Sometimes I think of my nearly two years here as nothing but one big lesson.
The lesson is this: Make plans, but recognize that planning is just something to keep you busy, a hobby of sorts. Don't take your plans seriously. (As my housekeeper Hafida would say, "My God has a plan for you." Perhaps this is true, but if so, "her" God isn't letting me in on that plan at all.) Don't get attached (to plans, to friends, to the past or future, or to anything else). The idea that one can have control is an illusion, and attachment to that illusion brings nothing but unhappiness. (Funny that I should come to a Muslim country to learn a seemingly Buddhist lesson.)
This lesson has been driven home in a variety of ways, some of them quite painful, over the last couple of weeks, as if Morocco is afraid I might not "get it" before I head out on June 9--regardless of whether or not I'm coming back.
This morning, for example, T and I are sitting on our couch when we thought we'd be (scratch that--planned to be) halfway to Al Hoceima for a four-day vacation in honor of our June 1 tenth wedding anniversary (and because we have just a few more days together before I leave for at least two months).
Planning this trip has been fairly typical; for example, even yesterday, we were still trying to confirm our car rental. We asked the guy to bring the car to us this morning at 8:30, hoping that meant we'd have it by 10. He called at 8:30 to say the car hadn't yet been returned to him, and we haven't heard from him since. Our residence manager and security officer are trying to help get us a car, but I have accepted that it just might not happen. We'll probably get one by tomorrow, so we might just have to cut our trip short by one day. But it's likely this isn't the last thing that will happen to remind us of The Lesson.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
30 May 2012
24 May 2012
More on the Moroccan desert
What ideas did you have about Morocco before you started reading my blog? If you imagined deserts, sand, camels, and nomads and their tents, you weren't alone.
As I hope my blog has illustrated for you, though, Morocco is a geographically diverse country. I didn't see any camels until I had been here for a few months, and my recent trip to the desert was the first time I saw a landscape that I thought might be described as "stereotypically" Moroccan or North African.
The transition to a desert landscape really begins south of Midelt. The mountains are always close by, but the land slowly becomes dustier, and the vegetation becomes more sparse and scrubby.
There
was an unexpected number of hotels along our route from Midelt to
Merzouga. Some of them were shockingly (and, we all agreed, too optimistically) grand. As we drove by these hotels, we saw that the vast majority had virtually empty parking lots.
We had originally made reservations at such a hotel (although not nearly as new as the one pictured to the left) in Erfoud.
It was such a depressingly outdated and empty place, though, that we
quickly ditched it for a smaller and grubbier – yet less deserted and more
comfortable – hotel.
The way people look changes, too, as one approaches the desert. Skin gets darker, and by the time we got to Erfoud, we hardly saw the faces of any women, most of whom were covered from head to toe with abaya-like black garments, some with brightly colored embroidered patterns on them. The Rough Guide to Morocco says that Erfoud gives one "a first, powerful sense of proximity to the desert, with frequent sandblasts ripping through the streets." We arrived in this normally dusty town during a time of unusually strong winds, and the coating of grit that quickly accumulated on my body, along with a constant sense of impending danger to my eyes, made me immediately understand the benefit of full body coverage.
As I hope my blog has illustrated for you, though, Morocco is a geographically diverse country. I didn't see any camels until I had been here for a few months, and my recent trip to the desert was the first time I saw a landscape that I thought might be described as "stereotypically" Moroccan or North African.
The transition to a desert landscape really begins south of Midelt. The mountains are always close by, but the land slowly becomes dustier, and the vegetation becomes more sparse and scrubby.
We had originally made reservations at such a hotel (although not nearly as new as the one pictured to the left) in Erfoud.
