I’ve never considered myself privileged in the classic, 21st century American sense. Please do not misunderstand me; I am one unbelievably blessed fellow. But given my own personal story and that of my family, I never thought of myself as advantaged. That is, until one sunny day on the sands of Playa Santa Lucia in a country that rhymes with scuba. We hired a guy to take us two hours out of the city for a day at the beach and away from the humidity. We hopped into his struggling Moskvich (with a hole in the floor and exhaust fumes seeping into the car), and landed on the warm beach, sun shining with a few perfectly placed clouds in the sky. As we walked along the damp sand looking for a prime spot to post up, we noticed a small area of palapas grouped together with a few lounging chairs under each thatched-palm covering. My buddies and I placed our bags on the sand and towels on the chairs and looked out into the turquoise-y, blue-ish water and observed that the locals swam to the left of a small jetty while the beach in front of us was fairly empty. It immediately made sense – we were in front of a resort. Apparently it was one of these all-inclusive joints because after a few minutes taking in the scenery, we got up and headed into the complex a good many meters away from the beach to grab a round of rum ‘n’ cokes. After we ordered we went to pay the bartender and he gave us the “are you crazy?”-look telling us that we didn’t have to. Not wanting to blow our cover we thanked him and tipped generously. Needless to say that we had a great day – grrreat day!
At some point towards the latter part of the day, my friends Eddie and Julio and I were in the water ebbing and floating when we began to discuss the events of the day – how we sat under the cover of the palapas, had an entire beach open for our enjoyment, and had been drinking copious amounts of rum-inspired beverages for free. Most of all however, we talked about how we’d been able to work the system. There was no diabolical plan, no attempt to exploit a weakness. We spent the day living it up simply because we were not from the country. Everyone must have assumed we were Spanish or wealthy Mexicans on holiday because we were never questioned, never asked to prove who we were. And that gave us access. That gave us privilege.
On our way to Boumalne du Dadès yesterday, a fellow colleague of mine, Quiana, was gracious and open enough to share some of her thoughts with me. I will not share the details of what she wrote, but in essence, it dealt with her feelings as a visitor in Morocco (as well as other thoughts). Beautifully written and earnest, it made me think and reflect about my own feelings and experiences – feelings and thoughts that have run through my own mind and that have been discussed with my compatriots, Eddie and Luis.
As I travel across Morocco and soak up every minute of pleasure and happiness, there is always present a small antithesis to the euphoria I feel – a nagging sense of guilt and of not deserving. As a visitor, or more aptly, tourist, my time in Morocco is finite. I come in, enjoy the country, talk to the locals (as best possible), snap some pics, and repeat. Our gracious hosts smile, interact, giggle at our attempt to speak/butchering of the language, offer us tea, and repeat with the next tour group. It’s reciprocal, I guess, but is what we are doing exploitative? Or are we contributing? Are we “fetishizing” the country, its culture, its people? According to my handy LP, “The UN estimates that for every eight to 10 tourists who visit an urban area, one job is created locally, and in rural areas those tourists represent six or seven essential new job opportunities.” I guess that’s positive, but I still can’t help but feel a bit weird walking through the medina or through an Amazigh village, camera in hand, and staring at what is right before me as if something in a museum or behind protective glass. I mean, we tasted Gnaouan culture for a brief minute, visited a Berber family’s home (kids excited to interact with us while the mother and older daughter gazed at us from behind the door circumspectly), stopped at the phosphate and cobalt mines in Merzouga (which mines for Maybelline cosmetics), took some great pictures and then took off to the next locale, the next photo opportunity.
My friend and fellow Frulbrighter, Luis, summed up these feelings best in his blog entry (see: "Uste" means Teacher in Darija/Moroccan Arabic). In it he basically describes his feelings seeing our language professor’s heartfelt reaction after visiting Bibliothèque Quarayouine’s vault of centuries-old manuscripts. Though Professor Abderrahim was a distinguished university professor, he’d never been able to see the priceless texts. As we were leaving the library, he paused, and in a moment of sweet sincerity, thanked us for being the vehicle that allowed him to see something so special to his heart and his culture. Had it not been for us, a ragtag group of teachers from California, he would never have had the opportunity to visit the library. Again, it was our privilege that gave us access.
