Saturday, September 29, 2007
The other weekend I took a day trip to Fez. How did I get there? Shameless parasitism.
There is a group of students here from Wooster Polytechnical Institute. They're only here for another two weeks, but they come equipped with a faculty adviser and a group travel schedule for the weekends. Hanging out with two WPI kids on a Friday night, I heard a rumor of empty seats on a van going to Fez the next morning and inquired whether I might play stowaway. Victor told me that he would ask the prof if it would be okay. He seemed optimistic so the next morning I found myself sitting in a rapidly-filling van, wondering if I was usurping someone's seat. Eventually, though, the resident professor (with the interesting nickname "Bland") arrived on the scene and said "Well, it looks like we've got another" in a rather jolly tone. And I was on board.
Traveling with a group and tour guide and everything had its perks. This guy talked to shopkeepers in the medina on our behalf and got prices lowered. It's always nice to have a local in your corner, even if he was probably getting a cut from the places he took us to. They showed us what can only be described as a ceramics complex, a series of buildings where they made all things pottery related. There was one man there who worked with a large slab of clay on a foot powered wheel. He would fashion a bowl out of a section of this giant block of clay, cut it off, and do it again. He repeated this process every forty seconds or so. Quite impressive.
From there we toured the medina, or old walled section of the city. Picture any movie set in the Middle East. The medina is sort of like the prototypical bazaar. The streets are very narrow, windy and steep. Shops of all kinds line the road, crammed with all sorts of food and merchandise. The medina in Fez is well known for being especially big and especially old. Throughout the day, we saw the tannery, a weavers, a shrine for the long-dead patron of Fez, a madrassa, and a synagogue in the Jewish quarter. All in all a good time. Although, owing to it being Ramadan, it would have been imprudent to have a bottle of water with me on this long, hot day. More on Ramadan later.
There is a group of students here from Wooster Polytechnical Institute. They're only here for another two weeks, but they come equipped with a faculty adviser and a group travel schedule for the weekends. Hanging out with two WPI kids on a Friday night, I heard a rumor of empty seats on a van going to Fez the next morning and inquired whether I might play stowaway. Victor told me that he would ask the prof if it would be okay. He seemed optimistic so the next morning I found myself sitting in a rapidly-filling van, wondering if I was usurping someone's seat. Eventually, though, the resident professor (with the interesting nickname "Bland") arrived on the scene and said "Well, it looks like we've got another" in a rather jolly tone. And I was on board.
Traveling with a group and tour guide and everything had its perks. This guy talked to shopkeepers in the medina on our behalf and got prices lowered. It's always nice to have a local in your corner, even if he was probably getting a cut from the places he took us to. They showed us what can only be described as a ceramics complex, a series of buildings where they made all things pottery related. There was one man there who worked with a large slab of clay on a foot powered wheel. He would fashion a bowl out of a section of this giant block of clay, cut it off, and do it again. He repeated this process every forty seconds or so. Quite impressive.
From there we toured the medina, or old walled section of the city. Picture any movie set in the Middle East. The medina is sort of like the prototypical bazaar. The streets are very narrow, windy and steep. Shops of all kinds line the road, crammed with all sorts of food and merchandise. The medina in Fez is well known for being especially big and especially old. Throughout the day, we saw the tannery, a weavers, a shrine for the long-dead patron of Fez, a madrassa, and a synagogue in the Jewish quarter. All in all a good time. Although, owing to it being Ramadan, it would have been imprudent to have a bottle of water with me on this long, hot day. More on Ramadan later.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Last night, I personally reenacted the first half hour of The Mighty Ducks, The Little Giants, and The Big Green.
A little after dinner, some Moroccan kids approached me and a friend named Victor and asked if we would like to play in a pick up soccer game. I had heard rumors of some informal games being played during Ramadan (more on this particular holiday later), and it sounded like fun. I mean, neither I nor Victor had played soccer since we were about ten. I remember that at that time Chris Woods and a few others tried out for the Classic team and started traveling long distances to games. Me, I still preferred my Saturday morning cartoons. But still, an informal soccer game would be a good opportunity to rub shoulders with the locals and get a little exercise, right? Kind of.
At 10:00pm, Victor and I walked into a converted basketball court in the gymnasium and our jaws collectively dropped. The stands were packed. If I had to ball park a figure, I'd say there were about as many people there watching the games as during a better-than-averagely attended Haverford Mens Basketball game. And they were rowdy, too. But then my attention turned to the game being played out before ours. The quality of the game was certainly several notches above anything I've seen in the states. And it's not like it was the varsity team, either. From my perspective, it felt like I had been invited to a basketball game in Chicago, only to find myself thrust onto the boards for a match between St. Joseph and Loyola Academy. It was like I had handed a Moroccan a lacrosse stick, given him a half hour of instruction, and sent him into a game. Disconcerting, to say the least. Then we noticed another team warming up: our opponents.
