Ttrek Salama

It might be that when you’re living abroad, if you’re not romanticizing your home country, you’re romanticizing the one you’re in. In Morocco we said: isn’t it nice? Nobody bragging about where they went to college or how many miles they ran, nobody giving you the evil eye when your baby makes baby noises. People sitting down with their families every Friday, taking a moment to pray five times a day, or stopping in the middle of the day for coffee, no matter what, sitting for hours on end, maybe not saying much but being together.

But then, sometimes in the same breath we’d say: in the U.S. (fill in the blank) works so much better; people are on time; a woman can have a beer in public; lunch doesn’t take seven hours.

We alternated between falling head over heels in love with Morocco and getting sort of frustrated. Did we romanticize it? Probably. Did we learn some things? Definitely. Ultimately it seems like the goal of living in another country is to come away with a respect for both the country you’re in and the one you’ve left. So instead of telling you “what we’ve learned” or pretending like we’re experts on this place that we're just starting to know, we’d like to wrap-up this blog with a few stories about things that happened, and that meant something to us while we were here.

It goes without saying that the overwhelmingly positive experience we had here, and the fact that we will be so sad to leave has to do with the people we met in Morocco, the people who made the trip to visit us and the support of the Fulbright organization. We are so, so grateful.

Evening

It’s bedtime for Cecily. While Kate is putting her down, I slip out the door to catch the last bit of light before darkness falls on Essaouira. I’m riding the bike that I bought the previous day from Said, a broken down old steel frame bike that I repaired in his shop and took home. I weave through the walkers in the medina, past the fish carts and cane sugar juice salesman, and past the beggars who cluster by the medina gates, kneeling on the ground or sitting in wheelchairs.

I miss the sunset by just a few minutes, and already the sky over the ocean is darkening oranges and purples. The wind is tearing down the beach, and I ride the bike on the hard sand just at the water’s edge, propelled by the wind, carving half figure-eights down the beach. The sky reflects off the damp sand, and, though it isn’t a particularly literary analogy, everything looks like the Rainbow Road level in Mario Kart—primary colors everywhere.

Time to go home, and I fight the same wind all the way back to the medina gates. In the darkening evening, I see one of the beggars pushing her empty wheelchair out of the medina, clocking out for the day. She gives me a smile and a cheery wave as we part.

Trek Slamaa

It took us three tries to say goodbye to everyone at Katerina’s, the amazing café below our apartment in Tangier. The first time, we wanted to say goodbye early, because we had a flight the next morning, and wanted to catch Katerina and our favorite waiters. Because they weren’t all there, we came back again that afternoon. That would have been it, but we realized that we wanted another cup of coffee in the morning, so we just kept showing up.

At Katerina’s, Cecily makes her usual rounds, held by everyone, laughing. Someone takes her behind the counter while we finish our coffee. One of the waiters is instructing her to remember him: “One day you will return here, and you will remember that you knew a waiter in Tangier.”

We take a last photo, and bid goodbye. In English, now: “I’m sorry that you are leaving. We had gotten used to you.”

Rebellion

I smoke…well, I smoke because I have to, she explains. But also, because it is a rebellion. The men do it. They sit openly, smoking in cafes. So I will do it too. She takes cigarettes out of a leather jacket. I had a big night last night. Do you like Pink Floyd?

Months later she sits on the floor with my baby and her nephew, helping her mother in the kitchen, translating between us. I’ve been invited over for Fridaycouscous. Elliot can’t come because her father is away. She doesn’t wear a headscarf. Her mother does. It’s complicated, she says.

Gifts

Cecily has received the following gifts during her time in Morocco:

· Three silver Hands of Fatima
· One banana wearing prison garb
· Three Dishes of Flan
· One turtleneck
· One Smurf
· Five Yogurts
· One beach bag with word “Tanger” stenciled on it
· Four Candy Bars
· One vial of Rosewater
· One small djellaba

Inshallah

I’m walking out of my French class with Hichem. I am extra proud that he is my friend, because I met him all on my own, and he doesn’t speak any English. We are taking a French class together, though his French is much better than mine. In class, Hichem is engaged and outspoken, while I sit and listen and rue my accent and vocabulary. He’s nice, though, and we share a workbook most days.

