Missing Morocco

Morocco = Cats, Cats Everywhere

Almost two months after planning out the remainder of my blogs, I have finally decided to wrap up my summarizing thoughts on my time in Morocco. I've just read an article on an American Peace Corps volunteer about what she wishes Americans knew about Morocco, and I loved how she encompassed every aspect perfectly. Recently, when I have been telling people that I studied abroad in Morocco for a semester, they ask about traveling there, how it was, whether I felt safe, how different it must be to be living in Belgium now, etc. Explaining all of this while all they are actually looking for is a travel recommendation is quite complex, and I don't want to give anyone the false hope that they will have the most exquisite exotic adventure while spending a weekend in Marrakesh or Casablanca, because honestly, it will be different for any American who has never left the western hemisphere (including Japan and China). Chances are, most people would probably be disappointed by just traveling to Morocco for a weekend unless you really know what to expect. Of course, I had wonderful weekend experiences all semester long, but that's because I could look past the culture shock associated with such a short stay. Of course, there was culture shock by the end of the semester, but it meant being able to look past people yelling at me to stop in their stores, buy drugs, being sexually harassed, and being flat out stared at no matter where I went or what I was wearing, I hope that the previous entries I have posted have kind of given an idea of my transformation over the semester, but if not, I wish to do so know, as well as convey what Morocco means to me, how grateful I am for this past semester, as well as some lessons that I learned along the way. Inshallah, this may even inspire you to travel to Morocco and give you a better idea of what to expect so you will be able to look past the negative effects of culture shock.

First of all, I'm still not quite sure what inspired me to plunge straight into the study experience with Morocco. In hindsight, it would have made a lot more sense to come to Belgium first, then follow up with Morocco. Baby steps, right? That's what one would expect since my travel history has been western Europe, move out to Roanoke, move to Washington D.C. (note, I was still living in the same state I had always lived in when at Roanoke as well as for when I was in "D.C."), central Europe. I cannot explain how glad I am that Morocco came first, though. First of all, I'm sure this semester's group of AUI study abroaders are awesome, but I made some of the best friends I could ever wish to meet. I can only thank the complexity of destiny for bringing us all together. Secondly, living in a country as different from my background as Morocco boosted my confidence exponentially. It was the first time I had traveled by myself, had to track down luggage, and in general, just had so much responsibility. I had to figure out how to get around a country where a very small fraction of the population speaks English. Luckily, a generous amount speak French, but for an American, that doesn't help too much, especially since I am nowhere near where I should be for my seventh year of French. Aside from that, the main language is Arabic, which is uncomprehendingly difficult at times. I would be proud of myself being able to sound out road signs. Generally, in foreign countries, you may be able to find your way if you can read signs that have the Latin alphabet, but being thrown into a country where everything is spelled with a different set of letters is rather intimidating until you get the hang of it. Additionally, I refused to pay insane prices for using my phone, so most of the time, i was disconnected from the flow of communication. Imagine being in a foreign city where you don't even speak a language using the same letters as the national mothertongue, and not being able to pull up Maps. Typically, most places also did not have (functioning) wi-fi, which added to the difficulties. These are just a few of the things that have transformed me into a productive traveler as well as a functioning, resourceful adult (?-I just kind of refuse to accept it).

I also learned how to live in a culture that is completely different than what I am use to. Like I said earlier, short term culture shock is much different than that of long term. I was able to accept that on my way to the marche, I would probably be harassed multiple times, but would still be able to enjoy a glass of tea when I got there. In the last couple of blogs, I address what the more negative effects of living in Morocco and not being Moroccan. You definitely stand out. One night, I was relentlessly harassed at my favorite restaurant in the marche by a guy about m age listening to an iPhone, and insisting that I give him money. As this whole thing was going on, and I continuously shouted at him to leave and imply he wasn't getting anything, the entire restaurant stared at my friend and me, but of course, no one came to help. On the other hand, I once had a storekeeper pay someone off to leave me alone.

There's a lot of focus on women's studies in Morocco because of the connotation that Islamic societies are by definition feminine suppressors, which is not true at all. Yes, the case for women can and should be improved in Morocco, but also the rest of the world. There was a huge focus of the family code reform in 2004 during many of my class lectures. This proves that Morocco isn't as oppressive as people would generally think. The King as well as the government recognize the contributions female citizens make to society and the need to expand women's rights. That being said, though, I was able to make realizations about my own life. In Morocco, children born out of wedlock, up to very recently (and even know, there is no real clear procedure on handling each case), have been regarded as sub-citizens, if one can even describe them as that. Without a father, which is synonymous to being born out of wedlock, Moroccan children are at risk for not receiving a family book, which means that governmental services are not extended to them. No identification. Impossible to register for school. Difficulty in finding even menial jobs. Impossible to purchase a car (yes, you even have to list your family history to buy a car). When signing up for my residency permit, I was often afraid I would be rejected due to the fact that I did not have a name to fill in.  I often thought about how different my life would be being born in such a system under the same circumstances. Often, fatherless children are also mocked and excluded from society. The ideas of paternity in Islam are very complicated, which makes it very difficult in a multitude of situations including adoption, but it's all very complicated, and I'm afraid I would not even be able to scratch the surface of its importance.

