Casbah

It has been described as an historical and archeological treasure, designated part of the world's cultural heritage by UNESCO, and referred to as the soul of Algiers. Yet, the Casbah has suffered from neglect and the ravages of time. People live in it, selling wares in the Lower Casbah, and buying essentials and gathering water from public fountains in the Upper Casbah. Individual homes have filled in their wells; so women and children can be seen at the tile-decorated common water spouts, filling plastic jugs for household water. Connected and leaky hoses run down the littered alleys and stairways, speeding up the transfer of this potable and valuable resource. Constructed on a hillside, the Casbah is connected by a series of walkways and flights of steps. Workers load plastic sacks full of debris onto the backs of donkeys and carry them away. Cars can't drive into the area's inner sanctums. Hints of its former glory can be seen in portions of homes, which retain the white stucco façades and balconies, held up by dark-brown hardened, slanting poles. A few three to four story homes have collapsed. From a rooftop terrace, I could look out over the dilapidated rooftops toward the bay. It took some imagination to bring the Casbah to life through its historical characters. It was originally a Berber town, founded by Bologhine Ibn Ziri, a Zirid prince, in the 10th century. A statue of him stands in one the nearby "rond points." From there, conquerors came and went: Maghribi contenders for power, the Spanish, the Turks, and then the French. Kheireddine Babarossa stands out as one of the greats, as founder of the Regency of Algiers and a Grand Admiral of the Ottoman fleet. Part of an old wall, mosques, and the palaces of deys, in assorted states of reconstruction and repair, bear witness to the past. Perhaps, the terrorism of the 1990s left little time for attention to history and culture. I'm one of the first Fulbright scholars to come here after these years. My guides, necessary due to the crime in the Casbah, spoke little French. They said that they liked their country, Algeria, but that the Algerian people were: ?. With this, they couldn't find the right expression; they waved their hands and implied there was a problem. The director of Iqraa (Read, the first word of the Qur'an), a program to combat illiteracy had made the same comment. The Upper Casbah is interesting wth its several-storied homes wth terraces,its mosques, its zaouias (tombs of holy men), and narrow streets interconnected with staircases. Children play in the lanes or can be heard shouting behind its wooden doorways. The crescent, symbol of Islam, is popular as a carved decoration. Veiled women stand out; but women in Algeria wear a wide range of clothing. Upon entering the small zaouia of Sidi AbdeRahman (after leaving one's shoes at the door or taking a blue plastic bag from an attendant, putting them in, and keeping them with you), I noticed the number of people sitting along its walls, reflecting or making supplication to the saint. A green satin cloth covered the saint's white marble bier. Men sat on one side of the tomb on the carpeted floor nearest the entry, women sat on the other. The men's circle had a large stack of books in its midst. Women arrived accompanied and occasionally with children in tow. The atmosphere was reverential with a stand for incense and locked boxes for donations. A person in a shiny pink satin jellabah,with hood drawn up over the head, faced the mihrab in devotion, remaining there the entire time I was in the shrine. My guides pointed out that unmarried women, especially, came to the shrine to ask for a good man to marry. Actually, it's Sidi Flih, whose tomb, along with those of others, is adjacent, who is known for this. The guides also said that they believed that God answered a person's requests and needs, not a saint. In conversation with a man in the street, they learned that post of the visitors to the shrine come from outside Algiers. The visit to the zaouia was the most interesting part of my visit to the Casbah. It was living history-Algerians visiting a holy place to meet their spiritual needs. Leaving the Casbah, I came out on Martyrs' Square, adjacent to the New Mosque and the Grand Mosque, constructed in the 11th century. There was so much more I wanted to know; but it was going to take more than one quick visit to the Casbah with guides who had more expertise in security than history. However, it was a beginning; and my fascination with Algeria and its people continues.

Martyrs and Pirates

The sun has set on the fourth day (9/27) of Ramadan. I've just heard the muezzins begin the call to prayer, starting at various times and in contrasting harmonies from the different city mosques. The calls are broadcast through loudspeakers from the mosques' minarets. For observant Muslims, who have had nothing to eat or drink since before dawn, it's a most welcome sound. The sun is making its farewell, reflecting a pastel rose over a transparent aqua band toward the east as it continues its descent behind the mountains' silhouette. It all looks so fragile and intriguing as I watch from my balcony-the bay below with ships and ferries docked at its jetties, the sun set, the calls to prayer which have echoed here for centuries, the lighthouse and bastion of the admiralty off to the left where Turks and pirates lived and worked. I feel privileged to have this view, this opportunity to experience one of the world's cultures, North African, in a particular time and place, revealing a combination of peoples and a trove of historical memory. When I first came to Algiers, I was taken aback by the prevalent use of the word martyrs. There is a Martyrs' Monument, a Martyrs' Square, a Boulevard des Martyrs and pictures of martyrs along the fence of a city park. However, when most of the people have a religious worldview, an Islamic one, this is the word that is used for a soldier who dies fighting the enemy. He is fighting for his country and for God and his given his life for the cause. The United States has many war memorials, honoring the soldiers who died fighting in them. Americans say that these men died fighting to defend freedom, democracy, or the American way. Here Islam is the motivating ideology. I just finished a book on Rais Hamidu,one of the greatest captains in Algerian naval history. The Turks ruled here indirectly for 322 years under the Regency of Algiers. The capturing of ships of competing powers, many of them Christian and thus also infidel, with their arsenals and booty provided a major source of revenue. Hamidu was one of the most important of those whom Americans would denote as corsairs or pirates. He was born of modest means in the Lower Casbah in 1770. In 1797, Hussein Dey made Hamidu commander of his personal and most imortant vessel, armed with 12 cannons. Within five years time, Rais Hamidu captured a Portuguese ship with 44 cannons and took 282 prisoners and, thereby, established his reputation. As a reward, Hassan Dey gave Hamidu a Moorish-style villa, located today in the heights of an Algiers' suburb, El Biar, and named him, Rais of the Taifa (Captain of the Marines). Hamidu lived in the villa until his death. Hamidu's death came at the hands of the Americans. The arrived in the Mediterranean with 10 vessesls, tired of paying tribute and determined to put an end to piracy. On June 15, 1815, the Americans attacked the Algerian flotilla, wounding Hamidu in the ensuing battle. Rather than suffer capture and disgrace at the hands of enemy infidels, Rais Hamidu ordered his lieutenants to throw his body into the sea. Today,he is epitomized as an authentic Algerian hero and warrior. I got interested in the subject from a book (Le Rais Hamidou by Albert Devoulx) I picked it up at the hotel's bookstore, while looking for reading material. It's in many bookstores here. Everything here is in French (or Arabic); but his book was short (141 pages) and, I thought, written for the adolescent reader. It was adulatory. It seemed to be what a patriotic American might write about one our national heroes for middle school readers. The writing, though, proved to be stiff and arcane. I don't think I learned much French I could use on the street. There was a lot of recounting of the booty Hamidu had taken, as lifted from one historical document in particular. Nonetheless,I got a feel for, allegedly, the most celebrated Algerian corsair (pirate) of the 19th century and the type of writing done to build a sense of nationalism in young Algerians.

