The other one

This is the bird I have left. I'm still now sure how I feel about that...

On loss

If you're the kind of person who gets annoyed when my blog deviates from its theme, don't read this entry. If you're the kind of person who gets annoyed by people who treat their pets like people, don't read this entry. If you're at work and you cry extremely easily, don't read this entry.

Okay, you've been warned.

Cascades d'Ouzoud

In a typical move, the University announced just last week that it would be canceling classes on Monday, April 30 since Tuesday, May 1 was (and had always been scheduled to be) Labor Day. (This is the sort of thing that I don't think I will ever get used to.) There was a mad scramble to schedule last minute vacations over the four-day weekend, and T and I, never at our best when required to make a decision quickly, were relieved when a friend offered to plan a trip to Beni-Mellal. Unfortunately, that trip centered around skydiving, and when the skydiving wasn't an option, everyone but us backed out.

In the process, though, T and I eventually (after several failed attempts at planning a desert vacation for the weekend) realized that the town of Beni-Mellal is not far from the Cascades d'Ouzoud, which the Rough Guide to Morocco calls "the most spectacular in Morocco." Feeling in desperate need of some time in nature, we booked two nights at a beautiful riad just yards away from the waterfalls, and T arranged to rent a car.


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The Bin el Ouidane reservoir, along the drive

The gorgeous blue river behind me comes from the reservoir.

 We headed out for Ouzoud on Sunday morning. We didn't get as early of a start as we had intended because another last minute decision that had recently been made in Morocco was to enter daylight saving time that day!

After a beautiful and fairly relaxing drive, we arrived in the tiny village of Ouzoud. It was raining hard there the day that we arrived, but Monday was a beautiful day. We spent part of that day exploring the area and another part sitting on the rooftop terrace reading our books.

We got the usual questions about whether or not we wanted to hire a guide, and men at every restaurant that we walked by showed us their lovely tagines and bragged about their great prices, but overall everything was fairly low-key, and people were quite friendly. It seemed like everyone spoke English, so for once, communication wasn't really a problem.

It was a wonderful place to spend a couple of days, and I think you'll agree as you look at the photographs.

Compassion and stupidity are not mutually exclusive

When I was in high school, I was driving home one winter night and suddenly came upon a dog standing in the middle of the paved country road. I instinctively put on my brakes. My yellow Chevy Celebrity slid on the black ice that covered the road and then slammed into a ditch. My little sister, who has a knack for being a passenger when people get into accidents, was very shaken up, as was I. Neither of us was hurt, but the car was essentially totaled. (And the dog, I might add, was unharmed.)

After that little accident, my dad tried to nudge me toward having learned a lesson. He wanted me to say that, should I find myself in a similar situation again, I would just hit the animal. People's lives are more important than animal's lives. But I really dislike lying, and I knew that I would do the exact same thing again, regardless of the consequences. That was many years ago, and I still think I would do the same thing now.

I have a soft spot for animals. Living in a country like Morocco can be difficult for people like me because animal welfare isn't as much of a priority here as it is in a place like the United States (although I have to say that, in the U.S., we are a little hypocritical with our love of animals).

I have remarked several times that it's a very good thing I'm so allergic to cats and dogs. My allergy prevents me from having the option of rescuing any of them. I know myself well enough to know that if I could take in a stray cat or dog, I would take in many more than I could practically handle.

That's what I said, anyway. Until last night.

What the birds know

At lower altitudes, blooming cherry trees and bright green fields are obvious signs that spring has arrived. In Ifrane, temperatures haven't noticeably changed since February, and the ground and trees remain an expectant brown.

a patient stork

But the birds know that spring has come. In the last week or so, their songs have changed to something more boisterous. The storks--some of whom chose to remain in Ifrane for the comparatively long, cold winter, standing stoically on windy rooftops--are busy repairing and expanding their nests. They spend a remarkable amount of time selecting the right sticks, presenting them to their mates, and positioning them just so in their nests.

The egrets have returned, and in the evenings they huddle, carefully spaced apart from each other, in the leafless trees by the little lake in the center of town. The lesser kestrels have arrived after a winter away, too, and their unexpectedly doll-like peeping calls can be heard throughout town. Starlings flit about in groups, singing in a way that I can't help but think of as playful.

And even though I know it's anthropomorphizing, I also read hopefulness into all of it. This, the birds remind me, is the time of opening, of awakening, of tender growth and fast change. On a cool morning when the bright sun shines warm on my face, and I see the patient storks putting their lives back together slowly, one thin stick at a time, my heart feels full with possibility. Like their nests, my home, my life, is repeatedly undone. But what can I do? That is the nature of life. I can only, after a winter of undoing, awaken in the spring, pick up a stick, and place it carefully. Then do it again. And again. Admire the work, but don't get attached. Keep building. This must be what the storks do. This is what I will try to do. This is what we all must do.

