Goodbyes

It seems strange to write about goodbyes at the beginning of a semester, but I actually have a good reason. I was reminded of farewells by going to church last Sunday where over half of the faces were new. Because our church is mostly made up of foreign (mostly U.S.) exchange students and faculty, every semester half our church leaves and a new half comes in. We just get attached to one group of students and faculty and then they leave! This Sunday I was excited to meet the new folks, but last semester I did not feel that way at first because we were mourning the leaving of some very dear friends of ours.

Their names were Ben & Wendy who were here with their two children, Jonathan & Amy. Here we are pictured the last time we were together with Kevin, Karen and Claire. Ben & Wendy's kids were in the USA by this time so their parents could pack in peace. Wendy, Karen and I formed an immediate bond and had a fabulous year together here. Wendy constantly reached out to everyone around her - making food for people (she always made more than they needed so she could share it), inviting people over, spreading love, and constantly coming up with ideas of including people on outings or gatherings. Since we were both homeschooling, we did a lot of activities together and our kids got close as well. The guys all got along great too, so it was a lovely combination.

Ben, Wendy and kids are back in Texas, but we miss them so very much here.

Here is Baby Bear (Kendra) discovering Goldilocks (Amy - who truly has golden locks) in a book we made about Goldilocks and The Three Bears in the fall of 2006 (shortly after Kendra cut her hair . . . ).

Papa (Jonathan), Momma (Katrina), and Baby Bear (Kendra)!

Snow!

Finally on January 3rd, we got our first snow of the winter. The wind had howeled and screamed for 24 solid (and long) hours prior. Then it got quiet and the snow began to fall - and fall - and fall. We never did figure out exactly how much we got because of the drifts, but it was probably an average of 2 ft. Here the girls are sitting "on" our sidewalk even with the top of bushes on either side.

One of the most wonderful serendipities of life is to crest a hill and be met with the surpise of a mountain that you did not even know was there. We found this little row about half-an-hour from our home.
Two days after the snow, we drove up to Michliffen (near the mountains above) - one of the two ski resorts in Morocco. We were pumped and ready to put Gerald on a pair of skis and watch him fly down the hill pictured here. But that was not to be. You see, there was one small problem. There are no lifts. The five or so skiers we did see were trudging miserably up a short way in the deep snow and then part-sliding, part skiing and part getting stuck as they came down. I was determined to get Gerald on skis anyway. "You can do it! That looks fun!!!" I encouraged. He chose sledding.

It seemed to us that all of Meknes and Fes (two neighboring major cities) had come to the mountains as snow tourists that day. Neither of these cities ever get snow though they are only an hour away. The standard program for the snow tourists is as follows: Drive to Ifrane. Get out at the first little patch of snow you see. Throw snowballs. Take pictures in front of the snow (women wear high-heeled black boots). Get back in. Drive a little farther until you see real snow. Rent a homemade sled from some entrepreneurial locals. Find a hill that does not have rocks. Send your kids down the hill on the sleds. Have a picnic in the snow. Start home. Get stuck in a huge traffic jam miles and miles long containing other snow tourists.

Though it doesn't sound like much fun, it really was delightful to see all the smiles and laughter on the sledding hills. It was truly a pleasure to watch the faces of "low-landers" in the beauty and fun of the day!

Spain in Morocco?

After we were allowed to leave our gracious host in Al Hoceima (see last post), we drove several hours along the beautiful coast and and entered Spain. What? Spain on the African continent? Yes, there are two cities in Morocco which are both Spanish protectorates. I used to wonder why Spain couldn't simply give up a little turf and hand over these two cities to Morocco. But when I arrived, it soon became obvious - after 500 years of Spanish possession, these cities cannot simply swap hands.

First, we drove through a very Moroccan town (Nador), then went through a complete international border crossing, and five minutes later we were in Spain. Besides the border crossing, what were some clues we were not in Morocco any more? Christmas lights! Lovely church bells (vs. the Muslim call to prayer), the most enormous nativity set I've ever seen (set into an entire wall of the castle), pork (Gerald ate his fill), couples holding hands, legs (as in miniskirts), and, wonder of wonders - cars that actually stop for (vs. try to hit) pedestrians!!! It was truly amazing to be so close to Morocco but yet so far!

I simply have to comment on the crosswalks in Melilla. Several times, we were not even ready to cross, but all the traffic stopped when we were in the vicinity. Then, with gaping open mouths, we put our VIT's (Very Important Toes) into the street and with continued amazement and deep gratitude, walked across the street without fearing for our lives. We never did get over this.

