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Exploring the Cape

Part of the reason why South Africa is such a magical place is because she is blessed with an immensely varied terrain which provides a vast array of flora and fauna.  When most people think of South Africa, they immediately dream of her Big Game Parks and are perhaps unaware that South Africa is also has one of the most varied botanic kingdoms in the world (over 9,000 different species on its fertile, mountainous slopes).

South Africa’s rugged coastline features gorgeous white sandy beaches, rolling hills covered in vineyards, craggy green mountains (such as Cape Town’s famous natural landmark, Table Mountain), lush, tropical botanical gardens and of course, the world famous savanna land where the lions, elephants, rhinos, leopards, zebras, wildebeests, giraffes, and more roam.

The southern tip of South Africa is an adventure-lovers paradise offering hiking, biking, golfing, paragliding, surfing and beach sports abound not to mention world class dining, shopping, entertainment and culture.   Cape Town is often considered one of the most beautiful cities in the world and when I first saw this spectacular city, her aura, beauty, excitement and adventure captivated my heart and soul.

Some of the outdoor highlights of our second day in Cape Town included a hike at Table Mountain, a visit to the spectacular Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, and an afternoon spent in Clifton Beach.

Riding the Gondola up to Table Mountain (often covered in a gorgeous “tablecloth” of clouds):

It’s a long way down:

Views of Cape Town fron the top of Table Mountain:

Next stop:  A Visit to lovely Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens, arguably one of the most beautiful gardens in the world, containing 8,000 of South Africa’s 22,000 plant species!

South Africa’s Grand Protea, my favorite flower of all….normally the size of an adult hand!

Another favorite of mine, The Bird of Paradise….

Lush, tropical greenery!

Located only about 15-20 minutes away from the center of Cape Town,is the local white sand beaches.  We decided to walk there and here are the photos along the way to Clifton Beach.

Leaving our hotel, we followed the sidewalks around the jagged coast.  Here is a gorgeous pool right against a delightful ocean backdrop…

The wild, rocky coastline:

Our destination awaits…

Entering Clifton Beach…notice this is where the ultra wealthy live….

Some lucky person’s house….

Main drag along Clifton beach:

Some cabbies from the Rainbow Nation happy to have their photo taken:

In search of an outdoor cafe or restaurant for a wine-indulging lunch facing the beach:

View of the beach town where everyone comes to hang out and have fun:

The gorgous Clifton Beach:

Next stop….South Africa’s Wine Country…..stay tuned!!!!

Getting to know South Africa better:  Some noteworthy facts about South Africa (Statistics found from www.statssa.gov.za)

Population (2010): 49.99 million. Composition–black 79.4%; white 9.2%;

colored 8.7%; Asian (Indian) 2.7%. (2010 Mid-Year Population Estimate Report at
http://www.statssa.gov.za)

Annual population growth rate (2009): 1.2%.

Languages: Afrikaans, English, isiNdebele, isiXhosa, isiZulu, Sepedi, Sesotho,
Setswana, siSwati, Tshivenda, and Xitsonga (all official languages).

Religions: Predominantly Christian; traditional African, Hindu, Muslim, Jewish..

Health: Infant mortality rate (2010)–47 per 1,000 live births. Life expectancy–55.2 yrs. women; 53.3 yrs. men. (Health data from 2010 Mid-Year Population Estimate Report: http://www.statssa.gov.za)

Economy

GDP (2009): $287 billion.

Real GDP growth rate: (2008) 3.7%; (2009) -1.8%; (5-year average) 3.7%.

GDP per capita (2009): $5,787.

Unemployment (first quarter 2010): 25.2%.

South Africa TRAVEL BY REGION
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The Rainbow Nation

The dismantling and end of apartheid in 1994 marked a dramatic step forward towards hope and reconciliation for the world’s pariah, the amazingly diverse South Africa.  Over 300 years of white dominance and racial discrimination had lasting, heartbreaking effects on the “rainbow nation” an incredibly diverse melting pot with over 11 national languages.  

The promise and hope of Nelson Mandela, the first democratically elected president who was inaugurated on May 10, 1994, thrust South Africa to finally come to terms with its brutal past of discrimination, hatred and injustice that occurred under the many long years of apartheid (which literally means “separateness”). 

The apartheid system was widespread and touched every spectrum of the population based on skin color.  Whites were the privileged class who retained control and power of the government, the land and the nation’s wealth.  Blacks were at the lowest spectrum of the group and basically had no rights, no land and lived in poverty, desolation and constant fear.  A new class of people originated during this time called the “coloured” peoples.  These were people of mixed descent who were all grouped together as one race called the “coloured” and had to pretty much give up their “blackness” altogether resulting in destruction of families, livelihood and spirit.   Under apartheid, mixed race marriages were banned; and education, job opportunity, housing and living areas were all determined based on color leading to severe oppression, poverty and destruction of an entire race of people.

The dismantling of apartheid occurred in the early 1990s, when a new leader F.W. de Klerk took over power, unbanned the ANC and ended the 27-year-long imprisonment of Nelson Mandela, the infamous leader of the ANC.  Over the next four years through difficult negotiations, the first democratic elections were held and the New South Africa was born when Nelson Mandela, age 76, was able to cast his first ballot ever. 

Shortly after coming into power, Mandela launched the Truth and Reconciliations Commission to investigate the human rights abuses which occurred under the years of apartheid.  Although forgiveness was difficult to achieve, the country was somehow able to peacefully move forward to a new future of hope and freedom.  Long deprived and oppressed South Africans were slowly able to reclaim a sense of dignity and pride yet of course without problems.  Severe poverty exists throughout much of South Africa as there remains a large imbalance of wealth based on color, and the AIDS pandemic has struck the country like lightening.  Positive things are in the works as well, though.  Since the end of apartheid, South Africa has gained one of the world’s most progressive constitutions, has become a leading player throughout Africa, and has won the status of one of the world’s fastest growing tourist destinations, which has brought in much-needed capital to the country.

