Desert Trip

I woke up at 5:08 am. Of course I would need to pee at 5:08 am. My brother had asked me to wake him if I needed to go to the bathroom, so I woke him up, we put our shoes on and stepped out of our Amazigh tent.

I gasped. It was a full moon. It was yellow-orange and it was setting. We walked to the outhouse and then just stood outside our tent, watching the yellow-orange moon set over the sand dunes. It was absolutely amazing. As it dipped behind the dunes, we were in darkness. I looked up and the stars were amazing. However, it wasn't long before the first peak of light from the sun rising could be seen behind us.

We decided to head back to bed and wake up 30 minutes later to catch the sunrise.

Ah, what a day in the desert.

My brother and I arrived in the desert on Monday afternoon. We enjoyed some tea in the big Amazigh ten and then headed off on a 1.5 hour dromedary ride. They had told us it would be three hours. Let's just say, we were really pleased that it was half that time. Riding a dromedary was not comfortable and I did begin to feel just a little bit queasy by the end.

We got back to our campsite just in time to head over to the dunes and enjoy the sunset. And what a sunset it was. We soon found ourselves chasing the sun over the dunes until finally we simply rested on the top of one and enjoyed watching the sun drop below the horizon.

We enjoyed a typical cous cous dinner and oranges for dessert and then headed to bed around 10:30.

It was a short excursion, but what a day!!

I'll post pictures once we download them to our computers :D 

Bartering Goods

"Do you have a souvenir for me? A hat? An English book?"

I racked my brain for what I could possibly have to exchange with this Amazigh trader. I was trying to buy a carpet. But it was a little too expensive. So he was offering an exchange of goods. My brother had just purchased some things and paid using dirhams, a used pink t-shirt and some sunglasses.

I did have a copy of Catcher in the Rye in my book bag. Byron had lent it to me to read and I wasn't quite done with it yet. I asked him what he would do with a book.

"Read it, of course!"

Duh. Of course. I should assume that this Amazigh man would read classic English novels.

Eh, why not? I'd get Byron another copy of Catcher in the Rye.

"Deal."

His face broke into a huge smile and we shook hands.

Did we just barter goods with a Saharan trader? Yup. Yes, we did. 

Today we're heading out into the desert with his family. He seemed disgusted that we were headed to Merzouga, the tourism destination for those seeking desert treks. He instead urged us to go with his family. So we'll be joining his nomadic family on a three-hour camel ride into the desert where we'll see the sun set, sleep in Berber tens and share in their meals and enjoy their music. Then we'll head to sleep under the inky blackness of the the Sahara desert and awake to the majestic sunrise. A wonderful breakfast and then another camel ride back.

Well, here goes :)

Protests

I simply felt my feet moving. Quickly. They were getting me away from there. For a split second, I wondered if my heart still pumped blood, because all I could feel was fear. 

“Viviana! Stop! You can’t run. They’ll think you’re one of them,” Oumaima’s voice broke through my thoughts. 

But her words weren’t comforting. I didn’t really see any alternative. Were we supposed to stay in the middle of all the protestors and calmly walk the other way as policemen charged us, swinging their batons furiously? Every time they charged, the crowds broke into a frantic sprint in any direction, away from the weapons. 

And she was asking me to walk?

“Okay. Tell me again. Why are the protesting? And why are the policemen hitting them?” I grabbed her arm and tried to steady my step.

She explained that they were unemployed. They had gone to university, received their diplomas and now… it had been two, three, five or even ten years, yet they didn’t have jobs. The government would create new employment opportunities, but unless you knew someone who knew someone, you never even knew about the opportunity. The whole situation stank of nepotism.

Oh, and the policemen were trying to get them away from the palace of justice and the media centers. They would yell and run towards people with cameras and cell phones out. 

And so I closed my eyes, trying to imagine that hopelessness of joblessness for years on end. As I opened my eyes, I didn’t have to look far to see what it drove them to do. The crowds roared, “We want human rights. We want jobs.” The police countered by running toward the crowds, swinging their batons. Most of the people got away, but a few injured ones lay scattered on the streets and sidewalks. 

Here and there a scream would pierce the air and a small group would gather around the next fallen protestor. 

Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll be one of them if I can’t get a job once I graduate…” she mused.

Time

And time keeps on passing. I see it with each pill case I throw out and each new one I put in my bag. I see it with every date I cross off on my Bible reading plan. I see it in my emptier toothpaste tube, in my smaller bar of soap and in my fewer bobby pins. I turn more pages to get to where we're at in my Arabic book and I need my winter jacket less and less often.

Oh, the subtle ways we see time pass us by.

