Some photos from the southern excursion (and a couple others)

The Medina of Fez

 

 

Pouring milk for lunch. On Friday we had cous cous!

My Camel and I in the desert

Taken in the Middle Atlas Mountains

Mama Fatima showing me how to make Riffa, a fried Moroccan bread.

The sun beginning to set in the desert

Lots of sand!

So much sand!

The skinny streets of Fez's Medina

Did I mention the sand?

A funny story from the weekend

On Tuesday of last week, each member of my program was paired with an English-speaking, Moroccan journalism student to work with for the remainder of the trip. On Friday night, a few of us Americans went out for the evening with our Moroccan partners. We went to a neighborhood called Agdal, which is much younger and more hip than the medina, and went to a bar with live music. We spent the evening drinking, dancing and bonding; my partner is named Mohammad, he loves music (especially Israeli music) and politics and seems like he will be fantastic to work with. But really, that’s beside the point, all you must know is that it was a late night and I looked forward to sleeping in the next morning.

Now for some background information. Along with the Ben Mekhish family, there is another family that occupies a room in my house. It’s a young couple (mid to late twenties I’d guess) and their young boy (he might be 1 year old). They are very kind and join us for some meals and the boy is adorable and he can’t stand being without his mom and, like so many infants, has the power to bring you to smile no matter what mood you’re in.

Over the course of the week, a strange phenomenon had been occurring during meals whenever Haitem (that’s the boys name) came into the room. My family would giggle and point to me and then Heitem and then me again while speaking Darija and making the sign for scissors with their index and middle fingers...above their genital region. My first thought was utter confusion, which I feel is an appropriate emotional response to a table full of Moroccans laughing and pretending to cut their penis’ off. This confusion turned to fear when it was made clear that I was to be somehow involved in whatever was to occur. A few more giggles and points at Heitem and I had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen: Haitem was going to be circumcised. What I had to do with any of it was still a mystery to me.  

So Saturday morning arrived, it was raining outside (the first rain I’ve seen in this country) and I was in bed. I wasn’t awake but I wasn’t asleep, enjoying immensely that in-between state one enters in the morning, where the line between your dreams and your conscious blur and you lay there, content with everything that enters your drowsy mind. Suddenly, a knock on the door; it was my brother summoning me for breakfast. Although another half an hour in bed would have been nice, 9:30 wasn’t the worst hour to be called upon and so I rose and joined the family for coffee, milk, bread and cheese. During breakfast, there was a certain buzz about the house, people were coming and going, people I didn’t know. At 10, Haitem’s mom came into the living room, smiling proudly and said something that made everyone stop eating and form a small parade that marched, frenzied and giggling, straight into my bedroom. Confused and a bit worried, I followed them and there, on the table crying, lay Heitem, his legs spread and his family circled around him.

I can’t say I really watched the procedure. Instead I paced, awkward and uncomfortable, in and out of my room, sitting on my bed, leaving to "use the bathroom," walking to the kitchen for no apparent reason, trying to conceal the fact I didn’t want to be a witness from the enthused crowd that did. After it was done, Haitem cried for about three hours while the family, in true Moroccan fashion, prepared a feast to celebrate the boyhood Haitem gained that morning…and I guess what he lost too. 

Over the next couple days, I'm going to try to get some photographs of my family members so you have an idea of what they look like...I know that I often say that I will do/post things on this blog and often fail to but I will try! 

A poem, something I don't write many of.

I didn't have the best night tonight, so I wrote a poem for a family member I love. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

You called to tell me the news two years ago,

You said pray for me Granger, God will hear your call.

You called to tell me the plan of attack,

You said rally the troops Granger, and may we all pray.

You called to tell me good news

And we shared smiles over satellite

            Who says they aren’t as sweet?

You were the first to call after getting the news,

You said I’m praying for you Granger, God will pick up for me.

You were the first to call after surgery,

You said I have an army praying for you, God won’t ignore us warriors.

And when the results came in,

You called again and we exhaled deep together

And I felt your breath tickle my ear.

A call tonight, this time not from you,

But I am praying for you, I can’t really say I know how.

