At the Legation

A funny thing about keeping a record of our experience living here is that we're drawn to the noteworthy, possibly to the exclusion of the day-to-day. Because of this--and on the eve of our departure for a trip to southern Morocco, which is sure to bring more adventures and vistas--I thought that I'd just post a few things about the Legation, which is where I've been doing the majority of research for my class, and which is, in itself, worth a trip to Tangier.

No big deal, but my library is SUPER OFFICIAL.

My responsibilities for my Fulbright are pretty neatly divided into thirds: I audit university-level classes, I visit and interact with students at primary and secondary schools here in Morocco, and I complete a capstone project. For my project, I've been working on designing a place-based course--suitable for American high school students--which might draw them into the multicultural city of Tangier through it's literary history, both North African and expatriate. Many know that Tangier was a hub for Americans writers living abroad in the late 1950's and into the 1960's--it's closely associated with the Beat Movement, and sort of centered around Paul Bowles. This literary history is fascinating, and only made more fascinating by the inclusion of early explorers to the city (who included Mark Twain and Samuel Pepys) and visitors from the city (Tanjawi Ibn Battuta was one of the most prolific travelers of the ancient world). There are a number of Moroccan writers in translation who complement this history.

TALIM: Sounds a bit like a James Bond villain's lair, but, then again, Ian Fleming did write here in Tangier.

Wrangling all of this information together is where TALIM has been truly amazing. The library here at the Legation is absolutely amazing--with old Tangier newspapers, every book that one might want about the literary history of Tangier, and a quiet, studious space to work. On the second floor of the library, I've established a little nook where I can put together my class, read, and post baby videos to Tumblr. Likewise, interesting people--drawn to TALIM--are always dropping in for a day or week, and I've learned a lot from talking to them.

Akane, a graduate student from New York, perusing the old Tangier Gazettes.

Of course, for a visitor, the real draw of TALIM is the amazing history of the place, and the top-notch exhibits within it. The Tangier Legation is the first American public property outside the United States, and has a long and colorful history of use--for over 140 years! It's not well-known in America--though it's better known here--that Morocco was actually the first country to officially recognize the United States, and the 1786 Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship is one of our oldest treaties. Over the years, the Legation has been a diplomatic hub, a spy base, and, now, a museum and cultural center.

The beautiful Moorish entryway to the museum.

Some of the fascinating things inside the museum are primary source documents of Tangier history, as well amazing stories of Moroccan-American relations, such as in 1839, when the United States tried to get out of receiving an unusual gift from the Emporer--a lion and lioness. Refusing the gift proved very difficult for the consul, Thomas A. Carr, and he eventually relented. Anyone who's had a meal with a Moroccan family knows that they can be relentless in their generosity! Likewise, the Perdicaris Affair has it all--pirates, kidnappers, and a Teddy Roosevelt. These exhibits, as well as what you can find in the archives of the Tangier Gazette, make TALIM such an amazing resource, as well as just a great place to visit.

A prophetic headline from 1949, though I'm not sure that they mean this the way that William S. Burroughs will.

Ultimately, though (this seems to be a theme on our blog), it comes down to the people. From John Davison, the director, to Yhtimad Bouziane, the associate director, to the guards and everyone else, the Legation has been a wonderful touchstone. I enjoy coming as soon as it opens, walking the narrow streets into the Medina through "The American Gate," and getting the chance to research and write and think in the most convivial possible environment. Usually, I leave at lunch, off to visit a school, or watch Cecily while Kate's Spanish class is in session. Either way, like the Thomas A. Carr, I'm overwhelmed with the hospitality that I've encountered here.

A welcome sight each morning.

Update: Moroccats

We now interrupt our Very Important Travel Blog for an update from the international animal kingdom.

Most of you already know that we have a fat, pampered housecat who goes by the name of Monster. Kate rescued him as a kitten from a snowbank, Elliot quickly warmed to cat ownership. We’re both very invested in his well-being. Just for a little context, Cecily’s first difficult life lesson was learned this summer when Monster commandeered her bassinet. So that’s backstory.   

The pleasant surprise is that Moroccans seem to share our feelings.

