Shukran and Besslama

My sweaty hands fiddled with the key for a few minutes before I could get the door to unlock. I swung it open and let out a sigh as I set my mass of luggage down on the floor and felt weightless. I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead with my arm and kicked my shoes off. Kneeling on my bed, I swung the window open, and leaned out.

In the months preceding this moment, Morocco was just a word. It was paperwork. It was forms. It was emails. It was an awkward Facebook group. It was a new backpack, contact solution, and passport copies.

But then, it was under my feet. The streets below my hotel room window were populated and electric. The mid-afternoon sun glared in my eyes. I took a deep breath of humid air, and exhaled Delta Airlines. In this moment, Morocco was my reality.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t have a moment of fear and self-doubt. I wondered why I didn’t just go to Paris and study French like I always thought I would. Since when did I want to go to Africa? Why had I put so much effort into coming to a country I didn’t even know much about?

But then, right there in that hotel room, I stopped. Just as I had done with my luggage, I took the fear and doubt off of my back, and I felt weightless.

Three and a half months later, I found myself in the same hotel room where I had left all of that fear and doubt, laughing at myself for ever packing it in the first place.

And now, I sit in the airport. I’m heading home, and the contents of my luggage are different now.

I leave with a new understanding of where I’m from and where I’m going. I leave with new friends and a better understanding of myself. I leave with more self-confidence and less fear.

Shukran to the entire J-Squad. You were all by my side during the good and bad times, and I will never forget you. Shukran to Badrdine and the entire staff of the CCCL. I don’t think any of us can fully express our gratitude for what you’ve done for us. Shukran to my family for sending me on this journey with all your love and support. I will see you very soon.

And most importantly… Shukran, Morocco. I can only hope we have given you some small fraction of what you’ve given us.

Signing off one last time from Rabat…

Tabor Smith. Ad Explorata.

Familiar Faces and Prodigious Places

Has it really been 18 days since I last checked in? Where does the time go? I blog to you today on our 81st day of being here in Morocco, which means we have just over three weeks left in this beautiful country. This trip has been great, but that crisp Colorado air is calling my name.

Home sweet home. Complete with plants. I feel like an adult.

As I mentioned in my last post, Al, Caitlin, Olivia, and I have moved into a home together inside the medina, not far from the CCCL. The home is a very traditional Moroccan home, but very clean and modern. We each have our own room, a small kitchen, and a beautiful terrace. An older woman lives on the second floor of the house, but has her own amenities and generally keeps to herself.

Olivia and Caitlin are both talented chefs, and the nearby vegetable market, which the J-Squad has dubbed "Vegetable Alley," provides us fresh and inexpensive food to cook with.

These past few weeks have gone way faster than expected. We've kept in touch with the other J-Squaders, many of who live around the medina. One group is renting an apartment not far from the medina and another scored a beautiful house with an incredible view in the nearby Kasbah des Oudaias.

Dennis and Aimee stand in front of Hassan Tower, the
minaret of an incomplete mosque. Construction halted in
1199 after its founder's death and the minaret stands
about half as tall as intended.

This past weekend, we had the pleasure of hosting Frankie Stiles for her 21st birthday. Through a family connection, she found a nice home 20-30 minutes south of Rabat, so she wanted to come rejoin civilization to celebrate.

During the same weekend, my friend Dennis Smith flew down from studying abroad in Italy to visit. Another friend from DU, Aimee Wagner, who is studying abroad in Meknes, took the train into Rabat as well. We checked out the Hassan Tower and the adjacent Mausoleum of Mohammed V, took some time to pet the cats in the Andalusian Garden of the Oudaia Kasbah, and strolled along the beaches of the Atlantic Ocean. We had limited time, but it was great to reunite with the two of them.

The minaret of the Hassan II Mosque
in Casablanca towers 60 stories high.

In two days, the first draft of our Independent Study story is due, so everyone is working hard to make sure that comes together. The day that Dennis and Aimee took off, I took the train down to Casablanca with my Moroccan journalist partner, Nora, to meet with a couple more members of the Oukasha family. It turned out to be a tremendously productive interview, and afterwards, one of them offered to take us on a walk to the Hassan II Mosque.

Depending on who you ask, the mosque could be the 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, or 10th largest mosque in the world. It is undisputedly the largest in Morocco and Africa, and its minaret, which stands 689 feet, is the tallest in the world.

While we didn't get the chance to go inside, it is one of few mosques that actually allows non-muslim visitors on guided tours. Still though, walking around the massive structure is a humbling experience. The detail put into every square inch of the mosque is absolutely incredible. The new background to this blog is one particular mosaic that caught my eye. The photo I took of it is now my background on pretty much anything that has a background.

I also forgot to mention that I now have two articles posted on Reporting Morocco. The first, called A Water Problem, is a profile on Karime, the friendly man we spent some time with during our village stay. The second is a Reporter's Notebook called Helping a Friend and Offending a Local, in which I talk about an interaction Katherine and I had with a man in Essaouira. Check them out if you please!