Ramadan (Le Mois Sacré)

The focus is on the "sacred," since religious instruction and belief remain the greatest influences on the worldview of Algerians. As I begin my day, the hotel security guard handed my taxi driver a sack of candy; and I was offered a piece. As soon as I took it, I realized I couldn't eat it in public. It was the second day of Ramadan (9/25). The papers are full of news about the rise in prices by markets. Shopkeepers seek to profit from the last-minute frenzy of Algerians, purchasing ingredients to prepare their favorite gastronomical delights. Anticipation and excitement about the holiday have overtaken the notion of common sense. Hence, the contradictions inherent in human behavior are visible during Ramadan as in most social events. The month of Ramadan is a time of self-denial-abstention from food, smoking, and sexual desire during the daylight hours. It is a month of piety, spiritual reflection, and concern for the poor. At the same time, it can become a time of excess. Markets become packed with shoppers on the last day before the first day of the holy month. Crowds,long lines, and rushing mark the entire day. Everyone seems to remember one more item to buy for the family gatherings and festive meals, which will take place once the fast is broken (iftar). New bakeries have opened (boulangeries) to make special kinds of bread. The yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread can be savored in neighborhoods throughout Algiers. Immense traffic jams of bumper-to-bumper (pare-chocs contre pare-chocs) congestion begin about 3 PM, as employees leave work and stop for shopping and visiting on the way home. Nothing is spared. Mothers, daughters, and daughters-in-law prepare special dishes, appealing to each and every taste, for the family repast, followed by dessert (oriental cakes) and fancily arranged fruit with tea and coffee. The coffee must be strong to ward off any hint of fatigue or headaches (even migraines) in the first days of the fast, or so the local consensus holds. All this continues until 2 or 3 AM. Seductions of the market, maintaining the family's status, and a quest to fullfil the fantasies of the season lead to increased debt and waste and the inability to distinguish the wished-for from the necessary. End-of-the-month responsibilities and the end-of-the-month feast, Aid al-Fitr, with its similar demands are forgotten. The Egyptian qnd Algerian stock markets took note of this increased personal indebtedness and promptly fell. Moreover, this expense came just on the heels of those incurred with the beginning of the school year. Almost all families have children and undergo the adjustments and costs that go with the return to school. As a day of Ramadan ends, the otherwordly chanting of recitations from the Qur'an can be heard rising from mosques throughout the city, following the ritual call to prayer. Holy books are on display in bookstores, but not under tents in the streets with a myriad of other religious paraphernalia and foods, such as I had seen in Egypt years ago. A certain laicity seems to be evident. Religion is important; but public buildings and the exteriors of shops do not display Ramadan decorations or lights. Yet, there are special television programs and activities in restaurants and theaters. One local restaurant is putting on a "One Thousand and One Nights" special. The state donates a portion of its tax revenues during Ramadan to aid the poor and provide assistance centers to those who suffer health problems from the rigors of fasting. The secular mixes with the religious in a complex, evolving manner. Aristotle, whose works were passed to the West by the Arabs, counseled moderation. Newspapers are making the attempt to pass on the advice, while also participating in the solemnity and celebration of the season.

Idiosynchracies of Globalization

I'm now at the Aurassi Hotel. From my room I have a wonderful view of the bay and the city as it curves around it. It is especially beautiful at night. From the back of the hotel, I can see cliffs and,up on the hillside in the distance,the church: Notre Dame d'Afrique. When descending in the elevator for breakfast, I heard a version of Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer (no lyrics), playing on the hotel's sound system. On the day before the start of Ramadan, it certainly seemed incongruous and definitely surprising. There no signs of the start of the observance in the hotel, except a few signs noting the close of one restaurant and a change of hours for other shops. Since I've arrived in Algeria, the first items two taxi drivers brought up, when I told them I was from a "village" near Chicago, were Al Capone, Prohibition, and the Mafia. This evidence is anecdotal; but it would seem that a very limited version of Midwestern history is making the rounds here.

Boulevard des Martyrs Square

Sitting on the lowlying wall on Boulevard des Martyrs Square, tucked in among the buildings on one side of the street with the name,is a way to look out over the city and bay at any time of day. It especially starts to come alive after 5 PM. Richard Branson, founder of Virgin, announced today his contribution of 3 billion dollars in the fight against global warming. From this square, you can see many of the challenges the globe currently faces, even with the apparent success. The run-down square is the local recreation center. Children play among the black wrought iron benches (where adults sit to talk-a favorite passtime in societies with a low level of literacy),a huge tree with its trunk painted white, and a fountain, which isn't turned on. Teenage boys aim their cues at the balls on two pool tables. Perched on the wall's edge, I looked out over the bay with smoke stacks spewing black smoke on its shores, toward the large hotels and the city center lying at the base of Algiers' hills, and just below I see a shantytown, with I'm not sure how many satellite dishes per small, corrugated roof dwelling. In the evening young people and children, neat and with clean clothes, are in the street descending into the bidounville, startled when they see me with a glance above. The bidounville itelf has trash around its edges and on its roofs, a contrast with the neat appearance of the people I currently see entering its folds. When the call to prayer sounds, all eventually disappear from the square. Only a few older men sit on a seat looking into the distance over the city. Ramadan starts on Sunday; yet so far the only notice of it I've seen are newspaper articles announcing the deployment of more police and security measures in Algiers. I'm wondering if more festive foods and clothes and more religious items will begin appearing in stores and on the streets once the month of fasting begins. What is amazing is the determination and persistence of the people I see. Children play and go to school, yet unaware of life's struggles. Adults deal with the traffic jams, the cars that break down, the labor needed to run a shop or deliver goods, yet survive to take on another day. Today, my taxi driver's (Djeloul, 40 with 4 children) car suffered "un pan (breakdown)" in the middle of a busy street. Djeloul tried intently to restart it and disappeared several times under the hood. He finally called the police and my hotel, using my cell phone-since his phone card had run out of time. The police helped him reposition the vehicle, so Djeloul could then coast it down the inclines of Algiers' sloping hillside, ducking the traffic in a one-way street on one occasion (explaining all the time in limited French that his car had experienced "une panne"), to his parking garage. There we waited on the ground floor until an open space emerged; and Djeloul, with perspiration mounting, could roll the automobile in and snare another taxi to return me to my hotel. The human species may experience a lot of challenges and suffer a myriad of indignaties but most of its members never seem to give up.

