‘Sheep’ishness

Rabat is being invaded. Not by people, but rather, sheep. Teenage boys sitting on bales of hay peddle it on street corners, and if you listen carefully at night, you can hear lonely sheep calling to each other. Their sudden appearance isn’t an accident: families have purchased one or sometimes multiple sheep in preparation for the religious holiday Aid Al-Adha. To celebrate Aid Al-Adha, Muslim families slaughter sheep in a day full of festivities. This year, Aid Al-Adha will be observed on Tuesday, December 9th. After a month away from my home stay family, I will be returning to celebrate the holiday with them (beginning at the generous hour of 7 am). I don’t know exactly what to expect, but I can only imagine it will be gory. For now, Aid Al-Adha means frantic preparations by Moroccan families for the holiday, and for me, frequent encounters with sheep as I walk through Morocco’s streets.  To quote a friend, “the poor guys don’t know what’s coming.”

My time in Morocco is drawing to a close. I have nine days left in Morocco before a week in Europe, and then my flight home to the United States. I’m finishing up a month of research and preparing for a final presentation later this coming week. Three months in a developing nation exacts a physical and mental toll, but I’m not ready to leave.

Here’s a link to what will probably be my last set of pictures from Morocco. The photos are of the neighbourhood I live in (the Kasbah des Oudais), and the surrounding area, which happens to back up on the Atlantic Ocean: Kasbah des Oudais.

Independence

Today I leave my host family. Beginning this evening, I’m no longer under the metaphorical protective umbrella of my study abroad program. They’ve given me money to live off for a month, and sent me out into the Morocco abyss with one purpose in mind: to do independent research. I’ll be based in Rabat, living with American students in an apartment on the Atlantic Ocean. But much of my time will be on the road, and my travels begin tonight.

Updates from me over the next month will likely be sporadic. I’m putting together a documentary, but beyond its form, very little is defined at this point.

Northern Morocco

Today is the day of the Green March in Morocco. It’s a national holiday here, so schools, banks, and just about every other institution are shuttered for the day. There’s a compelling history to this day too. In 1956, Morocco gained independence from France. The nation elected a king and assembled a national government. The Spanish did not leave with the French; even today, they have territory in Morocco (Ceuta). Spanish holdings were far more significant in the mid twentieth century, much to the frustration of the second Moroccan king, Hassan II. Of particular consternation were their holdings in the Saharan desert. So on this day, the king and thousands of his subjects marched through Spanish territory in the Saharan desert, Koran and palm leaves in hand. It was a powerful message, and one that spooked the Spanish government—they quickly packed up and retreated.

Much of my time in Morocco has been characterized by trips away from Rabat. This post is no exception. A week and a half ago, I embarked with members of my program on our final excursion, a week long trip through northern Morocco and Andalusian Spain. Our journey began on Saturday, and at midday we arrived at our first destination, Ouezzane. The town is nestled in the Rif Mountains, the northernmost mountain range in Morocco.  Under the previous king, the region received little attention and even less federal investment. Local farmers adapted, and began growing cannabis. Today, the Rif region is one of the greatest producers of marijuana in the world, and consequently, its economic health is tied to the sale of hashish.

We lunched in Ouezzane at the home of the wife of one of our program leaders. She’s descended from local royalty, and has a home befitting her lineage. The property, at the top of a hill overlooking the city, has many buildings, lush gardens, and its own olive oil pressing facilities. We lunched there, delighting in the most succulent chicken, bread, and olive oil I’ve ever tasted. Afterwards, I stepped away and walked through Ouezzane, reveling in how untouched it was by tourism. Pastel blues washed the exterior walls of buildings, and two little Moroccan girls, fascinated by the presence of a foreigner, followed me with curiosity through the city’s winding alleyways.

That afternoon we moved on to Chefchouen by bus. Chefchouen bore many similarities to Ouezzane, with many of the same qualities, only intensified. The Rif Mountains rise up steeply from the base of the Chefchouen, and its bathed in a bluish palette ranging from pastel to deeply saturated blues. Tourism, behind hashish growing, is the lifeblood of the city. Spanish tourists flock to Chefchouen because of its beauty and the local language. Due to Spanish colonization in the northern part of Morocco, Spanish supplants French as the second language of locals (Arabic is the first).