And yet, I still find myself wanting to measure it. As if I could keep time under control so that I won't look at the date one day, and suddenly say, "Oh my goodness. March 20?!"

I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my time here is already more than half-way over. I did only come for four months.

The next couple of weeks are going to fly! My brother flies in on Friday for ten days. We'll be traveling around Morocco and then ending our time in Rabat. By then, it'll already be April!! I'll be gone every weekend of April, which makes the weeks go by even faster. Before I know it, it'll soon be May.

Nope. Measuring time doesn't slow it down one bit.

Spanish!

Last Friday we went to the International University of Rabat, which is actually in Sale. But whatever. Its an upscale university here, where students pay about $7,000 USD a year to be there. As a Moroccan you can attend a public university for all for years and pay less than $100 USD.

We went as part of our Gender Issues class and we came prepared with interview questions. Our teacher encouraged us to ask "inappropriate" questions and to really ask about things that were "taboo." So we jumped in with both feet. We found ourselves asking questions related to virginity, sexual education, homosexuality, religion and stereotypes. We all had a fabulous time getting to know these Moroccan students and then just getting a glimpse into their minds and how they think.

Afterwards, they gave us a tour of their campus and we were all pretty stunned by how nice their facilities were. Their dorm rooms reminded me of dorms back in the US... except that we didn't have bathrooms and sinks in our rooms.

As we walked around, I ended up talking with Kenza. She's a freshman from Tangier (in Northern Morocco). She was educated in a Spanish school throughout high school, so soon we were chatting away in Spanish. She was clearly more comfortable in Spanish than in English and it was so wonderful to be able to communicate with ease in a language that actually felt like a common language. Usually, when I converse with Moroccans, one of us is exerting a lot of effort to keep up in a conversation that is carried out in a language that isn't our own.

Not in this conversation.

Several times I had to remind myself that I wasn't in Colombia, as I heard her flawless Spanish and looked at her physical features. She could easily fit in Bogota... no one would look at her twice if she were walking down the streets in Colombia.

I was hit with a really strong sense of nostalgia and homesickness. I miss home. I miss communicating easily.

I loved being in Morocco, speaking to a Morocco, in Spanish. And there was nothing strange about it.

Places and names have been changed for her safety.

She stumbled into a police station; black eyes adorning her face and cuts made from shards of glass ran up and down her arms.  After three hours of laying face down in the swamps outside of Casablanca, mud covered her face. Her clothes were torn and she knew she was half-naked.

Fatima is that horror-story rape victim.

The police ushered her in, barely listened to her story and handed her some toilet paper so she could take care of the blood on her arms. She was then put in one of the cells where they keep prostitutes they arrest off of the streets until her parents could come pick her up.

After her parents arrived, they immediately took her to the doctors where she was examined and her wounds taken care of. Medical tests confirmed both vaginal and anal rape. She's just two months away from finishing her degree and her friends expect no sympathy or understanding from her university.

Surely the events of the previous sixty hours kept replaying through her mind. The nightmare she couldn't awake from.

Cat-calling was common. And she always hated it. Fatima's friends always warned her to not be so hot-headed in her replies to men on the streets. This time, as she walked away from the bus stop, the two men in the car followed her. When she reached the corner, they stopped the car; one jumped out, grabbed her by the hair and shoved her into their car.

Her parents began to worry when she hadn't shown up-- four hours after her usual arrival time. They went straight to the police, but were told no one would begin searching for her until forty-eight hours had been up. Turns out, she was only missing forty-eight hours before she managed to escape and find a police station herself.

The men took Fatima to an abandoned house on the outskirts of Casablanca, where they abused her for two days. Its a miracle she survived. On the second night, one of them went to the bathroom while the other looked for something in the car. She seized her chance and headed straight to the swampy fields.

But back in that house, she left her wallet. Her national identification card. Her university ID and her home address.

And now, as she recovers at home, her friends urge her to find a woman's support group. To speak up. To share her story. But she fears. She fears for her sisters. She fears for her mother. She fears for herself.

I heard this story first-hand from one of her friends. Nausea overwhelmed me and I couldn't get the story out of my head... out of my heart. 

Maybe that's the point. 

Maybe I'm not supposed to. 

I tried thinking of the "point" to writing a blog post about her... she'll still be living in a city where she feels unsafe, the men who raped her will still be free, and women everywhere-- not just in Morocco-- will certainly continue to live in fear for themselves and their daughters. 

Maybe, sometimes, there doesn't have to be a point. 

Maybe, sometimes, we can see pain, but never fix it. 

Maybe, sometimes, all you can do is try to be a voice.