Notre Dame d'Afrique

Notre Dame d'Afrique is a large cathedral built by the French in the 19th century, set up on a hill side overlooking the Bay of Algiers. It used to have a sign that stated: Christians have been here a long time and converted only one person to their faith-or a version of this. The interior is lovely with a black Virgin over the altar and panels depicting the life of St. Augustine in one of the side chancels. My new, cheap camera wouldn't take any pictures when the light was above a certain level. So, another adaptation to make. The spot is definitely a place of reflection up and above the city with a view of the Mediterranean and the city in gleaming white as it curves around the bay. Yet, on the taxi ride there I became aware of the problems of large cities-here writ large. The traffic wears one's patience thin. People everywhere, struggling to make a living, gathered in a large metropolis to provide an amalgamation of resources and a labor force. The streets were grimy and the apartments dingy as the taxi climbed the curves to the cathedral. While part of the route followed the bay and offered a modicum of tranquility portside, two large smokestacks by the water spew quantities of black emissions, zhich float over the slope of the city and contrast sharply with the sunny urban landscape and bright blue sky. Petty crime is also a problem, with a large population of young men looking for cash, passports, expensive cell phones and cameras, etc. In developing countries, the major part of the population is young people. More personal demons are appearing as I have to stay in lower cost hotels with a lot of time on my hands; but maybe that will be my challenge during Ramadan. Looking back on my camera theft, Moroccans have a saying that: "Money comes and money goes." That could be applied to cameras. With the new technology, they become obsolete so quickly anyway.

The cathedral is on the hillside in the background. The zoom lense on my Chinese (Mercury) camera (disposable batteries) purchased in Algeria doesn't function all that clearly; so this is without it.

Abduction in the Casbah

The Casbah still brims with intrigue, mystery, and a touch of the violent encounter, even if the threat of bombs has subsided. After a short meeting at the U.S. Embassy, I thought I would make a visit to the much-talked-about Casbah. The taxi driver kept explaining to me the dangers of visiting the Casbah, especially as a woman alone. However, I had heard so much naysaying and been the target of so many guides offering their supposedly obligatory services, I wasn't sure how to take the concerns. It was broad daylight afterall. So, I entered the lower Casbah through steps from the port side. After several flights of stairs, walking along a street lined with small shops selling miscellaneous, newer wares, and taking some pictues, a man came up to me to warn me that I was being followed. Well, I had my shoulder handbag well protected, pulled forward over my chest and covered with my arm, and my camera attached to my wrist with a strap. Looking back every now an then and changing my route from one Casbah alley to another, I continued my exploration. As I began the incline up one narrow passageway, I held up my camera to position an image of children playing in a Casbah lane in the view finder. Just as I did so, a young man sprinted up and tore the camera from its strap and out of my hands, disappearing around the corner. Momentarily distraught, I explained my situation to two Islamic-appearing men (beards, long brown and white cotton gowns), one of whom explained the importance of entering the Casbah with a man, then showed me around, and and took me to the police station. An official there explained to me the dangers of the Casbah. Certain individuals in its warrens are just waiting for tourists, or other unsuspecting outsiders with expensive items, to appear and prey upon. He went on to explain that he was an official guide. In what I thought was a rather patronizing manner, but was probably for my own security (or at least his view of it), he offered to show me around some more, wanted me to make specific plans to come back, found me a taxi but also proceeded to arrange for the driver to take me to a camera shop and wait, and thereafter deliver me to my hotel. I was finally able to convince the driver to release me in the city center. I will no doubt have to buy a new camera. However, there isn't much choice here; and it means using more of my travelers' checks. Not much usage of credit cards here. Only a certain of major bank even changes travelers' checks; and euros are preferred. The Cultural Affairs Officier at the morning Embassy meeting had suggested that I not just fly to some southern cities and make my own hotel arrangements upon arriving. So, given today's incident, I'll have to decide how to not overreact, yet think seriously about the need to balance my desire to see more of Algeria with the necessity of caution in doing so. However, I will definitely go back to the Casbah. I want more time to meander up and down its steps, down its narrow passages, and imagine how the Algerians were able to hold out as long as they did in its folds and as portrayed in the Battle of Algiers. No pictures for awhile until I get a new camera and internet service with the software to upload them to blogger.com.

The guys in the picture are three who were on the desert bivouac in Tamransett: the guides, Slimane and Lili, and Pierre-a sort of French Lawrence of Arabia.

In Algiers

I've made it to Algiers through Oran. Quite a change to Air Algérie. The planes are old, not well-cleaned, and have damaged interior parts (hopefully not in the mechanics) and have Turkish as the language on all written information in the plane(maybe this means they are third-hand)in addition to English. Professionalization is at a low and not much precision when it comes to time. The attendants used Algerian and French when they were giving instructions; but when the message "seat belt sign is off" was given, it was only in English, which hardly anyone here speaks. I filled out the entry forms for a couple of Algerians on the plane. Each day in North Africa makes me wonder if I'm giving enough back for all the privileges I've had. Every passenger was supposed to have taken their bag, located next to the plane, and place it him/herself on the baggage cart. Well, no one told me that! A message was announced three times; but sometimes the attendant's French accent isn't that good or she doesn'know how to pronounce my name. So I'm waiting on my luggage, which got left in Oran. While I was waiting for my flight connection to Algiers, which was delayed (the time conception difference), I got to know a friendly and efficient flight agency booker, Fatima, who was anxious to practice her English and did her best to look after me. She bought me a cup of coffee (café au lait) and changed twenty US dollars so I could take a taxi, since all Algerian banks are closed on Saturday-even in the airports. She's going to start work with a branch of Haliburton in Oran (I didn't mention the Cheney connection, since she was so proud of having landed her job as translator with the company) in two weeks. She's 23, studied in Strasbourg, France, has a father who is a lawyer and four sisters and three brothers, is working on a masters in linguistics, and is slated to marry a rich fellow, who lives in Hammamet. She's not crazy about that since she wants to work; and he doesn't favor the idea. She's going to try and persuade him to let her help manage his hotels and bring in some more money. Somehow, I think she will convince him. She definitely took charge of all the booking requests and complaints that came her way as well as keeping up her close and extensive network of airport colleagues, friends, and family. Even when customers came to the window, she treated them as friends and family. I noticed this in Morocco as well. People don't hesitate to ask others for directions and are willing to take time to assist. They always seem to have a bit of humor and to quickly act as if they are warm and fast friends. She is so integrated into and close to her friends and family. She asked about studying in the US, but realized she'd miss this tremendous support system if she did. And think of the support she offered me, while I was waiting for my flight. I got to share her office, an area behind an open window to serve customers entered through locked doors, and meet several of her sisters through pictures on her cell phone and on the internet. I also had my picture taken with her cell phone. Then Fatima's friend, Khadija, took a picture of me and Fatima. And she kept track of information related to the flight delay and when I should check in. My own personal assistant for the better part of a day. I'm back to using the Arabic-adapted keyboard in a cyber café. So I'm thrown into two more languages or so: Algerian colloquial Arabic and French, spoken in a variety of ways by Algerians, and another political approach to the world. I'm staying at the Dar Diaf Hotel, which has its own character. It's probably Algerian petite bourgeoisie. Business men make up most of its clientele-some with their wives. The decor is neo-Arab with tiles and lots of wood carving. Arm chairs and many aluminim-framed chairs surround inlaid tables in the lobby. Yet, it seems to have a more human side than the Sofitel or Hilton, the furnishings of which are basically the same in all large cities. All the major hotels were booked in Algiers on the weekend and probably beyond with people here for a 15-day agricultural fair. I have now picked up my luggage and feel more settled. Algiers is a beautiful port city with traffic congestion. It has a huge Martyrs' Monument, seen from almost anywhere in the city, and streets named after generals as well as Frantz Fanon. A suburb bears the name of Salvador Allende. Although I have seen a wide variety of dress in the city center and fewer jellabahs, there seems to be more conservative dress for women and more head scarves with all the hair covered. One shorter, white face veil is trimmed with ruffles. Men are inclined to have western dress, though not usually the full business suit with jacket. Traditional dress may be more popular in Morocco due to the influence of the monarch-dating from the 17th century.