It was a decade after the end of apartheid, right in the midst of all this change, that I saw the ad in Conde Nast Traveler sponsored by South African Airlines and the government of South Africa, featuring an enormous gray elephant across the page with the words “Visit South Africa”.  The deal sounded too good to be true.  For US$1800, you received a coach fare ticket non-stop from Atlanta to Johannesburg, and then on to Cape Town for three days, a private safari near Kruger National Park for the next three days, and finally two days in Johannesburg—-including lodging and all flights!  We called South African Airways and it was indeed true. The government was trying to get more tourists into South Africa to help the economy and lucky us got to take advantage of this incredible deal.

We left on the eighteen hour flight from Atlanta with one short stop in Cape Verde, a small island off the western coast of Africa, in order to refuel.  It was the longest flight of my life and our lucky streak continued with a near empty 747. My dad and I both got an entire row of seats across so were both able to lie down flat and sleep!  (An unheard of rarity in today’s over-crowded, full flights).

We landed in Jo’berg and had a couple hour layover until our next flight to Cape Town.  It was late November back at home in Minnesota meaning cold, brown and ugly.  Cape Town, being on the opposite side of the equator, was in the midst of spring.  As we landed, lush green landscape surrounded me and awoken my senses.  The rebirth of spring and of myself had finally begun!

Here are few of my favorite photos from our first day in Cape Town, a magical, richly diverse town that offers endless amounts of fun and adventure.

The rugged, beautiful landscape:

View from the hotel…the beach isn’t far:

The gorgeous rugged beach:

The trendy, hip Victoria and Alfred Waterfront and marina:

Loaded with restaurants and yachts galore:

Me outside a restaurant featuring the “biggest wine bar in the world”…look at this extensive list!

The colorful streets portray Cape Town’s multitude of culture:

A veritable melting pot:

Dinner in Cape Town offers an amazing array of international delights given the immense variety of cultures. We chose a fantastic Indian restaurant for our first night in the Cape and enjoyed the savory, spicy flavors of curries, samosas along with a bottle of delicious South African pinotage. I went to bed feeling excited about the day ahead. On the agenda included a hike around Table Mountain and a visit to the famous Cape Town beach at the end of town. I couldn’t wait to learn more about this fascinating place!

South Africa TRAVEL BY REGION
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Out of the Baby Blues…and into Africa

 

As a child, I had always dreamed of Africa.  It was a place of imagination.  A place of wonder.  A place full of wild animals and people who lived in huts.  I place that a young, dreamer of a child like myself always wanted to explore.   Africa to me conjured up images of elephants, giraffes, lions, and zebras roaming freely among nature at its purest; a place that I held fiercely in my young mind for many years to come.

One year after the birth of my first child, Max, my father and I had the chance to finally fulfill my childhood dream.  We went to Africa.   Physically getting to Africa was a piece of cake.  All I had to do was board a plane.  Mentally getting to Africa was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life.  I had to overcome over three months of severe Postpartum Depression, and pull myself out of the darkness and up onto the road to recovery.  To this day, that was the most difficult, life-changing experience I’ve ever had to survive and at the thick of it, survival didn’t seem possible. 

It had all secretly started months before the birth of my son yet blindingly, I was unaware of the symptoms.   Pregnancy was supposed to be a time of great joy and happiness.  You are surrounded by attention from family, friends and strangers.  You are often complimented on how “cute” you look and how “happy” you must be to be expecting.  Yet, I didn’t always feel that way.  I missed the old me, the active adventurer who loves to run, bike, golf, hike,ski and do anything outdoors.  I found my changing body to be difficult.  I suffered serious morning sickness for sixteen long weeks, crazy moodiness and hormones, and then had difficulty sleeping.  By the second trimester, however things were finally perking up.  I was feeling better, stopped eating saltines in the middle of the night, and was finally walking around the lake again and playing golf.  My rollercoaster hormones subsided and I finally felt “happy” again and excited about the new bundle of joy growing inside of me. 

I rolled along for the next few months until complications struck and I wound up in the hospital with pre-term labor at 34 weeks. Scared and sick, the anxiety of pregnancy crept in and I was confined to weeks of bedrest, isolation, boredom and fear.  I was absolutely miserable.  Being confined and all alone in my house for a month straight was not good on my body and soul, especially given my physically and socially active spirit.  It was hell.  But what came after the birth was even worse than I had ever imagined.  A day or two after the birth of my son Max, something was not right.  Instead of joy and happiness at the birth of my first child, I felt anxiety, fear and dread.  These feelings combined with a huge drop in hormones and lack of sleep worked in a vicious circle perpetuating the problems and making me completely unable to eat or sleep or literally do anything.  Completely and utterly taken off guard, postpartum depression had hit me like a brick.  It was the most horrifying experience and state of being I’ve ever had in my life and unfortunately it took weeks to finally get the right kind of help and get my life back under control.  It took a ton of support, love and care by my husband, my family (especially my mother and mother-in-law who spent weeks with me) and doctors, to pull me out of the darkness and debilitating anxiety and fear that I was in.  At my worst point, I was sleeping only an hour a night, had lost all 35 pounds gained during my pregnancy in a month and couldn’t even hold my baby.  I was beyond afraid and shrouded in darkness.  I didn’t know how on earth I’d ever manage to survive let alone care for a brand new infant.  About six weeks into it, I finally found the right professional help and slowly was able to pull myself up to the surface over time.   Although each day was a struggle, I finally could see a light at the end of the tunnel and knew that I’d get through this horrible thing, I would survive.  Everything would be ok.  It wasn’t my fault.  I wasn’t a failure. It was just something that had happened.  I felt relieved in finally realizing that soon I’d be able to resume nurturing and loving my child.