That's all for now. Thanks for reading!

Blue City and Border Crossing

Greetings from Rabat once again, my friends!

Our classes out of the CCCL have been becoming fewer and farther between over the last two weeks, and they are now officially over. We have entered the Independent Study portion of our trip, and the days have been devoted mostly to organizing the logistics of living on our own for five weeks.

Clinging onto the base of the Rif Mountains, the city was painted blue
by the Jewish refugees that populated it in the 30s. Today, the town
is a tourist haven and destination for people from all over the world.

With the help of my Moroccan journalist partner, Nora Znaidi, we were able to set up an interview with El-Haqed, a relatively infamous Moroccan rapper who was just released from prison for the third time this year. You can learn about him in his recent op-ed piece in Al Jazeera. His interview helped to drive our stories for Independent Study. More on that later.

Last weekend, we took our last excursion as a group to Chefchaouen and Ceuta. Only two days and one night, the excursion went by fast and ended abruptly, which was kind of a bummer. However, I was also experiencing the worst food-induced discomfort I’ve had since I’ve been here. Not great timing, but the excursion was a good experience nonetheless.

We loaded the buses and took off bright and early on Sunday morning for the city of Chefchaouen, Morocco's Blue City. We didn't spend much time there, only enough for me to do a little shopping and get some coffee, but I plan to return during the ISJ period.

In the nearby countryside, you will find the largest acreage of cannabis cultivation in the world. By some estimates, the Rif Mountains produce somewhere around half of the world’s hashish, a number which has increased since the 80s.

Cassie, Al, Zoe, Caitlin, and Raven after
successfully crossing the border. Photos
are strictly forbidden anywhere near the
actual border crossing.

Of course, cannabis possession and cultivation is illegal in Morocco. The Moroccan government has displayed interest in eradicating the crop, and the Royal Gendarmerie continually publicizes raids on various farms. Behind the curtain though, it is said gendarmes ask for bribes, as many as three a year, from the farmers of the region to continue their operations.

The evidence of cannabis production is everywhere walking through the medina of Chefchaouen. I was offered hashish by at least three or four different men in the street in the two hours I was there, and once more from a waiter at a café we had drinks at.

After a good night’s sleep in a very nice hotel in the Mediterranean city of M’diq, it was off to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta, located on the Northern coast of Africa. Crossing the border on foot was an eye-opening experience. Hundreds of Moroccans were lined up, some pushing their cars to save gas, some on foot, to cross the border into Spain. Quarter-mile long cages were packed tight with men and women, many shouting and climbing over each other.

It was difficult to shake a sense of undeserved privilege as we walked past the crowds, led by our fearless leader Badrdine, and with our American passports in hand. The purpose of the trip over the border was to renew our Moroccan visas. While the maneuver is of questionable legality, visa extension applications take too long to process.

The beaches of the Mediterranean Sea in Ceuta. A beautiful
and relaxing end to the excursion.

After a short bus tour, we were let go to explore the enclave for a couple hours by ourselves. I had a delicious club sandwich at a small outdoor café--the first sliced bread I’ve seen in two months. From the architecture to the friendly people in the streets, the city is nothing like Morocco. We spent a little time hanging out on the beach of the Mediterranean Sea, took some photos, and then crossed back over the border into Morocco.

The last few days have been little else besides house hunting, topic refining, and sleeping in. I blog to you now from the terrace of the beautiful house I will be staying in for the next five weeks with Al Drago, Caitlin McCallister, and Olivia Allen. I'll include photos in the next post. Thanks for reading!

Ritual Sacrifice and Irrigation

Salam, my friends. It’s been too long, but after all, it was the holiday season here in Morocco, followed by a week of procrastination, and then another of limited internet access. Let me explain.

Two weeks ago marked the three-day holiday of Eid Al-Adha, or “feast of the sacrifice.” The second of two major holidays in Islam, it celebrates the moment when Abraham was ready to sacrifice his only son, Ishmael, to God. However, when Abraham attempted to cut Ishmael’s throat, God substituted his son for a sheep, and left Ishmael unharmed.

These days, the family rarely does the 
sacrificing themselves. Some men make a 
job of traveling from home to home to 
perform the ritual, proudly parading 
their blood-stained clothing through the 
streets of the medina.

The holiday is celebrated through prayer, thousands of pilgrims performing the Hajj in holy city of Mecca (this year, estimates top two million), the ritual sacrifice of an animal (usually a sheep), and a large feast with family.

Much like Christmas in the United States, Eid takes over the spirit of the city. People are off of school and work. The holiday is a time of happiness, of giving, and of celebration. The Marjanes (Moroccan Wal-Marts) portion off parts of their parking lots to sell sheep. Teenagers erect hay huts in the streets of the medina where they sell hay, charcoal, and freshly sharpened knives.