Caterpillar

Whenever I hear the word, Caterpillar, I think of the company that makes heavy equipment and has its headquarters in Peoria, Illinois. I have seen a grader with the name by the side of the road here in Morocco. Although several other international companies also make what heavy machinery there is here. I was surprised when the name popped up here over a shop on Muhammad V Avenue, the main thoroughfare in the colonial part of town. Upon closer look, I discovered that here it's also the name of a line of sports foot wear. I included this picture (it's the best I can get at the moment) because my son, Tom, works for Caterpillar; and his company might be interested in knowing that other companies are using the name. On a personal note, I have survived all the cars speeding down avenues and alleys here so far. In Morocco, vehicles have the right of way; and they go as fast as they can. I have only two more countries to survive.

Hay Riad (Prosperous Outlying Suburb)

Today I visited Malika Benmahi at a center for the Association Marocaine pour la Promotion de la femme rurale in the nearby village of Temara just outside Hay Riad, where the main headquarters for the association is located. Her husband picked me up in a Hyundi 4 x 4 complete with compass and temperature monitor on the dashboard. The electricity was out at the center when we arrived. Hay Riad is a suburb of villas and upscale living. Large areas of forest line the highways on the way. It has one of the two Marjane supermarket's in Rabat, which supplies almost everything anyone could need from household goods to school supplies. Marjane has a long row of cashiers for checkout and a parking lot of its own able to park over 300 vehicles. The Hay Riad Marjane contains a petrol station, two restaurants, Pizza Hut, and over twenty other stores. Madame Malika is a dynamic and progressive leader, has been to New York five times and to European countries to explain the status of women in Morocco. She is primarily concerned with rural women in the areas of literacy and economic development. She has the full support of her husband, who in a short-sleeve shirt and jeans would appear as an articulate, "middle-aged" man in most Western countries. Proud to show off his 4 x 4, he gave me a lift to my next appointment. He maintains that while Moroccan women traditionally wore the jellaba and a face veil, the headscarf is a more recent innovation. Women wear it now, he says, because they can't afford to go to the coiffeur once or twice a week. Malika is working to bridge the gap between women who live in areas like Hay Riad and Agdal and those in poor, rural areas. Up to 85% of Moroccan women in general are illiterate. In late afternoon, I visited the Organisation Marocaine des droits humains in Agdal. Their office was donated by a former militant who had received compensation from the government. Composed of an elite, the organization didn't have any recent publications. Funding is a problem for all of the ngos I have contacted thus far.

Active Moroccan Women

I had interviews with women at two organizations today. Hayat Dinia heads Féminin Pluriel and has been on a State Department U.S. visit. She has funded a center through the Dinia Foundation, which consists of a conference room, art and cultural area, and a room with computers for information access. Though the building had no water today (this could happen in the U.S.) and needed a cleaning up after the five-week vacation, it's a rather impressive facility for Morocco. The center has held workshops, seminars, and issued several publications. The other organization, Union de l'Action Féminine, is, as its name indicates, a union bringing together assistance for women in a variety area, including protection against violence, empowerment, and education in democracy and women's rights. In between the meetings, I had lunch at a chic, outdoor restaurant with small tables under off-white, canvas umbrellas around a garden near Muhammad V Theater. A Moroccan salad is always the vegetables in season, chopped in small pieces. Salad Niçoise is also popular–shredded carrots, potato chunks, sliced egg, perhaps sliced tomatoes and cucumber, or other vegetables. Meat can be added. Olives and bread are a usual accompaniment. I had salad Niçoise with chicken and carbonated water. A cat slipped out to drink from a dish near a terra cotta pot. The restaurant seemed a place where Rabat's elite come to socialize. The weather is cooler but was still probably in the 80s today. Feels almost cool by comparison.

