Rabat Africa Festival with Jamie

Life in Les Oudayas

Welcome to Rabat, the capital of Morocco.

A fascinating mélange of colonial French style buildings, an old labyrinth-like medina and a building boom that is producing a vast new national library and stylish villas in the suburbs, Rabat is historical, charming and hectic.

It’s been 10 months since I have moved to Agdal, a chicy European quartier that feels more like southern France, with its myriad of trendy cafés and fashion obsessed shoppers wearing the latest styles from Mango, Promod and Etam. To escape the superficiality of Agdal, the chaotic crush of cars, scooters and buses that clog the city streets and the heckling calls from medina venders, I often slip away to neighborhood overlooking the city, perched on a cliff above the crashing waves of the Atlantic and the wide flow of the Bou Regreg River.

Les Oudayas is the oldest neighborhood in Rabat, most of which was built by Muslim refugees from Spain. Surrounding by stone walls, the most dramatic entrance is the huge door on top of the hill, the Bab Oudaia. As I walk under the cold stone archway, the noise of the city traffic dies down and the feeling of breathing in bus exhaust dissipates.

Once inside the kasbah walls, the rush of cars and clouds of pollution seem far away. Indeed, the one central street in Les Oudayas, Rue Jamaa, is almost too narrow for cars to pass, and only the very determined manage to navigate their vehicles along the whitewashed streets.

Continuing straight along the main thoroughfare, I pass by the familiar orange juice man, who presses fresh oranges for 4dh a tall glass; or about 50 cents. I stop by to say hello, and inevitably splurge for the cheap treat, enjoying the cold sweetness, the flecks of pulp that rest on my tongue and the thought that my mom would be proud of me for getting my daily dose of vitamin C.

Just across from his stand is the wrinkled old man who sells babouches from his stall, the traditional yellow slippers mixed in with bright pink, brown, woven and leather styles. The sandals and shoes hanging from his ceiling drift lightly in the breeze, and he smiles his toothless grin as I pass by.

Two steps further along the narrow cobblestone street, I stop at one of the three corner stores, being located at the junction of the main street and a smaller side alley, they are actually all located on a corner. I grab a bottle of water and a loaf of round flat bread; total: 80cents.

I turn up a narrow side street, just as the sun starts to illuminate the white and blue walls. Occasionally I see young boys like a walking Pollock painting, methodically recovering the old stone walls to keep them fresh and clean looking.

There are always boys playing soccer in the narrow street and little girls sitting on the door steps. "Salaam" I greet them. "Salaam!" they shout back.

After another right and then left turn, I am hidden deep in the quiet calm of the back streets. I knock on my friend's front door. Her house is an old Moroccan riad, completely open in the middle, with an uncovered skylight flooding the first floor living space with fresh light. As the house is snuggled between the neighbors, the only source of light is the roof top opening, which keeps the riad cool and well-lit.

We climb up the three flights of tiled stairs to the highlight of the house, the rooftop terrace. In fact, every house in Les Oudayas has a rooftop terrace. They are essential for drying laundry, storing unused furniture and old bicycles, watering plants, feeding chickens, spying on neighbors and other odds and ends.

As for this terrace, there are two levels. The first of the two has been furnished with whicker chairs, colorful pillows and a jungle of unruly plants. Across the hot terrace is a cool corner that has been covered with bamboo stalks neatly woven together. Three burgundy sofas line the alcove and the tiled coffee table and fat pillows add perfectly to the exotic charm of the rooftop escape.

Next to the alcove, a narrow blue painted staircase runs up to top platform. From here, I’m at the highest point in les Oudayas, except for the mosque that is just next door. Its stone minaret climbs up an additional 20 feet, topped off with the traditional three metals balls. Built in the 12^th century, it is the oldest mosque in Rabat.

At around 5:30, the call to prayer shouts out from the mosque speakers. The voice is shrill and loud, chanting out to the faithful. We sip our tea and listen as his voice carries over all of Les Oudayas and ricochets off the narrow alley walls. From our high vantage point, we can hear the echoing calls from the myriad of mosques that rise above the cityscape.