The day had come. Sheep were dragged, kicked, and carried through the streets, and others bleat from the rooftops all around me, perhaps aware of their inevitable demise.

When I originally asked my host dad if we would be celebrating the holiday, he replied, “Non, c’est trop sale.” (No, that’s too dirty.) However, my host brother Malak apparently insisted that we participate, and a goat was led up the stairs of our three-story home the next day.

The process takes about 15 or 20 minutes altogether. The throat is slit, the blood is drained, the goat is hung, and the animal is dressed. While I may have had some reservations about it in the beginning, I didn’t find the sacrifice disturbing. In fact, I found it liberating to for once see the actual animal I would be eating, a luxury we are rarely afforded in the United States.

Mr. Azami roasts liver brochettes on a small barbecue grill
just twenty minutes after slaughtering the goat.

At night, the streets erupt with music, barbecue pits, and life. They eat every part of the animal, and I at least tried a little bit of everything, perhaps the most disturbing being the goat’s actual head, which looked up at me from the platter in the center of the table as my family pulled pieces of skin from its cheeks.

And then, just as quickly as the holiday had started, it was over. The streets went back to normal, school started once again, and life in Morocco resumed.

That Wednesday, the J-Squad was chaperoned by Aida Alami, one of mentors on the program, to the studios of 2M in Casablanca, which is one of the larger television stations in Morocco. We toured the building, got a look at the newsroom, various sets where they film talk shows and game shows, and we stayed for the broadcast of the francophone evening news, which we were able to watch from the control room. It was certainly one of the highlights of the week.

The control room of 2M during the evening francophone
newscast. The control room is extremely out-of-date, but the
employees there stand by their equipment, saying it "doesn't
crash or lock up."

Then, before we had a chance to catch our breath, we left for the Sbaa Rouadi Commune in Fes on Saturday morning for a week of living with a family in a rural Moroccan village. I think we were all pretty nervous about the prospect of detaching from society for a week, but it ended up being one of the more rewarding parts of this Moroccan journey.

Al and I shared a host mom for the week, Ms. Fatima Zaraoui. After going through a divorce, she used her own money to build a home on the family’s compound, where she takes care of the children, tends to the fields, and keeps a quaint little home. Maya Whitfield, another J-Squad-er, stayed in another one of the houses on the compound, so we saw her quite frequently during the week.

The week was spent playing games with the children on the compound, walking around the expansive commune to visit with the village people, and doing a little bit of manual labor on the family fields.

Al and Maya pose for Photobooth pictures with the host
family in Fatima's living room. Karime is on the far left
poking his head in. Fatima is next to him in the floral shirt.

Karime Zaraoui, our host uncle, quickly took the role of our village guide. We played soccer with the kids, went on walks, and worked the fields. He’s the one we got to know the best during our time in the village. This week I will produce a profile on him and his struggles working around a water shortage and maintaining his family’s property. I think the article has the potential to be posted on Reporting Morocco. Stay tuned.

By the end of the week, we were all ready to get back to Rabat, but it was surprisingly emotional leaving our host families. It’s amazing how you can get to know someone in a week.

We have one week until we take off for our one-day Northern Excursion to Chefchaouen and Ceuta, Spain. Then, we have one more week until we begin the Independent Study in Journalism portion of this Moroccan adventure. More to come soon.

The Homesickness Layer Cake

It’s an inescapable feeling. You’re in a foreign place, surrounded by foreign things and foreign people speaking a foreign language. You long to be back where you were before, where you understood things. I knew it was coming, and so I prepared myself, but nonetheless, I am starting to feel a little homesick.

Rest assured this post will not be about how much I miss all my friends, my family, my dog, although I do miss all those things very much. No, this post is about the differences between two countries, both good and bad. My purpose in writing it is more for me than for anyone else, a sort of coping method.

I came up with the idea of a “layer cake” of sorts. I will start off with something I miss from home and then I will talk about something I’ll miss from Morocco when I get home. Hopefully, in the process, I will highlight some interesting cultural differences.

Couscous is served every Friday for lunch. It may be one of
my new favorite foods.

From Home: The Food
Illegal Pete’s. Need I say more?

From Morocco: The Food
Couscous in the US is a joke. And McDonald’s? Not that I really eat McDonald’s in the U.S., but their meat here is halal, meaning it is raised and slaughtered in a way that is consistent with Islamic tradition and the Qur'an. Basically, it's organic and delicious. Oh, and Bueno bars. No candy bar I've ever had measures up. Hazelnut cream filled wafer, covered in chocolate. You're drooling.

From Home: Red Rocks
There’s simply nothing like it.

From Morocco: Inexpensive Shit
It might be kind of like being alive in the 50s. Something like 25 cents for a candy bar. I bought a cell phone yesterday for 20 dollars. Like, come on.

