Epilogue

Today is Friday and my last day in Morocco. Tomorrow morning my journey back across the ocean to home will begin as will the rest of my life that has been on hold while I have been away. In reality. Morocco really has been another world within my life for the past six weeks. Even though I still have contact with home, everything else is thousands of miles away and is of little consequence or thought here. I will be leaving new friends, new family, a different neighborhood, different school, a different culture, and a different world behind as I pick up where I left off. I will still stay in contact with the connections I have made but soon enough life will resume as normal as I adjust to life back in these United States. The memories and even some friends will stick with me for a lifetime whether I return to Morocco or not. I have made friends here from Morocco, Germany, Italy, England, Russia, students from Florida, Virginia, VMI, Harvard, Princeton, Yale, Columbia, Wake Forest, NYU, Cambridge, Oxford, and also one other Aggie, Vernon, class of '04. And all of them have been great people and I have enjoyed sharing my time here with them. This has been the greatest single learning experience I have had in my life. In context, six weeks is not long, but it is long enough to take in and understand a culture and its people. It is long enough to greatly enhance language skills and communicate with a variety of people. All these experiences I will bring back with me to America and hopefully put them to use. Otherwise, what is the point? I have been blesses to see amazing places here in Morocco. Remembering the beauty of the Sahara, the sheer awe of the high Atlas, the paradise of Asilah, the enchantment of an ancient city, and sights, sounds, and smells in between. Returning home to my daily life in the states I will recall the people in my own daily life here. Whether it be the taxi driver, the dirham ice cream vendor, the Malawi man, the shopkeeper next door to home, or the homeless man at Batha, they will still be present in my mind. With so many thoughts and experiences and things to share, I can only capture a snapshot of my time here through writing. I hope I have been able to illustrate and convey the things I have seen and done here, and most of all give a sense of Morocco to you without having been. It truly is a world apart from my own and one not many Americans are familiar with, so I think documenting my time here is important. The end of this adventure draws to a close as one final chapter remains to unfold: the journey home.

~Andrew

The Cast

It's Thursday and I leave Morocco to return home early Saturday morning. I fininshed my final exam this morning and now have a day or two of time left at the end to relax. Today being Thursday also means I get my cast off in four days. After six weeks of being connected to something, or it to you, you kind of become attatched. Whether it is inanimate or not. Doing things with a cast has become the new way of doing things and it might take a little adjustment to get used to having to arms again. I do miss being able to do a lot of things that I can't do without a wrist. On Monday I will say goodbye to this cast forever and hopefuly will not be saying hello to a new one. Thinking back, me and my black piece of fiberglass have been through a lot together. It has probably been more places than some people have been in their entire lives. It has traveled up through New York City, across the Atlantic Ocean to Morocco, in the streets and alleys of an ancient city, over the dunes of the Sahara, been dipped in the waters of the Atlantic and Mediterranean Sea, and to the highest point in North Africa, Mt. Toubkal. Quite a list for a temporary, six week, device of healing. On Monday will I be sad? Probably not, in fact I will be ecstatic until I realize the rehab neede for my wrist. I will be free of a companion and emergency weapon but also of a much unwanted burden. For the first time in seven weeks, I will be one step closer to being, once again, completely healthy and normal. At least I rest assured in the fact this cast had a more exciting and adventurous six weeks than the one next to it in the waiting room on Monday.

~Andrew

le Tour

As you may or may not know the Tour de France began this past Saturday. Most likely you didn't know unless I told you. So far its looking like it will be a good tour for U.S. teams. So far going into stage five both American teams, Team Columbia and Garmin-Chipotle are in first and second. My favorite, a team new to the tour is Garmin-Chipotle. They have the cleanest group of riders and have a majority of riders from the US. So far they are in the lead and have some riders that could contend for yellow if they have a good year. I can't wait to get back and watch the tour, and hopefully get back on my own bike. For those of you that haven't been watching. Check it out. Of course its not on ESPN so you'll have to turn on OLN. But its pretty much straight cycling on OLN for the next few weeks.

