Life in Rabat: Rewarding Routines

This is a recount of my life in Rabat that I wrote before my last weekend. My next and last post will talk about my last few days in Morocco.

I’m writing from the train on the way to Marrakesh after a lovely last few days in Rabat. I started this blog post late in the ride, since I’ve been pressed up against the windows watching the villages and fields on this now-familiar journey whip past. I know I’ll come back to Morocco at some point, but I’m not sure when that will be. For now, I’m just trying to savor my last few days in this beautiful place.  The sun just set, and I stared at the horizon from across the wide, flat expanse of dried fields that lie between the forests of Rabat and the desert of Marrakesh. I’m always amazed at how big the sky is here. The terrain is so flat that I feel like I’m watching the sunset over the edge of the ocean.

Reflecting on my summer, I’m really happy with my experience at Morocco World News, all the adventures I had, and the bonds I made with my host family and coworkers in Rabat. I’ve written about the adventures that I’ve had around Morocco all summer, but my weekday routine and experience in Rabat have been equally as valuable.

Over the past eight weeks at Morocco World News, I’ve written 64 articles about topics ranging from the specific scientific details of the Noor solar plant to the history of the global waste trade to girls’ education reform in the Kingdom. Every day, I walk the mile and a half from my house to the Morocco World News office in the Hassan district of Rabat, which is conveniently located next to an incredible bakery, supermarket, and the beautiful Hassan II mausoleum and minaret.  

My walk to school

After arriving at work at ten, I read the news in English, Arabic, and Spanish for an hour to update myself on world events and work on my language skills. Then, I either select a relevant topic to report on myself or cover an event that Adnane or Samir, my two bosses, assign me. Morocco World News tries to fill in the English coverage gap of events in Morocco, so we often draw upon stories published by Morocco’s many French and Arabic online papers. A lot of the work I did this summer was finding stories and basic facts about Moroccan politics from these sites, translating and paraphrasing relevant information (and linking back to the original source), and following leads I got from those websites to do additional research. I also always tried to do background research to contextualize the event. At first, it was really hard to read articles in Arabic and search in Arabic for relevant terms in Google to find the text of laws and official statements. However, as the summer went on, I became fairly comfortable conducting research in Arabic and very comfortable researching in Spanish.  I’ve also gotten to write articles based on solely on my research, press releases, and interviews.  Some of my favorite articles that I wrote this summer include one about bias in American political reporting, one about Morocco’s entrance to the African Union (which received 4.8 thousand likes on Facebook!), and a summary of an interview I was lucky enough to conduct with Morocco’s Minister of Tourism. For a list of the articles I wrote in the second half of the summer, see here.

 

Me interviewing the Minister of Tourism

Every day, I also edit about four articles written by Moroccans. Unfortunately, many of Morocco World News’s contributors do not have a high level of English and are not trained writers. Many of these stories require very heavy editing for veracity of facts, organization, overall depth of content, and grammar. For simpler stories, I am often able to just fix a few grammar mistakes, but for the vast majority of stories that I am assigned to, I need to reorganize them and check the author’s sources to add additional details. Through editing these articles and doing the research to correct and strengthen them, I’ve learned so much about topics and events that would have never been on my radar. It’s also been interesting to edit opinion pieces for the newspaper, since they are often strongly anti-American and based on pure emotion, not facts. It’s been difficult for me to phrase my edits correctly when asking a writer to check their facts on an opinion piece and not just sound like I am defending my home country. Editing these pieces has certainly made me more aware of the dangers of using absolute words and not double-checking historical facts when writing pieces. The editing process, although often frustrating, has probably been the most engaging and challenging part of my time at Morocco World News since it forced me to pay close attention to detail, word choice, and tone. It also gave me a lot of practice reorganizing poorly-crafted stories and opinion pieces.

The Minister of Tourism, my boss, and I (L to R)

In addition to helping my writing skills, I also really enjoyed helping many of Morocco World News’s younger female writers find their voices in English throughout this process. Many of the older contributors, who are often male academics, have had a hard time taking edits on their opinion and news pieces from an American girl who just finished her freshman year of college. It was frustrating to see my bosses publish stories that contained sentences that were factually or grammatically incorrect, even after I had returned piece to its author correcting those sections. However, probably largely due to gender norms and a more positive age dynamic, two of MWN’s younger writers and I had great exchanges over email when I edited their articles. One is a high school girl studying at the American School in Marrakesh, and she always accepted my edits and discussed her work with me. When I noticed that she kept ending her articles with a subjective, sensational conclusion that tried to place the story in the context of global events, I told her to make her endings less sensational. Sure enough, all of her stories the next week ended perfectly. Her topic sentences and titles improved, and she made fewer grammatical errors. Helping this girl improve her English and find her voice for Morocco World News, if nothing else, made this summer worth it.

I knew going into the summer that despite its relatively high readership, Morocco World News is not the most professional of organizations. Many of the articles they publish are not high-quality writing or reporting, and a lot of the content is very sensationalized. My bosses have poured all their financial and mental resources into the paper over the five years since it was founded, which I really respect. However, sometimes, since they are overworked and honestly need the ad revenue click-bait titles generate, they publish pieces that simply are not factually correct, have poor grammar and organization, and are very sensationalized or non-substantive.

Additionally, the dynamic between the bosses and the interns can be slightly frustrating. The two bosses, although I think that they do genuinely try to respect us and teach us good journalistic practices, are sometimes slightly incompetent and a little bit misogynistic. For example, one time after I edited an academic’s article who had written a summary of Iraq’s history that was just blatantly factually incorrect, one of them began telling me about “what really happens” in Iraq. He told me all these things that I’m pretty sure weren’t true, but I wasn’t going to argue until he told me that the United States had created ISIS because Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi had been in jail in Guantanamo and the United States had released him. I’d be perfectly happy to listen to a sound, factually-based analysis of why America created ISIS, but al-Baghdadi was just never in Guantanamo. Although I had listened to my boss’s whole talk without intervening, I asked him if he was sure about the Guantanamo incident and he became very offended that I – maybe since I am a young, American girl – was questioning his knowledge about this subject. Little interactions like that, where the Moroccan men in charge at MWN have tried to ram opinions that are not backed up by factual evidence down my throat and won’t listen to any dissenting opinion I might have, bother me. My fears about the two of them were confirmed after I reached out to a journalist on Twitter for a quote, who told me that she refused to interact with MWN because of the editor-in-chief’s misogyny. You can read and judge what happened for yourself here. The other young man who was in charge of the interns did not have a good command of English and generally was not competent either – he could never figure out how to do research on his own, would ask me to edit his articles for him, and then would disregard edits that I gave him and publish them with factual and grammatical errors.

