I got home from Morocco about a week ago. Thank you for your readership...I leave you with this last piece and the hopes that this blog will continue when I return to Morocco someday...inshallah! Thank you again!

I stare with wonder at the henna that covers my hands. So intricate and elegant, this work of art was presented as a farewell gift from my host family. For over an hour, Sefaa, a female family member poured over my hands, as though lost in her seemingly unbreakable concentration. As I sat on the couch in her house, it felt like only a few days had passed since she was creating a similar masterpiece in celebration of the end of Ramadan. This time, as the cold henna paste formed patterns on my palms, I let my mind sift through memories made across these past three and a half months. Honing in on particular days and moments, I tried to transport myself back, to recall the faces and the places.
While my mind had no trouble conjuring up visions of anxious introductions, momentous Moroccan celebrations, and casual family dinners, my heart quickly became overwhelmed as I navigated through this sea of memories. As I watched myself meeting my host family or nervously taking part in the first of many couscous Fridays, it felt as if I was watching someone else. Unsure of her new surroundings, this other version of me looked so out of place; her face always betraying the inner belief that she was a true foreigner in an undiscovered land. Although I found myself smiling in sympathy at her, I also grew envious of her as I knew she still had so much time to experience the many marvels of Morocco and its people.
Traveling further along the timeline of my stay, I found myself traversing the dunes of the Sahara from atop a camel. An excursion throughout which I remember questioning whether or not I was dreaming, my trip into the desert stands as a surreal yet revealing experience that turned my attention inwards. With nothing but silky sand and a calming silence surrounding me, I lingered on ideas and questions that are prone to get smothered in the context of life back at school. How vast the world felt in that instance and how small, yet vital did my existence seem. I can recall how I likened myself to a grain of sand, so incredibly tiny in the midst of the endless dunes, yet just as significant as every other grain of sand. The lessons of the desert and its caravanning nomads were shrouded in humility and on a deeper level, offered encouragement to those like myself, who sometimes fear insignificance in a world that often feels so very big.
As I looked back on the last month of my Moroccan adventure, I was surprised to see how differently I appeared. Having shrugged off the trappings of the nervous, young foreigner, I looked like a cheerful young woman at home in the medina. I watched myself stopping in the street to embrace friends of my Moroccan family and offer a friendly wave to my favorite shopkeepers. Exchanging greetings and news in the Moroccan dialect, this new version of me made it seem like years had passed since those first few days in Rabat. How strange it felt to realize that this individual standing before me in my mind would soon be returning to another home in another country on the other side of the world.
Before I had time to dwell on my imminent return to America, I felt my little sister tapping me on my shoulder and directing my eyes towards the finished henna design that now stretched across my hands and up my wrists. Jostled out of my imagined journey back across time, I marveled at the beautiful sight before me. I thanked dear Sefaa and walked home from her house with my sister for the last time. Back at my house, after exclaiming how beautiful the henna looked, Mama Hafida explained that for her, the gift of henna was meant to be a reminder of a place that not only desired, but expected my eventual return. The next day, as I said goodbye and placed the front door key in her hand, she reminded me that Morocco would be here forever, always waiting to welcome me back with open arms and of course, lots of couscous. I can only hope that I make it back to see that remarkable woman and her beautiful family.
On the plane ride home, within the dainty henna flowers and their petals, I saw Morocco in all its charm and complexity; I saw scenes from Marrakesh, Fez, and my beloved medina in Rabat. I recognized the faces of my family, my teachers, and the many friends I have made. I saw women working to change stale perceptions and I watched young university graduates search for much needed employment. I observed the people of urban Morocco struggling to understand their rural compatriots and overcome differences in heritage and language. I saw a country on a journey much like my own; a journey of discovery, self-awareness, and hopeful progress. I drew comfort from the fresh understanding that just as I had witnessed Morocco’s quest for positive growth and development, Morocco had observed me as I sought to experience its diverse culture and discover my own place in the society that surrounded me. Even when the henna fades and time places me further and further from my experience in Morocco, the lessons and memories I received will live on within me, urging me to continue to work for cross-cultural awareness and celebrate the many gifts it can bestow on all of us as citizens of this diverse and ever-changing world.

I have literally spent the last 2 days eating non-stop. I don’t say this in that cute way that we sometimes do back home after we gorge ourselves on something like Thanksgiving Dinner. In fact, the makeshift Thanksgiving I shared here on Thursday with some friends pales in comparison to Saturday and Sunday’s events. Although it was delicious and I ate a considerable amount of chicken, stuffing, and apple pie, it was like the warm up lap before the real event. Right, so let me just restate this; I mean, literally, under the watch of my traditional Moroccan household, I have not stopped eating. If you don’t believe me, ask my jeans!
This weekend, the largest holiday on the Muslim calendar took place. Referred to as Aid Al Adha, this two day event is centered around the slaughtering of a sheep by each male head of household in observance of the story of Abraham and the ram he was sent by God to sacrifice in place of his son. In the lead up to this auspicious occasion, the prospect of finding that perfect sheep, buying it, and bringing it home to await the slaughter plunged the medina into a frenzy of activity and excitement. Last week witnessed streets becoming dotted with sheep pens, bales of hay, and of course, my personal favorite, the establishment of professional knife sharpeners on most corners. Move over Sweeney Todd! As families exchanged news of the ever-shifting price of sheep and children ran around the streets yelling howlee, howlee! (sheep in the Moroccan dialect), anticipation seemed to completely envelope the medina. My three year old nephew started getting excited over a week ago-last Saturday, he ordered that we visit the “howlee” in a pen down the street. On Thursday afternoon, I had a bit of a surprising, personal encounter with the mayhem when I turned around to talk to a friend who I thought was just behind me and instead came face to face with a teenage boy who had a sizeable sheep slung across his shoulders. “Anduck, Anduck!” (Watch out!) he yelled as he darted around me and sped down the road.
