Datura trees: the fragrant flowers hang above like long white bells.

Hedges of Hibiscus: red and pink tropical blooms debut within iron and foliage.

 The Kasbah: winding blue walls. Climb up on a roof and you can see your neighbors’ or colorful boats on the river below.

The flower market: the merchants call, “mademoiselle!”  When they clean up at night, they sweep away piles of clippings of greenery and broken roses.

Medina Market: carts with pomegranates, avocados, grapes, old scales with weights, baskets and blankets, pirated DVDs, beggars.

The Atlantic by night: quiet white waves, hit ancient rocks. The constant sea next to a changing city.

The Café: silver tea pot for one or two.  green tea pours slowly from up high and splatters into a small glass containing a sprig of fresh mint. clika clagka glug glip! A porcelain cup with white froth swirled with fine trails of espresso. Coke and cigarettes and chatter.

La Boulangerie: smells like warmth. Crusty loaves, crumbly tarts, artful sweets. Almost always open for the neighborhood’s demand.

I went to a café one evening with Hassan and one of his good friends who is studying to be an engineer in Malaga, Spain. Our conversation was a mix of Spanish, French, English and Arabic. Alae asked me if I found Islam to be strange. I told him that on the contrary, sometimes I feel I have more in common with Muslims than post-modern, agnostics, atheist or simply religiously apathetic fellow westerners. Indeed, Muslims and Christians share many morals and family values, not to mention of course, faith in God as Creator. I think my answer surprised him. The conversation digressed to conspiracy theories about 9/11 and “did the USA really land on the moon?” After a few hours of tea and talk, we went to leave the garden terrace café. Near the gate, I saw in the corner of the blooming bushes, the tiniest blue-eyed kitten crouching on the ground quivering. There are a lot of feral cats in Morocco, and generally, touching them is discouraged. Cats are often regarded as pests not pets. Seeing that I was enamored with the poor thing, Hassan asked the café owner if I could take the cat; He who gladly gave it up. He was so small he fit in my hand.

Now Turia doesn’t like animals; she let Yassine have some garden turtles but that was the limit. I came into the house and went directly downstairs to put the tiny cat in the backyard. The family mostly lives on the second floor so I could do this without them seeing it. The next day, I gave him two baths. He was filthy. After he was dry and not so dirty, he began to purr like a motor. I named him Helela, which is the name of the city flower of Kenitra. It is also the town’s sports team emblems; players are nicknamed “helela boys”. To get him to my new apartment, I dropped him off at the ALC in Kenitra where Ikram, friend and ALC secretary, volunteered to cat-sit him in the meantime. I moved to my apartment on Sunday and made and extra trip back to Kenitra on Monday to retrieve my new flat mate.

 …

About three weeks after moving into my new apartment, I heard some noise outside my window, where there is a walled-in plot with a few stray cacti, a single stalked bright orange tri-floral blossom of something subtropical, some ivy and lots of weeds. When I looked out the window there were men depositing wooden skids, logs (which are used as scaffolding here) and other random building supplies in my “backyard”. When I inquired as to what they were doing there at 10pm, they said it was just temporary storage and that they’d remove it soon. That last word should not be taken literally in Morocco. They asked if they were bothering me. (Yes, in fact it sounds like there was a construction crew in my bathroom). They said they would finish up. The next day, after a series of unsuccessful errands, I returned to my studio to “bang bang bang”. When I looked out the window, there was a man there again. I asked less politely what he was doing there. He asked if he was bothering me. I said, “iyeh”. He left. I took a shower and tried to relax after a morning of failure to get things done (accept blowing off a crook, that I did well). Di-dong (the first timbre is not quite long enough to be “ding); It was Hachemi, the building manager. He informed me that the man I had asked to leave was “building a garden” and could he resume work?. I sighed and resigned resistance, “ok”. I made \ him a glass (we use glasses here) of tea and he cheerfully explained that he was building a ramp between my window and the rusty-clay dirt with the wooden skids on which he would plant some succulents. This said ramp would be the vehicle for freedom and demise of my feline companion.

 …

Helela, who previously had not dared to jump out the window for the 6 foot drop, now had a bridge to a bit of nature. He pranced around in the dirt, pleased with his own mini jungle. One day, Helela jumped out the window and met with an intruder. I heard his high pitched kitten yowl, and ran to the window. There was a large gray alley cat, easily 4 times Helela’s size on the defense. Finally, the gray one attacked, Helela yelped (my neighbors across the street looking out the window to identify the source of the racket) and the two cats disappeared. In a panic, I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt ( I was in my PJs at the time a) because I worked the afternoon/evening and b) I was feeling the beginnings of what would later prove to be food poisoning). I left the building and rushed around the block to look for my furry friend. Walo (nothing). I looked for Hashemi; I didn’t have the keys to the “garden”. He came with me, opened the back door, but Helela wasn’t there. I saw the vents to the garage and guessed that the alley cat had entered that way and that Helela might have escaped though there as well. I asked Hashemi to open the garage for me. In the garage, behind a tire, shaking and covered with the dust-dirt of the floor crouched my tiny, terrified, aqua-eyed pet. He was so scared I think he soiled himself. More than relieved I scooped him up. An acquaintance of Hashemi said something to the effect of “you’re going to get your jacket dirty”. I didn’t care. I took him inside and gave him a bath. Later I thought of Jesus;

Luke 15

One day when many tax collectors and other outcasts came to listen to Jesus, the Pharisees and the teachers of the Law started grumbling, “This man welcomes outcasts and even eats with them!” So Jesus told this parable; “Suppose one of you has 100 sheep and loses one of them; what does he do? He leaves the other 99 to look for the one that got lost until he finds it. When he finds it he is so happy that he puts it on his shoulders and carries it until he gets home where he calls all his friends and neighbors and says, “let’s celebrate, I’ve found my sheep!”

Jesus doesn’t care if we are dirty and scared shitless. He scoops us up and rejoices in our safety.

…..

