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.

"In My Own Little Corner..."

"...in my own little chair, I can be whatever I want to be." In this case I converted myself into a Moroccan princess with the aid of a small group of adorable girls that bombarded me with flower bouquets. I think they're in love. Probably because I jump rope with them, sing weirdo jump rope songs and let them play with my hair. It's that simple. They were very creative in their vases, using garbage bags and abandoned rubber bands. The little one would just bring me leaves and dirt. Gems like this seem to happen on the daily at AMESIP.

The Marvels of Mawazine

I’ve discovered that I tend to overuse alliterations, but they sound nice, so who cares?

The Mawazine music festival has begun here in Rabat. It’s a weeklong buffet of music from around the world, including local artists. It was while stuffing my face at a student’s house on Friday that I discovered that Mika would be the main act on Saturday night. I freaked. He’s one of my favorite artists. I’d committed to a two-day trip to nearby Meknes with some friends and when it was apparent that no one had even a remote interest to shorten their trip to join me at the concert, I decided to fly solo.

I’d never been to a concert by myself before and was quite thrilled by the opportunity. I was also a little nervous about finding the place as my body language vocabulary hasn’t evolved enough to include proper nouns like Mika. I knew it would be different from the last time I saw him when I waited with my family in SLC’s freezing February weather for a couple hours to be handsomely rewarded with a killer, intimate performance as Mika was just beginning his career and had not gained significant popularity.

It was different. I feel like using a long list of expletives to explain how cool it was, but my mom reads this blog, so I don’t want to embarrass her. First of all, it was FREE! Well, technically (thanks Joe Baker) it wasn’t if we remember TANSTAAFL…there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. The price attached to the actual concert was $0.00. I paid a total of about $5.25 in transportation costs. The biggest opportunity cost was sitting through a crappy band from Trinidad and Tobago whose songs all sounded identical. It was worth it though, as I got there early enough to reserve the closest possible position.

Second, there were probably 36.8 times more people in attendance as the outdoor venue allowed for much more space. Third, I was the only white person I saw the whole night. Consequently, I was usually the only one singing my lungs out except during the choruses where most everyone joined in the fun. Despite not knowing the words, however, the folks in attendance were there to party! It was definitely a fun atmosphere and I got loads of smiles from people around me as I was singing every word of every song. I barely even felt like I was there alone. I actually ended up meeting a Moroccan guy who’d been to SLC doing a project on volunteerism with the U.S. Embassy. Needless to say, we connected on many levels.

Whereas Mika’s concert in SLC felt like a low-tech coffee shop gig, I felt like I was in the middle of a top-dollar, two-hour music video for this performance. He had multiple costume changes, ENORMOUS, inflatable ‘fat-girl’ legs for his, “Big Girl” song, a Moroccan wedding procession for, “Everybody’s Gonna Love Today,” an opera-singing accompanist for, “Blame It On the Girls,” a huge “BILLY” banner for, “Billy Brown,” an incredible garbage can drum line to open, “Lollipop,” and loads of other entertaining stage antics. Not to mention the radical, technicolor background visuals.

I went home exhausted, voiceless and still in shock that I only paid five bucks to see this. Livin’ the dream!

"I'll Never Let Go...Until I Drown in Freezing Water"

Friday is the holy day in Islam and many families here in Morocco celebrate with a traditional lunch of delicious couscous. Normally, since my work site is quite far from my home, I pack my lunch that I share with a bunch of attention-and-nutritionally-starved little nuggets. The food is always pleasing to the palate, but definitely lacks the freshness and tradition of couscous. Being surrounded by curious, energetic ankle-biters is not the most calming atmosphere in which to consume calories, either. So, It was with great excitement and a feeling of flattery that I accepted the invitation of one of my students, Hechem, to share the Friday experience with him and his family. The prospect of having a relaxed, more substantive lunch was appealing.

Hechem is one of the few kids I’ve had substantive conversations with because he speaks French. As a result we’ve become quite chummy. Evidence of this can be proven by tallying the number of times he kisses me a day (approximately 7). Keep in mind that Hechem is a 17-year old boy. The Moroccan culture is undeniably the most physical culture to which I’ve been exposed. Of course, this physicality is limited to same-sex interactions most of the time (suck!).

Consistently Moroccan, he insisted that I be made to feel at home. He found it necessary to facilitate this feeling by having me sprawl out on the couch and listen to everyone’s favorite American musician, Bryan Adams, followed by Sean Paul, Celine Dion and some rapper whose name fails me. We also listened to some Arabic artists while sipping some famous mint tea.

Once the couscous was on the table, Hechem proudly stated, “I know the perfect eating music. Couscous tastes so much better with this music.” I was excited to hear some metaphorical Moroccan melody about the delights of couscous when he surprised me with Celine Dion’s, “My Heart Will Go On,” which we’d already listened to at least twice. I started hearing Twilight Zone music and thinking I was back at another one of those awkward church dances where ‘they’, in their efforts to encourage more intimate interaction between sexes, insist on playing those awfully boring slow songs. I don’t know if it was the magic of Celine Dion or just excellent cooking, but as I took my first bite I was in heaven.

We’d been gulping down couscous from the shared bowl in the middle of the table for about five minutes as the music slowly faded. I was hoping for the next song in the couscous mix to be something a little more Moroccan, but Hechem put it on repeat. If I knew how to curse in Arabic, I would have asked him what in the (fill in the blank) he was doing. The song finished for the second time and Hechem unhesitatingly pushed repeat…again. I started laughing my face off and did so even harder with each consecutive replay of the beloved anthem, which happened at least 6 more times.

Luckily, I created a spontaneous intermission by suggesting we do the “Polynesian Jiggle,” a famous dance involving heaps of shaking used to maneuver the massive amounts of food just eaten downward to create room for more. Hechem took to it like a dog to its own vomit. Finally, he played the music I’d wanted to hear and we danced around the dining room for the next five minutes while his mom, aunts and cousins watched with curious delight. Sufficiently jiggled, we finished our meal with a sour buttermilk treat (that I had to choke down), and then lay down for a nap.

We were momentarily sidetracked by a pillow fight with his adorable, nappy-haired 3-year old cousin and then I was left to wonder, “Why don’t Americans take a freaking chill pill and have a two and a half hour lunch break, too?” Although, if the music menu were limited to crappy Canadian love ballads and the Robin Hood soundtrack, I’d rather just chew on my toenails for five minutes and consider that my lunch break.

"The Dweam Wiffin' a Dweam"

The moment a lot of you have been waiting for has arrived. Vicky (Hermione) and I are shown here with our proud matchmaker and owner of a wedding shop. We were chatting it up with these guys I'd met a few days earlier when all of a sudden we were putting on traditional Moroccan wedding clothes and taking engagement pictures.

We spent our honeymoon exploring a half-completed mosque, the beach and a palace. The mosque was meant to be the largest in the world but was not completed during the reign of its advocate and no one really shared in his ambition after he died. So, here it sits halfway done. The beach is only a 15 min. leisurely walk from my place. I met a guy there who speaks Spanish. We had a nice talk about religion and politics. I enjoy meetings where I talk about things you're not supposed to with people you're trying to be friends with. It was a weird honeymoon. Vicky was talking to a guy in French the whole time.