Nun-chucks and Sweat

We gasped.
I laughed. Mostly because I thought it was hilarious. But also because I had no idea why my host uncle, Abdenbi, had just pulled nun-chucks out his jacket.

I asked him why he had those with him on our morning of walking through the forests.

"You never know who (or what) you'll find in the forest," he replied. And yes, he was serious. He swung them around to make a point. I'm not sure if Brynn, Nina and I were assured that we were safer with him now that he had the nun-chucks, but regardless we laughed along.

We began speedwalking through the forest and I was soon hushed by Abdenbi. Exercise and talking does not mix, I was told. Later, when I was struggling to keep up to his crazy fast pace, I was told that it was because I didn't stop talking. He asked if it'd hurt me to shut my mouth while exercised.

And so, Abdenbi led the three of us on an hour and a half walk through three different forests and meadows. I wish the word "walk" could adequately convey the amount of physical activity that was going on. I was definitely sweating and, let me tell you, I'm pretty sore this monring.

We ended up at the beach, where Abdenbi proceeded to lead us in arm exercises and stretching. He'd tell us to turn over and count for us as we did pushups, sit ups and stretches. He laughed at us as we moaned and begged for it to stop. Couldn't we just lay on the sand and enjoy the beach?

Eventually we headed back to the big house, stopping occasionally for more exercises. We did 3 sets of dips on the side of the highway, while we waited for traffic to clear. We stop on a sidewalk and did calf-raisers. We found a wall and did leg swings.

And finally, three hours after we left the big house, we turned the corner on to our street. But he didn't just let us walk but. He lined us up and had us race back to the big house. Before entering, he made us do squats and wall-sits.

Phew. Talk about having a personal trainer!!

And so, we arrived, safe and sound. A three hour excercise excursion.

Thank goodness he didn't need to use the nun-chucks.

Eight Things I Bet You Didn't Know...

So, since being here, I've noticed that Moroccans and Colombians have some striking similarities. I've compiled a list... Perhaps you could call it..

8 Ways that Moroccans and Colombians are Similar

1. Walking barefoot = sickness
   Yes, this does seem odd, does it not? But Colombians and Moroccans from the older generations have this notion that if you walk barefoot, you will get sick.
2. Excessive hellos Many of my group members tease Moroccans for how long their greetings are, but I feel like I can't really join in. Of course it takes several minutes to say hello. No, a simple "hello" will not suffice. In Colombia we ask about how the person is doing, how their family is doing, how their dog is doing, what they've been up to, etc. In Morocco, we find three or four ways to ask "How are you?" Labess? Labess.
3. Cheek kisses Oh, the kisses! Kisses all around, ladies and gentlemen! In Colombia we kiss on the right cheek once. Here, we kiss everyone on both cheeks several times. There isn't really a set number. Sometimes just twice, sometimes three times. Sometimes the kisses can go on for a long time. In Colombia women kiss men and women, while men only kiss the women. Here, everyone kisses everyone. Such affection :D
4. Men pee in publicYup. I must say I've seen men peeing on the sides of dirty building walls here too. Sigh. Too bad I couldn't leave that in Colombia.
   
5. Cat-callingNow, I can't decide if there is less cat-calling here, it is less offensive to me or I just understand it less. Maybe its a lot more; the girls who understand French are extremely annoyed and angry by the constant cat-calling on the streets. I usually don't understand anything, so I keep walking. But yes, being a Western-looking woman certainly draws as much attention here as it does in Colombia.
6. A proverb for everything. Moroccans have little sayings and "proverbs" for every situation. I wish I could learn them all. They remind me of home and all the Colombian dichos. I want to be able to recite them and drop them at the perfect moment. I want to capture cultural values in a little sentence and be like, "Ah-ha! I get this cultural value!"
7. Carbs at EVERY SINGLE meal.So here we eat bread at every meal. I would estimate that 90% of my meals have included bread... in some shape or form. My Colombian meals? Yes, bread is common. But if not bread, we'll have rice or potatoes or plantains or yucca or any other starchy kind of food to serve as a filler. Mmm... I miss rice.
8. Food as a way of welcoming guest.I feel that I haven't been "formally" welcomed into a Moroccan home unless I've been offered food of some sort... or mint tea :) And as in Colombia, I cannot refuse it without the host persistently asking me to eat more or take more or have more or please... just have a little more.

Kiddies

I've been volunteering at on organization called Dar Shebeb for three weeks now. Most of the other students in the program teach English or French classes. But Uchenna, Byron and I have a completely different role.

We get to play games for two hours.