When we walk out onto the streets at 9 PM, everything is alive. Cars race along the cobble streets, students buy popcorn from a street vendor, and the restaurants and cafés are packed. I realize that it’s been a long time since I was out, at night, with other people around. Our home in Idaho is so quiet at night, which is something that I like. But I realize, I also really like this. Hichem and I talk as we make our way back towards my apartment. As we part—he headed to join friends, me headed home to my wife and baby—I tell him that I’ll see him next Thursday in class. “Inshallah,” he says—God willing. I never see him again; he’s stopped coming to class.

Khlii 

“I’ve been thinking about your question, the one that you asked the students,” Hussein says to me in his faintly British-accented English. When we visit schools in Tangier, I often ask the students if there’s anything that I absolutely can’t miss while I’m in Morocco—foods, or things to see, or people to meet. “I did think of something, and I have a proposal,” says Hussein. He explains that there is a breakfast dish particular to Fes called khlii, and he suggests that my time in Morocco would be incomplete without trying it. I ask him what it is.

“Well,” Hussein says, “Khlii is a way of preparing meat. First, you take beef, and season it with many special spices. Then, the beef is cooked in fat for a whole night, the fat of the same cow from which it came. You see, it must be beef, because only beef could withstand this type of cooking. Then, it is stored in a jar for many months or even years.” He looks at me earnestly. “It’s extremely healthy.”

He Will Always Be Moroccan

He puts down the coffee and takes the baby, and just like that we’re sitting together, drinking our café nousnous on a quiet street corner, and it’s suddenly okay that we got up at five am because across the street there’s bougainvilla on a white wall and from the kitchen we hear the familiar greeting: squeals of delight and loud enthusiastic kisses followed by Cecily’s maniacal laughter.

He returns with the baby on his hip he gives her back. Your son, he says, he will always be Moroccan.

In The Market 

 A Moroccan man on his bicycle carelessly bumps the table, which has been carefully arranged by the strawberry vendor. The berries are perfectly ripe, and, almost as if in deference to the quality of the berries, the vendor has arranged them meticulously. The man on the bicycle stops, dismounts, picks up the strawberry that fell to the ground, kisses it, and returns it carefully to the table. Both men smile.

The Wonky Educational Blog Post

Friends,

You've all been dreading it, known that it's been percolating. We've regaled you with tales of camels and exotic vistas, made you laugh with Kate's misadventures in the market, and warmed your heart with literally dozens of pictures of different Moroccans kissing our baby. Yet, all this time, you've known that AT SOME POINT, I was going to say something about the educational system here, and perhaps you would feel obligated to read it. 

Well, fear not, faithful reader. I am, in fact, going to follow this preamble with a wonky educational blog post. Words like "pedagogy" and "administrative structure" will be bandied about. But there will be no "quiz" at the end. In fact, if you're not interested in the Moroccan educational system, you are hereby excused. That's right, recess! Go hit the swings!

Why is Elliot welcoming Moroccan students to Morocco?!

Still here? 

OK. A couple disclaimers. First of all, I participated in the school system in a way that was limited by geography (I really only went to schools in Tangier and Tetuoan) as well as language (I attended classes only in English, with a couple of French classes thrown in for good measure). Also, I typically attended schools with Hussein, an inspecteur, who is basically like the big boss of all the teachers in the region, so that obviously affects what I saw in terms of both student and teacher performance. Because of all this and more, what I've observed about the Moroccan school systems should be taken with a huge grain of salt.

A family letter project from a middle school English classroom.

With all that disclaiming done, though, I've been lucky to visit more than 15 different schools, at every level, public and private. As I've alluded to in previous blog posts, the experience of visiting schools has been perhaps the most meaningful part of my whole project. Interacting with Moroccan students, teachers and administrators has taught me a great deal about the country, left me with mad respect for Moroccan educators, and has been something that will certainly inform my own teaching practices. I've divided my thoughts up into sections, loosely based around the stakeholders in education: students and families, teachers, and administrators and policy-makers. Throughout, I'll intersperse photographs, but these are largely just "artifacts" of my time in schools (as well as a result of my obsession with photographing students' desks), rather than a representation of any specific point or idea.

Students and Families

While it's obviously foolish to generalize about students (after all, what are students like in the United States? Singapore?), I've been impressed with the Moroccan students with whom I've had the good fortune to spend time. They are clearly driven, and most are quick to articulate that they really value their education, for reasons that are both practical (jobs, college) and idealistic (civic duty and culture of Morocco). Similarly, students are often engaged politically, both in the life of the country, and that of the school. During one visit to a Tangier-area secondary school, word got out that a popular teacher was being reassigned. A protest materialized outside the school, chanting commenced, and Hussein was called on to explain the situation to the growing group of students outside.

