I am a blogging slacker. I have come to terms with it and I think you all should too. Believe me- not writing pains me just as much, in fact most likely infinitely more, than not reading about my Moroccan escapades pains you. The good news is it has been an action-packed five weeks. The lack of “bloggage” is not at all indicative of a lack of blog-worthy events. In fact, just the opposite is true. Somewhere in between the Mediterranean-hopping, midterm-cramming, and deep cultural contemplations, blogging got shoved to the backburner. But I am back in the game as they say! My head is spinning with musings at such speeds that my fingers can’t type fast enough! So here we go. I will do my best to sum up the most noteworthy moments of this last Moroccan month without writing an epic. Wish me luck!

Madrid
Si, si…I am well aware that Madrid is in fact not in Morocco and I am supposed to be recapping my Moroccan experiences here. However, my trans-Mediterranean jaunt has been one of the highlights of my trip and this blog entry is not complete without it!

If I had to sum up the weekend in one word it would be “connection.” If I could use three I would also say ‘tapas’ and ‘sangria’…but let’s stick to the first. At the risk of sounding incredibly cheesy, my trip to Madrid showed me the value, stamina and outright fun of human connection.

I traveled with my friends Natalie and Kayla, both international students like me at Al Akhawayn. One of Ramadan’s many assets is that its end entails a five day weekend and a prime opportunity for cheap transcontinental travel! Though I half-lamented not being in Morocco for the Aid feast which brings the holy month to a close, I was nonetheless thrilled at the chance to jet off to Spain. I was looking forward to a little dose of Europe, not to mention a respite from multilingual communication. My Arabic and French skills, although far from proficient, are a hot commodity in Morocco and at times boost my popularity as a travel buddy. My Spanish vocab on the other hand, consisting of ‘taco’, ‘burrito’ and ‘hot tamale’, gave me an excuse to sit back and let someone else do the talking!

Before we set off, Natalie worked up the nerve to call her father’s former Spanish exchange student, now a successful middle-aged oil advertising executive living in Madrid. Somewhere back in the mid 1970s a high-school Spanish boy from Madrid named José decided to complete his senior year of high school in a small Wisconsin town. Meanwhile, an all-American Midwestern family decided to open their home to an international student. Hence- José meets Bob. Some thirty years later Bob will send his oldest daughter Natalie off to Morocco. Natalie will find a cheap flight to Madrid. Bob will remember how much he liked José and tell his daughter to call him. José in turn will remember how Bob taught him English, played soccer with him, and during that year in small-town Wisconsin became like a big brother. And, because of an international connection forged between two adolescent boys three decades ago, José will pick Natalie and her friends up from the airport, leave them the keys to his apartment for the weekend, buy them groceries, and call up his twenty-something year old neighbors to show the girls around Madrid. The connection web begins…

We met Miguel and Alex after they came home from playing football- not the beer-belly macho American variety mind you but the all-consuming phenomenon that is sweeping the rest of the world save the U.S. “What time do you usually go to bed?” They asked us. “Are you okay staying out until 5 or 6 a.m.?” I laughed. What kind of crazy night-owl insomniacs stay out until 5 a.m.!? Well, as it turns out, just about every Madridian between the ages of 14 and 45!

For “dinner” we ate plates of tapas at 11p.m. My friend Becca, a Knoxville native like myself who is studying in Madrid, met us for dinner and brought her friend Megan along. I will not name names but I daresay that the next in a series of connections began to form that evening. Let’s just say that this chance meeting between our Spanish guides and our friends may have inspired an international romance or two. Or, if nothing else, they gained some new Spanish friends to show them around the city.

Later that weekend, Natalie called Rachel, an old high school friend who now lives in Madrid. After a semester abroad in Madrid two years ago, Rachel did what most of us would only dream of doing. She stayed. She fell in love with the city, presumably the language as well, and had the courage to up and transfer her credits, her clothes, and essentially her life to this foreign city. Although she only had a couple years of textbook Spanish under her belt then, Rachel now speaks like a native, lisp and all! The only thing that betrays her nationality is her blond hair. I was impressed by her sense of adventure and sense of self. She really proved to me that we can write our own stories and to a certain degree make life unfold as we wish it to.

Ok, now back to the theme here…It turns out that Rachel had interned at the very same office that Becca is currently working for in Madrid. The two girls bonded over work gossip about the staff of Hot English, a Madrid-based English language magazine aimed to teach Spaniards English. Perhaps it is a small coincidence that Becca should happen to intern at Rachel’s former post; however, when I thought about all the coincidences and chances and connections spanning continents and decades in just this one weekend, I couldn’t help but be amazed. That I should meet Natalie, that Natalie’s dad should keep up with a long ago friend from Spain, that one of this man’s neighbors should spark a connection with a friend of a friend from Knoxville, and so on and so on….Walt Disney was on to something. We don’t need singing dolls in lederhosen and magical boat rides to tell us that the world is in fact pretty small if you let it be. Human connection is a powerful thing. It can span continents and time. It builds on itself. A friend of a friend of a friend counts for something. In fact, it counts for quite a lot. I think connections make the world worth traveling. The sights are amazing, yes, but it is the people who really make the experience!

