William S. Burroughs on Objectivity

“Your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative.”

Final Morocco Thoughts - You Don't Have to Go Home but You Can't Stay Here

Rabat Souq

It almost seems customary to compose a post of what I will or will not miss about Morocco. I am leaving with a plethora of memories, good and some bad. (That's right, there are enough that I feel compelled to use that word.) Living abroad was a fascinating experience, even if the six week duration was short and did not forge a thorough impression of Moroccan culture. I can fall back upon tired gripes regarding Morocco (or, insert country here) that often do nothing more than portray my own society and culture as rational and higher than the one I'm departing. In all honesty, I started writing exactly that post before I realized what I was spitting out. I'm not singling out anyone in particular, instead I'm avoiding a facile approach to summarizing my brief experience in Morocco. Above all, I want to avoid the snobbery on display from a British tourist I met in Casablanca who crowed about the cultural supremacy and moral righteousness of British and Western culture.

Without trying to don my former academic hat (ie, pretentious, probing intellectual), there were aspects of Morocco and its culture that intrigued me. Namely, space and auditory space are occupied differently than in the States. While I'm not a Muslim--although I wear a t-shirt that says I'm one--the muezzin's call applies different boundaries to a day and time, especially if you're someone who wakes up earlier by nature. It was hard to miss the unemployment protests and marching in the center of Rabat, small bands of kids walking and signing/chanting near my apartment, and the occasional drum and flute (or a woodwind variant) duo.

I composed this post in a flurry of posts on the day or two before I departed my apartment in Rabat for thirty hours of door-to-door travel. Following a couple of weeks reflection and story-telling, I'm thrilled when recounting my time in Morocco. It's unlikely that I will be availed of that opportunity in the future. The strain on my marriage is not worth it at this point and I have a difficult time envisioning a time in the future where it will be OK. I think I can preserve my Arabic until summer 2011, even though it will be a difficult slog.

Punched in the Head by a Fistful of Glass on a Moroccan Train

Ever wondered what happens when an object, say a stone, hits a train window at high velocity when you're seated next to it? Me, too, and I found out the hard way. In short, someone threw or sling-shot a rock that hit the window next to me. I absorbed the brunt of the small glass explosion and it left me dazed as it walloped my right temple and side of my face. The rock did not penetrate the glass, but its impact shot large shards of glass at my head and shoulders in a concentrated area above my ear. I've been knocked around a few times in my life, and I don't believe my head has ever been hit this hard. I was showered and coated with glass. My understanding is that glass of this sort, as in cars, is produced so that it won't shatter with jagged edges as with windows or mirrors. Even after a day, I was a bit shaken up when thinking of it, and it reminds me of the film Babel except I wasn't shot and left to die in a Moroccan village. ETA: After 36 hours, I still managed to pick two pieces of glass out of my scalp.

I debated on whether I should record this on the raptor space. I decided that it was acceptable as long as I stated that I do not believe this incident is representative of Morocco, the Arab speaking world, or Africa. It was a fluke and I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Think of the odds.

When I boarded the train headed to Rabat, I picked a compartment and settled in across from a quiet man who stared out the window from the majority of the trip. Our window, however, was fractured from a hit at the bottom of the window. I thought that it was a neat image and, like a silly boy, I thought up foolish metaphors for my life, the trip, and the spider webbed window. Eventually, we were joined by several women, including a young woman named Hind who taught English to high schoolers in Meknes. Thanks to her flawless English, we struck up a conversation. We heard a thud on the rough shortly after she boarded and as we zipped past small villages. She explained that it was local kids throwing rocks at the train, and at that point I realized what precipitated the fragmented window. We continued our chat, for we had no reason to believe that the thud foreshadowed what would occur.

At a lull in our conversation I leaned forward and glanced down at my shoes. Seconds later I heard a loud crack that was followed immediately by a large wallop on my right temple. My head swung violently to the left as I felt as though someone had walked up and punched me in the side of the head. In a daze, I looked around amid the screaming and wondered "what in the hell happened." I didn't see any blood but my first thought was that it was a gun shot, and then I became aware of the immense pain on the right side of my head. I looked at the window and the woman screaming next to me and felt the glass on my face, head, hands, back, and neck. I checked all those surfaces for blood as Hind repeatedly asked "are you okay? are you OKAY?" I nodded and said yeah, yeah, I'm okay as I started to brush off the glass.

The women and some teenagers in the walkway stood me up and started brushing, picking, and wiping glass off of me from the shoulders up. I noticed that I had the majority of glass as I looked around at all the people in the compartment. There were several apologies and an explanation ensued that someone threw a rock and managed--by some stroke of luck--to hit our window. I took the brunt of the glass explosion. Although I wasn't closest to the window, the woman next to me was sitting back and thanks to my lean forward my head was almost even with the impact point and nothing more than a foot away from the window. (We were all packed in tightly.) It appeared that the glass was similar to buckshot or birdshot as it leaves the barrel. In other words, the shards were concentrated due to my proximity, which is why I had large and fine pieces of the window lodged in my hair and down my neck and back, and almost no one else had similar levels of glass coating them.

