Blogging
From Abroad

After four months of living in Morocco, I am finally coming home to the hills of West Virginia! Studying here has essentially been a boot camp for diplomats and I have learned much about the world. Being away from Brittany, family, and friends for four months was quite difficult, but I became great friends with many international and Moroccan students during my time here. Of course, my writings only touched the surface of Morocco, Islam, and even my own experiences so take this blog for what it is worth. I’ve learned the danger of generalization after being told exactly what I, as an American, hold as my values and morals. But, to generalize (it’s hard to get away from), this has been four months in Morocco:

couscous, great friends, Islam, diesel Mercedes grand taxis, Arabic, marketplaces in towns, hospitality, French, poverty, postcards, letters, vomit, squat toilets, planes, trains, haircuts, Aguelmum’s, La Paix, library, political discussions, professors, Moroccan newspapers, monopolistic campus store and restaurant, green mint tea, café au lait, books, mountain climbing, diplomacy, negotiating, snow, sand, heat, cold, small black notebooks for languages and journal entries, no television, economics education, maps, languages, freedom/lack of freedom, tajines, hard work/leisure, Muslims, Ramadan, mosques, culture shock/understanding, adaptation, criminals, illegal immigrants, soccer with Moroccan kids, Le Monde, Google Translator and Google Earth, skipping American holidays, foreign affairs, Cipro, dirhams and Euros, fallacious logic, countering anti-Americanism, collective action problems, Moroccan/Algerian music, hammams, cheap hotels, mules and donkeys, portraits of Kings Muhammad VI and Hassan II, Skype, Ifrane, fellow travelers, ftour, Islamists/secularists, Torino, 2500 pictures, Five Pillars of Islam, four Arabic books, omnipresence of Security, other peoples? homes and towns, slaughtered animals on hooks, challenges, playing chess, adventure and exploration.

Heading back to the US!

After finals and research papers, many of us went to Aguelmum’s, the local hangout for students at AUI, to celebrate and say goodbye. This morning, one of the Moroccan students who lives across the hall presented me with an ornate rug and wished me the best in traveling. Always hospitality here!

24 hours of travel to go. I’ll travel from Fes to Casablanca, over the Atlantic to JFK and finally to Pittsburgh. It has been an incredibly interesting semester but I’ll be happy to be back in the States.

TIM. This is Morocco. We expatriates say that quite often, whether in complaint or astonishment.

Today was one of those days that it was the latter. Neri and I were walking out of campus towards the marche to work on his economics paper and Majid, a friend of ours, saw us and offered to give us a ride. In his Renault, we sped out of the gate and flew past the marche. “Do you guys have 15 minutes?” he asked. We started driving down a wooded road, further away from Ifrane and to a place to which I had never journeyed. Passing the Source Vittel, Majid, having lived in Ifrane for many years after coming here from Riyadh, described his experiences in traveling throughout Morocco. We stopped the car beside three Moroccan men, all dressed in toboggans and heavy coats, who Majid claimed to know. In a field adjacent to his car, there were three horses all galloping around and kicking their front ends up into the air. “Let’s go!” Majid exclaimed. The next thing I know, we are racing three ostensibly wild horses through the woods of Ifrane. I had never ran a horse?let alone raced one?and it was a thrilling experience. After riding through the woods, Neri and I exchanged one of those commonplace ‘whaaat?’ sort-of looks and then drove back to the marche.

Later in the afternoon, I decided to get another Arabic lesson in the guise of a haircut?there is a reason why my hair has been gradually cut down to nothing. Neri and I walked around the marche to search for an open barbershop. Keep in mind that I just had a haircut three weeks ago and honestly did not need one, but just felt like I ought to get one before Dec. 16?my airport rendez-vous. Sitting in the chair, the barber asked me what I wanted and I said “khamsa hanaa wa arb’a hanaa, afak,” referring to the length of the clipper guards. A middle-aged gentleman sat behind us and spoke nothing but Arabic to us. “Limaatha toorido halaqa ash’r, hal anta ahmaq?” Why do you want a haircut, are you crazy? He questioned. “Lanaa sara habiibitii fii ahd ‘ashra yawma!” Because I will see my girlfriend in 11 days! We spoke a little in French and in between cutting single hairs he would write out various words and phrases on a piece of paper. We taught him some haircutting terminology in English and he described the English phrases he already knew: “Mi name is Muhammad. Niyce to meet hyou.” Towards the end, he took out a straight blade, doused it in alcohol, and then caught it on fire to sanitize it. I cringed as he scraped it along the back of my neck. It took more than an hour to clip my hair as it essentially was more of an Arabic lesson than a haircut.

When a few of us traveled to nearby Azrou for a couple hours, we walked through the marche and the residential areas to chat with Azrouians and purchase carpets. Sanny, in the market for a carpet that he could drape over himself to look like Alexander the Great, began negotiations while the merchant’s son ran and bought us some cafe au laits. The shop owner started tearing all of the carpets off the shelves and displaying them for Sanny to see. I was buried in the process. Of course, the merchant overpriced the carpets to a ridiculous amount and we thought about a multitude of methods to bring it down to the normal market price. We could have:

A) said udarras al iqtisaid fii al jamiyat al akhwayan wa huwa talibii ‘I teach economics at the university and he is my student’ while negotiating the price quote, so as to mess with him psychologically and counter his own stretches about the ‘Berber quality’ of the rugs
B) had Sanny yell ‘I am Alexander the Great’, pound his chest, and then literally jump on the man with such a bear hug that he couldn’t possibly resist to lower the price by 50%, so as to mess with him physically
C) passed the notepad with the price quote on it back and forth thirty times until we settled on a price, so as to bombard him with numbers

Of course, we performed all three methods and the price split in half. I think that the bear hug was the most effective as it was performed the most. Thus, Sanny walked away with three rugs and I bought a small wooden camel. While negotiating, it seems as if one can always see a supply/demand curve equalizing until the price is just right. Or maybe I am a dork. But I will truly miss negotiations when I return to the US. I have a bad feeling I’ll walk into a Wal-Mart and say “Five dollars for a pack of pens? Come on, I am a student. Give me a student price! Hatha bezzef!“

My eyes watered up a bit as I dipped the chicken nuggets into the barbecue sauce, just like they did when I said words like ‘milkshake’ and ‘quarter pounder’ at the counter. “Would you like fries with that?” Yes, I would, quite frankly. Heinz ketchup and a McArabia sandwich?essentially an Arabic flat bread schwarma with two all-beef patties?completed the meal. I think I could faintly hear the Star Spangled Banner in the background. I made a McDonald’s/US Embassy run today and it was more glorious than you could ever believe.

كل ما احب – I’m lovin’ it indeed.

Ok, so maybe I’m exaggerating McD’s greatness but in this context it is much different. It is the power of the brand name, McDonalds, that protects the quality of the food. Many families, both Moroccan and international, sat and enjoyed the food as I reveled in the fact that I would not be sick later that evening. It was a pleasant reminder of home, even though I ordered in Arabic!

I’ve spent the last couple weeks in the library trying to give myself some free time to travel at the end of the semester. Recently, the university has had a series of lectures ranging from the Annapolis Conference to Morocco’s fight against terrorism. Within the last few weeks they’ve also had a German opera, an art exhibit, and a Berber music night, which has made it enjoyable to stay on campus to study. However, while all of these are great, I’m still not a fan of midnight curfews and wearing a down jacket and toboggan in the classroom (seriously). Usually, I’ve had to find a balance between learning on campus and learning through traveling and talking with people. However, I’ve had a lot of very enlightening political discussions with students and professors on campus lately and I’ve find out how the US is perceived throughout the region.

Taking advantage of the AUI library.