Hussein addresses the protestors.

Students in Morocco were similarly engaged in the life politic of the country, and, particularly in secondary schools. Students asked me pointed questions about American foreign policy and islamophobia at home. While these interactions sometimes bummed me out (it's very important to tell someone that it's NOT true that most Americans oppose Islam, but it's too bad that the conversation needs to happen at all), it also made me feel more at home in my role as ambassador, and opened up new avenues of dialogue between us.

This view is further complicated by the easy access to Western culture, particularly technology, music, and movies. From Adele to Facebook, Moroccan students are very much like their American counterparts. They are connected through Facebook (I am currently awash in Facebook requests from students who I met), entertained by YouTube (or Dailymotion, which seems to be more popular here), and texting on What'sApp, which is ubiquitous among all Moroccans, young and old. Of course, this is really great in some ways; the cultural and technological products that we export represent us, and there's no getting around that the United States is more fully represented in the life of the world than probably any other country. On the other hand, Americans know that observing Taylor Swift and Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson may not be the best way to understand our national character, or the lives of most Americans (and, just to be clear here, I think that T Swift and The Rock are great).

So where does this leave the kids? Pretty much in the same place that we all are: swept along by forces that we don't fully control, both participating in and receiving culture from parents, community and media. In one of my first observations, I made a chart of stuff that seemed the same, and stuff that seemed pretty foreign:

Same	Different
Switching seats	Headscarves
Kids on phones secretly	Lots of background talking
Raised hands (most of the time)	“Sir” or “Teacher”
Scary end-of-term stuff	Sort of adversarial questioning “British-ey”
Know it all in front row	Bird in classroom (actually, this has happened in my classroom, too, but was not met with general disinterest)

One thing that I did note was the level of autonomy that students are granted. No one, for example, is taking roll to make sure that students are in class. It's assumed that students want to be there, and it's certainly not the teachers' job to make sure that they attend class. Similarly, in a class where students were translating an Arabic poem to English, one student obviously had used Google Translate to make the translation, and the teacher "caught" the student. Instead of convening a disciplinary committee meeting, the teacher just dryly noted that students will learn more by translating using the dictionary, but their homework will be quicker using Google Translate. So...there you go.

For me, I noticed way more similarities than differences between my kids and these Moroccan youngsters. In particular, I went to visit my friend Abderrahim and his class of secondary school students right after the exams. As any teacher knows, getting kids to do anything educational after the semester exams is a real challenge, so Abderrahim did something clever: he invited an American, and asked the students to prepare presentations about Morocco for him. These presentations were great, really thoughtful and interesting. One of my favorites was on "Geeks," which showed a super solid understanding of geeks & nerds (though, regrettably, had exactly 0 references to Revenge of the Nerds). One thing that stuck with me, though, was the last 15 minutes of the class: all of us, together sang the pop Power Ballad, Aisha. Why did this happen? I don't know--it was the last day of school. Shit like that just happens, worldwide.

Teachers

Teachers in Morocco have a good gig. In saying this, though, keep in mind that I think that teachers in the United States also have a good gig. Many of the things that make teaching in the US less of a good gig are also factors in the profession of teaching here in Morocco and some of the things that make managing teachers difficult in the United States are also issues here. However, I'd hate to lose the forest through the trees, so I'll just state up front that teachers in Morocco, like teachers in the United States, are doing a great job in a challenging and incredibly rewarding profession.

One of my first introductions to teachers in Morocco was an English teacher at a Middle School, who was holding a roomful of 12-year olds spellbound with his lesson on the family tree. However, when it came time to look at his teaching log, he was months behind. As a middle school teacher myself, I wrote in my notes: "CLASSIC MS teacher: open, friendly, funny, great rapport with students...behind on paperwork!"

Like Mr. Marhraoui at the Middle School, I saw much that I recognized in the pedagogy and personality of Moroccan teachers. Teachers in Morocco have a similar teaching load to teachers in the US: 21 teaching hours a week for HS teachers, 24 for MS teachers, and 30 for primary school teachers. These hours are what we would call "contact hours"--actual time in the classroom, though some of that time is used for things that we typically don't use class time for, such as corrections and conferencing. In terms of pay, as far as I could figure it out using back-of-the-napkin math, teachers in Morocco are making about the same as teachers in the United States, adjusted for standard of living. So: underpaid. 

