show their power and desirability. M-6, as the 'cool' king has been called, has been the face of revolutionary change in Morocco, even including his own wife and family. Princess Lala Selma takes great pride in attending the Sacred Music Festival, to show her support of the arts, and does so even in the absence of her husband! This year, she paraded down the red carpet - only a few feet from me!!!- with only the Cambodian Royal Lady at her side. Well, and a few dozen news cameras and reporters. I could see in an instant why all cameras would flock to her. Tall and slender, she keeps her hair uncovered, and it flowed sleek and straight past her waist. She was blindingly brilliant in a gold caftan (or taksheta?) with at least three layers, the top one being embroidered with thousands of tiny gold beads, and topped with a wide golden caftan belt. She paraded in, waving at everyone in the audience as she entered, and sat up front for the duration of the show.

Sitting for the show was rare. It reminded me of the typical 'really really important guy,' who comes to the charity walk-a-thon, talks on his business phone the whole time, and leaves early; at least he can say he's been there. At any one point in the show, about half the chairs were empty. People were arriving throughout the show, and leaving throughout the show. People talked on their phones during the entire performance. Others were continually standing up (like the lady in front of me) to take photos or film portions of the show. Conversation floated from most of the audience, in normal tones of voice. It was a different sort of audience.

The show itself was fantastic. I'm pretty sure I missed large bits of the storyline, but it wasn't so important. It seemed to me to be about two noble or royal people, a man and a woman, who were in love, but promised to be married to different people. The dance style was very western-asian, with slow Tai-chi style moves, elaborate beaded costumes and headdresses, and emphasis on movements of fingers, feet, and eyes.

The highlight was the slow-motion swordfight in the second scene! About 20 people duelled with Machetes in perfect formation. It was really artistic!!

The lowlight was in the fourth act, when my camera broke.

Sacred Music

The theme of this year's Annual Festival of Sacred Music is the enlightenment that comes at the start of a journey, although it has been expressed that the theme was written in Arabic, and doesn't quite translate to French. They did the best they could with it, and what they ended up saying in French is something that doesn't quite translate into English. So we've done the best we can, and come up with "the enlightenment that comes at the start of a journey."

This theme resonated throughout the city Friday evening, with the opening ceremony of this 10 day festival being the start of an exotic journey for so many visitors to the city. As for me, for once I felt like a side-character in the book of the journey; a helpful guide the protagonist chats with by the side of the road. So many people from every Arab nation, and all over Europe have flooded into Fes. They find it all novel and exotic, and it was so recently that I saw it with the same eyes. Now, my strangeness is dwarfed by having SO MANY new people here, for their week or two weeks. For me, Fes stretches back throughout the last year, and forward through the next. Though still not much time, somehow it's no longer the novelty or the strangeness that jumps out at me, but the familiarity. Fes is comfortable. This week, it dawned on me that all the cultural and linguistic difficulties that I once encountered don't register as 'difficulties' anymore - they, too, are comfortable. Fes has taken me in.

To The Graduates!

Congratulations to Malak, Krista, Jamilla, Wiam, and Ayoub, Amicitia class of 2010!

I am so proud of you all; the work that I have seen this year, and the special gifts and talents that each of you has. I have especially enjoyed watching you work together and support each other this year; you have become quite a team, and I am sure that many of your Amicita friendships will withstand whatever distance and time to which you subject them.

You take with you many good memories, and, I'm sure, some not-so-good ones. Hold fast to them all; they have made you the amazing people you are today. Keep those Amicitia joys and hard times, but also be aware that the next part of your journey will expose you to entirely new and unfamiliar joys and hard times. Never fear, you are well prepared for them! Be ready to change, to adapt, and to discover, for I am convinced that none of you could change that essential goodness that I have seen in you all.

You go out now to change the world, and you will! You will also experience many changes yourself, a prospect that should be just as exciting. Take solace in each other and your iron-strong friendships, and that you can always return to Amicitia and call this place a home.

With Best Wishes,
Miss Hutchinson

Alive

Hey everybody, sorry for the long pause in blog entries. I was unfortunately very ill after eating a terrible sandwich that I got from a street vendor.

It has been a busy week! The school had our first science fair on Thursday night, entered by every student grades 7-12, which was an amazing success. Hosted by Mr. Palosaari, the other science teacher, every student displayed some research that they conducted or research that they discovered. I was so impressed with them! Some of my students tested reactions such as the flammability of various aerosol cans, flammability of different strengths of alcohol and the way that ties to the amount of time it takes for a paper to catch fire, the effect of acid on various materials, and the effects of mixing incompatible blood types. The chemistry students in particular had some interesting results. The winner of the fair was a project testing the efficiency of incandescent vs. fluorescent light bulbs, tested using a homemade spectrometer and the light attenuation equations.

Friday night was the evening field trip stargazing on the roof with the telescope.

Saturday was the Elementary School carnival - a huge all-day event overtaking the entire middle, elementary school and the football field. It was warm and sunny and very well attended!

More later. I'm happy to be healthy again.

Taming the Jungle... barely

The people here keep track of the King's movement around the country the way many Americans follow the relationships of actors - and it's just as erratic! Ihave seen the King twice now: once outside the Fes train station, for a public opening, and once with my parents in the blue mountain village of Chefchouen, disguised among several 'faux kings.' The King was in Fes last week, so Fes was beautified, and a circus arrived! (don't really know that the circus had anything to do with the king, but it seems a nice coincidence.)