From Home: Passive Shopkeepers
When you walk into a store in the United States, it usually goes something like… “Hello” “Hello” “Is there something I can help you find?” “No, just looking” “Okay, let me know if you need anything.” In Morocco, as soon as you enter a shop, the shopkeeper bombards you. They begin throwing you all of their merchandise until you grab onto something, and then they bargain. They say “good price” to you in five languages. You leave feeling a little taken and confused.

From Morocco: Internet Everywhere
It’s a small USB stick. Insert it in the side of your computer, and you can access Internet anywhere that’s in reach of a cell tower. While it may exist in the U.S., unlimited data certainly doesn’t anymore. In Morocco, you pay for months of use, not data. I paid something like 50 USD for three months of unlimited Internet. Humdulilah!

From Home: Lines
Whether it’s trying to check out at the market or turning left on a major roadway, it’s a free-for-all in Morocco. I never thought I’d say this, but damn it, I miss standing in lines so bad.

Sometime during the first week, hanging out on the terrace.
Such a sweet hangout spot.

From Morocco: The CCCL Terrace
I’m not sure what I like more—the terrace or the people standing on it—but it’s hard to find a view like this in the U.S..

From Home: My Car
I take advantage of being in control of my own life. The cabs are inexpensive here, yes, but the cabbies are borderline insane. Sometimes drunk or high, they weave between other cars, they honk, and they sometimes drive down the wrong side of the road. I-70 doesn't scare me anymore.

From Morocco: Cafés
Café culture is completely missing in the U.S. and Starbucks absolutely does not count. Cafés are places to sit, drink coffee, and people watch, not to pull out your laptop and be pretentious.

From Home: English
Talking different languages is freakin’ tiring. I miss people understanding what I’m saying.

From Morocco: Hospitality
Everyone likes Americans here, and so everyone is very accommodating. In the US, everyone is suspicious and withdrawn of each other. It’s something you don’t realize until you leave.

I could go on all day, but I'll stop myself here. The point is, homesickness is one side of the coin. I feel a little better now. Until next time.

Video Recap: The Southern Excursion

Hello again, everyone. Today, the J-Squad returned from our weeklong excursion around the southern part of Morocco. I thought that the long bus rides were a great time to start compiling footage that I’ve taken since I arrived in this crazy country, so I did. Below the video, you’ll find brief descriptions of the footage marked by the time of appearance, but as always, I can answer any questions in the comments section. Enjoy…

0:00 Rabat. The first week or so. Random video includes a time lapse walking through the souks in the medina, hanging out on the terrace of the CCCL, and taking a walk down to the beach.

1:09 The night of Chellah Jazz Festival, drinking wine on the patio at Hotel Balima, one of our favorite local spots. Then, the festival itself, which took place at the Chellah ruins near Rabat.

The J-Squad in the Sahara.

2:00 Southern Excursion begins.

2:18 Fez. Footage includes the medina, a room at the Univeristy of Al-Qarawiyyin, the oldest still standing university in the world, and a man weaving fabric on a loom.

2:34 The cedar forest at Azrou. We didn’t see any monkeys, but apparently they’re there.

3:16 Lunch in Rissani at the Panorama Restaurant. Khobza Medfouna, or Buried Khobz, is bread stuffed with meat and vegetables and cut like a pizza.

3:29 Visit to local NGO “Hassi Labiad”

Just me on a camel. NBD.

3:43 Saharan excursion. In Land Rovers, we caravanned into the desert to our camels, which we rode for about an hour towards camp. Footage includes Sarah rolling down a dune, and eating dinner at the camp. We stayed in tents for the night, but I’m hesitant to call them tents because they were furnished with beds, sinks, showers, and a western toilet. We were also lucky enough to hear a traditional Gnawa music group play. We watched the sunrise from the top of a dune the next morning, and then rode our camels out of the desert.

4:35 Visit to Association Tishka, a girls’ dormitory in Ouarzazate. We were greeted with a couscous dinner and some of the girls’ songs and chants.

4:52 Jardin Majorelle (Majorelle Gardens) in Marrakech, a beautiful oasis where Yves Saint-Laurent lived for a short period of time.

5:18 Tour of the Marjana Women’s Co-Operative project near Essaouira, wear they produce argan oil and products derived from it.

5:43 The ports and beaches of Essaouira, a very liberal and beautiful coastal city tailored to tourism.

The Rockin' Moroccan (Thanks, Joey)

Hello again friends, family, and random strangers. This post was actually written about a week and a half ago, but I have had limited access to power to charge my laptop and internet.

As I mentioned briefly in my last post, two weeks ago on Friday, the J-Squad paid a visit to a Moroccan nursing home, Daar a Senine in the Yacoub Al-Mansour neighborhood of Rabat. I was gravitated to Fatena’s corner when I saw a group of my fellow journalists gathered around her, smiles all around. As I approached, she waved me into a seat next to her, and of course, I obliged. Right away you could feel her warmth.

