Me: "Morocco? Oh...um...well, it was good."
Perhaps the most-dreaded question study abroad students face at home is the ubiquitous, “How was (Country of Choice)?” For me, when I hear it, it’s as though a basketball shot clock begins in my subconscious. I feel the need to answer the question in a succinct and coherent manner within just a few seconds. The problem is I simply can’t do it. I end up either stammering out, “oh, um, it was good” (a half-truth and a miserable excuse for an answer), or I attempt (usually unsuccessfully) to describe some of the experiences in detail. This attempt fails because once I begin to describe one thing, then I feel the need to explain some auxiliary details of that, and eventually turn the answer into a soliloquy that leaves my listener(s) slack-jawed and frightened to ask anything else for fear I will keep them all night.
I hope that that helps to explain the long absence from the blog as well—I am too scared to begin writing anything too detailed for fear it will take the entire evening and more to begin to write half the things I think. Regardless, I still have no way to neatly package up the emotions and experiences for someone else—they exist in a sort of nebulous, inexpressible form that surfaces here and there, but I find them hard to put into words or rationalize. My personal journals began to suffer at the end of the semester as well…I more or less gave up on them within the last three weeks. The reason for that was that I began to think longingly of home, and was no longer anticipating the “interesting” or unfamiliar, but rather all those things in my life that I don’t generally write down. Thus the unfamiliar had also somehow become the “familiar,” and was as such an uninteresting topic to ruminate in my journals, making them suddenly obsolete—which was somewhat the point of study abroad to begin with, I suppose.
Another problem I am facing now is that I am already feeling so disconnected from Morocco. I was distraught that less than a week after returning home, I found myself so entrenched in all the old routines and habits, good and bad, of home. I experienced the same when I returned from Oaxaca in the summer of 2006; it was shocking for me that I could so easily compartmentalize something that I had thrown so much energy and emotion into—how could I take those showers and bowls of cereal for granted?! Maybe the showers and cereal are superficial topics, but they are endemic of a greater undercurrent of forgetfulness and carelessness. How could I feel so “normal” driving one of our three cars or taking daily showers or whining about my iPod’s low battery when the vast majority of the world’s population finds absolutely nothing “normal” about any of the above? Perhaps awareness is the first step of equality in the cultural exchange process, but I would like to reach the next level beyond awareness, perhaps a deeper shift in my perspectives and actions—much, much easier said than done…
Well, as you may have surmised from the last blog, I have been home since mid-December. It’s been a really nice break, and I’ve had the opportunity to catch up just a bit with some friends and to visit with family members (including two new ones who were born while I was away). We took the annual family road trip to Florida, and I’ve basically just hung-out at the house since. It’s pretty disconcerting to not have a scheduled routine, and I’ve not been home long enough to set a good one up. So, it has come down to lots of reading, tea-drinking, and cookie-making.
Perhaps one of the cooler things that I have done this break (this next fact is going to alert you to just how uneventful my break was…haha) was to watch the movie Babel with my brother. You’re probably somewhat familiar with the movie; it has Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett as the main characters. They are traveling through Morocco when she is accidentally shot on their tour bus by a young Moroccan boy. Well, I certainly didn’t rejoice in seeing her be shot, but I loved seeing the scenes based in the rural Moroccan family—not only for the “Derija,” but for the fact that those scenes did not seem exotic or otherworldly, but instead were comfortable and familiar and even “homey.” I counted that feeling as a huge study-abroad success, perhaps the greatest one. It was reassuring to still feel that connection to the country and the people, and it bespeaks something that cannot ever be attained by pure classroom learning. Small as it is, that’s my greatest Morocco achievement, shrinking my emotional distance from the world outside the US, while expanding my world awareness so drastically (corny, I know, but I don’t know how to write it any better).
Anyway, what it all comes down to, to give some sort of purpose to this entry (other than excusing my procrastination): if you really want to know about Morocco, either pester me solely for more pictures when you see me, or be prepared to sit down for a long and drawn-out conversation regarding all sorts of details that you maybe weren’t that curious about (but since you’re still reading this, you obviously must have some sort interest in nonsensical details, so it could just work out…).
Regardless, please stay tuned for Semester 2: Cairo, Egypt!
I am leaving this Friday from St. Louis, for New York, where I will catch a flight on Saturday morning that will take me all the way to Abu Dhabi, before I am transferred back to Cairo to begin the semester. We have orientation beginning next Monday, and the classes begin (I believe), the week after that. I’ll be sure to keep you posted…thanks as always for being good sports, and hope you’ve enjoyed.