We stayed three days and two nights in Chefchouen, touring its small medina, meeting with local NGO’s, and taking in the beauty of this mountainous, rain-soaked paradise. Visits to local NGO’s revealed that the region’s physical beauty did not correlate with the quality of life of its residents. Female illiteracy is near ninety percent in local villages, and access to basic supplies is often difficult. Like their counterparts in Ouezzane, farmers in the Chefchouen region are often forced to grow hashish to survive. They aren’t the one’s profiting from its sale, either. Monday morning we once again moved on, to Fnideq, a border town right on the edge of the Spanish held territory, Ceuta.

Our journey northward took us through Tetouan, another popular tourist destination. For the last hour of our drive we mirrored the Mediterreanean, winding between beach resorts hastily being constructed before the upcoming season and the teal waves of the sea. We dipped our toes briefly in the Mediterreanean at a seaside beach before reaching Fnideq.

Fnideq bears many of the qualities of other border towns I’ve visited. Most noticeably, it overflows with contraband from nearby Spanish Ceuta. Moroccans come from all over the country to acquire European goods that could otherwise only be obtained with a heavy customs duty attached to them. Makeshift bazaars dot the city, and street vendors block sidewalks with tarps littered with watches, purses, and other household goods. For us, Fnideq primarily served as a resting point before leaving Morocco and crossing the Mediterreanean. Even so, we met with one NGO doing very powerful work in empowering local women to complete their educations and work in environments typically the domains of men.

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Chefchouen

Andalusia

I’ve just returned from a week in northern Morocco and Andalusian Spain. On the Moroccan leg of the trip we visited the Rif cities of Ouezzane, Chefchouen, and Fnideq. Midway through the trip we crossed into the Spanish territory of Ceuta, a holdover from twentieth century Spanish colonization. From there we crossed the Mediterranean by ferry, and stepped onto the Spanish mainland in the port city of Algericas. The remainder of our trip was spent in Malaga, the hometown of Picasso, and in Granada, a large university city at the foot of the Spanish Sierra-Nevada mountain range.

I hope to write in more detail about each of the legs of the Andalusian trip in the coming week. Here are pictures from the first stop on the Andalusian excursion: Ouezzane.

It’s Been A While

Although I’ve only just passed the midway point of my program, it’s beginning to look as if my time in Morocco is coming to a close. Arabic and migration studies classes end this Friday, and on Saturday I travel with my group to Northern Morocco and Andalusian Spain for a week. When I return, I have one week to prepare for a month-long independent study project. While I’m still fine-tuning my research question, my plan is to interview sub-Saharan migrants at the Moroccan-Algerian border about their clandestine migration experiences. I hope to produce a short-form documentary, melding photographs and audio. Here’s an example of the medium: Common Ground.

Since I last wrote, two weeks of classes have transpired.  Last weekend, with a group of five other students I traveled to Fes. Fes is located in the Middle Atlas Mountains, and has the largest medina (a portion of the city dating back to medieval times) of any city in Morocco. The medina is fourteen square kilometers in area, and has approximately 9400 streets.  I don’t have time to write a detailed account of our time there, but I do have photographs from my last two trips. The first page has photos from a group excursion to a rural village at the foot of the High Atlas mountains. I’m writing a more polished piece reflecting on my time with the Loteshina tribe that I hope to share in the coming month.

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Loteshina Tribe

Fes

High Atlas Trek

It was to be the trip that would best all other trips. Hike across the steppes of the High Atlas Mountains, and then summit Mt. Toubkal, North Africa’s highest peak—all in three days. The trip, crafted with a healthy sense of idealism, promised to be one for the ages.

An outfitting mission took us to Marjane, the Moroccan equivalent of Walmart, the night prior to our departure.  Peanut butter, spaghetti, and bread fed this on-the-cheap expedition. Two more SIT students joined our expedition an hour before we were set to jump on the train to Marrakesh. Being adaptable college students, we welcomed them and clambered aboard the aging Moroccan train headed to Marrakesh.