She was wearing a long pink nightgown, and an orange and yellow hijab. Her fingertips were stained with henna. She took my hand between hers, smiled at me with a genuine smile if there ever was one, and told me her name. It was difficult to keep a conversation going, but with Eloise’s limited knowledge of Arabic, we were able to get to know her a little bit.

I kick myself for forgetting to bring my camera to the home, but soon there will be an extensive library of photos posted on ReportingMorocco.org. The above video is a short cell phone video I was able to grab. The noise she is making is known as zrarit, a celebratory sound which means happiness, welcome, and good fortune. She did it at least 15 times.

A violinist places at the Chellah Jazz
Festival in Rabat. It doesn't make sense
placed here in the post, it's mostly just
to keep your attention. :)

A fellow resident warned Fatena about talking to us. With the help of Badr translating, we were finally able to understand what Fatena was telling us. “You should be careful when you’re around people,” said Fatena. “Don’t tell all your secrets. Don’t play all your cards. Be silent, but not too silent. Talk only when you need to talk.”

She talked about being alive during the Years of Lead, a term used to describe of political oppression under King Hassan II. She was in Salé, she said, during the 1971 failed coup d’état attempt. “Everyone was scared,” she told us. Some reports had said the King was killed, others said he was still alive.

In our final minutes with Fatena, she gave us some advice. “Take care of your mom, your mom, your mom, and your dad,” she said. Your mother, she explained, is taking care of things you probably aren’t even paying attention to.

That weekend, we took a trip to Casablanca to celebrate our cohort Caitlin’s 21st birthday. We took the SNCF, the passenger train. The ride was short and sweet and cost only four or five USD. We managed to book a very nice, albeit a little sketchy, hotel in downtown Casablanca. We spent the majority of the night exploring a strip of nightclubs along the coastline. I’m going to choose not to go into much more detail on that…

The festival took place at Chellah, ancient Roman ruins that
were destroyed in the 18th century. Lit with red spotlights,
I maybe, just a little bit, felt like I was at Red Rocks. It was
a fantastic night, and I have the pictures to prove it.

In the following days, we started to feel the grind of school coming back. Journalism lectures, language classes, homework assignments. The “study” part of study abroad.

Saturday night, we attended the Chellah Jazz Festival in Rabat. It took place at the Roman ruins at Chellah. It was packed, and apparently just having a nice looking camera means you can act like press and nobody really cares, so that’s what we did. We heard some fantastic acts, and although the crowd wasn’t really dancing, that didn’t impede us.

I apologize for the lack of pictures in this post and it being so late. As I write, we are sitting in a girls' dormitory in Ouarzazate (in Arabic, "the door of the desert") closing out Day 3 of our Southern Excursion. We have done so much , but I'll go into it all next time.

Talk to you all soon!

Maroc the Kasbah

For lack of a better word, an alter-like
stone structure which stands in the
Andalucian Gardens.

Our first full weekend in Rabat was dedicated to exploration. Everyone took their own time exploring the souks of the medina, the downtown area, and the beautiful beaches. It was a weekend devoted to finding areas of comfort in a sometimes very uncomfortable situation. Oh, and mulling over our first story ideas.

On Sunday, a large group of us explored the Kasbah des Oudaias, located just across the road from the old medina towards the Bou Regreg River, which divides Rabat from its sister city, Salé.

The Kasbah is basically a mini version of the medina, but with a consistent white and blue color scheme, slightly narrower streets, and a hefty dose of tourists. Surrounded by massive ancient ramparts, the Kasbah offers some beautiful views of the beaches on the Bou Regreg, an overpriced café area, and the beautiful Andalucian Gardens.

One of many stray cats perches next to
us on our bench at the café in the
Kasbah. Stray cats are literally
everywhere in Rabat, fed by food scraps
in the streets and cat food scattered
on doorsteps.

We sat at the café area for a while and talked about our story assignments, looking down on the swimmers at the beach below. We seized the opportunity to take some photos in the picturesque streets of the medina, where we were harassed by a henna artist claiming to be an art student.

The Andalucian Gardens were packed with locals and tourists alike, but it's easy to see the attraction. Beautiful flowers, tropical plants, grapes, and detailed architecture. We went home feeling accomplished and tired.

That night, Zoe, Hannah, Maya, Katherine, Cassie, and I went to Hotel Balima, a restaurant/café/hotel about a half-mile from the medina. I ordered my first Moroccan cheeseburger. If you know me, you know how I like my cheeseburgers, and I was not disappointed. Well-seasoned meat, the classic toppings, and some shockingly good fries. I guess fries aren’t much different halfway around the world.

Then, Monday came along and slapped us all in the face. Arabic is one difficult language, but it certainly helps that a lot of us are struggling together. Our teacher, Fatiha, is a Moroccan who speaks limited English, but somehow manages to get us to speak Fus’ha, or Modern Standard Arabic.

As my host parents eat from the tajine, notice that Mr. Azami
uses the Moroccan bread khobz to grab vegetables, while
Mrs. Azami uses a fork. Traditionally, only the (right) hand
would be used.

