The next morning, we had an early flight back to Fez. The Seville airport was pretty gross compared with the train station, but it served its purpose. We took Ryanair for 5 euros each (plus a bit extra for priority boarding)... but the plane was surprisingly clean and nice. The flight attendants spent the full two hours or so selling lottery tickets and perfume in the aisles, but as long as you don't have baggage or push their buttons in any way, Ryanair is not a bad experience.
It felt strange to be in Morocco again, but also comfortable (we could communicate again!) The road between Fez and Ifrane was all too familiar to us this time, as were the farm workers conked out on the side of the road and the jam-packed grand taxis that swerved past us. We grabbed lunch at a sandwich place in the marche (a $2 lunch again?!) and then returned to an utterly deserted AUI to pick up our luggage. I felt like I knew every nook and cranny of the campus, but it was odd to see it without its people.
Ironically, the only time we were really suckered during our stay in Morocco came when we arrived back in Fez. A taxi driver drove us way out into a corner of the city, then pretended he was lost while the meter was running (when he finally got us back we gave him a pittance). We stayed at the Hotel Royale in the Ville Nouvelle, welcomingly uncomfortable, without a real shower, a toilet down the hall, beds like turtle shells, and a friendly old proprietor. We wound up at a square near the Bab Boujloud, in the shadow of the old city walls. The Ville Nouvelle was visible on the next hillside, and then just open land. In the square, Moroccans had already started to gather in large numbers by late afternoon (but for some reason, not tourists), and there was a traditional storyteller in a signature knit cap surrounded by a crowd of eager shebaab. A ring toss-like game was set up in another corner, and food vendors in another. After shopping in the old medina, we returned later at night to the square to eat little red sausages grilled in front of us and stuffed into the pocket of Moroccan bread, along with a fresh lemon drink. As Sebastien was buying freshly-made potato chips for us, a nicely-dressed man overheard him speaking Arabic and began a long conversation with him. The man was Abdelqader El Kaddany, the father of the potato chip salesman and a teacher of 6th grade French. He invited us to stay at his home for a few days or a week, however long we wanted. As it happened, we had only one day in the country, but we agreed to come for dinner on Monday night. The taxi driver who drove us back to our hotel turned out to have a college degree... in English... but, like so many other well-educated Moroccans, could not find a job other than driving a cab.
When we rose on our last day in Morocco, August 3, we began an epic search for a hammam (traditional bath house). We ended up in corners of the old medina we (and I'm sure most tourists) had never seen before, following all sorts of impossible directions. After it was clear that Lonely Planet failed us, we stopped near the Place Seffarine to watch an old man hammer out combs made from bone. Then we proceeded to Sidi Mohammed's shop near the Bab Boujloud to say our goodbyes to him. He ended up showing us more wonderful things, including 19th century contracts written on pieces of wood, and one on a fat round stick. After chatting for awhile, he invited us to stay with him for lunch in his shop. The meal was homemade by his wife -- a chicken tajine with almonds, a real green salad, and dates, all of which we ate with our hands and bread. Mohammed grunted with pleasure as he ate, and stopped occasionally, grinning widely, to lean in with pearls of wisdom and dramatic exclamations: "You will remember this moment for the rest of your life!" he said at one point (with such gusto that it was thenceforth clear that we would indeed).
After quite some time, Mohammed deposited us at the clothing shop of his bearded friend with the black bruise-like indentation on his forehead that comes from years of prayer. I bought some harem pants for myself and Jenna before we left the old medina and departed for the hammam in the Ville Nouvelle that Mohammed had recommended. The ticket window (10dh per person) was down an unmarked alley. There are separate buildings for men and women, so Sebastien and I parted ways. As soon as I walked into the first room, I realized that I had no clue what I was doing. Several plump women in their 50s or 60s, the attendants, were lounging about on the floor and the wooden benches against the walls. It was Arabic or nothing, so I announced "أول مرة في الحمام" -- "first time at the hammam". I was congratulated repeatedly and given a bowl and pail, but was still clueless. Eventually a girl my age who spoke French showed me the water basins in one of the center rooms -- one cold and one hot. I hadn't brought a mat for the floor, unlike the other women there. I sort of figured out that one fills buckets of hot and cold and mixes them to the desired temperature. That morning, we'd bought the traditional washing materials -- a thick mud-like substance, "black soap", and the kis, a sandpaper-like mitt -- but using them properly and in the right order is another matter entirely. The mitt did successfully slough off layers of dead skin, as promised, but I think the other ladies, gossiping in their corners, must have found my confused dumping of buckets of ice cold water on myself amusing. I cannot deny, though, that when I finally emerged, I felt cleaner than I have in quite awhile. I can't wait to go back (and now I know what to do!)
It was then time for us to meet Mr. Kaddany from the night before. We took a cab with him to his neighborhood, Doccarate, in the Ville Nouvelle. The family's apartment was modest but homey, the neighborhood a complex of square four or five-story whitewashed buildings and a few convenience stores; lots of kids were outside playing. Abdelqader introduced us at the door to three of his four daughters. Hind, the oldest, is 24, and is divorced with one 5-year-old daughter, who lives there, too. The middle daughter, who is 22, left after a short while to return to her husband near Rabat. The third daughter is 20 and is married not far from Fez (she wasn't there). The fourth, Fatema Zahra, is 14 and very friendly. (We also met the mother, but she was ill so we didn't socialize.) No one in the family spoke English, but since Abdelqader is a teacher, he was very patient with our French and Arabic. We were immediately brought piles of melwi and corncakes with fresh butter (this was around 8pm). After a bit, we moved out to mats and pillows on the balcony, discussing America, learning languages, our experiences in Morocco, etc. At one point we went out to get sunflower seeds from the little corner store. Then Hind invited me into the kitchen with her daughter and Fatema Zahra while she made dinner, and we really bonded: we sang "'Alaash Ya Ghuzaali" and "Shemsu Lachia" together. Then she asked me earnestly if I wanted to get married soon (and why not?) and if I wanted to convert to Islam. When I did want to get married, she told me, I should let her know so that she could find a Moroccan and I could move to Morocco! I don't think she or any of the other girls went to college, but she has a pretty good job doing some kind of office work (outside of my vocabulary) and is content for the time being taking care of her daughter. Hind also gave me some uncrushed henna leaves, then used some that had already been partly prepared to do henna for me and Sebastien. Around 11:45pm, dinner was ready -- an excellent sort of pasta dish, but served communal tajine-style, accompanied by fresh-squeezed orange juice. Since we had to be back at our hotel before its "closing" time, we had to depart right away after the meal, walking out to the cab arm and arm, feeling that we'd found a part of real Morocco that maybe we'd missed before -- just before we had to leave for good.
I stayed up all night, fearing that I'd miss our 5am taxi to the Fez airport if I napped. But it gave me time to reflect on our last, and nearly perfect, day in Morocco., as well as on the trip as a whole. After more than 8 weeks in a country (and 9.5 traveling in all), it's not really possible to capture all experiences in a couple of words or even a few sentences: I was in many different places, met all sorts of people, and had both ups and downs for sure. Each week, and each weekend, brought its own surprises. I wasn't sad to come home (and eat a huge green salad), because I felt that I had really had the time to see and experience what I wanted to experience. This doesn't mean that I'm not eager to come back, though -- there's still much more.
The taxi miraculously arrived on time, as promised, just as the dawn call to prayer was sounding. As I waited in the street with my suitcases, old men with white beards and djellabas, with the prayer mark on their foreheads, shuffled past in the near-dark on their way to pray. Otherwise, it was silent. We joked with our driver, who seemed exhausted until he heard our Arabic, on the way to Fez-Saiss Airport, the balmy early morning breeze making this grand taxi ride perhaps the only comfortable one we'd ever taken.
Our flight left on time from the only gate (Gate A, of course). We were on to Casablanca, then New York, then Washington. The adventure was over.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Part VI: Seville
The bullet train was unbelievably efficient. It took only 45 minutes to get to Seville from Cordoba, the scenery was splendid, and there were attendants walking up and down the aisles with trash bags to ensure the cars remained spotless. Upon arriving, we found space at a charming hostel called "Buenos Suenos" (Sweet Dreams), with a rooftop terrace hung with white linens -- a prime spot for watching the activity in the street below. I had the impression, not quite accurately I suppose, that everything in Seville was yellow and white. It was much busier than Cordoba, but not swarming in tourists as one might fear.
The grand cathedral in the main square was already closed for the day, so we spent some time walking on the adjacent Ave. de la Constitucion, an old but wide street in tip-top shape, sporting a Starbucks, a Fnac, and a cable car. Then we made the first of two visits to the Alcazar, located off the same plaza as the cathedral. From the gate, we couldn't discern the massive size of the grounds -- the entrance was a simple red wall emblazoned with the Castilian lion emblem, from which extendd typical stone castle walls. First erected in the 12th century during the reign of the Almohad dynasty, it was rebuilt by Pedro I in the 14th century; although Pedro was a Christian king, he liked the Islamic style and designed the palace accordingly. It remains the official residence of the Spanish king in Seville to this day. We passed through a series of impressive courtyards adorned with fountains and bountiful vines. Off the courtyards were various chambers, some stuccoed in the Islamic style, others elegantly wallpapered in the European style -- such as one, covered in crimson and gold, where Christopher Columbus supposedly "planned" the discovery of America with Ferdinand and Isabella. To get to the main courtyard, I walked through a winding tiled passageway. At the other end was the heart of the castle complex, a narrow, still pool stretching from one side to the other and flanked by sunken orange trees. It wasn't large, but serene, surrounded by columns supporting perhaps twenty scalloped arches, exquisite stucco work, and an upper arcade that looked much more like Renaissance Italy than 12th century Morocco. The architectural styles blend seamlessly, with each Romanesque arch playing off the neighboring Islamic one. At this point my camera died, so the rest of what I saw is in my mind alone. No furniture is left, but each room off the main courtyard has a ceiling more unusual than the next -- stars and flowers painted in purples, reds, and greens, somehow meshing perfectly with the blue and green tiled walls. The Court of the Dolls was one of my favorite rooms, a small square space with slightly disturbing doll faces carved into the base of the arches. The entry to another room was made quite impressive by two enormous wall peacocks.
But more impressive than that were the real peacocks in the gardens outside. The gardens were literally endless. Each had a name, like "Garden of the Maidens" and a different character -- wispy cypresses or tight beds of roses. One could wander for hours (and the next day, we did) and never find an exit. My favorite garden featured an overgrown pond with an oozing rock, a face carved into it, emerging from its depths: Mount Parnassus. The first crowd of peacocks were strutting around a grassy shaded area, completely undeterred by the occasional human in close proximity. As the gardens closed for the evening and I wandered out, I passed a pergola covered in grape vines. A pair of peacocks, a cobalt blue male and a brownish female, were preening themselves beneath it.
As we sat outside the Alcazar, a pervasive teenager girl hustled me into taking a twig for good luck from some saint (she claimed), then read my palms... in Spanish. For a price of course. We then crisscrossed the ritzy shopping district in search of last-minute tickets for Sara Baras, one of the most famous flamenco stars in Spain - to no avail. In the end we ended up at a rickety table at Alvaro Peregil, a phenomenal tapas restaurant on the street leading to the cathedral (and in view of it). We tried salmorejo there, a type of gazpacho for which Andalucia (and this restaurant) are famous.
Later on, trying again but failing to find flamenco, we wound up at the University of Seville, following a bubbly crowd inside to a large open area with a stage and hundreds of chairs. The stars were bright, the weather balmy, and the attendees eager... but we had no clue what was going on, since the sign had been in Spanish. We sat for quite some time, guessing that maybe it was a boxing match or something. Eventually we determined that it was a comedy show (in Spanish) and gave up.
The next day, we had orange juice and toast at a sidewalk cafe outside our hostel and headed over to the great Cathedral of Seville. Like most sites in Spain (much more than in the U.S. -- in fact, many things were free), the Cathedral had a great student discount. Completed in the 16th century to demonstrate Seville's wealth after the Reconquista, it is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world (with some Renaissance elements) and the third largest cathedral of any era. There were perhaps eighty small chapels, dripping in gold and enormous paintings, around the sides, a large sacristy, and all sorts of surprises that meant it took several hours to even give a cursory look to everything. One whole side had been taken over by a group of miners on a hunger strike, their cots and suitcases laid out all over the floor for the long haul. Some of the highlights included one of the two organs, stretching nearly floor to ceiling in the center of the church: it was so frilly as to appear almost to have been carved from lace, rather than dark wood. I've seen many churches, but the altarpiece in the Capilla Mayor in the center of the cathedral was staggering - the masterpiece of a single craftsman and the largest altarpiece in the whole world. Towering above human height, it oozes with gold and 45 carefully carved scenes from the life of Christ. Another highlight, which I stumbled upon unknowingly at first, was the tomb of Christopher Columbus, a sculpted casket held by four pallbearers. His remains traveled the world for centuries before finally arriving back in Seville. It also struck us that there was a subtle but clear Islamic influence in the church, recognizable in its overlapping arches. It turned out that the cathedral was indeed built over a mosque, and the minaret was converted into a tower (the Giralda). The top of the tower provided views of every corner of Seville, including La Maestranza, the bullfighting arena. Back inside, the official royal chapel was closed for private worship. But we did rest for a bit in the orange tree courtyard, another remnant of the cathedral's Islamic predecessor.