Also like teachers in the United States, Moroccan educators are feeling the pressure associated with changes in the educational system: bigger classes, more subjects, and the pressure of exams are all big changes that Moroccan educators are dealing with. Hussein makes a huge effort to help mentor teachers in using technology, and wants to see their use of technology as part of the lessons. Often, these take the form of streaming videos or translations (which they call a "data show," when they use the cellular networks to make it happen). Other uses of technology is simply playing songs or audio clips for students to practice English. I did, however, visit a school recently called Groupe Scolaire Nilufer, that was totally kitted-out with Smartboards. Like many classrooms with Smartboards in the US, though, they were largely used in the same way that you'd use a project or chalk board.

In terms of assessment, teachers are assessed on a scale from 1-20 by an inspecteur, but these assessments are rare. For example, Hussein has more than 150 teachers to supervise, so it's pretty easy to see that teachers aren't going to be getting regular feedback on their "performances" (which I think is an interesting way of describing a class). With that said, Hussein was very diligent about observing teachers, and also tried to prioritize visiting teachers who needed help, or needed a mark for the purpose of promotion or transfer. For teachers who need that extra help, Hussein often tries to link them up with a colleague who can mentor him or her. Though it's hard to fire a teacher in Morocco (harder, actually, than in the US), I think that there are similar causes for attrition: burnout, or finding better-paying work (especially for teachers who have excellent English language skills).



Of course, reading back over what I've written about teachers here, I am confident that I haven't captured the "spark" that I saw in the best teachers classrooms, and which I'm lucky enough to see in my colleagues' (and, occasionally) my own classroom. I think of the work of teacher far more as a marathon than a sprint, and I wondered what one could really tell from one observation. However, I was impressed by how much one can see about a teachers rapport, organization and methodology in just a short lesson. I know, for me, that I always came away with something that I will use in my own classroom.

Administrators and Policy-Makers

The final stakeholders in education are the administrators and policy-makers. Of course, I don't know any policy-makers personally, but I will take a chance to speculate a bit on changes that seem to be coming down the road for Moroccan education. Before I do so, though, I thought that I'd just speak a bit about the administrative structure (remember when I warned you that this post was going to be boring?!) of Moroccan schools. The Moroccan schools follow the French model of administration, which means that each school has a principal, who is in charge of scheduling, attendance, facilities, interacting with students, school safety...mostly of the same things that your principal did for you when you were a kid. Interestingly, though, the principal is not in charge of evaluating, hiring or firing teachers; that's the inspecteur's job. 

So, basically, Moroccan schools have an extra layer of administration, who, like Hussein, spend all their time working on evaluating and developing talent in teachers. What are the advantages to this? As far as I can tell, the advantages include a less adversarial relationship between principals and their staff, as well as professional development that's subject specific: Hussein only observes teachers of English, and he's super good at helping them with their specific subject. Principals in the US may not know or remember how to diagram a sentence or solve a quadratic equation, and are often giving feedback to those who do. The big disadvantage--and this is one which Hussein recognizes--is, as I mentioned above, that teachers get feedback very infrequently from their inspecteur. I get the impression that Hussein is among the best--very dedicated to seeing as many teachers as possible. I do know that some teachers don't even know who their inspecteur is! Hussein thinks that the system will eventually change to give building principals more power, but teachers generally oppose this. Many think that the principal wouldn't know enough about their specific subject to give them feedback, and, for others, I think that the idea of having the big boss right next door is unappealing. Either way, I've learned a great deal from watching the way that teacher evaluation is handled in Morocco, and it makes me realize that empowering administrators to provide meaningful feedback to teachers is among the biggest challenge that both Moroccan and American schools face.

Finally, like much of Moroccan society, the educational system is undergoing a great deal of change right now. There is currently a strike of teacher-trainees, due to changes proposed by the Ministry of Education. Now, instead of guaranteeing that all teacher-trainees will be placed in a school (and thus, employed), they promise that only most will be. This has embroiled the teacher-trainees in a months-long strike, but may be a step towards more teacher accountability, a movement which has obviously been going gangbusters in the United States.

A protest of teachers in Essaouira. I really like that they wear these cool white coats in schools.

In another move that's sure to bring change, King Mohammed VI has asked the Ministry of Education to re-examine the Islamic Studies curriculum for the country. Now, when the King asks you to re-examine something, it's clear that he wants some kind of change...but what?! Fortunately, the group in charge of making a recommendation about this curriculum is quite diverse, with scholars, religious leaders, human rights activists and teachers, and the King seems genuinely receptive to changing (I won't use the word "modernizing") this curriculum. Certainly, this change is part of an overall effort to combat religious extremism in all avenues of Moroccan society. A friend told me: "We watch what happened in Libya, in Syria, in Tunisia, and, obviously, we fear that we are next. The King is doing a good job--our leaders are doing a good job--but we are all looking over our shoulder." What effect this change will have on the overall course of study for students is a huge question, and one which will surely be hotly debated in educational circles and the larger community.