The most frustrated I became with my bosses this summer was when Michelle Obama came to Morocco. There was an interview with Michelle Obama and Meryl Streep that press were welcome at so long as they were credentialed. I asked my boss to get me a credential, providing him with the precise steps to get the credential from the U.S. Embassy, and he promised me that he would email his contact at the embassy to get me one so I could meet the First Lady and cover the event. I could have reached out to the embassy myself to get the credentials, but I assumed that he, as the boss, would be the proper person to do so. He told me he had emailed his friend, and then didn’t tell me anything for a couple weeks. I assumed that the credentials were being processed, since I had given him all the instructions. A few days before the event, I asked him if my credentials had arrived, and he was shifty when he answered. I called the embassy, and it turned out that he had actually never requested the credentials. I would have loved the chance to see my First Lady speak about girls’ education, a topic that I am passionate about, and I could have made that happen if I had emailed the embassy myself. My boss’s flakiness and dishonesty about the situation stopped me from doing so; that was incredibly frustrating, because that was probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Despite all these problems, I do believe that my bosses are genuinely good people trying to do their part to make the world a little better. I had a good relationship with both of them and feel that I got everything I wanted out of my time working there. I came into the summer hoping to work on my English skills, Arabic and Spanish reading and translation ability, and get some hands-on experience in a newsroom. In a more professional paper, I might have just been getting coffee for writers. Here, despite Morocco World News’s many problems, I got a great deal of writing and translation experience, have compiled a great portfolio for a freshman in college, and reaffirmed my interest in internationally-focused journalism. Additionally, the low-pressure, often-unprofessional environment meant I could wear whatever I wanted to work and “write from home” (i.e. travel) every Friday, allowing me to explore Morocco far more than I would have been able to if I had been at work five days a week.

Additionally, I liked my fellow interns. All the people working at Morocco World News when I started have cycled out, but many new faces have entered the office over the past two months. One of the girls I started working with, Myriam, is a really cool Moroccan girl who speaks impeccable English and is interested in improving gender relations in Morocco. I feel like there’s no cultural barrier between us, probably because she went to an American-style high school and university and studied in Canada for two years. It was really great having a Moroccan friend that I felt totally comfortable around, and hearing her perspective, as a very liberal and fairly Westernized girl who takes pride in her Berber and Moroccan identity, has been very interesting. Outside of serious conversations, she’s also just really fun. Some of my favorite memories this summer were riding to Marrakesh in her car with her, jamming out to bad pop music from our childhoods with the windows down, talking about our universities and boys and work.

I was also pleasantly surprised by another intern who just arrived this week. A boy walked into the office on Monday, and we instantly both did a double-take. “Bryn?” he asked. I realized he was a guy who had worked at the same non-profit as my friend Seth last year when I was in Marrakesh. I had seen him many times last year, and it was awesome to have another American with a similar personality, level of Arabic, and Moroccan cultural competency working at the office.

Shockingly, none of the other current interns speak any level besides extremely basic (if that) of Modern Standard Arabic, and none of them know any darija (dialectal Arabic). Additionally, none of them have been to Morocco before. I’m often frustrated by their incompetency that comes with their lack of language proficiency. Although I can sympathize with not speaking the language in a foreign country, it’s weird to me that some of these people came to Morocco attempting to do a journalism internship and don’t make any effort to learn the language. Additionally, some of the other foreign interns just say things that demonstrate a basic lack of understanding – and worse, lack of desire to understand – Morocco. I’m used to being here with a group of high-quality students selected because of their motivation to understand Moroccan culture, explore, and learn the language. It’s been very odd and sometimes disheartening to be with other foreigners who just don’t respect the culture here, and who don’t always seem to think about the implications of making sweeping generalizations, whether that be about Morocco or America. A couple of times, I’ve just left the workroom under the guise of making some coffee because the conversations occurring were just so shockingly off-base and I didn’t think I could sit there without calling someone out.

With that begin said, it has been really cool to have some conversations with the other foreign interns, Moroccan interns, and my bosses about current events in the world today and our own takes on them as people of many races, nationalities, backgrounds, sexualities, and ages.

Outside of the workroom, I’ve been similarly disheartened by many foreign tourists that I’ve met here. To give just two examples, one time when I was in Djemma al-Fna sitting on a long bench lined with old beggar men, a French tourist carrying a big camera came up beside me and started snapping pictures of the old men sitting there. She was treating them the same way a photographer would treat an inanimate subject in a zoo, not bothering to ask their permission or thinking about the fact that her trying to capture poor people for her family travel album was hugely insensitive. As the men sitting there glared at her, two white people walked into her shot. She waited for them to move, laughingly telling them, “Yeah, you know, you don’t quite fit the picture.” Her complete lack of awareness of what was culturally and humanely appropriate here, as well as her inability to gauge the situation and realize that all these men were really uncomfortable, captured everything I don’t like about tourists’ attitudes here. The second incident occurred on the train on the way to Marrakesh. Two young backpackers, who clearly were culturally competent and well-traveled, were sitting next to me on the train. The woman was sitting next to an elderly Moroccan man who looked very respectable. She must have known that this was inappropriate – there’s no way she could not have --, but she took out a grinder, a bag of weed, and papers and started rolling a joint on the table right in front of this old man. I was watching this happen out of the corner of my eye, and the old man looked visibly uncomfortable. These were two people who had told me that their goal was to travel the world and learn about other cultures and meet locals. Why would you roll a joint in front of an old Moroccan man on a public train if that was the case?!?

Interactions like this have been beyond frustrating for me (although I am, admittedly, sometimes a little too uptight about being cultural offensive), to watch. Partially because of this, I’ve found it hard to connect with many other foreigners in Morocco. I don’t know why – maybe its because of the large gender imbalance that makes the pool of boys to be friends with very small, maybe it’s the personality types attracted to study here, or maybe it’s just the stress of living in a country so different from my own. Whatever the case, I just haven’t made many real friends. Especially because of that, I was really lucky this summer to meet Myriam and a couple other Moroccans that I did click with, as well as reconnect with some old friends from Marrakesh.