We ate lunch at El Serranito, which served... serranito. A Sevillian specialty, serranito is a cut of pork tenderloin inside a long sandwich bun with a slice of serrano ham (like prosciutto) on top. The meal was only 3 euros and the restaurant, near La Maestranza, had mounted bulls' heads and pictures of toreros all over the walls. Naturally our next stop was La Maestranza itself, in the Arenal district. There were no bullfights that night (sort of a relief), but we went on a tour of the arena. Everything was white with the classic yellow ochre trim of Seville, a perfect match with the impeccably groomed yellow sand inside the arena, and crimson-colored gates. The seating is almost entirely open-air, and at the top are dozens of round arches. Our red-skirted guide explained that the modest gate at one corner was the entrance point for the torero, while the more elaborate marble-columned exit was used only to carry him out in glory when he nailed a special prize (certain combinations of ears and tail). That hadn't happened yet this year. Inside the museum area, we looked at the chic outfits worn by star fighters, the red and white pom-pommed saddles worn by the mules brought out to prepare the bull, and alternative games used to train horsemen when bullfighting (originally done on horseback exclusively) was still just a technique for training the military. Also, I learned that bulls are colorblind and the pink, blue, and red capes used are simply a tradition. Finally, we visited the chapel of the bullfighters where they go to pray just before the fight.
We took a nice stroll along the shady Rio Guadalquivir to the Torre del Oro, built in the Almohad era and so named for the golden yellow tiling on its little dome. Then I visited the Hospital de la Caridad, a serene and little-visited site (I was alone there) and now a home for the elderly. It was built in the 17th century as a home for the destitute by Don Miguel Manara and the Brothers of Charity. They adopted as part of their mission the burying of those executed and those found dead floating in the nearby river. There was a leafy yellow-painted courtyard that led into the fairly small but wildly elaborate chapel. It was covered in paintings by the famous Spanish painter Murillo, mostly depicting Biblical scenes that demonstrate the importance of charity. The pulpit was held up by a remarkable amphibious gargoyle, and the back of the chapel was flanked by two moving paintings by Valdes Leal on the transience of life.
We returned to the Alcazar gardens where we frolicked with baby peacocks this time and wandered through the roses. As we emerged, a wedding was just letting out of the great cathedral, and rose petals had been sprinkled onto the square. We ate diner nearby and then began another fruitless odyssey for flamenco, during which we had the pleasure of exploring many of the back cobbled streets of Seville.
The grand cathedral in the main square was already closed for the day, so we spent some time walking on the adjacent Ave. de la Constitucion, an old but wide street in tip-top shape, sporting a Starbucks, a Fnac, and a cable car. Then we made the first of two visits to the Alcazar, located off the same plaza as the cathedral. From the gate, we couldn't discern the massive size of the grounds -- the entrance was a simple red wall emblazoned with the Castilian lion emblem, from which extendd typical stone castle walls. First erected in the 12th century during the reign of the Almohad dynasty, it was rebuilt by Pedro I in the 14th century; although Pedro was a Christian king, he liked the Islamic style and designed the palace accordingly. It remains the official residence of the Spanish king in Seville to this day. We passed through a series of impressive courtyards adorned with fountains and bountiful vines. Off the courtyards were various chambers, some stuccoed in the Islamic style, others elegantly wallpapered in the European style -- such as one, covered in crimson and gold, where Christopher Columbus supposedly "planned" the discovery of America with Ferdinand and Isabella. To get to the main courtyard, I walked through a winding tiled passageway. At the other end was the heart of the castle complex, a narrow, still pool stretching from one side to the other and flanked by sunken orange trees. It wasn't large, but serene, surrounded by columns supporting perhaps twenty scalloped arches, exquisite stucco work, and an upper arcade that looked much more like Renaissance Italy than 12th century Morocco. The architectural styles blend seamlessly, with each Romanesque arch playing off the neighboring Islamic one. At this point my camera died, so the rest of what I saw is in my mind alone. No furniture is left, but each room off the main courtyard has a ceiling more unusual than the next -- stars and flowers painted in purples, reds, and greens, somehow meshing perfectly with the blue and green tiled walls. The Court of the Dolls was one of my favorite rooms, a small square space with slightly disturbing doll faces carved into the base of the arches. The entry to another room was made quite impressive by two enormous wall peacocks.
But more impressive than that were the real peacocks in the gardens outside. The gardens were literally endless. Each had a name, like "Garden of the Maidens" and a different character -- wispy cypresses or tight beds of roses. One could wander for hours (and the next day, we did) and never find an exit. My favorite garden featured an overgrown pond with an oozing rock, a face carved into it, emerging from its depths: Mount Parnassus. The first crowd of peacocks were strutting around a grassy shaded area, completely undeterred by the occasional human in close proximity. As the gardens closed for the evening and I wandered out, I passed a pergola covered in grape vines. A pair of peacocks, a cobalt blue male and a brownish female, were preening themselves beneath it.
As we sat outside the Alcazar, a pervasive teenager girl hustled me into taking a twig for good luck from some saint (she claimed), then read my palms... in Spanish. For a price of course. We then crisscrossed the ritzy shopping district in search of last-minute tickets for Sara Baras, one of the most famous flamenco stars in Spain - to no avail. In the end we ended up at a rickety table at Alvaro Peregil, a phenomenal tapas restaurant on the street leading to the cathedral (and in view of it). We tried salmorejo there, a type of gazpacho for which Andalucia (and this restaurant) are famous.
Later on, trying again but failing to find flamenco, we wound up at the University of Seville, following a bubbly crowd inside to a large open area with a stage and hundreds of chairs. The stars were bright, the weather balmy, and the attendees eager... but we had no clue what was going on, since the sign had been in Spanish. We sat for quite some time, guessing that maybe it was a boxing match or something. Eventually we determined that it was a comedy show (in Spanish) and gave up.
The next day, we had orange juice and toast at a sidewalk cafe outside our hostel and headed over to the great Cathedral of Seville. Like most sites in Spain (much more than in the U.S. -- in fact, many things were free), the Cathedral had a great student discount. Completed in the 16th century to demonstrate Seville's wealth after the Reconquista, it is the largest Gothic cathedral in the world (with some Renaissance elements) and the third largest cathedral of any era. There were perhaps eighty small chapels, dripping in gold and enormous paintings, around the sides, a large sacristy, and all sorts of surprises that meant it took several hours to even give a cursory look to everything. One whole side had been taken over by a group of miners on a hunger strike, their cots and suitcases laid out all over the floor for the long haul. Some of the highlights included one of the two organs, stretching nearly floor to ceiling in the center of the church: it was so frilly as to appear almost to have been carved from lace, rather than dark wood. I've seen many churches, but the altarpiece in the Capilla Mayor in the center of the cathedral was staggering - the masterpiece of a single craftsman and the largest altarpiece in the whole world. Towering above human height, it oozes with gold and 45 carefully carved scenes from the life of Christ. Another highlight, which I stumbled upon unknowingly at first, was the tomb of Christopher Columbus, a sculpted casket held by four pallbearers. His remains traveled the world for centuries before finally arriving back in Seville. It also struck us that there was a subtle but clear Islamic influence in the church, recognizable in its overlapping arches. It turned out that the cathedral was indeed built over a mosque, and the minaret was converted into a tower (the Giralda). The top of the tower provided views of every corner of Seville, including La Maestranza, the bullfighting arena. Back inside, the official royal chapel was closed for private worship. But we did rest for a bit in the orange tree courtyard, another remnant of the cathedral's Islamic predecessor.
We ate lunch at El Serranito, which served... serranito. A Sevillian specialty, serranito is a cut of pork tenderloin inside a long sandwich bun with a slice of serrano ham (like prosciutto) on top. The meal was only 3 euros and the restaurant, near La Maestranza, had mounted bulls' heads and pictures of toreros all over the walls. Naturally our next stop was La Maestranza itself, in the Arenal district. There were no bullfights that night (sort of a relief), but we went on a tour of the arena. Everything was white with the classic yellow ochre trim of Seville, a perfect match with the impeccably groomed yellow sand inside the arena, and crimson-colored gates. The seating is almost entirely open-air, and at the top are dozens of round arches. Our red-skirted guide explained that the modest gate at one corner was the entrance point for the torero, while the more elaborate marble-columned exit was used only to carry him out in glory when he nailed a special prize (certain combinations of ears and tail). That hadn't happened yet this year. Inside the museum area, we looked at the chic outfits worn by star fighters, the red and white pom-pommed saddles worn by the mules brought out to prepare the bull, and alternative games used to train horsemen when bullfighting (originally done on horseback exclusively) was still just a technique for training the military. Also, I learned that bulls are colorblind and the pink, blue, and red capes used are simply a tradition. Finally, we visited the chapel of the bullfighters where they go to pray just before the fight.
We took a nice stroll along the shady Rio Guadalquivir to the Torre del Oro, built in the Almohad era and so named for the golden yellow tiling on its little dome. Then I visited the Hospital de la Caridad, a serene and little-visited site (I was alone there) and now a home for the elderly. It was built in the 17th century as a home for the destitute by Don Miguel Manara and the Brothers of Charity. They adopted as part of their mission the burying of those executed and those found dead floating in the nearby river. There was a leafy yellow-painted courtyard that led into the fairly small but wildly elaborate chapel. It was covered in paintings by the famous Spanish painter Murillo, mostly depicting Biblical scenes that demonstrate the importance of charity. The pulpit was held up by a remarkable amphibious gargoyle, and the back of the chapel was flanked by two moving paintings by Valdes Leal on the transience of life.
We returned to the Alcazar gardens where we frolicked with baby peacocks this time and wandered through the roses. As we emerged, a wedding was just letting out of the great cathedral, and rose petals had been sprinkled onto the square. We ate diner nearby and then began another fruitless odyssey for flamenco, during which we had the pleasure of exploring many of the back cobbled streets of Seville.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Part V: Cordoba
The bus ride to Cordoba was beautiful: a patchwork of farms and little white houses spread over rolling hills. When we arrived, we hiked over directly to the Juderia, the historic Jewish quarter and probably the most atmospheric part of the city. The winding cobbled streets were oddly quiet in the warm sunlight of the early evening, the silence interrupted only by the occasional noise of a moped or a barking dog. The whitewashed houses were accented with yellow ochre or mulled crimson trim, and with neat wrought-iron balconies alive with colorful blooms. Our hotel, the "Bagdad Backpackers Hostel" was found in one such building on a side street in the Juderia -- a courtyard home in the Moroccan style with a fountain in the center, tiling, and little blue flowerpots with equally blue flowers hung all over the walls. We wandered just a block or so from the hostel to one of the old walls of the city, then followed the wall to a statue of Maimonides, who was from Cordoba (as were both Seneca and Averroes), and then into a quiet courtyard surrounded by artisans' workshops. Just a few blocks away, almost visible from our hostel, was the Mezquita, for which Cordoba is most famous (more on that later).
Even in the middle of summer, the square around the Mezquita was not awash in tourists. While there is a church-turned-convention center and a city monument sharing the square, the Mezquita looms over them. A bridge dating back to Roman times (thus called the Puente Romano) stretches from the square to the Tower of Calahorra on the other bank of the River Guadalquivir. We watched the sunset from the bridge, then delved back into the streets of the Juderia, settling for dinner on a Lonely Planet-recommended tapas restaurant that proved to be one of our best meals.
The next morning, we decided to hit the Mezquita early, before the crowds. The exterior, an amalgam of Islamic arches and portraits of Christian saints, is only a hint at what lies within. One enters through a traditional Andalucian garden (like that of the Badia palace in Marrakech) called Patio de los Naranjos -- an oasis of orange trees and trickling fountains. From there, we entered the mosque-cathedral itself. The first thing on the site was the Visigothic church of St. Vincent, built in 600 AD. The Muslim caliph Abd ar-Rahman I scrapped St. Vincent's and in 785 began the construction of an enormous mosque. It was expanded and improved over the second several centuries until Ferdinand of Castile captured Cordoba in 1236 and transformed the mosque into a Catholic cathedral. Today, the pamphlets (produced by the Catholic church), fiercely assert that the Mezquita is a church and NOT a mosque -- and indeed there are daily services in the Renaissance-era main chapel. But the Islamic structure is by no means hidden. The building is clearly shaped for Islamic, not Christian prayer: a rectangle with no clear center (the chapel seems to float). It is a sea of jasper, onyx, marble, and granite columns supporting countless red and white striped arches. Semi-circular and mostly pretty simple stained glass windows adorn some corners of the vast structure, with eye-poppingly ornate side chapels and a meticulously carved wooden choir. Several of the chapels have altars tiled in Islamic blues and greens. A scalloped archway leads to the mihrab, which would have been the focal point during the Mezquita's mosque days. The exterior, and the two recesses to either side, glitter with mosaicked Arabic calligraphy and floral patterns. The style is very Byzantine, and in fact many mosaicists were imported from Byzantium to complete the project (they were Christian as it happens). There was also a small exhibit in one area that displayed graffiti, both Arabic and Spanish, left throughout the ages on the pillars. And in another spot, the floor had been cut away to reveal black and white floor mosaics from the original Visigothic church. The cathedral elements were self-consciously extravagant, seeking to assert their superiority over their predecessor, but balanced by the simpler but very picturesque red and white arches that seemed to radiate outward forever. Perhaps neither the mosque nor the cathedral would have been unique on its own, but combined and intertwined, the Mezquita was unlike anything I've seen.
Nearby, and our next stop, was the Palace of the Christian Kings. A palace of some sort has been there since the Roman era, and in fact a section of one of the courtyards had been excavated so that foundations were visible. But most of what you can visit today dates from around 1328 (King Alphonso XI). Most of the stone corridors or nearly empty, but there are wall-sized mosaics in one chamber, baths in another area, and -- the highlight -- a tower. Access was blocked (but who pays attention to those things!) and from the top we could see out to the Mezquita and all across Cordoba, the extensive palace gardens to one side and palms sprouting up between centuries-old buildings to the other. After descending, we explored the gardens, which reminded me of those in Kenneth Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing... rows of perfectly pruned cypresses lining long pools, accented with fuchsia roses and perhaps a statue thrown in for good measure.