As my father and my two grown brothers are each required to slaughter a sheep every year, three sheep moved into my house on Friday. As they arrived in the very early hours of the morning while I was still lost in sleep. As soon as I woke up, my sister asked me if I wanted to come down to visit the sheep! I thought to myself, ‘Of course I want to stare into the eyes of the darling sheep that I am going to watch get slaughtered tomorrow-wahooo!” It actually wasn’t that momentous-the sheep just stared back at me seeming to say, “Yeah we know what we’re here for, it happens every year lady!” In all seriousness though, I appreciated that, unlike some families, mine was very low-key about the sheep once they got here. A friend’s family made it all a bit much by treating their sheep as part of the family and even allowing it to hang out in the living room with them while they were watching TV! Thankfully, as I spent most of my Friday watching Eid bread be made at my aunt’s house and running to and from the public oven with my sister and cousin, I had no time to attach myself to any sheep. Eid khobz (bread in Arabic) is a delicious version of the khobz we eat everyday that includes a yummy blend of sesame seeds, fennel, and a variety of spices. We baked a ton of it at the oven and from the looks of the packed out oven, so did everyone else in the medina! When I eventually got home on Friday night, my mother told me to go look in the store-room at the back of the terrace. I opened the door and what did I find…a skinned sheep carcass hanging from the line. Totally confused as I thought all the killing was to take place Saturday morning, I looked to my sister for an explanation. She smiled and explained that they had to kill one sheep Friday night in honor of the Hajj (the pilgrimage Muslims make every year to Mecca). It was quite a sight! I think the real effect was felt, however, when my mother placed a howlee tagine on the table for dinner that night. Yum! After dinner, my sister and I played some solitaire, jammed out to some Moroccan tunes, and after she politely asked if she could sleep in my room, we hit the hay, quite exhausted.
When my sister woke me up in the morning, the house was buzzing with children, grandchildren, and various family members. My friend Chelsea, a student also studying at the centre, is my Aunt’s host student-so naturally, I refer to her as my cousin. As she has already moved out of her homestay in order to focus on an extensive study she is doing on diabetes in Morocco, she no longer had a family with which to spend Eid. Chelsea is probably my closest friend here and I was really hoping to share the weekend with her. Before I could even bring up the idea of Chelsea spending Eid with my family and me, Souad proposed the idea. Love my sis-I swear she can read my mind. Of course, Mama Hafida was all too pleased to welcome yet another person into her household-she proclaimed that Eid was the most important Moroccan experience and it was absolutely necessary for Chelsea to come for it! So, around 8:30, Chelsea walked in the door and after greeting all the family, asked me if I was ready for all the killing. I remember chuckling somewhat nervously and nodding in the direction of my camera. After breakfast and my mother’s return from the Eid morning prayer at the mosque, we gathered on the terrace to await the slaughter. As my father is too old to be able to skillfully kill the sheep with one cut as Islam requires, my older brother-in-law, Mohammed, took on the task. It really wasn’t that hard to watch, although there was a lot more blood than I expected. As soon as the sheep was killed, Si Mohammed washed around the neck and let it bleed out. In the background, all the women were pouring tons of the water on the terrace, swishing the blood towards the drain and doing an impressive job of removing any remnants of the slaughter. Si Mohammed then cut off the head, broke its legs and hung it from the line before skinning it and disemboweling it. Chelsea and I took lots and lots of pictures, but I think I will spare you as I am not sure who is a bit queasy at this point! The slaughtering of the next sheep was bit rougher as it kicked quite ferociously for a while after its throat was slit. There was a bit of nervous tension for a few minutes as they were unsure whether or not the animal had died after the first cut. This would have been a problem in terms of the Islamic rules concerning the slaughtering of an animal. They are supposed to suffer as little as possible. Not to worry though, another brother of mine explained it was dead despite the erratic movements. The third sheep went quietly with little show. The routine of killing and skinning by the men and the cleaning by the women was staggeringly impressive-everyone seemed to know their specific task and went about it quietly and quickly. Only five minutes after the last sheep, the terrace was pristine with the exception of the intestines that my incredible sister was cleaning. Talk about being a tough little cookie with an iron stomach! At this point, Chelsea and I figured we would go down to my room, take a breather, get some work done, and perhaps stay out of the way of all the men and women. However, Baba wasn’t having any of that-as soon as he saw us looking out the window at my uncle’s house across the street, he motioned for us to come over. Yeah, saw two more sheep get slaughtered-totally no big deal at this point. I was most impressed by all the children, especially the young girls who seemed totally chill throughout the whole thing. They asked us to take their picture with the heads and next to the dead sheep and we willingly did so.
Back at the house, Mama and my sister in law had prepared brochettes of sheep liver wrapped in fat. As a consequence of my mother back home and her eating habits while I was growing up, I love liver. Once I unwrapped the fat and dipped the barbecued liver in cumin and salt, all there is to say is DELICIOUS. I definitely couldn’t keep up with the Moroccans around me, but I think I ate enough to satisfy Mama Hafida. About two hours later, we all sat down to a lunch of bread and incredibly fresh meat. I think Chelsea and I struggled a bit as we just weren’t hungry at that point. Needing a bit of a break, we decided to meet some other students and take a walk. The medina streets were completely dead except for groups of boys burning sheep heads over large cauldrons. It was a bit uncomfortable to be walking amongst all those crazed boys-I mean, boys, fire, permission…bad combination. They seemed particularly aggressive with us that day…no worries though as ignoring them soon put a stop to it. The trickiest part for me was keeping my lunch down as I saw huge stacks of sheep skins lining the streets. Yeah…not so much. Chelsea referred to it all as the apocalypse… “Think about it Katherine, fire, smoking heads, dead skins all over the place, crazed men…it’s like the end of the world!” In a way it could be construed like that I suppose. We stalled for a bit at our friend’s apartment and ate some cereal and milk;-I think we knew going home would only mean more meat. Oh, how naïve we were. Once home, dinner wasn’t just more meat…it was intestine and stomach with a side of bread. Mama Hafida figured out pretty quickly that we weren’t down for that…she generously pushed it away from us, leaving us with meat and sauce, which although still quite hard to eat at this point, was doable. An hour or two after dinner, I was all too happy to fall into my bed, watch a movie with Chels, and get some sweet sleep.