When we moved here we noticed two cat-related things. The first was that there were a lot. We worried that this might be one of those depressing scenes with one-eyed, one-legged, mangy cats, scrounging in garbage cans and fighting for survival and resulting in us adopting five new household members. And getting fleas.

An irresistible little fleabag.

But then we noticed the second thing: the cats around Tangier—though they obviously live on the streets—seem particularly well-cared for. For one thing, they constantly eat fish—small, fresh, silver fish from the sandwich shops, fish-peddlers, and straight off the hook down at the pier. There are always bowls of fresh water and milk around, and many cats have beds in shops, even high-end luxury shops. Cats lie on beautiful Moroccan carpets and snooze in slanting sunbeams on café chairs that otherwise could have gone to customers. In fact, last week when Elliot got up to go to the bathroom at a restaurant, a small black kitten stole his seat and refused to relinquish it, confident that the waiter would side with him (he did).

Cappuccino, extra foam.  

An explanation for this attitude, amazingly, lies in the Koran.

Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) was tender and kind towards cats. He (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) appreciated cats. Hazrat Muhammad  (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) 's  favorite cat was called Muezza. There is a well-known story regarding the Prophet Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) and Muezza. When the call to prayers was heard, Muezza was asleep on one of the sleeves of the Prophet’s (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) robes. The Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) wanted to wear the robe to go to prayers. Rather than disturb Muezza, Muhammad (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) robes cut off the sleeve to leave Muezza in peace.

Yes, you read that right. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, was not only a cat-lover, but the name of his cat is known! Is he the only founder of a major world religion who is also a pet-owner? Just for a thought experiment, imagine if Jesus had a dog named Adriel, and talked about how great he was in the Bible. One of the disciples (I’m looking at you here, Phillip) would always have to watch Adriel when Jesus went out of town. In predominantly Christian countries, one has to wonder if it would change the way that dogs are treated and regarded.

Just cattin' around in the Mediterranean sun.

Either way, the feline Tanjawis--well-fed and undisturbed--demonstrate that this is a pretty good place to be a street cat. Though cats worldwide consider themselves special, even holy, here the people around them seem to agree.

What's Over Here

There’s a game we like to play with Cecily called “Let’s Go See What’s Over Here.” The game is in song, because Cecily is a baby, and that’s what she’s into. It entails walking around and looking at things while singing, as Elliot recently pointed out, to the tune of Destiny’s Child’s 90’s hit “Bootylicious,” which is apparently deeply ingrained in my psyche. Our apartment in Tangier has made this game more interesting for all parties. Today, we’d like to invite you to join us…as we uncover the many wonders of our home and neighborhood.

The Morrocan homes we have visited seem to be built around entertainment and gatherings, and our place is no exception. On Friday everybody leaves work and school in the afternoon to attend mosque and eat couscous lunch. Judging from the number of holidays here, and from the sound of our upstairs neighbors, people seem to gather together whenever they have the chance. When we celebrated Mawlid with Khalid’s family we were lucky to see a Moroccan parlor used to its full effect.

The appropriate use of a Moroccan Parlor

But we've found other uses as well...

Like nudist colony

Or a Renaissance Art Gallery 

We live on the ninth floor, and like everyone else we hang our laundry outside of our kitchen window. It’s exciting. At first I got nauseous every time I hung up a t-shirt. Now that I’m fairly assured I won’t spontaneously fall to my death, it’s just business as usual.

Where laundry goes to die (notice the ill-fated black sweater below) 

Cecily in her room, where she squirrels away all of her gifts.

Some of Cecily’s possessions: a turtleneck from a man on a bus, a basket from a man in the market, the banana, forever captive.

She gets other things, too, which she is not allowed to keep in her room. Last night the waiter brought her a flan, which we pretended to feed her and then ate ourselves.

Our apartment is owned by Khalid’s sister Najat and she has been a wonderful part of our experience here. From coming to the rescue at 9:00 PM when I blew a fuse (with my breast pump, unfortunately) to dealing with our questions in broken Spanish/French/Darija  she has been really wonderful. A major bonus: On Fridays Najat often surprises us with the traditional couscous lunch. It feeds us for days.

We’ve both grown pretty attached to our neighborhood. It’s lively at all hours, and full of interesting cafes and shops. We have a bakery, complete with an intimidating and serious baker who makes ten cent baguettes with a wood fired oven.