As the sun sinks lower, we climb up to the top of the roof to see the wild Atlantic waves crashing along the rocks below. The surfers are just coming out of the water, along the sandy beach and from the shore the cries of carefree kids drift up to us.

We open a bottle of wine and enjoy the warm breeze and chilled white as we marvel at the simplicity of life in Les Oudayas. From our rooftop perch above the rush and grime and daily hassles of the city, Rabat is all charm and simple beauty.

Jazz au Chellah in Rabat

ROOMMATES

This is the short story of six girls, three bedrooms, and one apartment. How we all came to live together is a mystery, but one that has consisted of the good, the bad, and countless cultural differences. Even after six years of living with different roommates, it is this year that has proven the most challenging, rewarding and educational.

When I arrived in Morocco, I hailed a taxi at the Rabat airport and recited the carefully address that my future roommate had emailed to me. On the drive into town, we shared the road with donkey carts, buses, bicycles, sports cars, trucks and rusty scooters over flowing with entire families. Like a broken record, the phrase, “we’re not in Kansas anymore,” kept looping through my head.

From our first day as roommates, we decided to become a family, complete with Dad, Mom, Crazy Uncle, Aunt Cythia and the kids. We made family dinners together during nights in, shared clothes for nights out, and became known to the ex-pat community simply as “les filles.” But as the year flew by, a certain tension started separating our family.

How could my Norwegian roommate be so passive and modest about everything?

Why was my Finnish roommate so opinionated and direct?

Did my American roommate realize that her sarcasm doesn’t translate into other languages?

Had my Moroccan roommate ever had to wash dishes before or clean up after herself?

Why was having a sit down meal so important to my French roommate?

How much was I willing to put up with to avoid direct confrontation?

Each of us came into this year with previous co-habitation experiences, but never had our living situations been so multi-cultural. We were six independent, savvy and successful women; could cultural differences really complicate things that much? Oh yes.

When living with five other roommates, with each one hailing from a different country, the things one might take for granted become moments for conflict or reflection. Reading meaning into indirect conversations, or how to take blunt comments with a grain of salt, became daily exercises in communication. I learned to keep more space between my Scandinavian roommates than those from the Mediterranean, to enjoy a late afternoon cup of espresso with the girls after work, accept my clothes being “borrowed” without asking, and to make vegetable tagines or good ole mac n’ cheese.

Despite the language barriers, disappearing food, endlessly dirty dishes, and differing lifestyle choices, we’ve somehow managed to keep our family together.

And this, I have come to attribute to one altruistic idea. Modifying our behavior for others is not always easy, or even a conscious act for that matter, but living well together starts with learning to think beyond one’s self. Having built-in friends with whom to cook dinner, watch movies and travel can be enjoyable, if an independent individual can learn to think collectively.

Thus, it’s not our differences that I will remember after this year, but rather, making ginger bread Christmas cookies, dancing in our living room until 6am, girl’s night out in Casa, birthday parties and weekend trips traveling. These memories are what make living with one apartment, with three bedrooms and six girls so unforgettable.

Finally, conference pics...

Find Your Voice Conference Coverage

Here are the YouTube links for the conference that Jane and I organized!

Al Jazeera
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m7LOnwW-nWs&feature=related

SNRT
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jTy_F6-jlvs&feature=related

AURA's bachelorette party in CASA...

A Kingdom of Hidden Splendor

Morocco.

The word conjures up images of drifting dunes, desert tents, steaming couscous and tall minarets. It means, in fact, “The Western Kingdom.” Perched along the crashing waves of the Atlantic and the calm blue of the Mediterranean in the farthest north-west corner of Africa, this exotic kingdom country is indeed many things.

There are the cities awash with tourists and flamboyant colors, such as Fez or Marrakesh. In the south, the deserts stretch out endlessly, proud of their desolate beauty and shifting sands. The beach towns along the coast host snowbirds set a-flight from colder climates and sun-seeking visitors who lounge along the beaches and drink sweet mint tea in sunny cafes.

Beautiful and exciting in their own over-trodden way, these destinations often over-shadow quieter corners in the kingdom, no less beautiful in their own way. Indeed, traveling has become a marathon challenge to see how many cities one can visit, how many destinations are checked off a list, and how many pictures can be taken. The true sense of traveling, for the pure pleasure of exploring, learning and relaxing, has somehow been left behind.