In our journalism courses this week, we turned in our first story drafts and did peer revisions. The story was based on Moroccan cuisine. I photographed for Cassie’s story, which concerns the evolution of table etiquette in Moroccan culture. Much like in the United States, traditional beliefs of table etiquette and family ties are changing. If the story is published, I will post it here.

A quick side story:

On Monday night, I was eating dinner with my host dad and brother tonight and I was asking some questions about the generational gap in table etiquette. The whole conversation is in broken French and broken English. Then he said, "You Americans eat everything with a fork." And I said, "Not sandwiches." “Ah yes, Americans have good sandwiches,” he replied, “That's all you guys eat."

The conversation moved to his work. He told me he moved to working part time last year and I was telling him that my own Dad was recently having difficulty finding work. We started talking about how bad the economy was and I said, “Nothing is as good as it used to be in America.” After a pause he gave me two thumbs up and said "Sandwich!"

A Moroccan Water Seller standing outside the
Kasbah. These days they make more money
from tourists who photograph them than they
do on water. Luckily, he didn't know I took this.

Probably the hardest I’ve laughed since I’ve been here.

Anyway, this week we were also introduced to Peter Prengaman, a seasoned journalist who is currently on sabbatical in Morocco and will be helping turn the cogs of ReportingMorocco.org, the publication to which we will be contributing for the next several months. We talked about logistics of the website, design tweaks, and assigned everyone jobs they will undertake over the next few months.

Peter also accompanied us on today's trip to a Moroccan nursing home. With the residents gathered in a large room, we all took about an hour to introduce ourselves, use our limited repertoire of phrases, and try to get to know them. It was truly an amazing experience. The oldest resident, at 112 years old, proclaimed to Badr that she still needed to get married. After a quick game of rock-paper-scissors with Al, I proposed and was promptly and rather adamantly rejected.

We also took some time to get to know Fatna, a charismatic woman who's energy exceeds mine on most days. With the help of Peter and Badr who were able to translate a good deal, we were able to learn about her life and hear some pretty amazing stories. I will most certainly be writing about her. Stay tuned.

Upon returning home, I started my laundry and threw on the comfortable outfit I mentioned in my post, #RecklessinRabat (Titled by Cassie). Mrs. Azami promptly informed me that it's the uniform of the Taliban. So, no Mom, I will not be posting a photo.

This weekend, a trip to Casablanca to celebrate Caitlin's birthday. Talk to you all soon.

Meet the Azamis

I'd like to start this on off by thanking everyone who has been keeping up with this blog and supporting it. I'm not sure if I even know you all, but I appreciate that someone else acknowledges that this experience is as cool as I think it is.

Looking from the top level of the CCCL onto the dining
patio where all meals are held.

On Wednesday night, we had a welcoming dinner at the CCCL. I sat at the same table as one of the founders of the Center, Abdelhay Moudden, and we picked his brain about Moroccan culture. We enjoyed a dinner of pastilla, essentially a shredded chicken pie with werqa dough (like phyllo dough). It's covered in powdered sugar, making it a really interesting combination of sweet and savory. It's the most delicious thing I've eaten here so far.

That night, you could tell that nerves were high. As SIT gave us no information about our host families, everyone was expecting the worst. In Rabat, there is tremendous diversity as far as quality of life. Beggars, often suffering from physical ailments like blindness or deformity, litter the streets of the Medina holding their hands in the air. Some people flaunt designer clothing. No one had any idea what to expect.

Sitting in Survival Arabic. The J-Squad in a nutshell.
Raven, Alex, Olivia, Cassie, and Caitlin

The next day was devoted largely to preparation. After a short Survival Arabic course at the CCCL, it was back to Hotel Darna to pack our bags and check out. I can't imagine how it looked to the locals; a group of sweaty Americans lugging tons of luggage through the souk with faces communicating a mixture of "I'm tired," "I'm excited," and "I'm scared out of my mind."

Next up were a couple classes in the CCCL annex, located a short distance away in the Medina, about living in a Moroccan home. The home stay coordinator, Ms. Doma Lmachichi, covered basics such as table etiquette, the dutch toilet, and other essentials. She could hardly make it through the presentation, interrupted by questions and giggling. Never before have I seen an entire room of adults get potty trained at the same time. It was a sight.

Mary Stucky, the Academic Director of the Journalism program, then took over to talk about a general overview of the program. While slightly overwhelming, it was clear to everyone that the program would be unlike anything we had ever done before. It will require tremendous determination and engagement, but will result in even greater opportunity for us all.

We descended the stairs to find host moms, brothers, sisters, and aunts scattered around the main hall. Separated like a game of red rover, we were called one by one to the center of the room to meet our host family members. I was met by my host mom, Mrs. Bouchra Azami. Although we had a little trouble communicating, we greeted each other and walked to my new home for the next two months.