Six months had passed and I was truly on the road to recovery.  My son Max was finally sleeping through the night and no longer colicky (he used to cry for hours on end as a baby which fed into my anxiety, depression and sleeplessness).  I was running again, sleeping again, and rediscovering myself. I was feeling good and so relieved to be myself again, not this miserable, crying, depressed new mother. I found a new support group of new moms, a babysitter and was able to get my life back to normal.  It was around this time that the idea brewed about taking a special trip with my dad. 

My father and I had done a lot of special trips together, one-on-one, throughout the years.  We went to Ireland to visit my uncle, Peru to climb Machu Pichu, Australia to see the Great Barrier Reef and the French and Italian Alps to go skiing.  I had thought that our traveling days would be numbered once I had a baby, however, I remembered a promise my mother had made me after I got married.  Like her parents did for her, she promised to babysit my children one week a year as long as she was able.   Thus, here I found myself a year after the birth of my first child, doing something that was completely unimaginable just a few months before:  Boarding an 18-hour plane ride to South Africa.

I left right after my son turned one and took his first steps.  Leaving him, after all that we had been through together was extremely difficult.  I had nightmares for weeks before I left and had this insane fear that I wouldn’t come back.  Going half way around the world didn’t feel right.  How on earth could I leave my son?  Conflict and anxiety arose once again, but thankfully my mother and husband were able to talk me through it.  I knew deep down inside that getting away would be the best thing I could do even though it didn’t seem right to leave my son. 

The day of my departure was very hard.  I cried and cried as I loaded my bags into the cab and saw my tiny yet somehow bigger son blowing kisses at me through the window. But once I made it to the airport, met my dad in Atlanta and had a cold glass of white wine, I was fine.  In fact, I was more than fine.  I was me, that crazy, wanderlust, adventurous woman who couldn’t wait to fulfill a lifelong dream….a trip to South Africa! 

Stay posted…..there will be more stories to come about my first adventure sans enfant to South Africa!

CULTURE South Africa TRAVEL BY REGION
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Paris unplugged

It has been eighteen years since I lived in Paris.  Eighteen entire years.  For me, Paris was a turning point in my life.  I was young, free, educated and ready to explore the world.  In 1993, shortly after the new year my mom and I boarded a plane from Minneapolis to Paris where I would be living for the next six months on a study abroad program through the University of Wisconsin. I t was a dream of mine for years and at twenty-one I was finally following my dreams.

I first set eyes on Paris at the young, ripe, adolescent age of thirteen.  My mother and father, both avid travelers (see my first post ever titled “The wood-paneled station wagon“) had always wanted to take us children to Europe.  Throughout our childhood, we had always heard stories about it.  My father had visited several European cities while he was in the navy, stemming his life-long passion for the continent.  My parents had eloped in Switzerland at the tender age of 23 and 25 and spent three months backpacking all over Europe on less than $2 a day.  For my sister and me, Europe represented a place of legend, offering mystique, wonder and fascination in our young, romantic, girly minds.  We had dreamed of going there as we lived through my parents’ multitude of stories.

Then one day in 1984 it actually happened and it was all the result of spending three, long, miserable days being “bumped” in the Dallas-Fort Worth Airport.  You see, back in the 80s airlines always used to overbook their flights, especially during the holidays.  It just so happened that my grandparents lived in Harlingen, a southern Texan town near the Mexican border.  Every single Christmas (until I was 15 years old), my entire family went to Harlingen for a week. Usually we drove, jam-packed, a family of five along with our Irish Setter in tow, we crammed into our wood-paneled diesel station wagon and drove the long three days from Minnesota to southern Texas, fighting all the way.  It was pure hell.  Nothing was ever fun about those drives. We were constantly fighting, never really sleeping, and miserably bored for most the ride. This was before DVD players, before computers or any kind of real electronic or portable games.  So we had to pass the time fighting, driving my parents mad or playing “I spy”.  Plus we usually drove in late December meaning the weather and road conditions were questionable and sometimes darn right dangerous.  After almost killing the entire family spinning out on an icy overpass at 2 am, my mom and dad decided to pay the bucks and fly for the next Christmas.

That Christmas flight ended up being my lucky pass to Paris.  The flights were outrageously overbooked.  Desperate, American Airlines was offering over $300 travel voucher per ticket.  For a family of five, this meant a lot of dough.  Thus to our chagrin, my mom and dad continually jumped at the chance to “bump” us to the next flight over and over again until we ended up spending three full days in the Dallas airport!  I believe this was even worse than the car ride given our grumpy, awful, outrageous behavior.  Yet, we made enough money in travel vouchers to send the entire family to Europe the following summer!  Thus in the end, despite the misery, boredom and never-ending fighting, three days in the airport was nothing compared to a trip to Europe!

The following June, we packed our bags and were off to my first trip overseas.  I remember it clearly.  I had permed, dyed blond hair, a full set of braces and was still somewhere between a girl and a woman.  I was at that terrible age where my mother once informed me that she “didn’t know me anymore”.  Puberty was hell yet at least I was on my way to Europe.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Paris.  The beauty, the romance, the aura enraptured my teenage heart and soul like nothing I’d ever felt. It was love at first sight and I knew that I’d be back. I made a promise to myself right then and there, standing looking at the Eiffel Tour, that I would someday study abroad here.  And, that, eight years later, I did.  I spent my junior spring semester abroad studying at the Sorbonne in the Latin Quarter of Paris, and then stayed on as a fille au pair (nanny) for a French family in rural France.  My semester abroad was one of the best experiences of my life.  I loved Paris with all my heart.  It was a young, dreamy girl’s dream.  It was incredibly beautiful, hip, romantic, charming, mystifying, big and international.  I could walk for hours never once getting bored and always finding something fascinating to look at.  I could spend an entire day sitting in one of the many perfectly manicured parks watching the endless display of PDA (aka love).  I could spend even more time eating at one of the delicious patisseries, boulangeries or multitude of French or ethnic restaurants.  Or I could just sit there at an outdoor cafe in the heart of Paris on a sunny day watching the world go by.  My six months in Paris felt like living in a dream, especially for an overly romantic, coming of age, young woman.