Helela recovered from this first attack but unfortunately this story does not have a happy ending. A few weeks later, he had a second encounter with the gray alley cat. This time he hopped back into the window, shaken up but seemingly ok. When I rinsed of the clay mud, he was bleeding through his soft white coat. I bundled him in a towel and shut the window and then I had to leave for work. When I returned he was lethargic. In the days that followed he stopped eating. I took him the vet who gave him a shot of vitamins and some antibiotics. Despite this treatment and nursing him milk through a syringe, three days later, he died.

Upon hearing the news my friends came with condolences and the ingredients to make dinner. Hashemi showed me another alley cat that was nursing new kittens in a cardboard box upstairs. He had rescued them from an early morning downpour when they were seeking refuge on the building’s steps. He told me I could take one. Maybe I’ll take one of the calicos after they get a bit bigger.

While I looked for a place in Rabat, I had the wonderful fortune of staying with my host family, the Qaddis. Not only I did I get the pleasure of sharing Ramadan with a Moroccan family and the comfort of staying somewhere familiar, but their son Hamza was also looking for an apartment. Hamza is in training to be an engineer. In Morocco this means two highly rigorous years of mostly math after the Baccalaureate or one’s final year in high school. These two years are called “école prépa “or problematically translated “prep school”. Lycée Moulay Youssef next to the Grande Mosque in Rabat is one of the most prestigious high schools where one can enter engineering “école prépa”. Ordinarily, students who attend Lycée Moulay Youssef, but do not live in Rabat (ie. Hamza; Kenitra is a ½ hour away) stay at the campus’ boarding house but this semester it is under construction so roughly 500 students are running around downtown Rabat trying to find temporary housing…just like me.

 Day One:

Hassan accompanies me to Rabat and when we arrive he calls a cousin who has a car. Hamza has given me some contacts so I start calling people and passing the phone to either Hassan or his cousin who negotiate in Arabic. The first place we look at is in a charming mechanic neighborhood. Who decided that all the garages should be on 2-3 streets? Anyway, it is a tiny furnished apartment but it is too expensive and we leave. There is some confusion (because most everything is done in Arabic and somewhat translated to me post-facto in either English or French) and I miss an appointment but I’m told it doesn’t matter. We call Hamza and meet him at his school. We go to the Medina where he had previously seen a room. Hassan, cousin and Hamza are not encouraging about living in the old city, they don’t think it’s safe. I sort of think it’s nice to live in the souq (bazaar) but I’m getting second thoughts from the protective big brother vibes of my male Moroccan companions. After several knocks on an iron-clad wooden door, a young boy answers it and we sit in a main room with beautiful tiled walls and shafts of natural light cascading from above. Hassan wants me to talk to the boy in Darija. I say my name and how old I am. After this I am somewhat at a loss. His cousin says something in Arabic like, “this is not a school; we don’t have to do this now”. The owner, the boy’s mother, comes in and introduces herself in Arabic and some English. There was a story about her knowing the British royal family that I did not completely understand but there was a picture of her with the Queen in one of the rooms and mention of the royal family’s fondness of her baking. Unfortunately, we couldn’t see the room that would soon be for rent as the present tenant, a French guy engaged to a Moroccan girl, had just gone out for the day. I tried on three other occasions to see the room with little success. I even left my number so as to arrange a meeting but the Moroccan fiancée threw it away out of potential jealousy. Oh my. Fruitless we return home to Kenitra. Taking my seat on the train, in a two-seats-facing-two-seats set up, I awkwardly but slightly bump a male passenger who is reading a newspaper and not paying attention. He gives me a dirty look. Hassan sits down next to me. The jerk across from Hassan continues to look at me scornfully. I begin to cry. Hassan looks worried and tries to comfort me as I explain that I’m just overwhelmed and exhausted, trying not to speak too loudly in the smothering silence of the commuter train. The passenger across from Hassan eventually gets up and leaves. I am relieved.

Day two:

 The next day, I decide to venture out on my own, calling one of Hamza’s contacts who is a “smsar” or a Moroccan real-estate agent. The deal with the “smsar” is that they show you apartments and if you rent one, you own them an equal sum to your first month’s rent. This was all explained to me by Hamza, Turia and the smsar. The smsar (Noureddine) came about and hour late but then proceeded to show me four different furnished one room apartments in the neighborhood near the American Language Center. At one point I thought about the fact that I was in a car with a stranger and then I changed the mental topic. He seemed eager to make a deal and I felt like he wanted me to make a decision that day about whether to rent one of the places he showed me. I told him I would have to think about it and consult my family. Later I wanted to express interest in one of the flats but I was not ready to make a commitment after only two days of looking. Hassan talked to the smsar in Arabic and arranged a meeting for me but I had to pay 500 dh ($60) to keep the spot open. On the day of the meeting, I also met a friend from Rabat who advised me to cancel the meeting and keep looking, which I did because I was feeling pressured.