One such seemingly forgotten corner in Morocco is called the Valley of the Roses. Threading its way east of Marrakesh, between the rough High Atlas Mountains to the north and the rugged Jebel Sarho range to the south, this lush valley is hidden amidst the arid, dusty brown landscape.

Starting near the town of Skoura and finishing towards Tinhir, the valley is aptly called the Valley of a Thousand Kasbahs, with hundreds of baked mud forts lining the valley walls and perched along cliff tops. Halfway along this luscious river valley is the sleepy town of Kellaa M’Gouna, made famous by its wild pink roses. All along the valley, the farmers plant their crops on the river bed and hedge them in wild pink roses. Every spring, just as the wheat is thigh high, the roses burst into bloom.

Walking through the fields, with the wheat brushing your hands and the smell of fresh roses tickling your nose, all thoughts of Marrakesh and other such tourist-trap cities escape, and one feels they are in the most beautiful corner of the world. Tour busing from site to site seems far away while picnicking along the river bank, which may diminish to a trickle in the summer months but never dries up completely. Hopping from stone to stone to cross the rushing water, relaxing while women dry their river-washed clothes in the sun and spitting watermelon seeds seem to be simple pleasures lost amidst the hustle and bustle of travel.

After spending the day meandering along the river and clambering through dry Kasbahs, climbing the dusty path up to the freshly colored Kasbah Itran is well worth the effort. Perched, rather precariously, on the highest cliff top in sight, about three kilometers from Kellaa M’Gouna, this quiet and clean guest house awakens you with its vibrant colors, sooths and quenches with its cool mint tea and lulls the weary walker with the soft breeze it catches from its high vantage point.

After spending a day in this forgotten corner, the race to visit as many places as possible slips out of mind; one remembers the joy of exploring new lands, imagining the life that once inhabited the magnificent mud Kasbahs, and the smell of fresh roses mixed with dust and sweet mint tea. Morocco is much more than what first comes to mind; it is truly a kingdom of hidden corners and subtle charm that is best discovered by those who are willing to leave the tourist trodden path behind.

Seatbelts, or lack thereof...

When I was little, the car did not move until everyone had their seatbelts on...

I took a taxi the other day and was dismayed by what I found; aside from the deplorable driving and usual grungy interior, there were wads of gum and their wrappers stuck into the seat belt receptors. Indeed no one wears seatbelts here, and they laugh if you do (one driver actually reached over once and unbuckled my seatbelt). But to block the slots and take away the option to even try to buckle-up astounded me.

Even worse than this and more alarming is that fact that even I, after eight months of not wearing a seatbelt, seem to has lost the reflex to reach over my shoulder and secure mine before the car starts moving.

It's the little things in life...

Despite the terrible start to the day, three things made me smile and realize, it's the little things in life make us happy.

To clear my head and get out of the apartment for a bit, I decided to go read in the park. I wore my running clothes in case I wanted to jog a bit afterwards, which I did, to burn off some steam and start getting ready for the next marathon.

I clearly couldn't run with my book, so I asked the gaurdian at the park gate to hold onto it for me for half an hour.

When I came back to get it, he said something that made me smile: "Oh, you are reading a book by Khaled Hosseini." I am sure he had no idea who is the author of A Thousand Spendid Suns but the name was something he could relate to and was clearly impressed to see blond white girl reading such an author's work.

Then, as I was walking home, I saw a little boy standing along the side of the road engrossed in blowing the white puffs from a dandelion flower. So innocent.

Finally, as I reaeded the top of the hill on my way back, I noticed the view of the ocean. After eight months of walking back and forth to the park, I had never once realized that from the top of the hill, the deep blue of the Atlantic was visible over the white roofs of the city.

By the time I arrived home, I was calmer and happier and ready to deal with the drama.

Morocco with JESSICA

We left no time for relaxation after the conference on Friday and Saturday.

On Sunday morning, Jess and I woke up to the alarm at 9am.

Too early. Re-set to 9:30.

Half and hour later I looked at Jess and asked if we were really going to run the women’s race in Rabat that morning.