I was lucky enough to live in a very nice town, and attend the "Harvard of Morocco," which meant that I was not subjected to the complete poverty of some parts of the country, but it definitely exists. My professor often spoke about how the average income in the country was 3000 Dirhams, roughly $300. This means that there is a huge population that makes less than this, as there are also many wealthy families. It's definitely a problem, but no where near what poverty in the United States is like. My professor would often say that many people often didn't realize they were poor because it's just an acceptance of how things are.

I'm going to actually steal my next and final point from my friend Anamaria. One night walking back from the marche, she explained how usually people feel more independent after completing a semester abroad, but how Morocco had alternatively made her more dependent. To a point, I completely agree. Usually, I am a very independent person, doing things for myself. Apparently, there are some pretty funny stories of me when I was little spilling Kool-Aid everywhere because a very insistent Emily knew she could do it "me-self." However, in Morocco, I bean depending on friends to go places with me, as I would not travel alone, or for friends who spoke Arabic or better French to bargain or ask questions. Sometimes, it is necessary to take the backseat, or learning to compromise in finding people to do things with. In America, if I ever wanted to go somewhere, I never had to worry about going out by myself. If I need something, I'm completely capable of finding my way there at whatever time, and being able to ask for directions or help if necessary.

However, Morocco made me very independent. I feel like at this point, I can definitely do anything I put my mind to, as the experiences and lessons I have learned are so important for critical thinking and planning in all situations, especially traveling. I wouldn't say I'm able to travel quite anywhere because there are still countless issues in the world that can't be resolved too easily, but I do feel more confident in my capabilities of traveling alone and with others. Morocco was a great experience, and I can never fully encompass everything I want to say when someone asks how my semester abroad was-it's very complex, and even after countless stories and conversations, I still think about it differently daily. Irregardless, Morocco was just one of the few places that I have called home in my entire life, and I don't use that term loosely.

A Much More Meaningful Experience Than I Had Thought

This is actually the blog that has been keeping me from finishing my accounts in Morocco. It isn't that what happened that day has been to painful to write about. Believe me, refugee matters have become a very dear subject to me in the last year or so, and I believe the world needs to know what people who have no where to turn besides a country completely foreign to them face everyday. However, like I said in a recent blog, I do keep in mind what I want to talk about, and one of the events that happened that day triggered an emotional response in me that I did want to write about until over break when I lost my mother. I know, though, how much she enjoyed reading my blogs (exactly how a mother would react to anything her child did), and that she would not want to be the reason for me not completing them. Hopefully, it will be clear which part of my day triggered this response, as I don't want to interrupt the flow of the blog to go into anymore detail at the mention of it.

Obviously, as you can tell, I am a pretty big procrastinator. Shocker, considering that what I'm about to write about happened over a month ago, right? Well, the opportunity to go to Fez to volunteer with refugees came up in the last weekend right before finals, and obviously, when it comes to refugees or studying, I'm going to choose the refugees. I'm an IR student, that counts as studying, right? Well, after volunteering with the CCC (Commonwealth Catholic Charities) in Roanoke as part of a class assignment, I have become really interested in refugee affairs, so I was excited to give up a Saturday (even if it would just be spent studying) for this opportunity.

On the way into Fez, where you can typically see Sub-Saharan Africans throughout the cit on the sides of the streets or in the medians to sell newspapers, tissues, and a variety of items; beg; and clean windows for a living, we encountered something new. I had always been in a grand taxi before, which these people must know not to encounter the car or face the wrath of the ferocious cab drivers. However, this time, riding in Karen and Kevin's personal car, we were approached a lot more. First, going into the town at a roundabout, there were several women wearing headscarves. They were all holding signs saying, "syrienne," and the equivalent in Arabic as well as showing photocopies of Syrian passports. Karen, who has lived in Morocco for quite awhile, explained to us that there is a new trend across the Middle East, where people are simply posing as Syrian refugees. Obviously, the un-trained eye can't tell a Syrian from a Moroccan, and it's an easy way to get money from western tourists who have heard of the horrors originating in Syria and spreading across the Levant. It is pretty enraging to think, though, that these women are likely not refugees at all, but using the situation in Syria to take advantage of people's kindness. I didn't realize how enraged by this I would be until later in the day, after hearing the stories of the refugees we were going to volunteer with for the day. Not only are the impostors taking advantage of a horrible situation, but they are also deflecting charity from the refugees in Fez who are victims of an entirely other conflict more than likely not as heavily covered by major western media outlets.

Why are these conflicts, those in Cameroon, the Ivory Coast, and the Democratic Republic of Congo, among many other places in Sub-Saharan Africa, not portrayed by the media? Perhaps, it is because there is an American interest for keeping the people causing these crises alive in power, but mostly, I truly believe it is the negative connotation the media has given to Muslim Majority States in the Middle East. Yes, there are issues in the Middle East, but there are certainly problems in other parts of the world that mirror or trump what is happening in MENA. It's the media's building-up of Muslim stereotypes perpetuated by extremists that has kept the rather "Christian" states' conflicts out of the news.

