Existential Fish Fry

Shacks and shacks; real, shanty shacks
Don’t take your camera out here
People live this, no photo for them
To take friend’s breath.
This dirty place—the Earth.
These dirty people—its Soul.
Hands, feet, stomachs, handshakes, jokes
Fun, love, sex and death. Happiness has no price!
We are these people, don’t be a stranger.

The Fish here is for eating, not to sell
Merchants want your hunger, not your wallet
Cook it next door, our friends the chefs,
Share kefta with teens and die
Eating fish caught same morning
And go to heaven on life just ended
Fresher is better, can almost taste the life
Some things you just don’t question
My Sunday fish fry in Sale.

Blue Surf

Infant sun and rooster's crow
Cats sniff morning street
Empty alleys, walls share no secrets
A Ghost beach: we its first children

A dog wags to greet us
Assures us the water’s warm
Always another wave
Orange disc lights sky purple

Shine once more, ancient stone Kasbah
Old contra new, our clumsy distinctions
Crest of wave will find its shore,
So too, I wash in blue surf.

Reflections on the First Week

How to describe where I am now in relation to just one week ago? Flying in seems like a dream. Arriving at the wrong hotel belongs to my first impression of Rabat. Finding the right hotel, much nicer, making the first acquaintances of the program, missing the bus tour so wandering around instead and stopping for our first Moroccan dinner in a French café on Mohammad V Street, already reduced to memory, yet one I will cherish forever. Stumbling into the souk (which would be my future home) and quickly become engulfed in chaos of everydayness. Hike the long walk back, my second wind exhausted by this point. Feel old and young. See you tomorrow, Rabat!
Sit in a blue room on the first floor of our building, past Godfather and Pulp Fiction posters and meet the other students and some of the staff. Everyone excited to be here, the room full of energy and wonder. Break for mint tea and socializing. Cover some ground rules and take a field trip without my camera where we see Ancient Roman ruins and Roman script in stone on which is built ancient Arab ruins. Birds’ nests dominate background treetops and we are in Africa. The market we go to next furnishes household objects of the most beautiful variety and the land calls to mind Sher Kahn. After that, a great door takes us through massive orange walls and we are in the ancient Kasbah, and to some of the most breathtaking sights of my life. The azure of the African Atlantic brightly shines over rustic clay balconies and a cool breeze grazes our faces. We lose the group and want to get lost forever in the beautiful alleys. But can’t; the gates close at nine, so we backtrack and somehow meet back with our group. A few bottles of wine in the room at the end of the night and we are in Rabat and we are happy.
Another early morning greets my restless sleep. More discussions, tea, lunch at cafes, and people taking Arabic placement tests that I don’t have to, so instead I get destroyed at Egyptian Rat’s Crew by Aaron from Oberlin who is hands down the best player ever to slap a sandwich. That night Shino takes us on the town. First to the German bar, then the sketchy hotel that runs out of Heineken and we sit on the patio that closes and a drunk falls off a stack of chairs, and finally to an authentic African club where plays an African band that covers No Woman No Cry and my buzz starts picking up and we are in a real African club because we are actually in Africa and we dance, a bunch of America students, to the amusement, or annoyance, of the locals (the former, I’m sure) and then a drunken walk home in which we split from the group and take a taxi that turns off it’s taxi light to accommodate too many people, and we arrive at McDol’s and I order a chickenburger for 11 DH but the don’t have or don’t know what Ranch dressing is, and Kelly says she’s only had Ranch dressing once (here they call it creamy deluxe, I learn too late), and after all of this I still don’t sleep.
The next day comes entirely too soon. Torture all day as we start Darija, or Moroccan Arabic. Last night in the hotel tonight but everyone is tired. I left a load in the wash too long back home and all my clothes smell sour. I wash a few shirts in the sink and hang them up in the bathroom—they’re wet in the morning. I wear my ultimate jersey because it’s the driest and I stuff the others in a paper AmidEast bag and jam them in my backpack. At school we learn some more Darija and everyone is excited about our housing profiles. Shane and I get the medina with a mother and four kids, the youngest of whom, a girl, is a year younger than Shane.