.

The distance between the US and Morocco as displayed on my Arabic map. According to it, Greenland is as large as all of North America. Did not know that.

Fencer and I decided to get out of Ifrane for a few hours and traveled to Fes for the afternoon. After fine dining at McD’s, we explored the medina once again to practice our Arabic and find some gifts for our triumphant return home. Four months ago in Fes I knew but a few words in Arabic and my pronunciation of French would make folks scream ‘sacrebleu!’ It’s interesting to see how immersion aids language skills. In speaking Arabic in the medina, people were much more receptive and curious than my first time through. I even debunked a ‘Muhammad Couscous’ and found that his real name was Amine. “You know, Morocco was the first country to recognize the American independence,” he stated. I do and greatly appreciate it. I remember how culturally different I found Fes to be during my first visit there in August. It now seems to be incredibly normal?of course you are slaughtering chickens in the street and of course we’ll just sit here and drink mint tea and talk politics with complete strangers for hours!

Fes.

As we were walking through the main gate of the medina, the Bab el-Mansour, Fencer remarked, “Ah, the familiar faces of Fes! There’s the bird dude (referring to the man who always sells bird whistles in the market square)...and that guy from that restaurant!”

We pulled up a chair for our friend, the cat. Overly ambitious, he kept slapping Fencer’s hand and insisting that we feed him.

Two weeks left in Morocco. I’m quite excited for the following: Christmas, Brittany, family, friends, cross country skiing in the Mountain State, the freedom of living in the US, and Black Bear. It has been an incredibly educational experience and that is essentially why I self-exiled; I’ve experienced a lot but it is my time to come home.

( Sunday, Nov. 25 – For those of you interested in understanding another side of Morocco, there is an intriguing article in today’s New York Times. )

This weekend, I traveled to the Tafilalt oasis in the Sahara Desert with a small group of professors and students to stay with some families. Dr. Shope, an anthropologist at AUI, had informed us that the villages were quite conservative and that the people spoke nothing but Arabic. He likewise stated that the region was ravaged by drought and that we needed to bring our own water and be conservative in usage whilst in the families’ homes. I likewise packed up my medical gear since we were going into a fairly isolated area. I tagged along with the group to investigate the living conditions and do some literal field research for my Islamic civilization project.

Upon arrival in the village, the professors left for a hotel in Erfoud while we were split up into groups of three (separating the sexes) and taken to the homes in the region. Aside from starlight, it was pitch black as we walked through the town on a dirt path with our then taciturn host, Hassan. After exchanging the Arabic pleasantries and introducing ourselves, we realized we had exhausted our language abilities and that we were doomed for a weekend of awkward silence. However, I said one word in French accidentally and Hassan belted, “ah, tu parle francais! bien!” This led to much conversation over the weekend. As a teacher in the village, Hassan was one of the few people who spoke French.

The family I stayed with lives in the district of Al-Ghurfah. Many of the structures in the village are made of sun-heated bricks and local materials. As we traveled to the region, we witnessed what happened when there was a combination of torrential rains and a lack of upkeep: melted towns.

We conversed well past midnight about family and life in both Morocco and the US. The next morning, Hassan and his brothers served us a breakfast of eggs, soup, bread and tea. We drank tea throughout the weekend at every meal and at every social occasion, as is usual in the country. He heated the tea kettle over a small propane tank with what seemed to be a backpacking-style grill on top. We talked at length about family and politics and he taught us an insane amount of Arabic. Even his father spoke French and joined in on the conversation. He was more curious about my political and religious views than anything. The weekend proved to be quite foreign language intensive!

In this district and throughout much of rural Morocco, people use water in lieu of toilet paper. Thus, after being escorted to the bathroom so as to avoid mingling with the females in the family, we were each handed a bucket for such usage. Luckily, I brought along a roll but the conditions still influenced the sanitation for us all. That is something that has proved difficult for me throughout the entire experience and I have been sick many times because of such hygienic conditions, even while I have remained vigilant to prevent illness. One can only do so much when food is cooked by someone else.

The next day, we went with the professors and students to a local community center where we underwent a lecture about what they are doing throughout the region. Specifically, they are working on female literacy and teaching Quranic interpretations that counter the influences of the Saudi-financed literalist, Wahabbist literature that had passed through the region in the previous decades. While this education aims to counter “folk Islam,” and to obscure Jihadist Salafist interpretations, the interpretations are still quite orthodox. However, the teachings are meant to be a “model of what Islam should be: flourishing society and interplay of thought.” They also try to explain the Arabic translations of speeches of Western governmental officials so that they are not misinterpreted. It is interesting to see how our government’s policies are interpreted abroad just by taking them out of context or using fallacious logic to derive conclusions that are most certainly false. I see that a lot when I correct papers.

Trying to understand the Arabic sentences.

In exploring Al-Ghurfah, we found that most of the village is composed of mud structures with roof supports from local date trees. The main energy sources are from the sun, manual labor, and burning of the date trees. They burn the leaves and branches inside of small, mud-structured ovens to heat grains. Of course, there is a lack of capital and education throughout the region, leaving it as one of the lesser economically developed places in Morocco. It is seemingly a struggle for survival in such a region. There is no resource base aside from date trees, grains, clay, and mud. It is truly a desolate region. “It will snow in the mountain, ensha’allah,” Hassan said as we walked through a dry field flanked by empty canals.

The women were completely covered by the chador, as are many Muslim women in rural areas. The school we visited had as a principal goal the education of women so that they are able to read, vote, and teach their children, thus giving them a boost up in the world.

Politically, the district is self-governed and self-policed. There have been violent contentions over water resources and they have their own Sharia judicial systems to deal with such things. All of the land is inherited and a caste system was in place until recently. While there “aren’t any slaves anymore, some people are not free,” as stated by the headmaster at the school.

We stopped to chat with some of the brick makers. They pour mud into a mold and then allow it to be heated by the sun. Not necessarily the strongest building material. Many villages have essentially melted and even in Al-Ghurfa there were structures that had caved in or fallen over.

In the qasr, a covered village residential and commercial structure, kids followed us giggling as we kicked up a lot of dust into the air. We had just finished playing soccer with a bunch of kids who destroyed us and I’m pretty sure some of the same kids were running around us laughing and inquiring about our presence in their qasr. A few of my female colleagues were teaching them a bunch of American games as we were leaving before the main door to the self-contained community closed. No foreigners can access the qasr after the doors have closed.

Agricultural areas are ravaged by drought. While it is in the Sahara Desert, the region used to flourish but over the last few decades there has been less and less water in the oasis village.

That night, we traveled to a local community center for a Sufi (a mystical interpretation of Islam and the Quran) dinner and conversation. Before we ate, we listened to a Quranic recitation that looped seemingly for an hour, putting everyone into a state of trance. People started bobbing their heads and tapping their feet to the rhythm and I had to snap myself out of the trance to analyze everything. While they were playing the drums, a few young girls (allowed to be in the room with other males since they hadn’t yet hit puberty) entered the room and started dancing by violently shaking their bodies as they went into a state of trance. Their eyes looked so strange as they were moving, as if they were rolling into the backs of their heads. From what I understand from my Islamic civilization professor, many unorthodox practices stem from Sufism, from walking on hot coals to eating glass. Before we ate, they anointed us with some sort of rose wine or something. All of this very much differs from the mainstream Islamic practices that I have seen. Very different!

Inside the community center where they teach basic literacy and the Quran.

Quite the weekend! About 25 days left in Morocco. It is rough here, honestly, although incredibly interesting and educational. It was wild to see the contrast between being in Milan, one of the wealthiest places in the world, and then traveling to Al-Ghurfa on the fringe of the Sahara Desert in a matter of three days. After being in Al-Ghurfa, I began to appreciate the opportunity afforded to be by studying at a university. Running water, library, education, food, etc. I suppose it is all relative!

