By the time we were ready to leave for Granada, our journey was approaching the ninth day mark, and we were all exhausted and re-wearing the few clothes that we’d brought to Morocco for the second or third time in a row. A rough bus ride on narrow and winding mountain roads between Malaga to Granada didn’t exactly help anyone’s spirits – that is, until we arrived at our designated meeting point, which was a gorgeous four star hotel in downtown Granada that ISA had booked for the weekend to commemorate our last big school excursion. Cecily and were placed as roommates, (as always) and when we opened the room to our door and saw a decked out bathroom and two king sized beds, neither of us could contain our excitement. I nearly hit the ceiling jumping on the beds, and both of us took excessively long showers to celebrate the existence of full sized bathtubs and HOT (not just luke-warm!) water.
Over the weekend we toured all through the gorgeous city with our program advisors, and learned a lot more about Granada’s history in relation to the rest of Spain. Until the end of the 15th century Granada was under Arabic rule, so most of the architecture and a huge part of the region’s culture have a strong Arabic and Muslim influence. The mix of Spanish and middle-eastern culture was fascinating: we walked through the city’s Arabic marketplace, (not quite to the level of Fez, but Granada’s had WAY better prices) went to a tea and hookah bar, (they infuse honey into the spices to make it extra sweet – best tea I’ve ever had!) and visited La Alhambra, a preeminent 8th century royal palace overlooking the city that has miles of winding gardens, hand carved marble and wood architecture, and thirteen centuries worth of rich and fascinating history.
Our last night, we went to an authentic Flamenco show in an intimate little venue on the edge of the city. Despite the informal set up, (the dancers just casually walked onto stage, talked for awhile, then began playing their instruments and dancing when they felt like it) the performance was absolutely incredible, and exceeded my already high expectations. There were five dancers – two men and three women, and they all had very distinct and passionate styles. Here is a video of my favorite dancer, the man who we aptly titled “the epic flamenco dancer”
Monday, December 7, 2009
Malaga and the Costa del Sol
After a fully exhausting experience in Morocco, ten of us from my program decided to break off and spend two days in Malaga (Thursday and Friday) before heading back up to Granada (Friday night through Sunday) to meet up with the rest of our group for our final school excursion with ISA.
Looking back on a full week of squatty potties, uncomfortable bus rides and questionable Moroccan food, it was an absolute oasis to arrive in beautiful Malaga, a coastal resort town in the south of Spain along the Costa del Sol that is/was home to the handsome Antonio Banderas and the one and only, Pablo Picasso.
We arrived at the hostel my friend Theo booked, and I was immediately taken aback when I saw the name: “La Casa Mata,” which literally translates in English to “The Kill House.” We walked in, and expecting to see red splattered walls and backlights, I was surprised to a find a bright, neon painted living room and a very welcoming Spanish man in his late 50’s who was a perfect throwback to the 1970s era. (He had super shaggy, long hair, was blaring classic rock music at the check-in desk, and wore a leather jacket, fitted jeans, and sandals.) He showed us up three flights of stairs to our room full of bunk beds, and within a few hours we were all very comfortable and happy with our quirky little hostel.
The next two days went by quickly – during the day we visited the Picasso museum, (incredible; it showcased some of Picasso’s original work from when he was 15 years old, all the way through the final pieces he did in his early 70s) explored the beautiful Alcazaba, (an 8th century castle that covers an entire hill overlooking the city) and of course, enjoyed the warm sunshine and spent time just relaxing all together on the beach.
See below for the view of Malaga from the top of the Alcazaba:
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Looking back on a full week of squatty potties, uncomfortable bus rides and questionable Moroccan food, it was an absolute oasis to arrive in beautiful Malaga, a coastal resort town in the south of Spain along the Costa del Sol that is/was home to the handsome Antonio Banderas and the one and only, Pablo Picasso.