Now, for the part most people like best (in newspapers, books, and blogs alike): PICTURES! Most of the following pictures are not mine—they in fact have been ripped from a number of friends on the program, but I can assure you that I would have taken these photos myself if I had the camera on me at the time. The camera chip I was having so much trouble with in the last few blogs is officially “missing,” also preventing me from using many of my own pictures. It’s still the same essence, really.
I hope that that helps to explain the long absence from the blog as well—I am too scared to begin writing anything too detailed for fear it will take the entire evening and more to begin to write half the things I think. Regardless, I still have no way to neatly package up the emotions and experiences for someone else—they exist in a sort of nebulous, inexpressible form that surfaces here and there, but I find them hard to put into words or rationalize. My personal journals began to suffer at the end of the semester as well…I more or less gave up on them within the last three weeks. The reason for that was that I began to think longingly of home, and was no longer anticipating the “interesting” or unfamiliar, but rather all those things in my life that I don’t generally write down. Thus the unfamiliar had also somehow become the “familiar,” and was as such an uninteresting topic to ruminate in my journals, making them suddenly obsolete—which was somewhat the point of study abroad to begin with, I suppose.
Another problem I am facing now is that I am already feeling so disconnected from Morocco. I was distraught that less than a week after returning home, I found myself so entrenched in all the old routines and habits, good and bad, of home. I experienced the same when I returned from Oaxaca in the summer of 2006; it was shocking for me that I could so easily compartmentalize something that I had thrown so much energy and emotion into—how could I take those showers and bowls of cereal for granted?! Maybe the showers and cereal are superficial topics, but they are endemic of a greater undercurrent of forgetfulness and carelessness. How could I feel so “normal” driving one of our three cars or taking daily showers or whining about my iPod’s low battery when the vast majority of the world’s population finds absolutely nothing “normal” about any of the above? Perhaps awareness is the first step of equality in the cultural exchange process, but I would like to reach the next level beyond awareness, perhaps a deeper shift in my perspectives and actions—much, much easier said than done…
Well, as you may have surmised from the last blog, I have been home since mid-December. It’s been a really nice break, and I’ve had the opportunity to catch up just a bit with some friends and to visit with family members (including two new ones who were born while I was away). We took the annual family road trip to Florida, and I’ve basically just hung-out at the house since. It’s pretty disconcerting to not have a scheduled routine, and I’ve not been home long enough to set a good one up. So, it has come down to lots of reading, tea-drinking, and cookie-making.
Perhaps one of the cooler things that I have done this break (this next fact is going to alert you to just how uneventful my break was…haha) was to watch the movie Babel with my brother. You’re probably somewhat familiar with the movie; it has Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett as the main characters. They are traveling through Morocco when she is accidentally shot on their tour bus by a young Moroccan boy. Well, I certainly didn’t rejoice in seeing her be shot, but I loved seeing the scenes based in the rural Moroccan family—not only for the “Derija,” but for the fact that those scenes did not seem exotic or otherworldly, but instead were comfortable and familiar and even “homey.” I counted that feeling as a huge study-abroad success, perhaps the greatest one. It was reassuring to still feel that connection to the country and the people, and it bespeaks something that cannot ever be attained by pure classroom learning. Small as it is, that’s my greatest Morocco achievement, shrinking my emotional distance from the world outside the US, while expanding my world awareness so drastically (corny, I know, but I don’t know how to write it any better).
Anyway, what it all comes down to, to give some sort of purpose to this entry (other than excusing my procrastination): if you really want to know about Morocco, either pester me solely for more pictures when you see me, or be prepared to sit down for a long and drawn-out conversation regarding all sorts of details that you maybe weren’t that curious about (but since you’re still reading this, you obviously must have some sort interest in nonsensical details, so it could just work out…).
Regardless, please stay tuned for Semester 2: Cairo, Egypt!
I am leaving this Friday from St. Louis, for New York, where I will catch a flight on Saturday morning that will take me all the way to Abu Dhabi, before I am transferred back to Cairo to begin the semester. We have orientation beginning next Monday, and the classes begin (I believe), the week after that. I’ll be sure to keep you posted…thanks as always for being good sports, and hope you’ve enjoyed.
Now, for the part most people like best (in newspapers, books, and blogs alike): PICTURES! Most of the following pictures are not mine—they in fact have been ripped from a number of friends on the program, but I can assure you that I would have taken these photos myself if I had the camera on me at the time. The camera chip I was having so much trouble with in the last few blogs is officially “missing,” also preventing me from using many of my own pictures. It’s still the same essence, really.