And this is where I had my first flashback to the aforementioned underdog movies. Remember when the Mighty Ducks first step on the ice and see the Hawks skating lines and taking shooting drills on the goal? It was worse than that. These guys had matching jerseys, ran choreographed drills, and - the icing on the cake - had a team picture before the game started. Having gotten a good look at the opposition, I turned to look at the team we were fielding. There were five Americans (bad), none with recent soccer experience (worse), and most of whom had the same wild-eyed look that I'm sure I was sporting (worst). The Moroccan captain seemed on the verge of tears before the game even began. And it didn't get any better.
I will say this for myself, I had a lot of fun. And I credit myself with using hustle and scrappiness pretty valiantly in the face of overwhelming technical superiority. The vocal crowd made things really interesting. They cheered for every 50/50 ball and everything. I'd like to thing they were rooting for the team of misfits and underdogs, but who knows. As far as the score, some things are better left unsaid. But, we held them to single digits, and that's something that should be recognized. Small victories, right?
A little after dinner, some Moroccan kids approached me and a friend named Victor and asked if we would like to play in a pick up soccer game. I had heard rumors of some informal games being played during Ramadan (more on this particular holiday later), and it sounded like fun. I mean, neither I nor Victor had played soccer since we were about ten. I remember that at that time Chris Woods and a few others tried out for the Classic team and started traveling long distances to games. Me, I still preferred my Saturday morning cartoons. But still, an informal soccer game would be a good opportunity to rub shoulders with the locals and get a little exercise, right? Kind of.
At 10:00pm, Victor and I walked into a converted basketball court in the gymnasium and our jaws collectively dropped. The stands were packed. If I had to ball park a figure, I'd say there were about as many people there watching the games as during a better-than-averagely attended Haverford Mens Basketball game. And they were rowdy, too. But then my attention turned to the game being played out before ours. The quality of the game was certainly several notches above anything I've seen in the states. And it's not like it was the varsity team, either. From my perspective, it felt like I had been invited to a basketball game in Chicago, only to find myself thrust onto the boards for a match between St. Joseph and Loyola Academy. It was like I had handed a Moroccan a lacrosse stick, given him a half hour of instruction, and sent him into a game. Disconcerting, to say the least. Then we noticed another team warming up: our opponents.
And this is where I had my first flashback to the aforementioned underdog movies. Remember when the Mighty Ducks first step on the ice and see the Hawks skating lines and taking shooting drills on the goal? It was worse than that. These guys had matching jerseys, ran choreographed drills, and - the icing on the cake - had a team picture before the game started. Having gotten a good look at the opposition, I turned to look at the team we were fielding. There were five Americans (bad), none with recent soccer experience (worse), and most of whom had the same wild-eyed look that I'm sure I was sporting (worst). The Moroccan captain seemed on the verge of tears before the game even began. And it didn't get any better.
I will say this for myself, I had a lot of fun. And I credit myself with using hustle and scrappiness pretty valiantly in the face of overwhelming technical superiority. The vocal crowd made things really interesting. They cheered for every 50/50 ball and everything. I'd like to thing they were rooting for the team of misfits and underdogs, but who knows. As far as the score, some things are better left unsaid. But, we held them to single digits, and that's something that should be recognized. Small victories, right?
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
So, we pull into Tangier at about eight in the morning, hike across a construction site to get to the nearest restaurant we so desperately needed, and then proceeded to wander about the beach front for most of the day. At this point, it was just the four of us, the other Americans had split up into their respective groups. We had brought our swim trunks in the hopes that the reports on the cleanliness of the beach in Tangier were wrong. They were not. The city had a rather unfortunate smell that seemed to emanate mainly from the docks and the beach. So, we dared not venture in.
On the recommendation of an information guy at the train station, we found a hotel called the Valencia. The cost came to about 100 dirhams ($13) per person, very reasonable given the inclusion of an in-room shower. There were rumors of cheaper (30 dirhams) hostels in the casbah, but a few luxuries seemed to be worth the few extra dollars. That night we got dinner and hookah at a cafe nearby with some of the other exchange students. Some members of the group wanted to take the ferry to Spain and see Gibraltar. Me, I didn't feel like ponying up the eighty some-odd dollars, plus I had yet to stroll through a real medina (the old, crowded section of the city), so I parted ways with my pals for the day and set off on my own.