After six months in Paris and three months in the countryside, it was time to head back.  I wasn’t ready to leave Paris but I missed my family terribly as these were the days before internet and calling home was expensive.  I finished my last year of school at UW-Madison and then returned to France once again for a three-month internship in Marseille.  Marseille (or as we used to call it “merde-seille”) wasn’t anything like Paris.  In fact, it was dirty not so pretty and a wee bit dangerous.  But it was still France.

I was able to make it back to Paris a few more times in my twenties but then times began to change.  I got married, had two children and for my future travels chose to explore other parts of the world.  It wasn’t until my recent trip to Morocco that I actually got to see Paris again (see post “I’ll Always Have Paris”).  I had a six hour layover at Charles de Gualle airport and on a whim, decided to take the RER train to the city for a cup of coffee and some memories, then headed back, somewhat satisfied.

While in Morocco, I couldn’t stop thinking about Paris. That was when I decided to look into changing my return flight.  Wouldn’t it be great if I could have one more day in Paris? I pondered, dreamily.

On one of my last day in Morocco, a fellow CCS volunteer and I spent a crazy afternoon trying to find the Air France office in the middle of a protest. The roads were blocked; the police were out with their machine guns; and there was a bit of uneasiness in the air.  Yet I wasn’t afraid.  Everything was so peaceful and so organized.  It was nothing at all like the media lead you to believe.  Plus I was a woman on a mission.

After fifteen minutes of walking circles and trying to remain as anonymous as possible, we finally found the Air France office.  Against the backdrop of chanting and protests (peaceful mind you) I asked in French what the charges would be to change my flight to the earlier time. “$250” she said.  Without hesitation, I changed my ticket.  Not because I wanted to leave Morocco.  I loved my stay in Rabat.  It was because of that little girl excitement beating loudly in my heart that told me I had to do it.  I had to spend just one more day, albeit short, in my beloved Paris.

The night before my departure, I tried to go to bed early so I wouldn’t feel tired the next day but I found sleep impossible.  Thoughts raced through my head like the night before Christmas.  What would I do first? Where did I have to go? What sites did I want to see? Where would I want to eat? What shops could I possibly squeeze in?  I found myself restless, tossing and turning all night long in my twin-sized bunk.

I woke up at 5 am to the now normal Call to Prayer, not able to sleep any longer.  I knew that I had to wake up shortly to get ready to catch my 7:45 am flight to Paris.  Plus I was beyond excited for my day.

The flight was non-eventful.  I tried to sleep but I had a screaming, kicking baby behind my seat and an unhappy, rude mother who yelled at me for declining my seat.  Thus I ended up chatting with the Moroccan man next to me who was very kind and loved the fact that I spoke rusty French.

We landed around 10:30 am and by the time I gathered my luggage, went through customs and walked out the airport doors it was already noon.  Without thought, I grabbed a cab and gave him the address of my hotel.  Immediately, I realized I had done something terribly wrong.  The cab driver, an immigrant from some other French-speaking African country began to berate me to the point of humiliation.  I was no longer in Morocco that was for sure!  He yelled and complained that he had waited three hours in line and then wound up with a short fare. My hotel was only three miles from the airport and I should have taken the courtesy bus, he claimed, fuming.  My mistake.  I apologized and gave him a measly tip yet inside I was glad I didn’t take the slow-boat to China courtesy bus.  It was already one o’clock and I was famished.

I checked into my hotel, nothing special, yet convenient since I was flying home the next morning.  I asked if there was a place in the hotel or nearby to grab some lunch and then I was sent on a wild goose chase ending up with only an apple and a yogurt from the only open place in the Roissy village.  By this time, it was approaching two o’clock and I wasn’t anywhere near Paris.  The RER ride is at least 45 minutes long to the center of town.

I waited for the black courtesy bus and waited and waited.  Thank goodness I didn’t take it from the airport (despite having an angry cab driver, it would have just wasted more time).  I finally got my ticket to Paris for about $10, sat down in the un-airconditioned train, sweltering (yes it was 80 in Paris!) and beyond hungry.  Once again, I met some friends along the way.  My henna attracted the attention of a group of young Moroccans who talked to me happily the entire ride to Paris telling me that yes they do date and no, there parents far away don’t know. Ha Ha.

By 3:30 PM, I was finally there!  It wasn’t the “whole day in Paris” that I had planned on.  But I was going to make the best of it!  I walked and walked throughout herds of people.  I couldn’t understand why there were so many people there.  It was absolutely nuts.  Nothing like I remembered it eighteen years ago.  It was gorgeous, hot and sunny.  Plus it was Saturday and finally, it was Easter weekend (Yes that was really the reason.  Easter is one of the biggest holidays in Europe and prime time to take a holiday). Thus Paris was packed.

I desperately looked for an empty table at one of the hundreds of outdoor cafes in St. Germain and finally, like a vulture preying on some road kill, found a couple vacating a table and I snatched it.  Here is a picture of me, finally eating my lunch (a mouthwatering tartine au fromage) and having a much deserved half carafe of white wine, freely and openly (we’re no longer in Morocco baby):

There I was, drinking wine and watching the world go by in one of the greatest, most beautiful cities in the world. I could have stayed here all day!

You would think being alone in a huge city like Paris would be intimidating for a foreigner but not for me.  I found traveling solo to be invigorating.  In fact, it actually opened a lot of doors for me, especially because I speak French.  The people I talked to and the conversations I had during my time alone in both Morocco and Paris were amazing.  I found that being alone and just talking to the locals is when you learn the most about others and even yourself.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking around, window-shopping and rediscovering Paris.  Yes, it was outrageously crowded, and it truly bothered me.  Yet, it was still the same old, wonderfully amazing Paris.  A city I once loved and will always adore.