We arrived at the hostel my friend Theo booked, and I was immediately taken aback when I saw the name: “La Casa Mata,” which literally translates in English to “The Kill House.” We walked in, and expecting to see red splattered walls and backlights, I was surprised to a find a bright, neon painted living room and a very welcoming Spanish man in his late 50’s who was a perfect throwback to the 1970s era. (He had super shaggy, long hair, was blaring classic rock music at the check-in desk, and wore a leather jacket, fitted jeans, and sandals.) He showed us up three flights of stairs to our room full of bunk beds, and within a few hours we were all very comfortable and happy with our quirky little hostel.
The next two days went by quickly – during the day we visited the Picasso museum, (incredible; it showcased some of Picasso’s original work from when he was 15 years old, all the way through the final pieces he did in his early 70s) explored the beautiful Alcazaba, (an 8th century castle that covers an entire hill overlooking the city) and of course, enjoyed the warm sunshine and spent time just relaxing all together on the beach.
See below for the view of Malaga from the top of the Alcazaba:
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Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Chapter Three: The Sahara Desert and Why Morocco Moved Me
When I imagined all the amazing experiences I’d have while studying abroad in Spain, riding on the back of a camel and snowboarding down sand dunes weren’t exactly on my list. That being said, by the time we’d left Fez and headed to the edge of the great Sahara, I was so culture shocked by this whole excursion that I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Day or night, the Sahara Desert is captivatingly beautiful in a strange and extraterrestrial kind of way. Just imagine thousands and thousands of miles worth of piled sand, untouched by human footprints, which changes colors and patterns with the wind and the sunlight throughout the day. When we first arrived it was several hours past sunset, and the sand was glowing a dark red beneath the full moon and a deep blue sky. Immediately after putting our stuff inside the tents, the girls and I went to explore – running up hills of sand and cartwheeling down, then hiking up to the top of the biggest dunes, and burying our feet beneath the sand where the temperature was still warm from the midday sun.
Sitting on the edge of a steep dune, the six of us buried ourselves in sand, and gazed up at the bright stars, which looked so much closer and brighter than any of the stars I’ve ever seen on my continent. Something about the simplicity, and emptiness of this place was incredibly peaceful. How interesting that a vast desert could be a kind of natural haven from the complexity of the rest of the world.
The next morning, we woke up at dusk, and hiked into the desert with the bereberes (the people who live in the desert and run the tourist camp – pronounced “berry berries” by the Spanish) where we found a good view from the top of a sand dune to watch the sun rise. The formerly red sand turned a bright gold, then faded into yellow and orange as the sun rose higher into the early morning sky. Everyone tried to capture it in pictures, but quickly realized that it was futile. A 4 x 6 in. photo couldn’t even begin to touch the beauty that our eyes and senses were taking in.
After the sun had officially risen, we headed back to camp and “befriended” one of the Berbers named Ouhana Mohamed, who was very outgoing, and immediately started conversation with us as we were walking. Most of the Berbers get less than a middle school education, but speak five to six different languages, which they pick up from tourists that visit the area. Ouhana was no exception – he spoke Arabic, Italian, some German, some Chineese, and pretty good Spanish, which was our language of choice. So after pulling us feet first down a few sand dunes, he brought us to a larger dune, let us try on his traditional dress and took our pictures… then pulled out a backpack full of jewelry and fossil rocks that he said he would sell to us for “muy buen precio” (“very good price.”)
Once we returned to camp, the day became all kinds of eventful, with a camel ride through the desert, hiking up giant dunes, visiting a Saharan village, and an evening dance party with the Berbers. A lot of these experiences I got on film – so here’s a few tidbits for you to enjoy:
First, introducing my camel, Bob Marley. (He came pre-named.)
Lucky for us, Bob was a trooper and didn’t throw a fit when we tried to get up on him. (Unlike some of the others, who dealt with pissy and bucking camels. Not a fun experience, from what it looked like.)
