Reports of Protests

Kids in New York have snow days. Kids here have political unrest days.

Mubarek has stepped down. He was a very different kind of ruler than our own king
Mohammed VI. The people that I have spoken with generally approve of the message that the protesters in Egypt were communicating, but not with the method they used to communicate it.

Saturday 19 February
All weekend, there has been a hum of rumor flying just under audible volume. Facebook has apparently published some invitation to a protest-style gathering, and everyone knows someone who's seen it, but no one has seen it themselves. I've said all along that I would be surprised if anything came of it. Firstly, the plan is such a shadow that it compeletly lacks organization. Secondly, Morocco is not Egypt or Tunisia; our King is good to our country. Of course we have some issues we are working on, but people are generally content and living well.


Sunday 20 February
At noon I was on my way to school from church, walking down the main street in the New City party of town, I saw a crowd of people in Place Florence. I thought for a moment there might be a new souk or marketplace open, but it was odd that everyone gathered was a man. Then I saw a few signs, patriotic pleas for powers to be given out more freely, complete with supportive portraits of the king in the center. There were about 200 men involved in the peaceful demonstration, including a couple with megaphones who were chanting melodically above the chatter.
The main road and a reasonable surrounding radius had been closed to motorized traffic by some impressively uniformed policemen, and the grand-taxis that went to the towns around the city were not running. Thus, I didn’t get to see Amina and her family today. Someone else told me the trains and buses between Casablanca and Rabat and Fes were closed down for the day, as well.
I didn’t witness any further turmoil, but neither did I go looking for trouble. I heard there were only a few demonstrators, perhaps only the ones I saw at midday, but that many other ragamuffins took the opportunity to piggyback on the mischief, and caused all manner of havoc. Storefronts were smashed, people were robbed, cars had accidents…
At dusk I ventured out to check the status of Place Florence, and found it empty. The protestors had gone home, leaving only discarded signs bearing the King’s face and pleas for distribution of authority.

Monday 21 February
I taught Physics this morning, and the lesson was one of those that makes you feel like a gymnast on the uneven bars who just stuck the greatest ten-point landing. Not the kind of lesson with spontaneous teachable moments, or the kind that revealed to the students the true wonders of the world, but a lesson that was solidly, to-the-letter, according to plan. We were studying changes in states of matter and the energy transfers associated with various changes, and the demonstration of regelation that was set up in the beginning of the period successfully fell through the ice block at the perfect moment, 50 minutes into the period. The room was cold enough that breathing on the individual mirrors was a perceptible display of condensation releasing energy, and the internet worked well enough to load the youtube video of the Triple-Point of water.
When the bell rang, perfectly after homework was assigned, we stepped out of the room into chaos. Let me explain: my physics class is at the back of the building. It is a fortress. During our highly structured science time, the rest of the school had apparently been going mad with panic. Someone started an unverifiable rumor that the American School of Marraksh had been attacked, and students were refusing reason. They were scared, and so they were rebelling, refusing to come to class, yelling, or leaving. Some called their parents, others just walked out. In the interest of their mental safety (and, ok, their physical safety, too, just on the off-chance that something happened) we closed school for the rest of the afternoon and the following day.

I stopped at the big grocery store on the way home to get some lab supplies, and then looked for a taxi back to my apartment. I opened the door of the first taxi who pulled over for me, and he looked back, peering at me under my hairscarf. “You are not Moroccan,” he stated. I tried to dodge the accusation by telling him that I live here, and asked him to take me to La Gare. “50 dirhams!” he cried. I tried to answer calmly. “I live there, I know it’s only 6 dirhams from here.” He would have none of it. “50 dirhams for you, because you are not Moroccan.” I got out of the taxi.

The next driver also asked where I was from, before I entered the taxi. Since he was less abrasive, I told him, but that merited me the flat-out refusal of a ride. As I was waiting on a taxi who would stoop to carrying an American, a boy ran up to me. “Look out, Madam! You are not Moroccan, and there are men with knives out who are looking for you!” I found a taxi shortly thereafter and decided not to stick around to find out if he was telling the truth.