We met Ron, Laurie, Jasmine, Talia, Tamara, Nakoma and Melody there. Abir could not come because she does not have a passport yet. We all stayed in the home of someone who is gone for a few months (thankfully for them). As always, we had a marvelous time together.

Two pictures up is a shot of the old Spanish castle there which is literally built into the face of a cliff. At the base of the castle and behind Ron's crew is a huge arch - the top section is a lookout point from the lowest level of three stories of a fascinating maze of caves. This level even had a chapel in one of the caves which the Spanish used for prayer during attacks. Below the lookout balcony is a huge open cave that goes all the way down to the sea.

Here we are facing the cave in front of the arch.

Extreme Hospitality

For the break our family and a friend, Rebecca, drove through the wild, winding and rugged Rif mountains (I still call them "hills" having grown up in the Himalayas) on our way to Al Hoceima in the north of Morocco. On the way, I was delighted to catch a glimpse of the first snowcaps I've seen in a long, long time. Gerald kept teasing me saying they were clouds in the shape of mountains, but I know a mountain when I see one! Al Hoceima was the sight of a horrible earthquake several years ago which killed over 500 people in the surrounding areas.

When we arrived, one of Gerald's former students - Achraf - showed us around his beautiful city all the while complaining that we were not staying long enough. Dramatic cliffs and mountains plunge right into the Mediterranean Sea creating a series of secretive coves, beaches and caves along the coast. The city itself clings onto the edge of steep hills so that getting around it reminded me of driving in San Francisco.

Achraf is very proud of his Rifi Berber heritage. There are three main groups of Berbers in Morocco, and the Rifis are known as being the wildest and the most able to withstand the series of conquering armies that have swept through the area in the past. Much of this is because of their remote and inaccessible location. You will notice, too, that the Rifis have a fairer complexion - and it is not uncommon to see blue eyes or even red hair as a result of intermarriage with the Spanish. Al Hoceima and the entire north had previously been quite neglected for various reasons - mostly due to their history of resistance and rebels. But when Mohammad VI came into power, one of the first visits he made was to Al Hoceima. "Never in our wildest dreams could we have imagined the king coming here!" Achraf exclaimed. He had no limit to the praise he gave the king and the money the palace has sent their way to develop the city since then. Notice King Mohammad VI's picture at the top left of the picture below.

After showing us around, Achraf took us to a little cafe overlooking the beautiful bay. As if that was not enough, he insisted we come to his grandfather's place (palace) for supper. The room was sumptuously decorated with not one minuscule spot left unadorned. This was the family entertainment center and we felt like kings just being there. They apologised profusely for the "simple meal" of delicious kebab and lamb, prune, and lemon tajine. We had made arrangements for night, but that was not to be . . .

"What? I have already called and it's all set up for you to stay at my grandfather's farm!" (Gerald protests.) "You have to stay there!" (Gerald protests.) "Are you saying you don't want to be our guests???" (Gerald gives in.)

And so off we went to the family "farm" which consisted mostly of oranges, olives and pumpkins on the same land as the family brick factory. The house itself was a typical Moroccan upper class home - though it is their second home where they spend holidays and weekends with extended family. Beautiful, decorated and complete with sheets on the beds, it felt like a 5-star hotel. Except there was no heat and no hot water because they didn't know we would stay for night. Minor details. Nothing like lots of blankets and washing your hair in glacier-like water (to get the effect, beat your head with a hammer - ah, the price of beauty). The girls got THEIR OWN ROOM which was, without a doubt, a highlight in their lives. They were thrilled - especially since it had a "princess" bed! Life could not be better!!!

In the morning we were walking around enjoying the beauty of the day when Achraf pulled up. After whipping out a picnic basket from his trunk, he laid out a red-and-white checkered tablecloth on a table outside overlooking the sea. Out of the basket he pulled bread, milwi (a kind of bread), Kharsha (corn bread), coffee, hot milk, pure honey, French bread with chocolate inside, cheese and jam. The guard came walking up the path with some steaming Moroccan mint tea. Could it get any better???

Later we had a tour of the brick factory and then saw some more of the coastline. Below is a picture of a Spanish island just off the coast. It hosts a police station and a prison and has no contact with Morocco. Supplies are helicoptered in from Spain.