That said, I think I will devote just a little space to the actual sites and sounds of the city.
I was surprised by the architecture of Madrid. The post office could easily be mistaken for a palace. The winding pedestrian streets and large plazas invite street performers, which were bountiful on this “Columbus Day” weekend. In Spain, Columbus is somewhat of a national treasure, having “discovered” the Americas for the monarchy in the fifteenth century. In a single day we stumbled upon musicians, salsa dancers and countless human statues who take the saying “stay in character” to heart. These human statues paint their skin gold or silver, which makes for an interesting to and from work commute I imagine. They hold their poses so well that telling the difference between a real statue and one with a pulse requires intense scrutiny. Of course they will move for a coin in the coffer or a photo op if the price is right, but most of their job is to sit still and look lifeless.

We visited the famous Prado Museum where we saw tons of Francisco Goya paintings among others. We pushed our way through the meandering and crowded street market of El Rastro. We lay in the sun on the grass in El Retiro Park. In Morocco, grass is a prized and rare possession and lounging in it is a faux pas. As you can imagine, we were delighted to bask in the Spanish sun! We ate long leisurely meals of paella and sangria! We even ate Indian food…not so easy to come by in Morocco either.

The weekend was what I would consider a vacation. Studying and traveling in Morocco is an experience, an amazing one at that, but not a vacation in my book. My trans-Mediterranean trip was a perfect way to wind-down before gearing up for midterms.

Exporting Racism
I guess I expected some anti-Semitic comments in Morocco. I have heard that “no Jews died in 9/11 because they all knew about.” In fact, some go so far as to claim Israel orchestrated the attacks. I have also heard that Jews always have ulterior motives, not matter how long you’ve known them or how benign they may seem. As you can imagine, this is all news to me!

It is not these anti-Semitic comments and blatant fallacies that surprise me though. What deeply shocks and worries me is the image that Moroccans seem to have of African Americans. Along with blue jeans, Coca-cola and Brad Pitt, I fear that America is exporting racism.

I have had three encounters that have led me to this startling conclusion. One night while I was having dinner with my Moroccan friend in her room, the conversation turned toward American culture and society. My friend is applying for graduate schools in the States and had tons of questions about what to expect. “Is it true,” she asked, “that the black people in America are bad? Because my sister’s friend was raped by black men in America. And, I think they are bad people who do bad things.” She proceeded to tell me about the crime and that she was afraid of black people because of what she had heard. “What do you think Jill?” she asked.

I took a deep breath. I was angry- not at her of course but at my own society. I was angry at a society that is structured so that one group is given a raw deal from the beginning, which stacks the odds against them. I was angry at a media system which thrives on bad news and at an entertainment industry that sells “ghetto” images. It is no wonder that someone half-way around the world who has never set foot in America would think that black Americans are bad. The news tells them that. The movies tell them that. And one account from a trustworthy source, a sister’s friend, can confirm this misconception.

“No.” I told her. “Black Americans are not bad. There are always people who do bad things. White people, Chinese people, Arabs…but the group as a whole is not bad because of those actions.” I wanted to explain more, but how do you encapsulate centuries of emotionally-laden social and economic history in a sound-bite? I regret that I might not have gotten through to her. “Still,” she responded. “I think these black Americans are not good.”

On another occasion, the Arabic word for “race” was written in a story we were studying in class. As our professor usually does with unfamiliar vocabulary, he constructed a sentence using the new word. The sentence was more or less, “Americans don’t like people whose race is black.” Again, I was floored. Here, a very educated man who had even spent time teaching in the U.S. was propagating this idea of undisputed racism in America. “Maybe that was truer in the past,” we told our professor, “but not anymore.”

Lastly, an American friend of mine was talking to a Moroccan student who casually said something along the lines of “Black Americans are pretty lazy, don’t you think?” Needless to say she was shocked, as much by his supposition that she too thought this than by his actual words.

What kind of influence does our country have on the world? Do we even realize that along with hamburgers and Coke the world is digesting our polluted past and ongoing racial issues? It is more dangerous, I think, for a Moroccan to be prejudiced against black Americans than for a white American to racist. A white American at least can interact with black Americans. There is a potential there for change of heart, maybe only a small window, but change is nonetheless possible. On the other hand, across the Atlantic, the only interaction Moroccans will likely have with black Americans is through the television, the internet, music and the movies. They can take their conspiracy theories and misconceptions and live in world that confirms them rather than challenges them. I can make my speech about everyone being equal, about the influence of media, etc….but is it enough? I doubt it. I am deeply afraid that America is exporting racism.