I hadn't taken ten steps before I was being invited to sit down for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk cafe by a man in his fifties (Kalim) and another in his thirties (Abdullah). We chatted for a while. They were Spanish Moroccans and after a few cups of strong Moroccan coffee, I was invited to a nearby apartment for a chicken lunch. The lunch was, frankly excellent. It was probably the best thing I've had to eat since I arrived on this continent. So far, so good, right? Here's where my day gets interesting. I mentioned that I would like to see the marketplace. My hosts perked up immediately and asserted that they knew the medina like no others. A little wary, I followed the elder gentleman out of the apartment and into the heart of the medina.
The medina is a really interesting place to just be. The streets are just as steep and narrow and curvy as in every movie that involves a chase scene through an Arabian city (The Battle of Algiers and The Bourne Supremacy come to mind). It always boggles my mind when I see people living and working in buildings that have existed for (at least) hundreds of years. So very un-American.
I was led through the marketplace into a store and out into a courtyard that was ringed with stalls where men sat at every stage of production, making carpets. The looms were logs held together with ropes, really old school stuff. It's easy to imagine hi-tech, computer-controlled machines making cool stuff like these elaborate carpets. But all those mass-production devices had their origins in what I saw in front of me that day; a crew of guys working through an ineffable web of colored yarn, eventually yielding a carpet.
But those carpets have to bought by somebody, right? And I was just their mark. I was led upstairs from the production rooms, to a room with folded carpets lining every wall. A man appeared wearing bedouin robes, bearing a tray of mint tea. He spoke impeccable English, and after some niceties, he began laying out carpets in earnest. If I said I liked the color red, three more reds carpets would be on the floor before I could stop him. And then came the question that I have learned is a Moroccan shop-keeper's staple: How much do you think these are worth?
Unfortunately, I had failed to do my homework before coming to Tangier, and honestly had absolutely no idea how much I should pay for a rug. I breathed a little sigh of relief when he quoted a price of 400 dirhams. At the time, I only had 200 dirhams left, so I could honestly say that I didn't have the money on me. Now, in retrospect, I probably could have bargained him down to below 200 dirhams, but I didn't have the confidence that comes from having a ballpak figure of what something is ACTUALLY worth - something that is a necessity for a tourist in a Moroccan souk.
I expressed interest in some Berber jewelry, something a little closer to my price range. Again, I didn't know the fair price for such items. For a necklace and a bracelet, he offered me 400 dirhams. I counted with 200, which I thought would be a good low-ball offer. Much to my dismay, he immediately shook my hand and thrust the merchandise towards me. Oops. Could have gone lower. Well, better luck next time. I paid the man and followed Kalim back out into the medina.
Periodically, on the walk back, Kalim stopped and told me that if anyone (namely the police) asked if I knew him, I should profess ignorance. Don't worry, the guy wasn't on the run from the cops. The deal is that in Morocco, it is against the law for citizens to guide tourists around without a permit. There were plenty of people asking me "where I wanted to go" in pretty much every language, and it got annoying. I had come to realize that Kalim was one of these guys, too, but a much subtler one. At the edge of the medina, he asked for some money for his "six kids." I politely refused, guessing that he probably got a cut from my jewelry purchase. He smiled and said goodbye, shouting after me, saying "Don't trust anyone." And hence, I christened him Shady McShadester. An interesting day, to say the least.
On the recommendation of an information guy at the train station, we found a hotel called the Valencia. The cost came to about 100 dirhams ($13) per person, very reasonable given the inclusion of an in-room shower. There were rumors of cheaper (30 dirhams) hostels in the casbah, but a few luxuries seemed to be worth the few extra dollars. That night we got dinner and hookah at a cafe nearby with some of the other exchange students. Some members of the group wanted to take the ferry to Spain and see Gibraltar. Me, I didn't feel like ponying up the eighty some-odd dollars, plus I had yet to stroll through a real medina (the old, crowded section of the city), so I parted ways with my pals for the day and set off on my own.
I hadn't taken ten steps before I was being invited to sit down for a cup of coffee at a sidewalk cafe by a man in his fifties (Kalim) and another in his thirties (Abdullah). We chatted for a while. They were Spanish Moroccans and after a few cups of strong Moroccan coffee, I was invited to a nearby apartment for a chicken lunch. The lunch was, frankly excellent. It was probably the best thing I've had to eat since I arrived on this continent. So far, so good, right? Here's where my day gets interesting. I mentioned that I would like to see the marketplace. My hosts perked up immediately and asserted that they knew the medina like no others. A little wary, I followed the elder gentleman out of the apartment and into the heart of the medina.