At one point during the day, the skies above suddenly rumbled and let down layers of thick, heavy rain in the midst of a blue sky. I t was wild!  Of course I didn’t have an umbrella.  The sky was perfectly clear when I left the hotel hours before.  Yet I didn’t care.  Paris in the rain is still unbelievable.

Before I knew it, it was getting late.  I had walked for hours and was exhausted.  Plus I didn’t want to deal with taking the RER back too late by myself.  Conflict arose.  Should I eat dinner down here or at the measly, airport hotel?  That hotel was so boring.  Paris is so exciting!  But I was so incredibly tired.  Wouldn’t it be great to just kick back, go online, and have some wine before bed.  Just relax.  Yeah, right.  This is the thirdeyemom, someone who can never relax. Plus, when on earth would I ever be back in Paris? The decision was made.  I would eat downtown.  Now I just had to find the nearest metro station.  Ok, without a map that took me another hour and once again it was getting late and I was t-i-r-e-d!

I changed my mind and decided to go back to the hotel.  I bought my $10 RER ticket, boarded the train and was ready to chill out for the long ride when all the sudden a zillion young twentysomethings boarded the already packed train.  What on earth was going on? I wondered, feeling my anxiety rise (I don’t like being crammed like a sardine in a hot, stuffy train!  Never did, never will).  I asked wearily to the young man next to me.  It was the big match de foot…the soccer game!  After two stops of pouring down sweat and nearly passing out, I desperately crammed my way through the mass and jumped off the train, forfeiting my $10 ticket back.

I jumped off the train and checked my surroundings.  Hmmm…where was the nearest place I could go?  It couldn’t be anywhere, of course.  It had to be awesome, somewhere special, and somewhere that had memories.  I looked at the large map pasted on the dingy, dirty subway walls.  A-ha! Montmartre!  It was only a few blocks away.  So, not thinking about the tourist hell I’d experienced all day long I headed out the door and towards the Sacre Coeur and “quaint” Montmartre.  Instantly, I knew I’d made a big mistake.  There were hordes and I mean hordes of people taking up the entire width of the street.  What was I thinking?

Disappointed, I decided to at least walk up the hill to Montmartre just to see if it was indeed packed. I  walked up the steep steps to the whitewashed Sacre Coeur and knew that eating in the beloved square of trendy Montmartre was out of the question.  I couldn’t even more through the layers and layers of tourists thus immediately turned around and headed back.  Thankfully the visit wasn’t at all moot, as I was able to catch my favorite Parisien landmark on film, the beloved Tour Eiffel in the distance.

It was nearing eight o’clock and I really needed to find a place to eat, even if it wasn’t the best.  I walked down the windy streets of Montmartre, trying to get off the beaten path and find a less crowded street.  Then, alas….I saw one empty table outside at a cafe and grabbed it. I ordered up a typical French meal with a prix fixe (set price) of aperitif of kir royale, followed by a delicious salad, salmon and a dish of “deadly for the figure” profiteroles.  I sat back, relaxed and truly enjoyed the last hour of being in Paris. Ahhh…..Paris.

Happy, I headed back to the metro and had to once again spend $10 on a ticket back to the airport (since I had earlier forfeited mine).  About thirty minutes into the ride, I realized I had to go to the bathroom….a terrible thing in Paris because there are literally NO public bathrooms, anywhere.  I sat and sat on the slow boat to China, once again, because after eight pm apparently there are no direct trains to the airport.  There are only the ones that stop at each and every metro stop.  An hour later, I was at the airport and desperately looking for a bathroom.  There was none. Ok, I could keep holding it, I thought.  Then, I waited for that black courtesy bus, still holding it.  I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Until finally twenty minutes later it came and I was nearing tears.  I boarded the bus which stopped at every single hotel and didn’t arrive back to my hotel until thirty-five minutes later.  By this time, I was ready to explode.  I ran to my room and finally relieved myself.  It was 10:30 PM.  It has taken over two hours to get from downtown Paris to my hotel.  I was spent.  All I wanted to do was go to bed which I did after packing up my bags, sending off a quick email to my family and thanking the Air France ticket agent for changing my ticket.  Was it worth the $250 and all the craziness and adventure of the day to be in Paris once again.   All in all….YES!  Paris, je t’aime toujours.

France Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION Volunteering Abroad
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The Greatest Gift of All

It’s been a long, exhausting, unrelenting week. Our harsh, brutal winter has continued to hang around, bringing bouts of cold wind, rain, and even a few miscellaneous snowflakes. The barren trees have yet to bloom. Yet there are signs of life’s rebirth and rejuvenation. The birds are back. I hear them singing their beautiful, glorious, celebratory songs outside my bedroom window every morning at dawn. The light of the sun, when it does break free out from the clouds, feels different than before. It is more alive and brighter and when it does appear, it warms my soul and brings life to the world. We are still in that strange, confusing phase where spring is playing tricks on us. One minute, it is there in all its glory, sun shining, birds singing and buds blooming before your very eyes. Then the next minute, it disappears, behind the gray, dark clouds and rain thirsty land.

As a stay at home mom of two extremely active and busy kids (aged 4 and 6), it is actually ironic that I have even noticed that it is almost Mother’s Day and the leaves have yet to bloom. Where on earth do I have the time to sit and ponder about the absence of spring and wonder when it will every arrive? Furthermore, how can I actually sit here and daydream about the great joys and revitalization that spring brings to us hearty Minnesotans each year. Easy! I’m a stay at home mom, meaning I am in my house or out and about each and every day of my life, facing the elements and watching nature change before my eyes. It would be impossible to miss. Yet for some funny reason I seemed to miss spring every season when I worked. I seemed to miss a lot of things that I took for granted when I worked.