When we moved in to the neighborhood I think they had to double the wood load

“You’ll find everything you need right here in this neighborhood,” Khalid promised when showing us around. Which, it turns out, was sort of an understatement.

Good fruit

There are some things we don't really need...

Like these things...1 KG for $1.40.  

And some things we do...

I need these smoothies, which taste best when served by a disembodied hand. 

Separate days for men and women. Elliot’s working on Musculation, I’m focusing on Gymnastique and (not to brag) Cecily is looking forward to attaining her Black Belt by the time we leave.

Elliot’s new barber is putting his former barber (me) to shame.

 After, with the artiste. 

Before (Elliot's the one in the green) 

We are homesick for our animals and our fireplace and our backyard (even if it is covered in four feet of snow). We miss water pressure and indoor heat and not having to walk down eight flights of stairs and worry about getting hit by a motorcycle or car when we leave the house.  Being foreign is, predictably, exhausting at times. Misunderstandings abound. It’s hard to know what language to use when, and even harder to use that language in a way that is even semi-effective. And truth be told, we don’t really know how to utilize a Moroccan parlor in all its elaborate grandeur.

Some of us are more comfortable with the decor than others...After a long day of being carried around Cecily gleefully relaxes in her throne.

So it’s been nice to have an apartment and neighborhood that feel like home. Our apartment here is basically the opposite of our house in Idaho, which is cozy, low-ceilinged, couchless and simple. And while the gilded...everything…might cause a bit of sensory overload, we’ve grown fond of the big rooms, and the long couches and the way our kitchen windows look over the city. Living in such a bustling neighborhood is a nice change of pace. At this time of year in Hailey it’s possible to go days without seeing our neighbors.    Here, everyone knows each other. Many people have lived in this neighborhood for their whole lives. The produce guys know what you want before you even ask and they pinch Cecily’s cheeks while I clumsily count out change and there’s a café where the people know (our daughter’s) name and pass her around while we drink our coffee. I love waking up with Cecily before it’s light out and looking out at the flocking seagulls and momentarily quiet streets. And the sounds of the call to prayer that we can hear coming from multiple directions has made Cecily’s bedtime routine much more dramatic.

Elliot's mustache takes an important phone call.   

Out on the street there’s a lot of embracing. A  lot of kissing of cheeks. “Saalam-Alaikum,” people say in passing. “Peace be upon you. How is your mother how is your father how is your health how is your daughter? Thank God, Thank God, Thank God.” It’s possible this is what I will miss most of all. Well, that and the baguettes.

Good Question

My favorite activity related to my project is spending time in the schools here in Morocco. With the help of Mr. Hussein Zelji and Mr. Ahmed Taie, I've gotten a chance to observe and participate in classes at all grade levels, in schools both public and private. Both Hussein and Ahmed are Inspecteurs, administrators who helps develop and evaluate teachers. This is a different system than the U.S., where a building principal is also typically the academic leader. Instead, the principal runs things on the ground, but the inspecteurs are the ones who stop in--typically unannounced--to observe classes.

When your school schedule looks like this, it make sense to have one administrator work on the schedule and another to evaluate the teachers.

Hussein, with whom I do most of my observations, supervises more than 250 teachers, in schools throughout Tangier and as far away as Chefchaouen. It's a huge job, and I'm constantly amazed at his equanimity, his sense of humor, and his willingness to take some random teacher from Idaho with him on his observations. Typically, I'll be working away at the American Legation, researching my project, and Hussein will call me to tell me that he's going to look at a school. While I know that I need to get my research done, these calls are impossible to resist, because--as all teachers know--it's more fun to be in school than in the library!

Hussein's visits can be stressful for the teachers, though I've known him only to be fair and direct with them. For my part, I've learned a tremendous amount from these observations, both from the terrific teachers and from Hussein's educational leadership. That, however, is a post for another time, because I want to discuss what usually happens at the end of my observations with Hussein, who often asks the teacher to leave fifteen minutes for students to ask me questions.

As an English teacher, I'm often more interested in pursuing questions that don't have one right answer in my own classes. However, for you, the loyal reader, I am going to provide the most common questions that Moroccan students ask me, along with the best answer--standardized test style--that I've discovered through a process of trial and error.