The last circus I've been to was Cirque du Soliel, which is beyond comparison to most typical circuses. Circuses? Circi? Well, even the normal circus I have attended in the states (keep in mind it was looooong time ago) was very notably *polished.* The transitions were impeccably smooth, and even the death-defying stunts had the practiced feel of being done by one who could perform the same act in their sleep. It was more like being run by machine.

The circus in Fes is nothing if not human! The magic of it was that I could relate to each of the people on stage, could see their struggle, their smeared make-up, imperfect bodies, and shaky muscles. I found the contrast amazing!

Upon entering the big top, you were seated according to ticket price in one of about 5 rows of bleachers surrounding the straw ring, with only a low wall of red cloth separating circus from audience. An announcer yelled in Arabic, and the tightrope walker emerged, a burly Moroccan man in tall Fantasia boots. Two techs brought out stepladders that had a metal cord strung between them. They set up the stepladders and ratcheted them to the ground behind each, and the tightrope walker mounted, arms flailing the whole way. He was only ever 2 meters off the ground, but on a sagging tightrope propped up on ladders, with nothing beneath him but hard-packed earth and straw!

A man and woman climbed to the ceiling of the big top - a ladder tipped horizontally like a see-saw was their trapeze. He stood on one end as counterbalance while she swung and turned and posed.

Four black show horses pranced and pawed and ran in formation. Some clowns ran around speaking French for all the delivery to their jokes, but Arabic for all the punch lines. Four elephants squeezed into the ring and stood up, propping on the back of the elephant in front of them. The trapeze woman did an act with about 20 hula hoops. It was intermission, and all the techs emerged with tall columns about a meter wide of chickenwire with pipe around the rectangular perimeter. They set these pieces next to each other to form a kind of fence around the area, and three tigers paraded in! They pawed the sides of their little platforms, and jumped through fiery hoops. The trapeze artists did a number on big ropes. A very skilled magician did a few tricks.

I met a really sweet family with two daughters in University studying biology; they were sitting next to me and offered me a ride home. I was really grateful to them because it was hard to get a taxi otherwise! The human element that was so apparent throughout the circus persists, in the kindness of strangers.

Turkey Is Not Morocco

The Turkish people have fought hard for the freedoms and 'liberalisms' that they have. Steve made the mistake of once saying, "In Morocco..." and had his friend and co-worker sternly reprimanded, "Look. This isn't Morocco." They enjoy surprisingly modern codes of conduct, dress, driving, law enforcement, and cuisine.

This modernity is especially true in Istambul, where I met Steve this week. I think Istambul has more tourists than residents. We saw the Hadjia Sophia, the Park, the Museum of Islamic Contribution to Science, the Blue Mosque, the Cisterns, and the Grande Bazaar.

We had a great time in Istambul, but we both had travel difficulties on the way home. The fun part of my travel was an 11 hour layover in Madrid, which I spent in the Retiro Park doing Tai Chi with some Chinese swordspeople, after which I took the wrong flight home accidentally. The not so fun part was getting really sick in the midst of many layovers and being stranded without an operating train. It took 30 hours to get home, but I made it!

I look forward to the schedule consistancy resuming tomorrow. I'm excited to go back to school.

Twitterpated

Spring is here, and new life follows close on the heels of the re-appearance of street life.

The first sign was the fall of the zaHaraH, which is one of the most beautiful words in Arabic, meaning flower (or sometimes more specifically the flowers of an orange tree.) The flowers of the fruit trees feel like the snow we never had, making the ground not only white and soft, but also with a sticky-sweet fragrance that makes me think of hummingbirds and sugar-water. In place of these remarkable snow-drop-like flowers, the trees hosted a variety of delicious fruit or decoy fruit. I first noticed this while leading the usually well-behaved sixth grade inside for science class. I looked over my shoulder at the door to the school to find several of the students out of line, and IN the tree by the door, shaking the branches to drop the small yellow fruits on their expectant classmates below. I was upset, until Simo forced one of the fruits on me. Under the tough rind, the orange fruit was juicy and flavorfully sweet; I had one of those frightening moments of self-doubt of an authority figure who has just realized that her instructions are the opposite of what she and everyone else wants. So we went to science and keyed out this fantastic tree. And then studied Outer Space.

The second sign was the kittens. Fes has hundreds of stray cats, and they are generally seen as dirty pests, though cute: akin to squirrels in US. One of my students on Monday told me about the kittens in the back of the school, and we went as a class between periods to visit them. There were four little furballs, not even a week old, nestled in a cardboard box. Karina had moved them from the school's bastement window-wells. They each had unique colourings, and the calico mama watched us protectively from a safe distance. A few students brought her their lunch leftovers, but the kittens were bothered enough that Mama-cat moved them next door Tuesday morning. It was sweet to see all the students loving the cats and talking about how to care for them.

The third sign of spring was the chicks. In contrast to the kittens, these were clearly bred for consumers, as they were a rainbow of neon colour! During lunch Wednesday morning, I heard a choir of "Miss! Miss!" calling in my classroom window. I went outside and found my students respectively holding a hot pink baby chick, a bright orange one, one in lime green, one lemon yellow chick, and a big snail. The neighbor had dyed the chicks with bright colours and was selling them for 10dh each, although my students informed me that the dye wasn't good for them and a bath immediately is the only way to ensure their safety. The neighbor had put the snail on one boy's head while he was working. All the chicks earned names, and a photo shoot of cuteness ensued. The bell rang and the chicks went back in the neighbor's cage. Math began.