While riding the camel, Cecily and I decided that it was necessary to do a rendition of Aladdin’s “Arabian Nights” song. We might have made up half the words, and missed the correct key by several notes… but for memories sake, I suppose it’s still worth posting :p
VIDEO
After riding Bob out into the dunes, we began our big and very challenging hike up to the top of the largest sand dunes, where we could see the border between Morocco and Algeria. If you’ve ever walked or ran on the beach, you have some idea as to how this hike must have felt – except instead of walking flat on several feet of sand, we hiked straight up a good quarter mile high sandcastle that would occasionally avalanche if you got the footing wrong. Needless to say, reaching the very top was a true accomplishment.
…And then of course Noele our program guide brought a snowboard, which I quickly pounced on the opportunity to try out from the top of the dune. There wasn’t much time to do anything fancy, so I just found the highest part of the dune that I could, strapped in, and went for it. Sadly, the video doesn’t do it much justice – but let me tell you. Snowboarding down a sand dune in the Sahara Desert is at the very top of the “life accomplishments” list in my book. :)
By the time we did our village tour everyone was absolutely exhausted, dehydrated (they didn’t tell us we’d be leaving all day, so almost no one brought water) and very ready to head back to camp. That being said, the two hour long tour of the village was incredibly sad and eye opening, and really gave us a view into the reality of life in a developing country. I didn’t get many pictures, but the few I have are very telling – skinny little kids with mismatched clothing, a school house with cracked walls and bare, exposed light bulbs, big Coca Cola signs at the village hub, which was clearly designed for tourists to buy cheap candy and soda for 10 durhams a piece. (10 durhams = 1 euro = roughly $1.50.)
At the end of our tour we walked a mile and a half back to camp, listening to the midday prayer over blaring speakers that echoed it hauntingly through the desert.
In my first in these series of posts, I mentioned that Morocco was hard to describe – it both moved, and deeply bothered me in ways that I didn’t expect, and am still trying to find words to explain. My friend Kevin is a fellow aspiring journalist, and did an EXCELLENT job capturing some of these feelings by interviewing people on our program, and taking video throughout our trip. Watch his video, (made much more professionally than my vlogs :) ) and hopefully you’ll get a better sense of our whole experience.
Day or night, the Sahara Desert is captivatingly beautiful in a strange and extraterrestrial kind of way. Just imagine thousands and thousands of miles worth of piled sand, untouched by human footprints, which changes colors and patterns with the wind and the sunlight throughout the day. When we first arrived it was several hours past sunset, and the sand was glowing a dark red beneath the full moon and a deep blue sky. Immediately after putting our stuff inside the tents, the girls and I went to explore – running up hills of sand and cartwheeling down, then hiking up to the top of the biggest dunes, and burying our feet beneath the sand where the temperature was still warm from the midday sun.
Sitting on the edge of a steep dune, the six of us buried ourselves in sand, and gazed up at the bright stars, which looked so much closer and brighter than any of the stars I’ve ever seen on my continent. Something about the simplicity, and emptiness of this place was incredibly peaceful. How interesting that a vast desert could be a kind of natural haven from the complexity of the rest of the world.
The next morning, we woke up at dusk, and hiked into the desert with the bereberes (the people who live in the desert and run the tourist camp – pronounced “berry berries” by the Spanish) where we found a good view from the top of a sand dune to watch the sun rise. The formerly red sand turned a bright gold, then faded into yellow and orange as the sun rose higher into the early morning sky. Everyone tried to capture it in pictures, but quickly realized that it was futile. A 4 x 6 in. photo couldn’t even begin to touch the beauty that our eyes and senses were taking in.
After the sun had officially risen, we headed back to camp and “befriended” one of the Berbers named Ouhana Mohamed, who was very outgoing, and immediately started conversation with us as we were walking. Most of the Berbers get less than a middle school education, but speak five to six different languages, which they pick up from tourists that visit the area. Ouhana was no exception – he spoke Arabic, Italian, some German, some Chineese, and pretty good Spanish, which was our language of choice. So after pulling us feet first down a few sand dunes, he brought us to a larger dune, let us try on his traditional dress and took our pictures… then pulled out a backpack full of jewelry and fossil rocks that he said he would sell to us for “muy buen precio” (“very good price.”)