A sunset in Rabat—how gorgeous is this? Morocco had some of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen (this being aided by the fact that they were often seen over ocean, ahh…)
The bottom-floor of the CCCL, where my classes were based. The chairs were awfully comfortable... 
Remember in an earlier post I had a picture of Mohammed V Boulevard? It was wide and palm-lined? Well, that was Mohammed V in the Ville Nouvelle—this is Mohammed V in the Medina. Note the barely-controlled chaos? That basically sums up the general difference between the Medina and Ville Nouvelle in all Moroccan cities.
Ha, this would be called the “Turkish” or “squat” toilet, now infamous amongst SIT Morocco students. Most of the homestay houses, including my own, had a Turkish instead of a Western-style bowl toilet. So, let’s say you are confronted with one of these next time you stop in a gas station restroom, what to do? Well, it’s pretty self-explanatory by the photo, but here’s a summary: that little bleach bottle in the center of the photo is plugging the hole that you use for, well, you know. If you want to use it, you take the bottle out, then you put your feet on the raised no-slip grip rests in front of the hole, and squat. Don’t touch the walls while you squat, definitely not sanitary. Instead, you must squat and balance like a baseball catcher (guys obviously don’t have to squat unless necessary). Do your best to aim for the hole, but the whole square white toilet bowl is sloped, so perfection’s not necessary. Once you have finished up, there is not traditionally any toilet paper. What to do now? Take your left hand—LEFT is very important, since in Morocco you use only your right hand to finger-pinch all of your food out of the communal food platter, turn on the little faucet spigot (found at the very bottom left of the photo), and use your wet hand as you would toilet paper (not for the germophobe, I suppose). After that, you fill the bucket seen in the picture with water, and then “flush” by sloshing water down into the hole. Replace the bleach bottle, and then thoroughly wash hands at nearest sink. (In case you’re wondering about the cord, the Turkish sometimes doubles as a shower room. Once, I was showering near the Turkish when my soap slid out of my hands, fell to the floor, and proceeded to slide halfway into the hole, despite my pleas and curses as I ran after it…at least soap is pretty self-cleaning…) 
A really great picture one of my friends took of the famous Moroccan babouches, or slippers. Yellow is the most traditional color, but it’s pretty obvious that they make every color under the sun. I now happily own two pairs, but they are only leather and do not hold up to elements very well.
Just a really cool picture that one of my friends took in Marrakech of the famous Koutoubia mosque (the symbol of Marrakech, just as the symbol of Rabat is the Hassan Tower). I miss palm trees…
Some of the dried fruit vendors set up along Djemaa el Fna square in Marrakech. They all shout and cajole for customers, it’s a fierce competition. I am now a date snob (the fruit) thanks to the ridiculous variety found at stalls like this. 
A photo of an Islamic Imam (a service leader loosely like a pastor or priest) at one of the oldest and most beautiful Islamic universities in Morocco, in the city of Fez. 
Pouring syrup-like Moroccan mint tea like a pro involves raising the teapot or teapots to the highest level possible without spilling, and then having the tea dramatically cascade and splosh into the little shot glass-size cups (I guess with the high sugar content, it makes sense to confine drinkers to small capacities at once). If the tea doesn’t have foam on top when you finish, you haven’t done it correctly.
With some friends at the Jardin Majorelle in Marrakech. One more picture of that to follow… 
Beautiful, no? 
My hands on the left, covered with a French manicure (given by my 16 year-old homestay sister, if you recall), and my friend Raquel’s hennaed hands on the right. Henna is an organic paste that comes from henna plants and leaves a temporary tattoo-like stain on the hands and nails (it generally leaves hands within 2 ½ -3 weeks, but must be grown out on the nails; I still have henna on my nails from early November). We took this picture as a comparison between Eastern and Western concepts of beauty. 
An Arabic stopsign. It is pronounced “Qaf.” The “q” is like a very deep, guttural “k.”
My friend Lindsey and I walking through Moulay Ismail’s former granary in Meknes, Morocco. It was partially destroyed by the misnomered “Lisbon” earthquake of 1755, which actually centered almost directly on the city of Meknes.
A Moroccan woman tending the rural clay ovens I described in an earlier blog.
Our group scrambling for the top of a sand dune in Merzouga (after the first camel ride). The closer you got to the top, the harder it was to run, since there was no weight holding the sand above you in place, and it would continue to slide ever-more drastically as you reached the crumbly peak—a great leg-toner. 
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