A Serendipitous Lunch

I did have more "success" in lining up appointments. Yet, today while I was looking around a shabby building for the Réseau Amazigh on Rue Nigéria, which I never found, I was invited by Slimane to have lunch with his family in a 2nd-floor apartment. Another serendipitous incident, confirming the adage that life happens while you are on the way to someplace else. The family consisted of Slimane (a male relative), Hajja Khadija (she had made the pilgrimage with her husband, when he was living), her daughter, Iman (19 yr.), and three sons. I met Nabil (17), who could speak only Moroccan, and an older son, who appeared briefly and liked coffee with an equal part of milk.. Khadija works at Ibn Sina Hospital. Iman and Nabil are both students in the humanities faculty at a university; classes were to start on September 15. Iman knew some English and was especially happy to meet an American. The apartment was Rabati middle-class, plain with scruffy furnishings and cement or tile floors, but with a sleek, silver flat planel television set tuned to a local station. Plastic, held in place with a rubber band, covered the remote. The salon (sitting room) was furnished in the usual style with a shelf stand with television on one end, low sofas with pillows lining the other three sides, and a table in the middle. A breeze blew in from an open window over the sofas. I was met with great hospitality and insistence that I stay and visit and have lunch. Since it was that time and I hadn't found my contact, I decided "why not?" Iman prepared round table in the salon. An embroidered tablecloth was brought from storage under a small carpet at one end of the sofas. Napkins, sewn to match, were placed around the table, which was then overlaid by a lace covering, followed by a plastic one. Mint tea and bread were brought out, as well as Moroccan salad (chopped cucumbers), rice with chopped carrots (served in individual dishes), pepper pickles, olives, and roast lamb with quince and a tomato, vegetable sauce. I was shown how to dip my bread into the sauce of the lamb entrée and break away pieces of quince and lamb from the mound in the middle, using the bread as a utensil.. The typical bread (ksra) here is about 2 1/2" thick and 8' round, cut or torn into pieces for eating. It's chewy, soft-crusted, and absorbent. I remembered my manners and didn't eat any meat until offered and then only a little and took small pieces. A dish towel placed across my knees, I was continually encouraged to eat, to feel at home, to make their home my home, to visit at any time. I ate slowly, since I knew I would have to insist that I didn't want more. After more tea and a glass of water, I was shown about a hundred pictures on Iman's Nokia cell phone– of her with friends, relatives, or in different poses and some taken off the television of her favorite singers. She likes Beyoncé. I also saw photos of her older brothers in "hip" poses–in the back seat of a white stretch limousine, another wearing a trendy sports jacket. All looked like attractive young men ready to enjoy the world, yes even the western one. One photo was of Iman and her brother in black leather jackets.. Khadija assured me that none of her children caused her any trouble and were very easy to get along with. She also asked me if I liked couscous and said that any time I wanted we could make it together at her place. I, finally, decided that I should get on with my other work and insisted that I had to leave. This was followed by protestations to stay, questions about whether I knew any Americans who would like to marry Moroccans, whether I would like to get married, where was I staying so we could continue to be friends, would I please take their phone numbers. In a last minute flurry, Iman pulled an elasticized, plastic bangle bracelet from a box on the bottom shelf of the TV stand and presented it to me as a gift. La viola! Another day in Morocco and another unexpected episode. However, I felt I had learned more about Morocco and its people and wouldn't have wanted to have lunch in any other way. At 5:00 PM, I met with Chaoui Hakima, founder and director of the Centre de l"Education sur les droits de la femme. She is a secondary school teacher and poet and has faced considerable harassment from Islamists for her work. Nonetheless, she is working courageously to change a mentality hostile to women's rights in Morocco.

Public Hammam

I did make a few contacts today. When the going got slow, I went to the public hammam on Zankat Kobrah Street, just outside the medina and the old city walls. It was quite different from the one I went to in Damascus. That one was in an old Ottoman building and quite an experience. It sold soft terry towels and bathing accessories, had several rooms for steaming, which were quite hot, a large washing area, and a room where you could lounge in your terry cloth robe and enjoy a glass of tea with a hookah, if you wished. This one was definitely modest by comparison, but busy even on a Monday. To the uninformed, the entrance to the hamman was not obvious or noticeable from the outside. With some searching and a closer look, I saw an older woman looking after the entrance to the "preparation" room, while a male attendant stood in a small, adjacent office collecting the fees. All the women assistants wore pink uniforms, when they weren't working in the hammam or washing people. Aren't you interested in knowing what they wore in the hamman? Clothes were removed in this entry area, put in a plain wood cubicle, watched over by an attendant behind a desk. Your washing equipment was put into a large plastic pail. As I entered the second room, I found that the steam was not strong at all. So Moroccan public baths are not nearly as hot as Turkish baths, as I had heard. While the roof was rounded, the decorations were basically plain light blue tiles. The entry way had more ornamental ones–the mass-produced kind you see in many people's homes and in civic buildings. This hamman was unquestionably more functional than attractive or ornate. Attendants did work to keep the place clean, continually mopping and pushing the water into drains with long-handled squeegees. A sign also says that the bath is sterilized so shoes and sandals aren't allowed. I sat on my mat on the tile floor. The attendant carried water drawn from a faucet, not zellij Arab-style basins, over in large, white plastic pails. First, there's a rinse or wetting of the body. The attendant pours some over herself–I guess for a refreshing, since the room is warm, if not hot, and a bit stuffy. Then, the dark, olive-oil based soap is rubbed all over your body and rinsed. While you are on your back, in a surprise move the attendant bends your legs at the knee, crosses them, and pushes them up toward your waist. With legs tense from walking, I was suddenly made to feel pointedly alive. Next, the roughing up takes place with the scruffing mitt you brought. I had brought two, one coarser than the other. She chose the green-and-white striped, less rough one. Finally, the ghasoul (clay earth) is dissolved in your pouring cup (mine was aqua plastic, with a handle like a dipper; other bathers had some equivalent of the same) and worked into your hair and all over your body. The tayeba (washing attendant) put some on her own face. Then the final rinse takes place. It seems to end all too quickly. Just after the rinsing ends, you take up your towel, return to the entry room to dry yourself and put on your clothes. Some women sit lethargically on the bench along the wall, resting their feet on wood-lathe pallets and accompanied by a few young girls. I, however, wanted to get a bite to eat, so left after a few minutes–feeling really clean.

Hamman (Bath)

I forgot how wonderful a hamman can feel. This time I had one where I could be by myself. I lay on a narrow wooden bed, with palm-woven pallets and a small pillow, in the middle of a terra cotta-painted room with a rounded roof, inset stone benches, and lots of hot, running water pouring into a basin. Lying there in silence as the steam collects in the room gradually relaxes your body and leaves the world to your imagination as the steam turns the irregular pattern of the hamman ceiling ever more hazy. Before I removed my glasses, I even saw a violet character like a check mark drifting across the ceiling. Definitely, another world. Just as you are completely relaxed (after about 15 minutes), waxing ever more languorous, your body covered with perspiration, the tayeba (hammam assistant) appears. She begins by taking a bowl and sloshing warm water over your body. Then she rubs you on both sides with a brown, olive oil soap, washed away with cascades of temperate water. Next, comes a stimulating working over with a scruffing mitt (kees), followed by rinsing. After the scruffing and rinse on each side, your face is swabbed with soap and rinsed. Then finally, you are asked to sit up. Bowls of water are poured over your body. Your hair is rubbed with ghasoul (clay earth) and rinsed. You stand up and approach the basin, where slightly cooler water gushes over you to complete the bath. As I put on the robe, exited the hammam,and prepared to dress, I couldn't remember when I had felt so refreshed. I didn't want the feeling to end. The last time I'd had a hamman was in Damascus several years ago. I was wondering why I had put off the experience for so long. I thought my scholarly, academic persona had conquered my personality. Now I began to see the inkling of another side.