Tuesday 22 February
No school today. The founder posted on the school closing early yesterday on her facebook status, and received about 100 comments in total, mostly from scared students, and some from concerned parents. Because of the panicked atmosphere, the administration decided it would be better to play it safe and stay home today. The founders had a barbecue at their house, which many teachers and even a few students attended. It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm and peaceful. It would have been a perfect Jersey Shore day.
We return to school tomorrow, rested and at peace.

Wednesday, 23 February
Back in school. I am glad to be back, and so are the students. Our school is a haven; for many of the students, and also for me, it is a place of comfort and refuge. It may be my workplace, but it is also a place I feel at home, my fortress.

I hear there were a few ruffians out yesterday on the outskirts of town, but I witnessed none of it myself. In other cities, there is some further unrest, but Fes, the city of tradition, returns to the way it has always been.

Eid M'loud

Somehow, this vacation has been more restful than most. It came at a time when it was very needed. The winter lull has affected everyone at the school, students and teachers alike. Between the rain, report cards, seniors working on college applications, and the continual flow of lessons, homework, and tests, the students all needed a chance to re-energize.

I had the chance to spend a long day with Amina, go with her to the al-S'boua3, the celebration a family has for a new baby, for her neighbor (the baby's grandmother), spend a day showing off Fes for two sweet Polish university students who stayed with me, and train to Rabat with one of Amicitia's new volunteers to take photos of the ruins of Challah and the blue medina. I spent the train ride in the door, watching the countryside fly by, and was determined to swim in the ocean, despite the cold.

The cold was not the greatest deterrant from the ocean paddle. The afternoon sun was thin through the winter clouds, but a greater threat was the ocean itself, still caught in the throes of the recent rainstorms. The waves crashing against the shoreline were nothing but fear-inspiring. As tall as buildings, they came from both diagonals, ripping through each other like a pack of dogs fighting over nothing, for sheer bloodthirsty instinct. The waves were large enough to hide mountainous rock features on the beach, revealing them in the trough of the waves like knives. Though it was daylight, the water seemed to suck up the sunlight and reflect back nothing. I have never seen an ocean so murderous and powerful.

Once, while backpacking in the Sierra's with Dad and Rachel, we were hit by a lightening storm on our way down a mountain. Isolated in the rock field, we had no cover and no protection from the storm. Watching the immense storm surrounding us, I saw for the first time that Nature could kill me.

In Rabat this week, the children playing between the concrete barriers on the beach and the lighthouse foundation ran past yelling, 'les vagues tuees! les vagues tuees!" The killer waves. Standing in my sweater and swim-pants with the water ripping past my ankles, I felt that power a second time. Those waves would have killed me. It was so beautiful.

The train on the way back to Fes was standing room only - I stood in the little aisle by the compartments with some students and an American tourist couple, chatting until we got to my city. I visited Candace and Suzanne, and finished some lesson planning for school. I am excited for school to start again, with new plans for classes to inspire learning and curiosity, and fresh patience and love for the students that I care so much for.

Saffron-Coloured Glasses

In times of challenge, we grow. When presented with obstacles, our determination is sharpened. When faced with adversity, we find strength we never knew we had.

I have never been more thankful to be home. The first week back at school passed with little difficulty - an unanticipated treasure, as all teachers can verify. Somehow the rooms full of students accustomed to sleeping late, eating snacks consistently all day, and tackling intellectual challenges no more difficult than composing a decent argument to get your neighbor to give back the soccer ball, quietly re-focused themselves on their studies.

I am thankful for my students this week, and the honesty and kindness they show.