~Andrew

Asilah

My last weekend to travel in Morocco was spent in the coastal town of Asilah situated on the Mediterranean Sea an hour east of Tangier. This was the last weekend a lot of us from ALIF would have to hang out together, so we decided to all spend a relaxing few days at the beach. On Friday morning our group of fifteen boarded the train to Asilah for our three days away from the world. We friends and classmates from Florida, Harvard, Virginia, England, myself from Texas and our good friend Mohammed. I like the group. We all got along well and were all good friends. A couple hours journey landed us in the small railway stop of Sidi Kacem. We would wait in the city that was essentially supported by the large oil refinery and chemical plant across from the train station. Our final train to Asilah arrived after an hour's wait and we took off once again for the coast. Jumping out the door and onto the station platform my face was met by a refreshing gust of cool, salty wind. Across the road from the station lay an expanse of sand and beyond it was the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The train station was on the edge of the city and it would be a half hour walk past the beach front hotels and restaurants to the walls of the medina. Our plan for the weekend was to find a house or apartment to rent since we would all be together and it would hopefully be cheaper than a hotel. It was early afternoon when we entered the medina of Asilah under a cloudless, blue sky. the walls surrounding the old city were of ancient stone and had old fortifications every so often for defense. Upon walking through the main gate into the city the street opened up into a wide street leading to a small square with a mosque, kasbah, and a cafe. Everyone was hungry so we headed for the cafe to eat lunch. During our meal Mohammed took off to see if he could find us a place to stay in the medina. After twenty minutes or so he returned smiling saying he found something that he thought we would like. Our crew finished lunch and walked a few minutes into the medina to what would be our apartment for the nest couple days. The medina in Asilah was bright and had a relaxing air about it. The white walls trimmed in ocean blue gave a vibrant coastal atmosphere beneath the spotless aqua sky. We had rented two apartments for the weekend. One on the first floor of our building and the second on the third floor. Each had a kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, and living area. We also had our own roof, just like every Moroccan housing unit. The place was perfect and only cost each person less than twenty US dollars for the weekend. After settling in everyone was eager to get a taste of the beach that afternoon before night came. The air was warm but offset by a cool breeze that blew off the water. This was my first time to a beach in years, if you exclude Rabat. The sand and the water on the Mediterranean was much better than anything on the Gulf of Mexico. Following the beach was dinner beneath the old city walls, and then rest for our day at Paradise Beach on Saturday.
We took the morning slow and gathered everyone together after to breakfast to catch transportation to the beach. Paradise beach was a few kilometers past the southern edge of Asilah. It would be too far to walk and we needed something with wheels to get us there. Our wheels for the trip happened to be horse-powered. One horse power that is. We rounded up three flat-topped carts pulled by horses to take us to the beach. Five of us piled onto what was nothing more than a flat wooden cart covered by a thin rug. No sides, nothing to hold onto. I hopped on with my feet dangling over the edge and our small caravan took off for the beach. Exiting the paved city streets into the outskirts of town began our wilder portion of the ride. The poorer sections of the the city and areas under construction made for a bumpy and very uneven road. Once past all this we reached the smooth asphalt highway that would take us the next few kilometers to the beach. The ride was much smoother, but that was the only improvement. Once on open road the horse took off and accelerated to a more than comfortable pace with a cart full of people in tow. Our cart was probably speeding along at around 40 mph while being passed by trucks and cars going 60 mph. I couldn't help but think about what would happen if the right screw came undone on our jalopy of a horse-cart. Soon enough we turned onto a dirt road from which I could now see the Mediterranean below us about a kilometer away. As we rolled through the pastel colored landscape towards the turquoise expanse of water I could have been anywhere in Spain, southern France, or italy. We finally were dropped off and descended the cliffs to the sand below. Paradise beach was a large expanse of pristine sand met by a foaming blue sea. This now topped my list of nicest beaches I had visited. It was not crowded and was secluded from any hints of civilization beyond the cliffs behind us. My afternoon was an enjoyable one filled with soccer, swimming, and once again sunburns. I managed to get sunburned everywhere I normally do not. Which may or may not be attributed to my apathy with sunscreen. Our afternoon was followed by a dinner at the top of the cliffs overlooking the water. We finished off the day with cool drinks and fish tajine.
When we returned to the city a few of us accompanied by Mohammed decided to go to the hammam to wash. A hammam is an Arabic bathhouse. This was my first hammam trip and was interested to experience a new part of Arab and Moroccan culture. You walk in a stow everything but your shorts and soap on a shelf in what would be considered the hammam lobby. From there we entered into the hammam through a door on the far side of the room. I had just entered into a series of three large rooms filled with hot air, steam, and about 200% humidity. In the last tiled room were two basins of water and a stack of buckets. One basin is full of hot water and another full of cold water. We lined up our buckets, two each, and mixed the water until each reached the right temperature. We took our buckets into the middle room and began our washing process. First you rinse off and you then help your friend clean himself. After finishing washing with soap you rinse off and then fill your buckets up at a set of spouts in the room. The last step was to wash yourself and rinse off. By this point I was going back for for buckets of cold water to cool myself off. The heat was relaxing and helped my muscles loosen up but tended to get overbearing after awhile. While in the hammam I noticed Moroccan men stretching and using the heat to work on sore muscles. Usually the stretching was a team event. Some stretched alone, but others worked together inventing painful new ways of contorting each other in the name of feeling better. Once thoroughly cleansed we headed out into the relatively cooler, refreshing air of the lobby to dry off and get dressed. At this point I'm not sure if I had ever felt cleaner in my life. Overall it was a good experience, and I felt quite good once we were done.
That evening we spent our time at a cafe and relaxing on the roof. Before bed, Yamez and myself went out to by supplies for the following morning's breakfast. Almost everyone in our group by this time had become addicted to Malawi. Malawi is a flatbread that I can only best describe as a thick, layered crepe. I thought fried apples sounded like a good companion to the bread and knew Yamez liked to cook as well, so I convinced him to help me. The next morning we woke up as the first morning risers were getting up. I grabbed the three kilo bag of apples out of the fridge and we started slicing. By the time the first batch of apples were cooking in the pot most people were up. The simple mixture of apples, butter, sugar, cinnamon, and heat created an amazing aroma that reminded me of the south and Cracker Barrel. Needless to say the combo of Malawi and fried apples was delicious. Others had bought fruit and juice for breakfast and we had quite the array of foods that morning. After breakfast it was time to pack up and make the walk to the Asilah train station for our eleven o'clock departure. The train ride was warm as usual but wasn't extremely long, as Asilah is only four hours from Fes. For half the train ride the main across the aisle from my row decided to use his cell phone as his own personal juke box, like most Moroccans. For two hours I spent my time listening to a bald Moroccan man with a mustache reminiscent of Saddam Hussein jam out to Celine Dion and Rod Stewart. I had to try not to laugh at first. The sight was a little comical when you watch his unemotional composure coupled with his music selection.

~Andrew

Toubkal (part 4)