As a result of the constant burning of heads and such in the street, I woke up with a sore throat and a bit of a cough. Not to worry though, bread with coffee, a couple of hours playing footie and walking on the beach while breathing the ocean air soon cured me of all that. While we were out, the family spent the morning eating kefta and brochettes of meat with bread. We returned for lunch-couscous with sheep’s head. Don’t worry, Souad told Mama Hafida to prepare couscous with plain old meat for us as she knew we wouldn’t be too excited about eating the sheep’s head. And of course, as I love couscous a lot, lunch was glorious. Chels and I probably ate until we looked at each other and agreed that physically, we might be in danger if we ate another bite. I spent the rest of my afternoon studying, traversing the still dormant streets of the medina, and braving the short rainstorm that descended on the medina in the late afternoon. Thank God the rain held off until after the day of slaughter. When I got home, I was again treated to brochettes of meat that, although delicious, were hard to stomach after all the other food. Still full of children and the noise that comes with them, the house wasn’t exactly ideal for getting some reading and relaxing done. Instead, my sister and I escaped to my room to watch a movie in French that I think we both partly understood. At last, as everyone started to head to bed, the house grew quite and I could finally let sleep overwhelm me. Who knew a weekend of watching sheep killings and eating nonstop could be so exhausting. As I was on my way to sleep, I thought about how extraordinary Moroccan children are. For them, Eid is like Christmas is for me and other English kids-their biggest holiday, time off school, all the family, and a big meal. Just as I used to get so excited for Christmas as a child, they do the same for Eid. There is a stark difference however: whereas I always knew that Christmas meant new toys and lots of stuff for me, Eid leaves the children here with nothing more than a full stomach and memories of another holiday spent with family and friends. I’d say my siblings and cousins have a pretty impressive and accurate idea of just what is worth getting excited about in life. Eid Mubarak my dears!

Through my open window, I hear the familiar sound of the early morning call to prayer. I stare at the ceiling, listening for my father’s footsteps on the stairs. It is 5:30 a.m. and like Baba Said, I am awake. In my mind, I picture him as he makes his way to the mosque, removes his shoes, and begins to pray the first prayer of the day. Surrounded by others who have made the early morning walk across desolate medina streets, he will kneel towards Mecca, reciting words from the Quaran, just as he does everyday. For a while, I let my mind skim through images of mosques and their minarets. Despite my weariness, I know sleep has left me for the night. Usually infused with the dulcet tones of my younger sister’s voice or sounds from the bustling market below, at this hour, the house lies dormant, couched in a rare silence. I love the quiet and the way it lets me wander through my thoughts, undisturbed. On this particular morning, I think of the date, placing it on an imaginary timeline of my stay here. November 20th-it marks the beginning of my last month in this land. I wonder to myself how time has brought me to this point-to a state in which what was foreign is now familiar. I am suddenly mystified by the closeness I feel towards my host family, the medina, and the routine I seem to have established for myself.
Around seven, my thoughts are interrupted by Mama Hafida’s voice as she calls out to my sleeping sister. Like any fifteen year old, my sister is slow to respond to her mother’s wake-up call. Eventually, she stumbles out of bed-I hear the rustle of the curtain that divides my room from the rest of the house. Her head peaks in as she whispers, “Katrina, yalla, manges le petit-dejeuner.” As I have been awake for close to two hours, it doesn’t take too much effort to get out of my bed and make my way upstairs. My mother is cutting the bread, distributing the pieces around the table. As usual, the piece in front of my seat is twice as large as anyone else’s. I give her a smile as I take half of the piece and leave the rest for my sisters. She doesn’t look surprised, but just chuckles as she pours me a glass of black coffee. My glass stands out against the other glasses full of milky coffee. My inability to digest the whole milk they drink here continues to mystify my mother. Mama sits back on the couch and says “Coolie Katrina!” The homemade bread is warm and delicious-I enjoy each bite as I try and decipher fragments of the conversation between my sister and Mama. I love listening to my sister, Souad, in the mornings-her voice is so lively and I feel I can follow along just by watching her bright eyes. Soon enough, however, I take my last bite, drain my glass of coffee, and say “Yalla, bye bye!” Mama blows me a kiss, reminds me to be back at one for lunch, and we part ways.
The walk to school takes me through the narrow streets of the medina. As it has just gone 8:00, they are still relatively quiet. At the center, I have class till 10, a thirty minute break, and then class till 12. I spend the empty hour before lunch reading emails and browsing through news stories about that place on the other side of the world. As this sometimes disheartens me, I am all too eager to shut my laptop and head home for the comfort of a family lunch. Walking up the stairs of my house, I can smell the heavenly aroma of a piping hot tagine. The bread is fresh, the chicken is tender, and with the initial taste, my taste-buds are overcome with ecstasy. I wish all of you could taste one of Mama Hafida’s tagines! There are bananas and mandarins to follow. My sister and I compete to see who will be the first to peel a mandarin for Mama. She usually wins. We all clear the dishes, clean the table, and I say goodbye as I once again head off to school.