Day three, four, five, six…

 After some fruitless internet searches and phone calls, Hamza sent me a text message with the number a new smsar, Noufal. I contacted him and set up a new meeting. He showed me an apartment that was totally trashed and chock-full of stuff. The present tenant looked like a Moroccan Rastafarian. Then Rachid, the Rabati who could be Bob Marley’s cousin, tried to explain to me something in English which was incredibly hard to understand. After a strange mix of English, French, and Arabic from everyone involved, I understood that he wanted to sublet because his business (paintings and furniture shop in the medina) wasn’t doing so well, but he didn’t want his neighbors to know because he was embarrassed at his economic misfortune. Once this became clear it was less scary sounding than the initial, “don’t tell anyone you live here” however, it proved to not be a possible option, seeing as I need legal documentation proving my Moroccan domicile. Then next day, I went to the ALC to seek advice and maybe a lead. It was there that I was referred back to Gary, my supervisor in Kenitra who told me I couldn’t sublet and get a working visa. Hal (my new boss) then suggested I talk to Mustafa. I didn’t know who Mustafa was but I went downstairs and asked for him. Mohammed, a teacher who teaches English through computer literacy volunteered to check out a building near the center. We walked up a block where he asked the concierge about any available apartments. Negative. We returned to the ALC where we bumped into Mustafa and three other new teachers. First things first of course, we had lunch. After lunch we looked at two apartments for Kathy and Erica, two new teachers. The second one on their second day in Rabat ended up being the place they rented. The Noufal (the 2nd smsar) called me again to say he found a new place for me to look at. I went with him and told them I would think about it (to save face, since I already knew the answer was no) and went back to Kenitra to have Ftour. I went back the next day hearing that Mustafa had shown Jennifer (another teacher) a place which I had seen already. Mustafa said he could further negotiate the rent for me. We went to a familiar building where Mustafa tried to negotiate but he got upset and told me it was too expensive. The place was a nicely furnished one room apartment for 4,000 dirhams. Afterwards we went to see an unfurnished small 2 room apartment with a dirty floor, broken window, and some major plumbing problems for 3,000; the latter was sounding pretty ok. Noufal called me again to say he found the best (oh course) yet. This last one was the 4th (one doesn’t count the ground floor so aka 5th ) floor with no elevator. The kitchen and bathroom sort of scared me and the décor made me (and Jennifer who went along for the ride) want to leave. The only draw was the terrace. There was a nice tiled terrace with pots of plants and a roof-like view. Again I had to decide asap. I made a pros and cons list. The apartment for 4, 000 was clean and nicely furnished. It would be comfortable for cooking and guests. The only pro to the other one was the terrace; everything else was a deterrent. After commuting to and from Rabat everyday for a week, I was ready to move in. Mustafa, Jennifer and I went back to the 4, 000dh apartment. The syndic (building manager, sort of a middle man between tenants, owners and everyone else) showed us in and everything seemed to be going well and then he asked for some money. I turned to Mustafa and asked him how much I should give. He said he wouldn’t pay anything. This didn’t seem to be an option. Mustafa told me to pay what I thought was reasonable. I told him I had now idea what was reasonable. Mustafa suggested 250 drhs. The syndic, “Hashemi” didn’t accept the money. Mustafa started to get mad, then Hashemi mentioned the smsar (who had previously showed me the place). Musafa argued that he was my smsar now, and that he was doing a better job and for free. Hashemi called Noureddine who came over. The three Moroccan men argued for at least an hour and we settled on paying Noureddine 1000 drh. Kathy and Erica who had stopped by earlier observed that even when the men were in the middle of their disagreement, Hashemi got up and got Mustafa a glass of water. So finally I have my own apartment. It is a ten minute walk from work and a block from Rabat’s flower market in Place Pietré. Please see movie link posted below.

 

Since Muslims follow a lunar calendar, Ramadan does not always occur in September, but it did this year so when I arrived in (returned to) Morocco, it was still Ramadan.

Ramadan is a month of fasting in Islam and represents the forth pillar (of 5) “Sawm”. There is an alimentary fast as well as a general abstinence from all things “haram” (“forbidden” ie sin, vices, etc). Some forgo all pleasures, as far as not smelling a flower, although that is rather extreme. In general, one fasts from sunrise to sunset. During Ramadan, eating in public (during the daytime hours) is against the law for Moroccans and it is considered rude and disrespectful for anyone else to. There was a group of youth and a reporter who staged a picnic during Ramadan in Mohammedia as a sort of human rights protest; they were arrested. My Ramadan experience was not that dramatic, in fact I quite enjoyed it.

When one thinks of fasting, one usually connotes a sober spiritual exercise associated with solitude and reflection. Ramadan does not necessarily exclude these but there is an unexpected celebratory side. At sunset, families break fast (yes, breakfast) together. “Ftour” is composed of dates, figs, hot milky coffee, and various crêpe like breads, hard boiled eggs with cumin and salt, Harira (a tomato based soup with lentils and chickpeas) and chebekia ( a sticky sesame sweet). I was very happy to be considered one of the family at the Qaddi home and to have the opportunity to share Ftour with them.

 After Ftour, people might nap a bit (or watch Nile Satellite TV…aka Egyptian soaps, which remind me of Telemundo or Univision, accept that women are dressed modestly and no one kisses) then they go out to the cafes or mehlabas (dairies) which are extraordinarily open late. Many cafés and restaurants use Ramadan to get renovations done, as no one can eat there during the day. When I first arrived in Mohammed V airport in Casablanca, people were seated in the cafes, looking rather miserable, drinking and eating nothing. Traveling is an acceptable excuse to break fast but you’d have to make up for it by fasting that day outside of Ramadan. Anyway, around 8 pm people start going out and they stay out until around midnight. I was able to stay out late with Hassan and his friends nearly every night of Ramadan; I thoroughly enjoyed it as this is not usually the case. Another pleasant surprise was that I wasn’t getting cat calls. Apparently this falls under vices or perhaps a pleasure to abstain from but in either case, men are not supposed to hit on women during Ramadan. After an evening stroll and tea or coffee out with your friends, one typically returns home to enjoy a second meal between 1 and 3 am. Again, I was surprised to find that Moroccans eat a fairly substantial meal (Tajine, roast chicken, etc) several hours after Ftour. Some cynical expatriates like to highlight the fact that weight gain is a problem during and after Ramadan. Because I was often in the presence of Moroccans or in public during the day, I ended up fasting too. Hassan and Turia where surprised to find out that I skipped lunch but I did not find it difficult because I had eaten sufficiently the night before.

