Saturday, September 28, 2013

friends make everything better


My last three journal entries start like this, no lie:


Kate is here!


Kate is here!



Kate is gone. :(




My college-friend Kate could not have visited at a more perfect time.  Cooler weather has finally arrived, and Morocco seems friendlier and more beautiful because of it.  It was the perfect time of year for camel treks, mountain climbing, and souk shopping.  But, more importantly, she came at a time when I really needed a friend.  Morocco has been tougher than I expected in so many ways.  Kate came, she listened, she encouraged, and she helped us see Morocco with new eyes.  For a few weeks, we were able to be tourists exploring new places instead of volunteers hiding from the heat in our home.  She also brought a bag full of American goodies: giant jars of peanut butter, bacon crumbles, candy, Nyquill, and a few adult brownies from Andronico's in Berkeley.  She's the best.

In a handful of photos and stories, here is what our past few weeks looked like:

First, we spent a few days in our little town so Kate could experience first-hand Moroccan hospitality and food.  Our Moroccan friends loved Kate, they couldn't get enough of her.  Her very first night in Morocco, we went on a walk around our town to help her get an idea of where we live.  But, 10 minutes in, we were invited over for tea, for henna, for socializing---- we never made it past the closest neighborhood.

1st night in Morocco.  Henna!

I taught Kate how to make msmen on our roof.  In the dark. With this classy headlamp.

After a few days in town, we headed into Marrakech for the day.  Fueled by mechoui (slow roasted lamb.  worth it.), we explored the Dar Si Said and shopped in the medina.  Fellow PCV Sarah and her friend joined us for dinner in the Jemaa el-Fna.  We went to bed early, though, because the next morning we departed for a weekend trip to the desert.

Dinner in the Jemaa el-Fna
It took two days of driving to reach the sand dunes of Merzouga.  Two days of tourist traps, over-priced food, car-sickness, and a few hours of “will we be able to cross this flooded road, or are we going to have to turn back??”  Two days of road-tripping (with a Moroccan driver and 15 other tourists) through beautiful gorges and valleys.  We made it in time for a sunset camel ride through the Sahara desert.  It was thrilling to finally be doing something that other people who visit Morocco on vacation always seem to do.  My only regret about our trip to the desert is that I wish we could have stayed longer.  By sunrise the next morning, after an evening of tagine and traditional music, we were back on the camels for a two-hour trek to the van.  And a thirteen hour day of driving.

Being tourists in Morocco.
Turbans are a requirement for camel riding.

Yup. Worth the drive.


We hardly had time to recover before Kate and I were off to Essaouira for a quick girl’s trip.  Whenever I ask a friend to name their favorite city in Morocco, whether they are fellow Peace Corps volunteers or local Moroccans, Essaouira is the city most frequently named.  We ate seafood right out of the Atlantic, enjoyed strolling through the old medina, and appreciated some quality girl’s time.  I’m not sure if it is my favorite city, but it’s certainly a contender.


Picking out our lunch.
Next up came the most challenging part of our trip, the long weekend that cemented our friendship and dedication to adventure: climbing Mt. Toubkal.  I had read that September is a great month for hiking North Africa’s highest peak, so I casually mentioned to Kate, “Hey!  Pack some sneakers or hiking shoes!” before she came.  We both read that anyone with reasonable fitness and reasonable determination can manage the hike. Whoever wrote that is a liar.  The mountain showed Kate, Pete, and I that we must be far from reasonably fit.  Somehow, we summoned an unreasonable amount of determination from our inner reservoirs to make it to the top.  It’s possible we were the slowest people on the mountain the day we reached the summit.  But, please, re-read that part: We. Reached. The. SUMMIT.  And, along the way, we were stunned at how beautiful the Atlas Mountains are.

Toubkal summit: 13,671 feet.
Wait, we were up there?

Can you spot us?

After a few more days in our little town to recover, to visit with friends, and to pack up our bags one last time, the three of us took the train for a quick trip to Casablanca.  There, we visited the Hassan II Mosque (stunning), dined at Rick’s CafĂ© (so much fancier than we expected!), and enjoyed being anonymous in a big city.