Agdal (Naperville of Morocco)

Moroccans are proud of Agdal and justly so. It's an upscale suburb of Rabat where the streets are quiet and clean, the apartments are pleasing, and the fashionable and elegant or Morocco live. At first I didn't want to go there; and I did think it was a bit boring. I wanted something more exciting–an impressive historic site, a tinge of exotism or feast for the senses like Marrakech or Fes. Then I realized this is what most Moroccans probably aspire to. It's as close to the West as they may be able to get. It's not too far from the university, has a MacDonald's, French sidewalk cafés and patisseries, and many other stores oriented to the consumer society. People for the most part dress Western style and speak French. Poverty seems to be at bay, although I did see one man walking up and down a sidestreet calling out for assistance. So, the myriad of handicrafts aren't present. The dishes you see available could be purchased at Target. Ornate arches and medieval walls don't pop up before your eyes. The noisy hustle and bustle of the medina or the central market near Bab al-Hadd are far away. Instead, the area is calm, attractive, and well-kept–with gardens nearby. An area the average person would find a comfortable place to live.

Fascination of the Oudayas

The Oudayas is such an interesting site. I don't know where you can experience more types of activity, numbers of people (maybe during the hajj in Mecca), and such intensity of encounters. It's a Kasbah on a rocky protusion overlooking the River Bou Regreg which has a café and where people still live. 1) History. It's old–founded as a fortified town in the 12th century and revived by arrival of Muslims who had been expelled from Spain in the 17th. Throughout the 17th century, the Kasbah des Oudayas grew notorious for its pirates. Piracy continued until the 19th century. 2) Eats. The Oudayas Café is on a shady terrace looking out over the river and serves scrumptious Moroccan pastries. A crescent-shaped sweet cake (kaab al-ghzal) actually represents a gazelle horn, thus its name. Filled with almond paste, they are a sheer delight. Another version of this is round like a thin donut. Honey pastries (baklava), rolled and triangular, are popular. The soft coconut-almond macaroons, with or without a powdered sugar coating are mouth-watering. The cookies I like the best are almond-shaped, filled with almond paste, and covered with a thick, packed coating of powdered sugar. These with mint tea without sugar (bidoon sukra) is my favorite complement to any day. Moroccans prefer tea with lots of sugar, a permissible high in a country where alcohol is socially unacceptable. You can tell I love these pastries, since I spent so much time describing them. 3) People. These you begin to meet on the way up toward the huge, imposing ornamental gate. Couples, families, and individuals are sitting on the surrounding lawn–especially in the evening when it's cool. Vendors display their wares or sell pink cotton candy; and numerous women offer to decorate your hands or feet with henna. a) Guides. At the first entry point, several young men approach you to offer their guiding services. Most of them begin by saying they only want to make conversation. However, if they spend a considerable amount of time explaining the area to you and showing you around, they hope you will feel indebted; they then usually proceed to ask you for some token of appreciation. Since I've visited the area several times, one middle-aged man recognizes me and seems to want to practice his English. Many Moroccans don't have the opportunity for formal education, so pick up their skills where they can. One way to get a native speaker as a teacher is to talk to a tourist. His name is Abdullah. He lives in the Oudayas in a house overlooking the estuary, which is located between that of two ministers. He invited me to visit him–no doubt to practice his English, perhaps gain some charity, or to drum some more business. b) Personal events related to the families who live there. I saw the beginnings of a wedding as a cow was brought to a home and circled in front of it. Musicians then played in front of the home, while quantities of food in large metal tangines and plastic-covered baskets were loaded in the back of a pickup truck, along with a floral decoration. Finally, the pickup truck headed a procession through the medina (old city) followed by the musicians and family members. c) Job training. I continued to walk and was met by a young man who invited me to see his family home, which he said was old, and eat some couscous. The entry had Allah twice carved in the top of the dark, wooden door frame. The sitting rooms, kitchen, and hamman on the ground floor and the bedroom upstairs were modestly furnished and didn't appear that old, although the infrastructure may have been. He turned on the television in the upstairs room (after a bit of work with the remote, he got a local channel), offered me some of his mother's couscous (good, I ate a little), and then proceeded to tell me that his sister did massages in a hammam and wondered if I was interested. As I left, he continued to try and speak a few words of English, presumably to increase his vocabulary. While he said he was interested in making my acquaintance only out of friendship, he did ask if I had an American dollar as a souvenir. Now I realized this was a new selling techniquem (or gimmick, if you take a less flattering view). A boy in Fes had given me a couple of small, gold-trimmed mirrors to welcome me to Morocco, showed me around a bit, and then he, too, even after a 10 dirham tip had asked for a dollar as a souvenir. In a society with a large degree of illiteracy and few marketable skills, you can't blame people for devising what techniques they can to make a little money. d) Masses of humanity. The number of people who descend on the Oudayas in the evening is amazing. French tourists and a few others are beginning to arrive during the day. After 4:00 PM, however, Moroccans of all ages want to stroll or sit outside. Many go to relax on the lawns or in the gardens of the Oudayas and to have a drink and snack at the café. Many also come to swim at the beaches, both on the river and Atlantic side. They get packed. If you make your way through the small alleys, past the white-washed houses with colored doors in various styles, you reach a platform at the top. Here you see the Bou Regreg entering the Atlantic; and the view is superb. You can look across the river to the old quarter of Salé; watch people sitting under their tents, playing their games, and running into the water on the beaches; and also walk down to the water's edge. 4) Museum. If you wish. It's in a house built by Moulay Ismail in traditional style. Yet, it's the Oudayas as a whole which is so captivating. You can experience a full range of scenes and emotions while there–serenity at mid-day in the café, making sure to find a seat in the side section where the breeze blows off the water; amazement at the number and diversity of people as they come to relax, make money, or see some new sites; wonder at the varieties of dress on display–the jellabahs of young Moroccan women, the face veils or scarves covering all the hair of older women, the traditional yellow leather slippers of some Moroccan men, the western dress worn by Moroccans and westerners, the shorts, floppy hats, and brief tops of tourists; frustration as the object of money-making schemes and at the clashes of culture. You want to take an interesting picture; others consider it an invasion of their privacy. Moroccans have their warm, generous, and hospitable style; you don't feel you can give all of your money away or spend in excess. Moroccans consider the person most important, not what happens later. You want to do something "now" and achieve "your" goals.