Some Thank Yous

There's no way that I can individually thank the dozens of teachers who welcomed me into their classrooms, the principals who sat with me in their offices or toured me around their campuses, proudly showing off trophies or ribbons won by their students, or the students, who asked me so many thoughtful questions, told me where to get the best pizza in Tangier, and argued with me about which football team to support. Thank you all for reminding me that the work of education is a shared, joyful, lifetime endeavor. 

As special thanks to Hussein, who is an inspiring educator, great administrator, and amazing friend.

And our distinguished panel of judges...two experts and one guy from America.

Labas? Ca va? Que tal?

One of my main concerns before we moved to Morocco was figuring out which language I would speak. Darija, a dialect of Arabic that is specific to Morocco is the main, spoken language here, Modern Standard Arabic is the main written language and French is the second language, a holdover from colonialism that is still taught in schools. But then there’s also the many dialects of Tamazight, the original language of Morocco. A few years ago the king declared Tamazight an official language of Morocco, and for a while it was taught in schools, too. Most people seem to think this is a really good thing. However, it’s not that simple. It’s a difficult language to teach and, as a friend pointed out to me, with so many different dialects stemming from so many different tribes, how do you choose just one?

One challenge of Darija is that it’s not a written language. People do write it, when sending emails or text messages, but it’s not written or learned in schools and books written only in Darija don’t seem to exist. So students in Moroccan schools learn Arabic and French and, when they’re older, have the choice of learning English.

Being multi-lingual means you can write desk graffiti in multiple ways.

All of this makes it easier to see why, when we asked people which language would be most useful for us to learn before coming to Tangier the answers were so confusing and varied. Some people said Spanish would work, others said English would probably be okay. The guidebooks all said French would be spoken everywhere, but in Tangier people (especially young people) seem to prefer Spanish, citing the fact that French is “old-fashioned” and too closely linked with the colonialism. With all these language choices we weren’t really sure what to do to prepare. Elliot speaks French, so we figured we wouldn’t be totally clueless. I did my part by downloading a fairly rudimentary Darija app onto my phone (one of the only resources which seems to exist) and panicking. 

Languages are a little bit of a sore spot for me. I’ve always wondered at the fact that the American education system doesn’t seem to give languages the weight of other subjects in school. It seems like we have a bad habit of assuming everyone not only speaks English but wants to speak English with us. A certain, particularly distasteful bumper sticker that I once saw comes to mind: “If you don’t speak English, get out of America.” It’s an ego-centric but also sort of bizarre sentiment that I think reflects the worst parts of American society.  

Moroccans are understandably proud of the fact that they speak so many languages, and seem somewhat baffled as to why we don’t do the same. As one friend put it recently, “We understand everyone’s language, but nobody understands ours.”

The Cervantes Institute of Tangier 

This was made somewhat painfully clear in my Spanish class a couple of weeks ago. The class is through the Cervantes Institute, a Spanish organization and one of the many language centers available in Tangier. I was somewhat conflicted about taking a Spanish class here, but Darija classes are hard to come by and even Moroccans say it’s hardly worth trying if you are only in the country for a few months. Plus, I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish (even if my weak high school attempts indicate otherwise) and this seemed like the perfect time to do it. It has been amazing, a definite highlight of being here, but it’s humbling, too. My teacher doesn’t speak any English so it’s sink or swim, and confusions abound. Just last week I told my class that family is not important to Americans. Meanwhile, Elliot was across town, announcing to his French class he was profoundly insane.

I’ve learned more Spanish in the last few months than I did in a year of high school (I guess I don’t spend so much time doodling and passing secret notes) and have really enjoyed getting to know some of my classmates. One of the questions we recently learned to ask was: “What languages do you speak,” a question which, in and of itself, is very Moroccan. The teacher prefaced the lesson by saying that Moroccans are particularly gifted in languages, that they speak more languages than, say the Spaniards, who only speak Spanish, The French who only speak French, and the AMERICANS, who ONLY speak English. I was trying to come up with the words to explain that while yes, we might not speak as many languages as people do in Morocco, there are many languages spoken in the US. Then she turned to me:

“Kate. Que lenguas hablas?”

