CHAPTER TWO: "A NEW WORLD"

Day 1: Arrival into a New Wonderland – January 12, 2009

After clearing customs in Rabat’s one-gate airport, we were chauffeured to a huge bus that is usually designed for long trips that groups of students go on. From that point on, it was an endless train of photograph after photograph of the beautiful surroundings that continued to overwhelm our senses. We even passed a sort of Moroccan Disney world, which had a few carnival rides and arcade games. It was really interesting to see the drastic differences between my home country and this new one; I just wanted to keep looking in every direction possible to take in more stimuli.

After our twenty minute ride from the airport to our hotel, we unloaded the bus and hauled our bags up to the “first” floor of the hotel; the first floor in many European countries labels the first floor that happens after a full flight of stairs, which is quite different than the American first floor that is on ground level. This new way of labeling floors was all good and well, until we realized that we were all on the second and third floors of a building with no elevator. It was a grand ole time hauling all our suitcases up those stairs.

We dropped our bags into our tiny room, showered, and headed for the souks (markets) across the street. My two roommates and I decided that we would explore until the group had to meet back at 5:30pm to walk over to the location of our future classes. Thirty pictures of vibrantly colored flowers, rows of hanging horses and cows equipped with testicles, and many arrays of locally grown fruit later, we realized that the group actually met at 5:00pm. We were only in Rabat for a few hours, and we already messed up!

We hustled back to the hotel only to find out that the rest of the group had already departed to explore our new school. The hotel receptionist hailed a cab for us and we got to the CCCL (Cross Cultural Center for Learning – which is our school) for a little less than one US dollar, or eight Moroccan Dirham (pronounced der-um). Upon arrival, a Moroccan woman named Noel showed us through the narrow medina walls toward our school.

The CCCL is absolutely gorgeous! The walls are adorned with beautiful mosaic patterns with a multitude of brilliant colors. My senses were almost overwhelmed with beauty, and I was only in the lobby. “Come on, we’re going upstairs,” said Noel in a shooing manner to get us into the conference room where the rest of our peers were learning about the building that we would be spending most of our time in for the next four months. Up the narrow and winding, yet well-accented with more intricate mosaic patterns, spiral staircase, we stumbled across a small room with a few desks. There, the program director and founder of the CCCL described the previous residential usage of the building.

From there, we headed to the conference room, which was the largest room in the house but still about half the size of an American style classroom. As she talked, a mixture of my jetlag and the contrasting mosaic patterns made me dizzy. Needless to say, as she talked, I felt myself coming in and out of attention. I wanted to listen to her, and I cared about what she was saying, but I was so exhausted. Besides, the room’s walls were so strikingly beautiful, yet dizzy-inducing. After that, we went around the room and got to share a little bit about ourselves, including what we hoped to obtain from the program. Most of the students said that they’d hope to become more efficient at speaking Arabic, while others said that they wanted to live like a Moroccan. I said that I hoped to learn about a religion and culture that many Americans have misconceptions and therefore unnecessary fears about. Then, with my increased understanding, I could hopefully teach my future students about this culture, as I’m planning on becoming a teacher.

After our brief introduction to the program, and to each other, we headed across the hallway to the dining room for a delicious gourmet dinner. There was no better meal to start off with than cous-cous and eggplant; so delicious! And the cook even taught us the way to eat with our hands like many traditional native Moroccans do (some of them also use utensils). You basically mush the cous-cous together with the eggplant (or whatever other type of mushy food you want to put with it) with the palm of your hand, then put it into your mouth with all five of your fingers. Bread and meat, however, are eaten with the thumb, index, and middle fingers. Pretty cool!

Exhausted, we headed back to the hotel after dinner and passed out by 9pm. Due to the nearby ocean and the types of buildings that are native to Morocco, the indoors end up being much colder than the out of doors. The dampness lingers instead of permeating out. Needless to say, I fell asleep with long underwear and many layers beneath heavy covers.

A few hours later, my eyes shot open and I had a little tickle in my throat; I couldn't fall back asleep for a little while later. A few hours later, one of my roommates woke up coughing. Expecting it to be ready to wake up by then, let’s just say I was a little frustrated when I found that it was only 3am. When I had to wake up a few hours later, I was definitely tired.