The Chellah in Rabat

T, Terry, and Sarah outside the entrance

Our trip to Rabat earlier this week was mostly a repeat of previous visits to the city (plus a visit to a Moroccan dentist that was much more comfortable and successful than my last visit to one). However, we did have time for one new sight –  the Chellah. According to my near-constant companion The Rough Guide to Morocco, the Chellah is "the most beautiful of Moroccan ruins." It is an ancient walled necropolis, or burial ground, containing Roman ruins, Islamic ruins, and koubbas (tombs of marabouts, or saints). It was abandoned by inhabitants back in 1154 and is now visited by tourists from other countries and Muslim Moroccans alike.

It was a gloriously beautiful day, warm and sunny, and inside the walls of the Chellah, it was quiet, peaceful, and surprisingly beautiful. Much of the space that is not taken up by ruins or tombs hosts lush, well-maintained gardens.

On living in a negotiation culture

About three weeks ago, our friends/neighbors--we'll call them "Ryan" and "Tara"--decided they would get a pet cat. At the time, pets were not, in the strictest sense, allowed in the downtown apartments. But Ryan and Tara opted for the "better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask for permission now" philosophy. Ryan emailed the head of housing to say that they were getting a cat, they would take full responsibility for her and for cleaning of the apartment, etc.

Yesterday, those of us living in the downtown apartments received the following email. Before you read it, keep in mind these points: 1) Up until the day this email was sent out, the University policy was that no pets were allowed in downtown apartments, and 2) Ryan and Tara live in one of only four two bedroom apartments in the downtown building.

Residents living in Downtown Residence can keep cats as companion animals; yet they need to abide by AUI housing rules and regulations regarding this issue:
- Residents who want to have indoor cats need to be residing in a two bed room apartment. They are allowed to have 2 cats in maximum. No other pets are allowed in the Residence,
-Cats should be vaccinated in order to provide the safest protection for the pet and for the environment. The residents should provide a proof of medical history of vaccinations of the pet,
-A cat should not leave the apartment, please ensure that the cat is secured within the apartment,
-A cat should wear a collar, this will facilitate the identification of her owner in case of loss or accident.

Best Regards

Supervisor of Downtown Residence 

These are reasonable rules and regulations, but when I read this email, I laughed; I had a feeling that something quite Moroccan had happened. I don't want to overemphasize cultural differences, but in general, culturally speaking, we Americans expect and value equal treatment and equal application of policies, rules, and regulations. Consideration of individual circumstances may be seen as favoritism and as unfair. Moroccan culture, on the other hand, is a negotiation culture. There is more of a sense that each individual case should be considered separately, in light of individual circumstance, personal connections, and the quality of the argument made on one's behalf (by one's self or by a representative). 

The above downtown residence pet policy was clearly created retroactively just for Ryan and Tara, and I found it to be a clever and delightful (and face-saving) solution to the (potential) problem Ryan and Tara created by getting a cat without permission.

A night in Imilchil

See the cow (next to lines for drying laundry) in this backyard?

Imilchil is a small, quiet, dusty village in the High Atlas Mountains. I think it would remain an obscure village, unknown to foreigners (and probably even to many Moroccans) if it weren't for what the Rough Guide to Morocco calls "the world-famous Imilchil Moussem," a giant fair held in September that is attended by "30,000 or more Berbers" from the region. It's also called a "marriage market" because it's a traditional time and place for young people to choose marriage partners.

This festival has become a huge tourist attraction (and the influx of tourists has, sadly but not unpredictably, changed the event).

And it is my understanding that it is happening this Thursday. What that means, though, is that on Saturday and Sunday, when we were in Imilchil, there were virtually no other tourists there. And other than a few worn-out signs pointing to auberges (French "inn"), it was very hard to imagine the village accommodating many tourists.

In any case, we enjoyed our time in this relaxing and beautiful village.

Thea, Sven, and Josiah walking through the bustling city of Imilchil...

Road to Imilchil

In two previous posts, I mentioned a weekend trip to the towns of Midelt and Imilchil. Throughout most of the trip, I was very glad to be doing it at the same time that I thought I will never do this again.

One of the factors behind both of those thoughts was the road, specifically its length and quality. On Friday night, it only took us about three hours to get from Ifrane to Midelt. But on Saturday and Sunday, while we didn't have much distance to cover, our route was very, very scenic…and that means slow driving.

In fact, we were on such scenic routes that Google Maps doesn't even know they exist. The best I could do to show you our route was to place markers on a few of the towns that we drove through.