I'm still not sure what I was expecting that day, but what actually happened hit me pretty hard. First, all of the volunteers, including Congolese students who organized the meetings, broke up into groups to do the preliminary work including making lunch, separating clothes, and cleaning/dressing wounds. As a clothing sorter, we were finished pretty early, and went out to where the refugees had started gathering in the courtyard with AUI's chaplain. She explained to Alesia and I that the most important job wasn't giving the refugees food or blankets, but just to talk with them, helping them remember that despite all that was going on in their life, they were still human.

The first guy who came to talk to Alesia, Karen, and I was a refugee from Cameroon. He spoke French, so Alesia and I were pretty lost, but Karen would tell us what was going on periodically. It happens that the man had just heard from home that his mother had just died. She had been at a meeting she organized to raise money for her other son, this man's brother, to cross the border illegally via smuggling from Algeria, since Morocco and her neighbor to the east currently are not speaking besides to collect rent royalties from a pipeline running up to the EU. The older brother, the man at the center speaking to us, had fled from Cameroon with his brother to Algeria, and they could only come up with enough money to smuggle one across at a time. As the older brother, he decided to go first in order to look for work in Morocco in order to get a place to live. What I could understand from the discussion, it is in violation to hold a private meeting, and the police who had heard about it were outside waiting for the meeting to end, where they brutally beat the mother in the street until she died. Apparently, the man was also worried about the police going to find his father, killing him also. The man had not heard from his father for over a week, and could not contact his brother, who he had not spoken to since Monday.

All I could think about was how valuable a mother's love truly is. This woman knew the possible consequences of organizing a secret meeting, but went ahead anyway so that her children could have a better life, even if that meant being in another country. Of course, I thought about everything my mother and grandparents had done for me so that I could have everything I want in life as well as pushing me, as well as supporting me, to be successful. Although I am by no means a victim of political dispute, I thought about how I was also in another country, far away from my family, a constant lifestyle that is definitely a foreseeable possibility in my future. However, I will almost always have the decision to go back home, unless, of course, there are economic/scheduling factors. I thought about how lucky that in a week, I would be on a train towards Casablanca to get on a plane that would take me home for three short weeks, where my mom was going to be standing there with arms wide open, ready for a hug and to spoil me before shedding more tears when dropping me off to go to Belgium. How did I get so lucky to not only be born into a family that supports me, which his family also did, obviously, but to also be born into a country where the political situation wouldn't keep me from them through life and death? Later in the afternoon, we briefly talked about politics, when they brought up Obama, perhaps one of the few things these men know about American life. They told us that they would do anything to have a president like Obama, which was very shocking to me, due to the fact that even as Americans, the AUI study abroad students do not even say things this freely (despite being majors in heavily politicized fields, you get really tired of politics in class, and do not fill casual conversation with it). I am also from a part of the country that could win a gold medal in Obama bashing, and it made me think about no matter how much you disagree with either party, the exaggerated, predicted doomsday that you say their policies will bring cannot compare with the politics refugees face in their home and host countries on a daily basis. Never in my life, have I been more glad to be from the US as well as to have a plane ticket for the next week.

As I was thinking of this, I had to brush back a tear, because how would it look if the volunteer was blubbering over this when he wasn't? We were suppose to be there for support, not to look like weak, pitying westerners. Karen led us in prayer with the man, of course, it was in French, so I couldn't understand it very well, but I could tell it comforted him a lot. One of the regular volunteers joined us, then, and he told the man that there was hope for him finding a job. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and showed us his resume (or CV for all of you non-Americans). Turns out in Cameroon, he had been a businessman, so he has a keen mind for finances as well as a professional business attitude. Also, he spoke French really well, so the regular volunteer advised him to seek out an opportunity within one of the French call centers outsourced to Morocco while he is waiting for his brother to join him from Algeria.

After this, the day seemed to brighten up a bit, as it felt like we were holding court for the majority of the time. The rest of the stations all of the AUI students were working at had finished, so we all met up, and the refugees surrounded us. They gave up there seats for us, and started asking us questions in French. Since there was only one fluent French speaker, Claire, Karen's daughter who lives in Morocco and speaks better French than I ever hope to at this point, there were a lot of blank stares and "Excusez moi. Je ne comprends pas. Mon francais est tres mal," but it was definitely enjoyable. Of course, the basic question was asking everyone's name and nationality typically followed by asking if we were married or had boyfriends back in the United States. We were asked a lot if we wanted to get married in our round-about marriage proposals of the day, much more of a contrast to a couple of weekends before in the medina. This was the important part Karen was talking about. It seemed that during this time, when asking us how Obama was doing and telling us they would come see us in the United States when they became big football stars, they had forgotten about all of their troubles, even if just for thirty minutes.