March 6th

For the past month or so my laptop has not been working consistently; at times the battery would run out immediately, other times it didn’t detect the power input at all. Finally, I decided to get it looked at because I need it for my internship tasks and it is easier for me get it repaired here in Kenitra than in Brattleboro. I considered my lack of car in Brattleboro and about how the Radio Shack guys there couldn’t even direct me to a place to fix my mp3 player. Moroccans can fix anything, and if the person you consult can’t personally, he will usually recommend friends who can: my cell phone case in point.
On Monday, Yassine (the teacher, my peer) went along with me to show me a reliable computer store. The sales representative did a brief diagnosis and concluded that it was a charger problem. She told me that a technician would have to confirm and then the store would call me. I left my cell phone number and my laptop. No one called me Tuesday; I went to the store. The sale woman told me that she had trouble contacting me (parfois le reseau Meditel est saturé). She told me that indeed, it seemed to be charger problem so they would have to get a new one from Rabat. She said it may be ready on Wednesday.
She called me at noon to say that she would try to get the part by 16hoo. I asked if I could come by at 17hoo. Wakha. (ok).
Later that afternoon, Melissa asked if me if I was going to the computer store with Hassan. “Why?” I said overconfidently. I am independent; I don’t need a man to help me. Back at school, for some reason, despite my feminist hubris, I invited Hassan to come along.
Hassan walked with me down the street. It was drizzling; Hassan said it was raining cats and dogs. He asked me if I wanted to duck under an awning to wait it out. The computer store was only a few blocks away, “I’m on a mission”. I told him. He respected my fortitude and we pressed on.
At the computer store, the sale representative told me that regrettably she could not find the charger that matched my computer and that she’d have to order it from an outside supplier. She said “two days’. I decided to be explicit; “Je pars definitivement du Maroc le dimanche” (I am leaving Morocco on Sunday). She then saw that it would not be possible. We thanked her and left. Hassan told me not to worry; he has some friends, but he suggested we check out another store about two doors down.
The woman behind the desk at this second store proposed a universal adapter; it works with all voltages and includes removable input/output pieces for several types of laptops. We tried it out. It worked. I was glad I conceded to Hassan’s accompaniment.
It was still rainy. Hassan invited me for coffee. I had a café au lait; I made coffee swirls in my froth. Hassan ordered hot chocolate and sprinkled the sugar on top, watching the crystals pop the milk bubbles. The men behind us were watching a show on the Animal Channel about cobras in Egypt. I told Hassan that I had heard that the snake charmers in Marrakech use snakes whose fangs have been removed. Hassan said it was true. He asked me about my plans. I told him about my class parties, my flight itinerary, and my three months in Vermont, “Mom might come to visit me the 27th of March”. Hassan suddenly looked sober and said, “Be careful, don’t forget us”. I stopped. It was as if he saw me picking up my life where I had left it unchanged, resuming grad school and even making plans for family visits in a place that is so far and so different that it is hard to imagine. I felt my eyes become glassy. “I won’t”.

February 25^th

 

After class one of my students from my primarily adult low-beginning class approached me and said she’d like to invite me over to her house for lunch. Honestly, I was a little surprised; I had the impression she didn’t like my class.

She met me at the courthouse which was just up the street from our basement apartment. In a large, black SUV fit for the CIA, she was wearing pink candy-cane polar bear pajamas and her feet barely reached the gas petals. She told me we’d go pick up her sister in-law.         

We entered a neighborhood I had never seen in Kenitra. She drove the all-terrain vehicle through a maze of tiny winding residential streets and an outdoor market before stopping outside the house where apparently her relatives lived. She greeted people as they walked past her car. Then her sister-in-law came out with her daughter, a small toddler. We drove back to my student’s house. Soon after, my student’s mother arrived. Once we were in the house, since we were all women, the mother and the sister-in-law took off their hijabs and djellabas. I felt very privileged to be invited into such an intimate circle of women.

We had a delicious (no surprise there) lunch of roasted chicken stuffed with Ebly and shrimp. Her mother told me they would teach me how to make the roasted-pepper/eggplant salad. Rachel Ray was on the television on the background. The women paid her half of their attention, between discussions of another sister who was going to have a baby soon and might come home from abroad to have it. I was told several times to eat more although I felt as though I had eaten the most and couldn’t really continue being comfortable if I did. “You haven’t eaten anything!” my student told me.

I tried to help clear the table a bit which was somewhat appreciated but then my student’s mother began showing me some photo albums and telling me stories in French and English when she could. I asked her where she learned her English; “in grade school” she told me triumphantly. It was quite good I had to admit. Better than my Arabic for sure. She laughed.

We all piled back into the large black spy-mobile to go to the beach. At Mehdiya, there were lots of people on the beach enjoying the afternoon. The ladies unpacked a picnic of various snacks and hot milky coffee in a thermos. I almost couldn’t believe it; so much food!

At one point I asked how my student met her husband; she was married and had a pre-school aged daughter.  She sort of shrugged her shoulders and said they had met at a store and “things worked out”. It sounded like a marriage of convenience and maybe even money but not love, at least not initially.

The women I was with quietly scoffed at some teenaged girls, who where hanging on their adolescent boyfriends; “youth these days, tsk tsk”.

It was time to go pick up my student’s daughter so after a few pictures we went back to Kenitra Ville.

My student told me I was welcome anytime at her house and that I didn’t live far. She dropped me off at school before my evening class and her sister-in-law and mother warmly waved goodbye.

 

Later on that evening, I was saddened. Not by anything specifically that had happened that afternoon, but by the fact that the two-month mark had come and would soon go. I wouldn’t really be able to go and visit her house again and I wouldn’t really be able to get to know her. After two months in a country or a new place, you begin to settle in. You begin to appreciate the things you didn’t notice or understand before. You start growing meaningful relationships. The idea of leaving in a few weeks felt like an unnatural break in my adaptation to this new life. Another life, stunted or stopped mid-growth. I have had lots of lives, each life in a different place with different people; New York, Wake Forest, France, Spain, Raleigh, Greensboro, SIT, and now Morocco. I know the blessings they have brought me and I know I have been enriched by these encounters but that night, as Melissa tried to comfort my sudden tears, I felt like my life was nowhere because it was everywhere.

February 21st -23rd

With our internship’s end rapidly approaching, Melissa and I decided to take a weekend to visit Marrakech, UNESCO world heritage site and international tourist destination. Marrakech is approximately 5 hours from Kenitra and to make the trip worth it we would have to catch the train right after our Saturday afternoon classes and come back right before our Monday evening ones. “Now or never”, we decided.

We arrived in Marrakech around 11pm. We noticed at how nice the train station was. The taxi driver tried to over charge us. We paid half of what he initially asked for. When we got to the Hostelling International hostel, it was dark. We knocked at the locked iron gate. The inn keeper eventually emerged and let us in. He opened the check-in office which was basically a closet under a staircase. He asked for our passports. Between the haste at which we packed and left Kenitra and the fact that we were basically living there, the thought that we would need our passports escaped us. We weren’t “passing any ports”. Opps. After about 45 minutes of unsuccessful negotiation, the inn keeper (who probably now thinks all American tourists are stupid) suggested we consult the national police that would be standing guard in front of the French Embassy.

