Moroccan Morning Run

11/13/14

Something about the cool gray of the morning, the sea fog slipping up over the Kasbah walls and spilling into the streets, makes my feet urge for a run.  I had wanted to before, and had a few friends who had run through the city, but my “culturally sensitive” side always held me back— should I, a white-face blonde-haired non-muslim— really give myself one more reason to stand out by loping down the road with my headphones in and my head un-scarved?

I finally decided that this was the morning to try— I would go for a ten minute run and if I got too many stares or comments or just felt a bad “vibe,” that would be my last run in Morocco. 

On with the shoes, in with the headphones.  On with the ankle-length leggings and the wrist-length shirt.  I am happy for the chill of the morning as I cover every inch of my skin other than my face. 

Outside the walls of the Kasbah, I turn and break into a jog, following the sea wall down toward the ocean district.  Not twenty steps down the hill, imagine my “culturally sensitive” surprise when I see a middle-aged Moroccan woman jogging back up towards me!  Her head is covered by a carefully pinned black scarf, and she wears a full green velvet track suit that must have been made in the 90s.  She has her ear buds in, and when I grin and give her a thumbs up in passing, she smiles shyly back.

On my short jog, no one makes a comment to me or even looks at me askance.  In fact, I pass another group of women and several groups of men working out on the pier, the women all wearing head scarves as they do lunges and sit ups on the mats they have laid out.  I have heard that things have been changing in Morocco, and in Rabat especially—that women are getting more involved in sports and athleticism, even those who choose to keep their head scarves on as they do so.  It is a beautiful marriage of tradition and transformation.

And as I jog along the water I know just why all the people are out here, for the same reason as me: to fill up with the beauty of the morning, to move their limbs in a sort of celebration of living, to get that fresh feeling as if your insides have been washed with morning dew.  Looking down over the ledge the ocean gives us a distracting display of waves stirred up by last night’s storms, breaking in curling towers and draining off the tiers of stone in the most beautiful waterfall imaginable.  There must be nothing so lovely in the world as waves retreating off stone.

Modern Moroccan Museum and Cultural Change

11/13/14

On my way to work today I had an extra 20 minutes to spare and decided to stop by the new modern art museum on Mo. V.  It opened while I was in Morocco in September, but I hadn’t had the chance to visit yet, and its modern steel-and-glass structure entices me every time I walk by.  Best of all, it’s completely free, so I had to give it a try.

Inside, it is a beautiful space, with art arranged on each floor and separated by era (running from 1900 to today).  It was so interesting to explore floor by floor and notice the clear shift in attitude of the artwork.  The early 20th century art was influenced by increased contact with Europe and is whimsical and fantastical, images of one-eyed or two-headed creatures are not uncommon in the paintings.  The arabic letters, symbols, and architecture are also clear in the sculptures and artwork, and as the 20th century progresses the forms become more abstract, with bright, gaudy colors and bold shapes and figures.

And then there is the most modern artwork, the post-20th-century pieces, housed in the basement of the building.  They are suddenly dark and highly disturbing: bath tubs covered in leather, photos of people that have been edited to look as though they are losing their brains or having their hearts ripped out, statues bound up in a tangle of ropes and bent under the weight of a sack of human faces tied to their backs.  Most, to me, are not even tasteful—some look haphazardly made, as if a child could have put it together.  Well, perhaps a child with a deeply disturbed mental state…

What has happened in the Moroccan artistic psyche in the last 15 years?  And I wonder if it has been reflected in the culture of the Moroccan people as well, or if this is simply art trying to push boundaries, trying to make a statement of its own. 

Code for Humanity Class at Last!

11/12/13

Today, at last, was my day of class!! After having been pushed back a week and a half, I am finally starting to teach for Code for Humanity at the ALC.  Yesterday, Michael had been concerned that not enough students had “signed up,” and decided to push the start day to today— and now, I have begun class with so many students that we may have to break into two sections! I have 8 students in class now (the maximum capacity) between the ages of 22 and 54, from all walks of life.  The differences between here and Madagascar are striking.  Here, firstly, students are all business, and learn incredibly fast.  I finished my lesson plan with time to spare, even with the late start.  In Madagascar, half our time was spent teasing, having dance-offs, or eating food. Neither of these methods are “better,” but I am glad to have such eager students, particularly when we have so little time to learn.