The next part of the day was more heart-breaking. We served lunch, which the refugees seemed very thankful for. They were all standing in very close lines, and it seems that sometimes things get a little more heated, but I guess that since Anamaria and I were handing out the food, they were a little more tame, and I got a "merci" from each one of the refugees. After they had finished their meal, we gave out blankets, if they can really be called that. They were more like thick, dense mats made out of compressed lint. Nonetheless, they were greatly appreciated, as the volunteers who usually run the show had a list, where they were calling people out one by one to receive their blanket. At the end, it looked like a few people wouldn't be receiving one, and they were getting more noticeably upset, but another bundle of blankets came out, and everyone thankfully left with one. The most interesting part of this to me, though was how the refugees were folding the blankets up after they had held them out to examine them adoringly. They all folded them, some rolling them into bundles, and began looking for spare pieces of the plastic binding they were tied into bales with, making it easier to carry them. I was wondering where they lived, since it seemed like they had a long journey ahead of them, and asked Karen, who told me that most of them live out the outskirts of town under a bridge by the train station and across from the police station. Since the (hopefully) temporary residence of the refugees is across from the police station, there is a problem distributing aid, as the local authorities will claim church groups offering charity are proselytizing, even though, many of the refugees are indeed Christian. Although one of the pillars of Islam is charity, it is really disappointing that a grudge between religions keeps aid from getting to the refugees, who obviously do not have very much in the first place and are beyond thankful for a free meal and a blanket.

Leaving the church which we had spent the morning in, we headed over to BorjFez, the local mall, which ironically, you can see from the veranda we gathered on for the day. The rest of the day made me feel rather hypocritical and too lucky. I had a delicious pepperoni pizza, a true treat in nearly pork-less Morocco, and went to the American School's production of A Christmas Carol. On a lighter note, I was rather impressed by all of the work that the high school students (many Moroccan, speaking in a second, third, or maybe even fourth language) must have put in to stage a performance of  a play which I am afraid many native English speakers haven't seen.

Like I said, I'm not sure what I was expecting with the refugees. Probably an experience more similar to what I've had at the CCC in Roanoke, where the refugees are far (farther than the same continent) from their home, and their biggest struggle is trying to assimilate into American culture by learning a new language (because in America, you basically need English to survive instead of Morocco, where you can speak part of French and Arabic and be fine). It certainly wasn't, though. I learned a lot more than I ever could by teaching the alphabet at the CCC about what was going on in the refugees' lives and what it must feel like to not only be away from home, which I had gotten accustomed to in the last few months, but forced out. Definitely, I am glad I gave up a day of studying about IR and conflict out of books to do it firsthand.

Although I was not able to spend my winter break how I had planned , writing this blog has made me so, so thankful, even more than I had been before, that I decided to go home for the holidays. I can only imagine what the refugee from Cameroon was feeling at the time, with the stress of his brother in Algeria, finding a job, living on the street in a foreign country, the post-traumatic effects of fleeing one's home country, on top of grieving for his mother and possibly his father. No amount of words or blogs will be able to fully capture how thankful I am that I did get my hug at the airport and a beautiful day in Washington DC with my mother as well as our last road trip home.

In honor of the mother who lost her life trying to provide a better life for her sons as well as my mom who was my biggest fan and most devoted reader, I dedicate this post to all parents who have gone far and beyond for their children's well-being and happiness.

Fez, More Than Just Tanneries: A Cross-Cultural Lesson Across the World

Since Fez was just a day trip, there really isn't much to explain with the boring details of what I did. Remember that I am absolutely horrible with keeping up with things like this, and it happened a couple of months ago, so I'm a little rusty on what exactly I wanted to talk about, although I plan it all out in my head, and revise multiple times before typing it and editing while writing. What I wanted to talk about in this post is also a little touchy and kind of outdated now, although it was huge news at the time, but to me it's still very important, and writing about it keeps the issue alive.

The day started out a little rough, as the first grand taxi we took had to be pushed out of the station by four or five other drivers. Not a good sign wherever you are. About twenty minutes outside of Ifrane, the car started to fill up with smoke, and the driver had to pull over to check under the hood. I was afraid that since we had stopped, Kat, Anamaria, and I were going to have to push the car to get it started again, or worse, back to Ifrane. However, the driver found the problem, and told us we had to go back. Luckily, there was no pushing involved. After switching cars, we headed back towards Fez, and ended up at the medina. Some other students had gone to the medina very early in the semester, and had problems with harassment and getting lost, which made it seem scary, but we had nearly four months of Morocco under our belt and really weren't that afraid. I knew that I wanted to buy a tagine to take home, and still needed to find some gifts, but for the most part, it was just going to be a nice stroll through the medina and seeing the tannery.

Obviously, I hadn't gotten the memo that being white and going into the Fez medina meant you would be harassed every corner you turned. Once we had gotten out of the petit taxi, we were already getting unnecessary and unwanted attention. The comments could be as innocent as, "Where are you from,?" which really doesn't seem that harmful, but I was taught by some amazing travelers never to respond to any requests when you're obviously the outcast. Of course, some of these people could genuinely have been curious, but we also could have genuinely gotten ourselves into a situation ranging from annoying to dangerous. Therefore, we just kept walking and didn't acknowledge even "hello," "bonjour," or "hola." Sometimes, though, the comments weren't as innocent. Throughout the day, I think I was proposed to at least three times with the line, "Are you looking for a husband, I could give you a nice Berber massage," followed twice, and called various names and adjectives countless times. Of course, there is the new movement to rid the "She was asking for it" argument based on a female's clothing option, and as much as I agree with that, I was wearing tan pants (granted, sometimes I look down at my legs when wearing them and think I'm wearing shorts), boots, a black three-quarter length shirt with a high neckline hitting right below my collar bone,  and a scarf. Generally speaking, this is pretty conservative for me, and even for some of the Moroccan girls I met.