Three hours of Arabic can be wearing, but even the slowest of progress is rewarding. My teacher, Assia, is patient and kind as I struggle with correctly pronouncing the new vocabulary. It’s dark outside when we finally finish class for the day. I tally in the library for a bit and eventually make my way to my home on what we students call fish and vegetable street. It is still buzzing with the voices of unrelenting fruit, vegetable, and fish sellers. In the evenings, my sister and I stroll around the medina, visiting her friends and sneaking off to satisfy her cravings for various snacks. Often times, we preface our outings by saying we have errands to run or need homework help. In the bustling streets, I greet people I have come to know and wave at those who are too far away for words or handshakes. Best to be home by nine though, as dinner is usually around then. Souad and I love when it’s scrambled eggs with bread. Delicious and perfect after a long day. Mama pours me a glass of sweet mint tea as she insists that I am not eating enough. I protest and list all that I have had that day. She seems unconvinced, simply responding with her usual “coolie.” We watch television together for a bit- I catch a few words here and there, but soon realize there is Arabic homework waiting for me downstairs. While at college I can usually work late into the night, here, I often run out of steam around 11. I know the very early mornings are to blame. The rest of the house has usually found sleep by then, and so I am quiet as I brush my teeth and splash my face with cold water from the tap. Sleep comes quickly and once again, another day is over.
In its own sly way, while I wasn’t looking, it’s as if time has built a whole new world for me, a remarkable, vibrant world that is tainted only by its impermanence. I can sense the imminent goodbye and I do my best to keep it out of mind. For now, I immerse myself in this place and these people, living a life that I have come to love. I think it will be a good last month, in’challah.

Hello all. As I am writing this in the midst of my midterm break, I can’t really complain about life at the moment. After last week’s exams and papers, this week seems almost arduously tranquil. Unlike the rest of my group, I decided to stay here in Rabat for the duration of the break. To be completely honest, my decision was, for the most part, fueled by the fact that I don’t think my bank account could weather a week under the grip of the Euro. In Rabat, food (more than enough) and board is provided and even the things I do sometimes covet are priced well within my range. And well, money aside, I’m exhausted and could use a week wandering around Rabat and lazily pretending to get ahead on readings and upcoming papers. In reality, I have attached myself to students in another program that is based at the centre. I have been attending their lectures and picking up even more insight from experts on different aspects of Moroccan culture and Islam. Yes, I know-not the ideal holiday, but when in Rome...take advantage of free seminars and the like!
Rather than boring you with a report of my week though, I shall tell you about last weekend. In a word: EPIC. A few of my friends and I decided to cast ourselves as young, thrill seeking American/English tourists for a day and a night. Equipped with a guidebook and infinite curiosity, we visited the old citadel of Chellah, ate delicious street food, and wandered along as if we had arrived in Rabat just yesterday! Once the sun had set on the day, we donned the ritziest outfits we had and headed out for a glorious Italian dinner in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Rabat. For a surprisingly low price, I had a glorious plate of spaghetti bolognaise. I had been craving a bit of a break from tagines and couscous, so I think that’s why I found a simple pasta entrée to be quite the treat. Apparently everyone else in our group shared my cravings because we all ate enough pasta and pizza to satisfy a small army. I’m sure the waiter was a little taken aback when he discovered that our table had recently been inducted into the Clean Plate Club-his eyes grew quite wide! Full and looking for some fun, the five of us hopped in a taxi and ended up at a pretty seedy bar in downtown Rabat. Called the “Café de Paix”, this restaurant offers up drinks at ridiculously low prices. While we did have to put up with the stares of leering men and the like, we had a good time laughing and sharing stories from Saturday nights back home. After about half an hour, a gentleman came up to the table and informed us that as he was friends with the owner of the bar, he would like to buy us a round of drinks. Suspicious of such offers, we initially refused. He insisted and after a while we figured, there are five of us and one of our fellow male students is on the way…let’s just accept. After the first round of first drinks we received another and before long, the same gentleman decided that he wanted to pay for everything we had consumed. We adamantly refused and as the stares were getting worse and the hour grew later, we explained we were on our way out. He refused our money and so we ended up leaving without spending a dime. Unfortunately, the waiter had not been let in on the gentleman’s scheme and when we had put about 5 meters between us and the café, he came running after us demanding in French that we pay up! Willing to settle the confusion, a few of us went back into the café only to witness a fist fight between the gentleman, the waiter, and a few others and finally, someone thrown down the stairs. I think it’s fair to say we were slightly terrified and as soon as the bigger men in the conflict gave us the directive to get out of the café as quickly as possible, we sprinted back to the hotel room we had booked for the night. After all that, our money was still refused! Utter craziness I tell you!
As it was around 11:30 p.m. when we got back to the room, we decided we were still up for some more fun. We had promised ourselves that we would live the night on college time…which meant we had a lot more carousing to do! Amnesia, one of Rabat’s few night clubs, was our next port of call. Unfortunately, the 300 dirham cover charge was out of the question, and for a moment, our night took a big hit. Cue the random Moroccan who lives in Boulder, Colorado and is visiting his family in Rabat. Yes, I kid you not-this quasi Moroccan with perfect English suggested that we join his group of friends and head to a nightclub located about 30 minutes outside of Rabat. He assured us this club offered free entry to ladies. We gravitated toward one of the women in his group and demanded whether or not this was a legitimate offer and if we would be in safe hands. Down to Earth and unsurprised by our concern, she assured us there was nothing to worry about and that they just wanted more people in the group. So, we hopped in their cars and headed to “Platinum”-a crazy techno night club with music so loud I had to step outside multiple times to relieve my poor ears. Once again, drinks generously provided at no cost. Apparently, according to our American/Moroccan friend, you can’t be an upstanding Moroccan young man and still allow a woman to pay for her own drink. I should tell you, however, that I’m quite sure the majority of the people in the club were very wealthy and most if not all, embodied European culture in Morocco. Anyway, feeling that I had had my full at the Café de Paix, I kindly refused and gravitated towards the dance floor for a much-needed dance session. Well, we danced and danced and danced some more. It was a relief to us all that we only had to fend off a few suitors eager for a dance! Finally, slightly exhausted yet gleeful at what we saw as a highly successful night, we were kindly escorted back to our hotel. I was so pleased to fall into bed that night. All in all, I think the night was both very much enjoyed and wholly needed. The next day, albeit a little weakly, we were all ready to jump back into the conservatism and family-oriented life of the medina. What can I say except that everyone needs a break now and then and well, we sure did have quite the break! Enjoy the rest of your week!

