When You Just Want to Wear Walu

Walu. That’s my Darija word for the day, thanks to Hassan (the potato-sporting handyman). Walu means “nothing” – as in, “When I turn on my lights, there is walu.” That is how my long, hot day ended.

But, first, let me say “Happy Islamic New Year.” It is, indeed, a holiday today. This was determined late on Saturday night. I am honestly not sure how this is communicated to everyone. Maybe there is a group chat that I am not aware of, but somehow everyone seems to figure it out. When an Islamic holiday is approaching, we just have to wait to see if it will fall on the day marked on the calendar, or if it will perhaps be the day before or the day after. I look at it kind of like a snow day in Vermont. You don’t really know if it’s going to happen or not. You check the VPR website and refresh every 5 minutes. When you finally see your school pop up, you do a happy dance and celebrate an unexpected day off. In my mind, that’s what all Moroccan school kids were doing on Saturday night. They were peeking out the window at the moon and waiting for the call.

The “holiday” meant that government offices and businesses were closed. The rest of the world carried on as usual. I enthusiastically took to the streets to explore the souqs in the medina and the shops in the “nouvelle ville” where I live. What a contrast. 

The day began with multiple near-death experiences with donkey carts and trailer-toting motorcycles in the narrow alleys of the central market. I wound my way through the streets without a clue where I was going – confident that I would eventually wind my way out. When things got a little dark and twisty, I attached myself to a group of Japanese tourists with a guide and tried to blend in. I figured the guide was getting paid to lead them out of the labyrinth at some point. I eventually struck out on my own (pretending I’d just been stuck behind them) when the alleys got a little wider, and I could see the sun again. Magically I ended up at the Marrakesh Museum, so I figured I should visit since I might never find it again. Originally built as a palace, the museum features an inner courtyard covered in Moroccan tilework and the original palace hammam.

Inner Courtyard of the Marrakesh Museum

From the museum, I wound my way through endless alleys with vendors of every kind. Eventually I found myself in a square where it appeared that the local vegetable market was setting up. I saw a rooftop terrace, and decided it was time to sit down for a drink. I was thirsty, but, more importantly I was counting on that rooftop view to figure out where in the world I was. So, I trekked up three flights of stairs to find a spot in the shade under a thatched umbrella, and I was met with exactly what I needed – a view of the Koutoubia Mosque. I knew I needed to head toward the mosque to eventually find my way out. I settled in for a Coke and a smile. Just as I was thinking how ridiculously hot it was in the shade (97 degrees today), water misters started spraying mist all around the terrace. My smile got bigger. I thought I’d died of heat exhaustion and gone to Arizona. Drinking a Coke in the mist in Marrakesh overlooking a street scene from the movies down below, I pinched myself to make sure this is not a dream. Again.

Once I made my way out of the medina, I headed back toward the swanky section of town – the part with the modern shops, the marble walks and fountains, and, most importantly, the air-conditioned grocery store where food has price tags, and there is no haggling needed. On day three in Marrakesh, this is definitely my safety net. I’ve got to sharpen my bargaining skills before I’m ready to take on those veggie vendors in the medina. For now, Carrefour is a welcome respite from reality. I cruised the air-conditioned shops, found the English “bookstore” (which seems to be a front for a bar), and scalded myself on a metal trash can. Note to self: Even when that little metal door on the can says “push,” do not do it when it is 97 degrees.

When I made it back to my apartment six hours later, I was hot and tired.  Sporting jeans and a long sweater in sweltering heat in an effort to stay covered is a challenge.  I took a cold shower and relished the chance to wear a tank top and shorts in my own space away from judging eyes.

That’s when the power went out with a snap. I have mentioned that the light fixtures are a bit dodgy. There are a few outlets with similar issues. I have a circuit box right in the apartment, and I have had the opportunity to flip a few switches already. So, when the lights went out, my first instinct was to just check the circuit box. Everything appeared to be in its proper position. I pushed a few random buttons here and there in hopes of firing something up. Nothing. Walu. So then I did what I usually do. I decided to put my faith in the Universe. I decided that this was probably one of those building-wide power failures, and that some proactive neighbor would notify the right people, and that the power would magically be restored in due time. Then it started getting dark.