The harassment I received that day kind of was the breaking point. All of the negative attention I had received and waved off had built up to the boiling point, and it really bothered me. Obviously, this is an experience not many people in the US have the chance of enduring because they are indeed locals, which brings me to a point made in a previous post that travelling is such an enriching experience where you realize things you never would have before. However, there are a lot of people in America who do experience the same thing, and I, of course, growing up in the south as a white female had been disillusioned like a lot of people of my demographic. When I made this trip to Fez, it was shortly after the Michael Brown hearing and when news was breaking on Eric Garner and the related protests and riots. I'm not trying to say that what I experienced mirrors these events in any way, but I definitely had a realization of what it feels like to be a minority surrounded by the majority who have a preconceived notion  of what you are as well as how they can treat you. Your part of the country ma not have a race issue, but growing up in a very conservative part of the country where many people (even younger generations) of the majority have attitudes on races and ethnicities mimicking that of pre-Civil Rights Era, you certainly hear comments that make you question the ethics of your community. I am saying, though, that the behavior one shows toward another person based society's concepts of first glimpse truly is not fair and definitely not right.

The most annoying part of the day was when we were towards the outside of the medina, and a "guide" kept coming up to us asking if we needed help. After I had shooed him away in English and French the first time, we had turned around to go back into the medina, looking for a shop we had seen before to buy tagines because they are super heavy and not what you want to be carrying around a market with you all day. Of course, our ami had found us again, and continued to follow us, attempting to lose him, we tried walking faster, shunning him while we tried to formulate a game plan, and eventually walking into a store, ignoring him. Because I spoke the most French, and had previously done all of the talking telling him to get lost, he chose me to be the recipient of his pleads. "Please, sister, open your heart." I told Anamaria to be on guard to hold me back if he called me sister one more time because I would punch him in the throat. Saying, "No, we're fine. We don't need any help," just wasn't working.

Aside from the fact that I am clearly not Arab, I was also appalled by how I was treated solely because I am a female. The video released last fall of a woman walking through New York getting unwanted attention is nothing compared to a day in the medina in Fez. Of course, it did not help that I am clearly not Moroccan and therefore somewhat "deserve" to be harassed. Whenever one of my Moroccan friends would hear of a story of one of the American girls being harassed, they generally couldn't believe it. While riding the train back from Casablanca, one girl told me that they know it is not okay to treat Moroccan girls that way, but needed firm reminding when it came to European or American girls after I had told her a story about a drunk patron at a pizza restaurant.

By the time we had found the tagine shop we wanted to go to, we were starving, tired, and emotionally exhausted from all of the attention that day, so we decided to go to the only place with food that our western mindsets would feel at ease: the mall. After eating, Kat still needed to buy a rug because what else do you do in Morocco? She remembered some nice shops in Azrou, a village not far from Ifrane, so we just headed there although it was dark and we were exhausted.

Once we had gotten there, Kat being the only one to have been to Azrou before forgot how to get to the shops, so we were kind of just standing there waiting for her to remember. Then, a man walked up. Still in my "anti-sister" mode, I was read to snap, but when he asked if we were lost, he clearly had an American accent, which still could have been super dangerous, but just refreshing. Apparently, he was a Peace Corps volunteer serving in Morocco, teaching English. He showed us a great little shop tucked in the back streets, which we never would have found. In the shop, we joked with the shopkeeper, who took down what had to have been close to twenty rugs for Kat to look at. He also served us some tea, a really hospitable action.

Although the day definitely had its goods (getting some awesome deals and seeing the famous tanneries of Fez) and bads, and I was exhausted by the time we left Fez, I'm really glad we were still able to go to Azrou. The kindness I was shown in the village reminded me that humanity can be good. Not every member of the majority population is going to treat the minority negatively, which we see in America, but there are definitely some who need to reevaluate their ideas of how people should be treated and why they think that way. Although I never post anything politically sensitive because I have enough politics in class, I hope this opens the eyes of someone who believes there isn't a problem with racial preconceptions in the United States.

You can't even alliterate a weekend this beautiful...Chefchaouen

First thing's first,... I'm the realest... Couldn't resist... But second thing: it took me really long to give up on coming up with a creative name for this blog, and you would not believe how hard it is to find things that start with "sh" in Chefchaouen...

Believe it or not, there comes a point in a semester abroad, where you just don't know what to do anymore. So, you go to Pinterest! Not really, but Chefchaouen is definitely one of the most popular destinations you will see girls posting to their travel boards, not only for Morocco, but for the world. SO the story starts sometime in the middle of the week, I vaguely remember it was probably Tuesday or Thursday because Ellen and I were sitting in the loft in Sodexo having lunch, and we were tring to make weekend plans. We wanted to go to Kenitra, where her grandmother is from, or Rabat and just day trip to Kenitra, but the only affordable AirB&B option was super sketchy. We went back to the drawing board time and time again, before finally deciding on Chefchaouen.

