What do you think of when you hear 'Sweden'? I think of fire-engine red hair. Bright green eyes. I think eccentric. I think sharp and strict and connected and international and compassionate (as long as I do not say the wrong thing, step the wrong way, send the wrong message). I think multilingual. I think Academia Arabesca. Whatever that means. I think camel dances and dress-up. I think remembering Arabic script by way of crazy hip dips and steps, and sounds that remind me of deranged animals. I think an utterly breath-taking riad, ten percent of an old Moroccan palace. Decorated with gardens, tilework, plasterwork, calligraphy galore. I think bargainer. I think 20 years old--but actually 65--who knew? I think sharp piercing voice. I think Moroccan holler, made by moving one's tongue back and forth impossibly fast and screaming at the top of one's lungs (I hear it calling me to every meal). I think Gita Sellman, my Swedish guide and host and teacher in Marrakesh.
Marrakesh has become everyone in my group's favorite Moroccan city. Except for me--my allegiance stands strong in Fes. But Marrakesh is undoubtably up there on my list. Built for use as the capital of the Almoravid dynasty in the eleventh century AD and subsequently capital of the Almohad and later Saadian dynasties, Marrakesh has reached another golden age in the twenty first century. Rooted by the infamous Djemaa el Fna at dead center of the old medina, it is a city of irrepressable pulsing life, beating drums, packed souks, fresh orange juice stalls, and questionably safety-threatening motorcycles speeding through tiny alleyways (no, mom, my safety is not really threatened).
Highlight of Marrakesh: Rashida.
Story: The second night in Marrakesh I made my way to Djemaa el Fna to try out food from one of scores of stalls serving kebabs, harira, snails, potatoes, aubergine, lots more food, and loads of entertainment. I was warned by Gita that I had to prepare myself for stall workers in white jackets who would harass me to eat at their stalls until I either sat down on their benches or escaped their grip and made my way into the next stall's zone, where the process would promptly begin again. 'Just beware to keep tabs on what exactly ends up on your table, or else you could end up with piles of food and a pretty hefty bill to foot', she reminded me for the third or fourth time as I walked out her door. With this information to direct me, I began my adventure to find the perfect food stall. I found it. The search started out with a clostrophobic walk through the labyrinth of medina alleyways and then labyrinth of stalls, sure enough attracting attention from stall workers, complete strangers, using every method from yelling 'Do you remember me?' to 'Lovely lady!' just to get me to pause for long enough to begin a conversation. Once you stop to talk, you will most likely end up eating at the stall you are in front of. I pushed on. As I worked my way deeper and deeper into the stalls, I had many menus thrown in my face. One caught my eye. Textwise, it was exactly the same as every other menu (and probably, to be honest, foodwise they are no different either... I only say that to be candid, if you ask me otherwise I will have to tell you how much better one stall is--my stall). But on this menu, there was a strange picture. Three strange pictures, to be exact. All the same image: an odd, toad-like face topped by an awkward brown leather hat, man or woman, who could tell? Confused and amused, I made the indeliberate but decisive move of pausing long enough to point to the picture to show my friends. We laughed and moved to keep walking. But, as soon as he saw me point, the stall worker holding the menu yelled, 'look, look!' and pointed dramatically to his stall. Standing on a raised step behind the grill was Rashida, in all her glory, the image on the menu personified, hat included, sporting an ear-to-ear smile and exaggerated thumbs up. Unabashedly entertained, I sat down to enjoy one of the best (and cheapest) meals of my trip this far. I have eaten at Chez Rashida every night in Marrakesh since. If you ever get the chance to visit this marvelously hectic city, go to stall number 42. Best advice you wil ever recieve on this blog, guaranteed.
I just returned to Marrakesh from the gorgeous seaside fisherman's town of Essaouira. After eating some good fish, hanging out on the beach, writing most of the past three blog entries from a perch in the crenelated fortification wall surrounding the city (built by the Portuguese in the 1500s), and trying rest up enough to shake my mono, I feel energized to begin my journey tomorrow south into the Kasbah and Oasis country and then into the Sahara. There, I'll get to ride some camels, inshallah.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Peace of Mind
After allowing my body to rest for two days in a warm and comfy 'jit' (Berber guesthome) in Imlil I was ready to make my way through a small portion of the gargantuan Atlas mountain range. Detailed descriptions of the tremendous motley of textures and colors and temperatures and emotions that I experienced would come nowhere near doing the trek justice, so I written the following and will leave most portrayals, especially visual, until I have a chance to show you some of my footage when I get back to the States.
