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.