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Sven, Thea, Rachid, Abdul, and Josiah

In Midelt on Friday night, we stayed at Riad Villa Midelt, which I don't think is really a genuine riad, but it was nice anyway. The manager, Abdul, and his friend Rachid were very friendly and sat talking with us for a long time that evening as we had tea outside in the cool desert air. Later they served us dinner, and I had the best vegetarian couscous I have ever had.

The riad was in a quiet part of town. Rather than exploring Midelt on Saturday morning, we chose to have a leisurely breakfast before setting out for Imilchil.

All of the ceilings in the riad were covered with this intricately handcarved wood.

View of Midelt from our room at the riad

View of Midelt from the rooftop terrace

We set out for Imilchil a little after 10:30, and that's when things got really interesting.

From Nebraska

I haven't yet written about what T and I "did" for five weeks in Nebraska. That's mostly because we didn't do much that would be "blog worthy" or of general interest. But in case you're still wondering...

We "borrowed" our Senegal parrot, Mango, from the Nebraska Parrot Rescue. She remembered us immediately, and we had a great time with her.

 

This little dude, on the other hand, didn't seem to remember us at all. Sigh.

Babies

This is not a great picture because I didn't have my nice camera with me, but I thought these young lesser kestrels on the rooftop of a house were just too lovely to pass up.

The stork

At 7:30 this morning, while I was sitting sleepily on the edge of my bed (yeah, yeah, I'm sleeping in a little more these days), our cell phone rang. It was my friend LW calling, and as soon as I answered she said, "We have an emergency, a real emergency, and we need your help." My mind started racing. Had something happened to one of her little girls? Did the emergency have something to do with the fact that this is the family's last day in Morocco before moving back to Connecticut? If they were having a real emergency, what was I possibly going to do to help them?

LW quickly explained that this was not a "bad emergency." You see, the W's cat, Sammy, is quite the birder. She has brought several birds home to the family and one time even caught a starling from a window of their second-floor apartment. This morning, as one of the girls was getting ready to head down the stairs that lead from their apartment to the outside, she saw a stork standing in the stairwell. Sammy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, guarding the stork and keeping it from leaving. How Sammy ever got control of a bird the size of a 10-year-old child is beyond me, and I have no idea what she planned to do with the stork once she had it stuck in the stairwell. Nevertheless, I'm sure she was quite proud of herself for this greatest of conquests. Perhaps she was even confused why her family didn't seem appreciative of her great gift to them.

After LW told me what was going on, as quickly as I could, I ran to their apartment (less than a block away from my apartment) and hissed Sammy away from the door. The Ws came out of their apartment and shooed the oddly reluctant stork outside. Apparently storks are not big into panicking, since the stork decided to stroll around their yard for quite a while before finally wandering out and sauntering around downtown Ifrane. It's possible there's something wrong with the stork, but we did everything we could to save it from Sammy the Bird Killer.

And it was quite a start to my day.

Birds of the world, beware this dangerous beast.

A few of my favorite things II

When I'm feeling down or homesick, it sometimes helps for me to reflect on things I like about Morocco:

-Coming home on Mondays and Thursdays (the days Hafida works) to a kitchen counter free of dirty dishes.

-Moroccans feeding the pigeons.

-Morning yoga with my friend LW.

-Cheap public transportation.

-Afternoon tea with meloui.

-The fact that the servers at the bakery (which is about a block from my apartment) know me and know my usual order of nuss nuss (literally "half half," half strong Moroccan coffee, half milk).

-Fresh, cheap produce.

-Reliable water, electricity, and Internet (fingers crossed!).

Spring in Ifrane

Cherry trees in full bloom

Chaffinch

Ain Vittel

 More pictures behind the cut...

Buy this house

Two or three weeks ago, our property manager contacted us to let us know that our renters would be moving out. Our renters? I thought. We still own that house?

 Indeed, we do. Being halfway across the world from the house that we still own in Powell sometimes makes it easy not to think about it. But the e-mail from our property manager was a reminder of something big that still ties us to the United States in a very tangible way.

And what kind of surprised me is my ambivalence toward the whole thing. Of course, I want to sell the house. It is a fairly significant financial drain on us, even with renters. If the house is left empty without renters, it will quickly cause serious problems for us. Our lives would be much easier if someone would buy the house.

But there is still a completely irrational part of me that doesn't want to let go. This is the first house that I have owned (and by "I have owned" I mean the bank owns it and allowed us to paint the walls whatever colors we wanted). It is probably the only house I will ever own. T and I worked hard to make that house our home in the three years that we lived there, and, like many homeowners, we had grand plans for the house's future. I had to let go of all of that when I moved out of the house.

I can't go back to it. This is not only for practical reasons, like those related to employment, but for emotional and psychological reasons. Most of the belongings that I associate with that house are no longer my belongings– in fact, for all I know, some of you who read my blog may be the new owners of some of my former belongings. The house that I sometimes think I want to go back to can no longer exist for me.

