News In The Garden

This is what the sky looked like, almost every single day.

"Our president just fired our secretary of state."

I was sitting at the wooden table under one of the gazebos with the purest of blue skies overhead, in the midst of a carefully designed rock garden surrounded by orange trees. The shocking fuchsia blooms of a bougainvillea cloaked the nearby stucco wall. This place is idyllic. The news was not.

"I'm so sorry!!" Oumaima exclaimed sympathetically, as if I personally was the one who just got axed on Twitter.

My volunteer gig at the nonprofit Amal Association in Marrakech was to help them rebuild parts of their web site, and being constantly online meant I could also enjoy a steady feed of news all day while I worked. I could start the day with Monocle and BBC, and then around midday Morocco-time I transitioned to public radio as the east coast of the US woke up. Sitting in a beautiful garden, helping incredibly good people who do inspiring work, mainlining global and political news -- this is pretty much as good as gets!

Oumaima is the director of Amal's Targa Center, and the garden was my workspace during the time I volunteered there. The wifi from the upstairs office reached far enough that I could sit in the warm shade amidst the plants and birds while I built web pages, rewrote copy and edited photos. From here, I could watch the daily rhythm of the tourists coming in for cooking classes, the trainees hurrying to their kitchen stations, the kitchen prepping and dispatching meals. At predictable intervals, staff and trainees would congregate for sweet mint tea, and to eat fresh bread dipped in honey and olive oil. At unpredictable intervals, Oumaima would appear full of excitement for new ideas, rushing from meeting to phone call to meeting, but always taking time to focus her attention on the person in front of her. (Even when the person in front of her was focused on what's happening in the White House on the other side of the planet.)

While energy swirled through the classrooms and kitchen each day at Amal, I found my groove outside. When I hit an HTML snag that I couldn't solve or just generally reached my limit of screen time, I'd leave my laptop in the front garden and take my earbuds with me to the herb and vegetable patches in the backyard... and I would pull weeds.

The 'Solidarity' gazebo was my outdoor office, more often than not.

Honestly, pulling weeds was more fun for me than building web pages, but that wasn't what they needed from me most. Pulling weeds was a treat, the web site was my job.

The first time I visited Amal it was February, and the garden beds had tiny sprigs of green that seemed adorably optimistic in the vast tracts of brown dirt. By mid-March though, the tiny shoots had transformed into self-respecting plants and by April the green had overtaken the brown completely, with stems and leaves and vines rioting in defiance of their garden beds' neat edges.

I would happily spend hours in that garden, carefully teasing out individual weeds out from among the coriander, sage and spearmint. I would attack with vicious joy the noxious creepers that overtook the gravel walkways, and feel satisfied when their eradication was complete. While I worked, I would not come close to draining the reservoir of news podcasts on my phone, but I would occasionally instead crank up the Hamilton soundtrack and sing along (badly) while I freed the potato plants from the crab grass that encroached their space.

The staff and trainees at Amal seemed partly amused and partly mystified by my love of weeding; only the head gardener was unambiguously delighted by my hobby. I loved the satisfaction of applying just the right amount of tension to a reedy, annoying stem and seeing its full root emerge from the ground. I loved the immediate difference that was visible -- rows of beautiful greens in fluffy soil, free of pestering interlopers. I really loved the massive haystack of weeds that would pile up at the edge of the garden as I worked.

I think Rex Tillerson's firing stands out among all the news stories I heard during the untold hours I spent in those gardens for two reasons. First, Oumaima's response was uniquely un-American in that she was thinking of me personally, rather than reacting to the information itself. If I had relayed the same breaking news to an American, it would have been met with a highly charged opinion -- about the president, the circumstance, Twitter, something. So that fact that she said, "I'm so sorry!" struck me as humorously unusual, and also very kind.

But second, my departure for Morocco and West Africa was only weeks away when President Trump reportedly demanded to know why the US should accept immigrants from "shithole" African countries. And now Rex Tillerson was in Africa, apparently to smooth over the fissures that statement caused, and he gets called back to Washington in time to read his firing on Twitter.  I felt a personalized proximity to the bookends of this news story. And I listened to coverage of the fallout while working in a beautiful garden, surrounded by an incredible group of people who are truly making the world a better place every day.

[March 2018]

Bus People

This week, I took a city bus from Meknes for about an hour to visit Moulay Idriss, and back. These were some of the things I saw:

• As a blind man boarded, and another man got up to help him get to a seat. Later, two people helped him exit at the correct stop, and helped him down the steps.
• The bus was full, and every young person got up to offer a seat to elderly people and women with small kids.
• There were three of us who were obviously foreigners and the passengers sitting near us made an effort to find words in a common language with us. One man said to me, “You are welcome here.”
• Waiting for the return bus, we were encouraged to stay in the shade on the opposite side of the road until the bus came. The man who ran the corner bodega there was seemingly mute, but the kids buying candy from him communicated with him like it was no big deal, and we understood him when he gestured that the bus would be coming soon.
• A vegetable seller dropped off a huge sack of fresh peas and the bodega guy offered us a taste, then showed us how to turn the empty pod into a noise maker. He waved us a heartfelt goodbye when we got on the return bus.
• When the bus was really full, people sat on the steps in the aisle, and everyone helped everyone else stow their packages out of the way to make as much space as possible.
• Sitting on the aisle step next to me was a man of about 30 years. He saw that there wasn’t space for a woman with a baby and a toddler to sit. He beckoned for the woman to hand him the baby and it slept on his lap for the next half hour.
• Getting off the bus, people wished us well, waved at us. One woman kissed our cheeks and told us, "Peace be with you" in Arabic.