A call tonight reminded me of what we shared,

A fear so infinite and an impossible need to call.

So through the moon high above me in Moroccan night,

                        the one that will soon head West

and shine eternal light upon you,

            in it, I’m packing my call

            of love

of hope

of belief  

of thanks

So tonight, when the moon rings, pick up.

And know that it’s me on the line.

With so so so much love,

                          Granger Jr.

An American in Morocco: The Struggle of Cultural Immersion

One thing that the Southern excursion really made clear to me was the power (privilege, burden, pro, con, joy, stress, trouble) of being an American in a developing country. This probably also rings true for Europeans or Canadians or any “Western” traveler, but since I am American I will speak as one.

Anywhere I go in this country, I am seen not just as a person but also as a walking, talking, white-skinned leather wallet. I am a Moroccan salesman’s chance at an extra dirham of profit; perhaps their shot at a cigarette after work or an extra piece of bread on their family’s dinner table. And they treat me like anyone does money: carefully but with greed, wanting to take as much of me as they can while understanding that they need me to exist. If they do take all of me, they lose just as much.

And who can blame them for seeing like this? Let’s say I get charged two dirham more than a Moroccan for a bottle of water. For me, that’s less than a quarter extra spent, a shrug of the shoulders and a happy gulp of cool refreshment; a 1.5 L bottle still costs me under a dollar. If a taxi driver charges me 10 extra dirham for a ride, I’m still brought to where I need to go, happy as a clam because the total is less than the price of a cab in San Francisco before it even starts to move. Or if a shoe salesman in the souk gets 50 dirham of extra profit from me; the boat shoes still only cost $20 and he smiles because his wallet is that much bigger and I do too as I admire how they match my outfit.

While I understand that not all Americans have the luxury to see money in the way expressed above, I think it’s safe to say that if they are traveling to Morocco there’s a good chance they do. A dollar means something much different to me than it does to many Moroccans as a product of the cost of the life that I’ve grown up living.

In a strange way, the money I have seems to undermine the cultural immersion that I’m supposed to be experiencing. The more I try to dig my way deep into the depths of Moroccan everyday life, the more I’m reminded of the huge differences between that life and my own. I’m treated differently; at my homestay, in the souk, out at bars or restaurants because people can perceive my privilege. It’s like some unbreakable window keeping me from a true cultural experience, a window I can look through and punch at and lick and smell, one that I can press the whole of my body against, but simply can’t break through.

This is interesting to me because of the overly simple and idealistic view of immersion that I grew up believing. I was taught by family and friends and teachers that in order to really learn about the world, you must become one with it. And in order to become one with it, you buy a plane ticket, a new change of colorful clothes and dinner at a local restaurant. And yet, here I am, slamming my head, arms and legs against this window, trying with all my might to gain access to true immersion and I’m left with just bruises to remind me of the seemingly impossible task at hand and it feels more isolating than it does uniting.

And so the question becomes why do we even try? The window really is unbreakable and a walk through the city square and a visit to the museum are just light and meaningless taps against it. However, I think that if you really try, you can push the window just a bit closer and scratch away at it like sandpaper to make it thinner. It takes work and conscious effort and much discomfort but you do it with a hope, a hope for a moment, a very brief one that occurs one day as your walking through the souk. And the sunshine is flawless in the noon sky and a sticky sea breeze off the Atlantic cools your sweaty face and the barber down the street gives you a friendly wave. It all feels right, your senses are alive and dancing in ecstasy and there’s a smile crawling across your face and as you take it all in, a thought in your head shoots shivers down your spine: I’m an American in Morocco and I feel a little bit at home.

A Play by Play of the Southern Excursion

As I mentioned in my last post, I spent this past week on an excursion to the south of Morocco. We left on Sunday and drove to Fez where we spent the afternoon sightseeing and walking through the medina. We had a guide show us around, which was very necessary since Fez’s medina is the largest and most complex in the country. The streets are incredibly skinny (photo below) and within minutes of entering, I was completely turned around. From Fez we drove to Azrou, where we spent the night in a very nice hotel. My friend JP and I stayed up until 1:30 to watch the 49ers/Seahawks game (he can watch NFL games on his computer and the hotel had wifi!) but decided to turn it off because there was a rain delay…it was very disappointing.