Where is the time going? I just glanced at the date of this entry and it’s hard to believe we’ve already made our way through much of October! I can just hear my grandmother’s voice exclaiming, as she always does, that these days, the time goes so quickly. In terms of my stay in Morocco, Grandma Watford couldn’t be more right; I’ve already been here for just over a month and a half! I do hope time slows a bit, for I am truly enjoying my days here.
Since I last wrote, I have come to discover that, although it may look quite diminutive on a map, Morocco is home to a remarkable variety of landscapes. I spent the first week or so of this month travelling around the country with fellow students and our wonderful program director. Despite only having a week, we managed to visit the bustling Marrakesh, spend a night with nomads in the Sahara, explore the mysterious medina of Fes, and immerse ourselves in the northern paradise that is the town of Chefchaouen. Exhilarating, calming, stunning, humbling, unforgettable-just looking back on the journey wills my feet to take me back, back to those places and those people. Alas, while my feet might fail me, my memories grant me the power to return.
As our first stop was Marrakesh, it was not long before the trip had taken on a note of utter craziness. With its famed Djemaa el Fna square and its enormous souks, Marrakesh is an energetic city eager to immerse you in marvels that will leave you out of breath and a bit poorer. Snake charmers, henna artists, street performers, fresh orange juice stands, and colossal dried fruit stalls bring the massive square to life in the late afternoon and even more so at night. Encircling much of the square, the colours and sounds of the souks draw you in and convince you that you need to purchase one of everything! My friends and I have found that living and studying in Rabat has made us stingier that the average tourist-we bought very little from the storekeepers who had clearly pinned us as just another bunch of wealthy Americans. Oh, their faces when we explained in Arabic that we are from Rabat! Marrakesh is usually the premier destination for tourists from the states and Europe (particularly those who hail from the land of pork pies (that’s for you Tom), chocolate buttons, and Big Ben). My mum would be proud-I heard accents from all over the motherland…and I think I may have placed them all correctly. Anyway, rather than allowing ourselves to spend the afternoon navigating our way through the maddening market, we took taxis to the Majorelle Gardens, a beautiful botanical garden owned by the late Yves Saint Laurent. With exotic plants, serene ponds, and beautiful shades of blue and yellow throughout, the garden offered us relaxation and showed us another side of Marrakesh that we all very much appreciated. Don’t worry though my dear academic friends-of course, we also visited the Marrakesh museum and got our fill of history, culture, and Arabic placards! Not surprisingly, after a long day of travelling and exploring this vibrant staple of any Moroccan excursion, a few of us wound up sharing a glorious bottle of chilled white wine from a atop a terrace with a perfect view of the city.
Moving on…the next day saw our little group move further south towards the town of Zagora, one of the gateways to the Sahara. Clearly a town catering to those eager to venture into the dunes of the desert, Zagora gave us the opportunity to purchase those famous blue turbans of the nomads and prepare for our night in the desert. I could hardly sleep that night as I thought about the following day-there is something so mysterious and alluring about the desert. Endlessness, beauty, heat, solitude, meditation, uncertainty-I associate all this and more with the miles and miles of sand and sun.
With the arrival of dawn, we packed some necessities, picked up our guide, and moved closer to the desert. Along the way, we visited an old pottery village, a deserted village that had succumbed to the encroaching sand, and stopped for an ice cold coca cola-one last moment of refreshment before the onslaught of unrelenting heat. As the sand would’ve wreaked havoc on our trusty little van, we exchanged it for two safari jeeps equipped with two hilarious drivers. I have to be honest, felt pretty cool to be traversing the desert in such a fashion-reminiscent of those seemingly adventurous explorers I’ve only seen at the cinema! Our last stop before truly losing sight of civilization was for lunch at the house of a nomad. A man whose family has been caravanning across the Sahara for the past 400 years, this older nomad gave us a delicious meal and answered our many questions about making a life out of journeying through the sand year after year. His family provides an example of a common dynamic for many tribal groups who live in Morocco today. While some family members continue to caravan with their camels, others have gone to the bigger cities to study at university. There seems to be an impressive blending of modernity and tradition within many of these nomadic households-a freedom to take part in whichever lifestyle suits the individual. Of course, as in any Moroccan household, family responsibilities are paramount-but I found it comforting that the nomad was equally proud of his caravanning son and his son studying law in Marrakesh. The older nomad was so generous with both his traditional mint tea and the information he gave us concerning relations between tribes and the government, and what it’s like to spend week after week in the harsh conditions of the desert. I can only marvel at the endurance and ingenuity of such a man and his fellow nomads.
Bellies full and racked with anticipation, we finally drove into the dunes of the desert! Driving over sand is really entertaining-it’s like a mini rollercoaster ride! (I’m quite sure the driver was intent on making sure that this was the case) As we came over a particularly steep dune, we caught sight of our camp and quite simply, glee overtook us all. I can’t articulate the feeling of setting my bag down on my bed, sitting beneath the sun surrounded by sand and thanking the nomad with a giant smile for the tea and almonds. Overwhelmed by questions of how my life could possibly have led me to such an instance, I could only comprehend the impressive weight of the decisions we make in treading one path over another. I chose to come to Morocco and study at the CCCL and it is this one decision that had situated me across the table from a beautiful, inspiring, and innovative human who I otherwise would not even know existed. I listened to this man who has unlocked so many of the desert’s secrets and I could only think, how many of us there are in this enormous world! Oh, it’s almost too much to try and conceive!