Marrakech
This famed city of Morocco lives up to its reputation. It is touristy, slightly overpriced, and incredibly crowded. Yet despite all that, its snake-charmers, posh night clubs, fresh orange juice stands, and intricate medina make the city well worth the nine hour train ride from Meknes. Marrakech is in Southern, Morocco where temperatures even in November are in the 70s.

Djemaa el Fna, the big square at the center of the medina, was our reference point for the weekend. The 220 foot tall minaret of the Al Koutoubia Mosque nearby made it easy to recognize. The square is the largest one in Africa and a UNESCO world heritage site. During the day, the square is crammed with snake charmers, henna artists, performers in jellabas, fruit vendors, spice merchants, and monkey trainers. Wide-eyed tourists in tank tops and shorts meander through the chaos, no doubt paying too much for their Moroccan souvenirs. Of all the cities I’ve visited, Marrakech boasts the most blatant tourists! At night, the square resembles a county fair à la Moroccain. Huge white tents with long picnic tables take over the area. Smoke coats the night sky as kebab-vendors cook fresh meats and tajines for hungry tourists. After dinner one night, we hit up one of the tea stands for tea and dessert that is distinctly marrakechi. I couldn’t tell you the name of it but a tiny sip of that tea will clear up a stuffy nose in an instant. If cinnamon, menthol, wasabi, black tea and sugar got together the outcome might be akin to this tea. I don’t think I am really doing it justice though. The accompanying dessert falls into the love it or hate it category. I, being a rather undiscriminating and very adventurous eater, loved it. Its consistency is less than cake and more than pudding. It is not exactly sweet either but tastes a little bit like gingerbread without all the sugar. It crumbles in the spoon and sort of melts in your mouth.

Our days were mostly spent winding our way through the medina, chit-chatting in Arabic with shopkeepers, and honing our bargaining skills. I must say that my stick-to-it ability has much improved and when the time calls I can bargain with the best of them! My friend Katie cracked me up every time! “How much is this?” she’d ask in Arabic. The shopkeeper would reply and no matter his answer, every single time, Katie’s face would contort in a look of disgust that said “No sir, you are not taking me for a ride.” Then, in a high-pitched mocking yet sing-songy voice she would retort the price, scoff, and motion for us to leave. That is when the shop owner would swoop back in and lower his asking price. I mourn for the unsuspecting tourists whose key chains and t-shirts cost as much as scarves and pottery.

Our hotel was in the middle of the medina with a roof-top terrace overlooking the city. On night we sat up there as the sun set and listened to the call to prayer echoing from dozens of mosques around us. The calls created a melody. It wasn’t in sync but it was lulling in a way. For that minute or so, we all quieted and just listened. I reminded myself of where I was, what a unique experience I was having, and how my life is shaping up to be a pretty remarkable journey.

Cat-calls and Crossing lines
Inevitably, walking around the old city in a group of seven American girls elicited some cat-calling. For the most part it was benign.

“Oh you have beautiful eyes. Want a Moroccan husband?”
“The Spice Girls!” (I must have heard this one a half a dozen times)
“How many camels? How many camels?” (Sorry boys, this girl is not for sale and for an entire camel farm!)
And my favorite- When we would politely decline a marriage proposal or an invitation into a shop in Arabic some wise guys would reply in accented English, “I don’t speak Arabic. I am American!”

A couple of times the banter passed friendly and become unnerving. Walking through the ville nouvelle of Marrakech one night, two different sets of men on motorcycles followed us. They were shouting vulgarities and I felt at once disgusted, indignant, saddened and afraid. Another night we were walking along the beach in a town called Essaouira, which we visited after Marrakech. Two different men trailed behind us, not saying anything but certainly making their presence known. I know that these behaviors and attitudes are not unique to Morocco. I don’t blame Moroccan culture. All over the world women hear these same comments. All over the world women are disrespected. It is not solely because we are American that we drew so much attention, although that is certainly part of it. I don’t know if there is an answer to the issue.

I think my friend Natalie may have inadvertently come up with a cure for unsolicited attention. After lounging in the sand at the beach for a while, we decided to walk back to our hotel in the medina. Natalie apparently caught someone’s eye and as she approached he said, “Oh you have such nice eyes. How many camels?” When she passed him and he saw her from the back, he said in a rather appalled tone of voice, “Oh! You are so sandy!”

We laughed the whole way back. It seems a sandy bottom is enough to deter even the most vociferous of pursuers!