The Algebra class greatly enjoyed a game that I borrowed from the fourth grade teacher, "Stump the Chump." Although none of the groups managed to make an equation that I couldn't solve, they participated enthusiastically, and there was some creative number manipulation devised. The three physics students who entered my class halfway through the year are catching up, and at least catching on to the necessary basics, a good start for now. They showed significant respect for lab equipment and sharing with each other in a Hooke's Law Spring Constant Calculation Lab. In equation-of-the-day news, the 7th grade has now defeated the 12th grade *twice* in the number of valid equations discovered on any one day! They have gotten very creative!

A few groups of foreign guests came through this weekend, and I really enjoyed dancing until after midnight with the folk dancers who stayed at my apartment - sunny young girls who spoke eloquently floral French.

Guests always indicate medina tours, and never fail to bring some small adventure to the day! The weekend was sunny and warm. Though I worry for what the spring will yield with the absence of the month-long rain we should be experiencing now, I must admit to fully enjoying the sunshine that melts over every ancient wall and street. The noise and bustle of the medina just glows brighter today, and the warm sunshine matches the warmth in the smiles of familiar faces along the streets.

I met one traveler near the main gate in the medina; I knew he was waiting a few minutes, but the area is interesting to the point of sensory overload. When I approached, I could pick him out immediately: shorts, backpack, overwhelmed facial expression. At least he wasn't alone; the waiter at a nearby restaurant was speaking quickly with him, holding up several menus, trying to convince the poor man that he REALLY REALLY did want to eat lunch now, because at this restaurant he would get the family price. I have seen this man say the same thing to every tourist for the last year, although we have never actually had a conversation ourselves. When I approached to rescue this traveler, the waiter responded joyously, "Oh you are with her! I known her since longtime! She is very good, very good guide. She is like my sister, I know her! Well, I never talk to her, but I see her all times! Since longtime I see her!" I was too busy trying not to laugh to even respond.

Being here makes me take joy in life again, and I grow stronger for it.

Read This With An English Accent

First impression of London: cold. As I de-planed, I found my Moroccan slippers entirely submerged in the snow. Also my hands, as I had to make snowballs to defend myself from the Brazillian peace corps volunteers I had flown with, and a full-on snowball fight broke out on the tarmac.

Second impression of London: big. Though my airport is supposedly 'in' London, the train still took about an hour to reach center city. I chatted with a friendly Londoner on the ride, and she burst out laughing after my first sentence. She spent the next hour trying to teach me to soften my apparently terrible American accent. Once in center-city, I thought it would be easy to find the family I was to stay with. In my city, I can walk from one side to another given about an hour and a half. Not in London! The underground had stopped running, so I ended up on a bus to another station. Still not there, I then had a half hour rail ride before I reached, not even to a place I could walk from, but to an area where my host could retrieve me in a car!

Third impression of London: pedestrian-friendly. Despite its absolute massiveness, once I learned my way about, the underground and rail lines actually proved quite kind. Busses, however, remained a success only when travelling with locals.

I stayed 4 days more than planned in London, and I feel I hit all the important tourist sites. However, I do recognize that said claim opens me up to a barrage of 'did you see this?' and 'did you do that?' so allow me a list before I elaborate.

What I did in London:

Natural History Museum
Science Museum
Telephone Box
Ice Skating Rink
Hampton Court
Westminster Abby
Big Ben
Buckingham Palace
King's Cross Station
London Bridge
Shakespeare's Globe
Southwark Bridge and Cathedral
Tower Bridge
Clapham Common Park
London Eye (big ferris wheel)
St Paul's Cathedral (went to evensong service)
London Zoo
Regents Park
Epsom Downs Raceway

And many nights of salsa dancing!

The family I stayed with, a mum with 3 grown kids, one with his own daughter of 4 years, was so generous and hospitable with me. They live in one of the 'sub-cities' of London, so I got a bit of the cozy town experience as well, on nights when I wasn't salsa dancing.

I also got to drive a London black cab! Only took about a minute for me to come out of a roundabout on the right side - I mean, the *wrong* side - of the road, and for the family's son to realize that it was probably a bad plan to let the American/Moroccan at the wheel. I really couldn't get used to getting into the left door of the car, during the course of the entire week and a half, that threw me off.