It was such a depressingly outdated and empty place, though, that we
quickly ditched it for a smaller and grubbier – yet less deserted and more
comfortable – hotel.The way people look changes, too, as one approaches the desert. Skin gets darker, and by the time we got to Erfoud, we hardly saw the faces of any women, most of whom were covered from head to toe with abaya-like black garments, some with brightly colored embroidered patterns on them. The Rough Guide to Morocco says that Erfoud gives one "a first, powerful sense of proximity to the desert, with frequent sandblasts ripping through the streets." We arrived in this normally dusty town during a time of unusually strong winds, and the coating of grit that quickly accumulated on my body, along with a constant sense of impending danger to my eyes, made me immediately understand the benefit of full body coverage.
23 May 2012
Ways of looking at things
There are two ways to tell the story of our weekend trip to the desert (Erg Chebbi sand dunes) near Merzouga with our friends Brian and Sara.
View Larger Map
The first goes something like this:
It was a rough week leading up to the trip, and I wasn't feeling very enthusiastic about much of anything. People told us it was going to be horribly hot in the desert, and I wasn't looking forward to the eight (or more) hours in the black, non-air conditioned interior of Brian and Sara's Dacia. The trip got off to a bad start on Friday when we drove at least 20 kilometers in the wrong direction. When we got to Erfoud, where we had planned to spend our first night before heading for the desert, the hotel we had reserved was unacceptable, and we had to wander around town to find another hotel. After checking in to our new hotel, when we hoped to get showered and freshened up, the power went out.
The next day (Saturday), our guide was over two hours late in coming to get us for lunch, and we then discovered that we had to drive back toward Ifrane several kilometers. After lunch, we headed for the desert, which was hardly visible because of the strong windstorm blowing through the area. We were supposed to go spend Saturday night in the desert, but we cancelled that because of the winds.
Instead, we went to the hotel where we had planned to spend Sunday night--Auberge du Sud. We had a delicious dinner there. Unfortunately, though, the next morning, two members of our group had mild food poisoning (either from lunch or dinner on Saturday, we weren't sure). We tried to cancel our trip to the desert, but the hotel manager had already arranged one for us and had no rooms available for that night.
View Larger Map
The first goes something like this:
It was a rough week leading up to the trip, and I wasn't feeling very enthusiastic about much of anything. People told us it was going to be horribly hot in the desert, and I wasn't looking forward to the eight (or more) hours in the black, non-air conditioned interior of Brian and Sara's Dacia. The trip got off to a bad start on Friday when we drove at least 20 kilometers in the wrong direction. When we got to Erfoud, where we had planned to spend our first night before heading for the desert, the hotel we had reserved was unacceptable, and we had to wander around town to find another hotel. After checking in to our new hotel, when we hoped to get showered and freshened up, the power went out.
The next day (Saturday), our guide was over two hours late in coming to get us for lunch, and we then discovered that we had to drive back toward Ifrane several kilometers. After lunch, we headed for the desert, which was hardly visible because of the strong windstorm blowing through the area. We were supposed to go spend Saturday night in the desert, but we cancelled that because of the winds.
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| Only camels could tolerate being out in that wind! |
11 May 2012
09 May 2012
One month
Yesterday, I officially finished my semester. I hope last night marked the last time ever that I will need to get up at 2:00am to attend a class.
Today I am mopping the apartment floors for what I hope will be the last time.
I'm reorganizing items on the shelves with note cards labelled "sell/give away," "need to sort," and "keep."
I'm going to go through my clothes and try to get rid of at least half of them.
Because one month from today, I'm flying back to the United States, and while right now I don't know exactly how it might be possible, I don't plan to come back to Morocco. (Must...resist...urge...to...quote....John Denver...)
One month.
Today I am mopping the apartment floors for what I hope will be the last time.
I'm reorganizing items on the shelves with note cards labelled "sell/give away," "need to sort," and "keep."
I'm going to go through my clothes and try to get rid of at least half of them.
Because one month from today, I'm flying back to the United States, and while right now I don't know exactly how it might be possible, I don't plan to come back to Morocco. (Must...resist...urge...to...quote....John Denver...)
One month.