When I answered, in bad Spanish, that I spoke English and Swedish, she crossed her arms, momentarily horrified.

“TU? Tu, hablar SUECA?” she said in disbelief.

But my triumphant moment was shortlived, and her point was proven when she turned to my friend Hafssa, a polyglot who speaks Ingles, Francais, Arabe dialect, Arabe, and Turko.  

Point proven, Senora. 

I learned to write my name from a 13-year old who speaks four languages.

The multi-language situation can be, inevitably, difficult. We never really know what to say to people. We try Darija, but it is almost always the case that whoever we are speaking to speaks a language we speak better than we speak Darija.  And they don’t know what to make of us, either. People address us in a variety of languages: French, Spanish, Italian, German and English, sometimes in the same day. But they never seem to be grumpy about doing so. In fact, when we hobble through Darija people get really excited, throwing out new words and helping us along. People here seem to genuinely enjoy learning and speaking new languages. When I have coffee with Hafssa and her friends they often speak four different languages: Darija, French, English and Spanish, sometimes within a single sentence, just because they think it’s fun.

You don't have to speak the language to know what's going on here. 

We’ve received multiple offers from people who say that if we left Cecily with them for just a month they’d teach her Arabic. Obviously, we are planning on taking them up on this offer while we are maxin’ and relaxin’ at the beach. But recently it crossed my mind that they might actually be concerned for Cecily’s monolingual future. A friend recently asked us if we would encourage Cecily to speak another language. Obviously, we said we would. We mentioned the dual immersion programs and the fact that we felt it was crucial for the next generation to speak Spanish. But in American society the odds that she will become fluent in a second language are actually against her. It’s too bad. Moroccans seem to have figured out what we haven’t—that each new language offers new opportunities for both professional and personal growth. But more importantly, it seems to me that the fact that people here seem so welcoming and tolerant of foreigners has to do with the fact that they are able to communicate with people who come from so many different places. Maybe it’s harder to pass judgment on someone when you can understand what they’re saying. During this time of border patrolling and immigrant reforming and general miscommunication, it seems like something we should learn from.

Marrakech

For as long as we’ve been planning to come to Morocco, we’ve known that we wanted to visit the southern part of the country. Even Moroccans in Tangier call the south “real” Morocco. There’s the Atlas mountains, the desert and the Berber villages. And there’s Marrakech, the place people seem to picture when they talk about Morocco, with its famed snake charmers, storytellers and souks. Marrakech is even the subject of at least a few songs so if you prefer your blog reading to be accompanied by music (doesn’t everyone?). Click here for a song which you probably know and here for a song which you almost definitely don’t.

So when the schools went on break and my parents decided that they would be coming to Morocco and wanted to visit Marrakech, we decided to hop on their bandwagon and meet them there. Luckily they were prepared, because some of us (Cecily) hadn’t done our research. The planning for our voyage went something like this:

Me: We want to go to the Sahara and take a picture of the baby riding a camel. So we’ll probably take a three- or four-hour bus ride from Marrakech, hop on some camels and check it off the old bucket list.

My dad: GREAT, we want to visit the Sahara, too! So glad you brought this up. But we looked at a map and noticed it’s a little farther than you mentioned. About 11-12 hours of driving with a few overnight stops including a stay in a desert camp.

He was right, of course. Maps are interesting in that way. But by then we were committed and nobody wanted to be the one to shut down the adventure. So we signed-on for a four day excursion, complete with camel trekking and an overnight stay in the desert.

“Think of it like an expedition, “ Elliot said. “It will be Type 2 fun.” Type 1 fun is fun. Type 2 fun is fun to think about after you're all finished. Living with Elliot has shown me that this is a key distinction.

And so, with those words of encouragement to spur us on we began our “expedition.” Step one was the night train from Tangier to Marrakech. We’d been both dreading and looking forward to that part of the journey for some time. On one hand, sleeping on a train and waking up in an entirely different place seems really romantic and multi-tasky. Until you remember the fact that you have an infant. The beds are tiny and we assumed the albatross that is our travel crib would not fit in our sleeping compartment.

But then we saw the latest James Bond movie, Spectre, in which James and the lovely Dr. Madeleine Swann take train from Tangier to Marrakech and realized we had nothing to worry about. 

Don't we look good? Thanks. It's the climate.

The train really was comfortable and Cecily slept soundly all night long in a crib that was VERY SAFELY balanced on the two bottom bunks in a way which I’m certain nobody on baby related internet sites would object to. 