I guess what I’m getting at in describing our experiences throughout Morocco and the episode with Professor Abderrahim is that, at times, I feel undeserving. For us, as guests in Morocco, this is a great vacation, but for others it’s life (and in some cases a rough one). Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving every experience here (as clearly illustrated in prior posts and by my pics on FaceSpace), but this is just something I tend to think about when I travel abroad. (And would I feel the same if I were in Spain or France? Probably not).
I see (at least I think I see) both sides of the coin. On one hand we “sample” little tidbits of culture. We see things foreign to our own reality, take them in, and (I feel I can speak on behalf of my fellow Fulbrighters on this one) cherish these invaluable interactions. And from the genuine hospitality and interest the Moroccan people have shown us, I think they have gained something from our interaction with them as well. I think I just want to make sure that I’m not, as sociologist Georg Lukács outlined, reifying – “thing-ifying” – this beautiful, complex culture and its people. What first-world gall for me to even think this way, right? I know, I know… I don’t know. Let me be the first to recognize what I am writing and why I’m even thinking this way (I can already hear: “these are bourgeoisie thoughts,” “you feel badly?” “who are you to think this way?”) as being completely ridiculous. I mean, who am I to make any kind of judgment as to what is okay and what is not, or feel weird when it totally might not be. I also hope I don’t sound like a complete idiot right now, but these are just some of the thoughts running through my head. Quien sabe… Argh! Anyway…
On another note, had an amazing day yesterday walking through the oasis at Tinerhir and especially our stroll through the massively towering, awe-inspiring Todra Gorge. What a sight! We arrived at our hotel (an insanely cool hotel overlooking Boumalne du Dadès and the High Atlas Mountains) just in time for the Spain v. Germany game leaving our luggage in the waiting area so not as to miss a minute of action. We drank Moroccan’s finest, Flag [beer], rejoiced in Spain’s victory, had dinner, and as a group, bonded over drinks and absurd conversation. Once again, good times.
Currently listening to: Simon & Garfunkel - The Concert In Central Park
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Day Nine: Life On Mars
I’m on a bus leaving the Sahara. I can’t believe I just wrote that. It’s 9:13 am and I’m on the bus heading to Todra Gorge in the High Atlas Mountains and the oasis located in Tinerhir. To my right is the mighty Sahara emanating a subtle gold – the beauty that contrasts its utter hostility. To my left are black rock/mineral flat lands dotted with Amazigh (Berber) and other nomadic dwellings. I see these things but I don’t think my human eyes will ever fully capture all I’ve seen or my finite words tell of them. But here goes nothing…
We arrived in Merzouga two nights ago just in time for a sunset camel ride up the ergs (dunes) at the foot of the Sahara desert. We were greeted by a cadre of young Amazigh men dressed in radiant blue and flowing turbans. At sunset, the fine sand glowed a hearty apricot as we mounted the gentle beasts. Everyone giggled like a three-year-old at a petting zoo trading off cameras so as not to miss this one-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I rode Barry White, a scruffy camel with some years in him and a heart of gold. Trailing behind me was Eddie aboard Jimi Hendrix. Jimi was obviously the younger of the two always trying to pass me and Barry and who, on our return, began to growl (or snarl) ignoring Eddie’s plea to, (in a Samuel L. Jackson/Pulp Fiction voice) “Be coo’, camel, be cool’.”
Ascending the dunes was incredible as we had a 360-degree view of everything. We reached the base of one of the bigger dunes, parked our camels, and climbed up to the apex. The sun was setting low near the horizon, small at first, then fat, then shrouded by clouds, then perfectly round and small again. Both land and sky shifted hues as it danced with the sun. We stood atop the dune shouting, laughing, and for a brief moment, owning the desert. We came home triumphant and awestruck by what we had just done and seen. We feasted beneath the stars (seriously, a smorgasbord of different, amazing foods), had a few beers, and after dinner, sat and listened to a Berber drum circle under the planetarium-like sky.