Chellah

Today I visited the oldest settled area of Rabat, known as Chellah. It's on the banks of the Oued Bou Regreg (the river separating Rabat and Salé) and was probably founded by Phoenicians in anywhere from the eighth to third century BC. Later, the Romans took over (40 AD) and established the Roman settlement of Sala Colonia. Roman ruins have their allure; but I thought the Merenid ramparts, walls, and triumphal gates the most interesting. In fact, one of the most astonishing aspects of a visit to the Chellah is the number of stork nests on and around the mosque's minaret. Another is the number of couples who visit a pool with eels, toss coins into it, and sit in contemplative silence on its edge. Some say women toss eggs into the pool for fertility. The eels often retreat to the farther reaches of the pool shaded by an arched cover. I did see a few, however. Nearby, just outside the zaouia (sanctuary), a woman was feeding at least 30 cats. Cats roamed and slept freely throughout the Cellah. The Cellah was used by the Merenids who conquered Fes in 1248, as a spiritual retreat. Apparently today, cats help to add to that atmosphere and perhaps receive a bit of baraka (blessing) themselves. A few roosters, supposedly not to be forgotten, also made their appearance in the area around the basin. Not far away is a marabout's tomb, topped with a small white koubba (cupola). Three aspects of Moroccan religion present in view of each other: Sunni Islam, Sufism, and traditional beliefs. From a platform in the gardens, you can view the massive walls and look out over the River Bou Regreg to see cultivated fields below and cliffs across the river. I visited the Chellah on a Friday at noon, when most Moroccans were at prayer and most tourists off having lunch. I was able to experience the site at its most serene.
On a different note, a cartoon in the Moroccan newspaper, L'Economiste (9/7), has a Lebanese teacher thinking of asking his students to share their summer vacation experiences, until he notices the signs denoting a death in the family on their desks. I don't think the average American would symphathize as deeply with the Lebanese people as do Moroccans. Given a world view shaped overwhelmingly by religion, most Moroccans also view Hassan Nasrullah, the leader of Hizbullah, as a hero.

Daily Life

Got my hair cut for 30 dirhams ($3.54). After dampening my hair, the hairdresser (coiffeur) hung the towel on a small clothesline stand outside. However, I got my money's worth. Although it was a simple cut, the hair was aligned in various ways for proper measurement of length; and the blow dry and brushing were included. Then I was met by Khadija Hassan. We had soft drinks together, seated outdoors in a square near the expansive, palm tree-lined Muhammad V Avenue –especially beautiful at night with its fountains. Rabat's new town follows French colonial style with wide boulevards, prominent municipal buildings, and upscale shops, now a bit on the tawdry side. The time to do people watching is about 7 or 8 PM, when it seems everyone comes out for a stroll. After a bit of conversation and calling her sister on her pink and beige Nokia cell phone, Khadija invited me to her family's home. She lives with her mother and three sisters in a ground floor apartment in one of the cement buildings making up Rabat's suburbs. We went by taxi. I would say it is a lower middle class unit–and quite hot this time of year. No effort is make to let in air from the outside. Alleys between the apartment building are narrow and relatively clean. The older brother is married with children and works in Italy. The family appears to be of Berber origin, the mother from Rissani and the father from Ouarzazate (Berber cities in the southern oasis valleys). We had cakes and tea followed by spaghetti with a light tomato sauce accented with bits of fried fish. I was appreciative of seeing another side of Moroccan life. However, I think the main intent of the visit was to try and secure a job; and I couldn't fault Khadija's energy in pursuing her goal. She's a bright and nicely attired young woman of 30, who had just ended a three-year job as a nanny with a French family. She will start work as a beautician (coiffeure) on Monday. She asked me if I lived alone and had anyone to help with house work. On the taxi ride back to the hotel, she asked about offices that could help Moroccans get jobs in the U.S. Khadija dressed in western fashion with a nubby pink top and pink and white, vertically-striped slacks. Her sandals and handbag were new and fashionable. I noticed her sister, wearing a black and white striped top and black slacks at home, put on a jellaba when she walked with us to the street to look for a taxi. She walked in the easy, swaying manner Moroccan women often walk in their open-heeled sandals. She accompanied Khadija as they took me back to my hotel. None of the daughters is married, though they range in age from 28 to 32. The mother, heavy-set with the Berber-style headscarf–tied, involving a tightly-wound, round role across the crown, takes care of the home, which consists of a couple of sitting rooms (salons with low, Arab style sofas with pillows, palm-woven floor coverings, and a table in the middle) and a kitchen on the ground floor. One of the salons has a television set, but no satellite service. Programming switches between French colloquial and French. The set sits on a set of shelves decorated with plastic flower arrangements, pleasing from what I've seen elsewhere. A simple, X-shaped Koran stand fills the small space between the shelving and a nearby divan. The books it holds are not readily discernible. Other than this, no religious imagery is apparent in the apartment. One picture of the oldest grandchild, now 11, at the age of 3 graces the upper reaches of a wall. Bedrooms are probably upstairs. The youngest daughter works long hours in a garment factory and makes 2000 dirhams a month–about $238. The majority of young people can't find good jobs; and this prevents them from getting married. Khadija wants to meet again and perhaps take me to Agdal, a fancy, upscale Rabat neighborhood. She makes the most of her minimal French language skills. I often have a hard time understanding her; and she isn't familiar with all of the French vocabulary I use. That, together with the fact that my Arabic is based on modern standard and Egyptian and Yemeni colloquial rather than Moroccan (darijah), leads to some interesting conversations. I went to bed with such mixed feelings. I had been fearful of seeing a slice of Moroccan life I might have liked to avoid. I was comfortable in my hotel room with its air conditioning and probably would have been content to stay there or at least take a stroll in Rabat's center in the cooler evening air at my own casual, distant and solitary pace. This cocoon was interrupted by Khadija's visit to my hotel and her invitation for an evening's conversation. While it had an ulterior motive, I couldn't help but feel admiration for her determined search for a new job, and the ability with which she did it given her skills, as well as compassion for the challenges she and her family face.

La Rentree (The Return)

Here in Morocco, they have something we don't have, which is more than going back to school, although that does occur and is included. It's a larger social event also marked by the return of parliament in October. Living in Morocco requires several things: 1) Developing the muscles for happiness, working at it. Learning to become aware of what you're experiencing and how this fits in with the larger picture of your life. 2) Transforming yourself. Transforming yourself to transform the world around you. How to adapt to a situation, see yourself as part of two cultures, and give something that will last. Keep adapting to realities here–that holidays can come without warning, that life proceeds at an entirely different pace and in a manner to be discovered. Last year, school was called off here during the solar eclipse. It was thought it would be harmful to children. Not because they would be staring at the sun, but for more traditional, superstitious reasons. Women, for instance, could lose their virginity if exposed to it. 3) Relate your experience to life in the States. Your friends and family there won't probably see you except as a frozen image in space, won't want to hear about Morocco for more than a few minutes when you return. Women will always ask about the veiling, men about the violence. Here one is often caught between relaxing and making the most of the slower pace and greater availability of time and the sense that we're wasting time, being unproductive. Frustation can set it. A useful phrase here is "In sha'allah" (God willing). However, one American here became known as the "No In sha'allah" person. Funny! These ideas came from Lucy Melbourne, a dynamic Fulbrighter teaching at Muhammad V University in Rabat. The picture is of a bird in a kasbah alcove–something on the lighter side.