Ferris Bueller’s Week Off

A few weeks ago, Neri had invited a couple of us to go to Italy to visit his family. Of course, I jumped at the opportunity but it meant that I had to miss Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday of classes. Currently, I am in serious catch-up mode but it was well worth the journey. My French professor said in the beginning of class that le voyage forge le jeunesse (traveling makes the youth) so I suppose that was my justification!

Last Wednesday evening, we took a cab (yet officially known as a ‘friend/driver’ as the petit cab driver secretly left Ifrane to drive to Azrou since petit taxis are bound by law to stay within a particular town) to the main station, where we took an overnight bus to Marrakech for an inexpensive flight to Torino. While waiting for our bus, I spoke with an illegal immigrant who sneaks into Spain to work and then makes his way back to Morocco from time to time. When we said our goodbyes, his hands felt of a rough sandpaper; “mis amigos y yo trabajamos mucho en espana, pero mucho dinero!” he said. He even showed me his fake ID for Spain.

From the rocky bus, we had a full view of the stars and this made it feel as if we were in a space flight simulator. The rear shocks of the bus apparently vanished as we swayed from side to side and were popped out of our seats. A few people in the front started puking so they distributed plastic bags to only those individuals who had already puked (what about the rest of us?). Going uphill usually means that we in the back are the unlucky recipients of the stream, but this time it stayed isolated. In the States, one pays $5 for a five minute ride on one of those space simulators but only gets to puke once. In Morocco, one pays $10 for a 7 1/2 hour ride and receives the golden ticket to puke all he or she wants. “How old could the half lamb carcass hanging on the hook be?” I asked myself as we stopped at a small roadside stand. I declined my stomach’s desire for some food in remembering my last roadside stand experience!

Finally arriving in Torino after an eight hour bus ride and a three hour flight, we were greeted by Neri’s mom and sister. From the airport, we drove through the countryside until we reached Torino. Speeding up narrow cobbled streets, we stopped in front of a yellow gate that marked Neri’s home. While Neri and his family were speaking in Italian, I tried to write down some words and phrases that I could make out so that I could at least say a few phrases when I met Neri’s friends. His mom took us to where we would be sleeping for the next four nights and I was utterly shocked. They had built a guest house for those coming into Torino for the 2006 Winter Olympics and they brought me into a master bedroom with a king size bed. Usually, I sleep on a mattress on the floor with a light bulb dangling on a wire from the ceiling (if it is a nicer, cheap hotel) so the standards of the Italian excursion produced in me a great levity and happiness. We slept for a few hours and then were awoken by Neri’s golden retriever. His family had truly taken us in as their own.

Outside Neri’s home in Torino, Italy.

Neri’s mom had cooked us some pasta and we indulged in some cheeses and prosciutto, an Italian ham. I felt at home and it reminded me of eating at my grandparents’ house. I had told them that my family had migrated in 1920 from a small village in the south of Italy, Bagnoli del Trigno, and I found it on a topographical map. His dad took us out for some delicious pizza (not as good as yours, Dad, don’t worry). That evening, Neri took us to meet his friends at a new club. It had been invitation only but Neri sneaked us in and I mingled with the extremely stylish and wealthy folks of Torino. I felt a bit out of place but tried to learn Italian as the night wore on, oftentimes resorting to speaking Arabic with Wak. As we walked out, Ferraris and Porsches growled by and it was yet another situation in which to adapt: living the high life for a few days. Obviously, I had no Ferrari but my Porsche sufficed. (Com’on!)

Every morning, I would hop in a shower that would spray me from every direction and I started out with a few cups of espresso and a large breakfast before heading to the art districts. We saw a few exhibits before heading out to dinner, which usually consisted of gnocchi, pasta, pizza and cheese. Neri had informed us that there was a large Moroccan immigrant population in the town so Wak and I were constantly on the search for Moroccans to speak with, as our Italian was more than limited. We spent a few nights in the town squares, with Wak and I making Arabic videos that parodied our ‘Al Kitaab’ book series: “Notice the difference between tasharaaaafffnaaaa and mucharfiiiin!” I think the art spirit got into me too much and I left the camera in black and white mode to be a dork.

Church in Torino illuminated by a local artist

Neri’s mom is a curator at a local museum and they currently have the remnants of artifacts from the Kabul Museum in Afghanistan. Interestingly, I, ‘Enrico Bertazzoli’, was the restoration superintendent, or at least my badge had proclaimed! We had procured some of the museum staff’s passes so that we could explore all of the museum. A few people moved out of my way when I was walking through and someone came and asked me something in Italian and I replied cherto! (of course! – his mom clarified whatever confusion I may have caused). Neri has to be the king of Torino; he brought us into a gallery where he knew the code to the door and then he spoke with the mayor in one of the town squares. Neri studies the ‘economics of art and culture’ so he, as well as his mother, know a great deal about the subject. She had written all of the signs around town and provided us with a wealth of information. Thus, learning took place outdoors and in galleries for the week.

Neri’s mom outside the Afghanistan exhibit.

While out in town after an exhibit, I walked into a kebab restaurant that was staffed by Moroccans. At first hostile, they inquired about my usage of Arabic. In English, one asked, “why is that you speak Arabic, is it for work or what?” I then replied that I wanted to be able to speak to people and then in Arabic quoted my only line that I can speak with great speed, “I study economics, Arabic, and Islamic Civilization at the university of Al Akhawayn in Ifrane, Morocco.” They asked if I liked Islamic Civilization and I meant to say that I was quite interested, but instead I said, with great enthusiasm, “I love Islam!” Their eyes lit up and they beamed and I tried to explain that I wasn’t a Muslim but Neri and Wak were waiting for me outside and were kind of tapping their feet so I just ran out. They yelled shukran shukran shukran (thank you) as I left. I got the feeling that people in Italy didn’t approach them with a benevolent curiosity.

The next day, we traveled to Milan since our plane left from that airport. We decided to just rough it on the street until our 4 AM bus to the airport, which in retrospect was exhilarating yet frightening. We went to a LaChapelle exhibit and returned to the center square as the sun began to set. It became cold and I decided to splurge on some Milan fashion, which to me was a black toboggan that was sold on the street by a Moroccan. We haggled in Arabic numbers, which was new to me as I usually do it in French. Thus, it took a while to knock the price down to three Euros and I spoke with him for a while afterwards to find that he originates from Casablanca. I grabbed another slice of pizza before we ran into a group of Neri’s friends that swarmed around him and gave him big bear hugs.

On the train to Milan.