Once we returned to camp, the day became all kinds of eventful, with a camel ride through the desert, hiking up giant dunes, visiting a Saharan village, and an evening dance party with the Berbers. A lot of these experiences I got on film – so here’s a few tidbits for you to enjoy:
First, introducing my camel, Bob Marley. (He came pre-named.)
Lucky for us, Bob was a trooper and didn’t throw a fit when we tried to get up on him. (Unlike some of the others, who dealt with pissy and bucking camels. Not a fun experience, from what it looked like.)
While riding the camel, Cecily and I decided that it was necessary to do a rendition of Aladdin’s “Arabian Nights” song. We might have made up half the words, and missed the correct key by several notes… but for memories sake, I suppose it’s still worth posting :p
VIDEO
After riding Bob out into the dunes, we began our big and very challenging hike up to the top of the largest sand dunes, where we could see the border between Morocco and Algeria. If you’ve ever walked or ran on the beach, you have some idea as to how this hike must have felt – except instead of walking flat on several feet of sand, we hiked straight up a good quarter mile high sandcastle that would occasionally avalanche if you got the footing wrong. Needless to say, reaching the very top was a true accomplishment.
…And then of course Noele our program guide brought a snowboard, which I quickly pounced on the opportunity to try out from the top of the dune. There wasn’t much time to do anything fancy, so I just found the highest part of the dune that I could, strapped in, and went for it. Sadly, the video doesn’t do it much justice – but let me tell you. Snowboarding down a sand dune in the Sahara Desert is at the very top of the “life accomplishments” list in my book. :)
By the time we did our village tour everyone was absolutely exhausted, dehydrated (they didn’t tell us we’d be leaving all day, so almost no one brought water) and very ready to head back to camp. That being said, the two hour long tour of the village was incredibly sad and eye opening, and really gave us a view into the reality of life in a developing country. I didn’t get many pictures, but the few I have are very telling – skinny little kids with mismatched clothing, a school house with cracked walls and bare, exposed light bulbs, big Coca Cola signs at the village hub, which was clearly designed for tourists to buy cheap candy and soda for 10 durhams a piece. (10 durhams = 1 euro = roughly $1.50.)
At the end of our tour we walked a mile and a half back to camp, listening to the midday prayer over blaring speakers that echoed it hauntingly through the desert.
In my first in these series of posts, I mentioned that Morocco was hard to describe – it both moved, and deeply bothered me in ways that I didn’t expect, and am still trying to find words to explain. My friend Kevin is a fellow aspiring journalist, and did an EXCELLENT job capturing some of these feelings by interviewing people on our program, and taking video throughout our trip. Watch his video, (made much more professionally than my vlogs :) ) and hopefully you’ll get a better sense of our whole experience.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Chapter Two: The Ancient City of Fez
I am thoroughly convinced that Disney found its inspiration for the movie "Aladdin" after visiting the city of Fez.From a birds eye view, the city's winding maze of streets are completely hidden between thousands of ivory and sand colored buildings that flood the valley floor. Looking down at Fez with foreign eyes, the world's largest Arabic marketplace (known as the "Medina") is nothing but a cluster of indistinguishable buildings; the perfect hiding place for a handsome, princess-seeking convict - or in our case, a collection of aggressive and skilled salesmen, ready to welcome the parade of American visitors with foreign credit cards.
From the minute we stepped foot on Fez's hot, dusty, streets, it was clear that our presence was going to make a big stir across town. As we gathered outside our bus, children with cheap jewelry and key chains immediately ran up to us, saying "good price! good price!" and a large crowd of men gathered in the chairs out front of the nearby cafe, saying things like "hello beautiful" and "oh, the women. I can smell the honey coming...." to the girls as we walked by.
[In my video of us walking through the Medina, you can hear the man I pass by saying that, if you listen really closely.]
