Like an Arizona Iced Tea

The mines of Midelt were worked intermittently by various European powers over the last several decades but have now been left for hardy individuals like these who try to eek out a living selling the precious stones. Their rock shops and the surrounding area reminded me a lot of southern Utah.





Ahmed, the fully-clothed man, is quite the entrepreneur as he spent a month in Mexico last year selling his 1 ton of rocks at an expo. He wanted me to take a copy of his passport to Tucson, Arizona to try to reserve him a spot at the annual December rock exposition. Perhaps the most thrilling part of the day and definitely most liberating was stripping to my skivvies, running through the water and screaming like a wild man with Omar. I felt in touch with my inner five year old, frolicking in the water, catching toads, turtles and fresh-water crabs.


One of the spectacular views of the drive, overlooking some nomadic caves.





"Helping" some local kids gather water from the well. It turned into more of a water fight than anything else.

Omar

His family was struggling financially, so as the oldest boy, it became his responsibility to help contribute. He dropped out of school at age 14 to begin working in tourism, but can speak German, French, Arabic, Spanish, English and Berber. When asked where he learned so much, he just says, "the school of life." Not having considered renting a vehicle, I left my driver's license at home, so we hired Omar to drive us on a 4-day adventure through southern Morocco. We bonded quickly and deeply. I was surprised to find myself very emotional when I said goodbye to him.

He's an adventurous guy with a really kind heart and a deep love for dance and music. The 400 km drives seemed minuscule thanks to Omar's sweet collection of music and contagious dance moves. We were passing through some of the most remote areas of the country and were thus exposed to some of the most extreme poverty. When Omar stopped at a small grocery to buy a large bag of penny candy, I thought he needed some munchies to stay awake. But, as we drove through these mountain villages where kids play with rocks and discarded tires, he began distributing the goodies freely. The children's faces held looks of fear, then surprise, then complete joy, all for a small lump of colored sugar.

The children assume we're French and repeat "bonjour" over and over and over as it's obviously the only word they know. It seems to function much like the "F" word does in some persons' English vocabularies; they use it as every part of speech. It quickly became an inside joke for us and throughout the trip we could be found having whole conversations only using "bonjour."

Omar is also an African drummer in various bands. Every night we spent together was full of energetic drum sessions before bed. He also made the trip much less painful on the pocketbook as he has an incredible ability to haggle prices on everything from hotels to souvenirs to food at grocery stores.

Omar's planning a year-long walk through the African continent sometime within the next 5 years. I'm seriously considering joining him. I know it would be completely bonjour.

Paradisiacal Cascades

We arrived into the town of Ouzoud well past dark, hungry and eager to sleep. Both of these pleasures were delayed significantly as we unknowingly decided to eat at the restaurant with the slowest service in history. The postponement of sleep was more of a willing engagement. We met Abdul (to my immediate right) who greeted me with a very California surfer English, "Hey brother. We will make music tonight. No problem." And make music we did. Almost every night of this 10 day trip was concluded with a drum, castanet and guitar jam session. This one was made even more lively with the intermissions being filled with entertaining folklore from Abdul.



We finally went to sleep on the rooftop terrace with an amazing starlit sky overhead and the sound of the crashing waterfalls behind us. I awoke early to take a walk to the falls and nearly shat myself as this monkey jumped out of a tree, nearly landing on my head. I honestly thought I was being attacked and began looking forward to rabies shots in my belly button.

The falls were beautiful and extremely cold. But, I felt I had to keep with my trip tradition and bathe only in rivers, ponds or lakes. Admittedly, some of these were hard to come by in the Sahara and my hair began to feel like the beginnings of dreadlocks.

Survivalist Wanderlust

Is this real or am I dreaming? Pinch. Slap. Splash of cold water. Yes, I am awake, but somehow this situation seems far too fantastic to be part of real life. If the so-called middle of nowhere is anywhere, it’s here and I’m in a cave drinking Berber whiskey (mint tea) with a couple of nomadic women while their children run freely about chasing chickens. The younger one, who would be wearing diapers if he were anywhere but here, has pissed himself and is wet from the waist down. No one seems to notice. I am already digging on their carefree parenting style.

Aisha’s coffee-black eyes are made even more stunning by her application of heavy eyeliner she obtains from stones in the area. Her persistent use of henna to help harden her hands against tough work has permanently stained them an attractive amalgam of purple and orange. She’s a middle-aged woman who knows nothing but the nomadic life. Her daughter, Fatima, has spent her whole life wandering from cave to cave, too. Their knowledge of the area’s mountains is incredible. They know every cave within hundreds of miles, yet both are illiterate. Their movement depends upon food and water supply for their animals: goats, sheep and camels.