My Grandpa Stu would have particularly loved the High Atlas trek. I found myself wishing he was there with me to tell me more about all of the plants and vegetation that surrounded me.
I am not sure how one would precisely define an epiphany. Dictionary.com says: 'a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.' I have crazy thoughts running through my mind all the time, some that may or may not provide insight into the essential meaning of my life-- or maybe, in a way, they will all eventually provide unique life-changing insight into my life, by altering the way I think or act, or by impacting a decision I will make in the future. But how could I ever pinpoint one thought that led to something bigger? If I could, would you call this an epiphany? And would I be too afraid to tell you that I had had an epiphany for fear that you might laugh at the simplicity of my 'deep' thoughts?
I have meditated a fair amount on this idea of epiphany. And I would like to share with you an epiphany of my own that I had on the second or third night of the trek. I was sitting on the balcony of a jit in Matate. The sun was preparing itself to set over the mountains to the west. Still Ramadan, the delicious smells of boxed harira and tagines on the stove for f'tur wafted up to greet me on the terrace. There was an absurd amount of vibrant yellow corn on the ground next to me. I am still not sure what it was there for, but it was so nice to look at that I have noted it here. We had made our way to the jit just in time to escape into its warmth and protection before an ominous rain cloud caught us on the trail. So, as I sat at sunset, the clear, crisp atmosphere that follows a rough and refreshing rainfall had set in.
I was so happy in that moment.
Long ago I came to the simplistic conclusion that I want to be satisfied and happy with my occupation in life. But I have learned that no matter what, I will always fall into a pattern that will at times be difficult on body and on mind, regardless of what the noble or fascinating or insert-adjective-here job I find may entail. I will need breaks every now and then. A change of scenery, a lightness of mind, if you will, that will accentuate the heavier things--those that embody the root of who I am. That moment in Matate in the High Atlas was such a moment, such a break, such an opportunity to do nothing but sit back and meditate on the serene and crystal simplicity of my life. That moment to put all else into perspective, the miniscule details, into a large and all-encompassing picture: me, Lauren Rhode, within that village, this coutry, our world, the universe. Epiphany?
My Grandpa Stu would have particularly loved the High Atlas trek. I found myself wishing he was there with me to tell me more about all of the plants and vegetation that surrounded me.
I am not sure how one would precisely define an epiphany. Dictionary.com says: 'a sudden, intuitive perception of or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something, usually initiated by some simple, homely, or commonplace occurrence or experience.' I have crazy thoughts running through my mind all the time, some that may or may not provide insight into the essential meaning of my life-- or maybe, in a way, they will all eventually provide unique life-changing insight into my life, by altering the way I think or act, or by impacting a decision I will make in the future. But how could I ever pinpoint one thought that led to something bigger? If I could, would you call this an epiphany? And would I be too afraid to tell you that I had had an epiphany for fear that you might laugh at the simplicity of my 'deep' thoughts?
I have meditated a fair amount on this idea of epiphany. And I would like to share with you an epiphany of my own that I had on the second or third night of the trek. I was sitting on the balcony of a jit in Matate. The sun was preparing itself to set over the mountains to the west. Still Ramadan, the delicious smells of boxed harira and tagines on the stove for f'tur wafted up to greet me on the terrace. There was an absurd amount of vibrant yellow corn on the ground next to me. I am still not sure what it was there for, but it was so nice to look at that I have noted it here. We had made our way to the jit just in time to escape into its warmth and protection before an ominous rain cloud caught us on the trail. So, as I sat at sunset, the clear, crisp atmosphere that follows a rough and refreshing rainfall had set in.
I was so happy in that moment.
Long ago I came to the simplistic conclusion that I want to be satisfied and happy with my occupation in life. But I have learned that no matter what, I will always fall into a pattern that will at times be difficult on body and on mind, regardless of what the noble or fascinating or insert-adjective-here job I find may entail. I will need breaks every now and then. A change of scenery, a lightness of mind, if you will, that will accentuate the heavier things--those that embody the root of who I am. That moment in Matate in the High Atlas was such a moment, such a break, such an opportunity to do nothing but sit back and meditate on the serene and crystal simplicity of my life. That moment to put all else into perspective, the miniscule details, into a large and all-encompassing picture: me, Lauren Rhode, within that village, this coutry, our world, the universe. Epiphany?