Sleep TRAINing, harhar. 

Anyhow, we made it and we were feeling pretty smug when we rolled into Marrakech. We’d gotten through the night. The sun was up, we were in the desert and a friendly train employee had rolled by with a cart of coffee. We were relatively well-rested. We didn't even have a hangover like James probably did. And that’s when the chaos began.

Marrakech is a hopping place: sprawling, and compact, modern and ancient, African and European. It's also pretty touristy and we definitely looked the part. As soon as we entered the Medina, Elliot got hit by a bike. I almost fell into a hole with a distraught donkey and then all three of us got yelled at by someone trying to scam us into giving them fifty dollars because he was the “boss of the medina” (?) and we were his “students.” Turns out Marrakech isn’t for the faint of heart. Once we recovered from our un-graceful entrance, though, we were able to explore the incredible square, complete with snakes and the Jardin Majorelle which includes a really great Amazighrt museum.

The next day we headed into the Atlas mountains, where we visited Oukaimeden, Africa's highest ski resort which, unfortunately, didn't have any snow.

First tracks?

They offered to take us up on donkeys but we passed, deciding to hold off for the camels.

Back in Marrakech we were relieved to see that Cecily’s grandparents had come to the rescue so that we could take a nap, I mean share the joys of our adopted country with our visitors.

But actually, there was some napping involved.

The next day, after Elliot completed the Marrakech half-marathon we took a guided tour of Marrakech which included a visit to the 16th-century Koranic school. 

Greetings from one of the tiny cells where the students lived

We also had a really interesting look inside the back of the Hammam (like the Turkish bath) where there is a man who tends the fire all day to heat the water AND cooks huge clay pots for locals on the side.

This guy takes multitasking to the extreme.

The next morning we met our fabulous guide, Miloud and so the expedition began.

Cecily breaks in the new captain, Miloud.

On day one we drove from Marrakech to Tinghir, where we stayed in a Kasbah and let Cecily work on her crawling skills in style.

Cecily examines the stitching of the wares.

We drove for a few more hours, with the goal of getting to the Sahara right before sunset. And then, at long last, it was time to meet our noble steeds.

Camels are gross.

To be honest, we’ve sort of been wondering where the line was in terms of traveling with a baby. Full disclosure: we might have found that line. It was a lot of car time. And riding a camel with a baby strapped on your chest is a little unnerving even for someone who spent most of her on the back of large, hoofed beasts. And the desert is really cold at night.

One parent was more comfortable on the camel than the other. It's not the one that you would think. #Camelselfie

But of course it was all worth it. The Sahara is one of the only places I’ve seen that is, actually, just like the best pictures you see of it. Obviously, it’s better and more dramatic in person but the colors, the shape of the dunes, it’s totally other-worldy and pretty incredible. It literally seems to come out of nowhere. You drive forever, first on the highways and then through this bumpy desert and all of a sudden the dunes just appear, and then go on, seemingly forever. And riding through those dunes while the sun rose and people laid out carpets to pray on the sand was something we won’t soon forget.

A weed grows in the Sahara

We were, of course, really lucky. We had a pair of adventurous grandparents on hand, an amazing guide and a really tolerant baby. We couldn’t have had this experience without those things.  It was an unforgettable adventure which we’re really fortunate to have been able to have.

The center of a Venn diagram: entitled absurdity, adventure, beauty 

People told us the south would feel much different than the north and that was really true. Morocco is roughly the size of Oregon but the landscape is incredibly diverse. One thing that was not different, however, was the kindness of the people we met. From the guides to the people in cafés who, as usual, passed Cecily around from table to table we found Southern Moroccans (with the exception of the medina boss) as much of a joy to be around as Northern Moroccans.

Meeting friends and influencing people. 

Still, while I'm happy to report that it was not ALL Type 2 Fun, we were glad to head home. Moroccans have a tendency to be extra loyal to their hometowns, to the point where we're constantly being warned that the next place we visit is filled with rascals. There, after many acts of kindness, they will warn us in turn about the next town we're visiting. We’ve always found this funny, and sort of thought people were just being hyperbolic. It couldn’t really be THAT different could it? But of course it could and it is. One of Morocco’s charms is its diversity—both in terms of the people and landscape. And after leaving Tangier for a while we could see why people grow so loyal to their home towns. Along the way we found ourselves missing our city and feeling grateful that we landed where we did. So perhaps, while we’re still making social gaffes on the regular and limping through Darija we’re becoming a bit more Moroccan after all.  