All of this humanity on a city bus.

On the same day, I also saw Volubilis and Moulay Idriss -- two ancient sites that have massive cultural and religious significance. But the 70-cent bus ride left a lasting impression.

Jarjeer: Retirement Paradise for Donkeys and Mules

When someone slyly refers to an animal “going to live on a farm,” it’s usually an euphemism for the death of a dearly loved pet that no one wants to admit is gone. In the case of Jarjeer, these animals weren’t well loved from the beginning, but they really do get to live out their days on farm where they can cavort and frolic, literally free from burden.

A charming and slightly eccentric British couple, Charles Hantom and Susan Machin, didn’t intend to build a haven for donkeys and mules on a pretty piece of land south of Marrakech in Oumnass. They retired from practicing law and meant to run a B&B here. But along the way, their love of animals made them recoil at the maltreatment of donkeys in the medina; they befriended a veterinarian and supported his work in treating these overworked and abused animals. The refuge started innocently enough when the vet had a donkey who had been brought back to perfect health, but was perfectly unwilling to be a beast of burden. The vet asked Charles and Susan if they didn’t want to take in a donkey on their large piece of land? Over the course of seven years, one animal became more than 50, and an open paddock was encircled with proper gates, fencing and stables; and then veterinary stables were added where they can treat animals with significant injuries and illness.

Visiting Jarjeer is like visiting the best petting zoo, ever. The animals in the hospital wing of the stables are in truly dire straights, but they are living in shaded comfort and getting close care from experts. Once you walk past that somber but hopeful row of stables, you emerge into two sunny paddocks filled with donkeys eager to socialize. Susan can recite the backstory of each animal, the circumstances by which they came here, the horrors they suffered up to that point, and the resurrection of the animals’ personalities as they came to relax and trust their new home. I walked into the smaller paddock where the younger animals are kept and they immediately surrounded me with curious faces and enormous dark eyes. We were all the same height, and it was slightly surreal standing in the middle of their eager, interested faces - all of them wanting to check out the new person. “Hey, who’s this? What’s in your hand, is that a camera? Your shirt tastes good, I’m going to gnaw on it a little bit. Scratch my ears! Scratch my ears!” I felt like a star athlete surrounded by fans, and while I don’t speak donkey I am certain they were asking for selfies with me. I tried to take their pictures but they were so eager to inspect and sniff at everything that the resulting photos are comical.

In the bigger paddock with larger animals, the same scene played out but with more social dynamics at play. These animals were older and some had been at Jarjeer for years at this point, while others were newer arrivals. They had a pecking order that became clear when one of the oldest animals kept inserting himself every time I tried to pet or photograph another donkey. He was to be first in line for getting attention, then the others could have their chance. Charles reemerged on the patio overlooking the paddock and explained this particular donkey rules the compound and everyone knows it. I think because I violated the social contract from the outset, he kept coming over to remind me to fawn over him as penance. The personalities and gentleness of these enormous, strong animals made an impression, as did the earnest respect and commitment of the Charles and Susan for rehabilitating them. It was lovely and a bit stunning to witness.

[Jarjeer: March 2018]

Oh Hey, It Snows In Morocco! (Trekking In The Atlas Mountains)

There are a reasonable combination of factors that led me to think the High Atlas would not have snow in February. Or rather, factors that did not lead me to consider it as a possibility. First, Morocco=desert, right? Right. Second, the hiking guidebooks I read talked about avoiding the sweltering summer temperatures, and what's further from summer than February? And the more general advice was that the north is rainy in winter but that central and southern regions have good weather. And they do! And also, the mountains have snow.

Berber village! 

Liz and I met our hiking guide Hassan and our muleteer Mohammed (and our mule, Nora) at a trailhead near Imlil, a small town that serves as a good launching point for several Atlas hiking trails. Here's how backpacking works in Morocco: you hire a guide, the guide hires a muleteer and a mule; the mule carries everyone's stuff plus the food and supplies the guide has packed. Mohammed and Nora took a slightly different route than we did -- easier and more direct -- but we met him at a lunchtime meetup spot on the trail, and then again at the end of the day, which left us free to carry only light daypacks. At lunch, Hassan and Mohammed turned out a massive meal over a campfire fire, complete with sweet mint tea served in a tea set.

All of this is embarrassingly luxe, and I felt like my backpacking credentials were being underestimated. But in researching other options, we learned this is really just 'how it's done.' There are definitely hikers who go it alone, and now that I feel more familiar with Morocco, I can imagine doing this without the benefit of a crew. But even on our short two-day trek, we noticed there are no trail signs at all to differentiate the multitude of walking paths that lead over hills to different villages. We stayed overnight in git that was a very simple and pretty cold bunkhouse where Hassan and Mohammed made dinner for us in the communal kitchen; again, I'm not sure how I would have arranged that for myself.