Four hours later we arrived, bought some more supplies, and looked for a taxi to our final destination, Ijoukak. But as we solicited for taxi rides to our destination, it became clear that we weren’t going to be able to get there. First, all the drivers were demanding exorbitant sums of money, and then they flatly refused to take us to Ijoukak as they claimed there weren’t hotels (the guide book later totally refuted this claim). So we reconfigured our hike, and six hundred dirhams later, were on our way to the nearest major town to Mt. Toubkal, Imlil.

The taxi ride was as expected, exciting, but it was dark so we couldn’t see the terrifying drop offs from the road, nor did we have a particularly aggressive driver. We arrived just before midnight and grabbed a hotel for the night. The next morning we got up early and eagerly began our hike to the base camp/refuge at the bottom of the mountain we wanted to summit. We climbed to sweeping views, gorgeous skies, and pristine air. But our euphoria was crushed 2-½ hrs into the hike when a local guide told us that we were headed in precisely the wrong direction. So we backtracked, with our spirits only lifted by young girls from neighboring villages who insisted on shaking our hands and showering flower petals on us as we descended. Five hours after we began, we arrived at our starting point (after following a mule train on a short cut), still with a full day’s hike ahead of us. At this point, summiting Toubkal was very much in question.

Determined, we set out for a hike of an indeterminate length. We climbed through walnut orchards, charming Berber villages, and scampered across a massive, dried out riverbed. With a thunderstorm at our heels, swirling gray clouds to our front, we rose up and up through shale valleys, until we reached an altitude of 10000 feet. The altitude took a toll on all of us, dulling our motor skills and in one case, inciting nausea. Battered and exhausted after eleven hours of hiking, we arrived at our base camp amidst a hailstorm, just before sundown, at 6:30. Our base camp was a glorified ski lodge, with a kitchen, common room, bathrooms, and dorm style sleeping with as many bunk beds jammed into a room as possible. For the weary traveler, it was heaven, however.

The next morning we set out for Toubkal, and began climbing through one of the most gorgeous valleys I’ve ever seen. Not soon after beginning, we found snow, yes, snow in Africa! We paralleled a glacier, and two hours in, ran into another group of descending hikers. Once again, we learned that we were in fact again going in precisely the wrong direction. Frustrated, we descended again, although the views did not disappoint.

I’m going to take this opportunity to explain how we made these seemingly ridiculous mistakes. I can assure you that we were not as inept as my story makes us out to be. First, traveling around this region normally requires the services of a guide. To be blunt, there are few signs, and some places are intentionally wrongly signed so that you need to hire a guide. The region is built on guiding and tourism, and this is how it is protected. Being cheap students, we elected not to hire a guide until we climbed Toubkal. For our first mistake, we merely missed one turn, which was not marked. In the case of our second blunder, I discovered that the map in the refuge was oriented south north instead of the standard north south alignment, which precisely flipped our course. Lastly, we wandered without maps—but again, this was not our fault. In an effort to protect guiding, the Moroccan government simply does not sell maps to foreigners without forcing them to go through a weeklong vetting process.

Spurned twice, we regrouped. With two other people, I needed to be back in Rabat the next morning, so a summit of Toubkal was again seriously in question. Unwilling to give up, we crafted a crazy plan that I still can’t believe we pulled off. That afternoon we hired a guide to lead us up Mt. Toubkal, and after another night of fitful sleep, rose at 4 a.m. for a 5 a.m. alpine start up the mountain. Donning headlights, we began our climb. One member only brought sandals, so she ascended the mountain in them through snow.  Under the stars, we clambered up the mountain unaware of the treacherous terrain we were crossing, but honestly, I was too dazzled by the stars to care. Midway up the mountain the sun climbed over the ridge, and we were treated to a beautiful sunrise.