To be honest, I was most annoyed about having to actually get dressed in my modest clothes again to deal with this situation. And, of course, there was the small nuissance of not knowing exactly how to deal with this situation at all. I decided the first step was to figure out if anyone else had power. There are switches in the hallway that light the stairs, so I figured that would be a good test. I was tempted to dart out in my scanty shorts and tank top, but I was afraid to offend the neighbors I have not even met yet. So, I struggled back into my uniform, and went into the hall. I flipped the switch, and everything lit up. This power situation was, evidently, a personal problem.

I made my way downstairs, and my root-vegetable wielding angel, Hassan, was just locking up his office (with a Domino’s Pizza box in one hand – lest you think this place is too glamourous). In French I tried to explain my situation, but lacking a deep vocabulary about electrical systems in any language. The extent of my message was, “I have a little problem. There is no electricity in my apartment.” Hassan said, “Walu?” Through great powers of deduction, I decided this meant “Nothing?” So I responded in my best Darija-French, “Oui. Walu.” Hassan scurried away, and I wondered what kind of vegetable he would return with to restore my electricity, but he was just putting away the pizza. He followed me up the stairs, opened the circuit box, and, with just a finger, jammed in the black button with force. The power snapped back on, and we were in business. No potato needed. No carrot needed. Walu.

Medina Graffiti 

A terrace with a view (and a mister!)

Skin Thickening in the Heart of the Madness

Koutoubia Mosque

Saturday was a day of firsts. I saw my first camels; I nervously watched my first snake charmers; I enjoyed my first few hours of free time. Inside the State Department bubble, it has felt very safe and scheduled (as it needs to be).  I had yet to tap into the real Morocco and get my feet wet outside of the bubble. So, when I was presented with a two-hour window of free time between meetings, I decided it was time to put on my big girl pants and venture out on my own. I was excited and nervous about my new freedom. With an abundance of security information stored up in my little brain, I decided to baptize myself in Morocco with a walk to Koutoubia Mosque and the Djemma el-Fna, Marrakesh's main square, where the hoopla is non-stop. I dressed in my conservative-wear, put on my dark sun glasses, strategically packed my bag, and set out to thicken my skin in the country ranked second in the world for sexual harassment. I walked in peace until I hit the main road. The comments started right away, but I turned off the smile, walked straight ahead, and found that I could tune them out. The hissing started closer to the square. It made me smile inside. I had the urge to hiss back, but I resisted. Oddly, as I arrived in the square, the police presence increased, and the hissing stopped. Morocco just passed a law in May making sexual harassment illegal in public spaces, and, where there is a police presence, it seems to be helping.

Inside the square, the magic was just beginning. The real circus begins after sunset, but I was happy to enjoy the G-rated version of the madness for my baptismal walk. I was greeted with snake charmers, orange juice sellers, costumed story tellers, horses and carriages, and hundreds and hundreds of people milling around. I could (and will) spends hundreds of hours just enjoying the spectacle. Feeling as though I had successfully begun the process of skin-toughening, I returned to my apartment and the State Department bubble.

Djemma el-Fna

Snake Charmers in the Djemma el-Fna

I met with the Director of the English Department at Cadi Ayyad University, where I will be teaching this year. As anticipated, my job is to be patient. Meetings need to happen, invitations need to be issued, and my presence on the campus needs to be approved before we can "officially" start working together. Classes may start this week or next. No one is really sure yet. In a way it is a blessing. If I knew what and when I will be teaching, I would be frantically planning. At the moment, however, my job is to get to know Marrakesh and start to learn Darija - two things I will do with gusto!

Chicken Pastilla - chicken and spices
wrapped in phyllo and topped with
 cinnamon, sugar, and almonds. 

Another meeting and dinner of delicious Moroccan food awaited at the American Language Center, where I met an enormous group of enthusiastic teachers from all over the world. While I enjoyed a feast of chicken pastilla and lamb tagine, they entertained me with their travel and teaching stories. The common thread: they are all completely enamored with Marrakesh. Let the magic begin.

This is not a Riad

Google "riad" and check out the images. This is what I did when I first learned we would be coming to Morocco. I fantasized about living in one of the exotic traditional riads for which Morocco is famous - the beautiful houses built with interior courtyards filled with gardens and fountains. Let me just say, this will not be the year of living as a Moroccan princess. My fellow Fellow just posted pictures of her "villa" in Oujda. It exudes a mysterious Moroccan beauty. Our apartment here exudes a shabby chic vibe skewed heavily toward shabby - think of the apartment you rented in college when you didn't know any better and were just happy to have a place of your own. I am desperately awaiting the arrival of my decorating and cleaning team (Brianna and Andy) to whip this thing into something we can call home. It's going to take some serious creativity. In the meantime, I look up from my bed at a bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling (there are five of those in the apartment) and remind myself that money saved on the house means more money for travel. So with each little odd quirk that I find, I imagine the next adventure I am going to plan.