Starting from Imlil valley, the day was like classic autumn weather in Vermont: bright sun that felt hot when it shined on you, but very cool in the shadows. We walked through Matate, a rust-colored Berber village built of mud bricks and fortitude, and Hassan told us about Berber culture while indulging my attempts at adding to my nascent vocabulary. Here, we're still walking on ruddy dirt trails, enjoying the scenery of snow-capped mountains in the distance. We climbed through scrubby junipers along with women who had climbed up from the village to collect firewood, and breathed in the piney air.

After lunch, the sun ducked behind gathering clouds and the trail climbed up through a snow patch in the shaded notch of the mountain pass. Soft snow falling on red earth made a red slushy mix, and Hassan was amused that we found this to be delightful (and so much prettier than the cold dirty slush that's familiar from Vermont in springtime). He was also a little distracted by helping Mohammed lead Nora through the snow; as we walked they altered our plan for the next day to avoid the mule breaking a leg in the snow.

Coming up to the top of Tizi Oudite pass, there was wide saddle so that the distant mountains beyond the valley below us revealed themselves slowly as we climbed higher. Once we stood at the center of the flat top of the pass, there were mountains upon mountains clambering for attention. Covered in snow but with juniper and rock faces pushing through to be seen, the Atlas mountains were stunning. And totally wintry.

The south-facing walk to the valley below put us back on rock and soil pretty quickly, and we had a easy but steep descent to the village where we'd spend the night. Hassan continued telling us about the area, and answering our thousands of questions about water irrigation and whether people are allowed to use the national park land that we were walking through. He explained the boundary markers meant that you can let your animals graze in the park, but they can't be sheltered there. Sometimes if a family has just one small animal, they'll keep it at their house in the village. At this point, Hassan is well versed in my entirely sentimental love of goats and I ask, "So I could live here in this village, and I could keep my baby goat with me at my house?" Hassan smiled ironically and answered, "Insh'Allah."

Goat, not for sale.

The guesthouse in Ait Aissa was cold and we huddled around the least efficient wood-burning stove I've ever met. I was sooo glad that I'd rented a sleeping bag, as sketchy as that idea sounds. Hassan had arranged rooms with mattresses for us to sleep on. (The British guys who were staying there with their guides hilariously had wooden pallets disguised with a blanket.)

Irrigation channel.

The next day we walked down Azzadene valley and hiked over Tizi n’Mzik, a harder and higher mountain pass (read: snowier) and then down into Imlil. The sun was bright and warm and we climbed up switchbacks with small herds of sheep and goats for company, and one runaway donkey that surprised us a little! Stopping among the juniper to soak in the sun and the views was pure bliss.

Hassan had told us that people ski at the top of the pass and we weren't really sure what to expect. First, exactly how much snow are we talking about? And second, cross-country skiing? Vocabulary failed us. I was a little worried that my trail running shoes would fail me, too -- they were totally adequate for the walk, were the walk not covered in several inches of wet snow.

When we crested the top of the pass, it was hard to choose where to direct my attention first: the incredible layers of steep mountains that poked at a jagged horizon as far as the eye could see, or the couple dozen kids on ancient downhill skills who were earning their turns at the top of the hill.

Marker at Tizi n’Mzik

We sat on a low rack wall in the sun to watch the skiers and eat the rest of the trail mix Hassan had made. (Seriously, this stuff was some kind of potent magical trail mix. We tried to replicate it later by buying a bunch of dates, nuts and seeds in the medina and it wasn't quite the same.) These kids, all boys, were pretty awesome. They had hiked up from Imlil, a pretty significant distance and very steep, carrying their equipment. At the top, they strapped on their skis (and the skis' vintage meant a lot of them had actual straps), skinned up the mountain even further and then skied down just past the hut where we sat cheering them on.

We watched them share skis and boots, taking them off and passing them around with little concern for size. Which made me think, Liz is a really good skier. She should totally just borrow someone's skis, right?

Hassan loves this idea. He grabs the kid nearest him and, near as we can tell, says, "Hey kid, give me your skis. And the boots, too." The kids calls to a friend who brings him some shoes and he shimmies out of the ski boots and hops over to put on (someone's?) shoes. These boots are way too small, but by now an interested clutch of guys are eager to find a pair that fit. They get Liz outfitted and she starts sidestepping up the hill to one of the spots where a lot of the kids have started from. A lot of effort for maybe 45 seconds of memorable skiing! Liz made it back to the hut without getting maimed by ill-fitting and unfamiliar equipment, or by rogue debris on the ungroomed hillside. (Note: I attempted to take a video but failed to press start. Just as Liz comes to a stop in front of the hut, I hit the red button to 'stop' the video, which actually starts it. So the only solid evidence of Liz's #skimorocco adventure is a few frames of her standing on skis and my off-camera voice proclaiming, "I took a video!!" I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for that.)