Since Ellen is a bad student, and had already missed a class in Pop Culture in Africa, we couldn't leave on Friday, and decided to get up super earl on Saturday to make the journey to the Blue City. Neither of our Moroccan phones worked anymore, and didn't really know how else to get a taxi, so on Saturday morning, we ventured out of our warm beds into the rain, and went to the front gate, where we were hoping to catch a petite taxi to the taxi station, but apparently they don't sit outside of AUI that early. Luckily, there was a grand taxi there, and when his clients were about ten minutes late, he asked if we wanted him to take us to Fez. With no other option, we said yes, and obviously got ripped off, but it's whatever. Getting to Fez, we went to the CTM station, and ate PopTarts before catching our bus. Once we were on the bus, I remembered I was definitely in Morocco, as we were being thrown everywhere, trying to actually sleep on public transportation, I woke up several times, nearly being thrown out of my seat.

Besides having a lot of twists and turns the closer we got to Chaouen, the ride went fairly smoothly. When we finally got to our destination, we were immediately attacked by one of the tourist vultures because that's not only what happens when you are white, but also when it's just two females traveling.  Despite us trying to lose the guy, he got in our taxi with us, without our permission, and ran in front of us when we got out of the cab to find our hostel. "Oh, you're going to love Riad Baraka! It's owned by English people." Thanks, dude. As we were walking he told us we needed to visit his shop later, and insinuated that he dealt drugs. Because obviously, every white person in Chefchaouen is there to smoke weed. By the time we had gotten to our hostel, he was already asking for money, and I just looked at him, and said no. He obviously got angry, and I just started yelling. I had gotten to the point in the semester, where I honestly didn't care to make a scene. I would never see these people again, and I was tired of being treated like a stupid tourist and an uneducated woman. I was indeed a student in Morocco, and I know how it works. I can find my way through back alleys that all look the same. I can order tea. I can find places to go on my own. And most importantly, I know when locals are trying to screw me over. I intently looked at the guy, and said, "Look, we aren't paying you. We did not ask for your help, we didn't ask for you to get in our taxi, and we never asked for a guide of Chefchaouen. I motioned towards Ellen, and said, she has the address and a map, we knew exactly where we were going." After a few eye rolls and pleading, he finally left without spilling any blood in the blue streets.

We went into the hostel, which was absolutely gorgeous. It turns out that it had once been a riad, or a home that basically has an open roof, and British ex-pats renovated it, which was apparently a great deal of work since the streets near the hostel were just for walking, no cars. That meant that they had to move tiles, tools, paint, furniture-everything- there by donkey or cart or by hand. If anyone is ever planning on going to Chefchaouen, I would definitely recommend this hostel, though. Once Ellen and I arrived, though, we had a look around the hostel, going up to the rooftop, and being utterly amazed at the scenery. Not  only were the views of the town beautiful, with blue buildings, and winding streets everywhere, but the mountains around the city were also amazing.

It was time to go explore, so Ellen and I left the hostel, and grabbed some lunch. The ongoing couscous was my choice of the day. Really, if you're in Morocco for more than a week or so, the food options get really old after awhile. "Would you like couscous, tagine, couscous, or tagine?" I did have a pretty amazing glass of tea, though, so it wasn't all bad. Next, we found our way into the city center, where we were amazed b the prices in Chefchaouen. Everything was so much cheaper here than anywhere we had been in Morocco. So of course, we had to get our kinda sorta oh-crap-we-are-going-home-soon-and-have-bought-almost-nothing-as-souvenirs-slash-Christmas-presents-for-our-families-and-friends gifts. Don't worry, everyone, I knew what I was going to get you...sorta... It hadn't even been that long, and we had already bought too much to carry, so we had to go back to the hostel to drop our things off, and we were planning on leaving again, but it was an early morning bus ride, and we were tired, so we just chilled for awhile. Then, we went up to the roof around sunset to take pictures with the city and just because we have an obsession with sunsets. While on the rooftop, the call of prayer started playing at all of the mosques around me, and it was such a wonderful moment.

For the next thirty minutes or so, we just jung out on the roof talking to other guests as well as the owner of the hostel, Anne. Eventually, one of our friends, who was staying on the rooftop room the night before came up, and she told us that they had just gotten back from a hike that they had been on all day, so we went down to the dormitory that everyone else was staying in, and made a game plan for food. On the wall of reception in the hostel, there was a map of the city painted, and there was one restaurant on the wall that sounded pretty good, called Mandala Pizza. We made our way there, and had amazing meals. I kept it pretty tame, and went for alfredo, but other people went beyond my limits and had goat cheese pizza for the first time in months. Since the food was so awesome and cheap (because it's Morocco), we ordered dessert, and I had an awesome cheesecake, once again, for the first time in months. After dinner, we walked around the square Ellen and I had been in earlier, and prices at the shops had gone up drastically, so we decided to call it a night, and come back the next morning so everyone could get in on the great deals like we had.



The next morning started off with breakfast at the hostel. I had porridge for the first time in my life and tea, of course. After checking out, and paying to leave our bags for the day, we headed back to the square to do more shopping. Already, I had stuffed three lanterns, a rug, two plates, and some smaller things in my backpack, which is not that large to begin with, so I had to be a little more careful about how much I bought on Sunday. Most of the time, I would just be standing outside the shops with our guy friend, and since we were in the square (read, the tourist mecca), people kept coming up to us asking if we wanted to bu marijuana. Literally, I had been offered drugs more in Chefchaouen than any other point in my life.