As Mother’s Day approaches, of course everyone asks “What are you doing for Mother’s Day”? “Are you doing anything special”? “What do you want to get?”. For me I don’t want a trip to the spa (but of course that sounds phenomenal!), or a huge brunch at a fancy restaurant or some kind of beautifully wrapped present. At almost forty, it is easy to see that I have the greatest gift of all. The best thing possible. I have my kids. (Yes of course my husband counts too…without him, we wouldn’t have our close, tight-knit family of four).

Somehow we survived the brutal Minnesota winter with over 82 inches of snow….but we had fun!

There are days (sometimes many) when I am at my wits end, pulling my hair out, stepping outside the door and swearing beneath my breath. There are days when I can not take the crying, complaining, fighting, demanding behavior of my children. There are even days when I run upstairs and hide, lock myself in my closet and burst into enormous, sobbing tears. But every single one of those days pales in comparison to the last six and a half years of my life that I have spent loving, laughing, cherishing and spending time with my kids. Yes, giving up jobs and careers is a huge sacrifice for many families. Some families can afford it but choose not to. Other families dream that a parent could stay home with the kids, but simply can’t. There is no right or wrong. There should be no judgement either.

I am just utterly blessed for these special, precious moments that I’ve had with my children at home, watching them grow and learn about the world with excitement and hope. When asked what you wish your child could be or have when he or she grows up, my reply is simple: I want them to be happy, productive, self-sufficient, loving adults who care about others and contribute to the world. I don’t need a doctor or lawyer (yes of course it would be nice but I am not the one to decide or demand their future profession). I need a child who cares and can make a difference in the world or brighten the day of someone less fortunate than themselves.

All my travels have taught me that we live a crazy, insane life in the United States. Although there is plenty of poverty, violence and drugs abound, there is also enormous possibilities and potential. Unlike Nepal or India where people can barely make ends meet and live on less than $2 a day, most Americans are truly deeply spoiled. My dream is that my children can understand how fortunate they are and use this knowledge to make the world a better place, one step at a time. Perhaps I have too lofty of goals but that is what parenthood is about: Inspiring your children to dream big.

Happy Mother’s Day, all you Mom’s out there!

CULTURE
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Morocco Today: A Land of Complexity and Contradiction


A Moroccan stop sign

An afternoon tour through the ancient Roman ruins (AD 40) and Merenid necropolis of Chellah (built in the 14th century by the Merenid sultan Abou al-Hassan) reminded me just how much history and change has passed through Morocco.

Here are some photos of the ancient city of Sala Colonia and Chella:

The overgrown ancient city is filled with towers and crumbling defensive walls that once protected the powerful Merenid sultan:

Per Lonely Planet Morocco (9th edition), “Making out the structures takes a bit of imagination, but the mystery is part of the magic of this place”.

Now the towers and trees are home to the hordes of migrating storks which are in the process of mating in the spring (I was wondering what that loud, obnoxious sound was! Apparently they clack their bills in order to attract a mate). That was almost as impressive a sight as the ruins!:

Note in this picture there are three levels of nests!

Up close and personal with a stork:

Here is a photo of the remains of a beautiful Islamic complex (note the colors are green and white, the sacred colors of Islam):

The gorgeous, lush Moroccan countryside and farmland offers the visitor a glimpse of what the countryside is like:

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Today Morocco remains a country full of complexity and contradictions. It’s rich cultural heritage starting with the Amazigh (Morocco’s “free people” or natives also known as the Berbers) then subsequent invasions by the Romans, the Arabs, the Spanish and the French (Morocco gained independence only in 1956) have made it the complex, mystical place that it is today.

As a bridge between both the Western and Arab worlds, Morocco is loaded with complexity and contradictions. While it is an Islamic kingdom with over 99% of the population being Muslim, Morocco is widely regarded as one of the most modern, liberal-thinking Islamic countries in the Arab and North African world. Traditions remain sacred in Morocco yet some are changing, especially with the younger generation. Veils can be seen worn by young and old women side-by-side other women wearing their hair down freely and uncovered. Praying is done five times a day, yet if it is missed, that is accepted as long as it is made up over the course of the day. Restaurants, cafes and discos are opening among the main city centers while the majestic medinas and world-famous souqs remain the main shopping area of town.

As many people would like to believe, camels cannot be seen walking down the street (like in India!) but are seen in the sahara desert. And, believe it or not, goats can be seen in the trees (in Agadir, goats climb the trees to eat the Argan nuts which is passed through the goats feces and made into the world famous Argan oil. This is a fact!).

Thus times are changing for Morocco as it advances towards modernization and globalization. Yet with these unprecedented changes, tensions arise in a deeply traditional and highly religious society. Morocco has not been untouched by the recent wave of revolutions touching it’s Middle Eastern and North African neighbors. Although King Mohammed VI has implemented some dramatic changes in Morocco (most notably in regards to social, economic, and political laws), Morocco is still a constitutional democracy in which power filters down from the throne. In 2007, only one out of three Moroccans bothered to vote thus there is some discontent and disillusionment with the government despite the King’s high level of respect and regard among his people. Protests and strikes are a daily occurrence in Morocco. I witnessed them every single day during my stay. Yet, the main difference is that the protests and demonstrations are peaceful. They are well-organized, with hand-out flyers, brightly colored t-shirts, sectioned off streets and an ample supply of police. This is the Morocco that may very well be able to make headways and change for the people and their future. It will be very interesting to see how everything plays out in Morocco. Only time will tell what path it will follow.

Like many nations around the world, Morocco has been significantly effected by the global recession and its economy is slowly picking up. Tourism plays a huge role in Morocco’s economy and Morocco was fortunate to pick up the tourists from its neighbors such as Tunisia and Egypt after the uprisings in each country. However, the recent bombing on April 28th of a trendy cafe in the tourist haven Marrakech which killed 15 people, will most likely have negative repercussions on Morocco’s tourism industry. Terrorism has not really been as huge of an issue in Morocco as it has in other Arab and African countries. There have been two terrorist attacks both in Casablanca since 9/11 (one in 2003 which targeted hotels and restaurants that killed 45 people, and another one in 2007 which occurred outside the U.S. Consulate General and the private American Language Center). Other than that, Morocco has remained relatively safe and even with the recent attacks, I still feel that Morocco is very safe, perhaps even safer than my own country.