03 May 2012
Things I forgot to say in my previous post
I was in such a rush last night to get pictures of our trip to the Cascades d'Ouzoud up on my blog that only later did I realize I hadn't written about half of the things I had intended to. So here are some of those things, in no particular order:
- Even in places in Morocco where the landscape looks familiar (T and I have, on multiple occasions, been reminded of Wyoming and Montana), there are frequent reminders that I am in a foreign country. No matter how remote a road seems to be, there will always be pedestrians, hitchhikers, and people on donkeys traveling along that road. I often wonder where they're coming from and where they're going.
In remote locations, one is also likely to encounter people trying to sell things. When we got onto the mountain roads not far from Ouzoud, we started seeing people along the road holding up little bundles of fresh herbs and making a variety of mysterious gestures which we assume meant something like, "Please buy these herbs! I really need money. Don't you feel sorry for me?" And we did; we felt sorry for them.
Many of these people – many more than I would have guessed – were children, often very, very young children. As we drove, we discussed the pros and cons of stopping to buy some of the herb. (I think it was some kind of mountain thyme, but I'm not sure.) I imagine they couldn't have been selling the little bundles for more than one or two dirhams each, and I wonder what could possibly have been the maximum amount of money someone might bring home at the end of a long day of standing by the roadside. Seeing these people was a reminder both of how difficult the job situation is here (it's unimaginably worse than in the U.S., I guarantee) and of how hard people try to come up with ways of having even a tiny income.
- I should have taken the opportunity yesterday to spend a little more time explaining exactly what a riad is. Basically, a riad is a large, multilevel house with a central area that is open to the sky. Most of the riads I have stayed at (many have been converted into somewhat upscale bed and breakfasts) have had some form of covering on the rooftop terrace to provide some protection from the elements to the central patio/garden, but this is not always the case.
In the United States, indoor and outdoor spaces are usually carefully separated from each other; "indoor" and "outdoor" are mutually exclusive categories. This is not true in Morocco, and riads illustrate well the lack of a clear distinction between the two. As I mentioned in my previous post, the riad we stayed at has a full-sized orange tree growing in the middle of it. Above the orange tree, at the level of the rooftop terrace (another characteristic of a riad), a clear plastic tarp has been stretched to provide some protection from the rain (although there are a few inches on all sides that are not protected by the tarp, which means that one can get rained on while standing in certain places on the ground floor). At the center of the tarp is a large plastic tube that goes down to the base of the orange tree, so that when it rains the water follows the tube and waters the orange tree!
This lack of separation between indoor and outdoor means that, when the weather is nice, a riad is a lovely place for hanging out and relaxing. But when the weather is cold, the riad is also cold; many owners go to great lengths (and, I'm sure, expenses) to try to bring their riads up to Western standards of comfort regarding winter temperatures.
- Even in places in Morocco where the landscape looks familiar (T and I have, on multiple occasions, been reminded of Wyoming and Montana), there are frequent reminders that I am in a foreign country. No matter how remote a road seems to be, there will always be pedestrians, hitchhikers, and people on donkeys traveling along that road. I often wonder where they're coming from and where they're going.
In remote locations, one is also likely to encounter people trying to sell things. When we got onto the mountain roads not far from Ouzoud, we started seeing people along the road holding up little bundles of fresh herbs and making a variety of mysterious gestures which we assume meant something like, "Please buy these herbs! I really need money. Don't you feel sorry for me?" And we did; we felt sorry for them.
Many of these people – many more than I would have guessed – were children, often very, very young children. As we drove, we discussed the pros and cons of stopping to buy some of the herb. (I think it was some kind of mountain thyme, but I'm not sure.) I imagine they couldn't have been selling the little bundles for more than one or two dirhams each, and I wonder what could possibly have been the maximum amount of money someone might bring home at the end of a long day of standing by the roadside. Seeing these people was a reminder both of how difficult the job situation is here (it's unimaginably worse than in the U.S., I guarantee) and of how hard people try to come up with ways of having even a tiny income.