The fourth sign of spring is the giant cigar-birds outside my house. They look like the ash-grey chimney swifts, with darker black wingtips and an elegant, sweeping shape - but their wingspan is about a foot long! I like watching them swoop around the road in front of my apartment, but they've recently decided to give me a closer look. They continually bombard the upper corners of my window wells! I thought this was odd, but took it for coincidence, or clumsy flying. I like to sleep with my window cracked (it slides sideways open) because the squatty-potty stinks, and Friday night was no exception. On Saturday morning around 6am, I heard the Giant Chimney Swifts start squeeking as they began their dance on my road. Suddenly, in an ungainly 'thump,' a little feathered face looked me right in the eye. I leapt out of my bed, and a sweet little (well, BIG) songbird tilted his head back and forth, looking pleasently surprised at his good fortune to have landed on a pillow! He had his wings a little splayed, but made no effort to correct them, or move at all. Had I left him another minute, I think he would have fallen asleep on my pillow! I tried to shoo him outside, but he was too pleased with himself to heed my shushing. He didn't move. And didn't move. And didn't move, except to cock his head cheekily at me. Finally, I slid the window open as wide as it would go, hoping another wouldn't join him, and picked up my whole pillow, shaking it out the window to dislodge the poor comfortable Flying Cigar. I threw the pillow into a corner of my room, closed the window, cranked down the Fort Nox blinds, and went back to sleep.

Lastly, there's me. The Fessies are not known for their great care in personal cleanliness, but this week I am hamaaming and preening myself in anticipation of my trip to Turkey to visit Steve in what is currently HIS country of residence. My flight leaves Tuesday morning from Casablanca, so I will be taking the train to Casa on Monday night, and hopefully staying with family of a friend so I can make my flight on time. Steve and I will be in Istambul together for 4 days. There's a zoo near Istambul! But it might be closed. Post a comment if you've been there and you have a recommendation for something we shouldn't miss seeing.

Happy Spring!

A Few Comments on the Dry Political Information

Inspired by a project undertaken by my friend Ghizlane, I have been reading the Constitution of this country. For those who are interested in the summary, I have included the cliffnotes version: my notes are in the post to follow.

I was surprised by how much the wording of the establishment and checks and balances of the branches resembles that of the American constitution, and I thus focused my attentions more on the part played by the King in the constitution. The wording surrounding the King's sections are interesting, leaving the judgement and absolute power to the person himself instead of the written document.

Instead of defining "offensive statement" in the constitution, it seems to be implied that nothing that is offensive to the King is to be allowed, leaving it up to the King to determine what is offensive. It is an interestingly different approach to make the rules personal, according to the relationship and demeanor of each person, and of the king himself, instead of according to absolutes. Like everything else here, it is more personal.

Really the first 4 chapters seem to be the most important, but I've included a few notes about each of the others. Keep in mind, these are just my notes, typed for myself, so I certainly have not captured the entirety of the law here. (This is my disclaimer. If you think I've missed something important, please feel free to comment.)

WARNING: Dry Political Information

Moroccan constitution:

Chapter 1
a constitutional monarchy, in which "Sovereignty will be that of the people who exercise it directly" but the politiacal parties (there are 9 leftist parties, 4 rightist parties, and 7 central parties) will be
representative of the people, and all Moroccan citizens will be held equal under the eyes of the state. It is an Islamic state, but
citizens will be permitted freedom of worship, and citizens are also entitled to freedom of opinion, and "its expression in all forms." Moroccans
are also entitled to free movement and settlement throughout the state. Men and women are guaranteed equal political, educational, and employmental freedom.
The home is "inviolable" and "secrecy of personal contact shall be preserved."

Chapter 2 - monarchy
The Moroccan Crown and the constitutional rights thereof shall be heriditary and
handed down, from father to son, to descendants in direct male line and by order of
primogeniture among the offspring of His Majesty King Hassan II, unless the King should,
during his lifetime, designate a successor among his sons apart from the eldest one. In case of
failing descendants in direct male line, the right of succession to the Throne shall, under the
same conditions, be invested in the closest male in the collateral consanguinity.
King is a minor until he turns 16; a regency council of other governmental leaders has some of his powers,
and continues to advise him until he turns 20.
"The person of the King will be sacred and inviolable."
King can declare the country in a state of emergency, and thus take over on ALL ruling decisions, including dissolving
one or both branches of parliament.

Chapter 3 - parliament
Two houses: House of Representatives, and House of Councillors
House of Representatives - elected by direct universal suffrage for a 6 year term, during October 5 years after previous election.
House of Councillors - elected by an electoral college. 3/5 by region, 2/5 by a nationally elected electoral college. 9 year term, 1/3 of Councillors
replaced every three years, elections held in October
Parliament members are protected from prosecution due to the opinions they express, unless they are detrimental to Islam or the respect owed to the King.
Parliament meets twice a year: On the second Friday in October, and second friday in April. Meetings last less than 3 months.
It's their job to deal with most of the little legal matters that haven't been solved at the police station, but aren't big enough to take to the king
They also have the power to propose new laws, which must make it past the king (and absolute majority of each of both Houses)

Chapter 4 - the government
Govenment composed of prime minister and other ministers, and must answer to both houses and the king. They also ensure execution of laws, and
may propose new bills. Prime Minister is chosen by king.