The Grand Heist

‘Mucharfin’, I found, originates from a southern part of Italy and now studies economic theory in Milan. When I stated that my family originates from Bagnoli del Trigno, he exclaimed, “we may be cujinos (cousins)!” After we all had a shot of espresso and a glass of wine, he invited us into his apartment for some pasta. Mucharfin and I spoke at length about economics and it got incredibly arcane, enough to push everyone away from us. He is of the communist persuasion so we debated minute aspects of theory for a while; he even had a white board with mathematical formulas for his positions. Wak and I then changed the subject by teaching “how much wood would a woodchuck chuck…” and “she sells sea shells…” to everyone in the room. We moved back down to the street to explore and Wak and I called our girlfriends. As Wak wandered about on his own, Neri and I sat on the street and talked about Americans and Italians, their antics and peoples’ perceptions of them. It was a wonderful conversation and Neri and I got to know one another quite well. Later in the evening, Wak and I went back up to Mucharfin’s apartment to use the bathroom and upon heading back down to the street, Neri burst through the door with a shocked look on his face and said that he had been robbed by three men. Supposedly, one of them put his hand in his pocket and made a gun figure and they surrounded him to steal his cell phone and some money. Wak, a New Yorker evidently used to such confrontations, ran out the door and Neri and I followed in tail. As Wak ran up and down the streets looking for the men (not the smartest procedure, I don’t think) Neri and I flagged down the Italian carabinieri, who went out in mass to search for them. Mucharfin, after having a few glasses of wine, flew down the stairs with two butter knives in hand and a vengeance, apparently planning to feed them so much toast that they die. “I’m going to kill them!” he whispered with a grimace and disheveled hair. Neri and I tried to calm him down until one of the carabinieri took them away from him. Neri received a phone call and after only ten minutes, four carabinieri cars were in front of Mucharfin’s apartment with the three men in the back. After filling out some paperwork with the extraordinarily friendly and efficient police (who made sure to inform me that their Alfa Romeos were faster than our Crown Victorias), we took to the streets in mass to search for Neri’s phone. To no avail, we grabbed a taxi which began our sixteen hour journey back to Ifrane.

Mucharfin peaking through the short-framed door to his apartment.

Reflections

In traveling through Italy, I was able to look at my experiences from a different context. I enjoyed stepping back and sort of analyzing my experiences in Morocco and seeing what I wanted to accomplish in my remaining time there. Being back in a Western country enabled me to consolidate my learning and arrange everything I had seen.

Although I have thoroughly enjoyed my Moroccan adventure, a respite from squat toilets and food of questionable sanitation was likewise welcomed (not sure where the line of causality is in that). I also realized that I had become quite concerned about Moroccan politics, society and economics because I had so adapted to it that it became my country and AUI my home. At times, it is hard to remove myself from Morocco because it literally has become my place of residence.

This has reminded me that I am, of course, not Moroccan and that my home is on the other side of the Atlantic in lovely West Virginia (which I have explained is the greatest place in the world). I had a real taste of home when in Italy since all of Neri’s friends sang ‘Country Roads’ and Italian food is the norm in my family. Plus, drinking wine and eating ham was certainly a digression! Being around Neri’s family greatly reminded me of being around my own and it jogged my memory that I am an American from West Virginia and not a Moroccan from Ifrane. It is strange how much I had adapted to a Moroccan lifestyle, from wearing Moroccan clothes with Moroccan coins in my pocket and a carte d’identity national in my passport to a quintessentially Moroccan haircut. My concerns rest in learning Arabic and understanding Islam and Islamic economics. Everyone asks me, while I speak fragmented Arabic, whether I am a Muslim. Even people around Neri ask what it is like to be in Morocco, not in West Virginia! While Morocco is more culturally foreign than the US to Italians, it is still interesting to see that I was Neri’s Moroccan friend. All quite interesting, which is why I really enjoyed going home with him. After three months of sharing experiences with Moroccan natives, from riding in cabs to buying groceries to talking about politics and then afterwards reading a Moroccan newspaper, I have really organized my mind around Morocco and am grateful for the change in perspective.

The monolithic Milan Cathedral, one of the largest in the world.

The contrast between the lifestyles in Italy and Morocco is striking; In Italian trains, business people in stylish suits hold Blackberries and laptops, while in Moroccan ones, men in djellabas with long beards hold Arabic newspapers and a mug of tea de menthe. I adapted to the Italian lifestyle easily, wearing Neri’s clothes and drinking espresso (as deeply analyzing a work of art consisting of a blank white canvas can only represent something after five shots of espresso!). I sort of feared going back into Morocco, with its hassles and audacious cab drivers (which detract from the extremely friendly people and beautiful countryside), yet the purpose there is to learn and work hard while I am there, trying to understand peoples’ lives. Two cultures with great differences also share many similarities and it is all a wild learning experience.

I am truly indebted to Neri’s family and friends for everything?amazing Italian food, a bed, entrance to many art festivals and galleries, transport, as well as being incredibly hospitable. Thank you!! I owe a lot of hospitality to random strangers when I get back to Morgantown, which is but four weeks away. The anticipation is building to get back into West Virginia to see my girlfriend, family, friends, and start the transition from college to real life. While the nomadic lifestyle offers a lot of experiences and education, I’m realizing the importance of a community base. My dad had sent me a copy of Wonderful West Virginia as well as a letter and some food from home, which adds greatly to the anticipation of coming home. That is something Neri and I talked about on the street in Milan; it is interesting how one realizes how family and friends are of utmost importance and that all other things, while producing a lot of stories and experiences, pale in comparison. As Sarah Lovell recently wrote to me, Montani Semper Liberi! Hopefully the hills will be covered in snow upon my return!

In taking time to explore Ifrane during study breaks, I found that the ubiquitous Moroccan tea comes in the form of ‘gunpowder’, which is rolled green tea leaves. After buying a box in the marche in Ifrane, I brewed a pot and found it to be quite bitter and strong. Still, I downed a few cups. I opened the top of the pot and found that the tea had swelled to the complete volume of the pot, making it an especially strong brew. I had put an absurd amount of gunpowder in the pot and hence made the strongest green tea in the world. Whoops! I had another sip and coughed due to the extreme bitterness and strength. No wonder merchants call it ‘Moroccan whiskey’; its caffeine content is ridiculous.

Drunk on Moroccan whiskey, I grabbed Hagan and Nick to go trekking through the town and surrounding forests. Before venturing into the woods, we stopped at a shop on the far side of the marche that offers terrific chicken and kefta (chopped beef) sandwiches. Surrounding the marche and centre ville are acres of parks and forests. Many locals sat in the grass chatting and sipping tea as their kids ran to and fro.

One of King Mohammad VI’s palaces nestled in the forest of Ifrane.

We journeyed through the forest of Ifrane in search of the ?Source Vittel?, the supposed gathering point of families and water gatherers. After leisurely walking on a dirt path, we came across groups of people congregating around the water source and playing in an expansive open field. After Hagen left us, we continued past this point to further explore the area. Upon walking through the fiery red and orange leaves that had fallen to the ground, we turned the corner in the woods to run into a kid named Ali who rode a small donkey with crates of water jugs on both sides. He was traveling in the opposite direction but spoke French well enough to keep up a conversation; hence we walked by his side back to the Source Vittel. After talking about living in the area, he invited Nick and I back to his family?s home for some Moroccan whisky, which we could not deny. We helped him fill up the jugs at the source and then loaded up his mule for the short walk back to his home. While we were filling the water, we apparently were seen as locals and many people came up to us to inquire as to where we lived and what we were doing. A large group of men from Casablanca were so fascinated by us that each one of them asked us to take pictures with them. Must be the red hair! One of the more gregarious men for some reason told me that he was Chinese and had me take many pictures of him (with my camera?) giving two thumbs up by the Source Vittel. Ali and Nick were trying to pull me away from the curious onlookers and we finally hit the dirt path back to Ali?s family?s home.

Nick and Ali filling up water at a stone wall that channeled the Source Vittel.

.

Packing up the now full jugs of water on Ali’s donkey.