Day 2: First Full Day in the New Wonderland – January 13, 2009

Although my morning got off to a rough start due to such exhaustion, it was a pretty good morning. Just having other people in the room motivated me to wake up pretty quickly, or more-so than I do when I’m in the middle of the semester or if my mom tries to wake me up at home. Plus, it’s nice to just have the moral support. We woke up to a wonderful surprise, of which I guess was told to us during orientation, but I never really thought about it; FREE BREAKFAST! Woohoo! We popped down to the café/restaurant that is just right next door to our hotel, where we were served croissants, freshly-squeezed (emphasis on the freshly-squeezed) orange juice, and mint tea (which really was just mint leaves gingerly dropped into boiling water). It was such a delicious breakfast, but it was a little different since I’m so accustomed to my large American breakfast consisting of high-carb, high-fat foods. Several “shoukran”s (thank you’s) later, we were up and out of the café and once again chauffeured to the CCCL by our fearless leader Fadoua.

Upon arrival at the CCCL, I finally had the opportunity to snap some pictures of the gorgeous building with its overwhelming mosaic adornments before we were again ushered to some other activity. At 9am, we met a man that gave us a briefing about all the health issues and safety concerns in Morocco. There was nothing really big to worry about, just a few things to consider that are different than what we might experience in America. For example, obviously you have to be careful about contracting STD’s, but the risk of rabies is slightly different than that of America; there are many stray dogs and cats that roam the streets, eating whatever they can find, that could carry Rabies. It was a little strange that we had to consider that, but it was nice to be told.

After the safety briefing, the founder of the CCCL provided us with more introduction to the program including our expectations and our upcoming schedule. It was a nice introduction and she was really accommodating of the fact that we were horribly jetlagged from the day before. She kept the information brief, and our accountability low; she only provided us with the essential information and knew that other information could hold off for later when we were more awake and aware.

Afterwards, we grabbed some lunch in the CCCL, which was amazingly delicious of course. All the food here is so great! I can’t even tell you what I ate; it all looked like a mosh of crushed up/mixed up food, but was so ridiculously delicious. And the best part was, it wasn’t too spicy and it was healthy.

With such a delicious lunch behind us, it was time now to explore our surroundings; they had booked another large charter bus, just for us, to take a tour around the city of Rabat. It was absolutely gorgeous! Since there were only 14 of us students on the bus, we all got to have our own row of seats, which meant that we were free to jump from one side of the bus to the other if we saw something interesting. It was by far the best bus-tour I’ve ever taken, just because we had such an opportunity to see everything that we wanted.

The city is full of intricate, aesthetically pleasing designs and patterns, which makes the entire city seem like an art exhibition to a visitor. The Arabic language in itself is used as an art form; from beautifully scripted calligraphy on the side of a building, to the street signs, it was all so (I can’t think of a better word) beautiful. Even the most run-down buildings or alley-ways had a certain beauty to the them; you could tell that the particular home or building was lived in to its fullest potential, and that it was truly a home. This is a much different feeling than most of the houses and buildings that are traditional in American suburbs; everything seems too pristine and doesn’t look like it has the typical wear of, simply, life. Ah, so amazing.

Another really notable feature of the surroundings was the presence of the Moroccan flag. First off, the flag itself is a perfect representation of the culture: a plain, yet strangely beautiful arrangement of a solid red background and a contrasting green star in the middle. So plain, yet so powerful. Second, the flag is seen everywhere! On buildings, in parks, in medians of streets, and along the walls of the medina (Rabat’s oldest part of the city, which is walled).

I delighted in taking pictures of the rapidly-changing scenery, which switched from a lush city park with trees, grass, and flowers, to a more metropolitan-feeling area with crumbly-looking buildings and cars speeding everywhere. Again, the flag is such a great representation of the way the country feels—everything is so contrasting, which makes it so strikingly beautiful. That said, everything in the city has a place and a purpose; nothing exists in excess and everything is placed for a specific reason. Same with the flag: the green star in the middle is simple, yet has symbolic meaning behind it I’m sure.

I most enjoyed driving by the mosques, which sport tall, rectangular pillars that shoot up to the sky like an arm outstretching to meet their “Allah” or God. Again, the pillars are so plain, albeit intricately adorned with traditional pattern-like carvings on the sides, but exist so with such great purpose. It is as if the builders used only the essential amount of materials when building the mosque, yet still were able to create such a work of art that could be enjoyed from miles away. I only wish that I could have captured it in its beauty, and the way that it makes me feel, in a mere photograph, but it simply cannot be done. That’s one feeling that I’ve been having a lot on this trip; I feel that I have not taken enough pictures that capture the way I’m feeling, but I know that I have actually taken upwards of 500 so far. I still wish that I could some how bottle this place up and keep it with me forever.

