where the streets have no name.

Morocco is a country for the senses. The vibrant colors and the breathtaking views, the strong smells of spices in the streets and burning trash along the roads, and the permeating call to prayer five times daily were overwhelming. This trip was an experience like no other. I discovered so many things about the Arab culture and the religion of Islam that changed so many of my misconceptions that I haven't quite been able to process it all yet. But here is my attempt at describing the trip: beware, it may be quite lengthy.

The first day of the adventure (Friday) was spent in Gibraltar, the British territory on the tip of the Iberian peninsula. It was a bizarre place - it felt very British (complete with red telephone booths and fish and chips), but also African (apes everywhere), and not so much Spanish, even though it is mere feet from Spain. However, I was especially excited about this part of the trip because my anscestor, General George Agustus Elliott, was the one who defended Gibraltar in the Seige of Gibraltar in the late 18th century. I just knew there was going to be a great plaque I could take a picture with. Turns out, there's not only a plague, but also a statue and a hotel named after the general. All the locals were impressed, even in awe, when I told them who I was. One local, after I spent considerable effort convincing him that I was in fact telling the truth, even told me that in Gibraltar, being related to General Elliott is the equivilant of being related to Abe Lincoln in the States. Perfecto. We took a tour of the island, grabbed some fish and chips for dinner, then headed back to the hotel for the night.

Saturday morning we woke up early to catch the ferry to Tangier. Welcome to Africa, continent number five checked off my list. When we got off the ferry, we met our guide, Daren (lovingly nicknamed D-Magic). We went with a guide company called Morocco Exchange (a great organization which was started by a German, but is now mostly run by Americans who know Morocco very well) that takes Americans and Western Europeans to Morocco with the goal of challenging their perceptions of the Arab world and, at the same time, the Arab world's perceptions of Westerners. Our guide quickly informed us that this was his first trip to lead by himself, and that we might get lost a few times. Bueno. In Tangier, we first went to a market to buy lunch. I guess this is how everyone else in the world does it, but the meat section was a bit graphic. Heads, inards, tails everywhere, and the chickens were still twitching. The sights were not so bad, but the smell really got me. We then walked to Darna, a women's center right in the center of Tangier that takes in women and teaches them to read and write, and also teaches them a trade so that they can support themselves. At the center, we had a discussion with three Moroccan students. They were all pursuing their Masters degree, so their perspective was a little more progressive than the typical Moroccan, but it was very intersting to be able to ask them questions and understand their viewpoints. One thing that stuck out to me from this descussion was their perception of Americans. We asked many people in Morocco about their perception of Americans and always the response was the same. No Arabs agree with the international politics of the United States, which is understandable - I don't think you would either if you lived there. But they all separate the political realm of the U.S. with the popular realm. Not a single person we spoke with had any negative feelings towards the American people, but were almost infatuated with Americans and American culture. We then had a delicious meal of soup, couscous, vegetables, and Moroccan mint tea and hopped back on the bus.

After Tangier, we started the trek to Rabat, making a few stops on the way. First, we stopped at Asilah, a beautiful, quiet little town on the Atlantic Ocean that reminded me a little of Santorini. Then we stopped on the side of the road to ride some camels along the beach. In Africa. No big deal. Lastly, we stopped just before Rabat at sundown so our driver could break fast and pray (it was Ramadan, so everyone was fasting from sun up to sun down - in fact, we couldn't eat or drink in the streets, either.)

We finally arrived in Rabat, the capital of Morocco, and our home base for the trip. We were paired with homestay families and Lauren, Erika, and I walked with Hannen, our host sister, to our home. From the streets, the city of Rabat looks very plain, almost sad. But the inside of the homes are absolutely spectacular (our home especially so because it had a western toilet...). This is very typical of Islamic architecture, so I've learned in my art history class. It has to do with the idea of keeping the private sphere private. And much of the socializing is done in the homes, as opposed to Spain where it is all in the streets. Anyway, there is no way I will be able to describe here all I saw and experienced in the homestay, but the family was so different than I thought they would be. I was surprised at all of the things that reminded me of any given home or family in the United States, and the family was extremely generous and hospitable.

Sunday, we met with a Moroccan professor who has written many books on the relationship between the Arab world and the west. The most interesting thing I learned from this discussion, and possibly what stuck out most from the whole trip, was about how the religion of Islam has been manipulated. Just as with any religion or idealogy, when the masses are illiterate, the texts can be manipulated for political or monetary gain (there are many examples of this in Christian history, especially from the period of the Crusades and the Middle Ages). Some very interesting examples of this are burkah/hijab/women's dress as well as Islamic extremism. Ask me more about it - I was really interested in it, but to discuss it here-would only make this post longer... which clearly is not necessary.

Anyway, then we went to some Roman ruins and a Mosoleum. They were sort of interesting. Just look at the pictures. Then came Sunday night, which was chock-full of surreal experiences. First, we had break fast with the family, which was delicious, of course. They make a dangerously heavy soup, which is accompanied by ever so many delicious sweets. That is only the appetizer, of course. After break fast we somehow communicated toour family (in charades) that we needed buckets, because we were going to the hammam, the Arab baths. Sounds great, right? Actually, it was hilariously uncomfortable. We begacotyn the adventure by trekking down the street with our buckets and showering materials, as if to announce to the citye of Rabat that we are off to bathe. Kind of normal? So then we arrive at the hammam, purchase our scrubbers, and head to the changing room. This is where things get uncomfortable. Let's just say that the ladies in the baths would not let me cover myself quite as much as I would have liked... Just try to imagine 7 less-than-covered American girls in a small, steamy room crowded with lots of less-than-covered Moroccan women and girls dumping hot water on eachother and scrubbing eachother until their skin peels off. Quite the cultural experience. After the baths, sqeaky clean and closer than ever before, the girls headed to one of the host families' homes to get our hands and feet tatooed with henna, which is a Moroccan tradition for special occasions. Then, after I wiped my nose with my henna on the way home (an orange nose for three weeks? splendid.), our family fed us. Again. Because the first dinner wasn't enough. The problem was that I had wet henna on my hands, so my host sister, Fati, fed me the entire meal... a hilariously bizarre experience in itself.

Monday morning we left Rabat for the Rif Mountain region of Morocco to spend the day with a family that lives in a remote village. This day showed us that Morocco is a land of extremes. The difference in quality of life between the cities and the country was astounding. Whereas in the city, there are more women in universities than men, in the villages, for many children the closest school is 10km away, and roads to get there are rare. The average boy living in the country gets 6 years of education, and most girls never learn to read or write. However, the family we spent the day with was amazing, and again extremely hospitable and generous. The matriarch of the family, Fati, petitioned the government for years to have a road built to the village just 5 years ago after her daughter in law became one of the many women to
die in childbirth because of lack of access to medical care.

Overall, the trip was eye-opening, and I wish I could share more of what I learned with you here, but alas, that would take too many blog entries. I am back in Granada now, patiently awaiting the moment when I find Greys and the Office (and maybe the presidential debate) online... Until next time.