Question: "Are you a Muslim?"

This is always the first question that Moroccan students ask me. What I didn't realize at first is that they mean it in a completely neutral, non-judgmental way.  Here, because everyone is muslim, religion isn't considered nearly as personal (for lack of a better word) as it is in the United States. Not realizing this, at first I tried to soften my answer, by saying things like, "Not yet," which, while technically true, just leads to further questions about the process of becoming a muslim and my interest in doing so. So, for this question, for non-muslims, the correct answer should be decisive. Also, I've learned not to be awkward about it--they're just asking!

Best Answer: "No."

Just try telling this scary bunch that you're not a muslim.

Question: "What football club do you support?"

This is another common question that I basically didn't understand well at first. For a while, I told students that the team that I support is the Ghana Black Stars. This is another answer that is technically true, but completely misunderstands the question. It took some time in the cafes, and talking to students, to understand that this question is only about Spain's La Liga, and, more specifically, there are only two possible answers: Real Madrid or FC Barcelona. In the grand tradition of wannabe fans, I picked one at random, and NOTHING WILL EVER MAKE ME CHANGE MY MIND.

Best Answer: "FC Barcelona."

The Barca fans wanted to take a photo with me.

Question: "How do you find Morocco?"

Students almost always ask me about the experience of being in Morocco, and it's one of my favorite questions to answer, because--as readers of the blog will have surmised--I love Morocco! Students seem generally to agree with this point of view, as do most Moroccans, actually. I've found that Moroccans seem to be quite patriotic, and think that Morocco is a great place, or at least a good place that's getting better. Some of the students have a more pessimistic outlook on Morocco, which is the result of being a teenager. Either way, the best answer here is the truth.

Best Answer: "Morocco is awesome!"

Schools share common DNA wherever you go.

From here, questions seem to vary widely, depending on the age of students and what they've been studying in class. Once, Hussein asked me to share some thoughts about R. Kelly, whose song, "The World's Greatest," they had been listening to in order to practice their English. Delivering an impromptu lecture on R. Kelly in front of a audience of Moroccans teens is like something from a nightmare. Should I try to explain "Trapped in the Closet," R. Kelly's rap opera? Sing "Remix to Ignition" and reminisce about senior year of college? Fortunately, I was saved by the bell.

On another occasion, I had created some minor level of pandemonium with my assertion that Barca is OBVIOUSLY the best football club, and the room was full of background noise as students each argued their side of the football club rivalry. However, in the front row of the class, Said, a reserved, very sharp young man who had given me a tour of the school earlier, had a question for me, though I couldn't hear him well over the noise. I leaned forward.

Question: "Do you respect the blacks?"

I'm always interested to know what Moroccans think about, or hear about, the United States (recently, I wondered about this and Donald Trump in a guest opinion for the Seattle Times.) I asked Said what he was referring to, and he sort of mumbled, "Well, the police..." and trailed off, out of words. I can sympathize. It's pretty hard, given the past years that we're having in the US, to find the vocabulary for Ferguson, Freddie Gray, or Tamir Rice, even for native speakers. I told him that it was a problem, one that has existed for a long time, and continues to divide Americans about how best to solve it. I tried to explain Black Lives Matter. Said went on, "But then, the president, he is black!" He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, it doesn't make sense. Unfortunately, there are some questions that just don't have easy answers.

A Spanish New Year

Things around Tangier have been pretty quiet lately. Schools are out of session, our languages classes haven’t started yet and the weather is starting to cool down. So we decided to take advantage of the calm and head to Spain for the New Year.

Our first destination was Seville. We took the ferry from Tangier to Algeceiras, a ride that takes around 45 minutes, depending on the weather. It’s a gorgeous trip across the straight. The ferry disembarks in Tarifa, a beautiful little vacation spot that was pretty well shut down for the winter but apparently is popular for windsurfing and beachgoing in the summer months. A bus took us from Tarifa to Algeciras and another bus from Algeciras to Seville.

The FRS ferry from Tangier to Tarifa. Let's just say it's faster than ye olde WSF Klickitat. 