For as strikingly different that Rabat is from Boston, there are still some similarities. Rabat is currently undergoing a large amount of construction to develop a train system similar to our T, and several public libraries to accommodate the sudden influx of higher-level education. I even saw a store with bright pink billboards that said “Women’s Secret” which I compared to our Victoria’s Secret. I thought it was interesting that in a country where women are fully covered when they walk the streets, they still have advertisements for undergarments.

Toward the end of our tour, we had the opportunity to cruise by the local spit of ocean. Oh… my… gosh. As if I wasn’t already overcome with so much beauty in the first place, I could not handle the sight of the ocean; huge waves splashing onto shore over porous boulders, which shot spray into the air for all the surrounding romancing couples to view. What a sight. And just on the coast of the ocean were several homes, as well as the biggest (and most crowded) graveyard that I have ever seen in my life. It seemed to continue along the entire coastline and it was crowded with head stone after head stone.

I finally sat back down in my seat and stopped saying “wow” when we passed the shoreline. As the bus pushed on toward the CCCL, the tour guide came onto the loudspeaker and announced that we would be doing a drop-off exercise in which we’d be dropped off somewhere in Rabat and we’d have to find our way back to the CCCL. I thought to myself, “Oh this won’t be a problem. I mean, they’re probably going to pair us off, and at least we can depend on each other to get around and remember which way is best to go.” They let a few of us off the bus for a quick bathroom break, which was good because it was my womanly “time of the month” and I was feeling a little woozy from being so active in the morning. I ran back to the bus so that they wouldn’t leave without me, just in time to hear that this little drop-off excursion would in fact be solo. Great. So, they’re going to drop me off in some random part of a city that I’ve never been to, in a country for who’s culture I’ve never before experienced, that speak a language of which I just recently learned the alphabet. I have a fair sense of direction, but the bus was taking turn after turn on side streets that did not follow an easy grid pattern. My initial plan of remembering which way the ocean was in terms of where I was began to slowly deteriorate when we got deep enough into the city that the buildings masked the ocean from view on the horizon. “Okay” I thought, “So I guess I can depend on the sun, which sets in the West, to help guide me back to the CCCL.” Even so, if I knew what direction west was, I wouldn’t know where the CCCL was from there. Besides, it was about 4:30pm and cloudy, so the sun was rapidly disappearing from sight the more we weaved through the city streets.

They assigned each of us a number, which they called when it was our turn to be dropped off. I got lucky number 13, which, you know, made me feel much better about this whole solo experience. NOT! Plus, they were calling the numbers at random, which meant that I had to gather my stuff and remember where I was at any given moment. Unfortunately, I was among the last few to get off the bus, which meant that I was getting more and more lost as time went on.

My number came up and I walked to the front of the bus. Just before I got off, I received a card with Fadoua’s cell phone number, as well as 20 Dirham (about $3.00 or $4.00) and the information necessary for returning to the CCCL in a taxi if I really got lost. I felt like I was walking the plank or something, like they were saying “Sy-ah-nar-ah” (however you spell that…). My stomach churned, I swallowed hard, and got off the bus.

Now that I think about it, I don’t know what I was so scared of; really I had the information necessary to return to the CCCL in a taxi if I really couldn’t get back, as well as enough money to do so. Plus, I knew French, so I could just ask directions of some stranger if need be. But something about being alone in a foreign country, and having to navigate my way around it on the first real day that I was there was so frightening. I had always been taught by my parents, who are avid hikers and backpackers, that you never hike alone. And if I hadn’t gone on a three-day solo hike in the backcountry of New Mexico this summer and felt so dreadfully scared and alone to the point at which I sat on a rock weeping, calling out for my mother (who was across the country in Ohio), I might not have been so worried about my Moroccan solo excursion. I have no idea how my peers felt about it, but I certainly equated it to hiking in New Mexican woods all over again, where a mountain lion or bear could jump out and attack me at any moment. (Well, that being said, there weren’t any mountain lion attacks on the New Mexican property that I was hiking on, but exhaustion from sleeping on a hard floor as well as rigorous hiking over three major mountains made my anxieties a frightening reality that was too strong to ignore). And maybe, just maybe all the talk about harassment on the part of the Moroccan men toward women and foreigners was equating in my mind to those New Mexican mountain lions and bears. I have never felt so scared and unnerved while traveling to a foreign country as I did when I stepped off that bus.