Yup. That's our job description. I get to laugh and play and have fun with 7-13 year olds every week. The first two weeks there was a Moroccan helping us with translating game instructions, if need be. But Byron and I enjoyed plunging ahead and trying to get the game across in our Arabic. This last week, there was no such safety-net to fall back on when it was obvious that instructions weren't being conveyed correctly.

We have a couple of staple games that include Ninja, musical chairs and Red Light, Green Light. We play these every week and I love trying to come up with new games every week as well.

This last week I was struck by how funny we must sound. First of all, we speak using mostly Fus-ha, when the kids speak mostly Derija. Secondly, I speak and then think. And third, the words we know are pretty formal for playground kinds of settings.

So, we try to explain that in musical chairs you can't touch the chairs before the "music" (us clapping and shouting) stops. Byron comes up with the exact term for "touch" and I can't think of anything but,  "It is prohibited." Yeah, that's right. They better not touch the chairs.

Through volunteering I've realized that there are some words I really need to learn:

• Stop
• Rules
• You win
• You lose
• You're out
• Can't...
• No pushing!
• Time out
• SILENCE

I love the little kiddies and it might be the highlight of my week. We explain games and then they run up to us and go off in full-speed Derija, expecting us to understand. I usually shrug my shoulders and say, "Mafahimtsh."

Oh, story of my life.

I don't understand.

Weekend Travels

So I saw a thousand palm trees last weekend.
Well, who's counting, anyway?

Five of us jumped on an overnight bus headed to Marrakech and then on toward Ourzazate on Thursday night and wandered around the empty streets of Ourzazate at 7 am Friday morning as we waited for the city to wake up.

Ouarzazate, also known as "The Gateway to the Sahara," is home to North Africa's largest movie studios-- think Hollywood in Morocco. A plethora of famous movies were filmed there, but you can't expect me to remember a string of movies I've never seen; one title I recognized was Gladiator. Basically, however, all those movies with the stereotypical desert? Yup. Ouarzazate.

After breakfast, Darby mischievously asked me if I had my driver's license on me. I nodded and smiled, only imagining what she had up her sleeves.

"Let's rent a car!"

And rent a car we did! I laughed my way through process, bewildered by the fact that we could simply walk into an agency and ask to rent a car. I'm still several years away from the standard "25 years of age" to rent a car, but I had a valid driver's license and before long, I had signed a contract and we had rented a car, each of us chipping in $17 USD to cover the two days.

We enjoyed the freedom the car afforded us and we splurged.
"Oh, can you stop here? I want to take a picture."
"Oh, that's pretty. Let's stop."
"Ah! Let's have a picnic there."

Okay. Yup. Sure. Of course we'll stop.

And we finally made it to Skoura, the oasis known for a thousand palm trees. We drove through a beautiful gorge and admired incredible red rock formations; we hiked into a small valley and climbed around old kasbah (castle/fortress) ruins and took lots of pictures. We stopped and walked through the area with the palm trees and enjoyed the view. Funny how I knew that this was the Morocco I knew people had pictured I'd be living in.

We eventually headed toward our hostel about 20 minutes outside of Ouarzazate. It was a beautiful hostel and even had a swimming pool. I was amazed by the strong, strong winds when we arrived. We enjoyed a chill night in the hotel and then had a slow start in the morning. We explored the surrounding area some, wandered through some more kasbah ruins and eventually headed back toward a massive kasbah that has been used in movies such as Gladiator, Lawrence of Arabia, and Babel.

On our way back to Ourzazate, we picked up a hitchhiker and he told us about his travels in Morocco. A Moroccan, totally in love with his country. What a wonderful experience. He assured me that it was safe to hitchhike and I realized that the most dangerous part about picking up this hitchhiker was planting that idea in my head.

We dropped him off in Ourzazate and headed toward Agdz. The road was super windy and I got plenty of practice driving through curvy mountain roads. We stopped to pick up a man by the side of the road who's car was broken down. He was a sweet Berber man and with his really broken English, our French and Arabic we managed to communicate all the way to Agdz. Upon arriving in Agdz, he insisted we come to his house for tea, which we agreed to.

We enjoyed some tea with him and his cousin. These men were Saharan traders. Apparently, they were on their way to Mauritania-- a trip that would take them 30 days by camel. What? Is this real life? They traveled all around Africa and showed us their goods and explained that they trade with cash and with goods. They were true desert dwellers and invited us to spend a night in the desert with them some time.

Maybe someday :)

We headed back to Ouarzazate, had some dinner, killed some time, turned our car in and then headed toward the bus station. Sunday morning rolled around and we arrived in Rabat-- exhausted, but totally satisfied.

Ps- If you'd like to see more pictures, hop on over to Gabby's blog. She took some great pictures :)