At 8 a.m. we summited. There was four inches of snow at the top, and the temperature was below freezing. The altitude, 13000 feet, caused our fingers to swell up, and movement was not particularly easy. Panoramic views of the High Atlas wrapped around us. Clouds rested several thousand feet below our lofty nest, with Algeria and the Saharan desert in sight. After half an hour of bliss, we headed down. The descent was precarious, with steep drop offs, icy paths, and cold limbs dulled by a lack of oxygen. An ice field provided a brief break from the rocky trail, and so I ran down its slippery slope, sliding through the snow in my hiking boots with a light pack strapped to my back.  We returned to the base camp at 10 a.m., took a two-hour break, and then set out for Marrakesh at noon. Six hours later we arrived in Imlil and arranged a cab to Marrakesh.

Despite all the miles traveled and rough country conquered, our most dangerous segment still lay ahead: the taxi ride from Imlil to Marrakesh. We crammed six people into an aging Mercedes sedan, the only transportation from the wayward town. The taxi’s speedometer didn’t work, the tachometer didn’t function, and the brakes sounded like they were about to give out at any moment. Eager to save the brakes, the driver didn’t use them unless collision was imminent. The ridiculous, thousand foot drop offs obscured by darkness on our inbound trip were all too evident traveling back to Marrakesh. For one perilous hour, we traveled on a one-lane road with two-way traffic and few guardrails. Shaken, we jumped on a train to Marrakesh, and got back into Rabat at midnight. All told, a nineteen-hour day, with fourteen miles of hiking and the tallest mountain in North Africa conquered.

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Movie

Stills

Casa & Al Jadida

Casablanca is not the paradise that the 1940’s motion picture makes it out to be. A city of three million, it’s the economic hub of the Moroccan nation. Financial and industrial giants have made it their home, but the city lacks much cultural capital. It’s an industrious place, with a no nonsense attitude and severe class distinctions. The city sprawls along the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, and lacks any form of central planning. Casablanca isn’t entirely devoid of charm, however. The most famous mosque in Morocco is located in Casablanca. Completed in the 1980’s, the Hassan II mosque sports a retractable roof and has been known to attract hundreds of thousands of worshipers for a single service. Portions of the city have a very western feel, and there are a number of nightclubs, but otherwise Casa is a bore.

With other members of my program, I traveled to Casablanca on a Friday morning. Predictably, the second-class car I rode in was both overflowing with people and lacking air conditioning. The taxi ride from the Casablanca station to a local orphanage we were visiting was particularly harrowing (I’ll expand on taxi rides in a later post). Suffice it to say, our driver straddled the yellow line dividing lanes, carving out his own express lane for most of the ride. In Morocco, seat belts are optional equipment not found in taxis, petit (intra-city) or grand (inter-city). After visiting the orphanage, Association Bayti, which provides shelter and schooling for homeless children, I met up with a group touring Casa for the night. We aimlessly wandered the city in search of a meal that evening, and broke the monotony of Moroccan food with dinner at a slightly seedy burger joint, City Burger. Soon after we retreated to the drab confines of our hostel.

At checkout the next morning, a Spanish couple returning to their home offered us a nearly full handle of Rum for free. We eagerly accepted—alcohol, particularly during Ramadan is tough to acquire, and in Morocco, it’s often terribly overpriced. I was given the honorable task of smuggling it into Al Jadida.
I’m going to dispense with a detailed account for our time in Al Jadida. It has a lovely beach and a novel Portuguese quarter, but otherwise is a typical Moroccan city. I’ll let my pictures fill in the gaps.

Stills.

Back from the Highlands

I’ve been on the road for all but one day of the past week and a half. Since I last wrote, I spent the weekend in Casablanca and Al Jedada (the former the economic hub of Morocco and the latter a nearby beach town), backpacked through the High Atlas mountain range for four days, and lived with a rural Moroccan family in a barren part of Morocco dubbed by locals “the thirsty land.” By far, the highlight was summiting Mt. Toubkal, the tallest mountain in North Africa. In the coming days, I plan to expand on each with individual posts.

Marrakesh & Essaouira

Disease swept through my program this past week, afflicting all twelve of us. Symptoms included nausea, fever, diarrhea, and stomach cramping. Fortunately I only contracted a moderate case, and was mostly better by the time it came for us to leave for Marrakesh and Essaouira this past weekend.