Two days before Christmas, I took the bus to Leicester to meet Evan and Nic, friends from uni that I haven't seen in far too long. Nic's family lives in Leicester, and she also has extended family in Ilkley moors, in the north. Evan and I trained to Ilkley to meet them the following day, since the car was full, and had a very picturesque afternoon walking around the cute little snowy town!

Simon and Wendy's house is perched on the hillside looking down into the bowl of the town of Ilkley, built like an oceanfront beach house, but lost on a mountaintop. Wendy told me that, after looking at the house, they just knew it was the right one. However, when asked to describe it later, they couldn't recall a single detail about the structure itself - only the view.

We ate heavy English food, all deliciously savory, and Nic's little sister Alice educated me in the ways of the English. Christmas presents were opened in a frantic mass of chaos, with all 11 people diving simultaneously under the tree and tearing wrapping paper right and left. Since this didn't take very long, we all went for an afternoon walk. Alice informed me that a proper English hike must involve walking to a pub, so we drove off to the next hillside where we could stroll among the mountains and cliffs on our way to a pub that looked like the wicked witch of the west had just dropped it out of a tornado in the middle of nowhere. The snow on the ground was soft powder, and we all slipped and slid along the semi-treaturous terrain with all the other English people who had the same idea of this particular hillside hike/pub.

Our hike was in vain, as the pub was not open, and we were left to enjoy only the beautiful views off the rocky cliff, and the snowy countryside, and shuffle back to the car before our feet froze to the ground.

The day after Christmas is Boxing day, and it is a National Bank Holiday in England. This means that nobody does anything, maybe even more so than on Christmas day. I was due to fly back to Fes on Boxing day. Listen to how well-planned this was: I had a coach that left me 4 hours in London before my flight. During that 4 hours, I was to take the Underground, if it was running, or a citybus, if not, to the rail station where I could catch the Express Rail service to the airport and arrive in plenty of time.

Well. The coach was about an hour late ariving in London. The Underground was, of course, not running. The bus was somehow not going to the right place, to I ended up in a cab to the rail, where I discovered that the rail service was on strike. I resigned. Surely four more days in London wouldn't be the end of the world.

It was an absolutely lovely time.

I got back to some tourist attractions I hadn't seen the first time, and eventually met up with Tracey and the same family I had stayed with before, who once again offered me their generous hospitality! By the last day, I actually felt I could navigate my way through the city fairly effectively, most of my navigation centering either around the Victoria Rail Station, or the salsa club by Tottenham Court. London is a late-night city, and I enjoyed taking advantage of the activity!

When it was finally time to fly home, I must admit to feeling some sense of loss at leaving London and the English culture and people. Arriving in London felt so very foreign, but it must be reasonably close to America, because it felt comfortable by the time I left. I boarded the plane, dragging my feet ever so slightly, ready to sit silently in my seat and just sleep so I wouldn't have to watch the city dissapear out from under me.

I immediately encountered a tiff between an older Moroccan gentleman and a flight attendant in need of a translator, and was able to help. In the first few rows, I saw Sue and Larry, who had also been on my flight TO London, and greeted them. I shuffled back through the aisle, searching for a seat, and saw a space next to a familiar voice in a red coat: my school's fourth grade teacher, Kirsten, who grew up in Saudi and was on her way back from her family's house in Scotland! My spirits rose so much in that five minutes of getting on the plane; it felt like being personally welcomed back to Fes, the city of a million people, where you can't walk down the main street, or even get on an airplane, without meeting someone you know.

My mood continued to lift as I talked with Kirsten on the flight home, just to remember the amazing people that I had left in my city. Fes, it seems, just attracts exceptional people, and I am so thankful for the friends that I have here. I like coming home to a place where the system is familiar. I feel I belong in Fes.

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!