Chapter 5 - relations among branches
Each house can vote bills down.

Chapter 6 - the Constitutional Council
Composed of 6 people chosen by the king who serve for 9 years, 3 chosen by President of the House of Representatives, and 3 chosen by the Preseident
of the House of Councillors.
The King chooses the chairman.
They deal with all the organic laws, including approving bills to be voted on to become laws, and decisions regarding the maintenence of current laws.

Chapter 7 - the Judiciary
Separate from legislative and executive branches, but all sentences shall be passed and executed in the King's name.
The 10 Magistrates are appointed by royal decree, are irremovable, and are presided over by the king.

Chapter 8 - the High Court of Justice
Government members are responsible for their actions, including felonies, commited while in service.

Chapter 9 - There is an economic and \Social Council.

Chapter 10 - the Audit Court
Supervises legality of the budget. Reports directly to the King.

Chapter 11 - Local Government
Broken down into Regions, Prefectures, Provinces, and Communes. Local assemblies shall be elected. Governors shall be elected. They are responsible
for law enforcement and implementation, and local management.

Chapter 12 - Revising the Constitution requires particular combos of proposals and approval, a bit from each branch

Chapter 13 - Special Provisions
There were only two articles here, clearly add-ons that the original authors thought should be obvious. When parliament members are lame duck, they
still have to do the work, and the past Constitutional Council rulings do not give the current constitutional council the right to do anything
not in accord ith this Constitution.

A Moroccan Sunday

America's weekly routine is all about independence and being OUT: Friday nights, or Saturday nights, are for going to parties, dances, or restaurants. Young singles go out on dates these nights, married couples make special time for each other, groups of girls have a Friday night trip to the movie theatre, and groups of guys go to a bar to watch whatever sports game we girls forgot was on. Even families go out to concerts in the park, or go into town for ice cream, or take the kids for a walk on Friday or Saturday evening.

In Morocco,the weekly routines are about the family being IN.
Friday is a day of cooking, and Sunday a day of cleaning.
On Sunday, Amina and her family came to meet me at my house. I'm sure they shake their heads at me when they come over, thinking "this poor little American girl has no idea how to care for a Moroccan house," and it's very true. The methods of cleaning here are quite different. I've been using the squeegee brush instead of a broom or vacuum, but I was not prepared for what happened Sunday. The whole family met me at my apartment in lovely djellabahs and head scarves, which they took off as soon as they were in the door, a storm of velvets and silks that left in its wake all manner of djellaba underclothes: mismatched pajamas, sweatsuits, and the fantastic Moroccan leggings that are made of sweater-fabric.

Amina and her family took the house by storm.

Khadija began rifling through my cupboards and mixing flour with yeast to make the khubz-bread, while Amina and I found all the supplies we'd need, including buying some extra brushes and another bucket (Driss promptly broke the first one). Fuzia and Fatiha began moving the furniture, then filled a giant bucket with soapy water and upended it over my carpet! Driss kept filling the bucket and dumping more water on the floor, and we women rotated through the bristly scrubbing of the carpet, throwing water on the windows and walls, and manning the squeegee to ensure that the flood of water that covered our ankles was shepherded into the squatty-potty drain.

In the flurry of activity and sudsy buckets, everyone and everyTHING was drenched. I want to compare the efficiency of the women rotating scrubbing tasks to a machine, with each part working together seamlessly; however, the efficiency of Amina's family far surpassed any machines that I have seen in the last year. I find it very refreshing after frustrations with Moroccan things not working to be witness to Moroccan PEOPLE working with more expertise than I could imagine. Cleaning the house was like a spectacularly choreographed Renaissance dance.

After everything was soaked, scrubbed, soaked again, and squeegied, we rolled up the carpets and carried them to the roof to dry in the sun. Amina and I went out for a 2-kilo chicken and some olives and lemon to make tagine. I still haven't figured out if the "2 kilos" of the chicken refers to before or after it is killed, but I've found a chicken-man who skins and guts it before giving it to me. I appreciate this a lot.

We sat down as a family to delicious tagine and homemade bread in the apartment that was spotless, but destroyed. We had to sit on the buckets and a few plastic deck chairs, since the couches had been taken apart to wash the cushions. The wool had been removed from the pillows so we could wash the cases, leaving a pile of about a dozen sheep-skins worth of wool in one corner of the apartment. I resisted jumping into this pile for about 2 hours, and was proud of my restraint. When I finally pretended to trip and fall into the pile, the wool engulfed my body completely, and Amina and her family thought it was the silliest thing they'd ever seen.

Despite the open windows and warm sunshine, the apartment was wet for the rest of the day.

We spent the rest of the afternoon as comfortably as a family. I brought some little gifts to show my appreciation to them for teaching me to clean, and we all made henna and played cards until Amina and her family had to leave to catch the last bus home. They left me with the greatest left-overs, a new determination regarding my apartment, my favorite henna designs, and a refreshed spirit.

Chocolate, postcards, and internet

1 Happiness is chocolate, postcards, and internet.

2 Happiness is anytime the indoor temperature falls between 40 and 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

3 A note passed from a student to me. During class. That only says "love u."

4 A "roommate meeting"

5 Not needing to worry about matching my clothes in the morning

6 A shower

7 Happiness is the sunshine, that feels ten times more intense, and makes everything glow like magic.

8 Happiness is leaving my house in search of bananas only to have a man pulling a cart of bananas cross my path ON my doorstep.