My hotel was a small, clean establishment sandwiched between a cafe and the taxi station. Dar Imrouk had only about eight rooms, but it also had a rooftop with tables and chairs that allowed guests to relax and take in the views of the high alpine valley. I dropped my things in my room and took my book up to read while the sun allowed me the time. My room still held the lingering heat of the day and the cool mountain air made sitting outside pleasant and relaxing. The sun descended below the mountain tops for the night and I retired to my room to get some much earned sleep. Four o'clock in the morning the first call to prayer of the day sounded off, waking me from my sleep. I was rather annoyed and figured that the 4 am prayer at the Mosque must have been a loophole for a guaranteed ticket to paradise. Anyone showing up at that hour in the morning either knows what's up or has a sleeping condition. I fell back asleep and woke up to my alarm at seven. Someone yesterday told me that eight o'clock was the best time to catch a taxi to Marrakesh at the station. I had tea on the roof before walking down to the small lot where a couple of the white Mercedes had already begun to congregate. I sat until three men walked up and said they were going to Marrakesh. I hopped in with the group and we grabbed a taxi and loaded up our luggage. I was in the back between two of the men and the other sat up front with the driver. The man in front was a well-to-do looking middle aged Moroccan man whose head was going bald. To my left was a man about the same age with dark hair, a beard, and glasses. To my right was the oldest of the group whose black hair was speckled with gray and had bushy eyebrows to match his mustache. We talked about Toubkal since they had climbed it the day before. The older man was very talkative. He asked me about what I was doing in Morocco and we discussed the basics of where we were from. I found out that the man in the front and the older gentleman next to me were also going to Fes. The man next to me lived in Sefrou, a small mountain town outside of Fes, and the man in the front lived in the Nouvelle. Halfway to Marrakesh I tuned out and listened while the rest of the cab talked. They were a lively bunch and topics of conversation ranged from debate over which geographical landscapes were more grand, to talk about Toubkal, to arguments over pointless and random topics in general.
After our two hour ride we arrived at the train station and bought our tickets to Fes. Marrakesh is a much more modern city than Fes. Driving through, you can tell that tourism has taken hold of the popular European vacation spot. My train left at eleven and I had a little over an hour till I needed to be in the station ready to leave, so I decided to walk around the streets a little bit. As I walked out of the station and across the street I remembered passing a KFC not far from the station a couple days earlier. Like any good American, what did I do? I set off to find it of course. A ten minute walk into the center of the city put the smiling Colonel's face in view. I walked into the restaurant and asked an employee if they were open. It was only ten and he informed me that they didn't open till noon. Things get started later in Morocco and unfortunately it looked like I wouldn't be getting a taste of home. Even though the country cooked tastes of the Colonel wouldn't be gracing my taste buds today I still got amusement from finding a KFC in Morocco of all places. Disappointed I turned around and walked back to the station to wait for my train.
Eleven o'clock rolled around and my newest Moroccan friends and I boarded the train and found a compartment. The more I traveled with the pair, the more they reminded me of the two brothers from the movie "Secondhanad Lions". They had their quirks, which amused me, but they were nice and an amiable pair. The older man, Mohammed, was very insistent on teaching me Arabic and was keen on helping me learn as long as he was around. I also found out he was in the process learning Berber himself. He pulled out a piece of paper from his wallet with the Arabic and Berber alphabets on it. I had never seen the Berber language written, I had only heard it spoken. The letters resembled hieroglyphs and were written left to right. He showed me his name and my name in Berber. I don't remember exactly what it looked like but it included an upside-down 'V', a letter resembling a 'Q', and some circles and rectangular symbols. Mohammed told me his wife was Berber and he wanted to learn so that he could communicate with her in Arabic and Berber, the language of her family. After my short introduction to Berber and a quiz on Arabic pronunciation I decided to take a nap. A while later I was woken up by Mohammed tapping me on the arm. He told me that in order to learn Arabic I listen to him and Melameh talk. We conversed a little and Mohammed broke out the day's newspaper. We went through the headlines as I read and translated with Mohammed communicating the words I didn't know. I read about "kif", marijuana, in the Rift mountains, a dog that had attacked a girl in Casablanca, and the American presidential election. He told me that Obama was better than McCain and would win. He asked me what I thought about the race and who would win. I told him I didn't necessarily like either candidate. I explained that both wanted bigger government and that big government was bad. I wasn't at the point to debate policy, but he understood what I meant and seemed to agree. After learning to add and subtract our lesson was over and I decided to finish the book Mohammed had lent me to read on the trip. The book was called The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell by John Crawford. It is an easy read about a soldier's experiences in Iraq during the first year of the war. The viewpoint was a bit pessimistic about the Army, but overall it did a good a good job of relaying an infantryman's story on the ground from the day of the invasion till the year after. At around six o'clock in the evening our train rolled into Fes. The hot, crowded, eight hour ride was over.
Looking back, this trip was probably the most adventurous thing I have ever done. I took off solo, halfway across Morocco to climb the countries tallest peak. Armed with my knowledge of Arabic and less than ideally equipped I tackled the journey and it proved to be an exciting and enjoyable weekend. I really felt I had experienced the essence of Morocco on the trip through my interactions with a wide array of people and my witnessing of some of North Africa's most dramatic scenery.

~Andrew

Heat Never Takes a Holiday

Even though I am from Texas, I can say that Morocco in the summer is hot. Most days the high temperatures will climb up to around 100 Fahrenheit and hover there until the sun begins its evening retreat. The one aspect of the weather I do enjoy here is the low humidity. The mugginess of the South would only make the current summer climate unbearable. The difference between Fes and Houston isn't the heat but the fact that air conditioning is rare in Fes. In the U.S. refuge is around every corner as A/C offers an escape from the heat. Here it is a twenty-four hour battle. There is little respite from the heat and it is something you must learn to live with. It doesn't necessarily mean you will be comfortable, but you adjust. During mid-day the sun is so intense no one ventures outside. There is nothing much you can do in the early afternoon. Just being outside, or even inside is enough to make sweat roll down your back. The American obsession with always being clean, dry, and smelling wonderful is put behind and as long as you don't mind being hot or a little less than comfortable it isn't bad. At night a cold shower is welcomed and wears away as you sweat yourself to sleep in the still warmth. During the day the heat can build up inside our apartment at the top of the three story building. Our one break from the lingering hot air can be found in the breezes that sweep across the roof, especially at night. I walk down the street during the day and watch men in pants, long-sleeves, and a djelleba on walk by in the heat without breaking a sweat. Somehow people can dress as Texans would in November and still appear comfortable. I do know that I will be returning to similar weather in less than a week, but now the glory of A/C will be a pleasure that won't soon grow old or be taken for granted.