We slurped through the wet snow down to Imlil, eventually dropping below the snow line to a rocky, scree-covered hillside. Nora and Mohammed had taken an entirely different (and snowless) route today, so Hassan made us a picnic lunch from the food he'd been carrying in his backpack. I made a few stabs at convincing Hassan to teach his young daughters to ski, and made Liz made an attempt at saving me from bits of lunch that I didn't like.

C’mon, let the girls ski!

We walked into Imlil in the late afternoon, just as the temperatures were dropping and the clouds were starting to spit rain. Hassan deposited us at Dar Adar, where comfortable beds, hot showers and a competent wood-burning fireplace awaited us.

Plus, cute baby goats in the neighboring yard.

[Trekking from Imlil: February 17-18, 2018]

There Are Three Kinds Of Camels, This Is One Of Them

The dromedary. A sturdy beast, yet gangly and deliberate in its stride. Not foul of odor but indeed a little grumpy. And you would be, too, if your job was to carry tourists across the valleys and ridges of fine Sahara sand dunes.

Dromedaries are the one-humped camels that cast an evocative silhouette. Their cousins are the Bactrian and wild Bactrian camels, both of which have two humps and one of which has a radically different hairstyle. In North Africa and the Middle East, you will find dromedaries; the other two camels make Central and East Asia their home.

Far out at the eastern edge of Morocco is the town of Merzouga, surrounded on three sides by flat expanses of desert and on one side but luminous sand dunes that look painted on the horizon. Here, we and few other tourists gathered in fine, silty sand and got our first look at the camels that would carry us over the mountains of sand to the tents we would sleep in for the night.

We stood curious, amused and uncertain as the camels shifted on their large padded feet and snorted their objections in no obvious direction. The camel handlers lined them up and looped the rope lead from one camel's neck to the saddle of the camel in front of it, creating a small camel train, and coaxed them all to sit down in the sand. Their legs folded under them in a confusion of joints that seem to bend in the opposite direction you'd expect, until they settled on their calloused haunches, bellies in the sand. Their singular humps were obscured by a saddle covered in thick piles of blankets, with one metal horn sticking out for the rider to hang onto. We each had one quick chance to swing a leg over the saddle and get in position, because the movement spurred the camel to immediately stand, bucking forwards and backwards as it lumbered to its full height.

Three Berbers watch the day’s camel preparations just after sunrise. 

The guys working with the camels were Berber, wearing traditional blue Berber robes and head scarves. Several of them were from nomad families and lived as nomads through part of their childhoods. Once we were all saddled and tied together, Mustafa took the lead camel's rope in hand and starting walking away from town and straight into the dunes.

"Les dunes de sables de Merzouga" create a vast landscape of saffron-colored peaks, with the footprints of camel trains marking pathways to tiny Berber camps hidden in the dunes' valleys. Our vantage point on the landscape shifted as we rode up, over, around, and down through the dunes, sinking us low among smooth hills of sand, and popping us up high on a crisp ridge with a view to the far off horizon and the Algerian border.

There were eight of us in the camel train, Americans and western Europeans, exhibiting various degrees of nervousness. Not too far into the trek two of the camels were switched out, accused of being too tempermental. Our camels walked nose to tail, and followed each others' cues closely. Liz was riding behind me and every time we paused, her camel moved forward an extra step and nuzzled its face alongside my saddle. Such a cutie!

We didn't ride more than an hour before we arrived at a group of square-framed tents made of heavy wool blankets. They were grouped together forming a tiny encampment attached to a large dining tent. Nestled in the sand low in a valley with a dune towering above it, this was our home for the night.

At sunset, we hiked to the top of the highest nearby dune, each footfall sinking deep into the fine sand. We sat along the dune's ridge and watched the sand change colors in the waning light. One of the Americans had grabbed the beat up vintage snowboard from the Berber camp and we took turns "sledding" down the sand dune. Totally undignified and very fun way to fill your clothes with sand.

After a tajine dinner, everyone in the camp gathered at the fire pit and our Berber hosts sang and played goatskin drums and krakebs, iron castanets. A small group of us hiked back up to the top of the dune to take in the stars on a night that defied the warning that the desert would be very cold after sunset.

And in the morning, one more hike up our neighborhood dune! Sunrise was beautiful and quiet. We sat on the sandy ridgeline watching the colors of the sand shift and glow as the sun grew brighter and cast sharper shadows.

We are tourists and we wanted to ride camels. For sure, that is exactly the experience we got - tourists riding camels. But even still, watching these fabulous, funny animals up close was a treat, and peaceful hours contemplating the endless stretch of sand dunes was time well spent.

Americans! On camels!

[February 20-21, 2018]

Scenes From A Desert Road Trip

Skirting the southern fringe of the Atlas Mountains, Morocco's geography changes dramatically. Snowy high peaks melt into flat desert and if you keep going far enough, that hard-packed arid expanse loosens into saffron-colored sand dunes.

Last month, Liz and I loaded our backpacks into an SUV and our guide-driver Rashid cranked up an awesome music mix as we headed down from Imlil to cross over the Atlas Mountains and head to the desert for a four-day road trip. The landscape was ever-changing but constantly mesmerizing.