The good news is that my rusty French skills have been more than adequate to start working on that all-important relationship with the building "handyman." I awkwardly try to negotiate the slippery slope of being friendly, professional, unoffensive, and  yet assertive enough to get things done without sending any of the wrong messages that will poison this all-important relationship for the year to come. Yesterday, after having one full night to discover all of the quirks, I approached Abdul to start putting in my requests. He listened patiently, seemed to understand what I was talking about, made a few notes, and told me he'd take care of a few things right away and a few things on Monday or Tuesday (if Monday turned out to be a holiday based on the sighting of the moon on Saturday night). The lunar Islamic calendar and its impact on life here is a topic for a blog post of its own.

Abdul and his sidekick, Hassan, came up to the apartment to get to work. Hassan replaced two of the three non-working light bulbs in the bathroom. I asked about the third, and Abdul said this was good enough. "No problem!" I decided this was not a battle worth fighting and agreed that I could, indeed, see myself with only two bulbs. Next they moved on to the stove and oven. The oven worked just fine, but it had no rack in it. I am not a chef, but I don't think it works well to just lay things on the bottom of the oven. Abdul found the bottom of a broiling pan and slid it into the oven. "Voila!" Problem solved. I guess this will work too. Next I inquired about the gas cook top. I could not get the burners to light. I had purchased a lighter, so I knew that wasn't the issue. Apparently the gas tank needs to be turned on manually (oops), so that should have been an easy solution. Three of the four burners ignited just fine with gas flowing to them. The fourth, however, needed cleaning according to Abdul. He sent Hassan scurrying off for cleaning supplies. Hassan returned a few minutes later with a potato. Abdul sliced off a chunk and proceeded to scrub the inner workings of the burner with the potato. I don't know if this is common practice when working with propane, but I was intrigued. After the cleaning, the burner lit with the tiniest flame. It screamed, "Yes, I appear to be burning, but I am actually leaking propane at the same time. Don't worry." Abdul decided that I should just use three of the four burners. "It will be fine." He's a smart guy.

Towel racks, hooks, and light bulbs for the rest of the house are all on the agenda for Tuesday. I have also discovered a door handle that is hanging by a thread that needs repair. I am quite certain that Abdul will tell me that I really only need a knob on one side of the door - that it will be fine just like it is. I suppose if Brianna and Nolan don't mind being trapped in their bedroom all year, then it will be no problem at all. Perhaps we can just shove a chunk of potato in there, in place of a handle, and carry on. No problem.

Marrakesh Morning

I've made it at last. I am sitting on my balcony overlooking a busy Marrakesh morning down below. Directly across from me is another apartment building with a collection of satellite dishes, air conditioning units, pigeons, and cats. Off to the right is an enormous cemetery, and off to the left is Avenue Mohammed V, one of the busiest streets in Marrakesh. I am in the heart of Gueliz, a trendy, European-feeling part of the city, with H&M, McDonalds and Starbucks all just down the street. The medina walls that encircle the old city are just a 5 minute walk, and Koutoubia Mosque towers over it all. The benefit of living so close to the mosque is that it is visible from everywhere, so I should never get lost. On the flip side, it was 5:40 a.m. when I woke up to the first call to prayer. But, let's backtrack.

Yesterday morning, I was still in Rabat. I said goodbye to my fellow Fellow as she headed off for her final destination of Oujda, and I jumped in a van with Rachid, our driver, and Abdellatif from the embassy, to head to Casablanca for a meeting. After coffee, more new faces and new information, we enjoyed an amazing Moroccan Friday couscous.

Apparently Friday couscous is a particularly special tradition in this country known for couscous any day of the week. On Friday, anything that is left over from the week gets made into a giant stew and served on top of couscous, resulting in a savory surprise feast. In my couscous I identified zucchini, ochra, sweet potato, potato, carrots, another green squash of some kind, something like cabbage, a big chunk of beef on the bone, chick peas, lima beans, a brown bean that I wasn't familiar with, carmelized onions and raisins, cinnamon and spices, all covered in a tasty sauce. I managed to eat about half of it before I was completely stuffed. It was accompanied by a glass of butter

milk, which I worked hard to enjoy (it's 90 degrees mind you), and obligatory selection of olives and bread. It's time to find a way to exercise in this country without offending anyone or dying of heat exhaustion. That will be my challenge this week in Marrakesh - to find a place to work off all of the tasty calories I am finding at every turn.