Me with Hiba (middle) and her friend at our ftour in Kenitra

My friend Hiba, who I got to hang out with earlier this summer in Marrakesh, was in Kenitra, a town 30 minutes north of Rabat, one week earlier this summer. She invited me to come make ftour with her and her friends there after work one night, and it was awesome being in her friend’s apartment to cook an amazing Ramadan breakfast together, hearing about their lives, and exploring Kenitra. I’m hoping to say goodbye to her in Marrakesh this weekend.

My night going to Kenitra was an exception in my normal post-work routine. During Ramadan, I generally walked home, ignoring the rumbling in my stomach, and went for a short run to clear my system before sitting down and enjoying an amazing breakfast meal with the Cherkaouis. I fasted the majority of days that I spent with them and some of my days with the Ibarkis, totaling 15 days observing Ramadan. It was a great experience, although I’m very happy it’s over. My favorite ftour in Rabat, after my meal with Hiba and her friends, was the night that Chaimae invited her friends from work over. We piled heaps of fried savory pastries, cakes, and assorted slow-cooked meats on the table, spending almost three hours sitting and eating and talking.

First Ramadan breakfast at the Cherkaouis

After Ramadan finished, my schedule in the evenings was far more relaxed, since I didn’t have to be ready to eat at sunset. The clocks also switched an hour, giving me extra time at night before the sun went down. I generally stayed late at work, finishing up some stories and edits, and walked home at around 6:30. I’d try to take different routes home to explore Rabat, sometimes walking through the windy streets of the medina. Although the old city here is far smaller than Marrakesh’s, the markets are vibrant and colorful.

View from my roof

My exploration on the way home was usually one of the highlights of my day, with one exception. One day a couple weeks ago, I was walking through the medina when I heard an explosion in the street in front of me. Fire spilled out of the alleyway, and a policeman ran from around the corner. Everyone started screaming and running, grabbing their children by the hand. It’s really only a matter of time before Morocco gets hit by an attack, and we all thought this was it. I started running in the opposite direction, having flashbacks in my head to a similar day three years ago in Boston when my friends and I speed-walked away from the marathon finish line. People were shouting behind me, and everyone started to slow. I realized they were yelling “Bota, bota,” the Arabic word for gas. It had just been a small gas explosion, and no one was hurt. However, I was weak in the knees and shaky. It was a small and unfortunate reminder of how susceptible Morocco really is to this kind of attack, and in that moment, I was terrified.

However, on that day, like every day, I made it home safe. Rabat is a very comfortable and secure city, and I feel far safer here walking at night and walking on the streets than I do in Marrakesh. Although there’s a group of boys on the corner near my work that always yell at me and the boys at the beach are awful, I rarely feel uncomfortable here.  Once I got home, I’d either go for a run by the ocean or work out on the roof of my house, breathing in the ocean air and taking in the glimmering coast in the sunset.

My running route in Rabat

 A few times before I left, I changed up my routine by heading to the beach with my friend Alex. She’s also an intern at Morocco World News, and both of us wanted to find something adventurous to do in Rabat. One day, we decided to going to a surf school and rent boards. We met Nabil, a hilarious, friendly young Moroccan who teaches surf classes. Our hour and a half lesson (for just ten dollars!) with Nabil quickly became the highlight of my week. I surfed a little as a child, but I’m pretty bad. Nabil was super helpful, and by the end of my time in Rabat I was comfortable enough to catch medium-sized waves by myself (admittedly, making it up only one in every five times or so) on an intermediate-sized board. I also met so many cool people when we were surfing. There were always a lot of foreigners taking lessons, who were fun to talk to, but also many Moroccan men enjoying the waves in their hometown. I’ve always believed that sports bring people together, and surfing in Rabat was no different. When Alex and I swam in the water by ourselves here without surfing, we would always be harassed by our fellow swimmers so much that the beach wasn’t even fun. When we were surfing, though, the other surfers always were friendly (and just friendly!) with us, chatting while we sat straddling the boards, enjoying the sunshine and waiting for a wave to come. Finally standing up on a small board and rushing towards the packed beach, taking a moment to gaze up at the ancient fortress walls of Rabat highlighted against the cloudless sky, is one of my favorite memories of the summer.

The Rabat beach

After my last lesson yesterday, Nabil invited us to go to his house with him. He lives deep in the winding street of the Oudaya, the ancient fortress of Rabat built into the cliff side. The Oudaya is a maze of windy streets too narrow for cars, in which much of Morocco’s traditional neighborhood culture is preserved. The buildings are all white-washed with a blue trim on the bottom reminiscent of Greece.

Nabil’s family was amazing. His mom and sisters were loud and friendly, cracking jokes and plying food on us, and his little brother, Nabil’s spitting image, followed him around adoringly. His mom told us that we were the first customers Nabil had ever invited home, so I felt very lucky. After we chatted with his family, Nabil took us to the terrace overlooking Rabat. The spot closes to the public before sundown, but Nabil knows the guard, so he let us in. We were the only three on a terrace that is normally packed with tourists and locals. The ocean stretched out before us, the lights of my neighborhood appearing to the left and the minarets of the town across the river rising silhouetted in the dusk. Behind the Oudaya, I could see the brightly-lit monuments of Rabat – the ornate Hassan II mausoleum and the unfinished minaret of the the mosque – rising above the river valley. Standing there with Alex and Nabil, I realized how much I’m going to miss this city.

In addition to the beach and the lovely views, I’m really going to miss my host family here. When I first arrived in Rabat, I didn’t now what to expect from them, and I was probably always unfairly comparing them to the Ibarkis subconsciously. The Cherkaouis aren’t the Ibarkis, but they’re different in an interesting and wonderful way. During Ramadan, both my host parents worked long hours and were always tired. The combination of Ramadan ending and them getting used to me being in the house made both of them warm up to me quite a bit. Although I don’t think I really got close with either of them, we had some good evenings together. After dinner, my host dad and Latifa and Rehab, the two younger girls, would play dominoes or cards. My host dad is very religious and conservative about gender relations, but by the time that I left he was no longer stiff around me. He called me “binti” (my daughter -- a pretty common term for parents to use with their daughters’ friends), and greeted and said goodbye to me not with a handshake, but with the two kisses conservative men use only with female family members or other women they’re close to.