Somehow, the fact that it is spring also seems to be playing a role in my complex feelings. Maybe this is partly because it has always been in the spring that T and I made plans for the future. Whether it was trying to decide where to go for graduate school, whether to move to Powell, what to plant in the garden, or whether to move to Morocco– all of these decisions were made in the spring. And spring is when I really start to love my house. The grass starts turning green, the lilac bushes get big buds on them, the red-winged blackbirds chat with each other in the backyard, the robins hop merrily in my rock garden. Notice how I can't stop calling it "my" house? And I can't stop wondering… Are the tulips coming up yet? Is the cat coming out from hiding, suddenly friendlier as she always seems to get in the spring? Where will the robins build their nests this year? If I planted a garden, would that white tailed deer return and eat everything in it?

I suppose I'm just going through a normal stage of culture shock, still. Or maybe just a normal stage of…being human. But I will be totally okay when it's time to move on from this stage. And I think I will be okay when it's time to sell my house.

Medina cats

(This blog post is in honor of Citrine. Note that most of these pictures have appeared in previous blog entries; this is just my opportunity to put them all in one place.)

Street cats in Morocco (many of whom live in Medinas) have a tough life. If, for some reason (for example, if you happen to be a misanthrope) you cannot find inspiration in other people living good lives in the face of great adversity, perhaps you can find inspiration in the cats doing basically the same thing (with slightly more willingness to eat out of garbage cans).

Let's just take a moment to appreciate the Medina cats.

Something to keep in mind if you go to a grocery store in Morocco the day after Eid Kbira

All of the people in town who can afford to will be bringing their sheep carcasses to the grocery store butcher to have them cut up, ground into sausage, etc. They will load the skinned and gutted carcasses from their cars into grocery carts, where the skinless legs will be sticking straight up into the air. They will then mob the meat section of Label Vie, and it will be impossible for you to turn in any direction without seeing a whole, upside down sheep carcass. It will also be impossible to get to the alcohol section, which is where you were trying to go. Finally, you will leave the grocery store wondering whether you were putting your groceries into a shopping cart that had previously been carrying a sheep carcass.

The big holiday

If you look at your calendar, you might see that this coming Wednesday, November 17, is labeled as "Eid al Adha." Here in Morocco, this most important Muslim holy day is called "Eid Kbira." "Kbira" means "big," so basically Moroccans call this "the big holiday."

Come Wednesday, this sheep will probably become a former sheep.

The purpose of this blog post isn't to give a religion or history lesson, so those who want details about this holy day can look here or here. I will note that the day is marked by each family slaughtering a sheep, goat, or even cow. An important part of the celebration is participating in and watching the slaughter.

Many of the Americans I know who live here seem to be a bit disturbed by this holy day. I think this is because, while most Americans greatly enjoy eating meat, "animals" and "meat" are generally two separate things in their minds. (I think it helps a little bit that in English – and, I'm sure, in other languages – the words for many animals are different from the words that are used to refer to the meat that comes from those animals. When you're eating a hamburger, you are probably thinking about eating "beef," not "cow.") Most Americans get their meat from the grocery store, where it doesn't look much like the animal that it came from. In contrast, many Moroccans buy their meat while it's still alive! They watch the chicken transition from a living, feathered thing to food on their plate. They participate in that transition. So the idea of watching their kids play with a sheep for a few days, then slaughtering and eating the sheep, is completely natural and in no way disturbing.

At least these sheep look happy right now...

As a vegetarian, I actually admire this. One reason I don't eat meat is because I know that I could not kill an animal. And I don't want to watch someone else do it.

I have been told that the streets literally run with blood on the Eid, and I will not go out on that day. If a Moroccan were to invite me to his or her home for the Eid, I would turn down the invitation. This means I miss out on a significant cultural experience. But I guess I'm completely okay with that.

Shopping extravaganza! (and monkeys… and for those who stay till the end, a mystery… )

One of my earliest blog posts was about shopping at Marjane in Fez. Those of you who read that post know that I did not have a lot of fun, so you might understand why I put off my next big trip to Marjane for several weeks. This weekend, however, I couldn't put it off anymore. So Saturday morning, T and I began our weekend shopping extravaganza by hitching a ride to the Marjane in Meknes with our friend LW.

It turned out to be a productive shopping trip. We found, among other things, a battery charger and Parmesan cheese. (It's funny how such laughably miniscule accomplishments can make me so happy.)

That afternoon, we went with the W family to Azrou. The highlight of the trip was the monkeys. Yes, you heard me right – monkeys. Actually, they're called Barbary apes, but I think they are, in reality, macaques. I'm not really sure what that's all about.