I started walking as fast as my feet could carry me (without running), my tote bag clutched tightly under my arm that had my laptop, camera, and wallet in it. I made zero eye contact with any person on the street, man or woman. I didn't want to get harassed, treating it like an encounter with a mountain lion in New Mexico. Our program leaders had given us brief ways to deal with the harassment, which included ignoring them or looking at the ground. But even looking at the ground was hard for me, as I was taught to look up walking through a busy city such as Boston to prevent unexpected attacks. All these anxieties were compounded by the fact that I was horribly jetlagged, and having probably the worst menstrual cramps of my life. All I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and weep, which, as it turns out, probably wouldn’t have helped me get back to the CCCL after all…

I continued to walk toward the direction of the sun, since that was west and the Atlantic Ocean is on the western coast of Morocco. If I got to the ocean, I could navigate through the city to find the landmark known as the “skyscraper” to get me toward where I wanted to be. This “skyscraper” is a hideous, non-Moroccan styled building about 20 stories high, which unnecessarily towers any other building in the city. And don’t worry I’m not being over-critical; the Rabatians hate this building too. It is very out of place. Unfortunately, I was not on high enough ground so as to see the skyscraper, but I kept heading toward what I thought would be the ocean. It was my only hope of figuring out where I was.

As I was about to cross a busy intersection, there was an older married couple that was walking in my direction. I didn't know when it was best to cross the street so I decided to take cues from them so as not to end up in the hospital on my first day in Morocco. I followed them as they crossed and coincidentally it seemed like they were walking in the same direction as me. As I followed, something told me that I needed to ask them the way. So, I pulled over, and in the best French accent I could muster, I said, “Excuse me, but do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” The man addressed me and signaled that he didn't know, and that I should ask the nearby police officer that was directing traffic. I thanked them and headed back toward the busy intersection to approach the cop. “Excuse me, sir, do you speak French? (yes). Do you know where Mohammed V Avenue is?” As he began directing me, it became quite clear that I didn't know the word for intersection, or any other landmark that he was trying to describe. I guess I was a little rustier than I thought on my three years of French from high school. He must have recognized this from the puzzled look on my face, so he began patiently gesturing the way and using the smallest words he could think of to express it.

I graciously thanked him, smiled, and headed on my way (which, for the record, was the exact OPPOSITE way of the “head toward the ocean” technique I had previously used). I had no idea how far it was, but I did remember that he said I would come to the third major intersection, at which point I would take a right. From there, Mohammed V Avenue would arise shortly thereafter. As I walked, I tried to keep track of the number of intersections I passed (I know, I know, three is very difficult to count to…), which actually was true because my mind was racing at 10,000 miles per hour of all the things that could possibly go wrong. So, I was somewhat jumping in and out of consciousness and attentiveness, which wasn't exactly the best scenario to be happening when I was trying to find my way back home. But, I kept trucking, ignoring everything in my path so that I could just get back to the CCCL before dark. That was another anxiety of mine; when I was hiking in New Mexico, the third day consisted of my hike back, which was almost in the dark. I arrived back in base camp just before sundown, which is prime feeding time for those lovely mountain lions. And since I started walking back to the CCCL at 4:30pm, my primal hiking instincts kicked in that made me want to arrive before sundown as well.

Eventually, I turned right at the third major intersection and luckily found Mohammed VI Avenue, which had view of the walled city (medina) where the CCCL is. Relieved, I continued walking at the thought that I FINALLY knew where I was. And, surprisingly, my ignore tactic worked pretty well for warding off unwanted harassment by the men of the streets. I didn't get a single catcall until I reached the walls of the medina (which is the old walled-in city). From the wall, I found my way back to the hotel, but for some reason had a mini brain-fart because I couldn't for the life of me remember how to get to the CCCL from there (which was dumb because we had walked between the CCCL and the hotel several times before today).

Eventually I made my way back to the CCCL, navigating through the maze-like narrow streets of the medina market. When I walked up into the dining room, there were 4 or 5 of my peers who nicely welcomed me back. I was definitely frazzled from the experience that was too similar to the one that I had had earlier this summer.

After about an hour of relax-time while we waited for the rest of our peers to arrive, we had a little debrief to discuss our experiences. I didn't know what to say; I felt really ashamed for being so terrified of something that was so benign. I opted to keep my mouth shut. It was especially difficult to express myself because I recognized how important the experience was in order to get acquainted with the city, but I still really struggled with it. My peers expressed similar feelings of recognizing that they got something out of it, so I let them drive the conversation.

Afterwards we had dinner in the CCCL, and eventually headed back to the hotel to attain some much needed sleeeeeeep.