The parents wait in the blue room and we file in. One by one we are paired up. No way it’s not awkward but everyone is smiles and excitement fills the room once more. Shane and I are near the end. The sister has come: she’s attractive. Our bags and we follow her to the taxi stand and wait because no one will take our luggage. Chit-chat on the curb until a small blue cab agrees to take us. Trail behind in the souk finagling my roller inbetween children, mopeds, stands, and more people. A short walk and Mama greets us at the door. She is the sweetest lady ever and Shane and I marvel at our fortune over a steamy tray of cooked turkey, potatoes and onions, olives, bread, and fruit. Hamdu Allah (praise be to God)! The afternoon is free so we explore a bit then come back for tea over Arabian dubbed Spanish soap operas.
Thursday brings the Rabat Challenge. I’m paired with Jessie, the girl from my flight, and Mimoun, who’s father is Moroccan and who speaks perfect Darija and knows his way around. He plans our mission, talks to everyone, and basically takes care of all our other objectives while I enjoy the large lunch Mama packed me. Explore Agdal (the section where AmidEast is and where Mimoun and Jessie live) then head to the medina. For my gift I find a delicious CD entitled “Cocktail Oriental.” Show them our place and introduce them to Mama. That night Shane and I bargin down a pair of gelibas from 600 DH each to 200. Geliba Friday is on!
Geliba Friday is a success! As soon as we walk out the front door we start getting compliments. Everyone is a fan—girls, guys, Moroccans, Americans—it’s good universally. Couscous Friday! A huge bowl that we barely dent, but it’s so delicious. Try eating with my hands but opt for speed and go with the spoon. It’s Shino’s last night so we hit the town. First a bar called Upstairs where a motley crowd fills the tables and bar. Feels a bit rough around the edges but not so bad and it’s a cool place full of interesting looking characters. Some people in the peace core, expatriates, prostitutes at the bar, and hip Moroccans rolling cigarettes at the table next to us. I have a beer, but then the tap’s messed up and not long after we are apparently leaving. Calling it a night already? Well; get a jump-start tomorrow at least, I’m so exhausted. But no, pass AmidEast and hit up another club—Le Presidential, or something similar. So! Large pink chairs cram tight four-tops and Kelly and I grab a one in front of the band. It’s a four piece: piano, bongos, guitar, and an Arabian singer. They enjoy themselves in front of a large statue of the Buddha. I have a Casablanca beer. Flat screens on the wall play MTV, muted, and we watch Lady Gaga and Nikki Ménage dance from all the way across the Atlantic. Club music replaces the band and I soberly join our American dance floor. It’s a good time and Shino is making the most of it. A few songs in I realize there’s actually a DJ. We are definitely coming back; call it a night for now.
Saturday takes us to a beach about twenty minutes south of town. A man hops on and sits in front of us. He’s twenty-two, friendly, and asks us how we like Morocco. It’s great. Asks if we’ve smoked anything yet? We have not. Tells us we must. Gives me his number. He’s on his way to rides horses. Says lighting one up then riding horses is amazing. Well, there you have it. Bid farewell and we hit the African coast, and it’s simply amazing. Run into the water and headfirst into the first decent wave. The water is cold and refreshing. The sun shines brightly. Join a game of volleyball then bust out the Frisbee. Can’t tell if the locals have played before, but they’re pretty familiar. Toss a good bit, quit and join a game of futbol. The goals are piles of sand about three feet apart, the game often running around and behind people and children playing in the sand. Play for a good couple hours; it feels great. Head back to our camp and people are packing up. The night is free but after a fantastic dinner of fish and beans served at 10 PM we are spent.
After the first week I couldn’t be happier. My home stay is wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a better motherly figure away from home and I love everyone in the program. Two more exchange students grace our house: Max, from Portland, OR, who is super chill and might resemble Harry Potter; and Richard, a Dutchman who, keeping with the same analogy, takes after Ron, and has a single red dread stemming from middle of his head—typical Dutch style fashion. The city of Rabat, Morocco’s capital, is entrenched in mystery; ancient history and curious traditions abound while the rich and diverse culture miraculously absorbs western culture. The people here are absolutely wonderful and everyone is so welcoming. Mama cooks traditional dishes using fresh ingredients purchased at the local markets next door and absolutely delights in stuffing our bellies. Her favorite word is kul—eat! Finally, that’s my middle name!
Lastly, after one week in Morocco I cannot even begin to comprehend or explain what I’ve learned and experienced. I’m so grateful for the gift of four months of study here—though fully understanding Moroccan culture would take a lifetime! I miss everyone at home dearly and you are all in my thoughts! I cannot wait to see you again and here all about what I’ve been missing! I’m faring wonderful and never want to leave, but I know the only thing that could top this trip might just be returning home!