The next morning we had a small caravan of 4WD vehicles waiting for us out front. We off-road’d towards a shallow lake where a flock of flamingoes had gathered. Then the real fun started. We soon hit the fringes of the desert again where dunes, big and small, formed and gunned it. We hit the sand dunes going up and over, up and over, drifting at points, up and over, and driving almost sideways (swearing that at some point, we’d flip). We soon drove towards our next destination stopping briefly to admire a couple of young kids holding fennec foxes and more than happy to take a photo with us for a dirham or two.
After a kilometer or so we arrived at a Gnaoua music cooperative. From what I’ve read, the Gnaoua are the descendents of freed slaves that were brought over from West Africa. They have mostly settled in the desert regions of the country holding their culture, traditions, and most artistically, music close to heart. Steeped in West African roots and religious mysticism, they play a beautifully hypnotic form of music that is at once sub-Saharan, Berber, and Arabic. Heavy on the drums and soulful chanting, the music was simply mesmerizing. We entered the hot and funky (both olfactory and in style) room and immediately became transfixed by the rhythms. At some point during a more rousing song, one of the Gnaouan musicians got everyone to stand up and form a circle around the small room. Hand in hand, we all danced this communal dance and then individually took turns boogying down inside the circle. The feeling was incredible. Individuals as varied as they could ever possibly be united in dance and music and smiles, and voicelessly sharing and transcending – connecting. We plopped down back onto the couches while a more melodic, string-instrument-driven song gracefully began. I sat there, green tea in hand, mesmeric and wanting to stay there forever.
Currently listening to: The Chemical Brothers - Coachella 2005
We arrived in Merzouga two nights ago just in time for a sunset camel ride up the ergs (dunes) at the foot of the Sahara desert. We were greeted by a cadre of young Amazigh men dressed in radiant blue and flowing turbans. At sunset, the fine sand glowed a hearty apricot as we mounted the gentle beasts. Everyone giggled like a three-year-old at a petting zoo trading off cameras so as not to miss this one-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I rode Barry White, a scruffy camel with some years in him and a heart of gold. Trailing behind me was Eddie aboard Jimi Hendrix. Jimi was obviously the younger of the two always trying to pass me and Barry and who, on our return, began to growl (or snarl) ignoring Eddie’s plea to, (in a Samuel L. Jackson/Pulp Fiction voice) “Be coo’, camel, be cool’.”
Ascending the dunes was incredible as we had a 360-degree view of everything. We reached the base of one of the bigger dunes, parked our camels, and climbed up to the apex. The sun was setting low near the horizon, small at first, then fat, then shrouded by clouds, then perfectly round and small again. Both land and sky shifted hues as it danced with the sun. We stood atop the dune shouting, laughing, and for a brief moment, owning the desert. We came home triumphant and awestruck by what we had just done and seen. We feasted beneath the stars (seriously, a smorgasbord of different, amazing foods), had a few beers, and after dinner, sat and listened to a Berber drum circle under the planetarium-like sky.
The next morning we had a small caravan of 4WD vehicles waiting for us out front. We off-road’d towards a shallow lake where a flock of flamingoes had gathered. Then the real fun started. We soon hit the fringes of the desert again where dunes, big and small, formed and gunned it. We hit the sand dunes going up and over, up and over, drifting at points, up and over, and driving almost sideways (swearing that at some point, we’d flip). We soon drove towards our next destination stopping briefly to admire a couple of young kids holding fennec foxes and more than happy to take a photo with us for a dirham or two.
After a kilometer or so we arrived at a Gnaoua music cooperative. From what I’ve read, the Gnaoua are the descendents of freed slaves that were brought over from West Africa. They have mostly settled in the desert regions of the country holding their culture, traditions, and most artistically, music close to heart. Steeped in West African roots and religious mysticism, they play a beautifully hypnotic form of music that is at once sub-Saharan, Berber, and Arabic. Heavy on the drums and soulful chanting, the music was simply mesmerizing. We entered the hot and funky (both olfactory and in style) room and immediately became transfixed by the rhythms. At some point during a more rousing song, one of the Gnaouan musicians got everyone to stand up and form a circle around the small room. Hand in hand, we all danced this communal dance and then individually took turns boogying down inside the circle. The feeling was incredible. Individuals as varied as they could ever possibly be united in dance and music and smiles, and voicelessly sharing and transcending – connecting. We plopped down back onto the couches while a more melodic, string-instrument-driven song gracefully began. I sat there, green tea in hand, mesmeric and wanting to stay there forever.