No trip to Morocco is complete without dressing-up in Berber wedding clothes.

Becoming a little more Moroccan (and, clearly, a little more crazy) everyday.

And then, as quickly as she arrived, she was gone.  With tears in my eyes, I waved at Kate in the train and wished that I was going back to America with her.  No doubt, Morocco has shown its best colors to me over the past few weeks.  But the pain of being so far away from the ones I love most is very, very real. 

To read more about our time together, be sure and check out Kate's blog.  She's included a lot more stories and photos, and it'll give you a better look into just how awesome she is.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Where You Can and Can't Go

Attending a host country national wedding might be the archetypal Peace Corps cross-cultural experience: a distillation of your privileged intimacy with host country nationals, the exotic foreign customs you long to write home about, and the pure joy by which you will transform your entitled, world-weary soul. 

While Britt worked at camp last month, I walked up the dry river bed leading out of town with a few friends, cone of sugar in hand and shirt tucked in (the best I can do on short notice), to a nearby village for my first Moroccan wedding.

We arrived early in the afternoon to the groom's house and immediately split up by sex. I can't speak for the women, but the men ate a mysterious -but not unappealing- plate of organ meat and gravy and afterwards coached me as I made tea for the room. Next, we napped up in preparation for the evening.

Not doing it right, no doubt.

The wedding was described to me as "Meya-F-Meya Amazigh". Loosely that is: a 100% traditional Moroccan mountain village wedding. Not city-fied or not Arabized (in ways that I would never be able to detect). Still,in the singing and dancing and staggered meal service there was some easily-identifiable shared DNA between Moroccan and American weddings.

Can you honestly tell this is wedding is in Morocco and not Austin?
And watch this clip to the end and you'll see that I'm capable of dancing badly at a wedding on any continent.



Then there were some more unusual customs, like the collective pause midway through the wedding to announce the precise amount of each gift, down to the last centime, given by every guest at the wedding. My friends assured me that my cone of sugar would not be announced; real gifts (money) only. If the design is to shame people into generosity, it certainly worked on me: I shelled out at the next wedding.


Halfway through the night I wondered aloud when the bride would arrive. A chorus of drummers and chanters had played the groom in two hours earlier and her entrance was sure to be a show-stopper. Except she wasn't coming. "She's in the house waiting for her husband," my friends told me, "Alone."  Taking the tradition of the bride and groom not seeing each other before the wedding to its logical extreme, the bride doesn't see anyone on the wedding day, until the groom comes back from the party.


The night ended ended with mint tea and a 3am bowl of harira, and we walked back home in the dark. Whatever fun I'd had turned to tired grouchiness on the long slog home, but I decided to stay awake anyway to watch the sun come up from our roof.


Spot the stork!
A week later, Britt was back from camp and we were going to another wedding with our friends. The night promised to be a bit more modern, a bit more urbane. For one thing the bride would be there, and we'd get to see a few of her famed outfit changes throughout the evening.
 

Still, the first thing we did after we met up with our friends was split up; Britt went with the women and I went with the men. We ate dinner on the roof while the women waited downstairs for their turn. Later we sat on plastic chairs set up around a stage, maybe thirty yards apart. Close enough that we could see each other, but not close enough to hear each other over the noise.


Britt and a friend before they were whisked away.
The evening provided a good show -a typically Moroccan too-long-by-half good show- with some very impressive dancers who carried the bride and groom around on a little throne, and a wait staff that somehow incorporated pyrotechnics into serving tea.  



That it turned into an endurance test didn't surprise me; what surprised me was how hard it was to enjoy. I kept thinking of our wedding day -without fear of cliche, I'll call it the most fun I've ever had in my life- and of the bride who had to wait alone in the house, and of how much richer my life has been for the many spaces I'm able share with women. In theory, it's a very intimate thing to attend a stranger's wedding, but in practice you're the stranger. People can invite you anywhere, but you haven't arrived at the place of intimacy until you feel at home. 

Four in the morning. Home at last.