These were some of the memorable moments:

• Berber villages are unusually beautiful. Their architecture is somewhat uniform -- square angles, straight lines, simple rectangular forms punched with many small square windows. The buildings seem attached to one another, extensions built onto additions. Their colors harmonize with each other and their landscape better than any southern California homeowners association rules could enforce. Rusty and muddy reds prevail, along with peachy, earthy, taupey hues. The oldest houses are built of mud bricks, newer ones of concrete.

• Water! Nomads and civil society have created ingenious irrigation systems out in the empty desert. We stopped at an active well, dug by the government, where Rashid pulled up a basket of water and showed us how nomads pour it into a concrete trough to water their animals. Nearby, we visited a demonstration well that explained how it used to be done: an underground aquifer tapped by hand-dug wells, marked by earthen mounds built side by side across the desert. Walking through the underground tunnels that used to hold water reinforced the preciousness of the resource.

• The Dades and Tougda gorges are carved by water and millenia, and now are marked by winding roads and massive rock walls. Pockets of palmeries nestle into valley floors here, groves of palm trees heavy with dates that give the red landscape an unexpected shot of green.
• Looking at the valleys as a catchy Moroccan pop song bares from the stereo.

• Encountering the first truly offensive tourists we'd yet to meet. Twenty-something and French (neither of these is an indictment), they were a large group that slept roadside in unkempt camper-vans. We were horrified when they stumbled out in their underwear, scratching themselves and yelling at each other. I would think that if you were visiting a country that your country used to colonize, you would make an extra effort to be respectful.
• Riding camels across the sand dunes at Merzouga -- more on that in another post!
• D'raa Valley, framing Morocco's D'raa River, is an astonishing panorama of rock formations, valleys and vistas. The forces that shaped the land here left scars from their intensity, such that the rock walls seem to betray a fluidity of movement within them. Completely stunning.

• In one town, we were stopped in a flowering almond orchard and noticed the nearby call to prayer sounded unusually melodic, prettier and more soulful than the calls we'd become accustom to. A bit later we learned it was a funeral service. As we drove through town, we watched a procession of men walking behind the ambulance that carried away a loved-one to be buried.
• The Berber villages have a narrow palate of colors, save for one specific building: the school. Driving through towns, we could spot any school from a distance - the building and surrounding walls were always painted a riot of colors, brights and pastels.
• Rally cars! Out of nowhere, we saw across the empty flat desert trails of sand whipped up by tiny little cars racing each other to a checkpoint. This off-road race in little compact cars is apparently a thing.
• Ourzazate film studios, so entertainingly odd! The ruins and remainders of Hollywood and Bollywood movie sets stand surrounded by real desert landscape. Walking through the sets was a quick trip through pre-annexation Tibet, ancient Egypt, ancient Rome, medieval Europe. Everything is made of fiberglass and scaffolding, and the peeling paint gives the fake scenery an added layer of unreality. (I was reminded again that I am the only person in the world who hasn't watched Game of Thrones, which has shot scenes here.)

• The French kids again! We recognized them immediately in Ourzazate by their vulgarity and swagger. Wandering through the film studios, they hollered to our guide, "Hey, you a guide?" We were totally delighted when he looked at them and said, "No."
• Driving out of Ourzazate into the desert mountains as "Despacito" blares from the stereo.
• There is a place in Morocco called Ait Ben Haddou that you will find on any guide book's must-see list. I think it was a photo of this kasbah that formed my first distant idea of what Morocco would be like. We arrived there late in the day to see the sunset leave the valley in a cool shadow, and the next morning we climbed through the mudbrick stairs and alleys of this ancient fortress. In its heyday, an entire village lived and toiled here, protected by a chieftan. Most families long ago moved across the river into new housing, but a few still live and work among the UNESCO-protected remains of the original kasbah.

Rock the kasbah: Ait Ben Haddou.

• Kasbah Telouet is just down the highway from Ait Ben Haddou, and a totally different experience. Whereas Ait Ben Haddou looks deserted, Telouet is visibly in ruins. But its broken walls and crumbled exterior conceal astonishing rooms that evoke the fortress's past grandeur. Tiny ceramic tiles are fitted together into mosaics that cover walls soaring 30 feet above. Intricately carved wooden ceilings and door frames are painted in such detail that I can't imagine how tiny the brushes must have been. Sunlight streaks in through the windows, illuminating the tile and stone floors with a dull glow. It is easy, easy, easy to sit here for a quiet minute and imagine what life must have been like when these rooms were alive with courtesans.

This was the third big road trip I've taken since I've been traveling, and the wild desert scenery and great company made it unforgettable.

Rabat Medina

Medinas and souks, I've seen a seen a few. Not so many that they've lost their allure, but enough that their charms don't always overwhelm their aggravations.

My initial encounter with the Rabat medina was an unfair first impression - I was very tired, I was carrying my full backpack just off the train, and I was walking through the busiest alley at a busy time of day. The slow-walkers ahead of me browsed stalls of household goods and trinkets, and they were In. My. Way.

The next morning and a few times since, I've had blissful wanders through the medina here. The blue-and-white walls lend it an airier, seaside feeling compared to the crowded red and browns of Marrakech. My favorite alleys were empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or cat, where every arched door was a work of art.