As we arrived, Ali?s mother scrubbed clothes on a washboard besides the small stream that ran ten feet in front of the house. She washed her hands in the stream and then shook my hand, exchanging the pleasantry, ?tasharafna.? Ali then introduced us to his sister and father, who took a few minutes out of performing their chores to welcome us. They only spoke Arabic so our conversations were short and translated through Ali. We grabbed a few chairs and sat outside, watching their dogs chase chickens. After washing all of the family?s clothes, Ali?s mother carved up a chicken in the stream, throwing the inedible parts at the dogs which tore into them. Ali informed us that his father is the guard of the forest and patrols the area. His sister brought out glasses of what was ostensibly milk but could have been any milk product under the sun. It tasted of a foul yogurt but had the consistency of milk; whatever the product, it was in some stage of transformation! I tasted it and found it quite hard to stomach, but given that his family surrounded us and invited us into their home, it would have been incredibly disrespectful had we not drank it. Nick asked me what it was and I asked him if he wanted me to tell him it was spoiled milk or a ?very natural, liquidy yogurt?. He said that he?d rather be ?informed and depressed than ignorant and ecstatic? and I told him I could give him some medicine if he had adverse effects. Ali’s sister then brought out some Moroccan tea and we spoke with Ali at length about Moroccan schools. The sun began to set and we decided we ought to head out so we didn’t end up lost in the forest at night. After expressing our gratitude for the hospitality, Ali led us out of the woods to a dirt path that took us back to the university, which has been abandoned since Friday.

Happy Halloween! What a strange holiday to explain to foreigners.

“What is this ‘Halloween’?” My roommate asked as I wore a mask. Others have inquired about the rituals surrounding the holiday. “What do you do on Halloween?” “Well, we, uh, dress up, eat a lot of candy, watch horror films, go to haunted houses where there are real ghosts, monsters, and goblins. Quite horrifying.” I responded. “Why is that you dress in costumes?” Another girl asked me in front of the dining hall. “So that the dead people don’t get us,” I replied straightforwardly. It is bizarre to come off the serious holiday season of Ramadan and then explain ‘our holiday’.

While I am not in the States, the Halloween spirit was still alive on campus and in Ifrane. My literature professor gave us some horror stories by H.P. Lovecraft, which are macabrely described and established the Halloween atmosphere. The dining hall always offers up a horrifying experience so they have been building up the suspense for months. One of the international students here rented a villa for the evening’s festivities. Upon entry, I ran into a few Chechen rebels, Eve, a southern belle, Jean Paul Sartre, a pirate, Ibran dressed as Shobby, Meat Stick dressed as Wak, and a pregnant woman with an ‘I love Earl’ tattoo, amongst many others. Some of the Moroccan students dressed in Middle Eastern clothing. Earlier in the day, Majid, a Saudi Arabian student, went with Olbera and I to the marche to search for costumes for the evening. I found an alien mask and a small green gun, thus settling as an alien invader, which didn’t top last year’s costume of ‘The King of Bubblewrap Land.’ We drove back in Majid’s car, which greatly improved upon our normal mode of transportation (squeezing seven into old, diesel-fuming Mercedes without seat belts and intact windshields). I miss driving. Majid shared an interesting story with me about being a Saudi Arabian in the US before and after 9/11 and the type of reception he received from people.

Leaving Agelmem’s to frighten unsuspecting Ifranians. The owner of the restaurant said “Happy Halloooween!”

Before leaving for the party, a few of us met with Dr. Bouzidi, an economics professor, at La Paix, a local restaurant, to talk about politics and life in general. It was a pleasant evening of chatting about foreign policy and sharing hammam stories. Afterwards, in costume, I ran about the campus, receiving the strangest looks. I tried to scare a few people but they just stared at me in utter confusion.

• I’ve really started to appreciate Morocco’s location in the world and the various influences that make up its society and history. It most certainly is more Western than many North African and Middle Eastern countries, with Arabic meeting French to produce the Darija dialect. It has vestiges of both Africa and Europe, but is neither African nor European. It seems as if everything comes together in this country, creating an interesting culture.

• I gave away all my travel and camping gear to Fencer for the weekend, forcing me to stay on campus this weekend to study Arabic and for the GRE. We have a four day holiday break for the ‘Green March’, which is the Moroccan holiday celebrating the annexation of the Western Sahara during the 1970s. Hundreds of thousands of Moroccan civilians had marched (with the color of Islam, green) into the territory , then held by Spain, eventually resulting in the Madrid Accords, which ceded the region to Morocco. This is still a touchy subject as the Polisario Front in the Western Sahara still demands autonomy and conflicts flared until a cease-fire in the early ‘90s.

• If you study abroad in a country with a foreign language, be prepared to be the official English paper reviser! While in the library, many non-native speaking students have asked for help on their English and economics papers. I have also spent almost an hour a day with my roommate, helping him correct his papers. I am trying to force him to speak Arabic and French to me, but he always slips back into English, so it isn’t necessarily reciprocal. I’m just not going to respond to him if he says something in English. “Je ne comprends pas l’anglais!”

We traveled to Fez to catch a ride to Chaouen, a blue-tinted town in the Rif Mountains about five hours north of Ifrane. A student who studied abroad at WVU, Muhammad, joined us in the taxi ride and talked to Slick and I about his experiences on High Street and riding the PRT.

A few feet out of the Fez taxi station, something went awry with the car. The driver jumped out and popped the hood as I ran across the street to withdraw some dirhams from the bank. I came back to see what I could do to help out. Upon investigating the engine, I found that it was still there, thus ending the extent of my diagnostic abilities. Back on the road, we were traversing the Rif Mountains when we reached a long incline, going slower and slower and slower until finally stopping near the top of the hill. We jumped out to give the car a push in the opposite direction. As it started downhill, we sprinted towards the car to catch up with it and I leaped into the back seat. A ‘mushroom truck’?one with so many bails of hay that they mushroom over the top of the vehicle?passed us as we made our second attempt up the hill. Finally successful, I was still fearful of driving for four more hours through the mountains with two breakdowns under our belts. The mushroom truck must have been traveling too fast, as it was subsequently stopped by a police officer wearing white leather boots complete with a matching white leather gun holster. Stylin’!

“So that is where olive oil comes from,” I thought to myself as we passed an olive tree grove. A farmer had set up a stand to sell freshly made olive oil, which had been poured into various bottles. Along the drive, some farmers had set up pomegranate stands; others sold cactus fruits, which I later found out you cannot grab with a bare hand (but it only took me 10 minutes to get out all of the hair-thin thorns).

Fencer told me that having an olive tree symbolizes peace because it takes 100 years for a tree to reach maturity and thus, if interrupted by war, cannot exist. Fencer, after doing a tour in Iraq, has a much different perspective on things than that of the average international student. He is likewise prone to philosophical discourse for hours. Interesting, nonetheless.

We discovered that the shirt Fencer had bought in the market was made of the same material as the curtains and bedspreads in our room.

Night had fallen by the time we reached Chaouen. After arriving, our cab driver demanded a tip. Omar, a middle-aged Chaouen native and self-proclaimed ‘king of this place’, greeted us and offered to take us to a hotel for the evening. I usually am more skeptical of the ‘official town greeters’ but was for some reason intrigued. He did, however, find us a cheap hotel. Afterwards, he led us to a touristy restaurant, which we have learned to tweak to our benefit. Normally, these restaurants, complete with soap in the bathroom (which leads to a lesser chance of pulling a Casa’), charge 150 DHs for a full course meal. They give the tourists a menu designed specifically for them. However, there are also normal itemized, market-priced menus, which the waiters often hesitantly divulge. Yet being insistent on the other menu usually pays dividends, especially when one is a student.

Omar sat with us and talked to us about some of his other business operations and we “gently declined the movement for monetary gain,” which turned into our verbose way of secretly saying “let’s get out of here.”