Luckily the embassy was only about a block from the hostel in a pretty safe neighborhood, which is good because it was now midnight. We walked to the embassy were there were two Moroccan national policeman. I explained the situation to them in French. The two conferred with each other in Darija then back to me in French. Melissa listened in suspense. They told us that we had two options; option 1: one of the policemen could try to negotiate with the inn keeper, this had a 50% chance of working; option 2: try to find a résidence (an apartment building with vacancies) to stay in that wouldn’t care about ID but would cost considerably more. The policeman that volunteered to renegotiate with the inn keeper also threw in a bonus option: staying at his house. We decided to try the other two options first.
Back at the hostel, the inn keeper re-emerged, this time in pajamas (Arabic word) and slippers. He was not happy. The policeman went with him to the check in office-closet. They left us to wait outside. When they came back out it was apparent that nothing could be done so we pursued plan B.

It was now nearly 1am and we went to the résidence next to the embassy. The night guard woke up Ishmael, the resident night manager. He was a handsome young man even with his sleepy eyes and while he seemed slightly incredulous about the whole situation, he let us stay despite our lack of official ID. We were so relieved. The policeman offered his house to us again, saying we would be like sisters. We stayed in the residence.

The next day, I went out to get some breakfast foods. I asked one of the maids in my simple Darija if there was a “hanout” anywhere near by. She said yes and indicated that is was around the corner. I found the hanout, got my goods (the proprietors seemed surprised to see me, perhaps because I appeared to be a tourist doing local things), and ran into Ishmael on my way back in. He smiled and asked me why I didn’t have any bread. I bought eggs. He got me a pot to boil them in.

After breakfast, Melissa and I asked Ishmael what was the best way to get to the old medina. He said it was a lovely walk. “I walk there all the time. Plus you can see the Atlas Mountains”. Ok, so we walked there.

Walking down Mohammed V, it was evident that lots of tourists’ “euro-dollars” as Paul Simon says, were spent there. The broad boulevard was beautifully kept with flowers and light posts.

We walked through the park towards the Koutoubia Mineret, which is the oldest of the three great Almohad towers (The Hassan Tower in Rabat & La Giralda in Seville…so I’ve seen all three!). After some pictures we walked to the Djemaa el Fna..  M. Quaddi told me that “Marrakech” means “go through fast” or “don’t stay long” in Berber/Amazig because historically it was trading hub with lots of thieves. The fact that it was a cross-roads, however, made it the cultural icon that it is. “The square” as locals refer to it, is a UNESCO World heritage site The snakes freaked Melissa out so we decided to stroll the souks.

All around the square there are souks: blacksmiths, carpenters, dyers, coppersmiths, wool, textiles, carpets, sheepskins, jewelers, leather, and slippers (babouches). After a brief tour we decided to seek out one of Marrakech’s delicacies: Tanjia. Tanjia, not to be confused with tajine, is slow cooked mutton. We negotiated the price and then took a seat at our restaurant of choice. It was quite good, as with most everything I ate in Morocco.

After lunch we wandered the merchant streets, much like Fes but cleaner and full of tourists. At one point I heard a French father get angry at a Moroccan man; “Ce sont pas ‘les gazelles’, ce sont les filles!!!” (They aren’t “gazelles”, they’re girls). He was apparently talking about his adolescent daughters. Melissa bought some earrings from a stand who initially charged too much so she said “bazaf” (a lot) asked for half, and started to walk away. Soon she was negotiating with the owner, who upon hearing she was a teacher in Kenitra, gave her his card pointing out his cell phone number.
W

e decided we needed something sweet after the Tanjia so we started looking for a juice shop. A young man noticed we look a bit lost and asked what we were looking for. “Asir dial avocat” (“avacodo juice” in Darija). The young man blinked and motioned for us to follow him. For a few minutes we followed him up and down some tiny alley that backed up against many merchants’ workshops. When we emerged, he pointed to a tiny stall that had plastic fruit hanging from the awning. No one was there. Then one of the men who was working on repairing used leather jackets, sprung up, ducked under the counter and looked at us attentively. “Wesh kain asir dial avocat afak”? Is there any avocado juice, please?”. “Yeh! He smiled and pointed to the blender behind him. Now we had the attention of the other men working in the leather shop. As the man served us our asir, the other men, curiously, almost suspiciously asked us if we spoke al-arabiya. “Shuia shuia”. Only a bit. Then we busted out our now over used phrases: “Khodemti usteda dial iglesi” (I’m an English teacher) “Ana min amrika” (I’m from the US), “sakna f Kenitra” (I live in Kenitra). They were patronizingly impressed. One man showed us his belt selection. Another man told us to be careful in Marrakech. They all smiled and wished us luck. Not everyday the tourists try to speak Darija and request avocado juice.

We wondered through the jewelry souk. I stopped to look at some earrings. A man with a gimp came out and asked if I needed any help. I said no and he went to attend to some other clients leaving his shop assistant, a 10 year old boy. I asked for the price of some particularly beautiful blue beaded earrings, which looked like rain drops. His first price was ridiculous so I tried negotiating with him, using numbers in Darija. The boy was stern at first but then started giggling at the game and the fact that I was trying to say the numbers in Arabic. Laughing, he gave up and got his boss. Melissa was also interested in some of the silver earrings, traditionally handmade by Berbers. He invited us into his shop for tea. He prepared a strong pot of green tea with shiba and luisa. We chatted in Darija/French/English for a bit. At one point, a fellow merchant came into the shop, greeted us and assured us that Sidi Kamal was a good man. After our chat and our tea, we bought the earrings (at half price) and I got a glass tea cup too. He gave us his card, just in case we were to return.

We headed back to the square and had tea at a restaurant just so we could sit on the terrace. The terrace had a nice view of the square below; the tourists, the Moroccans, the hazy sun setting behind the Koutoubia, the Atlas mountains behind the homes of the medina. We sat a watched the square transition.

Marrakech, is unique in that it is alive at night. There is practically no one out in Kenitra past 9:30pm, and you shouldn’t be either. But in Marrakech, that is when people come out. We had some fresh squeezed grapefruit juice from a stand in the square and decided to seek out pastilla. Pastilla, is a pigeon pie made with cinnamon in a filo dough. We split one. We watched from the post office steps as the square filled up and the restaurant stands strung up their light-bulb-sting-lights.