My group met at the Rabat train station Friday afternoon, and with first class tickets in hand, boarded the train for Marrakesh. The difference between first-class and second-class tickets is profound. While the ticket prices barely differ by American standards, the first-class cabin proved to be much more comfortable than the second-class cabin I rode in last weekend going to Meknes. Most importantly, one has reserved seating in first-class, and the air conditioning system actually functions. Late Friday evening we arrived in Marrakesh, an important city bordering the Atlas mountain range. The city was founded by Moulay Ismail, the most famous ruler of the last great Moroccan dynasty. Marrakesh is rich in history, and as a result, draws the most tourists of any city in Morocco.

We stayed in a quaint hotel across the street from the main square in Marrakesh. After I visited the all-you-can-eat Moroccan buffet in our hotel restaurant and basked in the pleasure of air conditioning (a first for my time in Morocco), I ventured across the street to Marrakesh’s most famous attraction, its central square.

I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity to write about bartering in Morocco, and after my experiences in Marrakesh, I finally feel comfortable expounding upon this intrinsically Moroccan ritual. The price for just about any item for sale in Morocco is negotiable. A complex set of informal rules exists for bartering, and they can only be learned through experience. Foremost among them is that a foreigner should expect that the initial price offered is two to three times the amount a Moroccan would pay for the same item. Foreigners are viewed as rich, and thus taken advantage of whenever possible. When I bargain, I often counter the initial price by offering one-third of the asking price. This risks offending the merchant, but more often than not there’s little trouble because the initial price was greatly inflated to begin with. If the merchant wants to make a sale, he’ll (pardon the gender of my pronouns) come down in price until he reaches a price floor that he won’t drop below. Suddenly losing interest or visiting other shops in search of the same item is another way to attempt to lower the price. But there’s a fine line, and crossing it can result in a terribly uncomfortable situation.

Particularly at nighttime, Marrakesh’s main square is crammed with European tourists, carnival performers, and desperate merchants hawking their wares. Tourism is the lifeblood of this city, and with most residents working in this industry, competition is fierce. In the square, an American can’t walk more than twenty feet without being panhandled. Musicians expect compensation for their performances, henna artists will grab wayward tourists by the arm and drag them over to their stands, and shop owners will chase you for blocks with the hope that you will visit their store. On my last night in Marrakesh, I had three waiters from rival restaurants link arms, boxing me into a corner. They then shouted at me in broken English and shoved menus in my face. Eventually I escaped, only to have a vendor hawking wooden snakes immediately approach me. The only way to deal with these encounters is to have a healthy sense of humor.

On a whole, I found Marrakesh disappointing. While the city has many worthwhile monuments, the majority of it has been set up to empty the pockets of a tourist. I was presented with a very orientalized perspective that was neither flattering nor complimentary to my other experiences in Morocco. Marrakesh is worth a visit so that you can experience its intensity and marvel at its tackiness, but I wouldn’t recommend a prolonged stay.

Sunday morning we traveled a few hundred kilometers to Essaouira, a seaside city established by the Portuguese. Essaouira hosts a world-renowned musical festival in the early summer and is another popular tourist spot. The city is bathed in a gorgeous bluish pastel palette and possesses a substantial artist population. Brightly colored textiles and cedar woodworks litter shopkeepers’ storefronts. Merchants seemed more laid back in Essaouira, matching the affable nature of the city. Sunday afternoon my group played soccer on the nearby beach, competing in a match that pitted the program’s academic directors against each other. Later I took in the sunset wandering through Essaouira’s crowded working port.

After an all-to-brief stay in Essaouira, we returned to Rabat. The return leg took seven hours by bus, hardly a pleasant affair, but made more enjoyable by a seaside picnic lunch composed of American foods. Returning to the structure of a week of classes always wets my appetite for a weekend of adventure, and I’m already planning an excursion for a brief break in classes next week.

Below is a link to photos from this past weekend: Flickr. As a result of the recent Yemen and Islamabad bombings, the US State Department sent out a warning to Americans in North Africa, reminding them to “remain vigilant as Moroccan authorities continue to disrupt terrorist activities aimed at western interests.” I haven’t seen a noticeable change in Moroccan discourse towards Americans since the attacks, and feel very safe here. Thanks to everyone that has left comments on my blog and sent me notes. Your support means a lot to me.