Even with a "traditional Moroccan" tour guide, as 75 young Americans, wearing clearly foreign and out of place clothing in the middle of an Arabic country, (women traditionally wear Burkahs in Morocco, so our jeans and long sleeve shirts were our attempt at being modest) it was absolutely impossible for us not to make a huge spectacle of ourselves.
Following our tour guide (who wore the traditional dress-like business uniform, but carried a brand new blackberry that rang to the tone of "I've got a Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas) we entered the labyrinth of marketplace streets in a long, crowded line, and were navigated through the ancient maze of streets, into pre-chosen shopping locations throughout the city. (Check out my video of us walking through the Medina, below.)
Although we were given glimpses of the "real" marketplace - fish stands, fruit and vegetable displays, countless shops with handmade pottery and silverware, or freestanding stores full of nicknack's - our tour brought us specifically to several of the more touristy locations, where ready salesmen told us all about their preeminent products, and mentioned the word "discount," using every synonym possible. At every store, we were led to believe that the prices were completely subjective to bargaining with the help of our "guide," (who we later realized got commission, of course) so coming in with this naive trust, it took a few stores before we realized that there were clear tactics that the salesmen were skilled in, and ready to use on us.
The very first store we visited was incredible - a six-story leather shop, with purses, shoes, bean bag shells, wallets, jackets, and every item you can imagine in leather, hanging from the walls and ceilings. From the sixth story balcony, we looked out below at the sight of a famous National Geographic photo: the leather pools, where all of the exorbitant leather goods are made and colored by shirtless male workers, sitting in the hot sun, and working in pools of colorful dye. The man who owned the shop was young - not much older than us, (his father owned the business and recently passed it down to him) and he was dressed impeccably in freshly ironed Armani jeans, shiny leather shoes, and a black leather jacket. He pointed over the balcony, and briefly mentioned the workers - emphasizing more the quality of the dye, and clear intricacy of his store's handy work. I later asked our guide, and found out that the workers are paid by the day, not the hour, and work 12-14 hour days for a very low wage. (Need to confirm this, but the original estimate was about 1 to 2 American dollars per hour.)
That really put alot into perspective when I was sold (without being given much of a choice, after they quoted me a price then literally grabbed my credit card out of my hand) a handmade, tailored leather jacket, for what equates to nearly a week's worth of labor in these men's lives.
After the leather shop, we visited an apothecary, a linen and dress shop, and a carpet store, where we were given the most direct and obvious sales pitch of the day. The carpet store was huge, with giant carpets draping down from three stories up, and filling entire rooms. We sat down in the center of the building, and were handed super sweet mint tea (´an aphrodesiac´ they were quick to point out) while listening to the owner´s 20 minute sales pitch about why we should buy a carpet. Highlights include: how our parents would be so proud of us for making a ¨valuable financial investment,¨ how carpets are great for ¨the jiggy jiggy¨ (as he put it), how America and Morocco are good friends, (Morocco was the first country to officially recognize the US in1776) and my favorite: how women are financially equal, so we have just as much a right to buy a carpet as any man.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The First Chapter: Getting to Morocco
When I first signed up for the ISA excursion to Morocco, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Our program director gave me a map, a short itinerary and suggested packing list, and attatched a small warning in the footnote: " habrá muchas horas en el autobús" ("There will be many hours in a tour bus.")
Three weeks later, I woke up in a squished fetal position against the glass window of our tour bus, and looked down at my cell phone to discover that it was exactly 6:00am: twelve hours after we had first left Salamanca with backpacks full of granola bars, water, and extra toilet paper; ready and optimistic for the adventure ahead.
As the bus rumbled to slow stop, everyone gathered their bags and shuffled half asleep into the ferry port which marked our halfway point (aka 12 more hours to go) before reaching our destination in the city of Fez. The initial sense of enthusiasm in everyone’s expression had by then turned into tired and grumpy apathy, until our hour-long ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar ended with a funny realization: we had reached the continent of Africa, but were still in Spain. (I don’t know about you, but I never studied geography close enough to realize that Spain had territory in Africa.)