At night the snake-charmers go home and the food stalls set up. Here are some good pictures. At the first stand we were beckoned to I had calamari and Shlada
Beggoula “Beggoula” is like spinach but different. The multilingual cooks were having fun amusing the patrons. One began having a pretend phone conversation on a zucchini. After that stand we decided to continue our culinary bravery and try Moroccan snails. Snail stands are very common in Kenitra but we were never tempted. We sat down next to some Italians, who were clearly enjoying theirs and ordered a small serving. They were served in a brown broth and looked very much like snails. They were pretty tasty; tender and seasoned; better than the ones I had tried in France.

We were trying to decide what to do next when some charming young wait staff tried to get us to come to their stand. We had literally been eating all day, which was glorious, but we didn’t have a lot of money because we ended up spending much more on lodging than we had planned. We said, “la shukran” (No, Thank you), which had been up until now very efficient. This instead attracted more attention. Three of the waiters began chatting with us, trying to figure out where we were from. Finally, the eldest said in perfect English, “Alright, now you really have to come and eat with us, come on!” We acquiesced. For the next hour or two we chatted, joked, flirted, and laughed with the young men who worked the stand. They all spoke multiple languages, and well. One bright 18 year-old server told Melissa jokes in Japanese. Melissa was particularly impressed because humor in Japanese culture is often based on current societal trends. On a note of seriousness, I asked him why he didn’t go to school for translation and interpretation; he clearly had an amazing talent for languages. He then told me about nepotism in Morocco, saying he might be an amazing interpreter but someone who has connections would get the job or even get into the school of his choice with lesser talents. “It’s a big problem here” he said. Melissa broke out her Darija phrase book and the guys started trying to teach us more Darija. It was great. I think all we ate was Harira, Chabakia, and olives. When we finally got up to leave, they invited us to come back later and go out to a café with them. We hesitated. This is not normal for most of Morocco. One of the guys, who oddly enough spoke English with a cockney accent and could pass for a Brit, saw our hesitation and assured us that Marrakech was different, this wasn’t Kenitra. Somehow, we believe him and agreed to meet them in a few hours. We returned to our residence for a brief nap.

I got a text from one of the guys. They would meet us at the train station. Melissa, one of the guys and I took a taxi to a café while the other guy rode his vespa there.  We talked until 4am. We talked about movies, music, Moroccan brain drain, respecting your parents even though times are changing, how to “flash” a satellite dish, and life in “the square”. It was very chill.

Yassine (?) gave Melissa a ride on the vespa. Then they got a cab back to the residence and I rode back on the vespa with Adil. I’ve always wanted to do that. Back at the residence, the guys said goodbye to us and got back on the vespa to leave when the police from the embassy stopped them. We were already inside the residence gate but looked back to see if they were ok. Yassine smiled and waved for us to go inside and  to not worry. We went up stairs and spied on the situation from above. After a few minutes they zipped away, apparently fine.

The next day just before leaving, Ishmael teased that the policeman that had helped us was looking for me. We met him on our way out. Then he professed his love for me. With his left hand slipped under the vest of his national uniform over his heart, he leaned towards me and said, “Je vais te dire une chose, je suis amoureux de toi” (I’m going to tell you something, I’m in love with you). He asked me if I could come back to Marrakech the subsequent weekend (my last in Kenitra). I told him I couldn’t and I didn’t have MSN, Sorry.

On the train ride home I watched the landscape; Mountains, to ruggedly farmed hills, to seas of grasses with bright orange and purple flowers. We shared a train compartment with a university student from the Sahara. He was studying in Rabat. His mother was ill and she lived in Las Palmas, the Spanish island, for treatment. His father was dead. I almost started crying when he told me about his parents.

Back in Kenitra our friends asked about our trip. We told them we had a wonderful time. We sheepishly revealed to our Moroccan girlfriends our vespa adventure. They laughed and said they had the same experience and isn’t Marrakech great?

(February 8th)

David, Melissa and I went to Casablanca for the afternoon on Sunday. Casablanca is the largest city in Morocco and the 6^th largest city in Africa. Our purpose in going was to see the Mosque Hassan II which is the 3^rd largest mosque in the world and exceptionally for Morocco, open to non-Muslims. From Kenitra, the train ride there is approximately two hours.

 

 

 

 

After leaving the port train station, we caught a little blue hatchback of a cab to the mosque. Our driver sped along a strip of highway straddling the industrial, rocky, Atlantic shoreline and the edge of a metropolitan mass of high rises. We passed a dubious tourist trap: Rick’s Café, clearly not the original, as the film Casablanca was filmed in Hollywood. There are many films shot in Morocco, however, such as Kingdom of Heaven and The Mummy. The sand swept southern Saharra regions are sites for lots of movie sets. Indeed, George Lucas chose desertic Tunisia and liked the local Djellabas, Meghreben traditional cloaken covering, so much he dressed the Jedi Knights in them.

 

 

 

 

The cab stopped at the steps of the start of an expansive, tiled courtyard by the sea. It was a bright day with a cloudless robin’s egg sky. The mosque was a wash of grey, tan, and soft browns with intricate green and gold mosaics. It is set like a painting; the mosque the foreground against a stirring ocean. We wondered around the courtyard. There were school groups led by guides and families out for the day together. I stood by the edge of the mosque overlooking the coastline; the ocean mixing below and the pebbly shoreline wrapping around the city. Casablancans were sitting on the beach, looking out into the brownish teal waves. There was a gently persistent breeze, the kind that tugs at you. It wants to invite but doesn’t go so far, it just beckons and reminds me of how fickle the ocean can be. The ocean is never static, always shifting, coming and going but paradoxically, it is always there, constant in its presence if not its behavior. I think of when I lived by the sea in La Rochelle. There are few things as emotive as the sea.