- I should have taken the opportunity yesterday to spend a little more time explaining exactly what a riad is. Basically, a riad is a large, multilevel house with a central area that is open to the sky. Most of the riads I have stayed at (many have been converted into somewhat upscale bed and breakfasts) have had some form of covering on the rooftop terrace to provide some protection from the elements to the central patio/garden, but this is not always the case.
In the United States, indoor and outdoor spaces are usually carefully separated from each other; "indoor" and "outdoor" are mutually exclusive categories. This is not true in Morocco, and riads illustrate well the lack of a clear distinction between the two. As I mentioned in my previous post, the riad we stayed at has a full-sized orange tree growing in the middle of it. Above the orange tree, at the level of the rooftop terrace (another characteristic of a riad), a clear plastic tarp has been stretched to provide some protection from the rain (although there are a few inches on all sides that are not protected by the tarp, which means that one can get rained on while standing in certain places on the ground floor). At the center of the tarp is a large plastic tube that goes down to the base of the orange tree, so that when it rains the water follows the tube and waters the orange tree!
This lack of separation between indoor and outdoor means that, when the weather is nice, a riad is a lovely place for hanging out and relaxing. But when the weather is cold, the riad is also cold; many owners go to great lengths (and, I'm sure, expenses) to try to bring their riads up to Western standards of comfort regarding winter temperatures.
03 April 2012
One-way ticket
Last night, T helped me buy a one-way ticket to Nebraska for early June. The nature of the ticket (i.e. one way) is indicative of the uncertainty in my life right now, and it feels strange to know that 1) I'll be flying without T (we hope he'll join me somewhere and sometime in the U.S. later in the summer; we just don't know exactly when/where), and 2) I don't know if/when I'll be coming back to Morocco. You would think that, after so many uncertain springs in my life, I would be used to this feeling by now, but I'm not. Not at all. I suppose that, for some people, this sense of openness may be exhilarating, but that's just not my personality type.
Maybe I should focus a little more on what I do know about my future. I know that I will spend a couple of weeks in Nebraska with my parents. I know that I will take a road trip with my dad to Bowling Green, Kentucky, near the end of June, and that I will stay there for my clinical internship until early August. I know that, after that, I will need to get myself down to Dallas, Texas for my sister's wedding. But what's beyond that? I don't know.
For my sister, August 11 is a day of joy and anticipation, the day when her new life starts. I am very, uncomplicatedly happy for her. But at the same time, I see that date looming in my own future like a sharp cliff. I don't know what's beyond it. And again, even though this feeling might be familiar, it's quite uncomfortable and disconcerting.
Future, here I come! As soon as I can figure out where you're hiding…
Maybe I should focus a little more on what I do know about my future. I know that I will spend a couple of weeks in Nebraska with my parents. I know that I will take a road trip with my dad to Bowling Green, Kentucky, near the end of June, and that I will stay there for my clinical internship until early August. I know that, after that, I will need to get myself down to Dallas, Texas for my sister's wedding. But what's beyond that? I don't know.
For my sister, August 11 is a day of joy and anticipation, the day when her new life starts. I am very, uncomplicatedly happy for her. But at the same time, I see that date looming in my own future like a sharp cliff. I don't know what's beyond it. And again, even though this feeling might be familiar, it's quite uncomfortable and disconcerting.
Future, here I come! As soon as I can figure out where you're hiding…
13 February 2012
Rough start
Last Monday was a "little" eid, and T had the day off from teaching. Weeks before, we had decided that we wanted to go to Melilla or Ceuta for the long weekend. We asked our friends Sarah and Terry if they wanted to rent a car and go with us. We decided we would go to Ceuta since none of us had spent much time there before.
For a full week, I could think of almost nothing else. I was desperate to get out of Morocco at the same time that I had a very fuzzy sense of why or of what I wanted to do in Ceuta.
And so, as is too often the case when we want something very badly, it seemed that the forces of the universe were conspiring against our planned European getaway.