Bribery at the Border
All 150 American ISA students (50 in each group) paraded out from the ferries, and we all hopped back onto our three giant tour busses to head toward the border of Morocco which was 45 minutes away. As we got closer along the coast, our program director warned us that we were not allowed to take pictures anywhere near the border (you’ll be thrown in jail) and that normally, it can take upwards of three to four hours for a group our size to get through. Lucky for us, they slipped some extra money to the border patrol in our first few passports, (yay for bribery!) and Carlos [program director] assured us that it would speed up the process to let us through between one and two hours at the most.
Somewhere before the border I fell asleep, but was woken up about an hour later to a loud beeping noise, and Cecily shaking me and telling me to sit up and take the blanket off my head. I opened my eyes and saw a man dressed in an official looking uniform with a strange laser gun-like contraption in his hand, pointing it straight at the forehead of the girl sitting in the seat behind me. At first I was really scared – then Cecily explained that it was a thermometer, taking people’s temperatures to make sure that none of us had the swine flu. Although by that point I was recovered, a week before I had been sick with a 102 temperature, so I was really glad that he didn't have patience and skipped me. In a little over an hour we were through the border stop, and Carlos was right: after seeing the money, they skimmed over our passports and cordially let us through.
Reflections from the Window
The second we crossed the border, it was very clear that we weren’t in Spain anymore. The style of dress completely changed, from Spain's fancy heels and tights look to patterned burkahs and flat, leather shoes. All the signs and building names were written in Arabic and French, and the only english to be found were the ads everywhere for stores selling Coca Cola. Right at the border, there were nearly 100 taxi cabs sitting and waiting to drive people, lined up next to a hill covered in burning trash.
As we drove further away from the city and into the countryside, more drastic contrasts began. Men would ride by on small scooters, with women covered in colorful burkahs, hanging onto a seat built on the back end. As our tour bus passed by on one side of the road, men with donkeys trotted past on the other, and children with bare feet would run alongside the trash covered hills toward our busses, waving and putting their hands out to beg. Throughout the trip, Cecily and I adopted the phrase TIA: “This is Africa” from a Swahili rap artist who used the phrase to describe the poverty and disparity in third world countries that shocks first world citizens, and is beyond explanation. From inside our glass window, this was our first experience with TIA – the first of many more to come. 
Peeing Behind Shrubs and Sheep
Four hours into the border, I woke up again from my seemingly constant nap, but this time because I had to pee. At least half the bus agreed – and the bus driver pulled off to the side of the road, and said something along the lines of “good luck” as we stared out the window to a completely flat and uncovered stretch of dirt, with ankle high desert shrubs that were our closest hope for any kind of privacy.
In honor of this experience, I decided to take a video:
Looking Out From the Balcony
By the time we’d reached Fez it was nearly dinner, something like twenty six hours after we first got on our bus from Spain. Everyone was exhausted, and our hotel beds felt like clouds compared to the rigid bus seats that barely recline. Looking out from the balcony of our hotel, Fez by night was absolutely beautiful. Colored fountains and palm trees were lit up between buildings with traditional Arabic architecture, and in the central square, a web of white Christmas-esque lights draped over a wide, sandstone colored walkway. Cecily and I wished that we could join the boys and go explore, but watching women walk by in completely covered clothing, followed closely by their male escorts, we immediately realized that we were in a very different country. One that wasn’t safe for us, where we were not equal. We watched from the balcony, and wondered what the next few days would be like; entering a completely different culture, and stepping into a world that we knew and understand little about.
Three weeks later, I woke up in a squished fetal position against the glass window of our tour bus, and looked down at my cell phone to discover that it was exactly 6:00am: twelve hours after we had first left Salamanca with backpacks full of granola bars, water, and extra toilet paper; ready and optimistic for the adventure ahead.