It was a long day of travel but Seville was love at first sight. It’s one of those incredible cities in which every single building has some sort of amazing historical significance. They’ve got it all: amazing food, friendly people, history culture art, beauty.

Fountain-gazing at the Plaza de Espana.

Thanks to travel tips from our friend Pilar, a native Spaniard, we had three great days of sightseeing, tapas, walking and more tapas. We visited the Alcazar and the Archivo de Indias, the Plaza de Espana and a really cool artist's fair. We even managed to see Star Wars: El despertar de la Fuerza so Elliot can RIP.

The Alcazar is like a huge, bountiful palace paradise in the middle of Seville. Doves were cooing and water flowing.  Cecily had no choice; she drifted off as soon as we entered the gates, dreaming that she, instead of Prince Juan had been born within its walls. 

But the highlight of our trip to Seville has got to be unexpectedly coming upon a mysterious parade. We tried to figure out what was going on but nobody could really articulate its significance. The parade came out of nowhere, a group of dancers and musicians and people on horseback wearing blue and white robes and black face paint (yes). And then, just to top it off, one of the horsewomen reached into her saddle bag and, in an act freighted with cultural import, solemnly reached down from her steed and handed Cecily...a stuffed banana, dressed in a prison uniform.

“It’s hard to explain, even in Spanish,” one young couple who we chatted with said. Even Google wasn’t much help. Pilar, if you’re reading this, please translate?! 

Hmmmm...

As we've mentioned in other posts, traveling with Cecily has made our experience richer and more fun. We meet and interact with more people, see a different side of the culture, receive jailbird bananas...People are more interested in us, less suspicious and more welcoming. Much like in Morocco, the people in Spain seem to love and appreciate babies. Young men held Cecily close and old women pulled me aside on the street to say, “Good for you, job well done.” It’s nice. It feels really different than the US where people so often make you feel guilty for bringing babies around, where people are afraid to hold babies or let their babies be held and where nobody seems to acknowledge the work of a birth after it is over. Here, babies are celebrated and so are their parents. It’s something we both hope to take with us when we return home.

But it’s not all old lady wisdom and cooing men. There’s the challenges of traveling with a baby, too. Spain, like Morocco, is a late-night culture. People go out to dinner at the time we’re usually putting Cecily to bed. And when we get up in the morning, a lot of the cafes and museums are still closed.  On New Year’s Eve we walked the streets for over an hour looking for a restaurant that would serve food at 6 PM. No luck—the restaurants were in the process of closing, likely with the intention of reopening later on in the evening. Defeated we bought a baguette and cheese at a grocery store and ate with our hands and the help of a Swiss Army knife on the floor of our hotel room. Not the most glamorous New Year’s Eve, but one we’ll no doubt remember! We rang in the New Year listening to the upstairs neighbors party down while we prayed they wouldn’t wake up our grouchy, snoring baby. Spoiler alert: they did. 

A scary sight in the wee hours.

When we woke up and went outside to find some coffee on New Year’s Day we were surprised to see how many people were out and about on the rainy, still dark streets. Until we realized the groups of noisy young people dressed to the nines in beautiful dresses and suits were still out from the night before. Okay, Seville, we’re impressed.  We also feel really old and totally uncool.

When we finally found a café that was open for (delicious) café con leche and tostados, it was packed with people who had not yet been home. Everyone got in line to take selfies with the baby, making an effort to compliment her in Spanish we could understand.  

Eventually we figured out that if we made lunch our dinner we would be on a similar schedule as the Spaniards. Except for the fact that while they hit the bar we would be either a) slugging wine and hiding in the bathroom of the tiny, noisy “hostal” so the baby would go to sleep or b) asleep ourselves.

On my birthday Elliot surprised me with an overnight trip to Cordoba where we spent the night in a fancy-pants hotel inside the medina. Cordoba is a forty minute train ride from Seville and another amazing spot which highlights the history and Muslim influence on Southern Spain. Again, thanks to Pilar, we had a packed itinerary. We visited the Torre de Calahorra and the synagogue and Jewish museum which gives the grim details of the Spanish Inquisition. It’s truly fascinating to see how closely (and for a time peacefully)  Muslims, Jews and Christians lived and how much they influenced each other. 