Currently listening to: The Chemical Brothers - Coachella 2005
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Spontaneous Combustion
We knew before we came that it would be hot here, but nothing prepared me for how it would actually feel. We’ve made mental maps of places to buy water, and we consistently take the bus for distances we might walk in cooler weather. Still, the heat is draining and leaves me dazed. As we walk past amazing historic sites, look at medieval manuscripts, and listen to hypnotic drum beats, a little voice in the back of my head keeps screaming “It’s SO HOT here!”
After we left Fes, we stopped to see the ancient Roman ruins in Volubilis. Since I teach about the Roman Empire, I had been particularly looking forward to seeing this site. Yet there I was, alternating between admiring the mosaic floors and scouting out patches of shade. For a time, we huddled under the central victory arch to avoid the sun. While we did then have a discussion of the function of the keystone in architecture, I couldn’t help feeling like a baby – how could I be in this amazing place and whine about how I was sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat?
Then Youness told us that it was at least 40 C (104F).
As we headed south and into the desert, it only got hotter. Here there was sand to combat, too. I’d thought Azeb was exaggerating when she’d told us during orientation that the fine sand would work its way into everything on down to the chapstick in our purses. Yet, lo and behold, there it was, seeping through cracks and into all of our belongings. We rode over the dunes on dromedaries – I’d called them camels at first, but the guides corrected me – and saw the most breathtaking sunset. After dinner, my roommate and I got ready for bed and started to find the sand everywhere: between the postcards that had been inside my (closed) purse, on her computer keyboard, and yes – even in the chapstick. As I started to fold the pants I’d been wearing, a river of sand poured out onto the floor. I could even taste it in my mouth, kind of like the feeling you have after going to the dentist for a cleaning.
Youness said it was closer to 110F here.
Today, we explored the Martian vistas of the desert in 4x4s and visited small villages. One of our stops was to hear the most amazing, hypnotic music – I’m not sure if the Pigeons du Sable CD will sound as good as the music did in real life, but I’m hoping that my students will be able to enjoy it all the same. We then returned to the hotel, where the towering statues of camels by the front entrance reminded me of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown’s study of Las Vegas. With the afternoon free, members of the group scheduled massages and visits to the hammam. I couldn’t imagine wanting to go into a sauna, but my muscles were sore after being curled up in a bus seat for our 7-hour drive down to Merzouga. As I stretched out, I discovered that the table was – what else – heated. The massage also featured both a jaunty pair of paper underwear and an ample supply of argan oil, which the bottles in the lobby said was good for treating a variety of issues ranging from asthma to insomnia to erectile dysfunction.
At the end of the day, I retreated back to the room. I thought about my organs cooking from the inside out and about how good it was that I’d made a spontaneous purchase of the most ridiculously huge hat for the trip. Stylish it is not, but it’s been a lifesaver. And as for spontaneous combustion, well, it could happen tomorrow.
After we left Fes, we stopped to see the ancient Roman ruins in Volubilis. Since I teach about the Roman Empire, I had been particularly looking forward to seeing this site. Yet there I was, alternating between admiring the mosaic floors and scouting out patches of shade. For a time, we huddled under the central victory arch to avoid the sun. While we did then have a discussion of the function of the keystone in architecture, I couldn’t help feeling like a baby – how could I be in this amazing place and whine about how I was sweating in places I didn’t know I could sweat?
Then Youness told us that it was at least 40 C (104F).
As we headed south and into the desert, it only got hotter. Here there was sand to combat, too. I’d thought Azeb was exaggerating when she’d told us during orientation that the fine sand would work its way into everything on down to the chapstick in our purses. Yet, lo and behold, there it was, seeping through cracks and into all of our belongings. We rode over the dunes on dromedaries – I’d called them camels at first, but the guides corrected me – and saw the most breathtaking sunset. After dinner, my roommate and I got ready for bed and started to find the sand everywhere: between the postcards that had been inside my (closed) purse, on her computer keyboard, and yes – even in the chapstick. As I started to fold the pants I’d been wearing, a river of sand poured out onto the floor. I could even taste it in my mouth, kind of like the feeling you have after going to the dentist for a cleaning.