Making Up for Elapsed Time
I was planning on making a series of short video clips in order to visually impart to you my experiences over the past few weeks but ran out of time because my faithful digitech crew (just for you digitech), Remy and Pia, had to head off to Egypt, equipment, insight, and all. Alas, I will tell a few short stories in the form of words-- do forgive all lack of literary creativity.
Before leaving Fes, I spent a weekend in Meknes, Morocco's third imperial city that came into its own in the seventeenth century when it was the capital of Moulay Ismail's Alawite dynasty. Since then, it has become a backwater despite a beautiful medina and fabulous old medrasas (Qu'ranic schools) like the Bouanania, a smaller version of the medrasa sharing both architect and moniker in Fez. I was forced to split this weekend between exploring the city and working on my video for my host family: crunchtime.
On the way to Meknes, I bought some delicious bright red rohmans (pomegranates) and stopped at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis, the stunning remains of the furthest western outpost of the Roman Empire from around the fourth century BC, was mind boggling in presentation of everything from tilework to structural foundations to 'laundry machines' that have been preserved mostly underground for over a thousand years. For some reason, I have yet to forget our guide's crude humor and crude laughter when he stood in the old bathroom area and repeated over and over 'ka ka pee pee politique'-- it took me a few minutes to realize that he was telling us that he thinks the Romans discussed politics just as we discuss politics--with one minor exception: they did it over their business while we do it over, say, a cup of coffee. But we're doing it all wrong, according to him.
From Volubilis one has a wonderful view of Moulay Idriss to the east, a small whitewashed town resting in a comfortable niche in the hillsides. Named for Morocco's most revered saint, Idriss, great-grandson of Prophet Mohammed and founder of Morocco's first dynasty, the town is home to the largest annual moussem, or pilgrammage, in late August every year. Although we stayed only for a short visit, I was exposed for the first time to one of the greatest divergences between Moroccan Islam and Islam outside of the Maghreb: the concept of sainthood. Anywhere else, the Moroccan tradition of travelling around to the holy sites of Saints' burial grounds would be considered idolatry, the one and only categorically unforgivable sin in Islam.
My final week with my homestay family flew by. I was stuck between the necessities to both spend as much time with them as possible and to finish my video for them without them knowing why I wasn't spending all of my time in the kitchen making harira or the living room watching Ramadan comedy sketches. Though difficult, I was releaved when they not only seemed to understand some of my very choppy and inarticulate narration but also to enjoy it. I was stressed leaving Fes, wanted more time with my family, and remain unsure of whether I will have the opportunity to stay with them again (a large incoming batch of students at the language center that our families were arranged through will most likely require a spot in my family, given that it is, after all, one of the best).
I am extraordinarily anxious to return to Fes. Luckily, I will get the chance to do so in less than two weeks time.
Before leaving Fes, I spent a weekend in Meknes, Morocco's third imperial city that came into its own in the seventeenth century when it was the capital of Moulay Ismail's Alawite dynasty. Since then, it has become a backwater despite a beautiful medina and fabulous old medrasas (Qu'ranic schools) like the Bouanania, a smaller version of the medrasa sharing both architect and moniker in Fez. I was forced to split this weekend between exploring the city and working on my video for my host family: crunchtime.
On the way to Meknes, I bought some delicious bright red rohmans (pomegranates) and stopped at Volubilis and Moulay Idriss. Volubilis, the stunning remains of the furthest western outpost of the Roman Empire from around the fourth century BC, was mind boggling in presentation of everything from tilework to structural foundations to 'laundry machines' that have been preserved mostly underground for over a thousand years. For some reason, I have yet to forget our guide's crude humor and crude laughter when he stood in the old bathroom area and repeated over and over 'ka ka pee pee politique'-- it took me a few minutes to realize that he was telling us that he thinks the Romans discussed politics just as we discuss politics--with one minor exception: they did it over their business while we do it over, say, a cup of coffee. But we're doing it all wrong, according to him.
From Volubilis one has a wonderful view of Moulay Idriss to the east, a small whitewashed town resting in a comfortable niche in the hillsides. Named for Morocco's most revered saint, Idriss, great-grandson of Prophet Mohammed and founder of Morocco's first dynasty, the town is home to the largest annual moussem, or pilgrammage, in late August every year. Although we stayed only for a short visit, I was exposed for the first time to one of the greatest divergences between Moroccan Islam and Islam outside of the Maghreb: the concept of sainthood. Anywhere else, the Moroccan tradition of travelling around to the holy sites of Saints' burial grounds would be considered idolatry, the one and only categorically unforgivable sin in Islam.