In the front; Malak (27), Jade (19), Mr. Azami, Mrs. Azami,
and Ms. Benkhye, In the back; Mehdi (24)

Mr. Rachid Azami and Mrs. Bouchra Azami have three boys, Jade (19), Mehdi (24), and Malak (27). All three of them and even Mr. Azami speak some English and help me to communicate with Bouchra. Souad Benkhye, Mrs. Azami's sister, is also frequently at the house cooking or cleaning and speaks some English. The whole family speaks French, so I can use that pretty effectively as well.

Rachid works as a dentist and Bouchra, a hairdresser. Malak works as a mechanical engineer and Mehdi is finishing his university education. I haven't seen Jade leave at all, so school may not have started yet for him, but I know he loves to surf.

The kitchen/dining/living area of the Azami home.

Located next to the hammam (public bath house), the home is extremely western. They have a gas range, full size refrigerator, chest freezer, washing machine, western toilets, and a working shower. It seems everyone in the family has a smart phone or tablet, and the house is equipped with wireless internet. I was rather relieved.

The first night, I finally did some laundry, Skyped with Jesse from back home, and slept like a rock.

In Survival Arabic Part II, the next morning, I heard stories of the other host families. Some of my fellow students were not as lucky as me, and were placed in a much more culture-shock inducing home. By the end of the day, though, most concerns were resolved.

It's about time to start the academic portion of this trip. As challenging as it will be, I think I'm ready. First story draft is due Wednesday, and will concern Moroccan cuisine. I will keep you all posted.

#RecklessInRabat (Titled by Cassie)

One of the many faces of Cassie Odneal. She promises more.

Hello again! The last few days have been equally busy and exciting. Everything is so new and so amazing it's hard what to think about it half the time.

Breakfast is served at the hotel every morning, and it's the same everyday. Some type of cornbread, traditional Moroccan bread, hard boiled eggs, coffee, juice, and Moroccan mint tea (which is insanely good and generally served everywhere).

Monday consisted of four-ish lectures about general topics in Morocco such as safety, health, fears, and expectations. Mary Stucky, our program's academic director, put a lot of our minds at ease and answered a lot of questions in our first session.

J-Squad heading to the CCCL annex, also in the Medina.

Meals are generally served at the CCCL, and are very, very good. Usually beef or chicken, served with a couple different steamed vegetables, potatoes or pasta, Moroccan bread, rice, and a random piece of fruit. It's my understanding that the chefs at the CCCL live in the medina.

That night, the J-Squad (journalism squad) and some others from the other programs found a bar in the downtown area of Rabat that was doing karaoke. A group of 15 of us split into cabs (which only allow two or three people each), and did our best to find El Barrio Latino. Driving in Morocco is an experience in itself, essentially a free-for-all between cars and pedestrians, which explains abnormally high amounts of traffic fatalities and injuries each year.

Some locals were at the restaurant drinking and a few of the them had exceptional karaoke voices. I'm sure we were quite obnoxious, but we had a few drinks, everyone sang something, and we had a great time. It felt good to have successfully navigated the city for the first time, and survived.

Perched on the Atlantic

The next day started with an interesting (and slightly intimidating) informative lecture about the Arabic courses that we will start next week. The next few hours we had free, so the J-Squad took a nice walk down to the beaches. We all had our cameras and were looking like some hardcore American tourists. It was great. The view of the Atlantic is amazing. It's weird being on the other side of it. I really lucked out being in a study abroad program with all of these people. I have a feeling these are some life-long friends in the making.

After lunch, Badrdine AKA Badr AKA B-Dogg (our program assistant) gave us a presentation on bargaining, an important part of Moroccan culture and something that I'm quite terrible at. He taught us some Arabic phrases; "Hello! What's up?" (salam alaikum, la-bas) , "How much, please?" (besh-hel, afak), and "I'm a student" (ana talib) to name a few.

The souks are colorful, energetic,
aromatic, and a little intimidating.

Armed with 20 dirhams each (about $2.50), we set out to the expansive, bustling souks of the medina to try out our new skills. I bought an outfit for about 130 dirhams, which I bargained down from 180. Very comfortable, pretty excited. Other students managed to stay within the 20 dirhams, buying tea pots, wallets, necklaces, etc.

That night, we found our way to a few places in downtown Rabat again to hang out and have some beers. I find that I keep having this feeling of "I don't want to the be the annoying Americans that ruin things for the locals," which we might be at times. However, every interaction I've had with a Moroccan has been pleasant. They generally like Americans and welcome you graciously to the country, especially when you throw them a "Salam alaikum!" and a hefty tip.

Boats parked on the Bou Regreg, the river that divides
Rabat and its sister city, Salé.

Today started off with the Drop-Off, which is exactly what it sounds like. In groups of two or three, you are dropped off somewhere in Rabat and have two hours to find your way back. You are given 20 dirhams as a last resort to get a taxi (which are very, very, inexpensive). Working with Katherine McMillan, a CU Boulder senior, we found our way back in about 30 minutes. We both felt pretty accomplished.