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I Am Illiterate In So Many Languages

I was recently driving in a car with an acquaintance who was finishing a business call on speakerphone. As she and her colleague ticked through a few decisions, they slid effortlessly among Arabic, French and a little English. There seemed to be no reason that one phrase or word or reply to a question was in one language or another, it was just a slipstream of linguistic dexterity that they barely recognized. When she hung up the call, I felt like applauding at the conclusion of a performance.

Morocco's mix of cultures was one of its chief attractions for me, and with that comes an astonishing patois of languages. Arabic and French are listed as the two official languages spoken, and while that might already seem impressive to a monolinguist* it belies the real complexity of language here.

My attempts at speaking a few self-taught words and phrases in classic Arabic are usually met with appreciative curiosity and an explanation that, we don't really say it that way here. The Moroccan dialect of Arabic is Darija, and as I pick up more words and phrases from conversation, I'm increasingly uncertain of exactly what language I'm actually learning.

Because it also could be Berber.

My first weeks here were is hardcore Berber country, the cities and villages in the Atlas Mountains and desert. The people I interacted with proudly Berber and were eager to point out, sure you can "shukran" (thank you) but you can ALSO say "tanmert!" Their excitement in teaching me Berber accelerated my interest in learning it, such that by the time I was back in a region more dominated by Arabic culture I was chastened by the odd looks I got when I proudly offered a few Berber phrases.

And then there is French, a language with which I have the faintest acquaintance. Most of the words I know in French I learned from studying Russian, which borrowed liberally from French during the critical years of Enlightenment hero-worship. The shared DNA of Western European languages allows me to piece together more comprehension of French than I rightly should, driving home how utterly hapless my language comprehension is in general.

Most days and most places, I can get by on a mix of a few words in Arabic and French, the respectable knowledge of English that many people have here, and a lot of dramatic gestures that require checking your self-conciousness at the door. I also throw in a near-constant apologetic smile. I sometimes I try to imagine how I appear to strangers here: as an idiot savant, maybe. Gleefully using charades to communicate what my language can't and repeating the same few phrases I've mastered whether they fit the situation or not. (Me: "Good morning!" Storekeeper: "Good morning ma'am, what do you need?" Me: "Good morning!")

Being in a foreign language environment has compelled two strange reactions in me. The first is that my command of English is deteriorating, as I strip my spoken English to the simplest nouns and verbs to be better understood. (I note here my gratitude and respect in finding someone who speaks English at all, likely their fourth or fifth language.) When we were hiking, Liz and I had a mule carrying our gear, that we named Nora. And we'd ask our guide, "Where's Nora?" And He told us once, "Nora is break." This is alarming because he had worried early about how hard it is for mules to walk in deep snow, which we encountered. Nora broke her leg?! No, Nora is taking a break, she's resting. From then on, it became easy to lapse into minimally correct English. Nora is break. Liz is dinner. Patti is Internet.

And second, my original foreign language, Russian, keeps rising irrepressibly to the surface. No matter the language barrier I'm navigating, I find myself reverting to Russian impulsively, as if leaning on the memory of overcoming a language difference once. Countless times, I've found myself answering in Russian, when I finally understand what someone is saying to me in French or Arabic. It's a weird tic that may stay with me for the rest of my life.

Mastery of Arabic, Darija, Berber or French will elude me during just a few months here, but one lesson has penetrated: the ability to communicate in many languages isn't just a nifty skill, it's how the world gets along.

---

* I met a Berber man who grew up as a nomad until he was 9 years old, when his family settled in a town. He's taught himself four European languages in order to make a living in the tourist industry, and knows quite a bit of several more languages. I told him this well-worn joke: 

What do a call a person who speaks two languages? Bilingual. What do a call person who speaks three languages? Trilingual. What do you call a person who speaks one language?

American.

Quad-fecta! Arabic, Berber, French and English.

Race Report: Casablanca 10K

The light rail system in Casablanca was prime advertising space for the Casablanca International 10K, and it only took one tram ride for me to decide, yep - I want to run that race. My lack of French and a wonky race web site foiled my attempts to register, so on the appointed morning, I took my best guess at what is appropriate for women to wear while running here, got in a cab and headed to the residential neighborhood shown on the pixilated course map that I found online.

I thought the 10K started at 8 a.m. and the 5K at 9 a.m., but when I arrived at 7:30 a.m. there wasn't an obvious starting line. Crews and volunteers were putting together the massive staging for the finish area -- balloon arches, timing clocks, announcer stand. At a small white tent across the street, two French-speaking people patiently helped me register. One of them owns a running store and was selling shoes, the other sells a sports massage oil and was offering samples. For around $10, I got a bib with a timing chip, a tech shirt and a running cap. Not too shabby!

Weirdly, whenever asked "Where is the start?" they ushered me through barricades and further into the staging area, until I was standing next to the yet-to-be-inflated archway that would mark the start and finish line. And yes, I was standing there still asking, "But where is the start?!"

I was still under the impression that the race was starting in 20 minutes and I had still failed to understand that the race started and finished at the same spot. So I kept asking people, "Ou commence la course?" -- "Where does the race start?" -- and they kept gesturing to the finish area under construction. A race official who spoke English finally set me straight, and I left the staging area to loiter for an hour until the actual start time.