We then attempted to visit the Posada del Potro, in the quiet plaza of the same name. The inn briefly played host to Cervantes, who refers to it in Don Quixote. Sadly, it was closed for renovations and we ended up eating a relaxing meal at the plaza instead.
We then departed by train for Seville.
Shots from the Mezquita --
Chilling with Maimonides
Typical building in the Juderia
Even in the middle of summer, the square around the Mezquita was not awash in tourists. While there is a church-turned-convention center and a city monument sharing the square, the Mezquita looms over them. A bridge dating back to Roman times (thus called the Puente Romano) stretches from the square to the Tower of Calahorra on the other bank of the River Guadalquivir. We watched the sunset from the bridge, then delved back into the streets of the Juderia, settling for dinner on a Lonely Planet-recommended tapas restaurant that proved to be one of our best meals.
The next morning, we decided to hit the Mezquita early, before the crowds. The exterior, an amalgam of Islamic arches and portraits of Christian saints, is only a hint at what lies within. One enters through a traditional Andalucian garden (like that of the Badia palace in Marrakech) called Patio de los Naranjos -- an oasis of orange trees and trickling fountains. From there, we entered the mosque-cathedral itself. The first thing on the site was the Visigothic church of St. Vincent, built in 600 AD. The Muslim caliph Abd ar-Rahman I scrapped St. Vincent's and in 785 began the construction of an enormous mosque. It was expanded and improved over the second several centuries until Ferdinand of Castile captured Cordoba in 1236 and transformed the mosque into a Catholic cathedral. Today, the pamphlets (produced by the Catholic church), fiercely assert that the Mezquita is a church and NOT a mosque -- and indeed there are daily services in the Renaissance-era main chapel. But the Islamic structure is by no means hidden. The building is clearly shaped for Islamic, not Christian prayer: a rectangle with no clear center (the chapel seems to float). It is a sea of jasper, onyx, marble, and granite columns supporting countless red and white striped arches. Semi-circular and mostly pretty simple stained glass windows adorn some corners of the vast structure, with eye-poppingly ornate side chapels and a meticulously carved wooden choir. Several of the chapels have altars tiled in Islamic blues and greens. A scalloped archway leads to the mihrab, which would have been the focal point during the Mezquita's mosque days. The exterior, and the two recesses to either side, glitter with mosaicked Arabic calligraphy and floral patterns. The style is very Byzantine, and in fact many mosaicists were imported from Byzantium to complete the project (they were Christian as it happens). There was also a small exhibit in one area that displayed graffiti, both Arabic and Spanish, left throughout the ages on the pillars. And in another spot, the floor had been cut away to reveal black and white floor mosaics from the original Visigothic church. The cathedral elements were self-consciously extravagant, seeking to assert their superiority over their predecessor, but balanced by the simpler but very picturesque red and white arches that seemed to radiate outward forever. Perhaps neither the mosque nor the cathedral would have been unique on its own, but combined and intertwined, the Mezquita was unlike anything I've seen.
Nearby, and our next stop, was the Palace of the Christian Kings. A palace of some sort has been there since the Roman era, and in fact a section of one of the courtyards had been excavated so that foundations were visible. But most of what you can visit today dates from around 1328 (King Alphonso XI). Most of the stone corridors or nearly empty, but there are wall-sized mosaics in one chamber, baths in another area, and -- the highlight -- a tower. Access was blocked (but who pays attention to those things!) and from the top we could see out to the Mezquita and all across Cordoba, the extensive palace gardens to one side and palms sprouting up between centuries-old buildings to the other. After descending, we explored the gardens, which reminded me of those in Kenneth Branagh's Much Ado About Nothing... rows of perfectly pruned cypresses lining long pools, accented with fuchsia roses and perhaps a statue thrown in for good measure.
We then attempted to visit the Posada del Potro, in the quiet plaza of the same name. The inn briefly played host to Cervantes, who refers to it in Don Quixote. Sadly, it was closed for renovations and we ended up eating a relaxing meal at the plaza instead.
We then departed by train for Seville.
Shots from the Mezquita --
Chilling with Maimonides
Typical building in the Juderia
Part IV: Malaga
The decision to stop in Malaga was made just a few days earlier, and we weren't sure it would be too exciting. It was our first real Spanish city, though, and we were pleasantly surprised. We came in at night by bus and found a charming hostel on the bustling Calle Marques de Larios, a cobbled pedestrian thoroughfare that came alive in the evening with itinerant guitar players, clowns, and false statues. The buildings there, as in much of Malaga, were spotless and seemed to have been built yesterday but for their grand old architecture and cheerful but elegant paint jobs.
We ate our first tapas as we were serenaded on guitar and violin, then strolled down the Calle, where a ska band was performing to large crowds. The next morning, after painfully grunting our way through Spanish at the Western Union desk at the local post office, we arrived at the Museo Picasso, the main reason for our visit. Malaga was Picasso's hometown, and the museum, which opened only recently, was located in a (spotless) courtyard building off an equally spotless side street, tastefully accented with flowering fuchsia vines. The museum did not have any of Picasso's extremely famous works, but did have a very large collection, including some of his very early works, before he developed his signature style. Found inside were several of his miniature guitar still lifes and portraits of little owls. One of the more famous is "Bather" (1971), in which the turquoise female subject herself becomes a wave. Two of the special exhibits, though, were the most interesting: the first featured the paper cutouts Picasso used as models for his sculptures, and sometimes produced just as a hobby. The second, my favorite, was a show of Picasso's drypoint, etching, and aquatint prints, some of which, like "The Rape" feature his traditional contorted shapes, while others, like "The Poor" (1905), an etching, are more closely representational. In the basement were various archeological remains from different periods found in Malaga.
We didn't have time for any more sightseeing in Malaga, other than a classy lunch at the museum cafe, since we had to catch another bus to Cordoba.
Typical street view (Calle Marques de Larios) in Malaga
We ate our first tapas as we were serenaded on guitar and violin, then strolled down the Calle, where a ska band was performing to large crowds. The next morning, after painfully grunting our way through Spanish at the Western Union desk at the local post office, we arrived at the Museo Picasso, the main reason for our visit. Malaga was Picasso's hometown, and the museum, which opened only recently, was located in a (spotless) courtyard building off an equally spotless side street, tastefully accented with flowering fuchsia vines. The museum did not have any of Picasso's extremely famous works, but did have a very large collection, including some of his very early works, before he developed his signature style. Found inside were several of his miniature guitar still lifes and portraits of little owls. One of the more famous is "Bather" (1971), in which the turquoise female subject herself becomes a wave. Two of the special exhibits, though, were the most interesting: the first featured the paper cutouts Picasso used as models for his sculptures, and sometimes produced just as a hobby. The second, my favorite, was a show of Picasso's drypoint, etching, and aquatint prints, some of which, like "The Rape" feature his traditional contorted shapes, while others, like "The Poor" (1905), an etching, are more closely representational. In the basement were various archeological remains from different periods found in Malaga.
We didn't have time for any more sightseeing in Malaga, other than a classy lunch at the museum cafe, since we had to catch another bus to Cordoba.
Typical street view (Calle Marques de Larios) in Malaga
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Part III: Gibraltar
The terminus of the ferry was Algeciras, and from there we took a bus to La Linea de la Concepcion, the Spanish city that abuts Gibraltar. As soon as we were off the boat it became clear that our utter lack of Spanish language skills was going to be an issue -- not many Andalucians spoke English, and those who did tried to avoid it. From the bus station in La Linea, we just walked across the border, with not even a glance at our passports.
To get into the heart of Gibraltar Town, it is necessary to walk across the airport's runway: this, paired with the Rock, hung with mist and towering before us, made for quite the dramatic entrance. To enter the quaint old part of town, we went through the "landport" tunnel, emerging in Grand Casemates Square. The British-ness of Gibraltar was immediately palpable, with its signature fire engine red telephone booths, "litter" disposals, and "royal mail" boxes; little red historical plaques graced nearly every building and surface. In the most recent vote regarding Gibraltar's political status (it is self-governing), over 12,000 voted to remain a part of Britain while only 44 voted against. The cobbled Main Street had a significant number of money changing outlets, kitschy stores, and liquor shops, but the prevailing atmosphere was quaint and cheerful: every building seemed to have had a recent paint job, smart red or blue or green shutters, and lovely windowboxes.
We stayed at the Cannon Hotel just off Main Street, and a warm English breakfast was made for us free of charge the next day. Our first stop once we'd settled in that afternoon was the small Gibraltar Museum, which featured the 40,000-year-old Neanderthal skulls found there, histories and paraphernalia relating to various sieges and attacks on the Rock, old photos, and preserved Arab baths. Afterward, we headed over to the Trafalgar Cemetery, where sailors who perished in that battle are buried with flowery epitaphs. The cemetery is just overgrown enough to make for a pleasant and sometimes touching wander.
Dinner was at the Gibraltar Arms in a small square across from the cathedral, and I tried fish and chips for the first time. Then, we made our way to Casemates Square once again, where every Gibraltarian teenager seemed to have congregated and a stage had been set up for a local belly dance/flamenco talent show (many of the performers were young kids).
The next morning we were ready to tackle the Rock. We took the cable car up, which takes only 5 minutes and provides great views of the town and water. As soon as we got out, we glimpsed our first ape! The Barbary Apes of Gibraltar are quite tame (though of course one shouldn't touch them) and were brought here by the British (they're not indigenous). Thanks to a healthy diet, their numbers are skyrocketing. Several at the top Apes' Den were munching on oranges while the babies swung from trees; in other places we saw whole families sitting together, the mother nursing the baby and the father picking lice off the mother ape's back.
From the very top of the Rock, it wasn't possible to see much down below (too much fog), so vertigo was happily avoided. We walked downward, stopping at various promontories along the way as more became visible. Our first major stop was St. Michael's Cave, which was first mentioned in writing by Pomponius Mela in 45AD but was known even earlier to the Greeks, Romans, & Phoenicians. In the 19th century it was a popular site for weddings, and even today there is a theater nestled amongst the looming stalagmites and stalagtites. Light classical music played as we wound our way through the rock formations dramatically lit in reds and greens.
Passing through more ape territory, where one of the furry beasts grabbed my leg, we arrived at the Great Siege Tunnels. The tunnels, built into the side of the rock and tall enough to walk comfortably, were originally built in 1782 during the famous French & Spanish siege of British Gibraltar. Later extended, there was a plaque marking where General Grant had once banqueted. From the tunnels we made our way to the nearby "Moorish Castle", or the Tower of Homage. Building commenced in the 8th century as a signal that the Muslims were in the region to stay, but was rebuilt in its present form after the end of the 30-year Spanish occupation in the early 14th century. The top of the tower provided excellent panoramic views of the port and mountainside.
While this sounds like a rather short jaunt, it actually took us almost 4.5 hours to come down from the top. We took a long lunch before bidding farewell to Gibraltar and heading back into Spain.
Signature telephone booth
View from the side of the Rock
Typical street in Gibraltar Town
With a Barbary Ape
To get into the heart of Gibraltar Town, it is necessary to walk across the airport's runway: this, paired with the Rock, hung with mist and towering before us, made for quite the dramatic entrance. To enter the quaint old part of town, we went through the "landport" tunnel, emerging in Grand Casemates Square. The British-ness of Gibraltar was immediately palpable, with its signature fire engine red telephone booths, "litter" disposals, and "royal mail" boxes; little red historical plaques graced nearly every building and surface. In the most recent vote regarding Gibraltar's political status (it is self-governing), over 12,000 voted to remain a part of Britain while only 44 voted against. The cobbled Main Street had a significant number of money changing outlets, kitschy stores, and liquor shops, but the prevailing atmosphere was quaint and cheerful: every building seemed to have had a recent paint job, smart red or blue or green shutters, and lovely windowboxes.
We stayed at the Cannon Hotel just off Main Street, and a warm English breakfast was made for us free of charge the next day. Our first stop once we'd settled in that afternoon was the small Gibraltar Museum, which featured the 40,000-year-old Neanderthal skulls found there, histories and paraphernalia relating to various sieges and attacks on the Rock, old photos, and preserved Arab baths. Afterward, we headed over to the Trafalgar Cemetery, where sailors who perished in that battle are buried with flowery epitaphs. The cemetery is just overgrown enough to make for a pleasant and sometimes touching wander.
Dinner was at the Gibraltar Arms in a small square across from the cathedral, and I tried fish and chips for the first time. Then, we made our way to Casemates Square once again, where every Gibraltarian teenager seemed to have congregated and a stage had been set up for a local belly dance/flamenco talent show (many of the performers were young kids).
The next morning we were ready to tackle the Rock. We took the cable car up, which takes only 5 minutes and provides great views of the town and water. As soon as we got out, we glimpsed our first ape! The Barbary Apes of Gibraltar are quite tame (though of course one shouldn't touch them) and were brought here by the British (they're not indigenous). Thanks to a healthy diet, their numbers are skyrocketing. Several at the top Apes' Den were munching on oranges while the babies swung from trees; in other places we saw whole families sitting together, the mother nursing the baby and the father picking lice off the mother ape's back.
From the very top of the Rock, it wasn't possible to see much down below (too much fog), so vertigo was happily avoided. We walked downward, stopping at various promontories along the way as more became visible. Our first major stop was St. Michael's Cave, which was first mentioned in writing by Pomponius Mela in 45AD but was known even earlier to the Greeks, Romans, & Phoenicians. In the 19th century it was a popular site for weddings, and even today there is a theater nestled amongst the looming stalagmites and stalagtites. Light classical music played as we wound our way through the rock formations dramatically lit in reds and greens.