Exploring the streets some more to find somewhere for lunch, we eventually ran into a fight. See, Chaouen has these beautiful, picturesque streets, with stairs, just what you would picture an old cit to look like, and the shopkeepers keep pottery on the stairs. Apparently, a passerby must have broken a vase, and the shopkeeper was demanding payment. Even in Morocco, you break it, you buy it. Carefully avoiding the scene, but still catching a glimpse of one guy pinned against the wall with the other holding the broke vase in one hand about to shatter it more, we made our way around the block, and to a Spanish inspired restaurant. Sadly, no sangria, though... #MoroccoProblems

After lunch, Ellen and I decided to head back to the hostel to grab our stuff and make it to the bus station to go back to AUI. We were on an earlier bus back to make sure we wouldn't be locked out after curfew or stuck in Fez for the night if something happened to the bus, as public transportation in Morocco isn't always the most reliable. Since we still had plenty of time to get back to Ifrane from Fez, we decided to head over to the mall because we both needed suitcases for our upcoming journeys back to the US. Unfortunately, mine broke shortly after buying it. We also got some delicious pepperoni pizza to eat on the way home before hailing a taxi. At the grand taxi station, we totally got screwed over again by this greasy looking car salesman type. Despite us insisting that the price should be 180 Dirhams, he said he couldn't do any better than 280 because there were only two of us and it was night. It made absolutely no sense, but we had to get home, so whatever.

It was a wonderful weekend, although it was super short. Chefchaouen definitely had to be my favorite Moroccan city. In a lot of ways, it reminded me of Europe although we were constantly being reminded we did not look like everyone else. But how can you be blue in a city that is painted with your favorite color? (Haha see what I did there?)

Desert, Dunes, and Dromaderies

Sometime over the summer or maybe even in the spring when I had just found out about coming to Morocco, my grandpa already basically told me not to come back to America until I had seen the desert. No problem, it was definitely on the higher part of my Moroccan bucket list along with riding a camel. So, when I found out that the Explorers' Club wouldn't be taking a trip to the desert becasue the breaks this semester were too short, I knew I would have to go anyway possible. Luckily, a class project did all of the hard work for me, and I didn't just start walking south with some 1.5 liter water bottles strapped to me.

Leaving on a Thursday, because for some reason there was a holiday, we boarded vans, and headed towards Merzouga. The ride was not bad at all besides the driver keeping the window down while driving through the snow covered Atlas mountains for the first couple of hours. Partly due to the fact that I had actually slept the night before instead of writing blogs and being super whiny. Now, I kinda wish I had been writing instead. Also, the planners of the trip who were simulating a travel agency planned a bunch of stops for us along the way, a chance to get out, and stretch our legs. One of the stops was paradoxically in the snow covered Atlas range near a lake. As we got out, it was clear that we had all been expecting the desert, as we were all freezing. It made for an interesting situation, though considering that we were planning on going to the desert, leaving the snowy mountains.

 Making our way to the desert, we stopped along the way at several overlook areas before finally getting to a souvenir shop where we had the opportunity to buy the same goods the European tourists do. The best discription of the shop I could possibly give is a lot like an antique store, where the items being sold are extremely varied. Upstairs, we had rugs, teapots, scarves (which we were often forced to model), etc. to look at. While there, I saw a crazy shirt that I just had to have. I am actually currently wearing it, and I feel like I should be riding around with Scooby and the gang in the Mystery Machine because of the intricate pattern that only someone with a colonial sense of mind or on acid in the sixties would think up. But it's blue and comfy! Downstairs, there were more teapots, glasses, jewelry, and a wider selection of scarves. Obviously it was a tourist trap because everything was widely over-priced, but I wanted it all. Good play...

Only about an hour left in the journey to the desert resort, we headed back on the road before pulling off onto a dirt path, if that's what you want to call it since literally, there was just dirt everywhere. When finally getting to the hotel, we head to our rooms, and meet for dinner. After some friends went to the restroom and returned, they relayed that they had found the dunes right behind our resort, which faced east, the perfect place for the sunrise. Despite being super exhausted from all the sitting we did that day, we decided to wake up early and go watch the sunrise the next morning, which surely did not disappoint. It was technically my first step in the sands of the Sahara the next morning when we climbed up a baby dune to see the sky change colors. I did a lot of experimenting with my camera, because despite how awesome it is, I am still far from a good photographer. Still, though, none of the pictures did the moment or the scenery justice.

Next, came a short breakfast before I headed back to the room for a nap since that night we would be sleeping out in the desert, which apparently drastically drops in temperature at night. Sleeping for a couple of hours, I woke up,  and began packing everything I might need for a night in the desert into my backpack-not the easiest task for someone who overpacks for every occassion because I am indecissive and like to be as prepared as a mom with infant triplets.