Shortly after, we took off to explore the blue-tinted medina. After climbing some stairs that led to nowhere, we descended and ran into various people who asked us to look at their shops. “Just take a look, that is all, just look,” they would say. I forewarned them that I had no intentions of buying anything, yet they still invited us in to chat. Fencer and I were talking to them for a while, speaking a bit of Arabic. Slick hadn’t said much so I told them that he was Russian. The Moroccan shopkeepers became intensely curious of the Russian in the room. Slick went into Russian mode and he and I started speaking in ‘Russian.’ “Puskin waz Putin?” Slick asked me. “Aygin flygin!” I said with an angry scowl, hitting him in the face. “Ah, zifligin!” Slick responded. They laughed pretty hard and started to teach us some Arabic slang and swear words, which I translated for my Russian friend. They then asked Slick how to say “my name is” in Russian. At this point, I was dying from laughter. Abdul, one of the shopkeepers, brought out a Berber drum and started playing. I tried to convince Slick to show them a Russian dance but he was a shy Russian.

Chaouen at the base of one of the ‘horns’

The next day, we grabbed breakfast and then further explored the town and surrounding mountains. A ruined mosque provided us with a tremendous view of the town. Muhammad, a local, talked to us about the history of the town and explained that Chefchaouen, the full Arabic name, means ‘look at the horns’, referring to the twin peaks that rise above the whitewashed town.

Women in the town were standing near an aqueduct system, washing clothes and rugs on washboards on both sides of the water channel. Those who live in Chaouen brought down their clothes to be washed and then transported them back up the hill to put them on clotheslines. A kid angered a mountain goat by pushing it around and it became hostile, charging after a woman carrying her laundry from the wash center. She slapped it in the head and it immediately calmed down.

As we journeyed through the town, two men stopped us. One dressed in a blue Tuareg head wrap and donned a flowing white jellaba and the other had a long, white beard with blackened tips at the bottom. They addressed us in English and I responded in Arabic, which made them curious about our status in Morocco. “Why is it that you speak Arabic?” one inquired. We explained in Arabic that we were students at the university in Ifrane and I told him that I studied Arabic and Islamic civilization, which pleased the older sayyid to no end. He stated that he originates from Pakistan and that he came to Morocco to help spread the word of Allah. I told him I am not a Muslim but am quite intrigued by Islamic civilization. I went out of my way to pull out my Islamic civ book and show him my notes in Arabic. He proclaimed that it is good that Americans are living in Morocco; “we like this very much! We are all brothers.” Supposedly, the older gentleman fought in Kashmir for 60 years. He hoped that we will eventually find that Muhammad is the prophet of Allah and made a motion of prayer towards the sky. Fencer and Slick talked with the younger man as the other stopped talking and stared at the sky. We exchanged ma’assalaamas (go in peace) and went on our way to further discover the region.

While trekking in the surrounding mountains, a few young kids on muleback stopped us and started speaking Spanish. They asked us for a pen and I kindly offered up Fencer’s. The Spanish got into us when we were heading back to the town: “Tenemos que correr!” I yelled as we sprinted down the steep dirt path that led back to Chaouen. Slick shouted something in Spanish and then came Fencer running down the hill in between us. I still had cactus needles all over my hand from my earlier decision to tear into one of the cactus fruits. “Yo tengo dolor!” I yelped as we ran into town.

That evening, a wedding group paraded through town. Either the bride or the groom carried a large, white box over his or her head as family, friends, and curious onlookers surrounded them. Drummers in the front announced the coming of the wedding party as the horn players in the back were surrounded by younger kids jumping up and down. The dancing wedding group snaked throughout the streets, jumping up and down while the horns blared from the back of the group. Slick and I had attached ourselves to the party, yet it ended abruptly at a hotel room. The bride and groom went in to the building and everyone stopped jumping and dancing, looked around, and presumably decided to go get some tea. It looked as if everyone thought, “Okay, what do we do now?”

The next morning, I awoke in my own room and reveled in the quiet that it afforded. I read some newspapers and slept in, getting a late start on exploration before heading back to Ifrane at 1:30 from the bus station. Fencer went back to the abandoned mosque on the top of the hill to do some reading and I went to get some toast from our frequented breakfast spot with Slick. We took one last journey through the medina to search for a postbox, but stopped to eavesdrop on an American conspiracy theorist talking about politics. His logic was quite interesting and I decided to turn the corner and sit down to chat. James in the Rain greeted us by raising a hand and saying, “Texas! Texas! Every time I meet someone, I say, Texas! Texas!” The local shopkeep brought out some sitting pads of some sort and we sat and talked at length. Slick spoke with James in the Rain while I talked with the shopkeep, Abdeslam. He told me that he spoke nine languages and is working on his tenth, Chinese. His wife is supposedly an ambassador in Rabat and they will be moving to Central Africa later this year. His English throughly impressed me and he was likewise fluent in French, Spanish, and multiple dialects of Arabic. He told a story about how he and an Arab friend speak two different dialects of Arabic and thus settle to speak in English. “It is a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?” He chuckled. A Japanese man with dreadlocks, flowing jellaba, and cased surfboard in hand walked through the medina and Abdeslam greeted him and conversed in Japanese. I am a miniature version of Abdeslam and spoke the only phrase of Japanese I know, which is ‘hello, my name is Adam.’ End of conversation! One day I’ll get all of the languages down.

James in the Rain continued to talk about what he was going to do “after the revolution,” but we had to cut him short as we were late for our bus. We ran out of the medina, grabbed a kefta (chopped beef) sandwich and caught the six hour bus to Meknes.

Charcoal smoke and a massive amount of people greeted us upon entry into the djemaa el fna, which is the tremendous market square in the heart of the old medina in Marrakesh. Hundreds of people gathered in circles around storytellers, snake charmers, Berber dancers, medicine men, and women trained in the art of henna design. Curious, we approached the crowds and the performers and immediately upon stepping foot near the circle, the music stopped. The performers quickly shuttled towards us, upending their fezzes, waiting for us to give up our loose change. We discovered that this is the reverse jukebox effect! I suppose that our backpacks and gear marked us as newcomers to the red-tinted city.

Gavin, our Irish buddy we met at Jebel Toubkal, went to meet up with the rest of his travel companions as we searched for a hotel for the evening. Marrakesh provided us with an interesting experience, from the cacophony of drums and horns played by all of the street performers, the quiet residential areas, and the seas of people oscillating in solid blocks around those who were performing, dancing, singing and even fighting throughout the evening (“Il y a un voleur,”?there is a thief, one explained to me.) Motorcycles whizzed by, narrowly escaping collision with tourists. A juice porter ran into me with his cart. However, he was carrying my beloved fresh-squeezed orange juice to the djemaa al fna, so it was all good. I eventually drank fourteen glasses before we left for Ifrane. Standing beside the juice stands provided an interesting vantage point of the market square. All of the tourists mingled about while musicians, banging some sort of iron castinents and twirling the tassels on the tops of their hats, tried to make a living.

Meeting with our Irish acquaintances over some couscous and jus d’banane (banana juice)

The following day, we decided to go off the beaten path a bit and explore Marrakesh. This proved to be quite interesting. Throughout the evening, as we ventured deeper and deeper into the residential areas, people began to come up to us and point the other direction. Ibran, an Arabic-speaking friend of mine, asked what they were pointing at and they told us that we were walking away from the djemaa al fna. There were no tourists in this part of the medina and we had not seen one for quite some time. Over the next few minutes, many younger people came up to us to tell us that we were going in the wrong direction and that the market square was becoming further and further from our location. Marrakesh-native families were walking to and fro, talking with people and buying some goods. I then realized that we were in their neighborhood as this was no longer the tourist-oriented areas of the djemaa al fna and the souks. Understandably so, it seems as if they were trying to gently persuade us to head back to the market square so as to leave their neighborhood untouched by tourist presence. In the public spaces of Marrakesh, Moroccans were often photographed, even if they were not street performers. Other cultures and lifestyles are always of incredible interest to people and thus arouse great curiosity, which is often materialized by snapping pictures. However, it was not just the street performers and those presenting themselves to the public for their income who were photographed; it was also the families and everyday people doing everyday things. Many tourists were not discreet in taking pictures and essentially jumped out at people to take their picture. Those, whose pictures were being taken, often grimaced at the sight of someone taking a picture without their permission, yet did not reprimand the other due to the language barrier. Hence, I can understand their hesitancy towards travelers exploring their neighborhood.