 

 

 

 

            We find out that we have missed our morning window of opportunity to tour the inside. This is disappointing but I am content to wander the courtyard with its majestic domed halls, and mosaic encrusted fountains. Finally, we decide to walk around the city a bit. We walk out of the mosque into a neighboring bidonville. In less than 5 minutes, we walk from immaculate architectural splendor to a small shanty town neighborhood built of cinder blocks, and corrugated metal held down by rocks as roofs. We proceed through a mid-afternoon market. There are no tourists here. I buy a melwi from a peddler. Melissa told me later that she was surprised I did that. I didn’t get sick. I have been rather fortunate in that I ate almost everything and drank the water and rarely suffered ill-effects.

 

We walked through the Old Medina and came out by a park full of boys playing soccer under African trees that reach yearningly upward. We continue into a quieter residential neighborhood whose buildings bear “Mauresque” or “neo-moorish” embellishment, a blend of Moroccan traditional design and colonial French style. We pass “La Place de La Belgique”. This strikes me as comically displaced. I don’t feel like I’m in Europe at all even though I see France’s invasive influence.

 

We stop in Place Ahmed Al Bidaoui , where David and Melissa buy pastries and we sit on a part bench not too far a Hostelling International youth hostel.  There are a couple of young men sitting in a doorway across the park from us. One is singing to the other’s accompaniment on a lotar or a gunbri, a lute-like Moroccan guitar. An older man, cane in one hand, cigarette in the other, came out of nowhere and began to make small talk with David. He had visited the United States several times and he expressed himself clearly in English. While, Melissa and I showed mild interest in his stories, he mainly addressed David. Before leaving us, he gave David his address and phone number should we ever want to visit him in the Atlas Mountains.

 

We are now on Rue Arsalane, which leads to the city’s artery, “Place des Nations Unies”. Some venders spot us and make offers. I try not to look at anything for too long or my glances may be misconstrued as an intention to purchase. As we approach the clocktower, the merchants become more aggressive, accustomed to push-over tourists who don’t know the rules of Moroccan bargaining. I am glad to emerge into an open bustling urban world. We stand on a cement island for a few moments taking in the noise, the traffic, the shuffling billboards ads, the metro station. I breathe in. It feels like a privilege.

 

We walk down Boulevard Felix Houphouet Boigny, back towards the train station. We take a picture of a sign that says, “Par King” and I pose with a perplexed look in front of the “Bazar Café”. David and Melissa graciously share my fondness for puns.

 

At the train station I suck down an espresso like a French girl but try to use as much Arabic as the francophone café staff allow me to.

 

Melissa and I hop back on the train. It is cool and night and we are going to our calm, mid-sized Kenitra. Ah.

When you live in an urban neighborhood, there are people and places that make life, life.

mmmmmmHliba

There are “dairies” everywhere. A dairy is where you can get pastries, milky cocoa, mharsha (cornmeal flatbread), raïb (sweet, custardy yogurt), beghrir and my personal favorite, melwi. My students thought it was humorous how much I liked melwi. You can get plain melwi on which to spread laughing cow cheese or nutella, but I prefer the spicy ones full of olives, onions, and olive oil, orange from the spices.
There is a dairy that has particularly delectable melwi not too far from the ALC. I went there often for “casse-croute” or the mid afternoon snack. The man who works behind the corners has very thick, round, trifocals which make his eyes looks unusually small. He is fatherly-kind and speaks to me in French. Once, when I hadn’t come into his shop for some time, he asked me if everything was alright with my family.
There is a young woman who works for him. She speaks no French and even when I try out my Darija she just smiles. She wears a modest hijab, slippers and a lab coat-like garment over pajamas. She mixes batter in the back and when she’s done with a batch she ducks under the counter and stands outside the dairy at the butane-powered grittle. She tends to melwi and mharsha and people are drawn off the sidewalk.

A Little boy
I was walking back to the apartment for lunch (the ALC closes for lunch most days, 12-2). As I looked down the sidewalk in front of me, I saw a small child no more than 3 and half, teeter tottering towards me. He was attempting to run with a large aluminum tajine top that was taller than him. The awkward shape and size of the tajine top in relative relation to that of the child’s made him wobble off-kilter. He was diligently on his way back to his apartment building where his mother was mostly likely waiting for her obedient son. I made an exaggerated gesture to get out of his way, pretending to be afraid he might bump into me. He ran up the stairs (bump bump clang), then turned to look back at me and exploded in laughter.

Slimane, Shaqid, Abderherman and the fruit stand on ZamZam Street

There is a fruit stand on ZamZam Street. It is where we buy all of our produce and they know us by name. I buy blood oranges, zucchinis, squash and bunch of fresh spearmint. In the evening, when we pass the stand after school, we always greet each other. There is usually a group of men sitting on crates, or if it is an honored elder, like the Imam-school director, a camping chair. They sit around, drink tea, chat, and watch soccer. Sliman invited us to have Tajine with him. Abderhaman made it. When I was sick, Shaquid brought me medicine and gave me lemons.
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Soufiane and Foodies

Foodies is the mini-grocery store around the corner from the fruit stand. It is not really a “hanout” because you can walk around inside it. Soufiane works there. We (ok, the girls) like Soufiane. He practices him English with us and we practice our Arabic with him. Towards the end of our internship, Soufiane disappeared. He said he was going on vacation but then he never came back. We didn’t go to Foodies as much.

The bakery with bees

There is a bakery next to Foodies. It is very reminiscent of bakeries in France, full of baguettes, croissants, and patisseries artisanales. Pastry creams and shiny, glossy fruits on top of tartlettes. But then there are bees. They don’t just occasionally buzz in and out of the bakery; they are inside, bunches of them, behind the sliding-glass display case. They are drunk, fumbling around on top of the millefeuille. Once I asked the woman if she was afraid of getting stung, she shook her head nonchalantly, almost admiringly, “Elles font pas de mal”- “They don’t do any harm”. Ok. We’ve eaten lots of things from this bakery, bees included- no harm done.

Our “hanout”

The “hanout” men humor our Darija too. Each week, at the start of the week, I ask, “ashreen baid, afak” (20 eggs please). One week, I wanted to buy 5 pieces of candy to use in class (it was my beginning 2 class, we were learning food vocabulary so I needed an example of “candy). “Only five?” the man said, and then he refused to let me pay for it.