The Infusion of Religion

Religion in Arab countries, more than anywhere else permeates into the culture and everyday life of its people. Morocco is 99% Muslim, and Islam doesn't stick to the religious sector of life, it overflows into the social component of society of everyone living here. The same pattern is found in every Arab country across North Africa and the Middle East. Everyday you cannot help but hear the five prayer calls that fill the air throughout the day and night. Not everyone goes to prayer at the Mosque when the "salaat" is sounded, but many pray at home or work. There are different levels of dedication. Just like every religion, Islam has its devout and its identifiers. Some people may go to the Mosque five times daily, and others may go only on Friday, the holy day of the week Islam. Whether someone is a faithful and a "good" Muslim, obeying all the laws of the Koran, they consider themselves Muslim. In taxis you can find scripture or religious paraphernalia on the dashboard or windows, "Sufi", or religious, music playing on the radio. Walking through the streets in Fes you can find a variety of dress, ranging from traditional garments dating back a thousand years to the latest Moroccan, westernized fashion. Younger women, for the most part, dress similar to those in Europe or the U.S.. You will never see a girl wearing shorts though or clothes that are immodest. Some wear the traditional dress, but you find that almost all married and older women wear robes and the hijab. The hijab is a headscarf that covers all but the woman's face, and most older women wear a veil as well. I have seen some women with full length robes, black gloves, head covering, and a black veil that completely covers the face.
It is hard to tell sometimes whether women see their role and submission to Islam as devout or oppressive. In most families, westernized or not, the women of the house do all the cleaning and cooking. In my homestay, my host father, Jamal, will help out with house chores and cook when Fatwa is not home. Other students have told me of their families. One husband told my friend that his wife loved the kitchen and never wanted to leave. Many Moroccan men do nothing at home and are waited on by their wives. For many wives, the absence of men in the house is a time to relax and rest. On the whole, women are very submissive and men and women take very traditional roles. As globalization continues, progressivism does has an effect on society. An effect in some cities, like Fes, that is actually being somewhat turned back and has become more traditional in places like the old medina. Men also dominate the job market. Women can be found in certain shops in the Nouvelle or working in the medina. But 90% of workers I have observed are men. Being an independent working women doesn't hold the same approval and prestige as in America. It is reputable to have a husband and take care of the family and raise children.
As for men, most dress similar to Europeans, but conservative. Moroccan men, especially young men, take pride in always looking trendy and fashionable. Occasionally you might see a man in his twenties wearing a djelleba and a full beard, but this is rare. Many older men dress traditionally and look no different than they would have hundreds of years ago.
A taxi driver this past week explained to John and I how Islam was about peace and embraced harmony. The theme of peace is prevalent in the religion, but I haven't been able to help but notice how aggressive Arab men are. My observations of boys and men have formed an image of a majority of non-passive personalities. Young boys are quick to fight and I see commonplace arguments and behavior that would be considered quite a scene or deemed disgraceful in the U.S.. This isn't the case for all Moroccan men as I have met some that are very friendly and passive people that embrace their teachings, but on the whole I have seen a society that in general doesn't practice what it preaches. I am not referring to anything about extremism which is very much a minority and many Muslims will tell you that terrorism in the name of Islam is a disgrace to their religion. But many have no problem with any harm coming to Israel or American troops.
Another example of how the religion of Islam is a part of everyday life in Morocco is the language. In Arabic, references to god are prevalent in greetings and references to the deceased or the prophet Mohammed. The traditional and most widely used greeting for hello is "salaam alaikum" meaning literally, "peace be upon you". The greeting is followed by the response " wa'alaikum a'salaam", meaning "and peace be upon you as well". A widely spoken phrase, used for almost any occasion is "alhamdu'allah", usually pronounced "hamdulillah". It means "praise or thanks be to god". Whether you are Muslim or not, the everyday greetings and phrases contain references to religion or god. When saying the name Mohammed in reference to the prophet it is always followed by "prayers be upon him", and a similar phrase is mentioned after the name of anyone who is deceased.
One thing that has impressed me here in Morocco is the abundance of patterns and structure in Islam. The pattern and number of five is extremely prevalent. The five prayers a day, the five pillars, the number five is even apparent in mosaics in the architecture. Many tiles in building have octagonal patterns for the eight doorways to heaven. Patterns are everywhere in the Arabic language. The root of a verb can be changed into one of ten different patterns to have a different meaning. The language and aspects of the religion are all very structured. It is no surprise that the Arabs were pioneers in math and science.
From speech, to dress, to gender roles, there is no separation between society and religion in Islam. The culture us filled with aspects of the religion. It can even be seen in the patterns in architecture that permeate even the smallest details of buildings in the medina. This culture holds views and values very similar and very different to ours. Being here makes me realize the amount of freedom we have in America. Not everyone in this country holds the same liberties. This is especially true for women, but also applies to men as well. As globalization and secularism spreads this will change some, but Islam will make sure its people hold on to there values and will not compromise their beliefs. There is a meeting between the Near East and the West, some will embrace it, but others will not and may hold tighter on tighter than before. One thing is for sure. Islam has its place in this society and this culture, and government cannot take it away. To be Arab is to be Muslim, and to be Muslim is to be a part of society.

~Andrew

Toubkal (part 3)