The next morning we took the beautiful 3 hour train ride from Cordoba back to Algeciras.  The countryside is stunning: little white towns, old castles, rolling green hills, miles of olive trees. You win, Southern Spain.

We're not in Morocco anymore.

I wondered if after such a wonderful trip we’d feel sad to come home, but, after a wildly rocky ferry ride across the straight it was good to be back in our apartment and neighborhood where we (Cecily) were greeted by the every-friendly enthusiasm of our lovely Moroccan neighbors.

He's been a bad banana: the warden with her charge.

50 Shades of Blue

A belated blog post this week, as we’ve just returned from Southern Spain, where we rang in the New Year in Sevilla, and then celebrated Kate’s birthday in Cordoba, and renewed our visa to boot! 2 ferries, 4 busses, 3 trains, 3 cabs rides and dozens of miles on foot, we’re back at home, healthy, happy, and ready to dig in here in Tangier for the next few months.  Kate is going to write about our Spanish travels, so I thought I’d just write a bit about a trip that we took in December, the week before Mawlid and Christmas.

Chefchaouen is a small village in the mountains to the southwest of Tangier, about a two-hour drive, or a three-hour bus ride from the city center. We opted for the bus, which is remarkably efficient, if a little chaotic at first. Arriving at the main bus station, you simply seek out someone who is yelling the name of the place that you want to go. With the accents and overall din, this can be tricky. However, if you connect with the person, they are generally pretty helpful in getting you aboard some kind of vehicle headed where you want to go. I’ve ridden the busses a couple of places in Morocco, and they seem to vary pretty widely in how modern and comfortable they are. The bus that we took to Chefchaouen was pretty stifling, and had that tall-ship list going around corners that denoted that the shocks were on their way out.

Kate and Cecily on the bus.

Arriving in Chefchaouen, we made the walk up the hill to our hotel, the Dar Mounir, in the old medina.  Passing through the new part of town, the Spanish influence in Chefchaouen was even more pronounced than in Tangier. French was rarely heard, and even Chefchaouen’s name comes from the Spanish word for “The Horns.” The air in Chefchaouen was fresh, and the surrounded hillsides were green and rose steeply from the city walls. The quiet and sense of calm were palpable, especially coming from the manic feel of Tangier. 

The city is beautifully tucked up in a mountain valley, like something from Lord of the Rings.

Once we crossed into the walled city, though, it becomes clear what draws so many travelers to Chefchaouen: the whole place is blue.

Looking down on the many alleys of the old city.

A quick Google Image Search will reveal pictures far beyond my ability to depict the environs, but part of Chefchaouen is a maze of corridors, alleys, and passageways, all a luminous blue. Without sounding too cliché, this is truly a delight for the senses—a feeling akin to being in the deserts of southern Utah. Each turn brings new permutations of the same hue, with varied textures and occasional flashes of color, like prickly pear in the desert.

Beyond the colors (which alone would be enough to warrant a visit), the surrounding mountains, including a mosque which overlooks the valley are wonderful and it made me wish that we had more time to do some hiking in the hills of the Rif. Here is a quick video of the evening call to prayer from the mosque on the hill:

We also really like the Dar Mounir, which was simultaneously kind of spare and grand. The room was beautiful and intricate in its structure, but had little in the way of amenities. It also had an amazing rooftop salon.

KEMR and CJJ checking out the view.

 Truly, though, what really made our visit was making a new friend, Mohamed El Mejdki. Mohamed grew up in Chefchaouen, and is currently pursuing a Ph.D in Translation and working with my advisor Khalid, who put us in touch. Mohamed was kind enough to spend a long morning wandering the city with us. Chefchaouen definitely has more of a tourist feel than Tangier, with some more aggressive sales pitches in the medina, and no shortage of characters selling kif, which is grown in the nearby mountains. Spending time with Mohamed really deepened our experience and gave us a locals’ perspective of the place.

Boys playing soccer.

On the way home, we took a Grand Taxi instead of the bus, and made it home substantially quicker, even though the taxi stopped on the mountain pass outside of Tangier so that a lady onboard could buy some meat from a butcher shop on the side of the road. In all, an incredibly cultural experience and a stunning place.

Happy New Year from Kate, Elliot, and Cecily.