Most of all, however, I am simply joyful to be teaching again.  I did not realize how much I would miss it— even though I knew I loved it— and just this single class makes all the hard work and occasional frustration of setting up a program feel completely worthwhile.

The Best Commute

11/12/14

The best thing about my commute to work is that it follows one road, Avenue Mohammed V, almost the entire 2-mile stretch.  Walking it, I can watch the city change: I enter the road outside the Kasbah and walk down through the old Medina, past clothing vendors and shoe vendors and fried-food vendors and the occasional grinning boiled sheep head.  I pass Hassani selling her Argan oil in her tidy, tucked away shop, the book and magazine store which is a literal hole in the Medina wall where, sitting atop a stack of magazines and leaned against a pile of books that reaches all the way to the ceiling, an old, weathered gray man sits with his knees bent and feet up, comfortably reading all day, every day.  The cobbled streets of the Medina are swept and tidy, and only the occasional intrepid car or motor bike honks its way slowly through the crowd of pedestrians.  At the end of the medina, the road widens out, clears, the road-side hanuts give way to cell phone vendors and the fish market, and then, exiting through the grandly arched Medina gate, I enter the “new city.”

Here, the streets are wide and paved, filled with new cars that follow old rules (no rules) and weave in and out from one another, disregarding lanes and traffic lights.  I cross the tram tracks, where the sleek silver tram tinkles its modern bell and carries travelers through the city or across the river to Sale.  Now, Mo. V has become a metropolis, with cafes and restaurants and “real” book stores and “real” clothing stores, with actual price tags and employees and roofs and windows.  Cell phone stores, the fancy kind, arise on every block, and I pass by the large and newly-remodeled train station.  Above the station, the road shifts again.  Suddenly, there are high walls decorated with curling wrought-iron decorations and carefully tended flowers, and lush green palms line the streets.  The sidewalks grow lumpy and broken in places, but this is clearly a place of affluence: armed guards patrol the walls of these government buildings with a relaxed air, looking friendly and bored even with their weapons slung across their shoulders.  At the end of the government sector is my turn to the left to get to work, and the city shifts one last time: office buildings with balconies rise up to either side, and the roads are suddenly dirtier, out of sight and out of mind.  And then the beautiful glass-and-varnish building that is the American Language Center, beautiful and simple, rising up three stories with its decorated balconies and rooftop terrace.  I love arriving at work almost as much as I love the commute.

The second best thing about my walk to work is the juice bar right at the exit of the Medina walls.  For $1.30, I get a large juice (avacado and almond, or persimmon and orange, or mango-papaya-ginger, or… ) and the rest of the walk is just long enough to finish it, trying to slow myself from guzzling the whole juice in one eager gulp. 

No offence to Silicon Valley shuttles, but I don’t think I’ll ever have a better commute.

Self-Conscious Kindness

11/11/14

I have noticed that people here are almost self-consciously kind, as if they heard it was their reputation and are eager to uphold it.  I will give you just a very few examples, of all of them that I experienced:

In Tangier, our friend had brought a car and we were driving to dinner, but he had forgotten how to get there.  At a red light, he rolled down his window and called out a greeting to the taxi next to us, asking if the man knew where the place was.  The driver started to explain, then just waved his hand and said, “follow me!” and lead us in his cab all the way to our destination, giving us a little honk on his horn before driving away without any thought of asking for thanks.

On my way home from Tangier on the train, an older man joined us in our cabin.  I was lying down with my backpack as a pillow, arms crossed in front of me in the chill of the air conditioning.  As he put his bags away and took off his coat, he noticed me and asked if I wanted to use his coat as a blanket so I could better sleep.  There was no designs, simply a recognition of need and kindness.

Then there is the downpour in Tangier, the men in the market who toss an extra ginger, or a clump of cilantro, or whatever it is they have to spare into our basket.

I catch the train home in the early morning, and, when I am not sleeping, I look out the window and watch the countryside change.  The brown desert landscape spotted by stands of beautiful, ancient-looking trees is peppered with little tents used by the men herding their sheep and cows across the land.  The animals graze peacefully, wandering into the shade of the trees, and the men look content and in place in the world.  Suddenly, the landscape will abruptly give way to the twisted whorls of concrete and metal on a  construction site, cities in various stages of construction and deconstruction, dirty streets, begging people wandering through the tightly packed areas as if lost.  They look ridiculous in such proximity with each other, and it is unclear to me who has the more “modern” way of life.