The First Day

Day One (September 3 & 4)

Touched down in Casablanca yesterday. Coming in over sandy, tree-spotted mountains fills me with anticipation, yet still not so much I as think it should. As we board the plane a girl sitting across the isle from me leans back and over at me and makes the strangest silly face I have ever seen. Though highly unusual, I simply smile back, not knowing what to make of it or what else to do. She just fainted. The stewardesses arrive as she regains consciousness, embarrassed and a little concerned I’m sure. She makes it through the rest of the flight at least. On the ground I meet a couple kids in my program who were on the same flight. This is nice and together we pass through customs and find the baggage claim. On the way we joke about losing our luggage, secretly praying we haven’t. Relief consumes me when my suitcase comes round the conveyer. Shane finds his too, but Jessie keeps looking. Hers is gone. Finally we ask the desk and the say it was held up in London because it didn’t have markings for Casablanca. Always check your baggage tags.
We find our connection waiting by the exit, a man with an empty shopping bag on which is printed AmidEast. He directs us outside, palm trees and masses of brown people of every shape and walk, all covered in bright reds, blues, greens and yellows. A man who only speaks Arabic converses with Shane as we climb in his old, small white Mercedes. Our seatbelts don’t work and Shane’s window won’t roll down. We are all deadly tired; consciousness is beyond my control at this point. Insane ride; our driver honks at every light and his ring tone, a car horn, sounds off ever few minutes to be received with yells of Arabic. I can’t tell the nature of the conversation, probably friendly; that’s not what it sounds like. We make it to the hotel, Hotel Mercure (I thought we wanted the Oumlil) and the driver dips out. We enter and I expect to be greeted by a program manager or at least some kids. The lobby’s empty, save for the hotel manager. He only speaks Arabic and is oblivious of AmidEast. We are at the wrong hotel. Call the program; say they’ll call us back. Play some Egyptian Rat’s Crew. They call back; they’re sending someone else over. It’s the same guy. We drive a good twenty minutes. Shane asks me if we went in a circle. I can’t tell. Yep, now we’re back at Mercure that is. We keep going, he stops to yell some more, asking directions. Finally, a good hour later, we arrive at the Oumlil. Go in and instantly meet some cuties in our program. They tell us a tour is about to start. I get a second wind. We’re in Rabat! Check out the room. It’s a sweet three-bed gig complete with flat screen, big window, running water, even a boudet. Aaron, the third roomie, is passed out on his bed. We miss the tour but we meet up with girls and hit the town.
Through the Four Doors—four large arches cut out of the city wall to accommodate cars and people—we roam the streets, breath the Moroccan air (tasty at times, foul at others) and can’t believe we’re really here. Doesn’t feel like Africa at all, probably because it’s so urban. Lots of cafes, but the girls don’t think they are allowed in. In fact, I’ve yet to see a girl in one. After a bit we start looking for a restaurant. It’s almost six. Everywhere looks closed. Finally Emily talks to someone in French. They don’t open until seven. We keep walking; head towards the row of palm trees where it looks like people are congregated. Find a nice French café with outdoor seating under trees so dense the leaves block the sky. Now is my chance to put my French into action. It’s rusty, but with the help of the menu and my finger order a beef Panini and French fries. I order some water as well, no bubbles, but I don’t think he understood because he never brings it out. The food is delicious and afterwards we have mint tea. It is fantastic. The sun sets and the weather is absolutely perfect. There is no way we are in Africa right now! It’s a little after seven and we head back to the hotel to