Finally, we rolled out of the restaurant and headed for Marrakesh with a quick stop for the tourist (me!) at Hassan II Mosque, the third largest mosque in the world. Your challenge for the day is to name the other two! This mosque sits right on the ocean in Casablanca, and, apart from the striking view of the mosque on the water, I was stuck by a remarkably cool wind blowing on me for the first time in days. Unfortunately, however, the cool breath of salt air was short-lived as there were many miles to Marrakesh ahead of us.

Once we escaped the city traffic of Casablanca, the landscape turned desert-like very quickly as we headed south. For two and a half hours we sped through a land with very little vegetation, occasional groups of goats and donkeys, and, astonishingly, small groups of stone houses in what seemed like a places struggling to support life of any kind - plant or animal. And then Marrakesh appeared. Palm trees sprouted up on the horizon. Patches of green materialized. Reddish clay buildings rose up from the dry ground, and the traffic slowed. I had arrived at last. I felt kind of giddy staring out the window - trying to temper my expectations of the absolutely magical Marrakesh I have been dreaming of for months. Abdellatif asked me if I felt "the vibe" yet - the Marrakesh vibe. I didn't. It felt a lot like Arizona. And then I saw it, the Koutoubia Mosque directly ahead, yet miles away. In the flat landscape of Marrakesh, it stands out like a beacon on the horizon. I felt the "the vibe" and settled in for the magical ride.

A Moroccan Whirlwind

Two days later, I have crash-landed at the hotel with 11 hours to pack up and get ready for tomorrow's big move from Rabat to Marrakech. It has been a whirlwind of meetings, new faces, and information gathering. I have met many helpful and friendly people whose names I cannot pronounce or remember. The bulk of my time has been spent at the U.S. Embassy where, despite my Top Secret security clearance (that is a story for another day), the world does not exist beyond the walls. WIFI and phone-free, we got an inside glimpse of embassy life and the people that will support us out in the field. Most importantly, we got a chance to shop at the commissary and stock up on Starbucks ground coffee and Tootsie Rolls (the only available form of chocolate for now - however I have high hopes for Marrakech). This evening we enjoyed a dinner hosted by the embassy staff and met many of the people from northern Morocco who are connected to English language learning. We are now officially ready to go forth and spread peace, love, and English. Stay tuned as the real adventure begins.

A glimpse of Rabat... 

My view from the Hotel Rabat

Rabat

Kasbah Les Oudaias

Kasbah

Kasbah Streets

Kasbah Streets

Kasbah doors

Door of Baraka (Blessings)

Glimpse inside the medina

Seaside Cemetery in Rabat

Good Morning Paris and Good Afternoon Rabat

Four hours in Paris was just enough to get a taste of France, let exhaustion settle in, and locate my ELF partner in crime, Wendy, who will be working as a fellow in Oujda, Morocco this year.  We boarded our flight to Rabat, and, after determining that we are both equally clueless about what we will be doing this year, we settled in for the final leg of our trek to Rabat.

After getting our luggage, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Rabat Airport was a sea of quiet and calm (everyone waits outside for arriving passengers).We exited the cool airport and got  an overcast and warm welcome from  Morocco. We were greeted and whisked away by our Regional English Language Officer, her assistant, and a driver from the embassy. We quickly found ourselves in the centre of Rabat, with tall white buildings, lots of traffic (cars not motorbikes!), and and palm trees. The driver deposited us at Hotel Rabat, where, at last, I was overcome with the sense that I had finally arrived in Morocco. Inside the lobby, we were surrounded by dark wood, colorful patterns, and the mixed scents of cigarette smoke, incense, and spices. We had arrived.

Hotel Rabat Elevator

Hotel Rabat

Mint tea was poured. I relished the first taste of the Moroccan social beverage and was pleasantly surprised to discover a warm, tasty, sweet drink that I will be happy to enjoy at every social occasion. We checked in to our rooms, and, after a quick look around, I tried my best to take a nap. Jet lag doesn't like naps, so I rationalized that I would force myself to get up before dark and get out for some food. The traffic outside and my growling stomach kept me on track, and I made it out by 6:00 for my first glimpse of Rabat.