The conductor showed up later and claimed that there was nothing he could do, according to Hind. I couldn't help but be struck by the difference in how this incident would have been met in the US, partially courtesy of a litigious society. I'm a bit perplexed as to the explanation and treatment, yet I thought it was better to not throw a fit and be the demanding American. Even though I felt disjointed and foggy, I thought I was good enough to hop in a cab and call my father-in-law for reassurance as to my condition. He said that since I wasn't knocked unconscious or hit by the rock or object, a concussion wasn't likely even though I might feel limited physical effects from the hit.

So that's my war story. I seem to have the strangest luck when traveling. I'm not sure what it was that hit the window, and it's plausible that a rock thrown or aimed correctly with a sling shot could have generated the explosion of glass. The only certainty that I'm left with is that I was hit incredibly hard in the side of the head and feel very fortunate to return to the US and for my life, whatever problems I face.

Fes: A Couple of Photos and a Paragraph

My trip to Fes was brief. I strolled around the city and dove into the sprawling souq. Fes was small and quiet in comparison with Marrakesh, which isn't too surprising since Marrakesh is stimulus overload. Admittedly, I awoke with stomach problems and did not sleep well the previous night. Thus my time in Fes was not as active and impassioned at it could have been. And the way home? Well, that's a story in and of itself and I will post it once I return to normal living patterns in Denver. My flight leaves Casa at 2 AM Sunday morning and I've grown tired of pumping out blog entries today.

You'll notice a shortage of photos. Thanks to weariness, I was not in the mood and I felt as though some of the photos might mirror those I've already shared. Photos of the souq are nice and all, but there's a limit to how many I want to snap. Again, the train station impresses.

Pastries, Pastries, Pastries

Thanks to the joys of French colonialism, Morocco is blessed with numerous patisseries. And for all of those post-colonial scholars, you can start revising your vitriol for colonialism. The French gave the people bread and cakes so people such as myself could maraud the country in search of exotic food and sweets. And if that ain't civilization, then I don't know what is.

So what else do I have to show from this trip? An extra inches. (You needn't worry, faithful masses, diarrhea helped shave those pounds.) I walked past two patisseries every day on my way to and from school, and I surrendered to temptation at least once a week. I snapped photos whenever possible. Unfortunately, I cannot dazzle with descriptions of their nutty texture, crispy crusts, or opulent creams. Select details rattle around in my hurried mind, but I think the photos will suffice for this round.

Qalam wa Lawh Write Up and Photos

I've finished my Arabic training at Qalam wa Lawh (QWL) and I'm pleased with the quality of instruction, facilities, and the helpfulness of the staff. As I noted in earlier entries, the staff, especially Malaika, went out of their way to help us explore Morocco and its culture. From finding me a home for Eid to providing cheap laundry service, I can only commend them on easing my stay.

Arabic is a difficult language that requires diligence. At this point, you might be thinking "thanks for the news, Bill Curtis. What other late breaking news stories or mysteries do you have for us?" I have toiled with Arabic for years, often retreading the same ground with plodding advances. I'm determined to continue. Trips of this sort will not occur again, however, so any future advances will come slowly and will test my perseverance. The honest approach is to acknowledge that all of this might not reach fruition. When TFA kicks in my intentions might weaken as I face the onslaught of early childhood education.

Regardless, here are some photos of QLW that are worth sharing.

Dining area

Add a boiled egg, this raiff, sugary OJ, a shot of tea, and you've got a breakfast going
Looking out on the gardens and patio
Typical view from the patio in mid-December
Bernardo, my roommate, and I on my last day

I should add that Bernardo made my stay enjoyable. I wasn't wild about the other kids who stayed there--including the one who stole my food and didn't have the integrity to admit it. Bernardo's fluent in English and picked it up from American film and entertainment (ie cultural production) in Brazil.

Marisa Biaggi on Elvis

On Musicology Smackdown last week, Dr. Biaggi tackled a new collection of Elvis' music to commemorate his 75th birthday. I will admit that I have an odd respect for Elvis, especially fat, bloated, pharmed out Elvis. I can't find the embed code, so here's a link. As usual, her stinging commentary nails the image and career of Elvis while sinking her canines into the myth and quality of his work. Here's the money quote:

By the end of his life with a glittery, tacky Vegas show, a drug habit, and a totally distorted appearance, Elvis had become a grotesque caricature of his former self. And we wonder why his daughter married Michael Jackson? Creepy daddy issues aside, Elvis was the shit before the shit was the shit. So this is Dr. Biaggi telling you it's one for the money, two for the show, and if you know what's good for you, you'll turn it the hell up.