Youness said it was closer to 110F here.
Today, we explored the Martian vistas of the desert in 4x4s and visited small villages. One of our stops was to hear the most amazing, hypnotic music – I’m not sure if the Pigeons du Sable CD will sound as good as the music did in real life, but I’m hoping that my students will be able to enjoy it all the same. We then returned to the hotel, where the towering statues of camels by the front entrance reminded me of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown’s study of Las Vegas. With the afternoon free, members of the group scheduled massages and visits to the hammam. I couldn’t imagine wanting to go into a sauna, but my muscles were sore after being curled up in a bus seat for our 7-hour drive down to Merzouga. As I stretched out, I discovered that the table was – what else – heated. The massage also featured both a jaunty pair of paper underwear and an ample supply of argan oil, which the bottles in the lobby said was good for treating a variety of issues ranging from asthma to insomnia to erectile dysfunction.
At the end of the day, I retreated back to the room. I thought about my organs cooking from the inside out and about how good it was that I’d made a spontaneous purchase of the most ridiculously huge hat for the trip. Stylish it is not, but it’s been a lifesaver. And as for spontaneous combustion, well, it could happen tomorrow.
Monday, July 5, 2010
"Uste" means Teacher in Darija/Moroccan Arabic
Abderrahim is the main teacher for us 12 fullbrighters as we attempt to learn how to read and write in Arabic. He is probably around his late 40's or so, very nice man and an excellent teacher. This brings me to the following: For me, the most rewarding and amazing experience thus far, was not us visiting the middle school in Fez, not the language school in Taza, or the surreal (not deserving) exclusive access to the library containing Arabic manuscripts that are hundreds of years old (WOW!)---All of which, have been fantastic experiences and a blessing in unto themselves; For me, it was actually Abderrahim admitting to us fullbrighters, that to be in the room containing these fascinating manuscripts (from historically great and admirable Islamic thinkers) and be able to read them and see them in their current conditions, made him deeply emotional. This man, Abderrahim was touched by these ancient writings, also keep in mind that he has his son and daughter with him as we are listening to the history of the particular manuscripts that are being presented to us.
That experience with Abderrahim has been the most rewarding thus far; and to think he probably would never have experienced this had it not been for these 12 Americans who arrived just 6 days ago. It is a bit sad, Abderrahim has lived here almost his entire life and would probably have gone on through life and perished not ever having seen these manuscripts which are so important, and bring such pride and honor to the Islamic world, the Moroccan culture, and most importantly, bring that sense of identity and empowerment to a person.
I almost feel like it is unfair. Do not get me wrong, I am incredibly thankful and forever grateful for this opportunity and by no means am I complaining. However, just think about the power of being born in America. Unbelievably mind-boggling right? The average Moroccan can not see what I saw, having only been in this country for less than a week. It just doesn't feel right, but at the same time that is what is amazing about this program, its taking me to places and having me experience things i never thought i would be experiencing! Praise Allah that i was there with Abderrahim (and his children) as he was able to witness something so precious and emotional about his culture, history, and people.
That experience with Abderrahim has been the most rewarding thus far; and to think he probably would never have experienced this had it not been for these 12 Americans who arrived just 6 days ago. It is a bit sad, Abderrahim has lived here almost his entire life and would probably have gone on through life and perished not ever having seen these manuscripts which are so important, and bring such pride and honor to the Islamic world, the Moroccan culture, and most importantly, bring that sense of identity and empowerment to a person.
I almost feel like it is unfair. Do not get me wrong, I am incredibly thankful and forever grateful for this opportunity and by no means am I complaining. However, just think about the power of being born in America. Unbelievably mind-boggling right? The average Moroccan can not see what I saw, having only been in this country for less than a week. It just doesn't feel right, but at the same time that is what is amazing about this program, its taking me to places and having me experience things i never thought i would be experiencing! Praise Allah that i was there with Abderrahim (and his children) as he was able to witness something so precious and emotional about his culture, history, and people.