Before we were ready to leave, Achraf said we couldn't possibly go. "You have to stay for lunch!" (Gerald protests.) "You haven't even stayed 24 hours!" (Gerald protests and explains we have to meet my brother and family in the next city.) "Well tell them to all come here! " (Gerald protests) "My mother has already made lunch!" (Gerald has an emergency meeting with me.) I tell him that his mother could not have possibly started lunch already - it's only 11:00 and Moroccans usually eat between 1:00 and 3:00. I assure Gerald that Achraf is simply being the perfect host but that we have to go. With great delicacy, we explained this to our host. Achraf called his mother. "OK - she said you can go. But you have to come back and stay at least three days!" (Gerald agrees - mostly.)

With a great many thanks and still in amazement of this family's kindness, we say goodbye and head out on our way. Ah - Moroccan hospitality at it's best!

Not Today

Weaving through the busy streets of Meknes, I dodge pedestrians, donkey carts, stalled cars, motorcycles, round-abouts with no rules and taxis cutting in front of me as I head to the medina (old city). I have to admit – I am a small town driver. Although Ifrane certainly has its driving challenges, it is nothing like the “big city” of Meknes. Tired, I pull into a parking lot where numerous men try to get me to park in their section so they can convince me to let them wash my car. I find a spot, get out, make it clear I do not want a car wash, and walk through the mass of fruit vendors who yell the names and prices of their produce as I pass by.

Is it just my imagination, or is everyone staring at me? I’m used to coming here with Gerald and the girls. Somehow they make me feel more confident – they are my anti-haggling insurance policy. I am married and have children: Don’t look twice. But now I am alone and feel completely insecure. Turning onto the alleyway, I pass a clump of beggars. Old, worn out, lame, blind – the usual.

Then I see it out of the corner of my eye. Could it be…? Surely not! Is that enormous lump of flesh the beggar lady’s leg??? My heart jumps and my eyes turn again. They have to know, but my heart does not want to find out. Yes, it is her leg. Grotesque bulges of fat ooze out between the string that is wrapped around her flesh. The words “elephant leg” and “freak show" run through my head. Then images from growing up fill my mind – bulging cancerous eyes, amputees, shrapnel-covered faces, lepers with no fingers or noses...I can’t stop them.

Quickly I turn into the medina. I pass the butcher section with rows upon rows of huge carcasses hanging from hooks. Blood runs beneath my feet on the walkway. I look down – but not in time to miss the man sawing into a cow’s head. For the first time since coming to Morocco, I am truly overwhelmed. I make a feeble attempt at my errand and rush out. For the second or third time, someone makes a kissing sound in my ear. I’m too numb to even want to slap him. Then I enter the alley. I know she’s there. She’s over there on my left. I can’t look at her. I know what Jesus would do. I know what my mom would do. They would walk right up to her and look her in the eyes as I try to do when giving money to beggars. But then they would touch that repulsive lump of flesh that was her leg, and they would sit with her.

But I can’t do it. I can’t even look at her. I rush by averting my gaze from the outcast as everyone else is doing. I can’t do it today, dear God. Not now.

I practically run to my car, hop in, and get out of there as fast as I can. On the way I see people walking and I think – They see this every day. This is their life. This is life in the raw. This is the parallel world that goes on while I live my comfortable life in a city in which it is illegal to beg.

I turn the radio on. Loud. Maybe if I run away, I can pretend it didn’t happen. I’m sorry, God. Not today.

Christmas

We hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!

Having learned from last year that Moroccans do not come to parties if you put signs up, we personally invited as many friends as we could find - often through their kids (Party! Food! Let's go, Mom!). The result was a wonderful group of people - Moroccan, American, French - in our home the week before Christmas. Since our apartment rather neatly divides into two parts, we put kids in one half and adults in the other. One room was quiet, peaceful and full of intelligent conversation (I didn't say I was a part of it, did I?). Then when you opened the door to the other half of the apartment, a blast of noise, light and action hit all who dared to enter. I think you can figure out which room was which!

Christmas Eve we gave the girls their presents. Hamsters. Dogs (our favorite) offend Muslims and our cat was evil and caused too many allergy problems. So we bought our children rodents to keep in the house. Ugh. Sadly, Katrina's died a few days ago. He was a crazy guy - constantly escaping, falling and doing flips - we think he did one too many circus tricks and ended up breaking his back. With many tears, we made a sorry little procession outside in the wild, freezing wind to bury the little guy while Kendra said unhelpful things like, "We're going to bury Katrina's hamster. Not mine. Mine is still alive."

For Christmas day we had Ron, Laurie and girls over as well as two Americans who did not travel over the holidays. We had a great time of eating, singing, talking, helping the kids do crafts, playing outside and wishing for snow.

There's no doubt about it - Christmas is better with family and friends all around!