Next, we had a bus tour of Rabat and Salé, the sister city. A lot of us had a difficult time keeping our eyes open, but it was an informative tour and it was great to see the different parts of the city. As I write, our welcoming dinner to the CCCL is beginning.

Tomorrow is a big day. We are beginning the day by learning all about the schedule and specifics of the journalism program. Then, we pack our bags, and its host family time. Everyone is a little nervous, but also more than psyched.

Stay tuned, more to come. If you have questions, ask, and I'll respond in a post. Much love.

Blood, Sweat, and Beers

For the circumstances, I was able to sleep relatively well on Friday night. After the surprise party winded down, I got some last minute things together and clocked out.

On my way to the airport, I didn’t have the nerves I thought I would. It was all rather tranquil. First snag I hit was at the ticket counter at DIA, when an agent tried to tell me that I needed a visa to enter Morocco, which is true, but she had no understanding of how the visa process works.

After resolving the issue, I sped through security and grabbed a bagel, arriving at my gate ridiculously early to sit and think about the day ahead of me.

I met up with Cassie Odneal, who is participating in the same program as me and had the same three flights (Denver > New York > Paris > Rabat). It definitely helped to have a travel buddy to lighten the mood when things got… interesting.

At JFK, we grabbed our last American cheeseburgers at the Shake Shack, a well worth it $10 meal. After realizing we needed to switch terminals, which meant going through security again, we found ourselves rushing helplessly through the airport.

I feel obligated to share that, as we entered the correct terminal, I may have over-excitedly opened the door while simultaneously standing too close. I found myself with a seemingly broken and very bloody nose, but TSA didn’t ask any questions. Provided some much needed laughs and perhaps a sign to relax a little bit.

For being such a long flight, New York to Paris wasn’t that bad. Watched the sun set and rise, ate two meals, watched some movies, and it was over.

Everyone eating snacks and talking while
we waited for some late arrivals.

In Paris, the pains of traveling started to kick in. I impulsively purchased an $8 latte to help out. At our gate for the flight to Rabat, we ran into basically everyone else participating in an SIT program. The flight was short and sweet, but was followed by some agonizing wait times for the program representatives and then again for late arrivals.

Buses took us into Rabat to Hotel Darna, where we will be staying for orientation week. It’s a very historic hotel with beautiful décor and architecture, and it has been recently restored. I was luckily enough to receive my own room. We had about 45 minutes to shower and settle in, and then it was off to the Cross-Cultural Learning Center for a tour, introductions, and a nice Moroccan dinner of beef, carrots, eggplant, potatoes (maybe?), and a banana.

A view from the second level of the
Cross-Cultural Learning Center.

It may be because of the humidity, but it is crazy hot here. I showered after I got settled in, but promptly started sweating again about 30 seconds later.

Morocco is a fascinating place full of life and tremendous diversity. It will take adjustment, but it’s going to be hard not to fall in love with it. I have somewhat of an early morning tomorrow, but stay tuned.

Forward

I had a week until the deadline.

It's something I should've put much more thought into, but I suppose I always just thought I knew what I wanted. I sat at my desk in 228C scrolling through hundreds of options. My roommates are scattered about the room doing the same. Italy, Chile, New Zealand, Argentina... what does the name of a country really tell you?

In the end, the decision to go on this trip was a bit like jumping off a diving board when you're a kid. The longer you stand at the top, the higher the board seems to get. If you can work the courage to jump off, your part is finished and gravity takes over.

To-dos, documents, and phone calls. Names, requirements, and immunizations. For the past few months, I've been running down the length of the board. It's almost time to lift my last toe off, but if I've learned anything in the last year, it's that things work out when they need to.

It doesn't seem like enough stuff for
three and a half months, does it?

I leave for Morocco in two weeks.

A small area between my dresser and my desk has become a chaotic pile of necessities for the trip. A small pharmacy, backpacks, contact solution, cameras, and I don't think the pile is even complete. I guess that's what the next two weeks are for.

I am participating in a program run by the School of International Training (SIT). It is a Journalism and New Media program and will include multiple parts.

The first part will include a home stay in the Medina (old town) of Rabat. An intimate and complex web of narrow streets, my cohorts and I will be immersed in the daily life of a Moroccan family. While living there, I will be taking courses in the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning (The CCCL), also in the Medina.

Courses will include Intensive Language Study of Modern Standard Arabic, Contextual Studies in Journalism: Morocco and North Africa, and Field Ethics of Journalism in Morocco. During that time, the group will embark on excursions throughout the country, as well as a short village stay in the Sbaa Rouadi Commune.

For the final month of the program, I'm on my own, researching and creating a feature-length story about the topic of my choice as part of the Independent Study in Journalism course.

And lucky you, getting to kick back and read about the whole thing...

I invite you to join me as I leap from this diving board. Who knows? Maybe we'll learn something.