Day Three: School Daze Pt. 1
One of the true highlights of this trip so far has been the opportunity to visit local high schools and interact with both students and faculty. The first chance to do this came a few days after our arrival to Morocco. We were told we would be visiting a local public middle school. Never did we think, however, that the school would be in the middle of “the world’s largest living Islamic medieval city” (thanks, LP!).
Thursday was oppressively hot, so much so that the guys decided to take off a layer of clothing while Azeb and a couple others forwent lunch altogether. We hopped on the bus around 3:30 and drove to the medina (of Fes el-Bali – Old Fez). This was really exciting for the medina is the must-do activity in any Moroccan itinerary. We were dropped off near a side entrance and led through the narrow, winding pathways that characterize the Medina. Just the walk towards the school was incredible (but we’ll save that for another blog entry). A short walk through the streets and alleyways of the earth colored medina and we came upon the nondescript door of the school. Now given the size of the medina’s streets and street-side shops, I assumed that the school would be tiny, nothing but a few small classrooms in an old dilapidated structure. Again, I was totally off the mark.
I really need to check myself. I guess that given the fact that I live in Los Angeles and that our orientation included a brief discussion about rural schooling in Morocco, I assumed that schools here – inside a medina especially – were automatically going to be “a few years behind.” My notions were challenged the minute I stepped onto the beautiful, orange tree-lined courtyard at Mohammed el Fassi Middle School. An inviting group of students, teachers, and parents greeted us with a warm reception greeting us as though foreign dignitaries or celebrities had arrived and not regular, LAUSD teachers (something that has happened, and will no doubt happen again).
Chairs (the kind one would see at a wedding reception or quinceñera) were set up in four rows while the school’s teachers, parents, and students sat behind us smiling and giggling at the sight of our motley bunch. The headmaster gave a brief speech welcoming us to his school followed by a sort of open house. The first classroom we visited was an art classroom with student work proudly displayed around the room and teachers and students excitedly showing off their work. Their latest project revolved around “recycled art.” Students were to collect pieces of rubbish or discarded items and basically create works of art, something beautiful. Maaaaaan, these kids went all out. These students were so darn creative with their pieces and so thoughtful about what the assignment (and more importantly their art) meant to them. Speaking with the teacher about his commitment to art with a message (in this case, environmental conservation), I couldn’t help but think about the wonderful art teachers at my own school and the wonderful things they do with our students on a daily basis. Seriously, the art in this classroom could have easily been a lesson straight out of a page from Ms. Eck or Mrs. Barsky’s book – it was awesome! I also couldn’t help but think of the commonalities we all share and how some things, such as art, are just plain universal.
We wrapped up the day observing a math lesson and having a meet and greet session complete with mint tea, orange juice, and an assortment of pastries. The conversation was great and the exchange, valuable. We finished by taking a whole bunch of pictures and, in a symbolic gesture of mutual love and respect, took down the signage announcing our meeting and signed the banners (our Moroccan hosts signing the English version and us signing the Arabic one). Oh, and we even taught our hosts the [UCLA] 8-Clap! Uh-whuuuuut!
Currently listening to: Scientist - Scientist Rids the World of the Evil Curse of the Vampires
Thursday was oppressively hot, so much so that the guys decided to take off a layer of clothing while Azeb and a couple others forwent lunch altogether. We hopped on the bus around 3:30 and drove to the medina (of Fes el-Bali – Old Fez). This was really exciting for the medina is the must-do activity in any Moroccan itinerary. We were dropped off near a side entrance and led through the narrow, winding pathways that characterize the Medina. Just the walk towards the school was incredible (but we’ll save that for another blog entry). A short walk through the streets and alleyways of the earth colored medina and we came upon the nondescript door of the school. Now given the size of the medina’s streets and street-side shops, I assumed that the school would be tiny, nothing but a few small classrooms in an old dilapidated structure. Again, I was totally off the mark.