I quickly noticed that the savy pedestrian skills I gained in Vietnam will be useful here. An aggressive approach with a mental prayer seems to be the way to go when crossing traffic. The one major difference is that cars, rather than motorbikes, make up the bulk of the traffic in Rabat. I wandered past a park, saw my first snail vendor, found a modern square with trendy cafes, and ventured inside the walls of the medina. Without a map, I was reluctant to get myself hopelessly lost, so I resisted the urge to explore the alleys deep inside the medina. I skirted the outside edges and saw, heard, and smelled just enough to confirm the vision of Morocco I have been imagining since May.

Once I managed to navigate my way back out of the medina, I headed back to a restaurant in the modern square where I found both WIFI and my first  chicken tagine -  a traditional Moroccan dish with delicious spices, potatoes, olives and chunks of lemon. At the end of day one, I am feeling satisfied, excited by the possibilities, and ready for some deep sleep and Moroccan dreams.

Hotel Rabat

Chicken Tagine

The Dream Begins

Saying good bye to Vermont and these goobs (for a little while) with a not-so-traditional fall pumpkin photo shoot.

And so it begins. The last of the tears have been shed, and the good-bye hugs are behind me. The challenging job of reducing my life to one, fifty-pound suitcase has been conquered. After a quintessential Vermont autumn Saturday, I find myself in the Detroit Airport pinching myself. The dream is about to become reality, and I am set to board a flight for Paris en route to Morocco. At this time tomorrow, I should be enjoying (or sleeping through) my first afternoon in Rabat.  Ten months ago, I began the process of applying to be an English Language Fellow. This month the adventure begins. What started as an exercise in patience quickly evolved into a whirlwind of planning, organizing, purging, and packing.

In June, I gave up my job and threw caution to the wind - trusting that the universe will see to it that this adventure is just the beginning of a new phase. I rented the house and spent the summer emptying it for its new family. Each week that the kids returned home to me, they found fewer and fewer pieces of furniture. Eventually bed frames were whisked away to the attic, and mattress-camping became the norm. By mid-August we were down to the dining room table, and it was time to go. Grandma and Grandpa took in this family of nomads and endured our invasion for four weeks. Now I am on the cusp of a much-anticipated journey to a new country, a new job, a new community, and new challenges. I could not be happier.

I am not exactly sure the U.S. Department of State knows who they've hired (shhh...don't tell). They put me in a swanky hotel in D.C. for a week, while they taught me everything I need to know about being an English Language Fellow. It was intimidating, overwhelming, and incredibly exciting.  This promises to be a year of opportunities I can't even imagine. For that matter, apparently no one can really imagine them. My job is a bit of a mystery. The details will reveal themselves eventually. No one else seems too concerned, so I am trying to embrace that spirit and just go with the flow. The overwhelming message that came out of my week of orientation in D.C. was to be flexible beyond my wildest imagination (thank goodness for my stellar yoga skills - yikes). I'm on it. I'm being flexible. I'm flying to Morocco.

I've got an agenda for the next week. It says things like "security briefing" and "health and safety briefing." The word "briefing" makes me feel very official and just slightly anxious since security in Jericho, VT consists of closing the front door instead of leaving it wide open. I also have a very fancy invitation for a dinner "to honor the new English Language Fellow." Once again, I am concerned that they don't know who they have hired. I had to R.S.V.P.;  I didn't know if I should offer to bring a potato salad or a bag of chips. The invitation says "casual attire," but I am struggling. What is "casual attire" in Morocco? The country is at the forefront of the burqini battle. When you Google appropriate attire for Morocco, you'll see things like "conservative but liberal for the Arab world." What does that mean? In practice, it meant I had to use almost all of my allotted luggage weight for my flight on a whole host of potential outfits for one dinner.

Evidently I'll be shopping for clothes in the markets of Marrakesh as soon as I arrive. That will be amusing with my complete lack of Darija (the Moroccan form of Arabic). I'll be doing my best to dress conservatively in the relatively cool ninety degree-September temps. I'll be scouting out the pool situation from the safety of my apartment in hopes of resolving the burqini question before I need to make an appearance poolside. So much anticipation. So much excitement. So much fatigue. So many questions.

Bonjour Paris!

Lights out.