I never meet the men. They leave the caves early in the morning with the older boys to graze the animals all day, returning with the sunset. The women spend most of their time in and around the cave watching the children and weaving on their looms. They mostly make blankets as they are practical for the family and are also a great bartering item. Aisha and Fatima are disallowed from visiting the villages to trade their goods, however. Gender roles appear to be rigidly defined. “It’s the man’s duty to be the boss and the woman’s job to stay at home cooking.” I wonder aloud if they ever get bored or frustrated with their lifestyles. Fatima finds my musings hilarious. It seems preposterous to her that I would even ask about boredom. “Why would I get bored? This is my life. I know nothing else.” Maybe ignorance really is bliss.

If only taken superficially, it would appear that women have no voice here. Surprisingly, though, it is the mother’s responsibility to choose a husband for her daughters. I ask Fatima how she feels about this. She is shocked and I’m struck with a feeling that I’ve asked something really inappropriate. Tradition orders everything and is not to be questioned.

The biggest thing I’ll remember from this encounter is how happy little five-year old Mohammed appears to be. Simplicity is probably something we could all use a little more.

Como Te Extrano Mi Querido Banano!

So much for Chi Chi Chi Le Le Le. They lost horribly to Brazil yesterday and someone got the five-finger discount on my Chilean fanny pack this weekend. I just wanted to take a moment to formally extol the virtues of the waist purse. I think they should and will make a strong comeback soon. I hope the misguided child that stole mine makes it look as good as I did.

Pioneer Children Sang As They Walked...

...and walked and walked and when they were tired of that, they walked some more. Mount Toubkal, North Africa's tallest mountain at 13,671 feet sounded like a worthy adventure after getting rid of the worst case of camel crotch I've ever had. The snowmelt-fed waterfalls, snow-capped peaks and fresh mountain air were such a contrast to the Sahara.

Sunday involved waking up at 4 AM in hopes to catch the sunrise at the summit. We hiked that day from 5 AM to about 530 PM. I was certainly tired and a bit blistered, but we met some incredible people along the way who made the journey, with its already stunning scenery, even more enjoyable.



Taken from the rooftop of our cabin where I did yoga at sundown. Donia is currently volunteering in Congo working to improve child nutrition. We communicated mostly in Spanish, but she speaks French, Arabic, Malagasy and some English. She's volunteered in many countries and will soon be headed to Haiti for her next gig. She was an inspirational person to be around. I feel like one of the biggest things I've enjoyed about my travels here thus far is the exchange of ideas with exciting people.



Gunther is a German man working with the UN throughout North Africa on policy development in agriculture. He assured me that wandering from place to place every few years with a family can be a wonderful thing. His children quickly become fluent in the languages of whatever country they inhabit. I really enjoyed his honest insights into the struggles of North Africa. Germans have a way of avoiding sugar-coating things.



Our hiking crew. We all met sporadically at the refuge/cabin. We had a lot of fun together. I'm still amazed at how open and hospitable Moroccans are. They treated us to so much food and drink.

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The summit was beautiful. I love being able to see clearly for miles and miles.

Make Way for Prince Ali!

Admittedly, riding a camel through the Sahara reeks of cliche tourism, but I felt like it was something I might as well do. Despite having camel crotch (use your imagination) for the next few days, the trip was well worth the 12-hour, no bathroom, no air conditioned, overnight bus ride to get there. Camels are not as moody as people make them out to be, but they sure do have gas.

Amanda, Rasheed, Mohammed and I set up a tent to hang out in, playing cards, exchanging stories and laughing late into the night. It was eerily silent as we took our sleeping bags out to bed down under the stars. I'm used to falling asleep to crickets and frogs, but I guess there's just no life to make sound out there.

I woke up with sand in every imaginable orifice and everything I ate for the next day had a distinguishable grit to it. Interesting side note...we were following the ancient trade (mostly slaves) route to Timbuktu, which would've only taken us 52 days by camel. For my own comfort and my posterity's sake, I called it quits after 1 night.

Everything's Finger Food

Delicious meals like this Rafisa are set before my hungry belly with regularity. This bowl of spicy goodness was soon attacked by 7 sets of hands shortly after the picture was taken. We all eat from the same dish and silverware is hardly ever used, making eating a much more intimate experience. Even the water is shared...we either pass around a large bottle that everyone drinks from or pour it into a communal cup. I quite like being able to lick all that flavor off my hands when the meal is over. One thing is a bit disconcerting after having been lectured by Paci about the intricacies of microbiology: its customary to only use soap for washing hands after the meal. I guess they look dirtier.

Allah Is Good! Allah is Great!