First, Sarah and Terry spent the entire week leading up to our trip making phone calls to a car rental agency, and each time, the exchange went something like this:
This went on over and over again until Thursday night (the night before we were scheduled to leave) when our friends enlisted the help of a Moroccan friend, who finally lined up a car for us – at twice the price it should've been. At about 7:00 that night, then, we were desperately calling other car rental agencies to try to get ourselves a better deal.
We found a car at a better price, but the company required a 20,000 dirham deposit (that's "only" about $2500, an obscene amount of money here in Morocco that none of us would be able to get our hands on with such short notice).
About an hour later, we got in touch with a car rental company in Azrou (about 20 km away) that was willing to rent us a Kia Picanto for a good price. They even said they would deliver it to us here in Ifrane for a reasonable delivery fee.
It was a little stressful not knowing less than 24 hours before we were leaving how we would get to Ceuta, but I thought things were okay.
For a full week, I could think of almost nothing else. I was desperate to get out of Morocco at the same time that I had a very fuzzy sense of why or of what I wanted to do in Ceuta.
And so, as is too often the case when we want something very badly, it seemed that the forces of the universe were conspiring against our planned European getaway.
First, Sarah and Terry spent the entire week leading up to our trip making phone calls to a car rental agency, and each time, the exchange went something like this:
Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."
(Sarah and Terry wait a few hours, then call the agency back.)
Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."
This went on over and over again until Thursday night (the night before we were scheduled to leave) when our friends enlisted the help of a Moroccan friend, who finally lined up a car for us – at twice the price it should've been. At about 7:00 that night, then, we were desperately calling other car rental agencies to try to get ourselves a better deal.
We found a car at a better price, but the company required a 20,000 dirham deposit (that's "only" about $2500, an obscene amount of money here in Morocco that none of us would be able to get our hands on with such short notice).
About an hour later, we got in touch with a car rental company in Azrou (about 20 km away) that was willing to rent us a Kia Picanto for a good price. They even said they would deliver it to us here in Ifrane for a reasonable delivery fee.
It was a little stressful not knowing less than 24 hours before we were leaving how we would get to Ceuta, but I thought things were okay.
10 November 2011
Melilla, Spain
Monday was Eid al Adha, or Eid Kbir, a big Muslim celebration which I wrote a little about last year (here and here). T had a few days off from teaching, and we decided weeks ago that we wanted to go somewhere that wasn't Morocco when the Eid break came. When I told my friend Michael this, he wrote (whether sarcastically or not, I don't know) that he was surprised I didn't want to stay and experience the Eid. The truth is, when called upon, I can drum up a great deal of respect, or at the very least tolerance, for a wide variety of cultural practices. But that doesn't mean I am interested in participating in or observing them. For goodness' sake, there are aspects of my own culture that I'm not interested in – like keeping track of celebrity marriages, divorces, and international adoptions, or watching American Idol. So if you're interested in reading more about Eid al Adha, you'll have to look somewhere else, like here.
Because I went to Spain.
Because I went to Spain.
03 October 2011
Weekend in Asilah
Asilah is a small, quiet, beautiful but unpretentious town along the Atlantic coast of Morocco. T and I went there once about a year ago for just a couple of hours and were wanting to return ever since.
View Larger Map
This weekend, we got our chance. I went on the trip with three goals, all of which I accomplished. First, eat a vegetable tagine at Al Kasabah. Second, drink wine under the stars on the rooftop terrace of our guesthouse. Third (and most importantly), go to the beach.
I had read a lot about Paradise Beach and intended to go there, but our hostess suggested we go to a less-well-known but even more beautiful part of the beach, which involved driving on unmarked, winding, rutted, and rocky one-lane roads.
She told us to walk two kilometers south once we arrived at the beach, which we did. This brought us to Mounir's place, a clean and simple bamboo structure overlooking the water. We ate lunch there, sat in the shade, sat in the sun, got in the water, and enjoyed having a gorgeous, clean beach practically all to ourselves.