By now, more runners were arriving and warming up and it was definitely starting to feel like a race. Several hundred people registered for the race, and they were all wearing their blue Casablanca 10K tech shirts. I found a secluded spot behind a hedge and quickly changed into mine, too. Now I was ready!

But man, did I get here early... I'm never early for races, I loathe extra time at the starting line. I wandered back to the registration area, and the massage oil booth was in full swing. The camphor-eucalyptus scent was strong, and I joined the runners who were trying generous free samples. Some of them were serious about their pre-race routines, and others were joking around and laughing. Running clubs took group photos, parents gave their teenagers encouragement while trying not to embarrass them, earbuds were adjusted, more stretching and nervous jumping around. Everything about this felt so familiar, it made me smile.

Finally, finally the race started. One of the purple-pinafored volunteers who'd been so nice to me early in the morning called out, "bonne chance!" as I ran by him. I briefly interpreted this to mean, "You have a chance!" and I was nearly offended because even though I'm undertrained, c'mon! You don't even KNOW me enough to judge me, dude! And then I realized he was saying "good luck!" and my heart swelled with appreciation.

Just a few more Ks to go.

The vibe of the runners was jubilant as we headed out of the starting corral and into the neighborhood. People were laughing and smalls groups of curious spectators cheered from street corners. I ran with a group of middle-aged guys who were carrying a big Moroccan flag and singing a call-and-repeat song in Arabic that sounded fun, but I have no idea what the words were.

The weather was perfect -- sunny and cool to start, then warming up but never hot. What to wear had preoccupied me, and I spent a lot of the race cataloging the clothing choices of runners, men and women. In general, everyone was wearing more clothing than American runners would in this weather. Some men wore long shorts and the short-sleeve tech shirt, many wore track pants and a long-sleeve shirt under the tech shirt. Very few men were in short shorts or in singlets, which I think most Americans would have been. The women were more covered, wearing capris or full-length tights, some in short sleeves but many in long sleeves. Most but not all covered their hair, some wearing the running cap from the swag bag on top of their hair covering. I went with capris and the short-sleeve race shirt, but I had a long-sleeve shirt with me just in case it seemed more appropriate. But here as everywhere, people know I'm foreigner and don't expect me to dress like a Moroccan would.

The course support was excellent. Water stations and signage were clear and well organized, with volunteers and staff picking up discarded water bottles at the aid stations. Roads were closed with barricades and monitored by police, who gave bored side-eye to irritated drivers waiting in traffic. Some of the drivers joined the spectators to cheer for us. Kids hung from balconies yelling "allez, allez!" and the course volunteers offered high fives and, "bravos!"

The course was mostly flat with a two notable hills. Heading up one, I slowed to a walk and a man came alongside me speaking in Arabic. By his tone and his posture, I understood he was encouraging me up the hill, and I worked hard to match his pace nearly to the top. Simple interactions like this happen in every race everywhere, but it felt really special here.

Heading into the finish, I crossed the line around 1:10:00, delightfully close to my best-case guess at a finish time. A few of us who crossed the mat together spontaneously hugged and high-fived and exchanged "bravos!!" with enormous smiles. The runners who'd already finished were cheering with medals around their necks and I found my mine in the fantastic goody bag they handed each of us in the finish chute. Cookies, crackers, a few pieces of fruit, a bottle of water, a waxed paper packet of dates, raisins and almonds; and, a medal. A fantastic souvenir from a great morning. The single rose for each woman finisher was a sweet touch.

I rested on the curb grinning and taking it all in, and made friends with Adil, a runner sitting near me. Speaking a hash of French-Arabic-English, we congratulated each other on the race, chatted about running and travel, and he gave me a tech shirt from his running club. They're heading to Rabat next weekend for a half-marathon; if only I were in shape for 13.1 miles right now.

The race left me triumphantly happy. Physical exercise feels great. Hundreds of people showing up together in a good mood is contagious. Having a shared experience with strangers across language differences is awesome. And doing something you love in an unfamiliar place is great way to remember how similar we all are, everywhere.

Travel Karma In Marrakech

The courtyard at the center of our riad, home for the next three nights.

The few hours we've spent in Marrakech have proven the advice I'd heard from several people: Casablanca is okay, but Marrakech! Marrakech is amaaaaazing.

Liz rallied through jet lag, arriving on a red-eye in the morning and going straight to the train station for the three-and-a-half hour ride to Marrakech. I had purchased our tickets and learned the tram system the day before, and we made the train with zero problems. In Marrakech, we were booked at a riad, a guest house converted from a traditional home. Riads, there are thousands to choose from, but most evoke traditional architecture, homestyle hospitality and a peaceful escape from the city that swirls outside the riad's walls.

But being nestled deep in a neighborhood of tightly wound and high-walled streets, most riads offer to meet guests in the city and escort them in, and Liz and I were expecting our to meet host at the train station. Sadly, our host was expecting to meet us at the airport, and so we stood for a few minutes in the modern, earth-toned Marrakech train station unsure what to do.

Enter Jamal.