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference." The 6'5" giant of an African man approached me and my traveling companions with these words, offering his services as our guide for the day. He continued quoting Walt Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson and Stephen Crane. I was impressed by the effort and the photo of his two-year old daughter was adorable, so guess who got themselves a guide for the day...

I'm happy we did because Fez is a city in which I could probably develop a multitude of psychological disorders and then be trapped alone with them for the rest of my life. Yes, its that confusing. The city's made of innumerable alleys scarcely big enough for two people to walk down side by side. Supposedly it helps with the heat in the summer. I just felt like I was in a giant maze.

As a tour guide Abdul was decidedly off, but as a person with a desire to make his clients feel welcome, he was spot-on. He invited us to his house for dinner after our tour where I was told that God had given me many gifts, but the most beautiful was my tongue. I've since been checking my tongue out in the mirror with much greater frequency. Really though, it has led me to consider the great good and evil that can be done with our words.



These tanneries were featured on a national geographic episode. I pity da fool whose job it is to make the leather baby-butt soft by mashing it over and over, standing barefoot in these vats of cattle urine and pigeon poop. The smell reminded me of manure hauling season on the Hess Dairy.


The biggest reason I wanted to go to Fez was for the World Sacred Music Festival. The difference in energy levels between the concertgoers at this festival compared with the Mawazine popular music festival was astounding. Religion permeates every aspect of life here and when the Sufi brotherhood, a group of extra dedicated Muslims took the stage to sing about Allah's and Mohammed's greatness, the crowd went ballistic!

Dancing, like most things in Morocco, is separated by sexes. Girls dance with girls and boys dance with boys. I found myself in the company of a bunch of young men who were especially into the music. One of them invited me to dance with him and those remaining surrounded us in a circle. I then became dance partner to almost all 27 dudes at sometime during the night. It was refreshing to be caught up in the energy of the moment. I also enjoyed the fact that the dancing wasn't some kind of awkward sexual foreplay akin to American dance floors. I felt like it was dancing for the sake of dancing. It was another testament that language isn't always necessary for people to connect and feel united.

The energy from the concert carried over to the hotel. Helen, Hermione and I decided we'd like to have a German room. Helen's from Germany and Hermione and I are both fluent. It was a lethal combination. I pulled out my, "Favorite Folktales From Around the World" book to read some bedtime stories. The plan was to read one from each country represented, then retire to bed, but it turned into an all-night party complete with reenactments of folktales, performances from Aladdin in authentic dress with a magic carpet (see picture below), and endless laughter. It has taken me two days to recover, but it was a night I won't soon forget.

Sun of a Beach

A lazy 15 minute stroll from my house will bring me here. Cool, eh? You'll find me there most mornings. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I'll be doing a combination workout of swimming and yoga. On MWF I'll be running. Once my Arabic and football (soccer) skills pick up a bit, maybe I'll join one of the many games. These Moroccans are more obsessed with football than any other people I've met.

One of my favorite beach experiences was this...I met up with Ali, a friend that I'd met in a park. The way we met was interesting. I was on an awkward date with a henna artist. Communication was limited and she was trying to be very physical. We saw these guys playing guitar and sat down to listen. One of them offered his guitar for me to play and we happily spent the next 30 minutes in non-awkward guitar playing bliss. It was a nice respite from Miss Henna.

Well, Ali and I met up Monday night to get my guitar strings fixed. We met some dudes at the shop who invited us to a jam session. None of us really knew each other that well, but we went up to a rooftop terrace overlooking the beach as the sun was going down and just JAMMED! Well...they jammed. They were amazing guitarists...I mostly tapped my guitar as the happy percussionist content to soak in their guitar genius.

Hundreds of Cats, Thousands of Cats, Millions and Billions and Trillions of Cats!

Supposedly Mohammed didn't like dogs. He thought they were dirty animals, but cats were great. Its been a rare thing for me to see a dog here, but within a 2 minute walk from my house yesterday morning, I saw 16 cats. And thus we see that the influence of the prophet is widespread. It's interesting living in a country where even the types of animals one sees depends on the religion.

Mary Jane's Favorite Dance Hall

Chefchaouen is known for being the country's best place to dance with Mary Jane. Having been offered to smoke more than I had when I was in Jamaica, I became curious to see the farms. I took to the mountains in search of weed and waterfalls. I met this friendly farmer on my way who kindly pointed me in the right direction. With a few shepherds and numerous goats and sheep as my companions, I marched up to the cascades. It was quite a journey to get there, so I rewarded myself with a nice bath in the ice-cold spring-fed waterfalls. The ensuing air bath was also quite refreshing as I felt like I was really getting back to nature.