9 Listening to my neighborhood kids playing soccer in my street at 1am.

10 Using a western toilet.

11 Happiness is being able to give my best friend IT classes, and living in culture where she is not afraid to accept such a gift; in fact, it only feels appropriate after all that she and her family have done for me.

12 Happiness is henna hands.

13 Passing the same set of little markets every time you walk a street, with the same people working them all the time. And knowing when somebody feels lazy, because their store is closed.

14 A donkey. Carrying... anything.

15 Happiness is expressing the same sentiment in several different languages, however poorly; it really makes the moment several times more poignant.

16 Hosting elaborately ceremonial dinner parties

17 Public transportation

18 Being able to type again after having just cut fingernails for the first time in several weeks. ^.^

19 Modern dance with 9 Moroccan girls between the ages of 12 and 18, in the open-air cafeteria patio on the roof of my school.

20 Happiness is the excitement of being out in a familiar and exotic medina all evening and returning home to left-over tagine, my mom's prayer shawl, and the smell of spices still clinging to my clothes.

Conservation of 'Stuff'

The ultimate show of "my teacher is pleased with us" is to let the students have 'free time.' Don't let the misnomer fool you; 'free time' actually means 'playing soccer,' and free time requests were pretty frequent even in the dead of winter. Today, students in every class immediately began the mantra, "Miss, isn't it sooo nice outside!" The request is regular enough that it doesn't even need to be stated any more. In illustration of the amazing days here, 3aisa was heard to respond, "Don't tell me it's nice outside! It's not winter any more, it's ALWAYS nice outside!"

I recall an American Indian fable about beavers who were gambling; they bid their own soft pelts, because, once given away, they could simply flop their tails in their pure lakewater and grow new ones. Even as a kid, this bothered me because of the clear lack of concern for the conservation of stuff-ness. Stuff can become other stuff, but it can't appear out of no where (I hear adults actually call this Conservation of Matter or something), but spring in Morocco also seems to disregard this Conservation of Stuff.

The once bare streets of dingy cobblestones and dirty gutters now teem with bright silk-clad women and noisy soccer-ball-toting children. Every curb is lined with Moroccans stopping to 'save time' by pausing in the midst of all varieties of errands. Pairs of women sit with groceries, on their way to make cous-cous at home. Children sit with pilfered bottles of water or some small found treasure; they huddle together in secrecy over piles of torn up cookie labels, smacking the pile and claiming any that flip. Men sit and watch the world, on hiatus between watching the world from this cafe and watching the world at the next restaurant. Every space on every curb is full.

In the middle of the sidewalk on the big boulevard is a cross-hatching of grates that occasionally spouts water in a 10x10 set of fountains. I keep waiting for it to surprise an unsuspecting passer-by, but I have yet to be rewarded. The fountain turned on yesterday and seemed to spawn children the way the lake-waters may have spawned beaver-pelts. Children ran underfoot, and other smaller children ran under their feet. Older teens sometimes braved the bustle to have their pictures taken with the fountain; in particular I saw one girl, we'll call her Khadija, in a red velvet djellaba, tiptoe between the fountains and turn to smile at her friend with the camera. At just that minute, two little boys in traditional clothing (white and yellow djellabas - who let THEM in the fountain?!) ran past, smacking each of the spewing fountains and sloshing water over Khadija. I expected trouble for them. Khadija shrieked, then turned and started chasing the boys! They did a full ring around the rosy before she brought them back to their mother, who was sitting next to me. Khadija caught my eye for a second as she flipped her hair back to its perfect style, and nodded, before returning to her stunned friend.

The sunshine brings out the best in everyone.

Steve hijacks the blog

"After visiting Laura a few weeks ago, here were some of my impressions from Morocco.


"As I tend to just think in tangibles- times, places, people,
activities - blogposts and writings tend to come off as a mapped
itinerary, and so I'll try to give the ideas, emotions, and abstracts
of the trip to Fes.
Pre-trip Steve was nervous to enter a different culture without the
ability to talk and exchange ideas clearly. Getting into enough
trouble AND speaking the language in my own country was almost bad
enough, but these concerns were put away the moment I snuck up behind
Laura in the airport. I had forgotten the confidence
and strength my better half can give. The "find somebody who speaks
English" game started out well and we got a ride to the hotel by an
Argentinian man coming back from his son's soccer practice. People
just seem to be nice in Europe. We had tapas (potato chips?)
at a tiny bar, grabbed a bite to eat, and hit the salsa club until
3am, and dropped tired back into the hotel to catch the flight to Fes.

"The city of Fes was packed with bustling honking cars and wondrous
smells. We got me settled in real quick, and set off to the medina
to people watch and cruise around. Mules, tourists, carts of goods,
laughing kids, all beneath the soldier's gate. Very relaxing and
great way to start the trip. We went to a smattering of shops each
with unique and amazing aspects. Jowad owned the first shop we went to
and was the happiest and most energetic of all the Moroccans I met. I
was hugged, hello'd, and how are you'd 20 times in 3 minutes, and a
few more times every time we passed him in the medina from that day
on. The spice shop's air was hung with interesting aromas, the
shelved walls covered in vials and jars filled with all kinds of
colored liquids. Finally, there was a metalwork shop in which the
owner was sitting on a small wooden stool in the back engraving a
plate. Each tap with the little hammer made a tiny mark on a large
elaborate plate which must have taken months to make. Around the shop
were hundreds of intricate pieces of jewelry, teapots, and plates. It
was like standing in the middle of a life's work.