regroup. There we meet more AmidEasterners. Chill out and type a quick email to the family and we are ready to hit it again. This time it’s dark and we have more people—one person even knows something about Rabat. Walk back down to the palm trees, turns out there’s a huge souk, a long strip of side kiosks selling the coolest things you can imagine, right past the palms. One shop has lizards, birds and turtles; a man throws his cane down in front of us, apparently how you barter. The narrow street is jammed packed. I don’t even know which way to look but my attention mainly stays focused directly in front and below me. We keep moving. A man sells cactus fruit on one side. There is a butcher shop and all kinds of spices. A side street and we follow it to more shops and people. Around 9:30 PM places begin shutting down for the night. We trudge back. I am completely exhausted—a three-hour plane nap and brief faints in the backseat of a car will only go so far.
Meet at AmidEast at 10 AM. That’s all we know; we don’t know where or how. Make it down for breakfast a little after 9:30 AM. See no one from our group. Eat, ask directions and begin walking. Get about a block and it’s already ten ‘til so we hail a cab. Arrive precisely at one after. Everyone is already there and all the seats are taken. Don’t worry about it; we are about to take a tour. Tour the building; it hosts all our classrooms as well as program offices, a computer lab, and a room and balcony specifically for us to hang out on. They serve mint tea—it’s delicious—and we intermingle then go over program logistics for a few hours. Break for lunch. A guy who’s been here before takes us to a nice little smoothie place. I get the equivalent of a gyro on a platter with French fries. Good stuff. Back at the place, go over some more things than load up for a bus tour.
First stop, the Roman ruins. Islam settlers coming to Morocco built a city on top of an even older Roman settlement. It’s enclosed within a massive red clay wall. Now it feels like we are somewhere. You can see the city of Sale on a great hill in the distance. We load up but are missing a few. I go back with Shino to find them. Kelly and Shane and some others take they’re time, Kelly takes around 500 pictures.
Next a row of shops selling the stuff you get in America that looks like it’s from Africa but you know it’s not. But this time, it is. The coolest pots and bowls, laced in original patterns and vibrant yellows, blues, greens, and oranges, deep purples, light yellows and colorful browns. A store filled to the brim with clay figures in all poses. The stores divide into specialties: carved and polished wood; clay and ceramics; rugs; herbs, including a magical potion found only in Morocco made from special olive seeds digested by goats then squeezed into an oil good both in your hair and in your food. After making the rounds we go outside. The view is incredible; palms and shanties abound and this feels like Africa. In another store an old Moroccan man offers me some bread to dip in a pot of something. I’m not hungry but I gladly take some. He gives me the whole loaf.
After this we go to the Kasbah. It’s a walled off community straight out of Nation Geographic. Of all the days to forget my camera! I promise to make this up; I’ve still got plenty of time. The Kasbah is a maze of cobblestone paths and the first five feet of all the walls are painted blue, to distinguish it as a Jewish neighborhood (a long time ago). Patios overlook the sea. This is the coolest place I will ever be. You can’t take a bad picture in the Kasbah—I promise. I want to live here. I’m bringing my camera next time; you’ll see.
To top off the night we grab a few bottles of wine from the hotel lobby and kick back in my room. This is the first day and it’s not real. The people in this program are fantastic. I’m making the most out of every single day I have in Rabat and I already have plenty of stories. I miss home and my friends and family dearly but this magical land offers a handsome compensation.