As the bus rumbled to slow stop, everyone gathered their bags and shuffled half asleep into the ferry port which marked our halfway point (aka 12 more hours to go) before reaching our destination in the city of Fez. The initial sense of enthusiasm in everyone’s expression had by then turned into tired and grumpy apathy, until our hour-long ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar ended with a funny realization: we had reached the continent of Africa, but were still in Spain. (I don’t know about you, but I never studied geography close enough to realize that Spain had territory in Africa.)
Bribery at the Border
All 150 American ISA students (50 in each group) paraded out from the ferries, and we all hopped back onto our three giant tour busses to head toward the border of Morocco which was 45 minutes away. As we got closer along the coast, our program director warned us that we were not allowed to take pictures anywhere near the border (you’ll be thrown in jail) and that normally, it can take upwards of three to four hours for a group our size to get through. Lucky for us, they slipped some extra money to the border patrol in our first few passports, (yay for bribery!) and Carlos [program director] assured us that it would speed up the process to let us through between one and two hours at the most.
Somewhere before the border I fell asleep, but was woken up about an hour later to a loud beeping noise, and Cecily shaking me and telling me to sit up and take the blanket off my head. I opened my eyes and saw a man dressed in an official looking uniform with a strange laser gun-like contraption in his hand, pointing it straight at the forehead of the girl sitting in the seat behind me. At first I was really scared – then Cecily explained that it was a thermometer, taking people’s temperatures to make sure that none of us had the swine flu. Although by that point I was recovered, a week before I had been sick with a 102 temperature, so I was really glad that he didn't have patience and skipped me. In a little over an hour we were through the border stop, and Carlos was right: after seeing the money, they skimmed over our passports and cordially let us through.
Reflections from the Window
The second we crossed the border, it was very clear that we weren’t in Spain anymore. The style of dress completely changed, from Spain's fancy heels and tights look to patterned burkahs and flat, leather shoes. All the signs and building names were written in Arabic and French, and the only english to be found were the ads everywhere for stores selling Coca Cola. Right at the border, there were nearly 100 taxi cabs sitting and waiting to drive people, lined up next to a hill covered in burning trash.
As we drove further away from the city and into the countryside, more drastic contrasts began. Men would ride by on small scooters, with women covered in colorful burkahs, hanging onto a seat built on the back end. As our tour bus passed by on one side of the road, men with donkeys trotted past on the other, and children with bare feet would run alongside the trash covered hills toward our busses, waving and putting their hands out to beg. Throughout the trip, Cecily and I adopted the phrase TIA: “This is Africa” from a Swahili rap artist who used the phrase to describe the poverty and disparity in third world countries that shocks first world citizens, and is beyond explanation. From inside our glass window, this was our first experience with TIA – the first of many more to come. Peeing Behind Shrubs and Sheep
Four hours into the border, I woke up again from my seemingly constant nap, but this time because I had to pee. At least half the bus agreed – and the bus driver pulled off to the side of the road, and said something along the lines of “good luck” as we stared out the window to a completely flat and uncovered stretch of dirt, with ankle high desert shrubs that were our closest hope for any kind of privacy.
In honor of this experience, I decided to take a video:
A few hours later, we took another notable bathroom stop in the middle of a valley, right where a pastor had led his giant group of sheep. I felt terrible for the man – he had clearly spent a long time getting the entire group together, and looked pretty bewildered as over a hundred loud and strangely dressed foreigners poured out of tour busses and chased his sheep into all directions while finding a place to pee. We didn't have much of a choice to go anywhere else - but I decided just to hold it and wait by the bus with a couple others who felt morally wrong to disturb the poor sheep. In the end it didn't matter much - the flock scattered and we left. But something about the whole experience really struck me.