He has an interesting personality. He and his two brothers married my host mom and her two sisters – and they are all first cousins. In the house, shoulders and knees must be covered at all times, and when his brothers are at home my host mom will wear the veil. During Ramadan, I initially misjudged him. I saw the little girls in his family wearing the veil and how he ordered around the women in his family, and was initially very thrown off. However, after Ramadan, I began to notice all the little things he did to help out his wife. One day, I came home to see him doing the dishes in the kitchen. My initial impression of his was far too harsh, and I’m glad I got to spend a little more time with him in August.

I spent every evening with the Cherkaouis, having ftour with them in Ramadan and eating dinner and hanging out at home or walking around with Chaimae after the holy month ended. A few nights, we changed up the routine by going to the seaside or to an event. Once in June, we went to Lellat al-Rouad (The Night of the Pioneers), a concert in the royal theater featuring traditional musicians from across Morocco.

An Andalusian music performance at Lellat al-Rouad

The language barrier between the Cherkaouis and I, coupled with the fact that I spent every weekend in Marrakesh with the Ibarkis, definitely made it harder for me to get close to them. However, I spent a great two months with them and will always remember my time with their family fondly.

Last night was my last night in Rabat. After I got back from Nabil’s house, Chaimae and I walked the streets chatting and enjoying the cool night air. I didn’t realize until now how close we had become in the last few weeks -- I feel so comfortable around her now, and conversation is effortless, even with the communication barrier. She has been such a good “big sister” throughout this experience, always helping me out, making sure I cross the (crazy!) Moroccan streets carefully, and chatting with me in the evenings. Chaimae and I spent a lot of time just hanging out in her home doing different things, but hanging out in the same room listening to the same music as we did our separate activities. Somewhere along the line, all those minutes spent together produced a great relationship. I went into this summer assuming that Chaimae and I wouldn’t get very close, since the language barrier is huge and mostly just because she isn’t Zineb or Oumaima, and I am so happy I was wrong. I’m going to miss her a lot.

Chaimae and I

We stopped at the Cherkaoui’s favorite restaurant, which serves delicious Syrian food, and I got us all chawarma and hummus and falafel as a thank-you meal. I also found a cake with macaroons (Chaimae’s favorite sweet) on it and had the bakery write “Thank you, Cherkaoui Family” on it in chocolate drizzle. We ate dinner together one last time around the table in the living room, savoring the chawarma. It was a great night full of laughter and delicious food. At the end, when I served them the cake with candles in it, I almost cried. I actually did cry right after, though, when my two little host sisters handed me three packages. Inside one, there was a blue leather wallet. The other held a beautiful red Moroccan formal dress, and the last contained the nicest present of all: a pair of handmade leather sandals that my host dad, who worked in a leather shop, had made for me. It was so touching that they decided to give me gifts. It took me a little while to feel totally comfortable in their house, and I always worried that my host parents didn’t really want to be hosting. However, their kindness and generosity last night really made me realize and fully appreciate how great they’ve been to me over this entire summer.

The last night with the Cherkaouis

I said goodbye to all of them this morning. My last day with them really crept up on me – I am going to miss them and the quiet, easy rhythm of their household a lot.

Saying goodbye to Rihab and Latifa 

Now, I’m headed to Marrakesh for my last four nights in Morocco. I’m sitting next to a man from Saudi Arabia who told me that he didn’t like my ripped jeans, but showed me tons of pictures of his hometown and baby girl. He also gave me Wifi in exchange for some Marrakesh travel tips (update: He turned out to not be very nice and tried to touch my hair and bothered me. I moved seats. I will definitely not miss this about being in Morocco). Tomorrow, I’m going to a non-profit neuro-rehab facility near my house to interview the doctor who founded it. I’m really excited about this story, and think it will be a great last article for me to write. After that, I’m going to enjoy one last couscous Friday and one last wonderful weekend with the Ibarkis before I return to America on Tuesday.

Weekend Adventures: Marrakesh, Toubkal, Fes, Chefchaouen

I finally got the chance last weekend to sit down and record some of the amazing adventures I've been having in Morocco on the weekends. I've recorded them below. This week, as my internship draws to a close, I'll provide details about my life in Rabat and final reflections on work at MWN. 

I’m writing from a café in Marrakesh with Zineb right now. It’s been a pretty typical Moroccan experience. We walked in the 110-degree heat to find a café with Wifi and air conditioning so that Zineb could study and I could do my work. When we got there, the AC wasn’t working and the Wifi didn’t connect, but the café had amazing coffee and comfortable armchairs. We sat and drank our coffee together, chatting and catching up. Although scenarios like this often frustrate me in Morocco, and my boss will probably be mad that I didn’t respond to his emails, it was totally worth it for this amazing latte and an hour to just relax with Zineb.

I’ve been heading to Marrakesh almost every weekend since I got to Morocco to spend time with the Ibarkis. This weekend, my boss let me work from home on Friday, so I left on Thursday night and arrived in Marrakesh by train. Even though it was eleven o’clock, the searing heat of the desert lingered in the night air.

One of my biggest problems whenever I arrive in Marrakesh is finding a taxi to go home. Leaving the train station as a white girl with a backpack, I am bombarded by the throng of taxi drivers outside attempting to catch tourists for a ride. These men will walk directly in my path, physically stopping me from going forwards until I tell them where I am going. They will try to negotiate with me for the price of a ride to the Ibarkis’ house in the outskirts of the city, generally citing prices 3 to 4 times more expensive then the meter cab fare. It’s illegal for cab drivers to not turn on the meter, but when I try to flag down a taxi from the curb, the drivers will refuse to turn it on. I could absolutely afford to pay the extra two or three dollars they are trying to charge me – in the grand scheme of things, the small amount of money is not that important. However, I never give in to the drivers who refuse to turn on their meter on principle. At this point, I’m not a tourist in Marrakesh, and I don’t want to be scammed.

When my parents visited, I remember they got fed up with me when I made a big deal out of not paying 100 dirhams (10 dollars, or a 400% price increase) for a taxi ride for the four of us to my neighborhood. However, agreeing to pay that much feeds into a narrative I do not like. Moroccans value thriftiness and do not respect people – especially tourists – that they believe “throw” money. A cab driver who overcharges me, even after he finds out that I speak Arabic and live here, is assuming that I am a tourist who is willing to “throw” money and therefore will not respect me. I probably overanalyze this scenario too much, but on principle, I refuse to pay for a taxi unless the driver turns on the meter.