Passing through more ape territory, where one of the furry beasts grabbed my leg, we arrived at the Great Siege Tunnels. The tunnels, built into the side of the rock and tall enough to walk comfortably, were originally built in 1782 during the famous French & Spanish siege of British Gibraltar. Later extended, there was a plaque marking where General Grant had once banqueted. From the tunnels we made our way to the nearby "Moorish Castle", or the Tower of Homage. Building commenced in the 8th century as a signal that the Muslims were in the region to stay, but was rebuilt in its present form after the end of the 30-year Spanish occupation in the early 14th century. The top of the tower provided excellent panoramic views of the port and mountainside.
While this sounds like a rather short jaunt, it actually took us almost 4.5 hours to come down from the top. We took a long lunch before bidding farewell to Gibraltar and heading back into Spain.
Signature telephone booth
View from the side of the Rock
Typical street in Gibraltar Town
With a Barbary Ape
Part II: Tangier
On Monday morning, we parted ways and Lars, Sebastien, and I headed into Tangier. It teemed with tourists -- many, it seemed, over from Spain for the day, and harassment was uglier (100-fold when I was briefly walking alone). But, perched at the convergence of the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea, it had its own distinct character. At moments in Tangier it felt like everyone was a character in a 19th century mystery novel -- it was a melange of crusty seamen, shrewd shopkeepers, aloof natives (and of course fanny pack-sporting sightseers).
We stayed at Hotel Mamora in the heart of the old medina, though it is an old medina with less color than that of Fez or Chefchaouen. The boys' room looked out on the green rooftops of the mosque next door, and the minaret was so close that the adhaan, when it sounded, seemed to be in the very room. Beyond was the sea, with the shadows of the mountains of Andalucia just visible in the mist. We spent the morning schlepping around to every bank in Tangier for my friend's traveler's checks.
Tangier isn't a relaxing city, and feeling a bit tired, we hired a grand taxi to take us about 20km outside the city to the Cave of Hercules, a grotto abutting the Mediterranean. As is not uncommon, cafes and schlocky shops had been set up in and around the cave, with tiki huts perched on the rocks before the crashing waves. Somewhere there was a monkey show, and a man in the traditional pom-pommed straw hat of the North was grilling kebabs. Outside the cave's entrance was a bizarre "cave painting" (from maybe yesterday) of Hercules, adding to the character of the place. The inside has been hacked out by humans over the eons, but it's hard to say how much. A large natural portal on one side frames the sea.
Back in the city, we stopped for a rest at the Grand Cafe de Paris in the heart of Tangier, the place where people in a bygone time (and to a certain extent today perhaps) went to see and be seen. There wasn't much shopping in Tangier, so I tried to go to a couple museums, but they were all closed. The three of us ended up wandering up an alley where we met a shoemaker, from whom we asked directions to a church we'd heard was beautiful. As per his directions, we returned after dinner (at a cute Levantine restaurant painted all blue) to meet the caretaker. The caretaker, Ahmed, led us around the corner to a nondescript building hidden from the street. It was soon clear that it was a synagogue, not a church, but it hadn't been in the guidebook and we were pleased. While himself a Muslim, he was insistent that my friends don yarmulkahs. The inside was astounding, heaped in gold and rich velvet cloths, hanging candelabras and polished benches. The money, we discerned, comes from rich Jewish patrons in Rabat and Casablanca, though the synagogue hasn't been used since the 1940s. We were also brought upstairs to the women's gallery, which had on display tapestries woven by the congregation during its last century.
The sun doesn't set until quite late, and sunset found us on the roof of our hotel, looking out across the coastline and the open sea. It was a spectacular sunset, accompanied by the chanting of perhaps some Sufi brotherhood in the chambers of the mosque. When at last it was over, we slipped into the street below, bought our ferry tickets for the next day, and walked down to the waterfront. While the coastline is a long string of swanky clubs with neon lights, a large swath of sandy beach has been kept between them and the water.
The next morning, we rose early to have some fresh orange juice and melwi at the waterfront before Sebastien and I bid farewell to Lars and set off from the port of Tangier. We took the fast ferry over to Spain, which took a bit less than two hours and was quite comfortable.
View from the Cave of Hercules
Inside the synagogue
Traditional water seller -- you see these guys all over Morocco
Sunset over Tangier
We stayed at Hotel Mamora in the heart of the old medina, though it is an old medina with less color than that of Fez or Chefchaouen. The boys' room looked out on the green rooftops of the mosque next door, and the minaret was so close that the adhaan, when it sounded, seemed to be in the very room. Beyond was the sea, with the shadows of the mountains of Andalucia just visible in the mist. We spent the morning schlepping around to every bank in Tangier for my friend's traveler's checks.
Tangier isn't a relaxing city, and feeling a bit tired, we hired a grand taxi to take us about 20km outside the city to the Cave of Hercules, a grotto abutting the Mediterranean. As is not uncommon, cafes and schlocky shops had been set up in and around the cave, with tiki huts perched on the rocks before the crashing waves. Somewhere there was a monkey show, and a man in the traditional pom-pommed straw hat of the North was grilling kebabs. Outside the cave's entrance was a bizarre "cave painting" (from maybe yesterday) of Hercules, adding to the character of the place. The inside has been hacked out by humans over the eons, but it's hard to say how much. A large natural portal on one side frames the sea.
Back in the city, we stopped for a rest at the Grand Cafe de Paris in the heart of Tangier, the place where people in a bygone time (and to a certain extent today perhaps) went to see and be seen. There wasn't much shopping in Tangier, so I tried to go to a couple museums, but they were all closed. The three of us ended up wandering up an alley where we met a shoemaker, from whom we asked directions to a church we'd heard was beautiful. As per his directions, we returned after dinner (at a cute Levantine restaurant painted all blue) to meet the caretaker. The caretaker, Ahmed, led us around the corner to a nondescript building hidden from the street. It was soon clear that it was a synagogue, not a church, but it hadn't been in the guidebook and we were pleased. While himself a Muslim, he was insistent that my friends don yarmulkahs. The inside was astounding, heaped in gold and rich velvet cloths, hanging candelabras and polished benches. The money, we discerned, comes from rich Jewish patrons in Rabat and Casablanca, though the synagogue hasn't been used since the 1940s. We were also brought upstairs to the women's gallery, which had on display tapestries woven by the congregation during its last century.
The sun doesn't set until quite late, and sunset found us on the roof of our hotel, looking out across the coastline and the open sea. It was a spectacular sunset, accompanied by the chanting of perhaps some Sufi brotherhood in the chambers of the mosque. When at last it was over, we slipped into the street below, bought our ferry tickets for the next day, and walked down to the waterfront. While the coastline is a long string of swanky clubs with neon lights, a large swath of sandy beach has been kept between them and the water.
The next morning, we rose early to have some fresh orange juice and melwi at the waterfront before Sebastien and I bid farewell to Lars and set off from the port of Tangier. We took the fast ferry over to Spain, which took a bit less than two hours and was quite comfortable.
View from the Cave of Hercules
Inside the synagogue
Traditional water seller -- you see these guys all over Morocco
Sunset over Tangier
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Last 10 Days: Part I
Now that I'm safely back in the USA, it's time to catch up on all the adventures of the last ten days of my trip. It will have to be in several installments, since it's difficult to fathom how we managed to fit in so many things in so many places in so little time.
The final exam on Friday morning (July 24th) was more difficult than past exams for the class, but manageable. After it was over, I ate my (thankfully) last meal at the AUI "mat'am", checked out of my room, and headed off with only a small backpack and tote bag in hand.
The First Weekend: Martil, Tetouan, & Ceuta
Sara, Sebastien, Noor, Lars, and I took the train from Meknes to Tangier, and then a grand taxi to Martil, arriving around midnight. Martil is a seaside resort town on the Mediterranean, but largely unvisited by foreign tourists. Sara's beach apartments were just a block up from the beach -- as we stood on her rooftop balcony, we could see the water to our left and the city Tetouan to our right. At night, the lights of Tetouan appeared as a patch of flickering candlelight hovering amidst the hills. Sara's parents met us with freshly-made flan and cookies. Neither spoke English, but we managed reasonably in Arabic.
The next morning we slept in, then experienced a "light" Moroccan breakfast -- heaps of melwi pancakes and corncakes, fresh soft, white cheese that is a regional specialty, fresh honey, and warm butter -- before going for a walk along the beach. It was already very crowded by late morning, papered with cheery parasols. We stopped in at a bookshop with piles and piles of $1 books outside, and I managed to find an old Arabic reader and a "Learn Tamazigh in 10 Days" (from Arabic) book, and a book of poems by Mahmoud Darwish. Inside, almost possible to overlook, was a section of somewhat surprising books (for Morocco), including something like "The Real Story of the American Horrors at Guantanamo" and an uncomfortably heroic packaging of "Mein Kampf."
That afternoon, we were invited to lunch at Sara's main home in Tetouan. Like many of the homes I've seen in Morocco, you couldn't tell much from the outside, but the interior of the living/dining room was exquisitely decorated in royal blue and gold. We watched Al Jazeera a bit with her father before the first course was served -- couscous with boiled vegetables and leben, a yogurty milk drink. Then we had a phenomenal kofta tajine with eggs, as it is often prepared.
Afterward, Sara's high school friend Chaimae met us and brought us around the old medina of Tetouan. Tourists tend to flock to nearby Tangier, so Tetouan was calm and breezy. We wound up in one corner of the medina in the midst of the shops selling fur throw rugs made from animal hides. Behind the stalls was the workshop where they are made, and the proprietor explained to us how it is done, by soaking the hides in large pools of water, brushing, fluffing, etc. We emerged from the medina near the forest green and white royal palace (the colors of the whole city, really). Mohamed VI has a palace in just about every city in Morocco, but he would be celebrating the 10th anniversary of his accession in Tetouan just a few days hence. For this reason, the grand Spanish buildings along the main boulevards were strung with red and green flags and lights. We soon began to notice the festive spirit throughout the country.
That night, we returned to the beach after dark, when it was more empty but not too chilly, to chat.
On Sunday, we finally donned our bathing suits and went to frolic in the water. The color of the water was medium turquoise, the waves were high, and the undertow a bit too strong, but it was the perfect temperature. Eventually we roused ourselves from the sun and sand and hopped in a grand taxi for Ceuta (Sebta), the Spanish-owned city farther up the coast.
The highway to Ceuta ran right along the Mediterranean, and the scene was made even more dramatic by the lines of waving red Moroccan flags every few feet on both sides. We walked across the border (after filling out numerous forms on the Moroccan side, since Morocco is bitter about the continued Spanish possession of the city.) Since it was Sunday, everything was dead... except for the beach, as we later saw. Ceuta feels self-consciously Spanish, with wide boulevards, insistent church bells, and neatly-groomed parks with distinctly European-looking monuments. Mostly we just strolled around and enjoyed the scenic views (and visited a fancy McDonald's, actually, where I had my first real salad in awhile.) But we also went to the old fort. There has been a city on the site for over two thousand years, but it went Portuguese in the early 15th century, the period from which the fort originally dates, and Spanish in the late 16th. The interior courtyard has been populated by upscale cafes and palm trees, with a tiny museum tucked away in the corner. The best views were to be had from the ramparts, where old cannons were stationed, the Spanish flag was flapping, and one could see out to the other major hill of the city and out into the sea. Just outside, some teenage guys were cannonballing off a high bridge into the fort's moat.
Arabic class picture
Salt mines outside the train to the North
Flags waving in Tetouan
At the beach in Martil
On the street in Ceuta
The beach in Ceuta
The final exam on Friday morning (July 24th) was more difficult than past exams for the class, but manageable. After it was over, I ate my (thankfully) last meal at the AUI "mat'am", checked out of my room, and headed off with only a small backpack and tote bag in hand.
The First Weekend: Martil, Tetouan, & Ceuta
Sara, Sebastien, Noor, Lars, and I took the train from Meknes to Tangier, and then a grand taxi to Martil, arriving around midnight. Martil is a seaside resort town on the Mediterranean, but largely unvisited by foreign tourists. Sara's beach apartments were just a block up from the beach -- as we stood on her rooftop balcony, we could see the water to our left and the city Tetouan to our right. At night, the lights of Tetouan appeared as a patch of flickering candlelight hovering amidst the hills. Sara's parents met us with freshly-made flan and cookies. Neither spoke English, but we managed reasonably in Arabic.
The next morning we slept in, then experienced a "light" Moroccan breakfast -- heaps of melwi pancakes and corncakes, fresh soft, white cheese that is a regional specialty, fresh honey, and warm butter -- before going for a walk along the beach. It was already very crowded by late morning, papered with cheery parasols. We stopped in at a bookshop with piles and piles of $1 books outside, and I managed to find an old Arabic reader and a "Learn Tamazigh in 10 Days" (from Arabic) book, and a book of poems by Mahmoud Darwish. Inside, almost possible to overlook, was a section of somewhat surprising books (for Morocco), including something like "The Real Story of the American Horrors at Guantanamo" and an uncomfortably heroic packaging of "Mein Kampf."
That afternoon, we were invited to lunch at Sara's main home in Tetouan. Like many of the homes I've seen in Morocco, you couldn't tell much from the outside, but the interior of the living/dining room was exquisitely decorated in royal blue and gold. We watched Al Jazeera a bit with her father before the first course was served -- couscous with boiled vegetables and leben, a yogurty milk drink. Then we had a phenomenal kofta tajine with eggs, as it is often prepared.