View Larger Map
This weekend, we got our chance. I went on the trip with three goals, all of which I accomplished. First, eat a vegetable tagine at Al Kasabah. Second, drink wine under the stars on the rooftop terrace of our guesthouse. Third (and most importantly), go to the beach.
I had read a lot about Paradise Beach and intended to go there, but our hostess suggested we go to a less-well-known but even more beautiful part of the beach, which involved driving on unmarked, winding, rutted, and rocky one-lane roads.
She told us to walk two kilometers south once we arrived at the beach, which we did. This brought us to Mounir's place, a clean and simple bamboo structure overlooking the water. We ate lunch there, sat in the shade, sat in the sun, got in the water, and enjoyed having a gorgeous, clean beach practically all to ourselves.
14 September 2011
A night in Imilchil
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| See the cow (next to lines for drying laundry) in this backyard? |
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.
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| Thea, Sven, and Josiah walking through the bustling city of Imilchil... |
13 September 2011
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.
View Larger Map
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.
We set out for Imilchil a little after 10:30, and that's when things got really interesting.
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.
View Larger Map
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| Sven, Thea, Rachid, Abdul, and Josiah |
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.
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| All of the ceilings in the riad were covered with this intricately handcarved wood. |
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| View of Midelt from our room at the riad |
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| 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.
28 August 2011
On taking the train at night during Ramadan
On Wednesday at 8am (Central Standard Time), T and I left the small town in Nebraska where we had spent most of our time the past five weeks and began our two day journey back to Ifrane, Morocco.
At 6:45pm (Greenwich Mean Time) on Thursday, we were sitting on the train from Casablanca to Meknes and were on (what we hoped would be only) the second to last leg of our travel (we would still need to get a taxi from Meknes to Ifrane).
There were, for once, very few passengers on the train. It's not much fun to travel during Ramadan, the holy month during which healthy adults are forbidden religiously, culturally, and legally from eating, drinking, or smoking from sun up to sun down. The few passengers in our train car looked tired, and most of them sat quietly, watching the sun go down. Many of them had their bottles of water, their dates, and their bagged breakfasts (for this would be their first meal of the day) sitting in front of them, ready to be eaten the minute the sun slipped below the horizon.
Soon everyone began to eat quietly, including T and me. We hadn't been engaging in a strict fast, but had been experiencing the de facto fast that often comes along with traveling. After a few minutes, a man came along with a cart and handed out small packages of dates to everyone--even to T and me. It was touching and marked the first moment for many days when I didn't feel apprehensive and even a bit depressed about returning to Morocco.
At 6:45pm (Greenwich Mean Time) on Thursday, we were sitting on the train from Casablanca to Meknes and were on (what we hoped would be only) the second to last leg of our travel (we would still need to get a taxi from Meknes to Ifrane).
There were, for once, very few passengers on the train. It's not much fun to travel during Ramadan, the holy month during which healthy adults are forbidden religiously, culturally, and legally from eating, drinking, or smoking from sun up to sun down. The few passengers in our train car looked tired, and most of them sat quietly, watching the sun go down. Many of them had their bottles of water, their dates, and their bagged breakfasts (for this would be their first meal of the day) sitting in front of them, ready to be eaten the minute the sun slipped below the horizon.
Soon everyone began to eat quietly, including T and me. We hadn't been engaging in a strict fast, but had been experiencing the de facto fast that often comes along with traveling. After a few minutes, a man came along with a cart and handed out small packages of dates to everyone--even to T and me. It was touching and marked the first moment for many days when I didn't feel apprehensive and even a bit depressed about returning to Morocco.
17 July 2011
Casbahs to cornfields
We begin our journey to Nebraska at 1:30am tonight when Ahmed the grand taxi driver will pick us up. He'll drive us straight to the Casablanca airport, and then it's on to Lisbon, Newark, Chicago, and finally Nebraska.
If I have observations or insights while there, I'll post on my blog. If not, check in with me at the end of August.