The next day we woke up and drove to Merzouga, a rural town on the very edge of the Sahara desert. From there, we loaded into 4WD vehicles and headed out into the Sahara. The drivers were crazy; zig-zagging, skidding, and racing each other for the duration of the 25 minute drive. When we got out of the vehicles we found ourselves at a resort nestled among the Saharan sand dunes. We quickly unloaded our stuff and hopped onto camels, which took us even further out into the desert to watch the sunset. Watching the sun set from the top of a sand dune in the Moroccan desert, with camels lounging by our side…it’s as good as it sounds. As a group, we probably took over 2,000 photographs and, as a result, we now all have too many Facebook profile picture options than we know what to do with. After watching the sunset, we rode the camels back to the resort where we were met by a group of Senegalese musicians. We danced around a bonfire (and took more pictures) with the other resort goers before enjoying a beautiful, buffet dinner. The rest of the night was spent hanging out on the sand dunes, listening to music and enjoying the stunning array of starts above our heads.

The next day we said sad goodbyes to the desert and drove to Ouarzazate, a small city located almost directly in the middle of Morocco. We spent the night at a dormitory for girls who are attending school (high school or University) in the city. We got to meet and talk with the students staying there and many of my group mates (including myself) will be writing about this experience for our second assignment for class. On Wednesday we drove to Marrakesh, the tourism capital of the country. In Marrakesh, the group was let free to explore on our own. Some friends and I went to a beautiful garden, walked around the main square, had McDonalds for dinner and ended the night playing poker at the casino. Everyone was exhausted Thursday morning but we rallied and were on the bus driving to Essaouria at 8 am. Essaouria is a beautiful, seaside city that reminds one a lot of smaller cities along the Central/Southern Californian coast (SLO, Pismo Beach, Santa Barbara). We stopped on the way at a female-run co-op that made and sold argon oil products. We had seafood for lunch, napped in the afternoon, and played soccer on the beach at sunset.

On Friday we drove to the seaside city of El Jadida, which is about an hour south of Casablanca and is a lot like Essaouria. The group had lunch here and was given the option to stay in El Jadida for another night if they so pleased. 6 friends and I decided to stay. The owner of the restaurant had an apartment in a great part of town that he rented to us for a good price. We spent the afternoon on the beach, swimming and sunbathing and enjoying the warm coastal breeze. We made dinner at the apartment (spaghetti and pesto sauce) and then split up for the night. JP, Julian, Ishan, and I went to a club, which had one area for Arabian club music, one area for American club music, and one area for traditional Moroccan music, we talked to people, had a few drinks and danced before heading back to the apartment for a good nights sleep. All in all, the southern excursion was amazing and I’m so happy I had the chance to have such a vast array of experiences. 

Below, there is a link to the blog of a kid on my trip who has posted his beautiful photos of the excursion. Under his blurb about JP, he posted the address of JP's photo blog, which I haven't looked at but I'm sure it's beautiful as well. I'll look through my few photos and see if there are any good ones and post them in the coming days!

Mark's blog: http://beyondthepalisades.tumblr.com/

 

A simple update

Hello! I’m lying in the living room of my house watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon on TV with my homestay brother Mehid. The movie is being played in English, not that it matters, he really only pays attention during the fight scenes.

Anyway, I thought I’d update people on what I’ve been up to and a few things that lie ahead. My first week of classes is officially done. Arabic class is really fun and I’m picking it up rather quickly (this may come as a surprise to those of you who are aware of my past struggles with foreign language…but it’s the truth). In my other two classes (which are really just one class), we’ve had a few lecturers come in and discuss current events, politics, and the role of journalism in Morocco and the Middle East.

We also had our first assignment due. It was exciting to present my own work while getting a sense of the talents of my fellow students. We were asked to write about food. Students wrote about a wide range of topics including posh restaurants, strange delicacies, and the country’s health issues. The program is creating a website where all of our work will be available, so instead of posting my piece now, I will just post a link to that once it goes live.