“We can go running later today,” I said. With groggy look, she replied, “Do you really think we are going to go running later? I don’t think so. Come on, we can do it!”

So we rolled out of bed, threw on some clothes and hailed a taxi to take us to the start of the race. We registered when we arrived and asked how long it was. 3km was the response. No problem, we thought.

10km and 55 minutes later, we arrived over-heated and sore at the finish line. Great way to start the day.

After a relaxing day in Rabat on Sunday, we left Monday morning for Marrakesh. The train ride was hot. So hot. There was no moving air in the packed cars, eight people to each little room, squished together on bench seats trying not to fall asleep on each other. I stood in the hallway most of the way to catch what little breeze came through the few windows that had been cracked open.

When we arrived, we immediately went to the tourist info office, a lovely vaulted kiosk, inconveniently located next to nothing of interest. From there we made reservations and took an hour time-out to plan our trip. Some shopping and fresh pressed orange juice later, we were lost in the back streets of the medina, finding all the best boutiques and hidden corners away from the tourist path.

Dinner and to bed in our disgusting (but cheap) riad and then off to our 6:30am bus. Thank god we slept most of the way across the mountains; otherwise we would have both been sick (instead of just Jess being ill).

Once we met Shawn in Kella M’Gouna, our next two days we smooth sailing and full of local culture. We showered in the downstairs public SuperDouche, went to souq day just outside of town, walked amidst the wheat and wild roses in the valley and drank tea at the cliff-top riad along the river. It was the most amazing part of our trip.

Well, perhaps our relaxing stay in the far reaches of Kella M’Gouna could be rivaled by our beachside riad in Essaouria where we sunbathed on the roof all day long, ate more couscous than should be allowed and watched two glorious sunsets over the pounding ocean waves.

The night bus home on Friday could have been more comfortable but once we arrived home on Saturday morning, we were again energized to go shopping in the medina. Arms full of bags later, we dropped stuff off at the house and sped off to a friend’s beach house, where we ate, drank and swam in the cold pool all afternoon long. Our last night in Rabat was low key, spent packing and then stopping by an ex-pat party.

We are at the Agdal station at 7am for the train, and Jessica and I once again parted ways. It was an amazing week. I wonder where we will meet up again next time.

FIND YOUR VOICE 2008 Conference

Our conference was a huge success!

Check out the overview online:

http://pomed.org/activities/conferences/

Tunisia- a sampling...

Tara's Birthday in Portugal

Olive Oil Tasting...

Paradise in Portugal- Spring Break 2008 continued...

Tara is the hostess with the mostest and it was an amazing birthday weeked spent at her family summer home in the south of Portugal...

Nabeul TUNISIA

Apple chicha, sugared tea, pop Arab music videos, Arab men, late afternoon sunshine- we’re waiting for our train to Tunis.

Today was such a good day.

The sun streamed unto our auberge room as we lazily awoke. Nothing to do. All day.

What a great plan. So we showed in the hottest shower of our trip and wandered onto the terrace. The wood slates above blocked out the hot sun while we sipped our café au lait and munched on bread with jame and butter.

The old Irish man, and seemingly only other guest at the place, came to chat with us for a while and we listened to his ramblings, as we had nothing else to do. The sound of the ocean called to us as the sun turned hot and we set off down the coast to explore.

Resorts dotted the beach and while a bit run down, they still possessed a simple charm evoking hot summer nights and wickers parasols on the beach.

Overcome by the sun, sand and surf, we sat in the shade of three palm trees, next to the white and blue huts of a private beach resorts, on the other side the crashing waves of clear blue sea.

Our brief repose turned into a two hour nap as we settled onto my Pashmina, impromptu spread out as a blanket. Lacking bathing attire, we made do with jearns and bras, burning a bit pink in the sun but loath to leave the tranquil setting.

Fearing too much sun and not wanting to miss our train, we wandered back to our auberge, packed up and headed out, by way of the internet café of course. Many emails later and a phone call to our CS contact Jeremy, we learned we would be taking the later train.

Perfect. We had time for a long lunch followed by chichi at the train station. Surrounded by apple flavored smoke and Arab pop music, life is pretty good.

Spring Break 2008 TUNISIA

Impressions...

little black dress night for anna's birthday