Afterward, Sara's high school friend Chaimae met us and brought us around the old medina of Tetouan. Tourists tend to flock to nearby Tangier, so Tetouan was calm and breezy. We wound up in one corner of the medina in the midst of the shops selling fur throw rugs made from animal hides. Behind the stalls was the workshop where they are made, and the proprietor explained to us how it is done, by soaking the hides in large pools of water, brushing, fluffing, etc. We emerged from the medina near the forest green and white royal palace (the colors of the whole city, really). Mohamed VI has a palace in just about every city in Morocco, but he would be celebrating the 10th anniversary of his accession in Tetouan just a few days hence. For this reason, the grand Spanish buildings along the main boulevards were strung with red and green flags and lights. We soon began to notice the festive spirit throughout the country.
That night, we returned to the beach after dark, when it was more empty but not too chilly, to chat.
On Sunday, we finally donned our bathing suits and went to frolic in the water. The color of the water was medium turquoise, the waves were high, and the undertow a bit too strong, but it was the perfect temperature. Eventually we roused ourselves from the sun and sand and hopped in a grand taxi for Ceuta (Sebta), the Spanish-owned city farther up the coast.
The highway to Ceuta ran right along the Mediterranean, and the scene was made even more dramatic by the lines of waving red Moroccan flags every few feet on both sides. We walked across the border (after filling out numerous forms on the Moroccan side, since Morocco is bitter about the continued Spanish possession of the city.) Since it was Sunday, everything was dead... except for the beach, as we later saw. Ceuta feels self-consciously Spanish, with wide boulevards, insistent church bells, and neatly-groomed parks with distinctly European-looking monuments. Mostly we just strolled around and enjoyed the scenic views (and visited a fancy McDonald's, actually, where I had my first real salad in awhile.) But we also went to the old fort. There has been a city on the site for over two thousand years, but it went Portuguese in the early 15th century, the period from which the fort originally dates, and Spanish in the late 16th. The interior courtyard has been populated by upscale cafes and palm trees, with a tiny museum tucked away in the corner. The best views were to be had from the ramparts, where old cannons were stationed, the Spanish flag was flapping, and one could see out to the other major hill of the city and out into the sea. Just outside, some teenage guys were cannonballing off a high bridge into the fort's moat.
Arabic class picture
Salt mines outside the train to the North
Flags waving in Tetouan
At the beach in Martil
On the street in Ceuta
The beach in Ceuta
Thursday, July 23, 2009
End of the Program
Well, two months have finally come to end. Today I've been dealing with all the last-minute administrative things that inevitably come up and tomorrow I'll leave AUI for good. This morning every student in my class gave a final oral presentation on the same topic as our research papers, which will be handed in tomorrow. Finishing the paper was extremely satisfying, and it finally hit me how far we've come in just 8 weeks -- I could never have imagined writing a 5-page paper entirely in Arabic. Tomorrow morning is our final exam (4 hours long), after which I'll depart for the next phase of the adventure.
I won't be taking my laptop with me, so this will probably be my last blog post until I'm back in the U.S. (unless I manage to stop by an internet cafe somewhere). In fact, I am experimenting with traveling with only 1 small, rather flimsy backpack (clothes will be worn many times, but for sure it will be an experience). Here's my general itinerary for the next 12 days:
Fri. 7/24
Travel to Sara's beach house in Martil, near Tetouan, by train. Arrive around midnight.
Sat. 7/25-Sun. 7/26
See Tetouan, the Mediterranean beach, and the Spanish city of Ceuta (on the Moroccan coast) with Sara and her friends.
Mon. 7/27
Travel in the morning to Tangier. Spend the day and night in Tangier.
Tues. 7/28
Take the morning ferry from Tangier to Algeciras in Andalusia. Spend the afternoon and evening in Gibraltar (very close to Algeciras). Hopefully we will get to go diving off the coast, where supposedly one can see numerous dramatic shipwrecks, and also see the famous cave apes.
Wed. 7/29
Morning in Gibraltar, then take 3pm train to Cordoba. We should get there in the evening and spend the night.
Thurs. 7/30
Day in Cordoba. Night in Cordoba.
Fri. 7/31
Take morning train to Seville, then spend the day and night in Seville.
Sat. 8/1
Day and night in Seville.
Sun. 8/2
Fly from Seville to Fez (5 euro flight!), then return to AUI to pick up our luggage. Afternoon and evening in Fez.
Mon. 8/3
Day in Fez.
Tues. 8/4
Depart on 7am flight for the USA.
***
Tonight, I think we will eat at a Syrian restaurant in the marche, and then back to the books. If possible, I will write a brief update or two during the course of the next week and half, but if not -- expect a full report to be posted when I get home.
مع سلامة
I won't be taking my laptop with me, so this will probably be my last blog post until I'm back in the U.S. (unless I manage to stop by an internet cafe somewhere). In fact, I am experimenting with traveling with only 1 small, rather flimsy backpack (clothes will be worn many times, but for sure it will be an experience). Here's my general itinerary for the next 12 days:
Fri. 7/24
Travel to Sara's beach house in Martil, near Tetouan, by train. Arrive around midnight.
Sat. 7/25-Sun. 7/26
See Tetouan, the Mediterranean beach, and the Spanish city of Ceuta (on the Moroccan coast) with Sara and her friends.
Mon. 7/27
Travel in the morning to Tangier. Spend the day and night in Tangier.
Tues. 7/28
Take the morning ferry from Tangier to Algeciras in Andalusia. Spend the afternoon and evening in Gibraltar (very close to Algeciras). Hopefully we will get to go diving off the coast, where supposedly one can see numerous dramatic shipwrecks, and also see the famous cave apes.
Wed. 7/29
Morning in Gibraltar, then take 3pm train to Cordoba. We should get there in the evening and spend the night.
Thurs. 7/30
Day in Cordoba. Night in Cordoba.
Fri. 7/31
Take morning train to Seville, then spend the day and night in Seville.
Sat. 8/1
Day and night in Seville.
Sun. 8/2
Fly from Seville to Fez (5 euro flight!), then return to AUI to pick up our luggage. Afternoon and evening in Fez.
Mon. 8/3
Day in Fez.
Tues. 8/4
Depart on 7am flight for the USA.
***
Tonight, I think we will eat at a Syrian restaurant in the marche, and then back to the books. If possible, I will write a brief update or two during the course of the next week and half, but if not -- expect a full report to be posted when I get home.
مع سلامة
Sunday, July 19, 2009
شفشاون
Another fabulous weekend adventure! Yesterday morning, Saturday, I met up with five of my friends and we grand taxi-ed it all the way to Chefchaouen (a pretty tight ride for over four hours). On the way there, we stopped for a bit at a rest stop with a typical set up -- that is, huge sides of beef, and perhaps other tasty morsels, are hung out in the open for travelers to inspect and select, at which point your slab of choice is grilled in front of you.
Chefchaouen was one of the places that everyone in the know had recommended I see before I leave Morocco, and it certainly didn't let us down. The name literally means "look at the mountains." Indeed, the whole town, with a population of about 35,000 is located on a steep mountain in the High Atlas mountains. We spent virtually all of our time in the old medina, which is famous for being painted blue. Sure enough, almost every building, or at least the bottom half of it, is painted a pleasant periwinkle, and the doors and windows are often painted other shades. According to Lonely Planet, the blue was introduced by Jewish residents in the 1930s (accents were previously green), and perhaps for aesthetic reasons, it stuck. The medina is composed of steep, car-less cobbled alleys with few street signs (we came to know, or guess at, our way very quickly). It's a bit of a dream world: child-sized arches and soft, marshmallow-like houses are paired with bright pink flowers hung outside Aladdin-style windows. While we certainly saw other tourists, especially young backpackers, there wasn't an overwhelming amount of tourism and the residential streets of the medina were nearly empty. We had been forewarned that Chefchaouen, like much of the Rif, is the prime place for purchasing kif (similar to hashish) -- it did have a bit of a Woodstock-y feeling, quite often I caught whiffs of incense as I passed through, and there were some bizarre combinations for sale of traditionally woven blankets emblazoned with the marijuana leaf -- but the atmosphere wasn't pervasive. Chefchaouen was also quite different from the other places I've visited here so far in that the Spanish influence is quite noticeable. Everyone spoke Spanish, and as foreigners the first way we were addressed was always "Hola" insead of "Bonjour".
We arrived around mid-afternoon and went directly to lunch at a fabulous (and cheap) restaurant that appeared to be in someone's basement "Restrante Rincon Andalus". We didn't make any plans in advance, so we spent the next couple of hours exploring and also attempting to find a hotel with rooms available. We ended up staying in a pension unlisted in the guidebook, Hostal ValParadis. The cost came to $6 per person. The ground floor was the family's living room, where the teenage son (who more or less ran the business it seemed) and his little brother sat watching soccer. While we were doing paperwork, some (perhaps) friends of the family came in with a bag of fresh green figs that they shared with us. There were maybe 5 rooms total on the next two floors looking out onto an open area in the center of the building. Everything was painted eye-popping colors, and there were beautiful leather hassocks outside the rooms, but in terms of amenities, you don't get more than you pay for... the showers, one per floor, were actually just hoses on the wall of the bathroom (we didn't shower), the doors to the rooms didn't lock and neither did the tall colored-glass windows that opened onto the central open space; we also didn't get a top sheet or any blankets. But we just slept with our valuables under our pillows, and it was a fun experience.
What remained of the afternoon and evening was largely spent just meandering through the streets and eventually down to the main square, Plaza Uta el-Hammam, where there are lots of cute cafes. A little before sunset, we headed up to Ras El-Maa, a small waterfall and popular gathering place at the top of the medina just beyond the gate. Soaking our tired travelers' feet in the cool water, we were confronted with the Jebel El-Kelaa, the main mountain of Chefchaouen, right beside us. One of the things that has been very striking about Moroccan towns, and even cities like Rabat, is that every place has a definite end -- and then suddenly there is open countryside stretching as far as you can see: there is no sprawl. There was a shed where women were doing the family laundry using water from the stream and lots of shebaab lounging about on the bridge overlooking the falls. We attempted to find the nearby "ruined mosque" mentioned in the guidebook, but it became quite dark as we ascended a nearly pathless mountainside, then decided we'd better not risk arrest and headed back. It did provide us with a wonderful panoramic view of the lights of Chefchaouen at night, though.
For dinner (around 10:45), we returned to the Plaza to eat a candlelit feast on the second story of La Lampe Magique-Casa Aladdin, the mountain breeze blowing in through the open windows.
The next morning, we took it easy, grabbing some omelets at Uta el-Hammam and then exploring the restored Kasbah also on the square. Inside was a large, blossoming courtyard from which doors lead to the former castle jail, a gallery of pretty heinous contemporary artwork, and a small museum with local artifacts (traditional clothing, pottery, and musical instruments mostly). I climbed up to the tower, which was by far the best part of the Kasbah... it provided a stunning, 360 degree view of the town and the mountains (see pictures below).
Gelatos in hand, we spent our last hours in Chefchaouen doing a little shopping, meandering through the streets, getting lost in the streets, and watching a pair of goats gallop out of one of the houses before our very eyes, only to be chased back inside by a little girl. On one of the residential streets, a small boy was sitting outside with a cardboard box that he'd strapped to his body as a makeshift drum, and was practicing his beats. Throughout the town, we would peer into one of the waist-high open doors to see men with their hooded djellabas hammering away at wooden pieces, later to be painted in intricate red and yellow patterns, or bent over their tailoring.
We decided to try out the national bus system, CTM, for our return trip. After several complications, we managed to get tickets to Fez: I can't claim the bus was comfortable exactly (and of course no AC!), but there are individual seats, so we were all still in one, normally-shaped piece by the time we arrived several hours later.
Chefchaouen was one of the places that everyone in the know had recommended I see before I leave Morocco, and it certainly didn't let us down. The name literally means "look at the mountains." Indeed, the whole town, with a population of about 35,000 is located on a steep mountain in the High Atlas mountains. We spent virtually all of our time in the old medina, which is famous for being painted blue. Sure enough, almost every building, or at least the bottom half of it, is painted a pleasant periwinkle, and the doors and windows are often painted other shades. According to Lonely Planet, the blue was introduced by Jewish residents in the 1930s (accents were previously green), and perhaps for aesthetic reasons, it stuck. The medina is composed of steep, car-less cobbled alleys with few street signs (we came to know, or guess at, our way very quickly). It's a bit of a dream world: child-sized arches and soft, marshmallow-like houses are paired with bright pink flowers hung outside Aladdin-style windows. While we certainly saw other tourists, especially young backpackers, there wasn't an overwhelming amount of tourism and the residential streets of the medina were nearly empty. We had been forewarned that Chefchaouen, like much of the Rif, is the prime place for purchasing kif (similar to hashish) -- it did have a bit of a Woodstock-y feeling, quite often I caught whiffs of incense as I passed through, and there were some bizarre combinations for sale of traditionally woven blankets emblazoned with the marijuana leaf -- but the atmosphere wasn't pervasive. Chefchaouen was also quite different from the other places I've visited here so far in that the Spanish influence is quite noticeable. Everyone spoke Spanish, and as foreigners the first way we were addressed was always "Hola" insead of "Bonjour".