We are leaving tomorrow for a week-long excursion to the south of the country. I’m really looking forward to it and I’m sure I’ll come back with pictures to post and things to say and stories to tell. We will spend time in big cities and small villages; we will drive through the Atlas Mountains and ride camels through the desert at sunset. I don’t know what my internet situation will be so you may not hear too much from me, but we shall see.

Other than that all is well. My family still likes me (although the language barrier would prevent me from finding out if that were otherwise) and I feel energetic and healthy. If anyone is looking for a book to read, I am currently reading Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles, which is stunningly beautiful (although a tad strange at times) and I would recommend it. I think next on the list is William Burrough’s Naked Lunch, if I can find it for sale somewhere in this country (you’d think I could). Until next time.               -Granger

Some photos I took

On Wednesday, my first assignment was due. I wrote an article about the incredible amount of sugar that Moroccans consume and the high rate of diabetes in the country (and throughout North Africa and the Middle East). Part of the assignment was to take 3 photographs that could be included with the story. I've never taken a photojournalism class but I liked the way my photos came out so I thought I'd share them. I'll post the actual article soon

Gours, a sweet, pastry-like bread, can be eaten with any meal.

Moroccan mint tea probably contains about as much sugar as your favorite soda and is enjoyed any time of the day.

The Moroccan government subsidizes sugar, making it very affordable for families of all incomes.

The homestay

Note: The way that I am spelling the names of my family members is likely incorrect. I am just spelling them as I pronounce them…which is probably incorrect as well.

Mama Fatima, with a huge grin crawling across her face took my hand and pulled me in for a kiss on each cheek, ignoring the drops of sweat that rolled the length of my face. Mehid extended his hand and said “Hello.” Niema also offered her hand and I took it softly, nervously; she didn’t say anything. Immediately, they ignored my protests and took two of my bags; Mama Fatima and Mehid shared the weight of my duffle while Niema carried my daypack, which probably matched her in weight. From time to time on the walk, Niema would crunch her face up towards me, pump her arms, and take five, rapid breaths, signifying the workoutshe was getting from carrying it. She would then let her face soften and her mouth form a smile to let me know that she didn’t mind. Later, I would meet Hameda, my other brother, and my Baba Saiid. The five of them make up the Ben Mekhish family and they have been kind enough to take me into their home for the next couple months.

Mama Fatima radiates kindness. Like many Moroccan women in the Medina, she spends her days around the house cooking, cleaning, and caring for the children. She is always looking out for me, making sure that I have eaten enough and that I am comfortable. She doesn’t let me say no to what she offers: food, sandals, a spot on the couch, more food, anything. For my bedroom, she has given me the salon of the house, by far the biggest and most beautiful room and has given me my own key so that I feel absolutely secure. She is wonderful and I’m very happy to call her Mama.

Baba Saiid walks with a cane and laughs like Santa Claus. He has a friendly face and his teeth are beginning to rot and he speaks with a slight slur and holds onto my arm while we walk together through the souq (market). As we stroll, he points to things and says the Darija word for it, which I mispronounce back to him and he repeats it, slower the second time, even breaking it into syllables for me if I am really struggling. Once I get it, he asks “American?” and we repeat the process, I the teacher, him the student. This is how Baba Saiid and I pass the time, sharing in the struggle and frustration that is learning language.

Mehid and Hameda are my age and treat me like a mute brother. They shake my hand and give me high-fives, they introduce me to their friends in the souq, and they always ensure that the street vendors aren’t ripping me off. Mehid took me to get a cell phone and a hair cut yesterday. Hameda and I sit in the living room and bob our heads to 50 Cent (he’s a big fan even though he has no idea what is being said). When you don’t share language, you have to find other things to experience together: sights, smells, sounds, tastes, and, when those fail, simple silence often works too.

My little sister Niema is my best friend in the family. She is twelve years old and is learning English in school. Through a combination of her very limited English, my very limited Darija, and pointing, we can often find a way to just barely, sort of, kind of communicate. We sit and listen to music (she plays me a song and then I play her one), walk through the Souk, and look at her English schoolbook together. She goes to school four days a week for a few hours a day and spends the rest of her time helping her mother around the house.