"The best experiences were meeting the people I had heard so much
about. Laura's students were incredibly respectful, fun, and
intelligent. I was amazed at their insights and thoughts on politics
and other social issues while walking to grab pizza. Really impressed
with Wadie, Simo, and Hamza. Dinner at Amina's is the most memorable
part of the entire trip. Amina and her family are so full of love,
smiles, and laughter I could hardly take it in. I still beam at the
thought of all the pictures, djellabas, and sweet words. The time
went by so fast (must have been at least 6 hours) and, though I
understood very little of what was being said, I couldn't stop
laughing and smiling with them. I was also renamed Sna'an. The food
was amazing, and Dries' song backed up by Khadija and Amina was
inspiring and unworldly. Mr. Amina and Norridine carried themselves
with such distinction, but also tender love for their family. Best
night of Morocco, easily.

"The pace of life in Morocco was very nice, and all things that were
worth doing were worth spending time doing whether it be coffee with
Malika (4 hours), haggling with shopkeeps (just long enough to get a
good price), and cityscape viewing from the Myranid Tombs (duration of
a storm). It was a nice change from America, but the organizer in me
doesn't know how it would be to live there. The most unique
experience of Morocco came after an overnight bus trip south. We
paraded through the red sands of the Sahara which seemed to go on for
an eternity of dunes. Laura is right in saying that camels are
deceptively large creatures and incredibly cool to ride on. The stay
in the tents was nice and I was tired from the sun (and apparently
also a blanket thief).

We hopped a ride towards Marrakesh and spent some time in a town
waiting for the bus, and struck up the longest English conversation I
had in months with Lucky (at least I think that's what he said) and
Sheela (spelling?) from Australia and Ireland who had spent some time
in the area and happened to cross our paths. Wonderful people that I
hope are doing well. We then took the scariest bus ride I've ever
taken through the winding, guardrailless, cliffside, hairpin-turning,
pitch black roads of the Atlas mountains arriving in Marrakesh too
late to explore =(

"We spent the last day in Spain cruising the art museum, fighting with
a taxi cab driver, and smiling
despite the rain. The streets of Spain were nice and had a quintet
that played while we ate breakfast snacks. Or was that the first
Spain landing? Meh. We slept in and I caught the flight back home,
leaving with a mixture of fullfilment having seen Laura and her
Moroccan world, but sadness knowing I wouldn't see her for quite some
time (actually it would only be a couple of weeks, but I didn't know
it at the time, I'm in Turkey right now and trying to find a time to
see her again).

Bullet point synopsis!

Favorite foods: Shebikiah, mint tea, and avacado smoothie
Cultural surprises: The feeling of a country unified under a common
religion, hospitality culture I want to take home with me, subtle
rules (like taxis)
Favorite smells: Not the tannery, streetside food vendors
Amazed by: Laura's Arabic knowledge, handmade crafts, religious
devotion, others' kindness
Strokes of luck: Austrians, Tab-to-lower-seat in backseat of taxi,
lightning at the Myranids
Thoughtful points: Camel driver who said he'd go to America if he
could but matter-of-factly that this is where'd he'd stay (without a
choice) and how many others expressed this point, common trust and the
pros and cons of barter systems and small neighborhoods, position on
social stigmas cultural infringement and rights to expression

Ok, thanks for letting me hijack the blog. I love you very much
Laura, thanks for showing me your world.

. ~Steve

A T1ME article on a situation here

click here to view

The Short Version

Seriously, don't tell the students, but vacation time is a pretty good perk of being a teacher.

We had our first 'spring break' this week, for the Eid El Mouloud, the prophet Mohamed's birthday. I thought they didn't celebrate birthdays, but whatever. Steve came to visit from New York, and I got the pleasure of touring him around my city. Whether strolling the medina, visiting friends, or just sitting in a cafe, everyone here was excited to meet him. We spent an amazing time at Amina's family's house, where they made a huge fuss over him. Everyone was completely unable to remember/pronounce his name, so he was dubbed "Teeth," because it sounded like "Steve," which quickly became the Arabic "Snaan."

After leaving Fes, we took a night bus to Riazani and discovered that they guy Steve was staying with, Dan, another American, was also riding the bus south for a separate desert tour. Steve and I arrived in Riasani and were picked up by a very tall land rover that drove us out on a deserted road. Just as I was contemplating how easy it would be to kidnap us in this situation, the land rover turned off the empty road and out into the more empty desert. We rode for another half hour through the dunes and brushy shrubs before arriving at a few street signs planted in the middle of the sand, one of which directed us in the front door of the Auberge of the Blue Men, where we stayed.

We explored the desert a little on foot before walking with the "camel-man" into the desert where he caught our camels for us. They weren't wild, but it was a dramatic feeling to walk into the desert to catch a camel. For those of you who have not rode camels, you should know this: they are TALL. The saddle on a camel wraps around the hump and has a metal crossbar at the front to hold on to, and you need to hold on to it. Getting up and down is like a roller coaster. The walking is easy enough, but still very high from the unforgiving sand. We had fun spying on the little tracks of the desert critters traced in the sand as we walked through what was apparently the tallest set of dunes in the Sahara.

We spent the night in a Berber encampment in the middle of the dunes, in tents that were made of blankets draped over logs. We walked around, enjoying the amazing stars and listening to some Berber drum circles, and woke up the next morning for the sunrise.