The medina is a really interesting place to just be. The streets are just as steep and narrow and curvy as in every movie that involves a chase scene through an Arabian city (The Battle of Algiers and The Bourne Supremacy come to mind). It always boggles my mind when I see people living and working in buildings that have existed for (at least) hundreds of years. So very un-American.
I was led through the marketplace into a store and out into a courtyard that was ringed with stalls where men sat at every stage of production, making carpets. The looms were logs held together with ropes, really old school stuff. It's easy to imagine hi-tech, computer-controlled machines making cool stuff like these elaborate carpets. But all those mass-production devices had their origins in what I saw in front of me that day; a crew of guys working through an ineffable web of colored yarn, eventually yielding a carpet.
But those carpets have to bought by somebody, right? And I was just their mark. I was led upstairs from the production rooms, to a room with folded carpets lining every wall. A man appeared wearing bedouin robes, bearing a tray of mint tea. He spoke impeccable English, and after some niceties, he began laying out carpets in earnest. If I said I liked the color red, three more reds carpets would be on the floor before I could stop him. And then came the question that I have learned is a Moroccan shop-keeper's staple: How much do you think these are worth?
Unfortunately, I had failed to do my homework before coming to Tangier, and honestly had absolutely no idea how much I should pay for a rug. I breathed a little sigh of relief when he quoted a price of 400 dirhams. At the time, I only had 200 dirhams left, so I could honestly say that I didn't have the money on me. Now, in retrospect, I probably could have bargained him down to below 200 dirhams, but I didn't have the confidence that comes from having a ballpak figure of what something is ACTUALLY worth - something that is a necessity for a tourist in a Moroccan souk.
I expressed interest in some Berber jewelry, something a little closer to my price range. Again, I didn't know the fair price for such items. For a necklace and a bracelet, he offered me 400 dirhams. I counted with 200, which I thought would be a good low-ball offer. Much to my dismay, he immediately shook my hand and thrust the merchandise towards me. Oops. Could have gone lower. Well, better luck next time. I paid the man and followed Kalim back out into the medina.
Periodically, on the walk back, Kalim stopped and told me that if anyone (namely the police) asked if I knew him, I should profess ignorance. Don't worry, the guy wasn't on the run from the cops. The deal is that in Morocco, it is against the law for citizens to guide tourists around without a permit. There were plenty of people asking me "where I wanted to go" in pretty much every language, and it got annoying. I had come to realize that Kalim was one of these guys, too, but a much subtler one. At the edge of the medina, he asked for some money for his "six kids." I politely refused, guessing that he probably got a cut from my jewelry purchase. He smiled and said goodbye, shouting after me, saying "Don't trust anyone." And hence, I christened him Shady McShadester. An interesting day, to say the least.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
I suppose this would be my first real post on something that I have actually done. I just returned from a last-minute long-weekend trip to Tangier. The relevant photos have been uploaded, so if you'd prefer, you may follow along with what I pretentiously refer to as a "Photo Essay"
A bit of background information: Moroccan elections were held this Friday, so Al Alkhawayn University canceled classes in the hopes that all the students would act as good little citizens and return to their home towns and vote. Now, those classes must be made up this Saturday, but never mind, the point is I had a three day weekend. On Thursday my last class ended at 5:00 and I was left to flounder a bit and wonder which group I would attach myself to, limpet-like. By 7:30 I was sitting in a friend Danny's room, and we were considering going to either Casablanca or Tangier. Fairly inexplicably, Tangier was decided upon. There was a train from Meknes to Tangier leaving at 2:45, so it seemed perfect. We wanted to get our weekend jump-started. Meanwhile, two guys from Virginia Military Institute, Rich and Eddie, joined our merry band.
After a speed-packing session, we walked the twenty minutes into Ifrane and got a "grand taxi" into Meknes, one of two equidistant cities with a train station. Grand taxis (diesel driven Mercedes that are several decades old) constitute the only immediate way to get out of Ifrane. We arrived in Meknes an hour later, bought our tickets for the train, and hung out with some other American students from Al Akhawayn who were also taking the train to Tangier. We palled around in a hookah bar down the street for a few hours, and then hopped the train and hoped to get some sleep. The problem with that plan was that - at least for an hour long trip on an intermediary train - there were NO available seats. Not knowing how long I'd have to be in this physical state, I wedged myself between the bathroom door and the emergency escape hatch between two train cars and tried to get some sleep. Mercifully, on the next train I was able to find a seat next to a Spanish contract worker and get a little bit of shut eye before we rolled into Tangier train station at 8 in the morning.