At five in the morning my watch let out its annoying beeping medley to tell me it was time to wake up. Through half consciousness I had heard my roommate leave a half hour earlier. I let my alarm finish its routine and had my usual morning battle between mind and body to make the first move towards getting up. It was still dark outside but looking out the window I just barely tell that somewhere lower down in the valley the rising sun's soft morning glow was making its way past the horizon. The electricity being shut off for the night I found my headlamp and grabbed my plastic Marjane bag of food for breakfast. This morning's breakfast was especially good because this was the morning where would transform my boring bottle of Ain Soltane bottled water into a liter of orange Tang. I personally don't think water is boring, I love water, and I the fact I have to spend money to drink it here. At about a dollar per liter and a half, it adds up over six weeks. Anyway, the combination of orange flavoring, sugar, and vitamin c was enough to wake me up and complement my peanut butter and wheel of bread in none other than traditional American fashion. Finishing my breakfast I gathered my things and prepared myself for a full day of hiking. Walking outside, the weather was cool and I was cold for the first time since arriving in Morocco. The crisp, mountain wind was a nice change from the still heat of Fes. Looking down into the valley, the mountains in the distance crept out of the blue fog the early morning light. It was still somewhat dark out and there weren't many climbers going up the mountain yet. So I decided to sit on a stone wall outside the refuge watching the valley slowly fill with light like water overflows into a basin. By six groups of hikers were forming and the light was now suitable for beginning the roughly 3,000 ft. ascent to the peak. Swinging my legs back over the edge of the wall, I started my climb upwards towards Jebel Toubkal.
The trail was rocky and at this point there was very little if any vegetation on the mountain at all. After about a half hour on the trail I met a couple of men from the U.K. who were making the climb. Phil was an accountant from England who was currently working and living in Dublin. He wore wire rimmed glasses and a very British looking fisherman's sort of hat on his balding head. John was an Irishman who was from Dublin as well, and was about ten years Phil's junior. Phil had done some mountain walking before in Ireland he said, but this was John's first time to tackle any kind of trekking. They were a friendly pair and after chatting a bit I decided to take it easy and join them on the ascent since I hadn't had much good English conversation the past couple days. Looking back behind me all I could now see was a wall of orange where the sun blasted the rock wall rising behind is on the opposite side of the valley. From the refuge the trail to the top of the mountain twisted around the side of the massif and up a series of a couple valleys. From the bottom of the trail up you can't actually see the peak, but once you reach the final upper basin of the mountain it comes into view. About an hour or so left till the top we were in a giant rock bowl. On all sides we were surrounded by rock faces with the winding road to the peak to our front. Moving further up we crested the top of the ridge that would lead us the approximately twenty minute spurt to the top. Peering over the edge lent to a dramatic view of a steep and jagged mountain face. The opposite side was fierce looking and would be impossible to climb up. Close to our goal, we stowed our cameras and encouraged by our proximity to the top, began the home stretch to the peak. Coming up on the highest point of the mountain, a metal pyramid and resting climbers were silhouetted against the now high morning sun. The view was absolutely spectacular and reminded me of how once you get a taste of these sights, you're hooked. I think the sense of accomplishment and vantage point miles into the sky that few people see in person are what fuel my love of exploring high mountain terrain. The surrounding mountains were bathed in a bright, glorious light that created a white mist in the air below, softening their imposing features. This is what made the hours of traveling worth it. We spent about an hour eating lunch and taking in the views. Then, as always, comes the time to head back down the mountain you worked so hard to conquer. Going down was a little more difficult for me. For the most part it was faster and less work. But my shoes were old, running shoes made for medium to long distance running. The bottom of the soles were slick and possessed little traction at all. It made a few sections of the trail a bit difficult and made me a slight bit nervous, but I made it back down to the refuge all in once piece around noon. Now it was time for a nap inside on the refuge couches before my walk back to Imlil.
Around three I woke up, encouraged by the knowledge that going downhill to Imlil would only take me a little more than half the time to go up the trail. I set out at three in the afternoon so that I could miss most of the mid-day heat and make it to town at a decent time. About halfway between Imlil and the Toubkal refuge is a small settlement of a few houses and shops kept by a handful of Berber families. Passing through a couple of kids I had seen the day before said hello and asked if I remembered them. I said yes, and asked them how they were. They would great me in English and then ask me, "are you happy." I don't know if this was a bad translation of asking how someone was doing, but it was something I had never encountered before. There was something about the way it was said, coming from the mouth of a twelve year-old boy, that made my mind stop and think about the question for a second before replying "yes". The question opened up a weird moment where my mind went past the usual greeting trivialities and I could honestly tell the kid that I was sincerely happy, whether he realized it or not. I said goodbye after convincing them I didn't need anything from their shop and continued once more downwards into the bottom of the Imlil valley. One thing that amazed as I hiked down out of the highlands was the ease with which the Berber people skipped down the trails. On one occasion I was passed by an old man wearing sandals, a djelleba, and a backpack. It was actually quite humorous, but I realized that this man had decades of experience and was practically a human mountain goat. As I left the mountain trail that spit me out into the flatter roads of the valley I had a brief encounter with a couple Moroccan men walking towards town. One had on an R.Kelly shirt, which made me laugh because I am sure he had no idea who the American hip-hop artist was, but wore it with pride. As they passed they offered me a small fruit and even washed the outside off with some of their bottled water. I said thank you and took a bite of the red and yellow fruit that I had never before seen. It wasn't particularly good. I couldn't put my finger on what it resembled because, to be honest, it didn't taste like much at all. The closest description I could come up with was a cross between an apple, plum, and a bitter peach. Gives you a great idea I know. Another half hour found me walking into the edge of the village past a small shop I had passed just the day before. The shop keeper, a boy about eighteen, recognized me from our conversation yesterday and insisted I sit down and share a cup of tea. Tired from a long day of trekking I gratefully obliged and talked about the mountain and I asked if they knew any good, cheap hotels. I took me a minute to explain that just because I was a westerner didn't mean I had lots of money and needed a nice hotel. After my pushing, they helped me out and suggested a place down the road. I said my goodbyes and thanked them for the tea and their help as I walked down the road to my lodging for the night.

~Andrew

Toubkal (part 2)