It’s strange to see; her older brothers hanging around the souk, making catcalls and giggling like school boys when women walk by and Niema at home, 9 years younger, helping her mother bake bread and clean. That’s not to say that women in Morocco are utterly mistreated. Compared with much of the Middle East and North Africa, Morocco is quite progressive and women have more rights today than any day in the past. I don’t think that Mama Fatima and women like her are necessarily forced into this domestic lifestyle; however, they are strongly encouraged to go there by culture, family, and religion. Will this change by the time Niema is a young woman? It’s tough to stay. But my hope is that at least she will get some more choice than Mama Fatima did and that the generation after her will get even more and like the wheel of a bicycle, Morocco will roll forward.
  

My short time with the Ben Mekhish family has been a lot of things: exciting, nerve racking, fun, emotional. It’s strange to know that my time with them will end; that in a couple months, I will leave their house and their lifestyle and return to my own: showers everyday, a toilet that flushes, utensils, my own cup of water with meals. It’s strange to know that the computer I’m typing on now likely costs approximately the same amount as the family’s yearly income and that the clothes I brought with me may well exceed the clothes each member owns. Yet strangest of all is knowing that this isn’t poverty. Compared to many others in Morocco and around the world, the Ben Mekhish family lives in comfort and it’s the incredible privilege I was born with that makes me see otherwise.

So the question becomes: how does one react to privilege? Should one feel guilty and try to rid them self of it? Or just accept their luck and enjoy it while it lasts? Can one truly strike a balance between maintaining the privileges they were blessed with while using those privileges to make real, beneficial change in the lives of those less fortunate? I can’t say that I know the answers to these questions now; however, hopefully by the end of my stay I can begin to.  

Baba Saiid holding my right arm for support and Niema clutching my left hand while we parade through the skinny streets of the souk. We walk at a slow pace for Baba, whose legs struggle with the weight of his personality. We get looks as we walk, giggles too and we smile and point and nod at everything around us, defining the world in our own strange and silent language. Until next time.

-Granger Tripp

My bedroom (the salon)

My house is the second on the left.

Niema and I (notice the haircut!)

I'm Alive

Hi Guys,

I know it has been a few days since my last post, but I have been jam packed and internet access is hard to come by. Anyway, I made it safely to Morocco and have been really enjoying myself since my arrival. I did have some excitement in that one of my two bags was MIA after the flight here but earlier today I went back to the airport where my bag was waiting for me. Unfortunately, this is going to have to be a fairly short post but I promise longer ones once my home stay begins (I move in tomorrow).  

My first few days here have been spent being orientated to the program and exploring the Medina, or "The Old City." It is in the Medina where my host family will live and where all my classes will be held, it is a vibrant part of the city that clings tightly to a more traditional lifestyle than the rest of the city. The majority of people who live here are lower-middle class Muslims who live with their extended family in fairly large, two or three story homes. From the outside, these homes appear a bit run down but once you enter, they are very spacious and absolutely beautiful. The school building where my classes are held was once one of these homes. It is gorgeous and the view from the roof terrace is unmatched (see photos below).

I have learned some Arabic during my few days here but it gets quite confusing due to the fact that Moroccans in Rabat speak a different dialect of Arabic known as Darija. Darija and classical Arabic are essentially two different languages and while my host family and the people around town speak Darija, I will be learning classical Arabic in school. Morocco might be one of the most bilingual countries in the world: Darija, French, Spanish, other Arabic dialects, and numerous other languages are spoken throughout the country. Although some Moroccans speak broken English, navigating the language barrier has been a huge challenge during my first few days here.

I have also decided that instead of just giving a play by play of what I've been up to, I think my blog posts will be based on a topic that relates to Morocco and my trip. Religion, language, sexuality, rural life, and human rights are just a few of the things that make this country so interesting and focusing on just one of these topics per blog post will allow me to go into much more depth while still giving little anecdotes from my trip that relate to them. Enjoy the photos below and I promise to have a more lengthy post for you this weekend. Talk to you then.

-Granger

Sunset in Rabat

Rabat from the roof terrace (only part of the 360 degree view)

The inside of our school building (doesn't do it justice)