Alright, so as I’m sure you have surmised by now…we did indeed have the opportunity to enjoy a ride on a camel…to a dune from which we watched the sunset. Again, my apologies, for my words will surely fail me here. I can tell you that my camel was a tall, proud, beautiful (in the only way that camels can somehow appear beautiful) creature that seemed rather content to plod through the desert with me constantly exclaiming about how surreal everything felt. I dread to think what she thought about my squeals as she stood up and sat down. It’s a bit terrifying when such a gangly, tall beast decides to sit down…front legs first then back legs…and you’re holding on for dear life! We had to run to the top of the dune to catch the sun before it set on that epic day. Picture-taking and sliding down the sand, we made merry as our nomadic guides looked on, laughing at how easily we were thrown into fits of glee! Back at the camp, a musical performance by a group of Amazigh men and women. Such fun! As I was recovering from a bit of stomach trouble, I wasn’t planning on gallivanting around the fire, but our nomadic host wasn’t having any of that! Before I knew what was happening, I was dancing around and clapping, following the beat of the drums and the voices of the performers. As a perfect end to the day, we followed the nomads to the top of a dune and spent a couple of hours watching the stars and chatting. Our host showed me how to bury my feet in the sand to keep them warm-an incredible sensation-it actually felt like my feet were wrapped up in an electric blanket. Of course, he also enjoyed teasing me about my inability to find any shooting stars and generally poked fun at me for most of the time. I think my favorite part of the desert was the silence. Once everyone turned in for the night and I was awake in my bed, I was struck by the lack of even the smallest sound. It’s a silence that comforts, that wraps you up and places you deep within the folds of an undisturbed slumber. Completely refreshing and something I could use a lot more of in my life at home.
The following morning brought a rejuvenating breakfast of eggs, bread, honey, tea, and orange juice. Of course, we also had to say goodbye to the desert and move on to our next stop. I was sad to say goodbye to the nomads and our home in the sand. Although short, I feel my stay in the desert will linger in my mind for years. I have found that the best experiences of the semester thus far have been fleeting in reality, yet remarkably permanent in this mind of mine. We turned away from the desert and moved in the direction of Fes. The drive between Zagora and Fes saw us go from the dry, desert landscape to the awe-inspiring peaks of the middle and High Atlas. How strange it is to go through such a variety of surroundings in a single day! As if the Atlas range wasn’t impressive enough, the intellectual center of Morocco that we discovered on the other side of the mountains was even more extraordinary. Fes is a city that, without a guide, is extremely difficult to navigate. I should say that about the medina in particular. Much larger than the Rabat medina, the old city of Fes is home to tiny alleys that wind around each other and make it impossible to identify from whence you have come or in what direction you should go. Thankfully, we followed a man who knows the ins and outs of this ancient city like the back of his hand. He showed us the famous tanneries and the fabric shops, took us to the oldest Quaranic school in the country, and gave us the opportunity to observe daily life in the medina. I found the tanneries and their unbelievably hard workers to be most impressive. All day, leather is produced through a process that sees the male workers spending hour after hour in vats of dye under the unrelenting sun. As the smell emitted by the whole process can be a bit difficult to handle, I was glad to have a sprig of mint to sniff! If you have the chance, I think you’d find researching the tanneries of Fes to be quite an enlightening and fascinating read.
After a tour of the medina, our group was lucky enough to visit a women’s association in the city. Working with women who have been the victims of gender specific violence, this organization houses battered women and their children, and works to help them become self-sufficient. Through classes in baking, jewelry-making, and other activities, the center gives these eager women the chance to work and earn money for themselves and their children. While they have done so much, the association struggles as a result of a lack of funding. As it was quite clear that the volunteers are frustrated by how difficult operating on less than a sufficient budget has become, I came away racking my brain for ways in which such an association could raise funds. As with most initiatives relating to women and gender issues here, there is so much work to be done.
Gosh, this is getting a bit long. Hopefully, you are still there my friends! Right, so our next overnight stop was in a northern town called Chefchaouen. Located in the Spanish region of northern Morocco, the feel is unlike most of the other places I have been. Couched in the Rif Mountains and known for its blue and white-washed walls, the medina of Chefchaouen is perfect for a beautiful and relaxing stroll for weary travelers. We spent our time there visiting the Kasbah museum, eating a lot of couscous, and doing a fair amount of shopping. Our hotel was hilarious as the rooms had been decorated in the style of a room belonging to an 8 year old princess-they were PINK and had beds with canopies and elegant lace curtains. The boys in the group really enjoyed that night.
The final day of our trip saw us wind our way back from the mountains and towards our coastal home in Rabat. We spent the last ride in the van enjoying each other’s company and talking about how on earth facebook would handle the massive amount of pictures we wanted to upload. I have yet to attempt this task.
I don’t know if I have done the trip justice with my descriptions, but hopefully you feel like you came along for a bit of the journey. If you ever have the chance, do embark on a trip across Morocco-I promise you will discover the places and people I have mentioned. You will have your own unique encounter with this wonderful, generous, and incredibly diversified country. I wish I could’ve brought you all along with me, for it truly was a week of sights, sounds, and emotions I am eternally grateful for having experienced! Have a wonderful week and if you get the chance, give my fellow students and I a bit of thought…we have midterms! An Arabic midterm is a truly foreign concept to me…I had better go and bond with my books and flashcards! Love to all!

Hello again! It has been too long since we last met my dears! So much has unfolded since the stories of henna and that unforgettable trip to the hamman-the least of which is a complete transformation of life in Morocco! Whereas the days here once meant hunger, bad-tempered drivers, and quieter streets, daylight is now synonymous with the buzz of people shopping, going to work and school, and finally savoring all that yummy street food. The welcome return to normalcy arrived with the celebration of Eid Al-Fitr, the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. My Eid Al-Fitr was a day characterized by a large midday meal, delicious sweets, and endless visits by family and friends. For the first time since my arrival in the home stay, I was able to see my family enjoy breakfast, lunch, and a slew of snacking in between. I particularly enjoyed watching my little sister reintroduce herself to the joys of an ice cream beneath the rays of the afternoon sun.