The relationship between taxi drivers, tourists, and foreign students is odd here, and I am still trying to navigate it. One of the most interesting experiences I had with respect to this occurred during Ramadan in Marrakesh. I was fasting and heading to my friend’s house in the suburb of M’hamid for the iftar breakfast meal, but I was running very late. It was almost sunset, and I was rushing to find a cab. I approached the drivers outside Djemma al Fna Square, the biggest tourist destination in Marrakesh, to find a cab. Before they found out I spoke Arabic, the taxi drivers there all cited a price far higher than normal. However, I started speaking to one man and explained that I was fasting, that I lived here, and that I really needed to get to the suburbs before sunset. He immediately changed tone, clapping me on the shoulder. “Where’s someone going to M’hamid?” he shouted to the drivers lined among the curb. “This girl, she is fasting. I won’t, but one of you should drive our sister.” He steered me towards the taxi of an elderly man, wishing me godspeed. If I had given in to his request for 80 dirhams he would not have respected me, and he still wouldn’t take me himself. However, one he found out that I lived here and was not willing to be scammed, he was happy to help me out.

In Marrakesh and around Morocco, I’ve had some incredible adventures and lovely time to relax over the past few weekends. The weekend after Dara was here, I went to Marrakesh and hung out with the Ibarkis for a few days. It was the end of Ramadan and incredibly hot, so we stayed up almost all night on Friday and slept until the middle of the afternoon on Saturday. On Friday night, I finally got to meet Zineb’s boyfriend Ayoub, who is an incredibly nice guy. He speaks six languages, and we were able to talk a little bit in Spanish. He’s very religious and quiet, but once he felt comfortable around me he was cracking jokes and laughing. He treats Zineb really well, and I’m so glad she’s found someone like him. Her parents still don’t know about their relationship, but they’ve been talking about possibly getting married in the fall!

Zineb, Ayoub and I in Marrakesh

Although I’ve spent months with the Ibarkis, I hadn’t participated in the Ramadan ftour with them. It was wonderful to experience that important ritual with the people in Morocco that I care about the most. Oumaima, Zineb, my host mom, and I spent three hours preparing Moroccan pastries and sweets on Saturday afternoon, sitting together around the kitchen table folding filo dough and listening to music and chatting. I expended the last of my energy after a day without food and water racing Yassir up the four flights of stairs to the roof of the Ibarkis house to watch the sunset. He brought his binoculars, pretending to stare into the stadium in the distance to look for Real Madrid players, and joked around with me as we watched the hot sun slip below the horizon. The roof of the Ibarkis’ house is probably my favorite place in Morocco. At sunset, the distant peaks of the Atlas Mountains become sharper through the summer haze, reminding me of the clear view of the snowcaps I loved seeing last winter. To the north, low craggy hills rise out of the desert. The red city stretches out before you, slowly devolving into the unfinished streets of urban sprawl. The hot wind of the day becomes gentler.

Yassir and I on the roof

As the sun sank behind the minarets and houses of Marrakesh, the call to prayer rang out. I quickly lost all appreciation for the view, running downstairs with Yassir to finally drink a glass of water and celebrate the breaking of the fast with the family.

That night, I met up with a fellow graduate of my high school who is working at a non-profit in Marrakesh for the summer. We drank tea from a rooftop café in Djema al Fna, the main square of the medina, watching the crowds of Marrakshis head into the souks to shop and enjoy the mild night air.

The next day, two other interns from Morocco World News and I went to the Ouzoud waterfalls. The other two girls were new to Morocco, didn’t like hiking, and had no French or Arabic experience, so it was pretty much up to me to figure the day out. It was the first time I had ever done something adventurous in Morocco without someone equally or more competent next to me, and although it didn’t go perfectly, I was happy to find out that I can be independent to some extent here.

The Ouzoud waterfalls are the second highest in North Africa, a multi-leveled cascade of rushing water feeding a river with a series of smaller falls that cuts a deep gorge through the forest in Morocco’s Azilal Province. We rode a taxi for two hours from Marrakesh to the falls, and when we disembarked I realized that the taxi driver and the local guides were trying to press us into a tour. They emphasized the dangerous forests and the chance of getting lost, and I hesitated. All of the men surrounding us seemed a little off and more than a little aggressive. I politely refused their offer, but one of the guides followed us into the forest for almost half a mile heckling us and shouting warnings. I finally confronted him and asked him to leave us alone, and, surprisingly, he did.

From that moment on, our day was perfect. We hiked along the ridgeline for a brief period and then followed a water pipe down to a small campground with a restaurant next to a pool in the river. The water was deep blue, and the pool was fed by a rushing waterfall. Steep bluffs rose on the other side, covered in hanging vines and flowers that dripped with the mist from the falls. We ate our sandwiches in the shade of a tree and luxuriated in the cool water. One of the girls and I struck out towards the waterfall, paddling close to the pounding water and lying on our back as we were borne away by the powerful current.

Another intern and I at the smaller falls

After we rested, we found a path along the riverbed back towards the big falls. I was taken aback again by the beauty of the fall as we approached them from below. This much fresh water is a rare sight in Morocco, which made me appreciate Ouzoud that much more. The water streams from the small pools in the meadows on top, aggregating before the cliff and spilling over the lip in a powerful, double-tiered cascade that drowns out all noise.

Fifty meters down the river, there are restaurants and colorful boats that take those unable or unwilling to swim to the base of the falls. Below the cascade, there is a massive, deep pool surrounded by cliffs. Moroccan men and boys covered the rocks around the pool, enjoying the sunshine and chatting. The more adventurous scaled the slippery sandstone cliffs ringing the water, flipping and diving into the water.

Ouzoud, the tallest waterfall in North Africa. We saw a kid jump from the top! He stuck the landing in the water.

Although I wasn’t thrilled to be the only girls swimming, one of the other interns and I quickly stripped down to our swimsuits and dove in. We paddled hard towards the base of the waterfall, gasping and struggling to keep our heads above the waves caused by the strong current of the pounding falls. We finally arrived on the slippery rocks on the opposite side of the pool, edging around the base until we were fully behind the sheets of cascading water. We lay on the sun-soaked rocks, looking up at the mist floating around the falls and completely deaf to any sound besides the roar of the water. Two nice Moroccan men were also in the area, and we all took turns diving from the rocks into the water below.