Rabat

There is definitely a middle class aura or more to Rabat with its large community of foreign residents and status as a diplomatic center. However, it does have a medina (largely populated by poor people) and some historical sites. It's nice to be away from the hassle and pressure to buy of the more touristic sites like Marrakech and Fès. Today, I attended a series of lectures at the Moroccan-American Commission for Educational and Cultural Exchange. While the Berber language is ancient, it is in the process of standardization; and Moroccan Arabic is, more or less, a language in itself. Now that I have learned that the water is drinkable in the large cities, I have definitely taken advantage of the wonderful fruit available in Morocco. For a coffee break this morning, we had what Americans would call a fruit smoothie (drink), expresso coffee, and delectable Moroccan pastries. The lunch was also wonderful. Although I am back in Rabat, I included the picture on the left to indicate the varieties of Islam practiced in Morocco-largely Sufism and Sunni Islam. The picture displays a zaouia (sanctuary) of a marabout (sage), closed to non-Muslims. The door has an intricately decorated archway of carved cedar and stucco. Seated in the courtyard of the sanctuary on the left were people who had come to be cured of various illnesses or for charity. I didn't want to take their picture.While I was there, a man came in with a bound goat-in the background, right of center. Such offerings are made in the belief that intercession by the spirit of the marabout (holy man) can assist people with their problems. A large number of families lived in underground tunnels nearby. While Morocco is seeking to use Turkey as a model, all but a few mosques (Casablanca's Hassan II, Rabat's Muhammad V Mausoleum,Rissani's zaouia of Moulay Ali Sherif-founder of the ruling dynasty, and the Moulay Ismail Mausoleum in Meknès) are closed to non-Muslims. The Tin Mal Mosque in the High Atlas, built by the religious reformer Ibn Tumart, is officially closed for restoration. However, the guardian is generally willing to show visitors around for a small tip. On a different note, I learned that with digital cinematography, films are being produced with Moroccan imagery, without anyone coming to Morocco-like Babel. Of course, many of the movies filmed in Morocco weren't about the country anyway.

Grand Kasbahs

Apart from the dunes in the south of Morocco, the great attraction is the myriad of kasbahs. This is a feature of the Kasbah Amerhidil used in the filming of many well-known movies. My local guide, Abdul, was looking for a Westerner to help him fix up the kasbah he had bought. While some kasbahs have been restored, many are crumbling or maintained at a subsistance level by families, who have moved in for lack of better housing. While large slums are apparent in Casablanca, for example, there is also a large gap between urban and rural areas. While water is clean in the larger cities, many nomads and people in mountainous villages spend a lot of time gathering water and lead a much harder life. My journeys in the south exposed me to the Berber way of life (actually quite diverse, since most of the people are Berber). My driver, Hadji (Berber from the Middle Atlas) said Berbers are always happy. Since much of the culture is still largely oral, music is of great importance socially and culturally. And it is very enjoyable. Gnaouia, raï, and Arabic music are also associated with the country. I saw some great drums-one of which was from Senegal. There are three major Berber dialects. While Berber is now being taught in schools and an alphabet supposedly dates from some 4,500 years ago, I would think there would be a shortage of teachers and resources. Also, standardization of the language is a problem. Half of the male population of Morocco is illiterate, with the percentage higher for women. In the bank at Tinerhar I encountered "globalization" in an entirely unexpected and serendipitous manner. While waiting to have some traveler's checks changed, I heard the jingle "Happy Birthday" begin to play as a ringtone on someone's cell phone. While, to me, hearing the Happy Birthday melody in a Berber village in southern Morocco was startling and incongruous, I'm sure to most Moroccans the tune was but one among many others.

Erg Chebbi (More Sand Dunes)

This time I had to get on a camel to get a real perspective of the dunes near Merzouga-one of the largest areas of dunes in the world. I also got to experience the furnace, oven-like heat of the south at this time of year and see the Tifalalt oasis around Rissani, where the royal family has its origins. Gorges, kasbahs, the poverty of the area, contrasting with jet setters and movie directors who find the area of interest, are astonishing. Saw the Tiffeltoute Kasbah, where the cedar doors to the salons were used as a backdrop in Lawrence of Arabia. My driver had worked with Mike Douglas and other stars in filming Jewel of the Nile. Tourists, particularly from France, fill the hotels in Morocco in general in March and April. In the picture, you see a very young boy struggling to carry water home in plastic bottles. Women and children in rural and poorer areas spend a large part of the day just carring water to their homes or where they live-sometimes in part of an old kasbah. I encourage everyone to watch former President Clinton's television program (with Sanjay Gupta) on his global initiative (the Clinton Global Initiative). It is informative, accessible to the average person, and provides practical ways a person can help the 1 billion people a year who live on less than 1 US dollar a year. All most of them need is opportunity. I spent my night at the dunes at L'Auberge des Hommes Bleues (Inn of the Men in Blue). It's a former kasbah, where the employees also live, and rent out some of its rooms to tourists, along with camel rides on the dunes. It didn't have air-conditioning or, to say the least, the most upscale, facilities. However, I did think I was going to be able to spend the night on the roof. This night was cloudy; and the lights of the establishment meant that the stars wouldn't be as visible as on a completely dark, clear night. But the idea did seem to have a bit of adventure to it. After my Berber meal of bread and tangine of beef, fried onions and vegetables, with a cooked egg on top, and some entertainment by 3 Tuargeg drummers, I lay down on my pallet on the roof, complete with flashlight. The kasbah staff were noisy until quite late; and dogs wouldn't stop barking. But, I thought, here was a chance to sleep without much on, on a kasbah roof all by myself, and take in the stars and eventual cool of the night. I pulled my sheet up, since a few gnats were attempting a landing, and put myself in a mode to relax. Just then whirling winds, called chergui, began to blow in off the desert. Well, one puff of wind wouldn't scare off a Tuareg, so why should I be afraid. A few large sprinkles began to fall. Surely, they won't last long, since it doesn't rain in the desert. The mini-storm, though, kicked up quite a fuss. And just as I was preparing to make a move to the room below, the receptionist appeared on the roof to check on me and help me if need be. This only added to my distress, since I wasn't dressed for any public appearances. I did get down to my room and finally settled into a night's rest–long, round bedroll for a pillow and all. A hotel assistant made one last call to make sure all was well. So much for a romantic visit to the desert, sleeping under the twinkling aura of the stars, and thinking with Paul Bowles that you could come to the desert for a "baptism of solitude." Travelogues speak of the euphoria experienced in the majestic presence of the desert, that its very emptiness guarantees its beauty and excitement. I'm sure that's true; but my experience with the desert was just beginning.