I began my walk with no map, but I did have a knowledge of Arabic and of the fact that the trail was well traveled. To get to the official trailhead I first had to make my way a kilometer or two past the outskirts of Imlil. I started out on a trail that wound its way up through a village suburb clothed in a short green canopy that protected it from the afternoon sun. Past the village the dirt path run up to a small cafe and seemed to end there. I went inside and asked which way to Toubkal. The man inside informed me that if I went up a small path to the left of the the building it would take me to the road that led to the trailhead. I worked my way up through the trees until I came out in the middle of a hillside of terraces. I could see a cluster of buildings at the top that must have been the town where the road was and began my climb up the old, stone walls. Sure enough, I reached a road that ran through a small, less modern town and was soon on my way to the brink of the wilderness. I started my five hour, 1,467 meter climb up through the high Atlas to the Toubkal refuge. Even at my elevation, the Moroccan heat was still enough to make me sweat as I began my constant upward hike.
The mountains around me were very rocky and at this altitude they held a resemblance to parts of southern Colorado. The trail ran through a hillside on one side of a valley through which a small river of snow-melt flowed. On either side of me, ridges rose up and created the walls that funneled me towards my eventual destination. So far in my walk I had only passed hikers coming down from the opposite direction. Most of the climbers staying the night at the base camp had most likely left earlier in the day. Even though I would be cutting it somewhat close on time, I would have the best sunlight as the day grew to an end. Meaning cooler temperatures and more spectacular views. A little ways into the trek I passed a one room, stone building built into the side of the mountain. It had a sign that proclaimed "limonad", to thirsty hikers. Outside bottles of water and soda were tied under a small cascade of icy, cool melt-water. Two and a half hours into the climb the elongated sun's rays lit up the rock faces around me into a soft, orange glow. The effect only increased in brilliance until it could no longer reach into the walls of the valley and left me walking in the pleasant shade of the high mountain ridges. As I continued up the only foliage was now patches of grass and a variety of scrub and the occasional group of small flowers. The evening wind had set in and cooled me off as I set into my last couple hours of hiking. By now the weather was pleasant, imposing mountain peaks filled my view, and was left alone to enjoy it all. Or at least I was the only person on the trail. I was now passing through a herd of wild mountain goats. I don't know much about mountain goats but I was now wishing I knew a little. As I passed through most would scurry away, but a few stood there with a defiant look staring right through. Yes, mountain goats are small, but that do happen to have horns, and in this case whether he was or not, he looked angry. I started to wonder if goats were territorial, were they known to charge humans? The last things I needed was to be thrown off a mountainside by a herd of angry mountain goats, in Morocco. If was going to die in the mountains, it would be fighting a grizzly bear in the rockies, not a goat in Africa. Uneventfully I gained passage through the small colony of mountain dwellers and continued on. By this point my less than ideal amount of sleep and the heat was getting to me. With a little less than two hours to go till I reached my resting place for the night, I was getting tired. The dramatic views and cooling wind helped take my mind off of how fatigued my legs were getting. Walking steadily up, the terrain grew rockier and steeper around me. A Toubkal National Park sign teased me hinting that the refuge could be around the corner, but around the next bend on the valley I still had no sight of the stone building. Soon enough I cam upon another sign that told me the refuge was just up the trail. Cresting the top of a small rise I could finally see it in the distance. It would take me another half-hour to walk up to the refuge which stood in the shadow of 12,000 and 13,000 ft. peaks on three sides. The refuge was a large stone, two-story building with a small grass pasture in front so that mules making the trip up and down with supplies could have a place to recharge in between. Some people had tents and small camps out front, but I would be grabbing a room inside as I had no proper camping equipment.
I walked into the refuge as the last bits of light were fading from the sky. This day from beginning to end, more than halfway across Morocco, had somehow been timed almost to perfection, even without things working smoothly along the way. I walked in and as always, I didn't have to look for service, there was a man asking me if I needed a room. Of course I need a room, I'm at the bottom of a 13,000 ft. mountain with no shelter. I followed the Berber man up the stone stairway to my room for the night. The room was dim since the electricity hadn't turned on for the night. It was simple and clean with a couple stacks of bunk beds and a shelf along one wall. In the corner, a small window opened to a view down the valley I had just finished coming up earlier. I dropped my backpack and took off my dirt and dust filled shoes and socks. Walking downstairs on the cool stone floor felt good on my tired feet. Reaching the main room on the first floor, I asked the man who had given me my room if I could buy some water. While getting me my bottle of Ain Soltane, my new favorite brand, he asked me if I wanted dinner. I had brought food with me, but I asked him what it was and how much it would be. He told me dinner was fifty dirhams and was of course, tajine. My legs were having slight cramps from the hike up and a real meal sounded worth the price. I think this was now the most I had paid for a meal in Morocco. At around seven US dollars that's not bad, but I haven't made a habit of going to nice restaurants here. I received my water and walked from the kitchen back out into the lodges dining/sitting area. While finding myself a table I heard a vioce ask, "What have you done to yourself?". I looked over to see an Englishman who somewhat resembled and friendly Sean Connery sitting at a table with a small pot of mint tea. At first I wasn't sure whether his question referred to my tired state, or my cast. He was asking about my arm. I sat down and explained I had broken my wrist doing parkour the week before I came, thank God. I have seen Moroccan casts and I don't think I would be doing this if I had dealt with the country's healthcare. He said he had heard of it in England, where the sport is growing since it jumped the channel from France a few years ago. As I ate dinner and he finished his tea we exchanged notes about our time in Morocco and what we did back home. I learned he worked for Rolls Rice, the jet engine manufacturer and had two sons. One was in his twenties and a successful professional skier and avid winter mountaineer. The other was in his first year of university back in England. While I was drinking my post meal mint tea, he left to go sleep for the night. He said he would be leaving for the top at five the next morning. I told him good luck and maybe I would see him on the mountain tomorrow. My meal I received at the refuge was quite good and was definitely worth the money. I first was given a bowl of soup, which I loaded with salt, and a basket of bread. A meal in Morocco is not a meal without a more than ample amount of bread. Then I had a rather large tajine of chicken, potatoes and carrots, sizzling hot in its iron bowl of Arabic spices. Then the meal was topped of with a small pot of hot mint tea. Once I finished I was full, extremely content, and ready to get some rest for my six o'clock ascent the next morning. I slowly walked up to my room to find my roomate was my newfound friend from dinner, already sound asleep. I took off my worn and dusty clothes and fell asleep 10,000 feet up in the Atlas sky.

~Andrew

Morocco loves company... and Parkour

This is a little interjection into my Toubkal piece about my workout yesterday. I was going to try and devote 100% of my time to getting my writing about the weekend done, but life happens. I decided to make Monday a rest day, seeing as I walked a few miles and climbed a couple of more this weekend. Today a run to the park to do some leg training and parkour drills sounded like a good idea. Around seven-thirty or so, once the sun's intensity had died down, I put on my old Asics, nearing death by now, and began the ten minute jog to the park. "The park" as John and I refer to it is an open expanse of grass and two concrete football fields adjacent to a main road. In the park are benches, ledges, stairs, and thin curbs. All good tools for a leg workout. Seeing as my left wrist is broken, it makes any upper body training near impossible. The least I can do is work on my lower body and be creative doing it. The park provides a good place to do so. The only thing is that you get some funny looks exercising in a park full of people not exercising. I have discovered that fitness and exercise, as well as healthy conscious diets are almost non-existent in Morocco. Men play recreational soccer, and thats about it. Whenever I'm out, I am usually the only person running or doing anything fitness related around me and it can be somewhat awkward. Once I reached the park I hopped up a ledge onto the grass field and walked over to one of my favorite spots. This particular spot is great for mixing leg exercises and parkour drills together. It consists of a ledge about three feet high. Once you are on top of the ledge, in front of you is a shallow dirt gap and a narrow curb about five feet in front and about half a foot high. This allows me to practice precisions, do pistols (one legged squats), box jumps, practice landings, and do calf raises. While women eyed me curiously and kids payed little attention for the time being, I began my routine of drills. I would work a rotation of precisions, pistols, landings, and box jumps, and then combine different parts onto a small routine or route. After a while at this an old man told me to go run and stop doing whatever nonsense it was that I was doing. I just said 'parkour' and ignored him. Soon after a couple of kids came over and started imitating me. They got a kick out of the pistols and were amazed once I did a couple on the narrow curb. I asked them if they knew parkour. They nodded saying,"Oui, Oui". Another few minutes passed by and they pair of boys grew into a group of ten or fifteen. I told them I was doing parkour drills and most of them repeated "parkour" in acknowledgement. A few showed me a few moves they knew to once more convey the understanding. They asked me my name and if I spoke French, as usual. I told them my name was Andre, and I spoke some Arabic but no French. Then one by one, the boys went around the small mob that had formed around me in curiosity , and rattled of their names enthusiastically as if I would remember every single one. By now our group was a spectacle of young Moroccan boys and one American student all brought together by, well, me being me, and of course, parkour. As we walked from my "spot" through the grass opening to another spot they used to practice, one kid being making dance motions and saying "tektonic". Apparently, one of the boys in the group was a miniature Michael Jackson and could "tektonic" as the others put it. After the others pressured all the reluctance out of him, the smallest of the group stepped out into the middle of our circle to do his performance. The kid was somewhat fair skinned for a Moroccan and had a bull-cut straight out of 90's Nickelodeon sitcom. The others created a beat and he began to dance. Surprisingly he was quite impressive. The kid had some moves, I think he's ready for American talent search reality t.v.. He finished his short routine and the group gave him cheers and rounds of applause as we resumed our walk down to a different section of the park about thirty meters away. There the kids all took turns asking me to watch their different vaults and tricks. A few had some good technique and we spent some time trading moves and testing our creativity on the terrain. By now I had incited a parkour and curiosity frenzy of eight to fourteen year-old boys. My time at the park done, it was nearing time to head back home. I said goodbye and exchanged handshakes and high-fives with the group and started back on my return jog home. It seems wherever I go being American might as well mean being a magnet for curiosity and attention. Especially with kids, they have few inhibitions and are usually genuine in their actions. I definitely had my most interesting and fun park visit yesterday as I picked up a mob of new friends and fellow tracuers.