Last stop at Ait Ben Haddou.

Running

(OR: How I Came to Discover Tangier as the Ultimate Running City)

When arrived in Tangier, I had just completed the Seattle Marathon, my first. I didn't plan on doing any running here (or, perhaps, anywhere, ever), because I thought that it would be too crowded, too busy, and too incongruous. In Tangier, I had rarely seen anyone exercising outside of the gym. In fact, I think that I've never even seen a Moroccan man wearing shorts!

So, for the first month in Morocco, I didn't do any running (OK, actually no exercise at all). We signed up for a gym membership (the infamous CLUB OMNI-SPORT), and Kate faithfully went. Each day, I invented new and elaborate excuses to stay home. Finally, by the time mid-January rolled around, I knew that I needed to do something. My baguette consumption had reached near-epic proportions, and I was also just getting a little stir-crazy. That's when I realized that the Marrakech Marathon would coincide with our visit to the south of Morocco. I signed up for the half-marathon three weeks ahead of time and this finally pushed me out the door, running shoes laced up. I was counting on a short burst of training, along with a lot of stored miles from the marathon, to see me through.

My first run was basically what I feared--lots of cars, crowded streets, and strange looks from pedestrians. I've been taking inordinate pride in beginning to blend in a little more; Knowing where I'm going in the city, disguised behind a Moroccan mustache, and dressed up a bit more than usual, I sometimes don't get noticed as anything more than another Tanjawi headed somewhere. Running blew my cover, big time.

However, I stuck with it (the thought of exploding in a half-marathon helped spur me on), and I quickly discovered some tweaks that made running in Tangier more agreeable. The first one was strictly geographical. About a mile from our house, the Route de la Plage Mercala winds along the water, providing stunning views, as well as a far less crowded venue for running. Many days, lots of folks are out on this stretch of road, walking or running.

Not a bad place to go for a jog.

Similarly, I realized that, at least on the long runs, one gets out of the city amazingly quickly. In just five miles of running, you can go from crowded streets, full cafes and bustling market stalls to wide, streets and forested hillsides.

Yes, that is a sign warning to watch out for wild pigs!

The other tweak that helped me realize that Tangier is an amazing running city has just been a mental shift--to accept a little incongruity. After all, one of the main draws to Tangier for the authors that I'm studying has been the city's acceptance of eccentricity. Who cares if I put on short-shorts and jog through a food market every once in a while? Most of the Moroccan seem to shrug it off. The funniest reaction is from the guys at the churro stand near my house. Each morning as they're setting up their food stall, they notice me jog by, the picture of virtuousness. Then, three hours later, I buy a huge quantity of their incredibly delicious, unhealthy churros. Two steps forward, one step back.

These guys have some hard questions about the overall health plan.

Rediscovering running has also led to lots of positive interactions with people. Because I'm already exercising, bystanders are incredibly willing to enlist me in physical tasks. I've helped put a couch on top of a grand taxi for transport, and pushed an overloaded cart up a hill, just like a warm weather version of the training montage in Rocky IV.

All of this training culminated in the Marrakech Marathon at the end of January. I was shocked by how many runners participated--there were 6000 runners in the half-marathon alone! At the start line, I seemed to be the only one without a smart phone, selfie stick, and hydration pack. A moving moment passed before the gun went off, when a giant Moroccan flag was unfurled, and a huge cheer rose from the crowd.

In the courtyard of the riad in Marrakech.

The half-marathon followed a beautiful route into the heart of the new city, through two gardens, and then along the ramparts of the old city back to the finish line. The mix of languages during the race was amazing--cries of "Bon Courage!" and "Saha!" were heard in equal number. At one point, a Moroccan runner turned around, raised his hands in the universal "raise the roof" motion, and, with a hearty "Allahu Akbar!" encouraged those following behind.

What will remain for me, though, is a moment towards the end of the race. It had gotten hot, and I was in pain. I stopped at the last aid station, 5 kilometers before the finish. At aid stations, rather than dispensing unpalatable Gu Energy Gels, they simply offered tangerines, which you peeled and enjoyed as you ran. I grabbed two, eating them at a fast walk. I looked around at my fellow runners, and at the spectators who lined the course, the colors vibrant in the sunlight. Just then, I moved--blessedly--from sun to shade, and happened to look down. The ground was completely covered in crushed, fragrant orange peels discarded by faster runners, like a magic carpet that would carry me to the finish.

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.