I woke up around 7:00am to the raging sound of rain. They had left the window open at night and all of the rain had poured in soaking the entire floor. Wejlah got up, mopped the floor and then made us another breakfast of tortillas, honey and jam. We packed up our stuff and walked over to the meeting point where we piled into the van. Exchanging stories from the night before, we started to our three hour journey down the coast. During the drive, I had fun sharing some of my home movies on my ipod.
It was raining hard and we drove along the highway and the flooded roundabout, passing shanty towns and people in traditional dress.
We stopped at a rest stop halfway along the way where I gazed at the green field and Rif mountains while drinking some more mint tea.
For lunch we would be meeting with a Moroccan family in the rural community of Akchour. We started up the dirt road, but van couldn't make it over the washed out part. We got out and I suggested putting rocks and brush over the mud for better traction. In the end, the driver did not want to continue as it was the company's van. Instead, we ended up walking the majority of the way up the hill towards the family's farm. It was quite amazing. Raining and foggy, the mountains and surrounding landscape was beautiful. I carried the food bag (I am the designated Sherpa) and walked up the mud hill in the green country.
We were able to find a public van taxi, much like the one I'd taken in Guatemala. We took it the rest of the way up the hill until it couldn't go any farther. We met Jalal, our translator and son of Muhammad the owner of the house we would be visiting. Jalal is an English literature student and is writing his doctorate thesis on "The US Global War on Terror and Imperialism" in English. We jumped over little streams, slipped in the mud, and ducked under the tree branches as we bush wacked our way up the hill to the little farm house. We were introduced to Muhammad, the father, and his family, his wife, mother and children. The baby boy was very cute and ran around the living room.
Their house was small, but nice. They live on a farm and Muhammad works the land. We sat on the wrap around couch and began to ask each other questions. We introduced ourselves and told what we were studying. After questions and answers we had lunch and the family brought out a big bowl of couscous which the grandmother ate with her hands, rolling it in little balls. (Moroccans eat with their right hand and use the left for personal business). After lunch, we sat back in a circle and then had a music session in which I ended up sitting with the Moroccans and playing a little drum. The Americans then sang "Row, Row, Row your boat," and "Take me out to the ball game." One of Muhammad's sons began to dance and asked me to dance with him. The rain outside was a nice metronome to the cultural exchange occurring inside the small house in Morocco.
After the music, everyone sat and talked. I was sitting next to Jalal and I asked him about his master's thesis and why he was writing about it. He was the most educated, best English speaking, and most opinion person I'd met on the trip. I had plans to lead into some deep questions after asking about his thesis, but the conversation turned out to be more intense than either one of us anticipated. What we had started in the house continued on our walk to the van. We began talking about Samuel P. Huntington's "The Clash of Civilizations," US foreign policy, and Israel. Even in putting on my most liberalized point of view, I was still labeled as a failure and propagator of American Imperialism. The girls had all gone ahead, so it was just Jalal and me, two perceived enemies trying to understand the other, on this rainy Saturday afternoon. He said that the US had failed in adherence to its principals to the point of no return, that Israel should not legitimately exist (although he said that no "free Muslim" would want it eradicated). I threw it back saying that Israel is held to a double standard by the international community and that US foreign interests can't be confined to oil and Imperialism. Politics is horrible. By the time we reached the van we were ready to fight each other or cry at the other's ignorance. I shook his hand though and said thanks for a good conversation. I was a little in shock on the way back down the mountain from such an intense argument. I really felt that in the end, no real peace or change could be made, and that no matter what I would like to think, I am deeply rooted in my politics and beliefs. A lot to think about.
We met back up with the driver and made our way to Chefcaouen where we would spending the night. The rest of the drive was easy.
Arriving in the Medina of the touristy town of Chefcaouen I was immediately offered marijuana. In addition to being a popular tourist town, Chefcaouen is known for its drug trade and is the main exporter of marijuana and hashish to Europe. The had brought us here to complete our overall view of Morocco by viewing the difference between this "Tourist Morocco" and the other places we had seen. There certainly was a salient difference as we were accosted from all sides by vendors. The city was beautiful with small, winding streets, traditional architecture and distinct "Moroccan Blue" painted on all of the walls and doors. The city had grown in 1494 after the expulsion of the Jews from Spain and they had been the first to paint the city blue.
We checked into our hostel which was three stories and beautifully decorated. As the only boy, I had to share a room with Alan. The hostel was freezing and was only going to get colder.
Dropping off our stuff we went back out into the city to shop. There were a ton of shops and we began shopping around. In Moroccan business its all about bartering and in the next two hours we did our best to haggle the prices. I bought some cool gifts for my family and received some good deals after speaking in Spanish and doing my best to feign interest in the product.
I hung out with most of the Granada girls. In the 20 minutes before dinner, 4 of us took a walk around some of the windy streets. We got a little lost, passing blue doors and lots of cats, before finding our way back to the center. The other girls came, their hands covered in Henna tattoos.
We then went to the restaurant and sat a low tables. The interior was beautiful with the Moroccan lights and comfy wrap around couches. Dinner was good as I ordered a Moroccan salads, kebab and fresh fruit.
Back at the hostel we had a meeting by candlelight sharing our experiences. I got ready for bed and then went up on the roof of the hostel. One of the girls was up there as well and I talked to her while gazing at the white buildings of the upper village illuminated by the moon beams of the nearly full orb that cut a swath of light through the heavy clouds. Sounds of music and singing listed on the air and a fragrance of mint floated languidly on the tropics. Morocco was magical.
I went back inside, my feet a little numb, to sit by the little fire in the common room of the hostel. I put my fleece sleeping bag that I'd carried around the entire trip under the covers of my twin bed and fell quickly to sleep.
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