Best Damn English Blog on Indonesian Labor

Working Indonesia, as the title of this post says, is the best damn English language blog on Indonesian labor. With a monstrous list of resources and regular updates, it's a font of insight.

Marrakesh

After deciding to skip traveling in Spain, I booked a train ticket to Marrakesh. The five hour train ride was rather uneventful outside of my traveling companions in the compartment. All Moroccans, they chatted and a little girl and I babbled back and forth in some Arabic. I mostly wrote in my journal, tried to communicate when possible, and absorbed the scenery flashing past my window. The landscape shifted from fertile farming grounds to sparsely populated, craggy areas reminiscent of the US southwest.

Often on a trip or vacation, I'm of the opinion that one of the days, excursions, whatever will work with blinding synchronicity. I think of our stops in Berlin, Istanbul, Machu Picchu, and Arequipa, and they had that similar quality. The Marrakesh trip, from beginning to when I returned home, clicked as though it was a series of dominoes falling in place. (I know, I know, couldn't I have picked a better allusion?) I walked out of my apartment and almost immediately found a taxi at 6:30 on a Saturday--a time when the streets are hardly busy--airing up his tires at the Shell station near my apartment. From that auspicious starting point, the trip flowed almost seamlessly and was the best of my experiences in Morocco. Johnny Cash described writing "Flesh and Blood" as a moment when "it was like one of those magic days, you know, with the sun just right, the temperature just right 'n' the breeze was just right 'n' she was just right." That's how I would characterize my trip to Marrakesh.

Marrakesh cracks with energy and life. It's a tourist destination for Europeans, and I hadn't seen so many white people in one place since leaving the US. Of course, prices are inflated as the city's industry centers on tourism. Still, one isn't forced to hang around Djemaa al Fna and the terraced restaurants, snake charmers, monkey men, and barkers of all sorts and stripes. Diving into the souqs is entertainment in and of itself, and it's easy to find affordable, delicious food or snacks in the twisting mazes of shops. At night, Djemma al Fna fills up with food stalls with aggressive waiters who practically pull you into their stalls. (I rescued the same young Asian-American woman three times in thirty minutes from waiters/barkers. On the third occasion, she literally pleaded "help me" as the man had grasped her hand tightly and wasn't releasing her.) With billowing smoke from grills and bright incandescent lights, the stalls serve as a center for the carnival of sounds, sights, and smells that comprise Djemma al Fna's chaotic, fascinating whirlwinds.

I stayed at Riad Massine II, just inside the medina walls. Although nearly impossible to find, by a stroke of luck I found it without paying a local boy to direct me, which was the fate of most people who stayed there. RMII is nothing more than a hostel. The staff, however, were inviting, friendly, and exceeded expectations in directions and answering questions on real prices for goods. As far as attractions, Marrakesh has a few options inside the city as far as museums or historic destinations I visited. I hit the four main sites in one day, due to their central location, with ample time to spare lollygagging around Djemma al Fna.

If I wanted to return to Morocco, Marrakesh would be my primary destination or at least concluding point. Crazy and frentic? You bet, even it's not characteristic of other Moroccan cities. It's also a fascinating cross-section or array of Moroccan culture in and out of the touristy areas.

Marrakesh's dazzling train station with a McDonalds and a alluring McArabia sandwich that I almost sampled

Lamps and lanterns in the souq

Delicious almondy sweets wrapped in honey-crusted phyllo

Kefta meatball dinner

An example of the night-time entertainment. Side note, should this PhD gig not work out for Doug Snyder, I see a dynamic future running one of these games.

A crowd gathering around a man in Djemma al Fna pointing to a diagram of the body while simultaneously pointing and powders

Riad Massine breakfast

The center piece of the Marrakesh museum and various shots from inside the small yet decent museum

A Moroccan samovar

Spices by the bag and horns o'plenty

Medressa

Cistern and well

Olives, olives, olives

Covered souq

Djemma al Fna by day

Sheep stomach soup with a spicy olive dip

I chose the sheep stomach mixed with a butter bean-esque soup

Food vendor near the soup with a variety of sheep and chicken meals

Spices, spices, spices, and an orange juice cart. The latter offered refreshing orange or grapefruit juice cheaply.

Saadian Tombs

Kasbah door

Ornate roofs from inside the Bahia Palace

Bahia Palace was home to an amazing contemporary art exhibit. The coordinator used the space to its maximum by drawing attention to the art without distracting from the grounds' splendor.

Orange you glad I didn't say....

Djemma al Fna at dusk as the stalls start and traffic swells

Snail soup vendor

Djemma al Fna at night facing the food stalls, and an image I will keep with me when remembering Marrakesh at night.