Café Aldo

Melissa and I like to frequent a café next to the ALC, not for the ambience or the non-Moroccan-to-go service which the other café around the corner offers, (this confuses Nadia, who has said, “Why do you like that café?), but because the owners are Moroccan-Italian sisters about our age. We interact in our usual trilingual mix (Eng, Fr, Arb) but this time with Italian words too, “per favore, grazie, ciao”. There is also probably the factor that we are supporting a women-run business and we are more comfortable in that context.

The night guard

Generally, this signifies a “quartier aisé” or a well-off neighborhood, a “good” neighborhood. There is a night watchman. He strolls up and down the residential streets, keeping an eye out for strange activities and female American interns who come back after dark. He spots us from the end of the street and we see him walk towards us, “Bonsoir!” his voice is raspy from years of cigarettes and military service. “Vous allez bien?! He shout-sings. He chuckles as we tell him about our day and he walks us to our house. He sometimes delves into stories about fraternizing with the Americans at the base or recites short bits of poetry he learned in French grammar school. We don’t always follow as he gets lost in his own words. Then he realizes he is keeping us and says, “Allez, bonsoir!”

Melissa and I wanted to do something fun for Valentine’s Day. We also wanted to get to know some of the female teachers who are our age better. We talked about having a “girls’ night” but we couldn’t have it at our apartment because David and John live there. We asked Soni if we could have it at her apartment. She agreed. We decided to make it a potluck. This is a patently American party phenomenon so we had to explain to most of our guests. We went to the DVD (all pirated of course) store and got some chick flicks.
I found a box of Betty Crocker extra moist dark chocolate cake at La Bel’Vie grocery store.

Nadia, Ikram, Dalila, Sanaa, Eva, and Miriyam came. Miriyam is a teacher and Eva is one of Soni’s friends; she is a German occupational therapist who works in Salé.

Our potluck yielded favorable results; we enjoyed pasta salad, casserole, fresh baker’s crackers, kiri cheese, bread, guacamole, eggplant/pepper salad, fruit salad, chocolate cake, apple crêpes, cookie rings, tea and coffee.

Our conversation was about a variety of topics, sometimes banal, sometimes rich. At one point we discussed the hijab. No one at the party wears the veil. Meriyam explained that it is supposed to help men to be less lustful. Sanaa said that she once saw a young women wearing the hijab go to a co-ed public pool, take off her hijab and her clothes to reveal a bikini, swim, and then leave the pool wearing the hijab again. Some of the ladies said that some girls these days wear the hijab because their parents make them and some young women wear it “as a fashion statement”. Melissa and I noted that we have seen women wearing provocatively tight jeans and the veil. Melissa said that is must be nice to not have to do your hair everyday.

Then we discussed polygamy. Polygamy is rare in Morocco, although it is not nonexistent. It is reserved for those who are fairly well off and can afford to provide for more than one family. Miriyam mentioned the Mormons in the US. Sanaa shared about an acquaintance whose husband has a second wife who is “all the time complaining”. Sanaa explained that one must take into consideration the historical context of the Qu’aranic verse about having more than wife; She said it was a time of war so marrying the widows was a way of providing and protecting the community. The verse says something like, “If you can be fair, then have more than one wife; if you can not, do not”. Sanaa deduced that since polygamy is never fair it is not really advocated by Islam.

Nadia left early, either because of fatigue or familial obligation or both. After dessert we decided to watch the movie. Ikram was worried about getting a taxi home so she left even though she wanted to stay; it was 9pm. Melissa, Dalila, Soni, Eva and I huddled around Soni’s laptop. The languages spoken among us were English, Darija, French, German, Spanish and Japensese. Dalila wasn’t comfortable enough with English to watch the movie in English. Whoever pirated the DVD, didn’t burn the subtitles. We decided to watch in French. The opening scene was a wedding. Miriyam asked about the role of bride’s maids in US weddings. Then she told us that Moroccan weddings are beginning to include more western traditions like a white dress (although the last of many) and the newlyweds feeding each other cake. Perhaps, triggered by the idea of western traditions becoming widespread, she asked about Santa Claus. She asked if Santa represented Jesus and if people thought Jesus would come back on Christmas. She asked several more theological questions saying that she had read the Bible in Arabic and French but didn’t really understand it. She asked about the Holy Spirit, Salvation, prayer, and End Times. We weren’t watching the movie anymore. Soni, Eva and I answered some of her questions and Dalila gave some additional explanations from a Muslim’s perspective in Darija. Then they began taking about the difference between Shia’ and Sunni Muslims.
Soon it was 11pm.

Melissa and I live about 3 blocks from Soni’s and we said we might walk back. Miriyam asked if we were crazy and told us she’d drive us back after she dropped Dalila off. We got into her car. Miriyam said, “my mother is going to kill me [for being out so late] she said if its past 10pm don’t come home (just stay there)”. Miriyam is 25. I asked why it was so dangerous if you were in the car; it’s not like were walking alone anywhere. Miriyam replied, “What would I do if something happened?” “You have a cell phone”, I offered. I asked about the police. Miriyam and Dalila both laughed, “Do you know what the police say? ‘Is there blood?’ (more laughter), if not, they won’t come”. “You could call your dad” I said, thinking about how my dad has always been willing to come to my aid in case of car trouble. This seemed to be a reasonable suggestion but it did not by any means trump the general danger of the night. We dropped Dalila off at her house and turned around. Miriyam drove around some pot holes and commented on the poor quality of Moroccan paving (another threat to our safety). She directed our attention to some stray dogs wandering the streets, “A few years ago, there was a teacher in a rural area who, for some reason, went out at night and she got killed by dogs; they ate her”. I wanted to laugh but I cringed and said, “That’s awful, why did she go out?” Miriyam said she didn’t know, shaking her head. There apparently can be no good enough reason to go out at night. She told us about how sometimes at night thieves and beggars put large rocks in the road so that drivers hit them and have to stop, “Then they come out with a knife or something”. We approached a round-about/ traffic circle, where she pointed out a rock in the road. At our roads’ exit there was a man standing in the road. He didn’t have a knife; you can ask me about what he was doing later.
“See she said”. She drove us back to our neighborhood; white washed villa, safe, night guarded neighborhood.