My final week with my homestay family flew by. I was stuck between the necessities to both spend as much time with them as possible and to finish my video for them without them knowing why I wasn't spending all of my time in the kitchen making harira or the living room watching Ramadan comedy sketches. Though difficult, I was releaved when they not only seemed to understand some of my very choppy and inarticulate narration but also to enjoy it. I was stressed leaving Fes, wanted more time with my family, and remain unsure of whether I will have the opportunity to stay with them again (a large incoming batch of students at the language center that our families were arranged through will most likely require a spot in my family, given that it is, after all, one of the best).
I am extraordinarily anxious to return to Fes. Luckily, I will get the chance to do so in less than two weeks time.
Family Time
Note: Long clip, please allow time to load. Also, forgive mispronunciations in arabic (or english, though hopefully there will be slightly fewer of these) and understand that I share this only for the sake of giving you a glimpse of Fes, not in order to display proficiency in filmmaking by any stretch of the imagination.
Frustrations
Time is remarkable. Wonderfully long or dreadfully long. Usually the latter. Nice and fast or too fast. Usually the latter. But no matter what, I can usually put my finger on how time feels to me. Strangely, right now I am not so sure. Has this month been long or short? I have learned so incredibly much and experienced such a vast assortment of new things and taken in a functional amount of a new language, small though that amount may be, but there is so much more to learn and experience. I know I will never have time to see it all, of course, but cannot escape the incessant pressure to look for it and smell for it and listen for it and throw myself out there to find what I can find, and also, to try to find what I may never find. And what is 'it' anyways?
Sometimes, mono takes over and I am stuck in bed for hours-- despite multiple doctors visits I have not been able to shake my nausea and headaches and overwhelming exhaustion-- and so I sit in bed, anxious and apprehensive, dreaming, whether I am asleep or awake, of all of the things that lie just beyond the door. A Sufi woman asked me a few days ago if I was tired. I was exhausted per usual. She told me that before we can accomplish anything spiritually or metaphysically we must allow our bodies, the receptacles for the spirit, to rest. But what if my body never feels the same as it used too? What if I never regain my energy or strength-- whether to accomplish something as big as a spiritual revelation or as small as walking out that door? And how do I draw a line between when to rest and when to push myself on, out that door, into the utterly magnifect world that is sitting here patiently, just waiting for me to get my act together and explore it.
Sometimes, mono takes over and I am stuck in bed for hours-- despite multiple doctors visits I have not been able to shake my nausea and headaches and overwhelming exhaustion-- and so I sit in bed, anxious and apprehensive, dreaming, whether I am asleep or awake, of all of the things that lie just beyond the door. A Sufi woman asked me a few days ago if I was tired. I was exhausted per usual. She told me that before we can accomplish anything spiritually or metaphysically we must allow our bodies, the receptacles for the spirit, to rest. But what if my body never feels the same as it used too? What if I never regain my energy or strength-- whether to accomplish something as big as a spiritual revelation or as small as walking out that door? And how do I draw a line between when to rest and when to push myself on, out that door, into the utterly magnifect world that is sitting here patiently, just waiting for me to get my act together and explore it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Alive
Writing from Imlil, from one of the only computers in a radius of many many miles, at the base of Mt. Toubkal (the highest mountain in north africa). Just completed a stunning four day trek through this area of the high atlas range -- full of gorgeous 6-7 hour a day hikes, mild enough to allow me to take in everything from red rock to tiny villages to snowy peaks to scorching valleys to goats in trees... Don't have much time now, but mom, I am alive and well. Despite slowing the group down for two days due to mono problems and popping my front tooth back into my mouth every few hours (for those of you who are confused, a basketball injury has left me to deal with an interesting dental issue in Africa), I am surprisingly healthy and problem free.
I will be in Imlil working on a small community service initiative for the next two days, but will be in better touch upon arrival in Marrakesh. Hopefully there I will be able to upload my movie onto this interface, but for now, you can check it out at:
http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/10/laurens_video.html#comments
much love,
lauren
I will be in Imlil working on a small community service initiative for the next two days, but will be in better touch upon arrival in Marrakesh. Hopefully there I will be able to upload my movie onto this interface, but for now, you can check it out at:
http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/10/laurens_video.html#comments
much love,
lauren
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