In the Air

Friday, September 2, 2011
37,000 feet above Lake Michigan en route to London watching some Owen Wilson movie in French. Hard to believe I just said goodbye to my Mom in St. Louis less than four hours ago. The flight to Chicago was no problem, hardly finished ascending before we started our descent. Just started Jorge Luis Borges’ book, “Dreamtiger,” which is really a series of short writings exploring all ranges of human experience. This first page of the introduction talks about Borges flying into Austin, how appropriate. The stewards come by with drinks. I sit by the window staring at endless night sky. The man next to me hails from Kent, a town outside of London. He’s returning from a two-week stint of business in Chicago.
His name is Dan and he’s got a four year old and a six year old that he’s trying to get back to. We talk global news; I give him my run down of the American political situation, inevitably a diatribe against the Republican Party, even though they’re all slimy politicians. I mention something about the Tea Partiers and how rednecks are all over. He tells me that in Europe they call them chavs; don’t ask why. They were black jumpsuits and the girls pull their hair back tight and wear Ugh boots. I start to get the picture. He’s into hip-hop; grew up with it. Big into house music, an old friend of his is actually DJing across US right now, a certain Nic Fancuilli. I ask him what bands he listens to. Says I should check out Aim, Bellerouche, Rae and Christian, and that his favorite hip-hop band in the UK is Broke N #nglish (pronounced English). There’s also El Michael’s Affiar and Hot 8 Brass Band. Says I’m welcome to download some stuff from his media player, he’s got the USB.
Check out BrokeN#nglish.com—they have a free mixtape up for download.
We are currently 10,670 meters above Iceland with 4:53 hours to go and an outside temperature of -60F. We’ve traveled 2192 km, and have 4156 km to destination. Ground Speed is 953 kmh.
Can’t believe I’ll actually be in Morocco tomorrow. Being here on the plane seems so natural right now. There’s a bit of turbulence but I’m not too bothered. Waiting for this day since I first began thinking about studying abroad, basically since I’ve been at Rhodes. Today marks a crucial moment of transition in my life, yet right now seems just as normal as ever. We’ll see if I feel that way tomorrow. Mainly just excited today, never really got that nervous. The trip seems to just fall into place. Even when I left my folks, I just felt ready to jump in. I’m sorry to leave all my friends and family, who will be dearly missed, but being alone now and on my way to my Moroccan adventure doesn’t seem so crazy to me. I know to keep my guard up and stay on my toes, but I can’t wait to meet and talk to all the new and wildly diverse people waiting to meet me. I sat next to a Latino guy on the flight to Chicago but he kept to himself. Dan and I just recounted our favorite Top Gear episodes—the British version of course. He says his family is big into the Simpsons, but he doesn’t watch much Family Guy—it always comes on at random times, usually really late. Strange, I tell him, Family Guy runs 24/7 in the States.
It’s amazing how young the States are. Life back home seems completely normal; desktop computers, smart phones, and everyone driving his or her own car. The way it’s supposed to be, right? But the real world is not this. Most Americans live so spoiled and sheltered that we take things as simple as microwaves and personal bedrooms for granted. Lucky for me I’m about to see how beautiful life can be even without such commodities as modern toilets. The traditional lifestyle we in America now consider a relic of antiquity occurs on the street daily; it happened today and will happen tomorrow. In fact, much of the world hasn’t changed at all, even since biblical times. But are we in America any happier? I’m curious to find out. I also look forward to being American abroad. When you’re in America it’s no big deal, but this identity takes on a whole new dimension once you go abroad.

Predeparture

The final days leading up to my departure carry a certain weight with them. It’s present with every person I talk to. It’s a feeling of unstuckness, a sort of detachment, like I’m just a passerby. My time here has grown finite. Two days from now I will be removed from all that I know. I find myself forgetting, at times, that the world, and the people here in it, are still just as invested in their current lives as ever, and it is only me whose life will soon flow into the wholly unknown.
I met Sami today. He’s a native Moroccan from Azemmour City, a small city in the Eljadida province. My Aunt Cara introduced us. He currently works at Ruby Tuesday’s where Cara manages the kitchen. Sami moved to the states in 2007 and worked at Disneyland, where he met his wife, a Poplar Bluff girl interning there at the time. Instead of pursuing school in Canada, Sammy married this girl and moved to Cape, and so now I am talking to him. He tells me the country will hardly seem foreign at all because they are so welcoming. I believe him; he is one of the nicest people I have ever met. I have nothing to worry about; I’m going to have a great time. Everyone loves the King, and he recently passed some very popular democratizing reforms. The weather is extremely temperate, he tells me, a cooling breeze rolls off the Atlantic. Long sleeves and sweatshirts are all I will need, though many Moroccans will sport heavy jackets. Mohammad V University is one of the most prestigious universities in Morocco. Even though the country is predominately Muslim, Sami tells me Moroccans consume about as much alcohol as us here in the states and alcohol sales provide an important source of revenue for many restaurants. He tells me to watch ‘Expedition Morocco’ on ABC and the first episode of ‘Bizarre Foods,’ which takes place in Marrakech.