We arrived around mid-afternoon and went directly to lunch at a fabulous (and cheap) restaurant that appeared to be in someone's basement "Restrante Rincon Andalus". We didn't make any plans in advance, so we spent the next couple of hours exploring and also attempting to find a hotel with rooms available. We ended up staying in a pension unlisted in the guidebook, Hostal ValParadis. The cost came to $6 per person. The ground floor was the family's living room, where the teenage son (who more or less ran the business it seemed) and his little brother sat watching soccer. While we were doing paperwork, some (perhaps) friends of the family came in with a bag of fresh green figs that they shared with us. There were maybe 5 rooms total on the next two floors looking out onto an open area in the center of the building. Everything was painted eye-popping colors, and there were beautiful leather hassocks outside the rooms, but in terms of amenities, you don't get more than you pay for... the showers, one per floor, were actually just hoses on the wall of the bathroom (we didn't shower), the doors to the rooms didn't lock and neither did the tall colored-glass windows that opened onto the central open space; we also didn't get a top sheet or any blankets. But we just slept with our valuables under our pillows, and it was a fun experience.
What remained of the afternoon and evening was largely spent just meandering through the streets and eventually down to the main square, Plaza Uta el-Hammam, where there are lots of cute cafes. A little before sunset, we headed up to Ras El-Maa, a small waterfall and popular gathering place at the top of the medina just beyond the gate. Soaking our tired travelers' feet in the cool water, we were confronted with the Jebel El-Kelaa, the main mountain of Chefchaouen, right beside us. One of the things that has been very striking about Moroccan towns, and even cities like Rabat, is that every place has a definite end -- and then suddenly there is open countryside stretching as far as you can see: there is no sprawl. There was a shed where women were doing the family laundry using water from the stream and lots of shebaab lounging about on the bridge overlooking the falls. We attempted to find the nearby "ruined mosque" mentioned in the guidebook, but it became quite dark as we ascended a nearly pathless mountainside, then decided we'd better not risk arrest and headed back. It did provide us with a wonderful panoramic view of the lights of Chefchaouen at night, though.
For dinner (around 10:45), we returned to the Plaza to eat a candlelit feast on the second story of La Lampe Magique-Casa Aladdin, the mountain breeze blowing in through the open windows.
The next morning, we took it easy, grabbing some omelets at Uta el-Hammam and then exploring the restored Kasbah also on the square. Inside was a large, blossoming courtyard from which doors lead to the former castle jail, a gallery of pretty heinous contemporary artwork, and a small museum with local artifacts (traditional clothing, pottery, and musical instruments mostly). I climbed up to the tower, which was by far the best part of the Kasbah... it provided a stunning, 360 degree view of the town and the mountains (see pictures below).
Gelatos in hand, we spent our last hours in Chefchaouen doing a little shopping, meandering through the streets, getting lost in the streets, and watching a pair of goats gallop out of one of the houses before our very eyes, only to be chased back inside by a little girl. On one of the residential streets, a small boy was sitting outside with a cardboard box that he'd strapped to his body as a makeshift drum, and was practicing his beats. Throughout the town, we would peer into one of the waist-high open doors to see men with their hooded djellabas hammering away at wooden pieces, later to be painted in intricate red and yellow patterns, or bent over their tailoring.
We decided to try out the national bus system, CTM, for our return trip. After several complications, we managed to get tickets to Fez: I can't claim the bus was comfortable exactly (and of course no AC!), but there are individual seats, so we were all still in one, normally-shaped piece by the time we arrived several hours later.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Update
There isn't too much to update you on... this week the homework has been piling on, and there are quite a few end-of-term assignments I'm trying to crank out. The Moroccan students pretty much all left campus today, since their semester ended, so for the next week it will just be Americans and participants from various conferences (and very empty!)
The last meeting of music club was yesterday, and we learned a new song, this one in darija, called علاش يا غزالي, or "Why, My Gazelle". Here's the link to the youtube video of it so you can get an idea of what we've been singing. (The video for Shemsu Lachia is not great, so I didn't post it.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpYXCEfPqVo
Then, today, the school put on a mock Moroccan wedding with students from the ARANAS program. A traditional velvet tent was erected with an over-the-top silk and gold throne for the bride and groom inside, and plenty of tasty treats. The bride (or brides, actually, since there were two) was brought out sitting cross-legged in a golden sedan chair carried by four men in matching red suits. The groom stood in front and did a little dance. A band had been hired to blow the wedding horns and play the drums, and they danced around wildly while the couple were led in. On hand as well were a henna artist to decorate the wedding party, a special party planner in a rhinestoned Yves St Laurent djellaba, and miscellaneous women who were capable of making the wedding ululations. The actual ceremony consisted of a some dancing and a lot of sitting on the throne while people took pictures with the bride and groom (unfortunately, I didn't have my camera!) They were decked out in full traditional attire (but changed their dresses only once, not 6 or 7 times as is the usual practice), with golden crowns, decadent jewelry, and sparkly, colorful dresses with lots of jewels and sequins.
The last meeting of music club was yesterday, and we learned a new song, this one in darija, called علاش يا غزالي, or "Why, My Gazelle". Here's the link to the youtube video of it so you can get an idea of what we've been singing. (The video for Shemsu Lachia is not great, so I didn't post it.) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpYXCEfPqVo
Then, today, the school put on a mock Moroccan wedding with students from the ARANAS program. A traditional velvet tent was erected with an over-the-top silk and gold throne for the bride and groom inside, and plenty of tasty treats. The bride (or brides, actually, since there were two) was brought out sitting cross-legged in a golden sedan chair carried by four men in matching red suits. The groom stood in front and did a little dance. A band had been hired to blow the wedding horns and play the drums, and they danced around wildly while the couple were led in. On hand as well were a henna artist to decorate the wedding party, a special party planner in a rhinestoned Yves St Laurent djellaba, and miscellaneous women who were capable of making the wedding ululations. The actual ceremony consisted of a some dancing and a lot of sitting on the throne while people took pictures with the bride and groom (unfortunately, I didn't have my camera!) They were decked out in full traditional attire (but changed their dresses only once, not 6 or 7 times as is the usual practice), with golden crowns, decadent jewelry, and sparkly, colorful dresses with lots of jewels and sequins.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Weekend Adventures
This weekend, the whole program went to Marrakech, but those of us in Contemporary Issues were not allowed (since we'd already been). We were unable to put together or afford an elaborate trip, so I've spent a more or less relaxed 3-day weekend on and near campus.
After a lazy Friday morning, I went with Erin and Dave to Ain Vittel, a waterfall and picnic ground about a 15-minute taxi ride from campus. It seemed a popular place for Moroccans to come with their kids and spend a summer afternoon -- it was fairly crowded. There were several little boys with horses, and I negotiated with them a one-hour ride through the fields and up around the falls. Unfortunately, once we were already trotting off, the boys' older brother came and insisted they had told us the wrong price (in other words, the little boy had told us the real Moroccan price, while the older guy was giving us the tourist price.) They pegged me from the beginning as the one who sort of spoke Arabic, and so I was harassed constantly for the whole trip... yet, unfortunately, my language skills were not sufficient to explain to them what I actually wanted to say. It was a beautiful ride, though, and the leafy shade of the park was a welcome repose from the boiling heat of the afternoon. When we were finished, I was approached by a toothy honey salesman who was eager to practice French for some reason, and insisted that I not speak Arabic to him. After I insisted that I had no money to buy, he extracted an enormous tub of honey and let me stick my thumb in for a taste. It was cedar honey, he said, and probably some of the best I've ever tasted.
Later Friday night, I headed out with some friends to the marche to buy a movie to watch. Overnight, Ifrane has swelled to perhaps hundreds of times its normal size -- it is finally vacation time in Morocco, and everyone who can afford it is in Ifrane. There is a little green and white "train" that ferries families around town, there are flashing Christmas lights in the trees, and the crowd around the great stone lion has ballooned. We bought two pirated DVDs (that's all there is) from a little shop at the marche, and ended up in a long conversation with the grinning old proprietor comparing fusHa to darija to various other colloquial dialects. As it turned out, the movies, both American, were dubbed in French and I also think gave my computer a virus.
Twelve hours later, I was squished into the back seat of a grand taxi bound for Fez. Trying to entice sleep, I gave up and cracked an eyelid when John Lennon's "Imagine" came onto the radio... in Arabic. It's hard to believe that walking through the winding alleys of Fez's old medina is no longer a culture shock. Sometimes, I begin to forget how different this place is from home. Then a donkey trudging along beneath crates of coke bottles will suddenly round the corner or I'll hear the call to prayer echoing across the souk -- or, as in the old medina, where there is huge number of mosques within a tiny area, a pulsing blanket of voices chanting "Allahu Akbar" almost in unison.
We spent most of the day walking around the old medina shopping, since my friends had a lot of gifts to buy. Our Moroccan friend Sara (the one whose birthday party we threw) came with us. We thought we'd encounter less harassment when accompanied by a Moroccan, but in fact this was the first time that we were relentlessly pursued (for nearly an hour) by two would-be "faux guides". Sara offered to go into the shrine to Moulay Idriss II and take photos for us, since it is not permitted to non-Muslims -- seeing the pictures made me really regret that we weren't allowed in! We ate lunch at Palace Tariana, the same place we'd been with Dr. Shoup, and afterward met up with my friend Ada Petiwala, a friend of Diana's from Bard and a fellow staffer from Model UN this spring. Since Ada's been living in the old medina for the past 6 weeks studying in another Arabic program, she knew her way around well and led us to some reliable shops.
Completely by accident, we stumbled upon the antique store of Sidi Mohammed, the friend of Dr. Shoup's who had made us tea and cookies in his living museum of a home on our last visit. He recognized us the moment we walked in the door and greeted us with warm kisses and cold water. Bringing us upstairs, he brought out some of his newest treasures, including a miniature Qur'an in a velvet case from the 17th century. (Of course he didn't expect us to buy it for several thousand dollars, and in fact explained that it would probably go to a wealthy Saudi collector.) He insisted that we come by again before we leave the country.
Some typical views of the old medina:
Sunday has been a sick day, but these things are to be expected. Hopefully better tomorrow!
After a lazy Friday morning, I went with Erin and Dave to Ain Vittel, a waterfall and picnic ground about a 15-minute taxi ride from campus. It seemed a popular place for Moroccans to come with their kids and spend a summer afternoon -- it was fairly crowded. There were several little boys with horses, and I negotiated with them a one-hour ride through the fields and up around the falls. Unfortunately, once we were already trotting off, the boys' older brother came and insisted they had told us the wrong price (in other words, the little boy had told us the real Moroccan price, while the older guy was giving us the tourist price.) They pegged me from the beginning as the one who sort of spoke Arabic, and so I was harassed constantly for the whole trip... yet, unfortunately, my language skills were not sufficient to explain to them what I actually wanted to say. It was a beautiful ride, though, and the leafy shade of the park was a welcome repose from the boiling heat of the afternoon. When we were finished, I was approached by a toothy honey salesman who was eager to practice French for some reason, and insisted that I not speak Arabic to him. After I insisted that I had no money to buy, he extracted an enormous tub of honey and let me stick my thumb in for a taste. It was cedar honey, he said, and probably some of the best I've ever tasted.
Later Friday night, I headed out with some friends to the marche to buy a movie to watch. Overnight, Ifrane has swelled to perhaps hundreds of times its normal size -- it is finally vacation time in Morocco, and everyone who can afford it is in Ifrane. There is a little green and white "train" that ferries families around town, there are flashing Christmas lights in the trees, and the crowd around the great stone lion has ballooned. We bought two pirated DVDs (that's all there is) from a little shop at the marche, and ended up in a long conversation with the grinning old proprietor comparing fusHa to darija to various other colloquial dialects. As it turned out, the movies, both American, were dubbed in French and I also think gave my computer a virus.
Twelve hours later, I was squished into the back seat of a grand taxi bound for Fez. Trying to entice sleep, I gave up and cracked an eyelid when John Lennon's "Imagine" came onto the radio... in Arabic. It's hard to believe that walking through the winding alleys of Fez's old medina is no longer a culture shock. Sometimes, I begin to forget how different this place is from home. Then a donkey trudging along beneath crates of coke bottles will suddenly round the corner or I'll hear the call to prayer echoing across the souk -- or, as in the old medina, where there is huge number of mosques within a tiny area, a pulsing blanket of voices chanting "Allahu Akbar" almost in unison.
We spent most of the day walking around the old medina shopping, since my friends had a lot of gifts to buy. Our Moroccan friend Sara (the one whose birthday party we threw) came with us. We thought we'd encounter less harassment when accompanied by a Moroccan, but in fact this was the first time that we were relentlessly pursued (for nearly an hour) by two would-be "faux guides". Sara offered to go into the shrine to Moulay Idriss II and take photos for us, since it is not permitted to non-Muslims -- seeing the pictures made me really regret that we weren't allowed in! We ate lunch at Palace Tariana, the same place we'd been with Dr. Shoup, and afterward met up with my friend Ada Petiwala, a friend of Diana's from Bard and a fellow staffer from Model UN this spring. Since Ada's been living in the old medina for the past 6 weeks studying in another Arabic program, she knew her way around well and led us to some reliable shops.
Completely by accident, we stumbled upon the antique store of Sidi Mohammed, the friend of Dr. Shoup's who had made us tea and cookies in his living museum of a home on our last visit. He recognized us the moment we walked in the door and greeted us with warm kisses and cold water. Bringing us upstairs, he brought out some of his newest treasures, including a miniature Qur'an in a velvet case from the 17th century. (Of course he didn't expect us to buy it for several thousand dollars, and in fact explained that it would probably go to a wealthy Saudi collector.) He insisted that we come by again before we leave the country.
Some typical views of the old medina:
Sunday has been a sick day, but these things are to be expected. Hopefully better tomorrow!
Friday, July 10, 2009
هذا الاسبوع (This Week)
For the most part, this week was pretty normal, with a few interesting experiences (which I will highlight).