Remnants of the political posters from the recent election. Space was allotted on the facades of government buildings for political parties to post manifestos and party platforms. This particular ‘election wall’ was located deep in the Marrakesh residential medina.

On the way out, I spotted a clothing souk with a red Moroccan soccer jersey hanging from one of the store fronts. I approached the merchant and began a long process of negotiating for the shirt. I told him that I live in Ifrane and have been here for quite some time (a bit of a stretch, but he stretched out a few truths in the negotiating process as well). After talking for well over 10 minutes in French, he says in English, “Ah, you a Berber, eh?” and then started laughing, which evidently means I am a decent negotiator. “Bien sur, j’habite en Ifrane!” I replied (Of course, I live in Ifrane!) I paid for the shirt and then talked for even longer about living in Morocco and all the tourists in Marrakesh. It was a good feeling to be able to negotiate and converse with someone with such depth; it made me feel as if I had really adjusted to living in Morocco, even though my French accent is beyond deplorable!

For the next few days, we spent time with our Irish acquaintances and explored the rest of the city. A midnight bus brought us back to Ifrane in the early morning, where, after drinking some espresso, I caught up some schoolwork.

Yesterday, I was making some tea and one of the cleaning ladies was doing the same. She asked if I spoke Arabic, and I said ’’a little’ in darija. I then came up with the grand idea of saying “well, I will be able to speak a lot more in 2 months,” but this came out with repeatedly saying ithnaan, two, in fuh’sa, (which is not the Moroccan dialect, darija), and she gave me a puzzled look. “Ma’assalaama!” I yelled, before running back to my room. I can just imagine asking someone if they speak English and then have them reply “two, two, two!” and then yell “take it easy” or something.

Learning languages is definitely one of the biggest adventures in living abroad. It is not total immersion on the AUI campus, due to its English orientation, but when one goes off the beaten path and ventures into the smaller towns and communities, one is able to practice language and learn a lot about other peoples’ lives. The best cultural experiences here have been not in the larger cities and touristy areas, but in the smaller towns like Midelt, Imlil, Tattuoine, Assilah, and Azrou, where I have found people to be more receptive and intrigued by the travelers entering their villages and towns.

Modernizing Marrakesh. The government and private investors have poured much money into building up tourism infrastructure throughout the city.

Yet maybe it is a bit hypocritical of me to think that the best places in Morocco are those without the tourists while I myself am an outsider. It is a unique experience to be living as a student in a foreign country. I am not Moroccan and I am not a tourist, yet I have impulses of both. Being a student, I suppose, allows for such a dichotomy.

I remember once speaking with someone in Meknes about tourists and he spoke about them with particular disdain. I must wonder if people feel the same way about students who study here for extended periods of time. While tourism is a major economic engine for Morocco, I am curious as to whether those benefiting from the capital influx likewise see tourism as an odious part of society. Yet I’ll stay away from discussing the politics and economics of the country and region. Plus, I am a guest here and ought to stay neutral, especially in topics that are rooted in a cultural and historical context that I may not fully understand. Though I’ll be happy to chat when I return to the States!

An evening in Marrakesh

Before I left for Jebel Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa, I wrote down some Arabic and French phrases that I thought may be useful. Sentences like ?do you have a mule that we can borrow?, ?how far is it to the summit of Toubkal?, and ‘I am not a mountain goat; you are a mountain goat!’ were indispensable for the journey. However, in pronunciation, the sentences came out quite strange. Nevertheless, it didn?t hurt since pretty much everyone in the High Atlas mountain range speaks Berber.

After waiting in Fez for the 1:45 AM train to Marrakech, we finally boarded and luckily were able to sleep for a few hours in a train car. We were woken five or six times by the train staff, who checked for tickets and warned us to watch our luggage as there had evidently been a few robberies lately. During the night, Fencer was mysteriously replaced with a random person who supposedly tickled Olbera?s feet throughout our ride. When we arrived in Marrakech, we split up with our train group to leave Ibran, Olbera, and myself to conquer Toubkal.

Negotiating is integral to any commercial activity in Morocco, thus finding a good price on a cab ride to the mountain village town of Imlil took place in Marrakech for 15 minutes or so. When people approach the cab administrator, he (I have never had a female cab driver or administrator) takes a cut of the price and then gives the rest to the driver. This time, however, there was a bit of animosity between the administrator and the driver. The driver threw 200 DHs back into the admin?s face, apparently displeased with his cut of the deal. Yet eventually, we were off, driving through the narrow, winding roads that traversed the High Atlas range to reach our final destination. I?d say that for the whole of the Jebel Toubkal excursion, the drive was the most dangerous part. Given the narrowness of the roads, when Land Cruisers and grand taxis would drive in the other direction, both vehicles would have to swerve to narrowly miss one another. I supposed it primed our adrenal glands for the rest of the trip.

This mule carried our goods to the base of the mountain; thereafter we carried our own rucksacks to the summit.

We could see Toubkal far out in the distance and we knew that it would be a daunting challenge. Its horizon line rose well above that of Imlil and we started to understand the magnitude of the mountain. Throughout the village, young kids were riding horses and carrying goods around the town. It seemed as if the whole culture in Imlil centered around Jebel Toubkal. Almost everyone wore some sort of fleece jacket or ski pants. The temperature was drastically different than that of Marrakech and we threw on some jackets before walking up the streets to search for some information.

Our boots and water bottles were attached to carabineers and were swinging from our overfilled backpacks, marking us as climbers. A few people marketed their services towards us, some claiming that they would make us tajines at the top of the mountain and others claiming they could stay in elevation for weeks. Personally, I was in the market for a piggy back ride to Toubkal.

After receiving information on the slope and distance to the summit, we decided to hire a mule to carry our goods to the mountain refuge where we had planned on spending the night. Once again, negotiations ensued and we eventually settled on a guide, mule, and night in the refuge. The negotiator?s son would be our guide for the weekend. The older man said we would make it to the top, enshah allah! (God willing)

The village of Armen; Toubkal is not in the picture and the mountainous valley hooks to the left to access the refuge

The Ascent

Our climb started at the base of Imlil, followed by a mule burdened with our water, clothes, and hiking gear. The guide, Haram, walked with us and talked about his life as a mountain guide. We stopped by his family?s home, where he picked up some food for the mule and some mountain gear for himself. His younger siblings were playing out in front, watched over by the oldest girl, who at the age of nine had a countenance of an elderly mother.

Our guide’s family playing outside his home

Initially, the watershed led the way to the mountain but we then ascended higher into the hills. For the approach to Toubkal, we passed through another village named Armen, which had a towering minaret that blended in with the scenery. The hike to the refuge was fairly easy, though the 9 km and significant elevation gain proved to be quite tiring. We were likewise chased by some storm clouds that brought a light rain and colder temperatures, which made our guide and the mule move much faster. Rapidly ascending, we finally took a break and were able to appreciate our surroundings. Neither pictures nor words can describe the magnitude of the mountains. Lambs cried and flocked towards us to steal some food. Our guide threw a banana peel at one of their heads and they jumped over one another to inhale it. Somehow, I have spent a great amount of time with the mountain goats of Morocco.