After a couple hours, it was time to head back to Marrakesh. I left Ouzoud unhappy to be leaving such a natural paradise, but also sad to leave the social environment there. Although the three of us were the only girls swimming, none of the dozens of men and boys there harassed us or made me feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. The only interactions I had with men there were genuine, nice conversations. If the three of us had been the only girls in bathing suits and swimming on the Rabat city beach, for example, our day wouldn’t have been enjoyable due to absurd amounts of heckling from men of all ages. I’ve always thought that nature and sports bring people together, and this experience supported my hypothesis.

On Monday morning, I got a ride back to Rabat with my friend Myriam, a girl I work with. She’s Marrakshi, and actually lives just a few minutes from the Ibarkis. Myriam studied in Canada for two years and is finishing her degree at al-Akhaween, the American-style liberal arts college in Morocco. She speaks flawless English, has great taste in music, is passionate about improving gender relations in Morocco, and is, most importantly, really fun and nice. Since she drives home to Marrakesh to be with her family and friends most weekends as well, I’ve been able to get rides with her.

The next weekend, Myriam drove me and two different interns, a boy named Chris and my friend Alexandra, to Marrakesh again as we prepared to set out on our expedition to Mount Toubkal. Since we got in really late and the Ibarkis’ staying-up-all-night schedule would not have fit in well with our hiking plans, we stayed at a beautiful riad-style hostel deep in the winding alleyways of  the medina that has a pool and roof deck. We went out in Djemma al-Fna on Friday night to show Alex the city and get dinner. Wandering through the souks (markets), I made sure to pass by the shops of the vendors I’ve become familiar with.

Marrakesh markets

One of them, a young man who owns a spice shop, always invites me in for tea. I finally took him up on his offer that day, bringing Alex and Chris in to meet his pet chameleon and two friends in the shop. We sat with them, chatting in a mix of  darija and English and drinking strong, delicious tea, for an hour as the souk started to shut down around us. We made our way back to the main square and I took them on a Marrakshi street food tour for dinner. We sat on the tall stools of Zineb’s favorite snail vendor, the same man who’s given me free samples in the past, and shared a bowl of the snails and the steaming, briny broth between the three of us. Next, I took them to Hassan’s tent, the best vendor for sandwiches and meat. The stall was packed with Moroccans clamoring for sandwiches, so we ordered three to go. After stopping to share a glass of spicy red tea that warms your stomach from the inside out, we made our way back to the hostel and ate our sandwiches just after midnight on the roof of the riad. In the darkness, you could see the various minarets of the city along the skyline and the blue flashes of the blinking toys that children slingshot into the air from Djemma al-Fna.

Djemma al-Fna from a rooftop cafe

The next morning, we took a grand taxi to Imlil. In Morocco, there are two types of taxis: grand taxis, which can travel outside of the city, and petit taxis, which do not leave the city limits. Once in Imlil, our taxi dropped us off near the bridge, and we met out guide.

Most tourists choose to hire a guide certified by C.F.A.M.M., the Moroccan mountaineering school, to take them up the mountain. I know Latifa, one woman who is a certified guide (one of Morocco’s only four female guides) fairly well, and she suggested that we just hire a muleman to lead us up the mountain to save some money. Mohamed, our muleman, spoke only Arabic and did not have the same training as the certified guides. However, Latifa is incredibly trustworthy and only works with really good people, so I trusted her judgment about this. Sure enough, Mohamed was the perfect guide for the mountain.

We set off from Imlil just after ten on Saturday morning. The three of us followed Mohamed and his mule up a trail through the forest. The trail began on the side of Imlil facing the mountains, following the stream the runs through the town. We climbed the trail until we reached a dusty dirty road above the narrow river valley. Below, we could see the cascades of Imlil and the cafes surrounding them.

The road was empty aside from three persistent vendors that hawked rugs and traditional handicrafts from their wooden stalls.  We walked towards the high peaks in the distance, passing the beautiful village of Aroumd on our left. A fairly large town for its location, Aroumd’s pastel buildings are built into the steep hillside of one of the foothills of the Atlas. The road sloped downwards after we passed the town, and we continued onto the pebbled wash of a wide riverbed. After ten minutes of following a faint trail up and across the riverbed, we turned left onto a trail that led upwards and away from the wash.

Imlil

From this point, the trail was obvious. The route follows the stream bed from above, there were no turns, and the path was distinct. We walked past four small shops selling cold water, drinks, and snacks. Two hours into the hike, we stopped to rest at the shrine of Sidi Chamharouch, a large rock edifice surrounded by a small village. Near the shrine, small waterfalls created beautiful rock pools perfect for cooling off from the hot sun.

Climbing higher

As we climbed higher, we passed groups of hikers descending from the peak. The landscape became more dramatic, and the wind picked up. The altitude began to affect us. Although I run daily and am in good shape, I felt my legs becoming fatigued and was short of breath. After four and a half hours of walking, we reached the refuge huts at 3,200 meters elevation.

Four hours in

We spent the night there in good company. The hostel-style set-up of the lodging allowed us to meet friendly hikers from all over the world, including a group of funny old Spanish men and American students from the Critical Language Scholarship program in Meknes. Two of the young men there were travelers from Amsterdam who had been all over the world together. We shared a room with them and their unconventional traveling companion, a massive green blow-up donkey. They had named the donkey Snaarf and taken him all over the world with them. They showed us his Facebook page, which included pictures of Snaarf at a music festival, on a camel, and summiting peaks across Europe. Sure enough, as we followed the two of them up the mountain from a distance the next day, we could see the neon-green blow-up bobbing up and down in the distance.

The refuge complex

 Instead of paying for a 20-dirham shower that afternoon, Alex and Chris and I walked down to the waterfalls near the refuge and rinsed off in the late-afternoon sunshine. Later, we woke up in the middle of the night to look at the stars, lying in silence on the rock wall outside the refuge hut and taking in the Milky Way glimmering in the distant sky. I have only seen better stars twice in my life. While we stargazed, a group of Moroccan men arrived at the refuge. Equipped with headlamps and jackets, the hikers swarmed jovially into the compound. Refuge staff came out to say hello, and the hikers explained that they had left Imlil after the ftour (Ramadan breakfast meal). Since they were not allowed to eat or drink during the day in Ramadan, they inverted their schedule and summited Toubkal at midnight under the stars.