I really need to check myself. I guess that given the fact that I live in Los Angeles and that our orientation included a brief discussion about rural schooling in Morocco, I assumed that schools here – inside a medina especially – were automatically going to be “a few years behind.” My notions were challenged the minute I stepped onto the beautiful, orange tree-lined courtyard at Mohammed el Fassi Middle School. An inviting group of students, teachers, and parents greeted us with a warm reception greeting us as though foreign dignitaries or celebrities had arrived and not regular, LAUSD teachers (something that has happened, and will no doubt happen again).
Chairs (the kind one would see at a wedding reception or quinceñera) were set up in four rows while the school’s teachers, parents, and students sat behind us smiling and giggling at the sight of our motley bunch. The headmaster gave a brief speech welcoming us to his school followed by a sort of open house. The first classroom we visited was an art classroom with student work proudly displayed around the room and teachers and students excitedly showing off their work. Their latest project revolved around “recycled art.” Students were to collect pieces of rubbish or discarded items and basically create works of art, something beautiful. Maaaaaan, these kids went all out. These students were so darn creative with their pieces and so thoughtful about what the assignment (and more importantly their art) meant to them. Speaking with the teacher about his commitment to art with a message (in this case, environmental conservation), I couldn’t help but think about the wonderful art teachers at my own school and the wonderful things they do with our students on a daily basis. Seriously, the art in this classroom could have easily been a lesson straight out of a page from Ms. Eck or Mrs. Barsky’s book – it was awesome! I also couldn’t help but think of the commonalities we all share and how some things, such as art, are just plain universal.
We wrapped up the day observing a math lesson and having a meet and greet session complete with mint tea, orange juice, and an assortment of pastries. The conversation was great and the exchange, valuable. We finished by taking a whole bunch of pictures and, in a symbolic gesture of mutual love and respect, took down the signage announcing our meeting and signed the banners (our Moroccan hosts signing the English version and us signing the Arabic one). Oh, and we even taught our hosts the [UCLA] 8-Clap! Uh-whuuuuut!
Currently listening to: Scientist - Scientist Rids the World of the Evil Curse of the Vampires
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Day One: Introduction & First Impressions
Day one began with breakfast in the mezzanine café. Standard fare, I suppose, an assortment of croissants, yogurt, eggs (I’ve eaten sooo many eggs on this trip!), juice, and this one hard, pancake-y-type flat thing that, served with honey, was the bomb! Shortly after 8:30 am we were on the bus for a quick, 10-minute ride to Université Sidi Mohamed Ben Abdellah, Fez. The university sits atop a small hill right outside of the ville-nouvelle (the newer, more modern part of Fez). Walled off from the main street, the university’s entrance is located on the side of a small parking lot. At a good five or six stories high, the yellow angular school doesn’t look like much from the outside – a large concrete/drywall peninsula with a fairly large courtyard and a fountain in the shape of an eight pointed star. Otherwise, the school was pretty uninspiring – door after square door that made the place look more like a tenement than a prestigious university (and one that reminded me terribly of my own high school). What was impressive, however, was the sheer energy of the campus. The school was teeming with university students everywhere it seemed and on every floor. Hundreds of men and women hanging out in the shade under the cover of the floor above to avoid the oppressive morning sun. Men and women engaged in deep conversation and trivial gossip greeting each other and laughing as professors lounged around or spoke with interested pupils. It was here that Morocco’s paradoxes and contradictions began to reveal themselves to me. A mixture of old and new, religious and secular, traditional and modern seemed to merge in this marketplace of ideas. Men and women sauntered the open halls, some in traditional jellabas and others in skinny jeans and flaunting the hippest styles. Heavily bearded and clean shaven men walking side-by-side while more conservative and covered women crossed the quad passing their trendy, exposed classmates.
We settled in the teacher’s lounge where we were promptly served mint tea and where my addiction to the stuff would start. After a short welcome by the dean, we headed towards our classroom and began our Arabic language instruction.
We left campus around 1 pm and went to grab some lunch. We ended up at this really nice restaurant full of business types on their lunch breaks. I ordered a piping hot lamb tajine with caramelized sweet plums and vegetables. The food was absolutely spectacular – una gran mezcla de sabores attacking my palette at every turn. This was the first of many amazing meals yet to come. (Our program director, Azeb, claims that we will probably lose about 10 lbs. before the trip is over… not going to happen.)