Village homes in Imlil

The mule carrying our goods would, at times, bolt forward in hopes of reaching the refuge before us. Our guide would yell ?shhhh? and the mule would come to an instant stop. This differs from the cat call, ?pss pss,? that is often heard in the cities. I suppose that if you wanted to say, ?hey girl, stop,? one must say ?pss pss, shhhh!?

The refuge sat at 3200 m (10,500 ft) and we could feel the elevation change. Our hearts were beating much faster and we received a bit of an elevation high. Upon entering the refuge, we were greeted by a young cook who asked us if we wanted harira soup and pasta for dinner. While we brought along some Clif Bars and smashed brick bread, a hot meal sounded terrific. The quality of the establishment was surprising, especially given the treacherous path that led to the refuge. All the materials, beds, food, and water had to be carried over many kilometers by mules and guides. It was difficult to imagine a solid desk being shipped by a mule.

A system of bunk beds was built on the second floor, with everyone essentially lying on the same level bed. We threw our gear down and went downstairs to get a cup of tea and chat with the fellow mountaineers. Almost everyone was from Europe, with many folks from Spain, Germany, England, Scotland, and beaucoup de France. The porters at the refuge cooked up some harira soup, which tasted like hot water and tomato paste. Of course, given the British presence, much sarcasm and jokes were exchanged over the botched soup and it was a terrific time. The pasta really was nothing but hot noodles, but it hit the spot. The three of us from the States were the youngest in the room. The others were all middle-aged folks on ?holiday? for a week or two. Many flew into Marrakech for the week for a bit of adventure and get away. They were pleased to hear that we were in Morocco for more than four months and that we have been able to explore much of the country. After talking for some time, we ran into Gavin from Ireland. Years out of school, he had been traveling for eleven months prior to his return to work. In Dublin, he works as a chef for a period of time, stowing away some money and then traveling for months. He decided that he would follow us up the mountain the next day and I offered up our mule to assist in carrying his goods for the trek back to Imlil after our summit bid. That poor creature.

Being at the refuge was a pleasurable experience. Many sat around the fire, reading and chatting. I had run into a German trekker earlier and gave him an ACE bandage for his sprained ankle. He spoke with us for a bit and then the four of us?Gavin, Olbera, Ibran, and myself, browsed through the log book to check for people from our countries. There was only one from the United States, a Pittsburgher, who visited months earlier.

The next morning, we woke at 4:30 AM to prepare for the hike. I stepped outside to check the temperature and realized how much colder it had become through the night. A light snow fell onto the refuge and I became incredibly excited to head out into what appeared to be winter. I wore a down jacket, toboggan, and backpacking pants with long underwear. My headlamp provided the only source of light for our group of climbers and we needed it for about an hour, right until enough light came through to illuminate the snow that lay on the ground.

The mountains far below Toubkal

Around 6 AM, we were finally able to catch a glimpse of the surrounding mountains. The snow increased in depth the further we climbed, and at this point we were about ankle deep. The pitch became much steeper and my heart was racing due to the elevation. I probably should have run around campus more the week before to condition for the climb as I felt it in my chest the entire ascent. With every step, I would slide down the mountain a little, making the climb more difficult as we rose in elevation. Crampons?metal spikes that attach to boots?were most certainly needed on the snow, but we had to deal with what we had. Ibran wore tennis shoes, which made for an interesting climb. I had some sort of trail runners and Olbera was the only one of us with actual boots. Our guide would sometimes help us up the mountain, giving us a hand on the more slippery and treacherous parts. However, this didn?t keep me from sliding feet at a time and having to self-arrest.

Difficult hiking near the second to last approach to the summit

A level part of the mountain greeted us before we began the most intense part of the climb. The view from this flat was incredible, especially since the snow started to dissipate. However, as we began the final ascent, a wall of gray approached us from behind. Quite ominous in its appearance, it proved to be a challenge. The ice and snow sandblasted our backs and the gusts reached unbelievable speeds. We could no longer see anything around us and the snow began to accumulate. The temperature at 13k made for some numb fingers. My heart was pounding due to the elevation and my lack of conditioning. The last 600 feet of elevation gain were incredibly difficult for me, especially as the snow became knee deep and each step took much effort. The slope to the left would allow for someone to roll for a thousand feet so I was also overly cautious to be deliberate in movement. Finally, I spotted the triangle that marks the fairly level 13,676 foot summit of Jebel Toubkal. Haram, Ibran, and Olbera had gone ahead a bit as I dropped off to take a picture of the first footprints in the snow. Behind us, the headlamps of the teams of British, Germans, Spanish, and French climbers bobbed up and down as they waded through the deeper snows. Upon reaching the summit, I took out my cell phone to try to get reception to tell Brittany that we had made it to the top, but to no avail. Thus, we took a few pictures, ate one date, and waited for Gavin to arrive and enjoy his celebratory smoke. At that point, the sun barely peaked and the clouds and snow let up for a few minutes, giving a short window of time to snap one or two pictures. The wind then slammed into us and pretty much told us to get the hell off the summit. We followed its instruction as the snow began to fly once again.

Jebel Toubkal, at 13,676 feet, the highest peak in Morocco and North Africa

.

Enjoying the scenery before another wall of snow approaches

The Descent

Passing all the different groups of climbers, we realized that due to everyone?s stomping of the snow, the slope had become quite icy and grew even more so as the day wore on. We gave advice to the groups coming up the mountain and talked about how much more of a challenge the mountain had been due to the steep slopes and heavy snows. Our guide was even surprised at the amount of snow that had fallen, which he said was atypical for the time of the year. I enjoyed the aberration, however, as it made it much more fun on the way down! Since ice and snow covered the slope, all we had to do was slide down the mountain. We pushed feet of snow underneath us, sort of skiing down the mountain in our shoes. I found out that I am not a mountain goat. Our guides, however, definitely were, as they literally jumped off the mountain. I have never seen anyone fly down a slope so fast; they might as well have been on skis. We fell innumerable times, but the soft snow acted as a cushion. The depth of the valley seemed to grow the further we descended. I thought that the refuge would be in sight, but the sheer size of the mountains and the valley made for a three hour slide to the refuge. More snow fell at the halfway point, but the temperature warmed greatly. Feeling came back to our fingers and we were able to make a few snowballs. Even our guide took part in the fun, pounding Gavin in the back of the neck. With all of this maneuvering about the mountain, I thought that it would be a good time to snap a picture. However, my camera was no longer in my jacket. I started to hike back up the mountain and luckily one of the guides had retrieved it from where I had fallen earlier.

Gavin about to pour some mint tea to warm up after the trek

Of course, with such snowy slopes and the ability to jump to quickly descend, we reached the refuge in plenty of time. After starting at 4:45 AM, we arrived at the refuge in time for some mint tea at 11 AM. One of the British was explaining to our guide the intricacies of English humor. I think it was lost on him, however, as he kept a pretty straight face as the rest of us laughed. While many climbers joined us for tea after grabbing the summit, others packed up to head back to Imlil. I looked a bit like a clown with a red fleece and backpacking zip-offs overtop of long polypropylene.

Hitting the road back to Imlil, it began to lightly rain. It hailed throughout the hike back to the village, bouncing off our heads as we traversed the rocky slopes and chased after the mule. As we meandered through the valley, the larger snow-capped peaks became obscured and we were not to see them until we arrived back in Imlil. When we would stop, a few British would pass and make a British-esque comment. When they would stop, we would pass and do the same. After hiking the equivalent of a marathon, plus thousands of feet in verticality, we were relieved to be back in Imlil. After a lengthy negotiation over an added ?fee? for staying in the refuge, we grabbed a cab back to Marrakech to begin yet another adventure.

After the day’s events, a rainbow appeared over the village of Imlil. Yeah, kind of absurdly surreal.

More to Come!