After riding back to the Auberge on our trusty stinky mounts, we hitched a ride with the Austrians to the Dades gorges. We met some cool people and sat at a cafe for about 5 hours before leaving for Marrakesh on the night bus. It was great to have Steve visiting for as long as he could, and I was very glad to travel with him on the crazy desert excursion. I'm going to ask him to post something on this blog as well.

Update of Classes

We just finished a unit on 2-D shapes in 7th grade math, and so had a contest in measurement last week. Everyone loved it, but nobody was very accurate, so we had a rematch yesterday. The contest was set up scavenger-hunt style, where they had to find different measurements around the school and use them for calculations, like calculating the area of the glass windows in front of the office, or the amount of red tile used in the school logo on the front steps, or the diameter of the big tree in the courtyard. Instead of averaging about 120% off, the measurements are only about 50% off.

In sixth grade, the science class is learning about different types of energy. To demonstrate renewable, non-renewable, and indefinite resources today, the kids made three teams and drew small towns of four buildings. We played like a turn-based game, where each "month," they could add one more building if they wanted to, either a bank or a restaurant or a hospital, but they had to pay one 'resource' per month for each building they had in town. One town's resources was silly-noodle macaroni, and they only had a handful of it. The second town's resources was gravel from outside; they had each picked up a few pieces on the way in. When they ran out, one boy chimed in "Miss, can we just go out and get some more?" Good job, kid, yeah! It just takes time. The third city's energy resources were 100ml of water that they took from the sink next to them. indefinite. To top it off, their cities are works of art. Colourful, labeled creations with perspective and fountains and beaches... I was expecting that we would throw them out at the end of class. Instead, I am taping them on the wall.

In eighth grade, we threw barbies off the roof with specifically calculated numbers of rubber bands attached to them to make a bungee cable. Only one barbie died. Success.

Illegal Aliens

Sometimes the most ridiculous aspects of life make the best stories. Every day, I wake up a bit before dawn to do some work and have some quiet relax time, and because I like to hear the dawn call to prayer. I go to school early so I can use the only computer the school has with the finicky printer, and usually start the day kinda wishing it was over already. First period is Pre-Algebra, and that almost always puts me in the mood to actually start the day, and each class I spend with the students makes me pick up momentum as the day carries on, so I know I have a good job. After school I tutor and have duties and/or admin-type responsibilities until around 6-ish, when I often have an errand to run, or I just walk around the city and talk to my friends who are vendors.

For the last 6 months, one of the errands that I occasionally have to care for involves my residency paperwork. First, I needed to visit the police agency with my passport and diploma to have them issue all of our papers. They gave us additional paperwork to fill out - the teachers last year didn't have it, but it wasn't a big deal. It had basic information. They also wanted our resumes. We all went back to the police station several times, and were repeatedly told, "we're kinda busy, come back tomorrow." Finally, they gave a few people residency papers. But not me.

The remainder of us were told that, to acquire residency papers would require us to open a Moroccan bank account in US dollars. So we went to the bank, all with our passports. Suzanne and Candace opened their accounts, and thus went back to the police agency and got their paperwork. 3aisa and I were told that a passport was not sufficient to open a bank account. Strike 2.

We two returned the following day with our drivers' licenses, but we were informed that a drivers license also was not sufficient. In addition to our passports, we needed a piece of mail that we had received while in America from a company. An electric bill, a phone advert, a paycheck. Anything with our name and an American address. Why would we have brought this to Morocco?! Why is it necessary or important?! Most importantly, since we definitely did NOT bring such an envelope with us when we arrived 6 months ago, how are we to get one now, now that we no longer LIVE in America or receive mail there?!

Finally, my friend Malika, who also works for the school, and is married to a man of influence, spoke with the owner of the bank. It is no longer necessary to have an envelope.

3aisa and I went to the bank today, but he has had another problem occur in the meantime: his passport was stolen on his last Visa run to Spain. It's being renewed in Casablanca now. She informed him that she could not help him, so he returned to school. What we forgot today was that, when he returned, he had the money for both of us in his pocket! So, I actually had the opportunity to open the account today, but had no money to do so. Strike three.

Insha'allah situations coincide better tomorrow.

Chit-chat

I went to the medina yesterday evening to check on some pictures that I left with a friend of mine; he’s a painter, and I asked if he would get the pictures framed for me. Really, I asked him where we could get them framed, and he insisted on doing it for us. Last night, I didn’t make it there.

B’shwia.

On completely empty streets, it takes about a half hour for me to walk to his shop, and another half hour home. Around 5, I left my house to walk over, through the Mellah, where I had to stop to say hello to my friend who sells teapots. I then encountered the shop where I had left my boots, after having them break shortly after buying them, for the shopkeeper to repair the zipper. He hadn’t finished fixing them yet, but he had me come in and sit down while he messed around with them, and then he wanted me to try on a bunch of other shoes, ALL of which were the wrong size. Then I had to have an exchange with a homeless woman I know between two streets, and inquire as to the well-being of the caretaker of a hotel I scope out to defer guests to, since my place is not currently hosting out-of-towners overnight. I was delayed by the owner of my coffee-shop who saw me passing by, and wanted me to see how successful he’s been at chasing the cats away from his café, since I sometimes feed them when I sit. My favorite mul-malawi guy saw me, and the traditional mul-magasin in the medina streets wanted to teach me some business terms in Arabic.

By the time I got to Sidi Mohamed’s shop, it was late and everything was closed.