On my way back down, Mr. Farmer yelled at me from his roof, inviting me to his house. Our 30 second conversation was significant enough for him to invite me in for lunch and hot mint tea. I then asked him about his farm. He was quick to point out the weed that was cleverly hidden in a mint patch. I guess the police have been cracking down on production in the area. The crop brings in much more money than any other, so it's kind of a bummer that the man's interfering.



It reminded me of the Cottonwood Canyons. Eerie how places have such striking similarities.



Everything in this city is painted in beautiful hues of blue. Combining the calming effects of blue with a city where everyone's high made for a relaxing weekend retreat.



The spice rack of my friend, Ibraim. He kissed me more times than my mother has my whole life...and my mom kisses a lot. He repeatedly said, "I want to give you my love. I want to smell you. I want to kiss you. I want to hold you." This all because he said I had good energy. Which I do. He's right. And I'm hott.

Actually, it was all part of his show to get me to buy something from his shop. His compliments were unceasing. "You have good luck. God gave you a great heart, a nice personality, a beautiful face and a beautiful stomach." He then proceeded to lift up my shirt and kiss my belly. It was without a doubt the most interesting shopping experience I've ever had. I've never shared that much physicality with another man before. I was laughing so hard at his constant encouragements, "You're going to sleep really well tonight because I'm giving you so much love." I slept like a baby. I woke up every hour and cried. I was laughing too hard at the abnormal experience I'd just had.

Thanks for the mint tea and the lovin' Ibraim! Grandma's going to love her present.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road and Hello 27 Club

Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Curt Kobain. What do they all have in common? Probably a number of things, including: wild sex lives, extensive drug use and great musical skills. The one I'm thinking of is that they all died at age 27. I'm guessing since I share none of the other things in common with them, I'll be safe. But, just in case, I decided to live it up and...

Have a birthday cake in Arabic. This was my second birthday cake. The night before, Asmaa, a Moroccan girl that I swear is the female version of me sometimes, told our waiters it was my birthday. They sang to me in Arabic, French and English. Cute. Fedua, the family nanny, was a bit embarrassed to have her picture taken without her hijab (head scarf). I hesitate to post it, but its just so cute.




Go out to dinner with a Norwegian, a German, some English persons, some Moroccans, a Canadian, an Italian and a fellow American. We had quite the crowd. Its an exciting mixture of cultures and languages whenever we get together.




And what birthday would be complete without a visit to an Elton John concert? His appearance in an Islamic country was monumental. Supposedly (according to a cynical fruit vendor friend named Said) Mohammed said that if you see two homosexuals together you should kill the one and then kill the other. Good thing 'Easy E's' lover wasn't on stage. The Moroccan Parliament had nothing better to do, so they debated for days over whether or not to allow Sir Elton to perform. It was all over the news and I guess Morocco's going to hell in a handbasket by other Islamic countries' standards. Why didn't they make such a big deal out of Mika performing? He's as out as a fat kid in dodgeball.

Anywho, come to find out, many of the songs I thought were Elton John's were probably done by Phil Collins or Billy Joel. Nonetheless, the encore Lion King and "Your Song" numbers were worth the wait. It was fun to pretend that this whole ordeal was being put on because I was born. Maybe I've got ego problems.

A Romp on Mother's Stomping Grounds

My host mother is from Meknes, a 2.5 hr. train ride from Rabat. Approximately .75 of those hours were spent listening to various yelling matches in our cabin. The old man in the seat(s) adjacent to us insisted that he had paid for both seats and refused to let anyone else sit there. Numerous young, fairness-seeking men sought to convince him otherwise as seats were nearly nonexistent on this ride. It seems that yelling really loudly close to each others faces while gesticulating wildly is a common way of dealing with disagreements. It makes people watching even that more exciting because I keep thinking that a fight is going to break out. Truth be told, it makes me really anxious. Anywho...Meknes...



I fail to do this beautiful city gate justice. The gate is decorated with elaborate, brightly colored tile.



We watched this old Artisan at work. He makes beautiful things out of iron and silver. His rug collection is also way impressive. He sat us down for a 30 min. lesson about traditional carpet making. The work that goes into making one of those things is amazing.




Vicky and I outside some dude's old house that collapsed. He used this as his pleasure pool and a bathing area for his 12,000-plus horses. What would it be like to be a sultan?

A Word About the Water Men

Those rad dudes I'm posed with in the multi-colored hats and funky clothes are quite interesting. They are Berber men, the Moroccan equivalent of Native Americans, who carry water in what appears to be goatskin pouches, or maybe discarded bagpipes with glued on animal fur, and offer it to thirsty passersby for a small fee. True to the Moroccan culture of sharing, everyone drinks from the same cup. I highly doubt that they've ever been washed, a mere side note that doesn't ruffle my feathers, but a fact that those germ phobic microbiologists in the family would appreciate.