The next morning, we woke up before sunrise and set off from the refuge at five in the morning. From the lodge, you could not see the peak of Toubkal. We had to climb a steep, rocky ridge to the left of the buildings for about an hour before the peak came into view. From the top of the ridge, we could see the peak, but it was still an hour and a half away. The middle section between the ridge and the start of the final peak was a large, steep scree slope.

Guess how many times I fell on this... (Answer: at least 9)

There were two paths available – a steep, more direct path on the left side for more experienced hikers, and a longer path that switch-backed up the right side of the basin and approached the peak from a more gradual slope on the side. We scrambled over boulders and slipped on the scree, stopping often to rest. The altitude made it hard to breathe, the wind was cold, and the footing was treacherous. Finally, we made it to the beginning of the final ascent of the peak. The sun had risen over the ridge lines of the mountains to the east, and the morning rays relieved the cold.

Lower mountains near Toubkal, as seen from the base of the final ascent

After resting, we began our final ascent to the peak on the well-marked path. I was breathing heavily in the thin air as we climbed over boulders and up the steep grade, but the sun was warm and the cliffs around us were breathtaking. Although I could see many steep drop-offs in the terrain around us, the path was protected with no direct exposure to the cliffs. After thirty minutes of hard trekking, we finally crested the last rise. A large triangular marker crowned the summit, and cliffs surrounded the peak. The sun was rising higher in the deep blue sky, contrasting with the rugged brown cliffs and peaks around us.

Spot the blow-up donkey in the pic

Low clouds covered the land in the distance, but Mohamed told us that on clear days hikers can see Marrakesh, the Sahara desert, and the far-off Atlantic ocean from the peak. Below us, we could see the distant river valleys of the High Atlas.

The Sahara is under those clouds. Also, amazed that my Asics made it all the way up here.

According to ancient Greek mythology, the Atlas Mountains are where the Titan Atlas used to hold up the sky on his shoulders. Looking at the vast expanse of land below us, it was not hard to see why the Greeks thought this was the top of the world. We rested under the summit marker, taking in the spectacular view and the sunshine.

Chris, a fellow intern, and I at the peak

After relaxing at the peak, we began the long trek back to Imlil. The climb down the scree slopes in the middle was more treacherous than the climb up. However, if you descend slowly, you will make it easily. We rested and ate a snack at the refuge before beginning the four-hour trek to the bottom. On the way down, Mohamed's mule seemed to be cranky from the altitude and exhaustion as well. It had a small fit and bucked its saddlebags into a gorge, kicking at the air (and almost Chris) and running away down the steep slope. Mohamed ran after the mule, and we gathered the bags. It certainly added a little more adventure to the trip down.

Chris and Mohamed, our mule-man, on the descent.

We returned to Marrakesh in the mid-afternoon completely exhausted. I cleaned up and headed over to a family from the CLC’s house to eat ftour with them and my friend Isobel from the States. Isobel lived with this family all of last year when we studied in Marrakesh together. The mother tragically died in childbirth a month ago, and Isobel flew in to help the oldest daughter with childcare and be there for her as the family grieved. The girl in the family is now responsible for three younger siblings and a newborn baby, all while finishing her studies and grieving the death of her mother.  I cannot even imagine how she must be feeling right now. I was glad that I was able to go see her and her family and offer my condolences. Additionally, it was really nice to see Isobel again, even considering the circumstances.

I headed to the Ibarkis house afterwards. The next day was the Fourth of July, and Yassir and I planned a party. We bought sparklers and a ton of food at the French supermarket. After the ftour, we began preparing.

Prepping for the Fourth of July

All of the kids helped out in the kitchen, and we grilled cheeseburgers, made guacamole, and baked chocolate chip cookies. At dinnertime, we all gathered in the garden to chow down on fresh burgers, home made fries, and chips and guac. We brought out the sparklers with the ice cream and gooey chocolate chip cookies, lighting them off one by one and cracking jokes as we enjoyed our dessert in the warm desert night. Although I wasn’t in America and was the only American around, it was a wonderful Fourth of July spent with my second family.

Happy Fourth from the Ibarkis and I!

The next week, I only went to work for one day. That Wednesday marked the Moroccan holiday of Eid al-Fitr, the celebration of the end of Ramadan. The Cherkaouis woke me up at nine to come to the breakfast table, and we all sat together drinking tea, eating piping hot msimmon and pastries, and enjoying the first real breakfast in a month. Chaimae played Andalusian music from the TV speakers. The atmosphere created by the rich music and family breakfast reminded me of my own family’s Christmas morning traditions.

Women traditionally stay home on Eid to receive their male relatives, so Chaimae, her sisters, her mom, and I all hung around the house. I got to meet many of their relatives who came over to wish them a happy Eid.

In the midafternoon, my friend Alexandra from work and I took advantage of the holiday to head to the beach. I had wanted to spend time at the beach for a while, but I work 10 to 6 every day and can’t go by myself due to harassment. To counteract the latter problem, Alex and I decided that we would sign up for a surfing lesson, which guaranteed us a safe space to leave our bags and a male instructor to accompany us and stop the worst of the unwanted attention.

Nabil, our instructor, speaks great English, has shaggy hair that falls into his eyes, and is infectiously enthusiastic. He took us out on the boards to catch waves near the jetties of Rabat’s city beach. I learned a lot in the lesson, and I’m hoping to continue to improve while I’m here the next couple weeks. After paddling out past the breakers for a rest, I lay on the board in the sunshine, rocked by the gentle swells, and took in the bright blue skies and the ancient fortress of Rabat rising from the cliffs on the shore. I fully plan on making surfing here a part of my routine as much as possible. It’s also dirt-cheap, compared to the States. An hour and a half of board rental and private instruction is only ten dollars. 

The Rabat beach from above.

That weekend, Chaimae invited me to come to Chefchaouen and Fez with her and Bridges, the language school she works for. Bridges is the sister school of my old school in Marrakesh, and the director there is wonderful. They’re currently hosting a group of NSLI-Y (the program I was on last year) students for the summer, and the director found funds for me, Chaimae, and Chaimae’s two best friends to accompany them last weekend.

Me with the NSLI students, Chaimae's friends, and the NSLI resident director cooling off at our hotel's beautiful pool.

We stayed at an incredible hotel in Chefchaouen with a pool that overlooked the rugged mountains of the Rif and the maze of blue buildings composing the medina.