Just another evening in Africa. Typical. I love it.

There are some very specific rules about chit-chat, and it’s very prescribed. In my home culture, I am basically free to chat with anyone who feels like talking to me; this is relatively rare with strangers. Here, EVERYBODY wants to talk, in very direct ways. Strangers on the street run up to me and yell, “Are you from France? England?” It would be akin to waving down the next black person you see to ask if they were from Africa… so not p.c.

Although everybody *wants* to talk, the rules here are clearer about when chit-chat is appropriate. Navigating these social mores has resulted with my understanding of two very mutually exclusive groups of people: those with whom casual conversation IS appropriate, and those with whom it is NOT.

IS: For me, it’s appropriate to start conversations with virtually any females. I am also expected to talk with any foreigners, or anyone who looks foreign. Male shopkeepers are also appropriate to talk with, as long as there is the remotest faint possibility I may at some point be monetarily supporting their business.

NOT: Any local males who are not selling something. The only possible exception to this rule can be, sometimes, small children, very old men, men introduced to me by someone in the “is” category while we are supervised by said person, or someone with whom I am physically trapped for a period of time, such as a fellow passenger in a traincar or taxi. These conversations are had with a good show of trepidation.

I never cease to find this cultural distinction interesting, and from an insider’s perspective a bit amusing.

Tea with My Neighbors

I was skyping with Steve the other night, very late, when everything else was sleepy and silent. Faintly, I heard something like the slow cracking of breaking glass. I wasn't sure where it was coming from, but a moment later, I found out. Suddenly, behind me, the tiles on my floor split apart, rifting together like the Rocky mountains, and shooting sharp plaster bits all around the room. The entire length of my living room, two rows of tiles seemed to expand and pop out of the floor, leaving a little tile mountain range in the middle of the living room, that cracks menacingly anytime anyone steps near it.

...please consider supporting my journey here?

Chemicals!!

The rainy season strikes again - everyone is sick, and the locals are telling us that it's either because we aren't wearing gloves when it's raining, or because we're dumping hot water down the drain, thus angering the drain-djiin.

There were only 3 teachers to actually make it to the elementary school yesterday; and all three were mildly ill. In the middle of math class, the elementary principal walks in. She is fantastic. The whole sixth grade choruses 'Goooood moooorning' in a sufficiently adorable way to diffuse whatever irritation she might have from their latest misdemeanors, but she reassures them that she's only here to bring me some Vitamin C.

She pours me a cup of water and hands me a dissolvable bright orange tab, which immediately begins fizzing once dropped in the water. She doesn't realize what a gift this is for the science class. I yell 'CHEMICAL REACTION,' and the whole sixth grade bounds out of their seats to watch the Vitamin disappear in the cup of water, staining it fluorescent orange. We spend the next 10 minutes discussing reactions, chemical solutions, and the importance of vitamins to the body.


I love my job.

Taboo Subject

I had a sick day today. My stomach is suffering from too much Morocco.

There's no way around it; this country is just hard on the digestive system. Chemically, I wonder what the exact issues are, but even the locals report trouble more frequently than I'm accustomed to. Everyone who visits here gets sick, it seems... foreign bellies just aren't ready for the dense, delicious traditional cuisine.

After several months here, I had considered myself immune, but I realize that my diet while living here has been fairly basic. When I cook for myself, I usually eat sandwiches with delicious khubz bread, or some combination of the endless yogurt products. Since last month, I have been determined to prepare real Moroccan cous-cous correctly, and this weekend I tackled my first tagine. I made a tagine with steak pieces and potatos, carrots, zucchini, turnips, and a couple other vegetables I don't know the English names for. It actually turned out quite well, and the seasoning was decent. I made this for my Moroccan friend and her mother, who I hosted at my house yesterday after school for only about 5 hours. We had a lovely time together, and I got some ideas for next time I make tagine.

However, my body maybe doesn't like this frequency of eating traditional Moroccan cooking every day. I stayed home from school, since I wasn't really able to be vertical safely, much less move around to teach.

It entertains me that, though digestive sicknesses of all kinds are not considered delicate conversation topics in my home culture, here people are quite matter-of-fact. A friend and co-teacher who called me asked straight out, "Do you have diarrhea? Are you throwing up?" I guess that's the result when the digestive system presents such a regular interference to daily life.

I'm going back to sandwiches.

Open Doors

On Monday, my best Moroccan friend turned 22, and celebrated her first birthday. Birthdays are not typically celebrated here, and it seems that many locals don't even keep track of their age. At the most, they can often recall the year they were born - it took some basic math just to figure out her age for Monday. She loves American gatherings, and this seemed like one of the best opportunities. However, at the time it was supposed to occur, the country intervened, as usual. It was re-scheduled, but then transportation ran late, and her family's business making leather jackets was involved, and the party finally did happen the next night. Myself and two of my American girlfriends arrived and met a room full of Moroccan women in beautiful caftans, dancing away to fun Arabic music. We had delicious cake, and it was good to see her and her family.

At my own place, we've had guests all week. My roommate's best friend from CA is visiting, and 3aisa's girlfriend is staying with us for a few days while visiting him from America. I've been meeting with several girls who are visiting the city, to help show them around. They are expert travelers, and amazingly insightful and inquisitive girls from America and Australia, so my week has been a time of forging new friendships and playing hostess, which I love, whether it be in my city or my house, or just in this new culture that I have come to love.