As we were figuring out how to call the riad (I swear, using phones internationally drains me of all travel confidence) Jamal offered to help us place the call on his cell phone. He works for a tour agency and had a few minutes while he was waiting.

The phone line was busy, but Jamal finished the task that had brought him to the train station and offered to help us catch a bus to the medina. He was going that way to meet up with friends, and our stop was one beyond his. As we waited for the bus he told us that actually he would go with us to our stop and help us find the right direction to walk in. I had perfect change to pay for our three bus tickets, and he laughed off the offer. "You are kind!" he smiled. "And because you are kind I will walk with you the whole way to find your riad."

The bus was slow to show up, and Jamal had friends to meet so he suggested a taxi instead, and then paid for the taxi against our protestations. We walked into the medina, following Jamal and peppering him with questions about his work (he arranges tours to Mecca) and his family (his mother is still living, his father has died) and the languages he knows (he lived in Japan for 10 years and taught Arabic there.)

Fast forward an hour, and Jamal had personally guided us to our riad, stopping at least eight times to ask directions of local shopkeepers as we wound through the maze of earthen walls and vendors selling shoes, souvenirs and tiny live turtles. I asked if we were making him late, and he assured us, no problem, and we kept walking briskly through the vendors and locals and tourists.

Jamal works in tourism, and has traveled extensively himself, and it was natural for him to want to help us, he said. People have helped him countless times. The situation unfolded from his kindness and taking the next logical step, but by the end his generosity was remarkable. At every stop, his smile and warm exchange with a shopkeeper offering directions was delightful and genuine. When we arrived at the riad and learned the driver was waiting at the airport, I could easily imagine a person in Jamal's position being irritated, at least. You made made a mistake that inconvenienced your guests, and I went out of my way to correct it for you.

That's one way you might look at it.

But as our riad host explained the logistics mishap, Jamal laughed and smiled understandingly. It's a mistake anyone could make! Aren't we all fortunate that ended it well? And it was lovely to meet you! The sun is setting over the old town and I'm going to meet my friends for tea. Would you like to meet us? Cafe du France, on the terrace overlooking the market. Peace be with you.

Me, Jamal and Liz, moments after finding the front door of our riad.

Casablanca, The City Not The Movie

Not that interesting, spend time in other places.

This is generally the advice I got when I told people who've visited Morocco that I was going to Casablanca. But my free (awards mileage) plane ticket landed here after 30 hours of travel and two red-eye flights, and I checked into a hotel to sleep off the road weariness.

Hassan II Mosque. I spent a disproportionate amount of my two days in Casablanca here.

My friend Liz would be arriving in Casablanca two days later, so staying in town made sense, even if that town did not get glowing recommendations. But Casa did provide me with a few key experiences: I resolved some practical questions and got a small immersion into city life in a Euro-centric Moroccan city.

Checked off the to-do list:

1. Buy local SIM card and get smartphone online with data and local phone number.

2. Learn taxi system. (Grand Taxis vs Petit Taxis vs random reliable guy with car. I used the latter to get from the airport to downtown, and Mustafa could not have been nicer, and also didn't overcharge me.)

3. Learn public transportation system, take the light rail tram around town.

4. Find the train station and buy train tickets for the next day to Marrakech.

Shay na na, te de la menthe, mint tea. Oui oui!

I was feeling accomplished about these tasks, and treated myself to my first cup of sugary mint tea. 

From here, I still had all afternoon and I went walking. First to an arts and crafts museum, then through the medina to the Hassan II Mosque. Said to be the third largest mosque in the world, it's built on the edge of the ocean and commands a starkly beautiful open square. From the mosque, I could see a small lighthouse on a spit of land just down the coast, and headed there despite the slightly unwalkable road. The view of the mosque from the rocks was worth it, and the people walking among the striated exposed bedrock in the waves reminded me of the tidepools I'd seen in Santa Barbara just a couple weeks ago on the edge of different ocean.

Hassan II Mosque, seen from El Hank, Casablanca.

Rocks and tidepools below Phare El Hank, Casablanca.

Sunset behind Hassan II, seen from the seawall north of the mosque.

I walked back to the mosque and north from there on the seawall, ending at sunset in the neighborhood that's home to Rick's Cafe, of Hollywood movie fame. The entrance to Rick's is guarded by valets, with a lot of white people lined up between velvet ropes waiting to get in. I was curious enough to stop, and not nearly curious enough to join them. (I haven't even seen Casablanca, to be honest.)

The highlight of the day, and I'm told of the city, was the mosque by far. The curved and straight lines of the sand-colored building and the bright blues and greens of the tile work were transfixing.

Hassan II Mosque

Detail of tile exterior.

Hassan II Mosque

Hassan II Mosque

Hassan II Mosque

Prayer hall, said to hold 25,000 worshippers.

Hassan II Mosque

Prayer hall, detail.

Hassan II Mosque

Detail of ceiling, prayer hall.

Hassan II Mosque

Bath house, for ablutions before prayer.

As I looked at my photos later that day,  realization dawned that I had been in Morocco only one day, and already I was dozens deep in close-up photos of tile and architectural details. And apparently, I still hadn't even seen the "real" Morocco, yet.