The Rooftop of North Africa (part one)

This is the story of myself, a mountain, and the people and events in between.

Even at midnight I was laying in bed sweating, unsuccessfully trying to take a nap before I had to leave. It felt as if I had walked into a dry sauna on Monday and couldn't escape, whether it be night or day. After another half-hour of laying there uncomfortably I got up, dressed, and grabbed my backpack, my lifeline for the weekend. In it was a variety of "high density foods" as I called them, my two cameras, an extra shirt and socks, and two books. Soon enough, I would be escaping the heat of Fes, and enjoying the cool, refreshing air of the high Atlas.
It was really only a few days before that I had settled on climbing Jebel Toubkal, North Africa's tallest mountain. I knew that at some point while I was in Morocco I wanted to get away and relax in the mountains for a weekend. That leisurely plan developed into the idea of bagging a peak during my stay. The week before I began looking into what peaks were relatively close to Fes, the high Atlas was hours away and going somewhere close would be easier. At the beginning of the week my plan was to go hike up Jebel Ayachi, the tallest mountain in the Eastern Atlas. It wasn't the highest peak, but it was only a five hour trip from Fes and would get me out into the high country. The same day I thought I had a plan for the weekend, I decided to take a look at Toubkal. Being the biggest in the Atlas range I had to at least check out the mountain. As I read and looked at pictures, I realized this was probably one of my only chances to top the peak people come from Europe and North Africa to climb. So, of course, my curiosity and sense for adventure took over and I knew that this was where I had to go this weekend. Most other students were going to Essouria for the weekend's music festival and not everyone jumps at the chance to hike miles out and up into the wilderness for a few days.
I walked out down the stairs of our apartment building and down to the taxi stop with Batha neighborhood guard to catch my ride to the train station. So, with my two-year old Asics running shoes and a backpack full of enough to survive for a few days, I began my solo trek to conquer Morocco's highest point. I was traveling to the rooftop of North Africa.What made this journey so great was the experiences I had with people and the rich beauty of the landscape I would take in.
My train to Marrakesh for the first leg of the journey left at 1:50 am. I was surprised to see a decent amount of people at the station at one in the morning. As the string of old, outdated cars pulled up to the platform it seemed most travelers were headed for Marrakesh as well, though most likely headed for Essouria. After the train came to a halt and hissed in a sigh of relief, I climbed aboard the last car to find a compartment suitable for getting some rest. The great thing about the early morning and overnight trains are that they carry less passengers and make less stops. This allows for most compartments, even in coach, to have only a couple passengers. I stowed my backpack up on the luggage rack above the bench seat and laid down and went to sleep until morning which would bring the sun and more passengers. The funny thing about Moroccan trains is that the efficiency of the air conditioner is directly related to the sun. All the compartments have an A/C vent that blows cool air, and this particular morning was the first time I can say I was actually cool and comfortable as I lay on the orange, plastic seat. By mid-morning the sun broke into the sky and the air coming from the vents grew warmer and weaker. The man that had been sleeping opposite of me left and another man wearing a smile and a Nike baseball cap took his place. In America, the demographic of people is very diverse and for the most part, curiosity and conversation with people of other backgrounds isn't the same as in Morocco. In the U.S., if I was sitting opposite from a man from Angola or China I wouldn't necessarily feel a strong sense of curiosity or urge to strike up a conversation. Here in Morocco, if you are white, and especially someone who can speak any Arabic at all, it is impossible for a Moroccan to resist. Most people are usually friendly and the conversation presents good opportunities for me to practice my Arabic. He asked me where I was from, what I was doing in Morocco, if I liked soccer, good basic topics we could both handle with my limited Arabic. In this case I was actually Andrew from Liverpool, but I wasn't originally from the city. I just went to school there. I met a lot of people over the course of my three day trip and I usually switched between American and English nationality with the occasional German or Spanish thrown in. For one reason, its fun to be someone different when you are miles away from home and who you are exactly is of little consequence. It's an entertaining game to play that provides some entertainment on long trips. I also recalled my taxi driver from yesterday's ride to school who explained to me how bad America was and that he didn't like Americans. Needless to say, his gestures and words didn't make for the most comfortable trip to school ever. So, this morning I decided to start the day off British. The man was very nice and we had good conversation and he welcomed me to his country when he departed at his stop an hour or so later.
Only a few couple hours from Marrakesh and elderly lady came by to inform me that the next train car down had working A/C since the one we were in was growing rather hot. It was more of an order almost than a suggestion, so I took up my things and headed down to find a more comfortable cabin. I found one cabin that had a man and a woman probably both in their late twenties and sat down on the seat opposite. I decided to pick a newspaper someone had left earlier and read the sports section to see how the EuroCup and the world cup qualifiers were doing. The paper was in Arabic, and I could see I was receiving a weird look from the man across from me. Many Moroccans have no idea that any westerner, European or American, possesses the ability to read Arabic script I suppose. I chuckled to myself and turned the paper over to see if there was any headlines of importance, which there usually isn't. He soon left at a small town and the woman, who I guess had noticed me reading earlier asked me where I was from. She was a a friendly and polite woman that appeared to be upper-middle class by the way she dressed. This time I was American and we went through the usual routine that I go through with most Moroccans, we talked about the heat, and where we were going and such. She knew a little bit of English which helped when there was a word I didn't know in Arabic and couldn't be transliterated from French. She said she had learned a little when she was at University here in Morocco. I also learned she was Moroccan but was visiting from Belgium at the time. Her husband is Belgian and she lives with him in Europe. It was an interesting story and she seemed to like the weather there quite a bit more at the moment. Belgium is one of those countries that enjoys God's mercy by not having to endure the normal climatic extremes of some nations. But I guess that's what you get when you provide the world with unbelievably good chocolate. After a couple delays, our train finally arrived in Marrakesh around noon, two hours late. Such are the joys of "Moroccan Time".
