GOODBYE MOROCCO!

Leaving on the Midnight Train...

AFter a whirlwind trip tour of Morocco-- how the past three and a half months of flown!--I'm leaving this fine country to its own devices.  I'm off to Spain tomorrow and bigger and better things like Oreos, Bagels and shorts. But I know I'm leaving a piece of my heart and many pairs of shoes here in the great Maghrib. 

So it ends, Morocco. It was swell. 

May your tea be as bitter as death, as sweet as life, and as mellow as love

Today I am going to Fes: Culinary Capital of Morocco. But not for me because I'm a strict budget of 200 dh a day. I am so disciplined! 

Tomorrow, I will receive my dear friend Marlies at the airport. She comes to keep me company on my wine tour/serious academic research on alcohol consumption in Morocco. 

But YESTERDAY: I met the King!! Of Morocco. His Excellency Mohammed VI. There I was enjoying some gelato on the sidewalk, pondering micro-credit loans and the future of the rural economy, when the trumpet sounded. Horsemen! Tagines! More horsemen! Carriages! The royal family rode by as the commoners mobbed the streets. It was just like Inauguration, only more...Moroccan.

SHOES shoes shoes

A Bird's eye view...

I could drink A Case of You, Morocco

So I embark on my Independent Study Project at the end of this week.  I'll be sad to end my Arabic classes.  For about as long as it took me to write that sentence. 

I've decided on the quite controversial and rather relevant topic of wine production and consumption.  Morocco may not be known for its Shiraz just yet, but it's vineries are up and coming.  The glass of Cabernet I had last week, I have to say, was surprisingly fruity--almost date-infused. 

Also, my mother was here. She agrees with me that Morocco has the best oranges in teh world, and that hotel service leaves something to be desired (honesty), but she refuses to swap flights home with me.  ("Didn't you see the Parent Trap? I'll cut my hair and you'll pierce your ear and no one will be able to tell the difference!")

A joke, Morocco. I couldn't leave you just yet.  Not when I have so much wine-tasting to do in Muslim country.  

Love,

Lani

But what do you do in Morocco?

Time passes, a blog goes unposted..

Today marks two months in Morocco, or as I like to call it, home.  I've just returned from a rather eventfully uneventful week.  A VILLAGE STAY, which I can summarize as:

Rural, rustic, simple, human, humane, tragic, demi-tragic, comi-tragic, Commie-tragic, woodsy, outdorrsy, rolling hills, and fresh plucked wildflowers dripping with morning dew. 

Really, it was quite the 6 nights.  There was (gasp) no running water or electricity and there were (more audible gasp) real cows and donkeys on the property.  So much for staying away from wild animals, passport control! (Those paranoid goons and their fear of animal carriers of infectious diseases!) There were bountiful fields, flowers, and children.  My family had a 7 month old baby girl who though subject to a bit of rough housing on the part of her 10 year old brother (he was a terrror! A TERROR I tell you) was the happiest little creature this side of the Atlantic (And how does the ATlantic look from this side, MOm wonders..)

In the village due to a miscommunication (one of the many many to follow) I was (un)fortunately christened "Wana." Not that I Minded too much.  I've always wanted a name that was sinfully easy to pronounce..and Wana has a charm to it.  LIke Howard. Or Prudence. Or Voldemort. 

As our quiet tea-drinking days dwindled, I couldn't help but wonder if I might not prefer a more simple life filled with the joys of family and livestock.  With that moment over, I happily continued counting down the days to my next shower.  

Coming soon: OREOS a gift of the Industrialized World. 

And later: Meat, Men, Mortality--My Spiritual Question in Morocco. 

And this weekend it's Off to Chefchaouien! As I always say, don't let the account balance get you down!

Traipsing through Morocco --in one week!

We start our great adventure early on a Saturday morning with a SNACK PACK stock full of Bimo cookies! How to describe the Bimo... It's like a  Moroccan Oreo in its ubiquity, like chocolate cardboard in its flavor and like heaven in every way. 

And SO IT BEGINS: we made our way to the wineries and delights of the Middle Atlas mountains (Have you ever held a barbary monkey in your own two hands? Felt its warm vulnerability and erratic heartbeat?) After traversing in the bitter cold and snow--these are the mountains after all--we settle in to our casbah fortress for the night and tuck into a dinner of WHOLE FISH cooked in tin foil. And yes, you eat the eyes. 

In the morning, I WIN A SNICKERS BAR FOR MY EXCELLENT TRIVIA SKILLS. One Moroccan twinkie later and we make it to the desert. 

SAFARI? One riotous land rover ride later ("We're in the desert now, girls"--Said, dardevil off-roader) and we finally finally get to our camels and the famed Saharan dunes. 

ARE WE EATING WITH BRAD AND ANGELINA, THEN? Not to make a terrible fuss, but we do spend the night in a bare-bones rustic auberge that once housed the Jolie-PItts. Have deliciously authentic salad and tagine, bread of course, fruits of the seaon--you haven't lived until you've eaten an Orange the MOroccan way--and then are treated to a night of Gnawa music and dancing.  I impress all my fancy footwork and narcoleptic spasms. Bowed out early to sleep before awaking before the sun in order to

CLIMB A SAND DUNE? No problem. To my great relief, and a real triumph I think for all, I am not the last one up the mountain. Nothing is written I guess...(You were right Dad,  it was just like  Lawrence of Arabia..")

ONE NIGHT IN AFGHANISTAN: In Ouzzazate our tour bus disrupts the filming of the next Afghani blockbuster. Ouzzazate is the Hollywood of the country. Fittingly we treat ourselves to cocktails at the Bel Air!