Of course there are still concerns that the safety of Morocco may change and become unstable. One issue involves Morocco’s growing population of youth. In a country of 34 million people, 30% of the population is under 15. That could lead to an increase in problems with unemployment (Morocco already has a high level of unemployment, especially among the youth and newly college-degreed), strains on the educational system, and the desire for young, technologically-savvy (yes, they all have access to the internet and satellite TV) to start demanding more freedoms and more opportunities in which the government is not providing. Morocco is plagued by massive social injustices and a large gap continues to grow between the rich and the bare-bones poor. If the King can implement changes soon then perhaps this young, volatile population will be satisfied. If not, well then we know what could happen down the road.

Now that I’ve been back at home in the States for a little over a week, I’ve had some time to reflect on Morocco. I must say that I was completely surprised and taken aback by what a wonderful, amazing country Morocco is and what warm, generous, kind-hearted people the Moroccans are. I was welcomed with open-arms and accepted into their culture and world. Throughout my stay, I always felt safe and never once felt threatened. I realized that part of this feeling of security has to do with the Moroccan culture and spirituality. The Islam religion places God at the top of their lives and everything falls down after that. Violence is rare. Stealing not as common. And, capitalism is not important which was a refreshing concept given how materialistic and consumeristic American society and culture has become.

By going in to Morocco with the “third eye” approach, I was able to experience all the wonders and joys of a phenomenal culture and religion. I am truly thankful that on our first day at CCS Home Base in Rabat, Mohammed, the Country Director, told us some words of wisdom. He said, “the experience in Morocco should teach us how different we are yet to remember that nothing is right or wrong. Just different”. Thus in order to have a successful volunteer experience in Morocco, you have to remember to keep an open-mind and heart. This will help you learn about Morocco and share our culture with them.

Mohammed is 100% correct. My stay in Morocco further confirmed my view that there are a lot of misperceptions about the Islamic religion and that part of the world. Not all Muslims are a bunch of terrorists! In fact, only a very small few are terrorists and if these people are terrorists, are they truly Muslims? Correct me if I’m wrong, but the Prophet Mohammed does not condone violence. Killing another human being is against the Qur’an. Thus terrorists (many, by the way, are illiterate and cannot even read the actual Qur’an) are not even following the Muslim religion.

I think as Americans we have to rethink our viewpoints and perceptions on the Islamic world and take it for all the wonderful things it has to offer. It is only by traveling and learning about the world, we can make ourselves better as well. I feel extremely blessed to have been one of the 800 people who have volunteered with CCS Morocco since it’s opening in 2007. Now my hope is that someday I’ll be able to go back…

Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION Volunteering Abroad
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Moroccan cooking 101: How to make tagine

Anyone who has ever traveled to Southern Spain, Turkey, North Africa or Middle East knows that the food is quite magical. Food from these regions generally contain an array of fresh spices abound in flavor such as saffron, cumin, ginger, paprika, black pepper, cinnamon, mint and garlic. Mouthwatering fresh fruits such figs, dates, oranges and pomegranates can often be found added to freshly prepared tagines and couscous. Delectable olives, delightful almonds and mouth-burning harissa (a capsicum-pepper sauce which I adore) make any meal legendary.

The warm, gentle climate of Morocco provides an abundance of fresh vegetables as well (such as pepper, beans, tomatoes, artichokes, eggplants, onions, beets and pumpkins) which are common side and main dishes throughout Morocco. Being a world cuisine lover, I found Morocco to be a culinary paradise and was not once the slightest bit disappointed in the fantastic, fresh, exciting and worldly food I found.

My first night in Morocco was spent at a gorgeous Riad (see earlier posts) which served my first true Moroccan tagine, the famous Moroccan stews containing chicken or lamb with an assortment of fresh vegetables and spices that are cooked in a conical earthenware pot creating a lovely, tender and moist stew. I chose the chicken tagine with almonds and lemon over my beloved couscous (a type of semolina, small circular rice that is also served usually with a stew). After eating detestable plane food for the last twenty-four hours, my first Moroccan meal felt like heaven. I was also surprised to learn that Morocco, an Islamic country (over 99% Muslim) produces fantastic local wine. I ordered a half-bottle of Moroccan red which was delicious: Full-bodied, bright, with a smooth finish. I went to sleep after hours of travel feeling happy and full, anxiously anticipating my next Moroccan meal.

My visit through the local souq showed me exactly where these fresh, delightful ingredients come from. Vendor after vendor sold spices in all colors and flavors by the bag, and olives, nuts, figs, dates and fresh vegetables were at each and every corner of the market. I could have spent hours and dirhams passing through the souq and sampling up everything they had to offer. No wonder why Moroccans are such good cooks! In fact, each region and every city is known for its unique dishes and influences. This is probably not a surprise given that the distinctive flavors of Moroccan cooking come from a variety of origins such as Portuguese, Jewish, Spain, Persia, Senegal, France, Berber North Africa, Italy and Turkey—all countries that have ties to Morocco.

Some of my favorite market delights:

The couscous:

The dates and figs:

My week-long stay at the CCS Home Base in Hay Riad, Rabat, was another week of culinary delight. For an entire week, we had breakfast, lunch and dinner prepared by two native Berber cooks and we ate like kings and queens. Here are some pictures of our meals:

Lunch:

This gorgeous dish is called a bastilla. It is a multilayered pastry made out of phyllo dough and filled with a crushed mixture of toasted almonds, ground chicken, cheese and spices. Finally, it is topped with a dollop of cinnamon to give it a dessert like taste and appearance. It takes hours to prepare and looks were by no means deceiving….It was incredible!!!!