I should mention that when I say family, I mean the thirty or so mothers, husbands, fathers, brothers, toddlers, etc. that are somehow related to Mama Hafida. The house was packed with happy Moroccans encouraging me to eat and eat and eat. I jokingly reminded them in broken French that during Ramadan, I had eaten enough to make up for all of their fasting-all this to no avail-Mama Hafida insisted I have yet another cookie…and more of that incredibly sweet mint tea. At first my western mind-set attempted to calculate the caloric intake-but I soon gave up as I heard echoes of the advice of my wise big brother back home-“enjoy the food while your there Katherine!” I know he loves Moroccan cookies…so I symbolically ate a few in honor of him…and then a few more. Oh well, when in Rome!
As a result of the holiday, I got Monday through Wednesday off. Monday was Eid, so I spent the whole day at home with family. On Tuesday and Wednesday, I explored a bit of Rabat with friends-we spent some time at the beach, drank coffee (and of course, reviewed Arabic vocab), and relaxed in the park. I managed to get a run in along the shoreline-its beauty is a hazard-I’m prone to tripping while distracted by the sparkle of the ocean. Oh, and I have to tell you, when I run in my basketball shorts here, I usually receive a couple marriage proposals per mile. They usually come from the window of a car of from men by the side of the road. I’m touched really because Lord knows I am not a pretty sight when fighting the heat and pain to get up a hill! Oh the silliness of those men! On both days, lunch was a bit of a guilty pleasure. We felt a bit sheepish about this in light of the generosity of our families, but as we were a bit overwhelmed by the Moroccan cuisine, we sought out pizza, Chinese, and anything that reminded our little tummies of home! Although a bit pricey, the westernized food was worth every bite and every exclamation about our favorite dishes back home. All in all, it was a glorious holiday spent lazing in the sun and basking in the relief that the strenuous schedule of Ramadan was a thing of the past!
On that Friday, the BU group hopped on an afternoon train and headed to Casablanca. The train we took was surprisingly modern and actually made the Boston Commuter Rail look a bit shabby! An hour long journey that exposed us to a bit more of Morocco, the trip to Casa was spent reviewing Arabic flashcards while surrounded by Moroccans eager to help with translation and pronunciation. In exchange for help with our words, we offered them English equivalents and A LOT of laughter. Good times. I always seem to end up talking to people here, even though I don’t know much of the Moroccan dialect-funny how the importance of words fades into oblivion when you consider the power of your eyes and smile.
So, to put it plainly, Casa was crazy-an expensive type of crazy. Referred to as the NYC of Morocco, it is a bustling metropolis seemingly intent on mimicking the culture and pace of a western city. Relieved to have a bit of freedom, the group checked in at the hotel and set about trying to find a fun place to get some dinner and unwind. We found just what we were looking for in a Spanish restaurant/club called Bodega. Delicious chicken quesadilla, sangria, and a hefty bill-Casa caters to wealthy Moroccans and westerners…not really to students. I do have to tell you that the Moroccan businessmen sitting next to our group of girls in the restaurant wasted no time in buying us a round of drinks and some pretty exotic shots (they were on fire when the waiter brought them to us…total craziness) …we were students on a budget-of course we accepted. A bit pleased with ourselves, we headed to the club downstairs and danced till the wee hours-refreshing after the past few weeks of a lot of family and taxing Arabic lessons. When we eventually woke up on Saturday, we headed to the gigantic Hassan II mosque. It is the third largest in the world…incredible and unfortunately, deemed by yours truly as beyond description. Hopefully the picture will it sum it up! My favorite part of the trip came later in the day-a visit to an old cathedral famous for the view offered by a trip to the top. Not only did we climb the tower, but we walked on the roof and saw the sun set over the gigantic city below. A freeing feeling to say the least. That night, we hit the swanky beach clubs and did out best to find the cheapest seaside bar willing to serve up some cold beers and perhaps a decent G&T for one of us…hehe. Other than acquiring flea bites on my legs that I am just now getting rid of and being accosted by annoying Moroccan males, the night was good. I will say, however, that by the end, I was ready to head home to Rabat for a free bed and meal. Thank God for Mama Hafida, her wonderful home, and her delicious cooking!
The past week has been spent learning A LOT of Arabic, further exploring women’s rights in Morocco, and analyzing Moroccan poetry. Although Arabic lessons dominate my schedule, there is much to compliment my slow progress with the tricky language. Quite simply, I am falling in love with the work I am doing here; reading about Moroccan history and the unique forms in which it is expressed. Poetry, prose and song reveal the struggles of the nation’s people across the pre- and post-colonial history. Abstract writings by remarkable Moroccan women perfectly communicate their feelings of hopelessness, frustration, and in occasional cases, their triumph. Late into the night, despite knowing I must wake up at seven to take breakfast with my family, I can’t resist turning the next page, drinking in the words, becoming enthused by a single nation’s narrative and realizing that I am here, now, living the present chapter alongside the very people I continue to marvel over.
I must leave you now-tomorrow I embark on an excursion across Morocco with my fellow students. I am most excited as I am told the trip includes a camel ride in the desert and a night at the million-star hotel! I can’t wait to tell you all about it. For now, there is shopping and packing to do, more of Mama Hafida’s food to consume, and a skype date with my dear family! If you see my mum, give her a hug for me…miss that lovely lady. Biselama!

Hello to all of you! I hope this past week has been a good one for you! For me, the week has been a week of several new social and sensory experiences. Monday’s main event was a football (soccer ) match on the beach with fellow CCCL students and a few locals. Before I go any further with details about the match, I should describe to you the extent of my football skills…I have none. While I managed to be alright as a defender, when it came to forging an offensive, I was fatally distracted by the volleyball match going on next door and the impressive ocean/beach scenery. My eight year old Moroccan teammate was not amused. In my defense, however, deep sand is not conducive to footie. So yes, I was on the losing team. Paddling in the cool ocean afterwards was fun though-I was tempted to redeem myself by showing off some swimming skills…I thought better of it though as I watched the massive waves smacking against the shore. Best not to get caught in an undercurrent whilst swimming off the coast of Morocco-Mummy wouldn’t like that.