BEATLES LYRICS? We finally make it to Marrakesh. And if by express, Ringo you meant excruciatingly long bus ride through torturous mountain roads, then by George, yes!

THEY'LL PUT MONKEYS ON YOU. Snake charmers, monkeys, henna. Now this is authentic Morocco. Be careful. The souk will suck you in and spit you out without any dirham to your name. but I"m richer in shoes, MOm! And rings. And scarves. And SHOES, MOM! Shoes. And also nifty little kebab sticks that I plan on using all the time. All the time. 

SO THIS IS WHAT JIMI HENDRIX MEANT. I could live in Essouira. I never wanted to leave. It is the founding place of rock and roll and humanistic Judaism, after all.  It is now best known for its fresh fish and the best ice cream to be found this side of the Sahara. 

We make it partly home (back to Rabat) on Saturday but extenuating circumstances (intolerable bus ride) force us to stop and stay the night in El Jadida, reportedly another lovely beach town. You know what else is lovely? Hotel Ibis. With their 500 dirham promotion (LIES) and free included buffet breakfast (CRUEL LIE) what's not to like?

LIMITED vision and funds (contact fiasco and the obvious) make our stay a short one, that's shortly enjoyable: The famed Portuguese Cistern is in El Jadida. It's supposed to be beautifl. But then again, so is Hotel Ibis. 

I <3 Golf in Morocco! As promised...

A very Moroccan Birthday?

21 has never been more fun! I had just about all the "orange juice" one 21-year-old can manage on her own. Those Moroccans and their "orange juice."  They can really hold their "orange juice." Really, it's fresh squeezed.  

Truly, I had a lovely day that began with a cake fed-exed to Morocco from a one Deborah Ross in Bethesda, MD.  She's too good to me. And yes, if you were wondering, it was  chocolate! 

Tomorrow we're jet-setting off on our Southern Excursion:  Azrou, middelt, Merzouga, Unprouncable, Unreadable, village, desert, Marrakech (!), Essaouira.  Will be MIA for a week at the least!  

Four Imperial Cities: One Weekend. An Epic journey through the backcountry and big city on Donkey-back.

Four delightful tour guides guide us through the cities that once were kings..or home to Kings. 

First stop--Meknes, the wine capital of Morocco. But more importantly, Wine capital of Morocco! And Moulay Idriss's Grand Estate. The imperial founder of Morocco had quite the "digs." It was an archeological paradise! 

Hey Mom! Would you believe it: they play golf in Morocco! And by "they" I mean the members of the royal family and entourage. I'm sure you could play the back nine, though. (Please enjoy my exclusive picks of the Royal Gulf course --tpb soon) 

Then we dashed into a craftsman's salon to practice some bargaining: 100 dirham for a hand of Fatima keepsake/keychain? I don't think so. That's like (quickly divide 100/8.3 in my head in a bit of quick mental math...) 100/8.3 big ones!

I don't mess around with my dirham. 

A short windy bus ride later we make it to Moulay Idriss. Home of Molay Idriss's remains/mosque in his name. A quaint mountainside town.  We have a lovely lunch of couscous and lamb tagine topped off with oranges, bananas, and more digestive drama! (have you heard of McVities? Did you know they have activia yogurt here?)

Roman ruins in Morocco? Say hello to lovely jubalee Volibulous (Walilee).  I'l just say it: the Romans lived well. Not long. But well. Short and sweet. LIke our trip to Volibulous.  

18:50 Arrive fee Fes! Most famous of all cities named for hats! Largest Medina in all of Africa. (Oh did you forget I'm studying abroad in AFrica?) We dine in style and are entertained cross-eyed magicians and older than appropriate belly dancers. SErved delicious cookie made of clouds. Or whatever they're calling coconut these days. 

When it rains, it pours.

Well, I succeeded. I've been here just under a week, and I've already made it rain profusely.  I'd like to take this moment to thank my mother for making me buy/bring a raincoat...w/o a hood. That sounded a little mean.  I'll rephrase.  My Moroccan Oomi would never send me anywhere without proper raingear.  Also My Moroccan mother spoon feeds me couscous! How's that Debbie (JK! jk!) 

In all seriousnessness...oh nevermind--the turkish toilet has rendered seriousness a thing of the past.  Basically Rabat is endlessly fascinating and to one who's eyes wander (strabismus lives on!) it's virtually impossible not to get lost in the Medina.  Leading into the residential areas of this walled cavern I like to call Beitee--my home--are various marketplaces that are crawling with live animals and littered with dead ones.  There are also olives, spices, zeitun, sakar, shoes, djalabas, oranges, magic carpets, normal carpets,  surfboards, pirated copies of Will Smith movies, praying men, kneeling men, men without arms,  men without dignity, orphans, rubbish and gems.  

And that's not even the half of it. 

Here's the good news: Moroccans love Obama. It's the start and end of every conversation. MoroccObama indeed. 

New Beginnings: It's a New Day

Fusion. It's the new ____. It brings creeds, colors, and ethnic foods together (think thaitalian, kiwiberry). But what sort of fusion am I attempting by titling this here blog so?

You may ask--what do the Republic of Morocco and Pres-elect Obama have in common except a shared vowel? Ilana, you say, this is sort of a clever title, but what does it mean? Is there any significance in this name. Are you bridging the gap between West and East or Mid West and Far East or aiming to discover the shared humanity of Christian and Muslim and Jew?

Lofty goals, indeed. Get ready to unclench your fist stubborn citizens of the world, because I'm lending an open hand.