If I have observations or insights while there, I'll post on my blog. If not, check in with me at the end of August.
13 June 2011
Weekend in London
This may sound crazy to someone living in the United States or New Zealand, but T and I went to London for the weekend (we left Ifrane at 4:45 PM on Thursday and were back at our apartment before 9 PM on Sunday). A few weeks ago, we found out that T's sister and her family would be in London for a few days. We decided that London is so close (about a three hour plane ride) that we had to go see them, even if it was only for two days.
Before we went there, T's sister asked what we would want to do in London. Knowing that our main focus would be visiting with family, we decided to forgo any of the usual sightseeing and focus on three goals:
1. Have a beer. (have I yet said anything about the beer in Morocco? Morocco has only three beers: Stork, Flag, and Casablanca. I am being generous when I say that these beers are somewhat uninspired. I am not the first nor last beer snob to be a bit devastated by the dearth of good beer.)
2. Eat Indian food. (By the way, Indian food is so ubiquitous in London that I got quizzical looks from the locals when I told them this was one of the goals for my visit.)
3. Go grocery shopping.
In case you're wondering, I accomplished these goals. I had Indian food two nights in a row, and I came home with a suitcase full of frozen tofu, vitamins and herbal supplements, Ziploc bags, PG tips, rice wine vinegar, sriracha sauce, and other goodies.
I also realized during my two short days in London that I was experiencing double culture shock. First of all, I had the obvious culture shock of going from a small town in a developing African country to an almost unimaginably enormous urban area in a developed country. T's sister took me to Tesco for grocery shopping, and I froze up a little when I got to the long aisle that was dedicated entirely to yogurts. I was impressed by many mundane things – pedestrian crosswalks, wheelchair accessibility and accommodations in many places, restrooms with toilet paper and soap and working hand dryers. Everything seemed so incredibly clean, organized, and orderly! In addition, I had trouble adapting to the prices of things. One day, T and I bought an "inexpensive" sandwich to share for lunch, and I realized that our shared sandwich was the same price as about 35 baguettes here in Morocco. On Sunday, on our bus from London to the Stansted airport (it was much cheaper to fly out of Stansted than Heathrow), the bus driver announced that we should buckle our seatbelts because we would be on the highway. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that once we were back in Morocco, we would be taking a grand taxi over mountain roads, dodging donkeys and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles, and we almost certainly would not even have seatbelts.
London is also different from the United States, which is sometimes easy to forget because we do (basically) speak the same language. But same language does not equal same culture. I should add here that somehow I had gotten the idea that people in London would be...well, if not unfriendly, a bit reserved. I found everyone to be quite friendly, helpful, and accommodating to our occasional cluelessness about things like how to scan our credit card at the grocery store.
It was very hard to leave family members after spending only two days with them, but I was also concerned about how I would feel coming back to Morocco. On the plane to Fez, and on the taxi ride from there to Ifrane, I engaged in a little introspection. I was a bit surprised and relieved to find that I didn't feel any sense of dread or disappointment or depression about coming back here. All reservations I had related to one factor: all of my significant difficulties here have to do with the language barrier. It became very clear to me this weekend that if I am going to stay here and be able to function, I need to make an attempt to learn Darija or French. I don't know when or how I'll do it, but I need to try.
T and I have also made a resolution to go on more weekend trips to Europe. This may be the only time in our life that we have the opportunity to do that.
Before we went there, T's sister asked what we would want to do in London. Knowing that our main focus would be visiting with family, we decided to forgo any of the usual sightseeing and focus on three goals:
1. Have a beer. (have I yet said anything about the beer in Morocco? Morocco has only three beers: Stork, Flag, and Casablanca. I am being generous when I say that these beers are somewhat uninspired. I am not the first nor last beer snob to be a bit devastated by the dearth of good beer.)
2. Eat Indian food. (By the way, Indian food is so ubiquitous in London that I got quizzical looks from the locals when I told them this was one of the goals for my visit.)