On Tuesday, I was studying in the library when a girl from the student activities council came up and begged me to be in the AUI welcome video that will be shown to new students in the fall. There ended up being about 10 of us Americans, plus several Moroccans participating. We filmed in two locations, had to lounge casually and move our hands to "look natural" and say in unison "مرحبا بكم في جامعة الاخوين", "Welcome to AUI", and "Enjoy your time at AUI."
The next day, Sebastien, Osahon, and I went for dinner again at Pizza Diafa at the marche (I don't think they actually serve pizza, so it's a bit of a misnomer), since we hadn't been in a few weeks. When we returned, the "traditional music" concert was just getting underway in front of the mat'am. The school had hired several different lively groups, mostly in white djellabas and wielding drums and long horns -- however, there was also a Gnaoua group with the telltale metal castanets. Many students, including Moroccans, came out for the occasion, and while I left at 11, I heard the concert was still going strong at 2am.
Then, on Thursday, I found out at the last minute that the Rev. Karen Smith, a really friendly American who has been at AUI for 13 years and coordinates the Christian community on campus, was driving a few people to the squatter village of Tarmilat. So I decided to come along. Tarmilat is only about an 8 minute drive from Ifrane, but is a completely different kind of place. The village consists of several low huts of stone, plastic tarps, and tin cans built onto a barren hillside. I couldn't tell how large the community was -- not more than a couple hundred, possibly much smaller, and it seemed to be made up of both Arabs and Berbers. Since the residents are just squatters, they are not allowed to build any permanent structures: although, at Rev. Smith's urging, the government recently built a one-room schoolhouse nearby so that some of the children could begin attending school. The men of village are shepherds, but the women, working with students from AUI's high school (in fact, my roommate's sister was the founder of the program!) have developed their weaving, a skill that was going unused until very recently, into a business. They now make beautiful rugs, bags, and pillowcases, although I think they are quite dependent on AUI (and especially Karen Smith) to distribute them -- I don't see how anyone would be able to stumble upon the village (or possibly even find it with directions, since the road wasn't marked). One of the first things that the more successful weavers are starting to buy are solar panels, so there is now some limited electricity available. For each item sold, the proceeds go directly to the woman who made it. And AUI has helped them make cards in English with each woman's story, but getting to meet them ourselves made our purchases that much more meaningful. Here is the story of Zohra Amawi:
"Zohra Amawi is in her thirties. She was born and raised near Sefrou before marrying and moving to Tarmilat. Because she can't afford the 20dh [about $2.50] for the taxi, she sees her family only once a year. She has 4 daughters and a son. The three oldest girls go to high school in Ifrane; the youngest daughter will start at Tarmilat school in 2008. Her eldest daughter, Hanane, wants to work in the military. In 2008, Zohra found out she has diabetes. Her only dream is to see her children have a better life."
Even with the occasional medical care that the villagers are able to receive as a result of the weaving income, tragedies are not uncommon. When we arrived, more than a dozen women were gathered at the home of an 18-year-old boy who had died two days earlier after falling off a nearby barrage and drowning. Even the youngest women look far older than they are.
As we were looking at the rugs, several large cows walked out of the shed, followed by a bunch of chickens. They just go free... one calf actually followed a bunch of toddlers into the hut where they do the weaving and began urinating next to the loom. The children at Tarmilat were great -- except for one dangerous little tot who ran around with a vicious grin hitting everyone in her path with a big metal pipe that she had picked up off the ground!
After seeing all the rugs, we were invited into the home of the deceased boy for a meal. We took off our shoes at the entrance and sat, along with women and children (no men were in sight) on carpets around the perimeter of the hut. Rev. Smith told them we had no time for food, but within 5 minutes we were brought a steaming beef tajine and heaps of bread. As is customary, although a little awkward at first, we as guests ate alone while everyone else watched. Next, we were brought a heaping platter of couscous, which would normally be eaten only on Fridays, but was made for the funeral of the boy. Finally, we had a round of tea (of course!). Before we left, we had another round of kisses with each of the women, from 5 to perhaps 85, sitting in the hut, and they sent us off with the remainder of the couscous.
Our Contemporary Issues lecture, given by an Armenian professor who grew up in Sudan, centered on Islamist terrorist groups inside Morocco. We were a little worried that, as had happened during Prof. Kalpakian's previous lecture, the Q&A might descend into mudslinging between the professor and Fabio, an Algerian student from the Diplomatic Academy of London (an institution for which Dr. Shoup has no respect at all) who paradoxically supports the far right Le Pen in France. Fortunately it did not, and the lecture was extremely interesting. One of his main points was that poverty is not really a factor in driving individuals to join terrorist groups in Morocco -- that in fact, most recruits tend to be reasonably successful small businessmen, juice vendors in the medinas, salesclerks, etc.
Last night, many of us were invited to a party that some of Osahon's friends, 3 African French guys who are regular students at AUI but don't like it too much, were throwing at a rented vacation home in Ifrane. I was a little apprehensive because of what I'd heard about these wild "apartment parties", but I was with a large number of Americans and in fact the party turned out to be very laid-back. The decor of the apartment was probably the most interesting thing: there was a traditional Moroccan living room with long couches, but the ceiling was cork, there was a creepy sepia portrait of a random woman on the mantle, and in the basement was a bizarre tapestry of white-tailed deer like something you'd probably find in an American hunting lodge.
On Tuesday, I was studying in the library when a girl from the student activities council came up and begged me to be in the AUI welcome video that will be shown to new students in the fall. There ended up being about 10 of us Americans, plus several Moroccans participating. We filmed in two locations, had to lounge casually and move our hands to "look natural" and say in unison "مرحبا بكم في جامعة الاخوين", "Welcome to AUI", and "Enjoy your time at AUI."
The next day, Sebastien, Osahon, and I went for dinner again at Pizza Diafa at the marche (I don't think they actually serve pizza, so it's a bit of a misnomer), since we hadn't been in a few weeks. When we returned, the "traditional music" concert was just getting underway in front of the mat'am. The school had hired several different lively groups, mostly in white djellabas and wielding drums and long horns -- however, there was also a Gnaoua group with the telltale metal castanets. Many students, including Moroccans, came out for the occasion, and while I left at 11, I heard the concert was still going strong at 2am.
Then, on Thursday, I found out at the last minute that the Rev. Karen Smith, a really friendly American who has been at AUI for 13 years and coordinates the Christian community on campus, was driving a few people to the squatter village of Tarmilat. So I decided to come along. Tarmilat is only about an 8 minute drive from Ifrane, but is a completely different kind of place. The village consists of several low huts of stone, plastic tarps, and tin cans built onto a barren hillside. I couldn't tell how large the community was -- not more than a couple hundred, possibly much smaller, and it seemed to be made up of both Arabs and Berbers. Since the residents are just squatters, they are not allowed to build any permanent structures: although, at Rev. Smith's urging, the government recently built a one-room schoolhouse nearby so that some of the children could begin attending school. The men of village are shepherds, but the women, working with students from AUI's high school (in fact, my roommate's sister was the founder of the program!) have developed their weaving, a skill that was going unused until very recently, into a business. They now make beautiful rugs, bags, and pillowcases, although I think they are quite dependent on AUI (and especially Karen Smith) to distribute them -- I don't see how anyone would be able to stumble upon the village (or possibly even find it with directions, since the road wasn't marked). One of the first things that the more successful weavers are starting to buy are solar panels, so there is now some limited electricity available. For each item sold, the proceeds go directly to the woman who made it. And AUI has helped them make cards in English with each woman's story, but getting to meet them ourselves made our purchases that much more meaningful. Here is the story of Zohra Amawi:
"Zohra Amawi is in her thirties. She was born and raised near Sefrou before marrying and moving to Tarmilat. Because she can't afford the 20dh [about $2.50] for the taxi, she sees her family only once a year. She has 4 daughters and a son. The three oldest girls go to high school in Ifrane; the youngest daughter will start at Tarmilat school in 2008. Her eldest daughter, Hanane, wants to work in the military. In 2008, Zohra found out she has diabetes. Her only dream is to see her children have a better life."
Even with the occasional medical care that the villagers are able to receive as a result of the weaving income, tragedies are not uncommon. When we arrived, more than a dozen women were gathered at the home of an 18-year-old boy who had died two days earlier after falling off a nearby barrage and drowning. Even the youngest women look far older than they are.
As we were looking at the rugs, several large cows walked out of the shed, followed by a bunch of chickens. They just go free... one calf actually followed a bunch of toddlers into the hut where they do the weaving and began urinating next to the loom. The children at Tarmilat were great -- except for one dangerous little tot who ran around with a vicious grin hitting everyone in her path with a big metal pipe that she had picked up off the ground!
After seeing all the rugs, we were invited into the home of the deceased boy for a meal. We took off our shoes at the entrance and sat, along with women and children (no men were in sight) on carpets around the perimeter of the hut. Rev. Smith told them we had no time for food, but within 5 minutes we were brought a steaming beef tajine and heaps of bread. As is customary, although a little awkward at first, we as guests ate alone while everyone else watched. Next, we were brought a heaping platter of couscous, which would normally be eaten only on Fridays, but was made for the funeral of the boy. Finally, we had a round of tea (of course!). Before we left, we had another round of kisses with each of the women, from 5 to perhaps 85, sitting in the hut, and they sent us off with the remainder of the couscous.
Our Contemporary Issues lecture, given by an Armenian professor who grew up in Sudan, centered on Islamist terrorist groups inside Morocco. We were a little worried that, as had happened during Prof. Kalpakian's previous lecture, the Q&A might descend into mudslinging between the professor and Fabio, an Algerian student from the Diplomatic Academy of London (an institution for which Dr. Shoup has no respect at all) who paradoxically supports the far right Le Pen in France. Fortunately it did not, and the lecture was extremely interesting. One of his main points was that poverty is not really a factor in driving individuals to join terrorist groups in Morocco -- that in fact, most recruits tend to be reasonably successful small businessmen, juice vendors in the medinas, salesclerks, etc.
Last night, many of us were invited to a party that some of Osahon's friends, 3 African French guys who are regular students at AUI but don't like it too much, were throwing at a rented vacation home in Ifrane. I was a little apprehensive because of what I'd heard about these wild "apartment parties", but I was with a large number of Americans and in fact the party turned out to be very laid-back. The decor of the apartment was probably the most interesting thing: there was a traditional Moroccan living room with long couches, but the ceiling was cork, there was a creepy sepia portrait of a random woman on the mantle, and in the basement was a bizarre tapestry of white-tailed deer like something you'd probably find in an American hunting lodge.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
الرباط
This was the first weekend that there were no planned trips for Contemporary Issues, so nine of us decided to spend it in the capital, Rabat. We set off around 7:30am Saturday morning from the grand taxi stand at the marche. The grand taxis are boxy, puce-colored old Mercedes that travel between cities. They "fit" six passengers, 4 in the back and 2 (plus the driver) in the front -- it's a pretty tight ride to say the least! (In contrast, the petit taxis travel within city limits and will take only 3 passengers). We were fortunately able to find seats on the train from Meknes and had the sort of bizarre prolonged musical accompaniment of the cell phone of the heavily hair gelled man next to us playing "Umbrella" by Rihanna.
Our hotel in Rabat, recommended by Dr. Shoup, cost each of us 240 dirhams for the night... that's only $30. But it had a fantastic location on the palm-lined Mohamed V Boulevard, across the street from the Moroccan Parliament. There was a large terrace cafe out front, and one of many booksellers with his wares spread out on the sidewalk. We all immediately liked Rabat: it is definitely less exotic than some of the other cities we've visited, but it is very clean, friendly, and pretty, and there is a perpetual light breeze coming off the ocean. Our first stop was the U.S. Embassy's 4th of July party, held at the American School of Rabat. Believe it or not, the hamburgers and real hot dogs with ketchup were actually delicious (no salads, though!) after the AUI "mat'am" food. We played frisbee with expats and lounged in the sun for a bit, though we did not get to meet the ambassador and I'm pretty sure Ben & Jerry were not in attendance.
After the party, we headed out to the Tour Hassan, the minaret of a mosque half-built by 12th century Sultan Yacoub el-Mansour. The mosque was intended to be enormous, but what remains of his building project is a large plaza of low columns, and the incomplete minaret. It seemed to be a popular spot for families and couples to come for an evening stroll, as well as a certain brand of aggressive henna artist (they come up to girls and quickly begin squirting henna onto their arms, then demand money... although we ran into one of them later in town and she was extremely friendly.) The plaza overlooks a lush park, and beyond, the ocean. At one end is the gold-laden mausoleum of Moulay Abdullah, Mohamed V, and Hassan II, the last three kings of Morocco. Abdullah, the father of the other two, lies in a dramatic marble tomb in the center of the chamber, his sons in two of the corners; visitors look down onto them from a second-floor gallery.
This picture was taken with the guards outside the mausoleum.
We then meandered along the boardwalk, where again people were out for a leisurely evening promenade. The water was littered with little blue and red rowboats, mostly ferrying people across to the city of Sale.
We made our way up a hill to the old medina, and walked for a bit through the souk, which was practically spotless and had much broader lanes than in the other cities we've visited. Then we ascended into the kasbah neighborhood, where all the buildings are painted white and brilliant blue, and most houses have window boxes of eye-popping fuchsia or yellow flowers. Since the kasbah is on a hill, we eventually reached the top, where there was a large open area that looked out over the ocean. We arrived just before sunset. The whitewashed buildings behind us and the surfers in the water below took on a deep pink glow as the lights of the city appeared and the sun dropped below the horizon.