Right, so while Monday was fairly ordinary, Tuesday stands as a landmark day in my Moroccan experience thus far. After a relatively intense two hours of Arabic, I returned home around five to find my sister and a close family friend waiting to take me to the himmam. I threw my toiletries in the communal bucket, grabbed some cash and a change of clothes and headed off to the public baths with them. When you first enter the himmam, you are in the changing area-a section with benches against the wall where women sit and chat, either undressing for a bath or drying off after spending an hour or so going between the three different rooms that constitute the traditional Moroccan bathhouse. The first room is the least steamy, while the third room is comparable to a sauna. My sister told me to undress and then the three of us made our way to the back room. It was hot and steamy with a large tap pouring forth very hot water into a large basin against the wall. I have never been particularly uncomfortable about communal nudity (I find it quite reassuring actually), so when I found myself surrounded by several naked Moroccan women, I wasn’t overcome by discomfort. Many of them were either sitting on mats surrounded by buckets of water or were at the pump collecting water for their baths. The close family friend also known as Kadaicha was quick to sit me down on a mat and surround me with buckets of steaming water. She handed me a scrubbing glove (referred to as a kiss here) and placed some brownish looking paste in my other hand. A bit confused, I went about doing the only thing that made sense-putting the paste all over me and scrubbing. Kadaicha watched me for a bit with the hint of a smile on her face and then attended to setting up a bathing station for my sister. So while I was sitting there rubbing this foreign brown paste all over my skin, the majority of nearby women were unabashedly staring at this clearly European/American lady who had obviously never been to the himmam. After rubbing down with the brown paste, assuming that I would just wash my hair and body like with any other bucket shower, I set to work getting clean! Oh, how naïve! After a few minutes, Kadaicha told me to sit on the stool that we had brought along…then she took the kiss and started scrubbing the entirety of my body…hard. Unabashedly, she scrubbed my skin for a good five minutes, sloughing off the flakes of dead skin as they appeared. It was intense, but an entirely rejuvenating experience. I spent some time marveling at the smoothness of a newly exposed layer of skin! Afterwards, I finished my bath, enjoyed the hot water on my freshly scrubbed body, and waited for my sister and Kadaicha to finish. We were in the back room of the himman for a good hour and a half-I was a bit dehydrated after so long and thus glad to get into the cool air of the evening and drink some water. Refreshed and sparkling, the three us made it home just in time to hear the evening call to prayer and tuck into yet another traditional iftar. I had heard my sister mention henna the night before, so I ate my dates and bread wondering just when henna was to take place. I didn’t have to wait too long! Before I could get any of my Arabic homework done, I was told to come upstairs and get henna! A neighbor who is a popular henna artist in the neighborhood came over and set to work covering my hands with intricate designs. After about thirty minutes, both hands were ornately decorated with beautiful designs. Just as the henna was becoming crusty, my mother covered my hands in a sticky paste that reeked of garlic and slid them both into nylon stockings. Just as I feared, I was told to sleep with my hands like so…for the whole night. Oh how I chastised myself for neglecting to remove my contacts or get into my pajamas beforehand. As you might have guessed, it was a miserable night with little sleep.
As if Tuesday night wasn’t exhausting enough, I decided to fast on Wednesday. Seeing as I didn’t eat the midnight dinner the night before or wake up for the early morning breakfast, I found fasting for the entirety of the day quite difficult. The librarian at the CCCL and my Arabic teacher were pleased I was fasting and not at all surprised when I stumbled through Arabic dictations and pronunciation. The encouraging and entirely sympathetic eyes of my Arabic teacher just stared back at me as I tried to forget hunger and focus on alif, baa, taa… Anyway, I can tell you that fasting for the day certainly made me appreciate the iftar and even the late night dinner that, for the first time since my arrival at the homestay, I took part in. My mother, fully aware that I had been fasting, took great pleasure in inundating me with food throughout both meals. Sadly, by Thursday morning, I came to fully regret the entire fasting experience. Out of what I can only conceive as being sheer shock, my stomach spent the whole of Wednesday night battling with all the food I had suddenly taken in. Unfortunately, my stomach was having none of it and by the morning, made it very clear that Thursday was to be a miserable day of multiple trips to the loo and relentless pain seering through my abdomen. The cook at the center kindly provided me with a banana and told me to eat it with a few glasses of water. Dear Brahim, so thoughtful and helpful in his assessment of my frequent toilet trips! I should also mention that I was entirely grateful that my little sister related to my mother that, as I was feeling quite ill, my evening meal should remain quite small. Praise for minimalist meals! After managing to eat a bit, out of a desire to feel the comforting presence of my real mother and my sympathetic brother, I dashed off to the internet café to skype with them. A welcome conversation, but also a struggle. Hard to realize that as I end the call, they are once again my dear family…miles and miles away. Still, although physically absent from my life at the moment, the sound of their voices and visions of their smiles are very much within me here.
By finishing off the week with a Friday night excursion with fellow students to a nearby hookah bar, I can safely say the past five days have honestly plunged me into the Moroccan experience. Whether experiencing intense communal bathing, dealing with an unprecedented change in diet, or simply letting the pulsing, smoky hookah bar relax me, I spent the week celebrating community, negotiating with my confused and at times, anxious body, and continuously accumulating moments of laughter and delicious discovery. It’s time to attend to the weekend now… and the end of Ramadan! Eid Mubarak! Details from the holiday soon I hope! All my love to you my dears…if you will, admire the changing colours of the leaves for me!