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I have just returned from a weekend in Morocco… exhausted, educated, saddened, and inspired. There is no way that I can possibly put into a that little box of words that we call the English language the encounter that I had with Morocco, but here goes…

We met at the curb in front of the university (where the smoker’s always hang) at 10pm on Wednesday night, fully equipped for the 10 hour overnight bus ride with our comfy clothes and home-made dinners packed by our host mom’s. I had two pieces of white bread encompassing what looked like three slabs of cheap cheese. Oh, the joys of being a vegetarian in Spain! Enthusiastic about a potentially “enriching” weekend, I brought my latest nonfiction book (Mountains Beyond Mountains by Tracy Kidder) as my entertainment and left the textbooks at home. In the middle of the night, we were awakened to a 45 minute stop at this random rest stop. They had a popcorn machine that played creepy songs as you waited for your corn to pop. You can imagine how amusing this was for us at 3 in the morning. I didn’t get any popcorn, but I stood by the machine so that I could laugh with whoever in our group decided they wanted some. Good judgement call on my part. I got somewhere between 3-5 good laughs from this gaudy singing contraption.

We took a ferry from Algeciras, Spain to Tangier, Morocco. Arrival in Tangier involved port men hassling us to get tours with them and security guards yelling at me to turn off my camera. We hopped on the bus for a short ride to DARNA, a Women’s Center located in the heart of Tangier. Two volunteers gave us a tour of the facility and treated us to a picnic of mint tea and chocolate cake on the rooftop. (By the way, Moroccan mint tea is the best tea I have ever had. Kind of like southern sweet tea minus the lemony taste plus mint leaves. To die for.) DARNA takes in women from unsafe social situations and gives them a stable environment to live and learn important career-building skills. We actually saw some women at work weaving blankets during our tour. The DARNA volunteers sat down with us to answer any and every question that we had regarding DARNA, gender roles in Morocco, Islam, stereotypes, and other thought-provoking topics. They were completely honest. It was a refreshing way to begin our adjustment into Moroccan culture.

We stopped at the eclectic city of Asilah on our way to Rabat. It is an old white-washed city situated on the Atlantic coast of Morocco. Asilah is known for it’s street artists who graffiti colorful murals across the walls of the town. Not far from this city, we stopped at a beach and rode camels… that was a highlight to say the least.

Before arriving in Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, our tour guide Alicia gave us handouts on speaking Arabic so that we could impress our host families. Here is what I learned:

“Hello”- Salem Uuualikam. (response) Walikam salem.

“Bye”- B’slama

“Thank you”- Shukurum

“How are you?”- Le pas. (response) Le pas.  —->tough one.

“Eat”- Kool

“Enough”- Suffi/ Baraka. (We used this often when our host mother demanded that we keep stuffing ourselves with insane amounts of couscous.)

Alicia handed out background material like this and informed us of current events throughout the weekend. It made the trip much more educational. For example, before we saw one of Rabat’s shanty towns, she distributed an article on poverty in Morocco; and before we crossed the Morocco/Spain border, she briefed us on the current battles concerning illegal immigration. The information was beneficial, but we  forgot all of our Arabic when we showed up at our host house the first night. We were a bit apprehensive.

Our nerves were calmed immediately. Moroccan people are some of the most hospitable and generous people I have ever met. We stayed in the host family’s cool house (with sparkly walls, Moroccan looking pillows, and funky tassles) and were served interminable amounts of delish Moroccan food. They had the cutest little two year old girl who ran around the house and was clearly the diva of the family. We caught the younger sons watching American movies with Arabic subtitles, facebooking, and youtubing Micheal Jackson videos. It felt like home (ha.)

Our family was also hosting a student from Pittsburgh that semester. He gladly showed us around the old Medina that night and bought us toasted chickpeas (yum.) He gave us a run-down of his life there, and we were aghast at what a different study abroad experience he was having.

We woke up Saturday morning to the call of prayer. It was surreal. Breakfast consisted of bread in any and every form you can think of- fried bread, corn bread, baguette, shortbread cookies- with jam and more mint tea. I thoroughly enjoyed it. We toured some old Roman ruins (they are EVERYWHERE) and the main mosque. We visited a nearby university for a facilitated discussion with a Moroccan professor and student about education and stereotypes. Their English was impeccable. Reality check, America: it is a minimum in Morocco to know three languages. Arabic, French, and English/Spanish usually. Many people know more than that. Traveling abroad this semester has made me increasingly aware of how far behind we are in the States in promoting bi/tri lingual education.

The evening consisted of walking the medina, drinking tea with Moroccan friends (we are “facebook official” now,) and experiencing the Hamaam (aka public baths.) The hamaam was bizarre. Women sat nude in a steamy room with black exfoliating gloves and big buckets and small children. There were three spigots: hot, cold and warm water. Two Moroccan women showed us the techniques to sufficiently exfoliate using our gloves and brown, honey-like soap. I watched layers of dead skin glide toward the drain, secretly hoping I wouldn’t catch some sort of infectious disease from the (seemingly) unsanitary conditions.

We set off early Sunday morning to see rural Morocco. The bus ride was long. I read my book and watched as we passed overcrowded trucks full of men, young boys with ramshackle tools in deserted fields, barefooted children seesawing on logs and cement slabs. I began to notice a pattern as we drove through main streets of smaller towns. There were throngs of men out and about… and not a single woman to be seen. I covered up when we stopped at a restaurant for lunch.

I heard my stomach growling as we approached the remote village tucked away in the Rif Mountains where we were welcomed into the home of a Muslim family. We sat on the mat-covered dirt floor and talked to the family with the help of our translator, Jaouad. Jaouad grew up in the village, went to a university, and now has left his village permanently with the prospect of getting his PhD. He is the brother of Ibiza, one of the women we spoke with there. We asked them about their daily routine, passions, goals. The men answered quickly. We began to ask questions directed only to the women. The men still answered. Jaouad stated in English, “Ibiza, I want to hear from you. But you live in this patriarchal society, and it makes things difficult. But please speak, my sister.” His statement was a bold one, and only we Americans could understand it.

The mood was lightened when Jaouad pulled out drums and a guitar, ready for some traditional Moroccan singing. The entire family put on a performance for us; the little boys were drumming and grandma was even singing! Alicia taught us a Moroccan dance, which consisted of small bouncing with strange, repetitive arm movements. We laughed.

Our final stop was Chefchaouen, a trendier city nestled in a mountain valley. Chefchaouen is known for it’s blue-washed walls and charming old medina. We shopped, ate, hiked, and talked on the roof of our hostel. It was a suitable ending to the edifying weekend.

Alicia left us with this quote:

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs,

ask yourself what makes you come alive,

and then go do that.

Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

Harold Thurman Whitman

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