3. Go grocery shopping.
In case you're wondering, I accomplished these goals. I had Indian food two nights in a row, and I came home with a suitcase full of frozen tofu, vitamins and herbal supplements, Ziploc bags, PG tips, rice wine vinegar, sriracha sauce, and other goodies.
I also realized during my two short days in London that I was experiencing double culture shock. First of all, I had the obvious culture shock of going from a small town in a developing African country to an almost unimaginably enormous urban area in a developed country. T's sister took me to Tesco for grocery shopping, and I froze up a little when I got to the long aisle that was dedicated entirely to yogurts. I was impressed by many mundane things – pedestrian crosswalks, wheelchair accessibility and accommodations in many places, restrooms with toilet paper and soap and working hand dryers. Everything seemed so incredibly clean, organized, and orderly! In addition, I had trouble adapting to the prices of things. One day, T and I bought an "inexpensive" sandwich to share for lunch, and I realized that our shared sandwich was the same price as about 35 baguettes here in Morocco. On Sunday, on our bus from London to the Stansted airport (it was much cheaper to fly out of Stansted than Heathrow), the bus driver announced that we should buckle our seatbelts because we would be on the highway. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that once we were back in Morocco, we would be taking a grand taxi over mountain roads, dodging donkeys and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles, and we almost certainly would not even have seatbelts.
London is also different from the United States, which is sometimes easy to forget because we do (basically) speak the same language. But same language does not equal same culture. I should add here that somehow I had gotten the idea that people in London would be...well, if not unfriendly, a bit reserved. I found everyone to be quite friendly, helpful, and accommodating to our occasional cluelessness about things like how to scan our credit card at the grocery store.
It was very hard to leave family members after spending only two days with them, but I was also concerned about how I would feel coming back to Morocco. On the plane to Fez, and on the taxi ride from there to Ifrane, I engaged in a little introspection. I was a bit surprised and relieved to find that I didn't feel any sense of dread or disappointment or depression about coming back here. All reservations I had related to one factor: all of my significant difficulties here have to do with the language barrier. It became very clear to me this weekend that if I am going to stay here and be able to function, I need to make an attempt to learn Darija or French. I don't know when or how I'll do it, but I need to try.
T and I have also made a resolution to go on more weekend trips to Europe. This may be the only time in our life that we have the opportunity to do that.
20 February 2011
Essaouira
Since arriving in Morocco, T and I have made it a habit to ask people what their favorite places are to visit here.
By far, Essaouira has been the most mentioned city. And last weekend, T and I finally got to go there (with our friends Brian and Sara).
Essaouira (pronounced something like ES-U-WIR-UH) is a popular but peaceful coastal resort town quite a distance south of Ifrane. The only crummy part of our trip was the getting there and getting back.
To get there, we took a night bus from Ifrane to Marrakesh. The bus left Ifrane at 9:30 in the evening and arrived in Marrakesh around 4:30 the next morning. the bus was crowded and a bit smelly. We went through mountains. We had one bathroom break. It was not my favorite trip ever. In Marrakesh, we had to spent four hours at the bus station. That was followed by another three-hour bus ride that got us into Essaouira around noon.
It was worth the wait.
By far, Essaouira has been the most mentioned city. And last weekend, T and I finally got to go there (with our friends Brian and Sara).
Essaouira (pronounced something like ES-U-WIR-UH) is a popular but peaceful coastal resort town quite a distance south of Ifrane. The only crummy part of our trip was the getting there and getting back.
 |
| Brian and Sara, ready in their djellabas for some Morocco travel. |
It was worth the wait.
21 January 2011
A poem
… From my friend GB, who is always sending me thoughtful and interesting emails.
Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.
New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.
When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad;
and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:
How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.
When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.
A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.
May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.
May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.
-John O'Donohue
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.
New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.
When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad;
and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:
How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.
When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.
A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.
May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.
May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.
-John O'Donohue
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