When the last light was gone, we wandered along the beach for a bit. We suddenly realized that beside us was a vast hillside necropolis, tombstones pointing every which way -- an eerie sight in the moonlight. Finding no affordable restaurant near the water, we ended up eating around 11pm in a classy restaurant called Le Petit Beur-Dar Tajine near our hotel -- there was even an 'oud player who agreed to play "Shemsu al-Ashi" from music club for us.
After dinner, we met up with some other ARANAS students staying at a nearby hotel and tried to find some sort of nightlife, but it was not to be found in our part of the city (plus, even with a large group, we were being persistently harassed), so we called it a night. The next morning, I went with my friend Grace to a very French patisserie for breakfast, and then we headed out as a group to Chellah, a fascinating site just outside the city walls.
Chellah was the first settlement in the Rabat area, at the mouth of the Bou Regreg river, and was likely originally Phoenician. The first layer of ruins visible today dates from the Roman era. The Romans appropriated the settlement in 40AD and named it Sala Colonia. There are no signs, so the buildings' intended purposes are left to the imagination, but there is a row of what appear to have been shops, overturned columns and statues, and what is supposed to have been the forum. Sala Colonia was abandoned by the Romans in 250AD, but in the 14th century, the Marinid Sultan Abu al-Hasan built again atop the old city. He added a mosque, zawiya, and several tombs... but this Islamic layer was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1755, and the site was abandoned. Today it is in a state of arrested decay, the crumbling minaret of Abu al-Hasan's mosque towering above the Roman columns, slabs of Roman marble interspersed with the zellij (tiled) pool of what was once the zawiya. Everything is overgrown with dazzling blooms and tangled vines. A little orange kitten, hardly bigger than my hand, trotted behind us throughout the ruins. I discovered a fluffy baby stork toddling around the decaying mihrab of the zawiya. Indeed, it was silent but for the clapping beaks of the perhaps thousands of storks nesting atop the minaret and in every tree on the hillside behind us.
After lunch at "Nice & Quick", we split and I went with my friend Corinne in search of the bus that would inshallah bring us to the beach. After some difficulty, we tracked down the #33, which looked as if it could fall apart worrisomely soon, at a massive roundabout in the heart of the city. Since we got on at the beginning of the route, we had seats... but soon there were several layers of people sitting in the aisles and hanging out the door... this posed a serious problem when we attempted to get off (especially since i had made the poor decision of wearing a skirt). In fact, we couldn't get off, and had to make a huge scene that involved numerous people hissing and clapping at the driver. We had asked around for the best beach, and ended up at Temara, about 15km or so outside the city of Rabat. It was clearly a favorite spot of Moroccan vacationers, and the sand, while not pristine, was papered with brightly colored umbrellas. There was an amusement park and a few camels to ride if you so desired, and a large outcropping of volcanic rock where men were fishing.
We walked a ways to a less populous strip of sand with whitewashed beach houses then suddenly realized that we had to leave pronto if we wanted to catch the train home. Unfortunately, the bus wouldn't have gotten us back in time even if we could track it down (iffy). So we opted for the taxi route, harassed by numerous sleazy 12-year-olds along the way to the main road. After driving for a few minutes, the driver pulled over on the side of the road, removed his taxi sign from the roof of his car, mumbled something about the police, and told my friend to get in the front seat. This was cause for alarm. I was sure he was going to take us to his uncle's rug shop, or much worse. I tried to get out of the car, but he pulled away... meanwhile, all the "Rabat" signs were pointing in the opposite direction. To make a long story short, we eventually made it to the train station with 5 minutes to spare. The beach had been in a different city and he was taking us illegally -- he also, we realized, did not know his way around Rabat, and could not read the map we gave him, nor could he understand French, which was what we had been speaking to him since our Arabic was insufficient. But in the end, all was okay, we lived, and we arrived home safely by 8pm.
Our hotel in Rabat, recommended by Dr. Shoup, cost each of us 240 dirhams for the night... that's only $30. But it had a fantastic location on the palm-lined Mohamed V Boulevard, across the street from the Moroccan Parliament. There was a large terrace cafe out front, and one of many booksellers with his wares spread out on the sidewalk. We all immediately liked Rabat: it is definitely less exotic than some of the other cities we've visited, but it is very clean, friendly, and pretty, and there is a perpetual light breeze coming off the ocean. Our first stop was the U.S. Embassy's 4th of July party, held at the American School of Rabat. Believe it or not, the hamburgers and real hot dogs with ketchup were actually delicious (no salads, though!) after the AUI "mat'am" food. We played frisbee with expats and lounged in the sun for a bit, though we did not get to meet the ambassador and I'm pretty sure Ben & Jerry were not in attendance.
After the party, we headed out to the Tour Hassan, the minaret of a mosque half-built by 12th century Sultan Yacoub el-Mansour. The mosque was intended to be enormous, but what remains of his building project is a large plaza of low columns, and the incomplete minaret. It seemed to be a popular spot for families and couples to come for an evening stroll, as well as a certain brand of aggressive henna artist (they come up to girls and quickly begin squirting henna onto their arms, then demand money... although we ran into one of them later in town and she was extremely friendly.) The plaza overlooks a lush park, and beyond, the ocean. At one end is the gold-laden mausoleum of Moulay Abdullah, Mohamed V, and Hassan II, the last three kings of Morocco. Abdullah, the father of the other two, lies in a dramatic marble tomb in the center of the chamber, his sons in two of the corners; visitors look down onto them from a second-floor gallery.
This picture was taken with the guards outside the mausoleum.
We then meandered along the boardwalk, where again people were out for a leisurely evening promenade. The water was littered with little blue and red rowboats, mostly ferrying people across to the city of Sale.
We made our way up a hill to the old medina, and walked for a bit through the souk, which was practically spotless and had much broader lanes than in the other cities we've visited. Then we ascended into the kasbah neighborhood, where all the buildings are painted white and brilliant blue, and most houses have window boxes of eye-popping fuchsia or yellow flowers. Since the kasbah is on a hill, we eventually reached the top, where there was a large open area that looked out over the ocean. We arrived just before sunset. The whitewashed buildings behind us and the surfers in the water below took on a deep pink glow as the lights of the city appeared and the sun dropped below the horizon.
When the last light was gone, we wandered along the beach for a bit. We suddenly realized that beside us was a vast hillside necropolis, tombstones pointing every which way -- an eerie sight in the moonlight. Finding no affordable restaurant near the water, we ended up eating around 11pm in a classy restaurant called Le Petit Beur-Dar Tajine near our hotel -- there was even an 'oud player who agreed to play "Shemsu al-Ashi" from music club for us.
After dinner, we met up with some other ARANAS students staying at a nearby hotel and tried to find some sort of nightlife, but it was not to be found in our part of the city (plus, even with a large group, we were being persistently harassed), so we called it a night. The next morning, I went with my friend Grace to a very French patisserie for breakfast, and then we headed out as a group to Chellah, a fascinating site just outside the city walls.
Chellah was the first settlement in the Rabat area, at the mouth of the Bou Regreg river, and was likely originally Phoenician. The first layer of ruins visible today dates from the Roman era. The Romans appropriated the settlement in 40AD and named it Sala Colonia. There are no signs, so the buildings' intended purposes are left to the imagination, but there is a row of what appear to have been shops, overturned columns and statues, and what is supposed to have been the forum. Sala Colonia was abandoned by the Romans in 250AD, but in the 14th century, the Marinid Sultan Abu al-Hasan built again atop the old city. He added a mosque, zawiya, and several tombs... but this Islamic layer was destroyed in the great earthquake of 1755, and the site was abandoned. Today it is in a state of arrested decay, the crumbling minaret of Abu al-Hasan's mosque towering above the Roman columns, slabs of Roman marble interspersed with the zellij (tiled) pool of what was once the zawiya. Everything is overgrown with dazzling blooms and tangled vines. A little orange kitten, hardly bigger than my hand, trotted behind us throughout the ruins. I discovered a fluffy baby stork toddling around the decaying mihrab of the zawiya. Indeed, it was silent but for the clapping beaks of the perhaps thousands of storks nesting atop the minaret and in every tree on the hillside behind us.
After lunch at "Nice & Quick", we split and I went with my friend Corinne in search of the bus that would inshallah bring us to the beach. After some difficulty, we tracked down the #33, which looked as if it could fall apart worrisomely soon, at a massive roundabout in the heart of the city. Since we got on at the beginning of the route, we had seats... but soon there were several layers of people sitting in the aisles and hanging out the door... this posed a serious problem when we attempted to get off (especially since i had made the poor decision of wearing a skirt). In fact, we couldn't get off, and had to make a huge scene that involved numerous people hissing and clapping at the driver. We had asked around for the best beach, and ended up at Temara, about 15km or so outside the city of Rabat. It was clearly a favorite spot of Moroccan vacationers, and the sand, while not pristine, was papered with brightly colored umbrellas. There was an amusement park and a few camels to ride if you so desired, and a large outcropping of volcanic rock where men were fishing.
We walked a ways to a less populous strip of sand with whitewashed beach houses then suddenly realized that we had to leave pronto if we wanted to catch the train home. Unfortunately, the bus wouldn't have gotten us back in time even if we could track it down (iffy). So we opted for the taxi route, harassed by numerous sleazy 12-year-olds along the way to the main road. After driving for a few minutes, the driver pulled over on the side of the road, removed his taxi sign from the roof of his car, mumbled something about the police, and told my friend to get in the front seat. This was cause for alarm. I was sure he was going to take us to his uncle's rug shop, or much worse. I tried to get out of the car, but he pulled away... meanwhile, all the "Rabat" signs were pointing in the opposite direction. To make a long story short, we eventually made it to the train station with 5 minutes to spare. The beach had been in a different city and he was taking us illegally -- he also, we realized, did not know his way around Rabat, and could not read the map we gave him, nor could he understand French, which was what we had been speaking to him since our Arabic was insufficient. But in the end, all was okay, we lived, and we arrived home safely by 8pm.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
A Moroccan Barbecue and a Birthday Party
Yesterday, Wednesday, we had clubs from 10am-noon as usual. I'd heard good things about the music club, so I decided to try it out. There were about ten students and a very serious but very talented teacher who played the oud. He wrote out the words to a well-known Moroccan folk song called "شمس العشي". The teacher had us recite the words many times over, beating out the rhythm on our shoulders. Then we sang, with and without his skillful oud accompaniment. Besides the vocabulary, which was very poetic, the hardest thing for me was imitating the vocal gyration that distinguishes Arabic music but usually sounds kind of ridiculous when we try it. But I think music club has been my favorite so far -- the oud is a beautiful instrument and the song we learned was really catchy.
In the afternoon, a few of us went to the marche to buy a box of cookies for our Moroccan friend Sara, whose 22nd birthday is today. Originally we had intended to get her a DVD, although all that is available here are pirated copies of largely unknown American films (costing approximately $1.25)... however, Osahon did manage to find such a copy of Charlie Chaplin's "The Great Dictator" from a makeup/used children's toys store.
In the evening, the ARANAS program put on a "4th of July Barbecue" with chicken and beef kebabs, rice, and cooked vegetables out by one of the soccer fields during the weekly soccer tournament between ARANAS students, professors, and regular Al-Akhawayn students. This time there was also a band of traditional Moroccan instruments (tambourines, drums, the long wedding horns) and a henna artist (see below).
Later at night, the school sponsored a DJ party outside the cafeteria, and a number of the Arabic professors were present. The whole social dynamic on campus here is very different from the U.S., given that students aren't allowed in the dorm buildings of the opposite gender, the library isn't open late, there isn't much to do in town (and it's a 15 minute walk anyway), and of course there is no alcohol on campus. Students who want to party, and there are plenty of them, rent apartments in Ifrane so that they will not have to come back for curfew (midnight on weeknights) or be interrogated by the guards who monitor the one entrance to campus. There also aren't many gathering places on campus, so if people want to hang out, they usually sit out in front of the cafeteria, in the cafe/game room that opens onto the same court, or the adjacent student activities room. I wasn't at the dance party too long, though, because we were throwing an impromptu birthday party for Sara. We shared the cookies around with everyone who showed up, and Sara supplied sodas and chips.
In the afternoon, a few of us went to the marche to buy a box of cookies for our Moroccan friend Sara, whose 22nd birthday is today. Originally we had intended to get her a DVD, although all that is available here are pirated copies of largely unknown American films (costing approximately $1.25)... however, Osahon did manage to find such a copy of Charlie Chaplin's "The Great Dictator" from a makeup/used children's toys store.
In the evening, the ARANAS program put on a "4th of July Barbecue" with chicken and beef kebabs, rice, and cooked vegetables out by one of the soccer fields during the weekly soccer tournament between ARANAS students, professors, and regular Al-Akhawayn students. This time there was also a band of traditional Moroccan instruments (tambourines, drums, the long wedding horns) and a henna artist (see below).
Later at night, the school sponsored a DJ party outside the cafeteria, and a number of the Arabic professors were present. The whole social dynamic on campus here is very different from the U.S., given that students aren't allowed in the dorm buildings of the opposite gender, the library isn't open late, there isn't much to do in town (and it's a 15 minute walk anyway), and of course there is no alcohol on campus. Students who want to party, and there are plenty of them, rent apartments in Ifrane so that they will not have to come back for curfew (midnight on weeknights) or be interrogated by the guards who monitor the one entrance to campus. There also aren't many gathering places on campus, so if people want to hang out, they usually sit out in front of the cafeteria, in the cafe/game room that opens onto the same court, or the adjacent student activities room. I wasn't at the dance party too long, though, because we were throwing an impromptu birthday party for Sara. We shared the cookies around with everyone who showed up, and Sara supplied sodas and chips.
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