So, we walk out behind the resort again, where the camels (dromedaries) are waiting for us. I am one of the first in the group to be led to the camels and put on, which is not a comforting endeavor. Because of how camels are made, first there back legs go up, then the front, so it essentially feels like your going to be thrown off frontwards. However, at this point, I was still very carefree and loving the adventure. Slightly into our journey, I began feeling like this would be a horrible camel ride. My line of camels was close to last, and there were some other groups up ahead waiting on us. As we were making our way up there, the girl in front of me gasped, and she later explained that she saw one guy fall off the camel. Not overly concerned at this point, I just knew I would have to pay more attention because I am more use to horseback riding than camels, which are completely different experiences, which I had heard before. Nearing to where the groups ahead were waiting, there was a problem behind me. I heard a deep grunting noise, which I thought was just the camel behind me being fussy, then, I heard a lot of gasping, and a yell. It turns out, my friend, Ellen, had ejected herself from her camel, which was directly behind me. Apparently, Damien, which the camel became known as, had decided to lay down, and as my camel kept walking, following the others, he started slipping and being drug. As he was falling, Ellen must have jumped off just in time. However, since the camels are tied up so tightly to one another, Damien the camel was being drug by my camel, and just making horrible noises. Somehow, we all stopped, and untied the camels, but it was just insane and terrifying. I had the same feeling as when the horse laid down and began rolling at the beginning of the year when I had gone to see the monkeys in Cedre Gourad. For the rest of the journey, I was just freaking out about what would happen. I also dropped my lens cap multiple times, and the camel guys had to stop us to pick it up. My camera was banging against the handle bars, making me even more nervous. Since the camels were tied so closely together, and mine was at the back, he was constantly lagging behind, or going too fast to catch up, I had never been so glad as when we finally reached the camp with the tents, and I was dreading the next day when we would have to get back on. Plus, it really hurt my butt.

The night was full of card games, singing by a campfire, and layers of clothes. Early the next morning, some much more ambitious morning people decided to climb a huge dune to watch the sunset, but I decided that halfway up was good enough. The night before had been so much fun, that I really didn't wake up in enough time to see a good sunrise, like from dark to light, but I still had a pretty decent view nonetheless. Sorry, the pictures are still on my iPhone, and I have the same patience (and seemingly knowledge) as an eighty year old woman with technology. And I'm lazy. However, as I was watching the sunrise, I got to witness a camel running away from the camp despite it's leg was tied. The camel got pretty far before any of the guys realized it was making a break for some fresh veggies. Secretly, I guess I was hoping that it would go get lost so that we would be a camel short and I could walk back to the resort instead of riding one of those moving mountains. 

We had breakfast, which was just your typical continental breakfast in the desert. No biggie. Then, we were told to go pack our stuff up so that we could leave. Sadly, I had to get on a camel, and I made the poor decision of choosing Damien. It really wasn't that bad for awhile because we were close to the front, but then all the sudden, Damien started shaking. I guess the demons possessing him were finally taking over. After getting the camel dude's attention, we stopped, and I was put on another camel, unfortunately more in the back of the line. We were basically the struggle  caravan, as everyone on my line had problems. Ellen stopped us to go pee behind a dune. Another girl literally just fell off a camel. Trust me, never sign up for riding a camel for more than like thirty minutes. That's truly when it gets old and you just don't need a sore but, aching arms, and fingers you can't move from holding on for your life. 

Later in the day, was time for the SUV rides, and I cannot explain how happy I am that we live in the twenty-first century where we have cars and are able to drive instead of ride camels. Not only are they much more comfortable, but they're a lot more fun. I was slightly disappointed, as I thought we would be riding through the desert on dunes, like I had seen earlier in the day on the ride back to the resort, but we basically just went on a tour of the area. Here's some mood music while you're reading. Apparently tourists in Morocco really like Bob Marley because it kept playing on repeat throughout the entire ride.

Way out in the distance, you see a darker contrast against the horizon. That's Algeria. A lot of ISIS jokes were made.

We stopped to look at some fossils, and Kat is just super photogenic, so I took a picture.

A nomad shed/barn

An old quartz mine. The hill is now mostly used for camel grazing, as you can see by the two dots.

An old ghost town where the employees from the mine use to live.

Merzouga Oasis

Once we got back, we planned on going to watch the sunset in the desert since the sunrise that morning hadn't been that great. We climbed up a mountain of sand to the top, but the sun had already pretty much went down. It was still a great adventure though. We tried jumping off the dune and rolled down to the bottom when we were done. It was also when I filled up a 1.5 liter bottle of sand to take home with me. No one tell Homeland.... Getting back to the resort in the dark was interesting, but that night we had a little goodbye meeting, where the guys who organized the trip gave each of us a camel, and there was a raffle. Yours truly actually won something too! I got the basic tourist knife that everyone who goes to the Orient buys, but I was still really proud. I could definitely shank someone with it, or bludgeon them, but not skin a camel or anything. 

On the way back to AUI the next day, I mostly spent the ride hijacking Anamaria's iPad to watch Sherlock. It's truly a new favorite, guys. We stopped to walk through an oasis, and my inner eight ear old was super excited to be like Eliza Thornberry. Later, we stopped for dinner, where I finally had kefta, and I was not disappointed at all. 

The trip was amazing, and I was really glad that I had gone. Turns out, I was going to be allowed to go home at the end of the semester because I had completed my grandpa's only request and went to the desert. I would highly recommend going to anyone who has the chance, just remember, do NOT think it's a great idea to ride a camel for hours on end. I know, you all are like, "But Emily, it's a camel. When am I going to get to do that again?" I agree. Ride the camel, but not for more than like thirty minutes.  You get a great memory without the pain.