Walking out of the station I fought through taxi drivers seeing me as an easy target for outrageous fares to wherever I would be going. I made my way through, responding and laughing at their prices. On the city street I hopped in a petit taxi, run with meters, to take me to the bus station. Once inside and past more grand taxi drivers looking to take tourists to Essouria, I headed for window number three, the window for the town of Asni one hour south-east. There was only one small difficulty once I reached the ticket window. It was closed. The only bus to Asni left at ten earlier that morning. My guidebook informing me of the four daily buses to the small mountain town on my way to Toubkal was apparently wrong. The mountain of Jebel Toubkal is accessed from a trailhead in the town of Imlil, two hours south of Marrakesh in the high Atlas. In between is the city of Asni. Buses will run to Asni and grand taxis will take you all the way to Imlil from either Asni or Marrakesh. It was past mid-day already, and I knew I had a five hour hike to the refuge from Imlil. For all the timing to work out I would need to get to Imlil in time to reach the refuge before dark. Opening up my guide book to a map of Marrakesh I remembered there was a grand taxi station south of the city where people would leave from for the mountains of the coast. Leaving the bus station I got into the custard colored Fiat that would take me ten minutes to the taxi station. Marrakesh was even hotter than Fes, but it was a good feeling knowing that two hours away would be hopefully cooler weather. The taxi station was a hot piece of asphalt filled with white Mercedes, drivers, and no travelers, except for one twenty-year old American college student. I questioned each person arriving in petit taxis ,while I sat in the sun, as to where they where going until an elderly group of three said they were going to Asni and I could share a taxi with them. We shortly picked up the other two people needed to meet the maximum capacity and lowest fare requirement of six passengers.
Grand taxis in Morocco travel in between cities and are old five-seater Mercedes sedans. But this is Morocco, and if you can fit seven people then you do it. The two late comers shared a seat up front while I squeezed into the back with my newest AARP eligible friends for the one hour ride to Asni. Two were elderly Moroccan women, one didn't talk much, but the other woman told me she lived in Asni and complemented me on my Arabic. The old man reminded me of a shorter, Moroccan version of my grandpa from Tennessee. He had the same work slacks and button down shirt, as well as a trucker hat which topped of the resemblance. The only difference was this man didn't talk quite as much, but that was probably because he didn't speak English. Though if was my grandpa I don't think the language barrier would have made a difference. As we entered the massifs of the high Atlas I couldn't help but smile at my surroundings. I love the mountains and I didn't think I would be seeing this part of the Atlas range, let alone climb the tallest mountain in it, when I arrived here. Leg one was finished to the mountain, now I needed to find a way to Imlil. I asked around and two Berber men said they were going to Imlil and could help me out. Not many people were out since the air raid siren, also known as the call to prayer, had just sounded for the second of the five daily prayers. Up in the mountains the pool of talented muezzins (men that sound the call) is a good bit smaller than in the cities and thus the call decreases in quality. We went into a small cafe and had tea while we compared life between the Arab cities and Berber villages. I was hungry and decided to break out one of my loaves of bread and some peanut butter. As I began to share some of my food with them I realized I must have been the first person to introduce peanut butter to them. It took me a minute to explain it wasn't chocolate and it came from peanuts, which I only knew the name for in Spanish. I think they grasped what it was and seemed thrilled at their new culinary discovery. When we finished and I asked if they were ready to leave for Imlil they explained they couldn't go today but would be willing to take me tomorrow because the reason for going to Imlil was the Saturday market. This detail had been left out earlier, but they said they would help me get a taxi. It was a nice gesture, but sitting in front of a shop next to the taxi stop, I could handle getting transportation to Imlil since it wasn't extremely complicated. After sitting in the shade for about 15 minutes a taxi pulled up and a French couple in their early fifties got out and began walking toward the row of small shops where I was sitting. Looking like they were headed for Imlil I got and walked over to meet them and find out their plans. Turns out they only spoke French, but I could communicate the word Imlil and then elaborate more details with their guide who spoke Arabic and a little English. It is a weird feeling being able to communicate with someone ethnically distant from yourself, and having very little communication with someone who resembles your own nationality. We now had four people for a taxi and after a short break and having tea once again with them we went to the taxi stop to grab transportation for the last hour to Imlil. For some reason there were plenty of taxis and no drivers, such are the mysteries of Morocco. It was in the middle of the afternoon heat and we sat outside for about an hour till we were able to find a driver and another two people to travel along with us to our next stop. Another hour climbing higher into more dramatic scenery put us in the high Atlas town of Imlil. Getting out of the taxi, it felt as if i was in Colorado but the quaint, western town you would expect to find was replaced by stucco buildings and Coca-Cola awnings. By this time of the day it was four in the afternoon and if I left now for the refuge I should ideally have just enough time to make the journey before dark. So, I gathered my pack of bare essentials I had brought along and asked some locals where the trail began to Toubkal.