And, not to leave anyone in any dire amount of suspense or anything, but I think I will hold off until tomorrow for the rest of this swashbuckling tale. I'm both a) tired from a long weekend adventuring and b) disheartened by the news (albeit uncorroborated) that no bars will serve alcohol given that Ramadan starts in a few days. Thanks, Allah.
Later guys.
A bit of background information: Moroccan elections were held this Friday, so Al Alkhawayn University canceled classes in the hopes that all the students would act as good little citizens and return to their home towns and vote. Now, those classes must be made up this Saturday, but never mind, the point is I had a three day weekend. On Thursday my last class ended at 5:00 and I was left to flounder a bit and wonder which group I would attach myself to, limpet-like. By 7:30 I was sitting in a friend Danny's room, and we were considering going to either Casablanca or Tangier. Fairly inexplicably, Tangier was decided upon. There was a train from Meknes to Tangier leaving at 2:45, so it seemed perfect. We wanted to get our weekend jump-started. Meanwhile, two guys from Virginia Military Institute, Rich and Eddie, joined our merry band.
After a speed-packing session, we walked the twenty minutes into Ifrane and got a "grand taxi" into Meknes, one of two equidistant cities with a train station. Grand taxis (diesel driven Mercedes that are several decades old) constitute the only immediate way to get out of Ifrane. We arrived in Meknes an hour later, bought our tickets for the train, and hung out with some other American students from Al Akhawayn who were also taking the train to Tangier. We palled around in a hookah bar down the street for a few hours, and then hopped the train and hoped to get some sleep. The problem with that plan was that - at least for an hour long trip on an intermediary train - there were NO available seats. Not knowing how long I'd have to be in this physical state, I wedged myself between the bathroom door and the emergency escape hatch between two train cars and tried to get some sleep. Mercifully, on the next train I was able to find a seat next to a Spanish contract worker and get a little bit of shut eye before we rolled into Tangier train station at 8 in the morning.
And, not to leave anyone in any dire amount of suspense or anything, but I think I will hold off until tomorrow for the rest of this swashbuckling tale. I'm both a) tired from a long weekend adventuring and b) disheartened by the news (albeit uncorroborated) that no bars will serve alcohol given that Ramadan starts in a few days. Thanks, Allah.
Later guys.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
This is what I'm talking about with the buildings, in case my fumbling description left something to be desired. I'm sure it will all make sense once the snow starts hitting the ground (in Morocco? I know, I'll believe it when I see it, too) but for now they look a tad out of place. I'll include pictures whenever I can.
Well, hey there people. I've been in Morocco now for a little over a week and now seems as good a time as any to buckle down and write an entry or two in the [no doubt eagerly anticipated] study abroad blog.
So, where to begin? I am currently studying at Al Akhawayn University in a little town in the Atlas Mountains called Ifrane. Ifrane is a relatively small town and, I'm told, not a terribly typical Moroccan city. More on that later. As for the school, it's about the same size as Haverford, except every single building except the mosque looks pretty much exactly the same. Imagine Swiss chalets if you found them somewhere in the Middle East. Oh, and they're all numbered instead of named. I guess grads haven't started sending in the big money yet. Give it time though, the school's only about twelve years old.
As for classes, I am currently taking Beginning Arabic (really fun stuff), History of the Arab World, Islamic Civilization, Film and Video Production, and Algerian History. Learning Arabic looks like it's gonna be a real tough nut to crack in the future, but for now I'm just having fun decoding the alphabet. I get a nerdy little subversive thrill out of sounding out the signs that I see around me. Speaking of which, I've got a little bit of homework to get done for that very class.
b-salaam everybody.
So, where to begin? I am currently studying at Al Akhawayn University in a little town in the Atlas Mountains called Ifrane. Ifrane is a relatively small town and, I'm told, not a terribly typical Moroccan city. More on that later. As for the school, it's about the same size as Haverford, except every single building except the mosque looks pretty much exactly the same. Imagine Swiss chalets if you found them somewhere in the Middle East. Oh, and they're all numbered instead of named. I guess grads haven't started sending in the big money yet. Give it time though, the school's only about twelve years old.
As for classes, I am currently taking Beginning Arabic (really fun stuff), History of the Arab World, Islamic Civilization, Film and Video Production, and Algerian History. Learning Arabic looks like it's gonna be a real tough nut to crack in the future, but for now I'm just having fun decoding the alphabet. I get a nerdy little subversive thrill out of sounding out the signs that I see around me. Speaking of which, I've got a little bit of homework to get done for that very class.
b-salaam everybody.
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