Two hours later we were back in class though everybody would have preferred to be back in bed. Our afternoon session consisted of two lectures by distinguished professors, one about Moroccan history, the other about the future of the Moroccan educational system, pedagogy, and politics/philosophy. Amazing stuff! It had been a while since I was involved in the kind of high level, passionate discussion we were having and I was loving it. Issues about race, capitalism, the role of school as institution for societal progress were all brought up and it was great to listen to the Moroccan perspective as well as those from my colleagues.
We returned to our digs and had a lovely chicken couscous for dinner. After a meal spent recapping our first day, we retired back to our rooms exhausted, bellies full, and looking forward to doing it all over again.
Currently listening to: Sea Wolf - Get to the River Before It Runs Too Low
We settled in the teacher’s lounge where we were promptly served mint tea and where my addiction to the stuff would start. After a short welcome by the dean, we headed towards our classroom and began our Arabic language instruction.
We left campus around 1 pm and went to grab some lunch. We ended up at this really nice restaurant full of business types on their lunch breaks. I ordered a piping hot lamb tajine with caramelized sweet plums and vegetables. The food was absolutely spectacular – una gran mezcla de sabores attacking my palette at every turn. This was the first of many amazing meals yet to come. (Our program director, Azeb, claims that we will probably lose about 10 lbs. before the trip is over… not going to happen.)
Two hours later we were back in class though everybody would have preferred to be back in bed. Our afternoon session consisted of two lectures by distinguished professors, one about Moroccan history, the other about the future of the Moroccan educational system, pedagogy, and politics/philosophy. Amazing stuff! It had been a while since I was involved in the kind of high level, passionate discussion we were having and I was loving it. Issues about race, capitalism, the role of school as institution for societal progress were all brought up and it was great to listen to the Moroccan perspective as well as those from my colleagues.
We returned to our digs and had a lovely chicken couscous for dinner. After a meal spent recapping our first day, we retired back to our rooms exhausted, bellies full, and looking forward to doing it all over again.
Currently listening to: Sea Wolf - Get to the River Before It Runs Too Low
The Flight and the Fatigue
When I received the invitation to participate in the GPA Morocco program, I remember a flurry of emotions, assumptions, expectations, and questions hitting me at once. This was nothing unusual. I feel blessed to have had opportunities to travel. Whether independently or through different programs, I’ve seen parts of the world that I never imagined I’d ever see growing up as a child in Los Angeles and each of these experiences have been absolutely priceless. But there was something different about Morocco, something mysterious, intriguing, and even alien about the place. For one, Morocco would be the first African country I had ever visited (not to mention the warmest!). It would also be the first Muslim nation I had ever visited and a country that seemed a world away – geographically, culturally, linguistically – from that of my own.
Our journey to Morocco was pretty gnarly. I’ll spare everyone the details, but in short, 32 long hours from the point of arrival at LAX to stepping foot into our hotel at Fes: Los Angeles to Amsterdam, five-hour layover in Holland, Amsterdam to Casablanca, two hours to collect luggage and pass through customs, and, unexpectedly, a four-hour drive to Fes… whew! Exhausted, we checked into our hotel, “ooohhh’d” at the sight of our accommodations, and fell asleep only to wake up a meager four hours later. (Ironically enough, however, falling asleep was a challenge for some – like when you’re so tired that you can’t sleep? Yup, like that.)
Currently listening to: The Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
Our journey to Morocco was pretty gnarly. I’ll spare everyone the details, but in short, 32 long hours from the point of arrival at LAX to stepping foot into our hotel at Fes: Los Angeles to Amsterdam, five-hour layover in Holland, Amsterdam to Casablanca, two hours to collect luggage and pass through customs, and, unexpectedly, a four-hour drive to Fes… whew! Exhausted, we checked into our hotel, “ooohhh’d” at the sight of our accommodations, and fell asleep only to wake up a meager four hours later. (Ironically enough, however, falling asleep was a challenge for some – like when you’re so tired that you can’t sleep? Yup, like that.)
Currently listening to: The Arcade Fire - Neon Bible
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