Chefchaouen from above

Over our days there, I loved wandering with Chaimae, her friends, the American teenagers, and their resident director through the blue streets of the quiet, beautiful town.

Moroccan mint tea served northern-style in a tall glass.

Chaimae, my host sister in Rabat, and I in Chefchaouen

One of Chefchaouen's many stunning doors. This one was located in the Mellah, the ancient Jewish neighborhood.

One of Chefchaouen's many famous blue streets

On Friday, we traveled to Akchour, a wildlife refuge, and did an incredible hike to the base of a natural rock formation called God’s Bridge. An arch of sandstone suspended over a deep gorge, the bridge covers a rushing stream with swimming holes. We stopped at a deep pool surrounded by rocks, tangled vines, and steep cliffs. I led some of the more adventurous NSLI students up one of the tall boulders, and we jumped into the clear, cold water from twenty feet in the air.

Akchour's riverbed

That Saturday, we headed to Fez. That evening and the next morning, we explored the winding streets of Morocco’s largest medina, a place that truly makes you feel as though you’ve been transported back in time.

Me in an ancient madrasa (religious school)

Fez is home to the world’s oldest university, a huge traditional tannery, and some of the most ornate mosaics and stucco work that I have ever seen. We visited an old Quranic school in the depths of the medina, watched leatherworkers dying impossible quantities of leather in the ancient tannery, and wandered through markets packed with glittering wedding decorations, ornate sweets, wood carvers, leather workers, and spice vendors.

Just one example of Fes's incredible stucco and architecture

Over the course of the weekend, I became close with the NSLI-Y resident director.. She’s 22 and did a NSLI program as a high school student in Morocco. It was great to be reconnected with the program by meeting these students and meeting Julia. Seeing Morocco through their fresh eyes and watching how she handled their transition was really interesting. Also, it was fun to hang out with a friendly, interesting American girl my own age. I’ve generally had trouble connecting with other Americans who study in Morocco, so it was nice to finally find someone that I felt like I clicked with.

This weekend, I’m back in Marrakesh just hanging out. Zineb and I spent the day together on Friday and went out to eat delicious chwarma that night. On Saturday, Yassir and I went to a pool near our house for the whole afternoon. He’s gotten really good at swimming – he just needs a little more practice. I still smile whenever I think about him telling impatiently me what he’s going to focus on when he swims before he jumps in the water: “Yesss, Brynna. The bubbles, and the feet like the crocodile, and always the ear in the water, and the arms, they’re going to be big. Can we just swim now?”

Afterwards, we went to McDonalds, his favorite restaurant. McDonalds in Morocco is actually a nice restaurant, with air conditioning and clean modern seating areas and higher-quality meat. He got a Happy Meal and a McFlurry, and he was all smiles as he chowed down on his “MacDo.” During the summer, Yassir doesn’t get out of the house that much, and he always gets bored and cranky in the heat. I’m glad I’m able to take him out and spend some fun time with him doing things we both love (i.e., swimming and eating ice cream). On Saturday night, after the temperature had dropped to a mere 102 degrees Farenheit and the sun went down, I went on a long, long run all around my favorite (and safely crowded, don’t worry Mom!) places in my neighborhood. My favorite street, Allal al-Fessi, is full of shops and restaurants and people and really reflects the true pulse of the city. I ran down the street on the route of my old walk to school, passing familiar sites and faces. There was an old woman that I used to buy popcorn from a few times a week last year on my walk home from school. She’s a niqabi (full coverage except for the eyes), and she was the first fully-covered woman I had ever met. She is very poor and very old, but her voice is rich and her eyes crinkle up at the corners when she smiles. She hadn’t been on Fessi when I had walked there the past few weekends, and I was worried she had died or was sick. However, she was sitting on her normal corner, leaning back against the red mortar of the sidewalk wall, on Saturday night. I approached her, and her eyes crinkled up. She laughed and asked me where I had been for the past year. We talked for a little bit, and I bought some popcorn to bring home to eat while watching a movie in the garden with Yassir that night. Talking with her was such a small event, but it put a smile on my face for the rest of the night.

One last thing. Last night, Yassir asked me to come with him because he had something he needed to “say to me about.” He asked me to sit down on his bed, closed the door, and stood squirming, giggling, and embarrassed with him face pressed against the wall. He’s a cute ten-year-old who I just want to squeeze into a big huge every time I see him.  He also knows he’s cute and knows that I’m pretty easy to convince to take him to do fun things. I totally spoil him, and he loves it, and we have so much fun together. Normally, he’ll ask me to take him to the pool, or to McDonald’s, or to the store to buy gum. I was expecting him to ask me to buy him another cheeseburger and fries, but instead he made a different request.

Turning red in the face, he slowly spit out: “Brynna, I want.. I want tooooo… I want to finish my studies….. in America!”

I told him that he was ten, and that ten-year-olds need to stay with their mom and dad. He came over and held my hand, and I promised that when he was sixteen, if he called me and told me he still wanted to study in America that I would do everything I could to make that happen.

He gave me a big hug and a smile. Although I emphasized that I wouldn’t be able to help him for sure, he seemed to take my answer as a yes. He’s so little, and he can’t be super serious about this now. But this is the first thing he’s even asked me for that I couldn’t give him.

Especially considering the state of politics today, there’s a chance that in six years it would be almost impossible for a teenage Moroccan boy to get a visa. His request was so cute, but it left me feeling really sad about the world right now. It’s disheartening that no matter how hard I try, I might never be able to help him do this.

On that note, Zineb and I are heading home for couscous. Now that Ramadan is over, the tradition of having a huge couscous lunches once a week is back. Eating couscous for lunch all together was one of my favorite parts of last year. Zineb’s mom has been making couscous with carrots, chicken, carmelized onions, and raisins since midmorning. When we get back, we’ll all sit around the kitchen table and eat from the communal plate in the middle. We’ll use our hands to shape the couscous and rich meat into bite-sized balls, popping them into our mouths. My host family will laugh at me for not being able to talk with food in my mouth, and I’ll sit there chewing, amazed as they manage to speak around huge mouthfuls of couscous. My host mom and dad will urge each other to eat until the plate is clear. Afterwards, Zineb, Oumaima, Yassir, and I will all lie down in the salon to nap with our stomachs pleasantly full of couscous, enjoying the rest and our weekend together.