Meknes

Africa is beginning to feel like home. The medina has become more familiar and less of a maze to me. Thankfully, my body and stomach are adjusting to the Ramadan feasts after sunset too. Intensive Moroccan Arabic befits its name—the class is challenging me in a way few other academic courses have. The alphabet is particularly difficult, as each of the twenty-five letters have at least three different forms that vary depending on their position in a given word. After a week of classes, I was glad to get out of Rabat for the weekend. With nine other members of my program, Friday evening I headed to Meknes by train.

Moroccan trains are an experience. They are vastly oversold, so even with a ticket, you’re unlikely to find a seat. On the outbound train to Meknes I was able to sit in a compartment with friends for part of the journey, but the trip home did not afford such an opportunity. Instead, I was introduced to how Moroccans deal with a stuffy car and a broken air conditioning system—leave the doors open. For the two and a half hour return trip to Rabat, I stood inches away from an open door, gripping the nearest metal handle as we flew through the countryside at breakneck speeds. Exhilarating—but also a remainder of how fragile life can be.

Meknes, a medium sized Moroccan city, is located at the foot of the Atlas Mountains. It’s known for extremely hot days and equally chilly nights. The city is also home to one of Morocco’s most venerable saints, and nearby are Roman ruins, referred to by locals as Volibulus. Certain elements of the city are touristy, but largely it is a city rooted in Moroccan tradition and untouched by western culture.
We arrived late in the evening, negotiated cab fare (bartering is a constant here) to our hotel, and checked in around 8 p.m. Our hotel accommodations were modest—we elected to sleep on the roof for less than $7 a night. We shared bathrooms, had cold showers, but no one seemed to mind. Meknes has a different charm than its cosmopolitan counterpart Rabat– an edgier, more rustic air that enraptured us.

One member of our group forgot her passport, and without one, a foreigner is unable to legally check into a hotel. The mistake required a trip to the local police station, which issued her alternative identification after wringing their hands for two hours. In Morocco, particularly during Ramadan, efficiency is not a primary concern.

We didn’t make it out until 11 p.m., typically a reasonable hour for dinner during Ramadan, but less so for us since we hadn’t had a meal since noon. Armed with a recommendation from one of our guidebooks, we set out for a restaurant hidden away in a sketchy back alley. It was shuttered when we arrived, but as we haggardly retreated, a man sprung from a back alley and opened it just for our group. One of the best meals of my life ensued—a couscous laden, Bastilla filled, three-hour meal capped off with rounds of Moroccan whisky. Moroccan whisky is the term for Moroccan sweet tea, a delicious drink that I will sorely miss when I return to the states. Bastilla is another Moroccan specialty. It’s grilled chicken inside a fried crust, with sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on top. Sweet and salty at the same time, it makes for a delectable meal. Around 2 a.m. I stumbled out of the restaurant with my friends, and we retreated to our hotel, but not before participating in an impromptu drum circle in a café bordering the main square in Meknes.
We toured Meknes for most of the next day, stopping at its main attractions and occasionally straying off the beaten path. After a long day of walking the city, we capped it off with another fine meal. That evening we visited a traveling Moroccan carnival that had set up in Meknes. It was very similar to its American counterparts, only safety was definitely held in less regard here.

This weekend I’m traveling with my program to southern Morocco.  We’re visiting Marrakesh and then Essaouira. I hear there’s a camel ride involved.

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The first video clip is a photomontage from our weekend excursion to Meknes. I took the photos with a point-and-shoot, and recorded audio with a little handheld recorder. Thanks to Caitryn for the drum circle video. I apologize for the low quality of the videos– but with the internet here in Africa, uploading higher quality videos isn’t possible. You can find the stills here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/35938061@N00/sets/72157607304646496/

The second clip is the sound of muezzins announcing the breaking of fast throughout the city. It was recorded from a rooftop in a prominent part of the city.

Edit: First video fixed.