Looking Out From the Balcony
By the time we’d reached Fez it was nearly dinner, something like twenty six hours after we first got on our bus from Spain. Everyone was exhausted, and our hotel beds felt like clouds compared to the rigid bus seats that barely recline. Looking out from the balcony of our hotel, Fez by night was absolutely beautiful. Colored fountains and palm trees were lit up between buildings with traditional Arabic architecture, and in the central square, a web of white Christmas-esque lights draped over a wide, sandstone colored walkway. Cecily and I wished that we could join the boys and go explore, but watching women walk by in completely covered clothing, followed closely by their male escorts, we immediately realized that we were in a very different country. One that wasn’t safe for us, where we were not equal. We watched from the balcony, and wondered what the next few days would be like; entering a completely different culture, and stepping into a world that we knew and understand little about.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Busses, Taxis, Ferries, Jeeps and Camels: Making Sense of It All
Eleven days later, and I've never been so thankful to return home to my warm and cozy bed, with Mari Carmen's home cooking, toilets I can sit on, hot showers, drinkable water, and folded, CLEAN laundrey that doesn't smell like cigarette smoke and the Sahara desert.
The last week and a half was nothing short of an epic adventure, with over 70 hours of traveling by bus from Salamanca to Madrid, Madrid to Malaga, Malaga to Morocco, Morocco to the border of Algeria, then back again in reverse, plus a three day excursion to Granada somewhere inbetween. Three days later and counting, I'm still recovering from it all... looking back at pictures, sorting out a whirlwind of strong emotions, trying desperately to get my mind into miterm mode, and meanwhile, coming to terms with the fact that my adventure is already over halfway done.
Six and a half weeks in, my body is ready to rest. My mind is working on overtime to make sense of it all. Every day is a beautiful adventure, but silent moments remind me of home. The other reality far away, with so many people I love and miss, that I only feel connected to by periodic phone calls and stalking tagged pictures on facebook.
My internal compass went haywire the minute I stepped on the plane from America, and now it's seeking vengance. What used to be strange and foreign to me about Spain, is now a comforting routine - by contrast of living out of a backpack, eating "granola" bars, and sleeping on public transportation.
My crazy adventure from last two weeks has so many pieces to it - incredable experiences, funny stories, serious realizations about life - and there's so much I want to share with you. SO, although it might take awhile to finnish, (each video alone takes 30-45 minutes to upload on Spanish internet :( ) I am going to dedicate the next several blogs to giving you a window into this foreign world I've discovered, and all the little pieces of it that are changing the way I see the world.
The last week and a half was nothing short of an epic adventure, with over 70 hours of traveling by bus from Salamanca to Madrid, Madrid to Malaga, Malaga to Morocco, Morocco to the border of Algeria, then back again in reverse, plus a three day excursion to Granada somewhere inbetween. Three days later and counting, I'm still recovering from it all... looking back at pictures, sorting out a whirlwind of strong emotions, trying desperately to get my mind into miterm mode, and meanwhile, coming to terms with the fact that my adventure is already over halfway done.
Six and a half weeks in, my body is ready to rest. My mind is working on overtime to make sense of it all. Every day is a beautiful adventure, but silent moments remind me of home. The other reality far away, with so many people I love and miss, that I only feel connected to by periodic phone calls and stalking tagged pictures on facebook.
My internal compass went haywire the minute I stepped on the plane from America, and now it's seeking vengance. What used to be strange and foreign to me about Spain, is now a comforting routine - by contrast of living out of a backpack, eating "granola" bars, and sleeping on public transportation.
My crazy adventure from last two weeks has so many pieces to it - incredable experiences, funny stories, serious realizations about life - and there's so much I want to share with you. SO, although it might take awhile to finnish, (each video alone takes 30-45 minutes to upload on Spanish internet :( ) I am going to dedicate the next several blogs to giving you a window into this foreign world I've discovered, and all the little pieces of it that are changing the way I see the world.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Midday Prayer
Six times per day in most Muslim countries, an arabic prayer is blasted through the streets of every major city, echoing from giant bullhorns and speakers atop houses and mosques.
This video was taken from the rooftop of a carpet store in Fez (central Morocco) at 2pm on Halloween afternoon.
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