Here is a photo of the nummy inside:

Another favorite meal we had was the long-awaited Moroccan couscous, a quasi-religious experience in Morocco and what also just so happened to be one of my all time favorite meals thanks to that year spent living in France. Apparently the preparation of couscous takes an entire day and usually is made to feed an army thus it was usually made for the volunteers on the last day of the week’s stay: Friday. Here are some pictures of this amazing meal:

Our fantastic chefs preparing the couscous:

A close-up view of the finished product;

Ready to eat!

One of the highlights of my week stay in Morocco was our two-hour cooking class held by CCS at the Home Base. We learned how to make two main staples of Moroccan life: Moroccan Mint Teat and Chicken Tagine.

Throughout Morocco, mint tea is a way and tradition of life. Moroccans, like many others around Asia and parts of Africa, love their tea and tea time is a sacred time in Morocco that cannot be denied. Usually tea time happens in the late afternoon from 4-6 PM however tea time can happen anytime in Morocco, and to be invited to tea is a big honor.

Throughout the day, we could see Moroccans have traditional tea in the medina, in the souq, in the CCS Home Base and at our volunteer placements. Outdoor cafes serve tea as well however it usually isn’t the labor and love-intensive home-made Moroccan Green Mint Tea.

One afternoon at CCS, we learned how to make this Moroccan treasure. Here is how it is done:

Traditional Moroccan Mint Tea

preparation time: 20-30 minutes

Boil Water on the stove

When boiling, pour the hot water into the tea pot, rinse and dump out. This warms up the pot.

Add two tablespoons of Green tea into the hot pot.

Pour a cup of hot water into the pot and let stand for one to two minutes.

Don’t shake the mixture, and pour it out into a cup. This is the soul of the tea.

Add another cup of hot water to the tea pot and shake.

Pour the contents into another cup. You will notice that the tea is a different color (this is because the tea leaves open and may have some dust or dirt on them, so you shake the leaves to get rid of the “bad stuff”). You take all the poured cup(s) of this tea and dump it out into the sink.

Next, you go back to “the soul of the tea” which is the spare, original tea that was not mixed and poured into a reserve cup. You pour the cup of tea into the teapot and fill with more water, leaving some space on top for the fresh mint and basil. Bring to a boil.

After boiling, you add a handful of fresh mint and basil, then add a lot (Moroccans like their mint tea very sweet!) of sugar, perhaps 4-5 larges tablespoons.

To mix, pour the cups into tea glasses and then pour the contents once again back into the tea pot. You do this 4-5 times (no joke!).

Finally, the tea is ready to serve. You pour the finished product into glasses (not mugs) as the Moroccans prefer and get ready to sweeten up your mouth! Enjoy!

Voila!

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Chicken Tagine with lemon

Preparation time: 1-1.5 hours

Note: It is best to have a traditional tagine earthenware pot to make this but I am sure you can improvise with a large saucepan and tight-fitting lid (yet may want to leave a crack open while it is cooking).

Here is a picture of a tagine:

Heat the tagine on the stove (i.e. the clay pot or else a large saucepan)
Add 4 tablespoons of oil and heat
Add 1/2 teaspoon of salt along with 8 pieces of chicken parts (@ a whole chicken).
Cook on medium high

Chop a fist-full of fresh cilantro along with two to three cloves of fresh garlic.

Flip the meat (continue on medium high)

Chop one white onion.

Add the below ingredients to the tagine and the after adding, flip the meat:
1 heaping teaspoon of fresh grated ginger
1 heaping teaspoon of cumin
1/4 teaspoon of black pepper
1 teaspoon of saffron
1 tablespoon of the cilantro/garlic mix
1/2 of the chopped onion

Flip the food and then add the other half of chopped onion on top of the tagine ingredients (you want one half of the onion to cook underneath the meat).

Add one preserved lemon*.

Add another heaping tablespoon of the cilantro and garlic mix.

Last step: Add one cup of water to the mixture; cover the tagine and let boil. Then turn to low heat and simmer for 45 minutes. ENJOY!!!!!

*You can either buy preserved lemon or make it yourself. To make it yourself: Cut one lemon into fourths. Add salt into each lemon section. Preserve pieces of lemon in a closed jar for two weeks at room temperature and shake every other day. When ready, take seeds out and place small pieces with rinds inside the tagine.

The finished product:

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I was so impressed with my newfound knowledge and with the delicious taste of the tagine, that I actually went on a mission to buy a real clay tagine the day before leaving Morocco. I have no idea what on earth I was thinking. Tagines are fragile and cumbersome. Not something you want to try to carry back on multiple international flights. But I was a woman on a mission. I had to have one!

With little time left in Morocco, I opted to hit the nearest shopping mall, a place called Margene, which unbelievably enough contained what I call a Moroccan version of Costco warehouse. I walked in and the place was packed with local Moroccans going about their shopping. There I was, of course the only blond-haired woman, searching for deals and salivating once I found them. I found my tagine, for $15 as well as a boatload of Moroccan spices such as cumin, ginger, saffron, etc. All for the meager price of $1 per enormous year-long-lasting bag! I stocked up knowing that even Target charges the outrageous price of $10 for a tiny bottle of two-use saffron. If I could have filled my entire suitcase with spices, I’m sure I would have done it (yet I probably also would have (a) smelled up my suitcase to beyond repair (b) got busted at customs for it.

Anyway, I had loads of fun at the Moroccan Costco and successfully managed to get all my beloved spices and the tagine home safe and sound. Now, if I can only find the time to actually make a tagine or even more so, one that is edible! I’m sure my husband and friends would be impressed! 🙂

Here is a photo of my Moroccan Costco:

The cumbersome to carry purchase:

Our final Moroccan Cooking 101 experiment was to make those delicious deadly pastries: Phyllo dough, filled with either the crushed almond, cheese, chicken mixture OR carrots, garlic and cheese, OR feta cheese and spinach mixture.

Here are some pictures of our group learning the drill:

Preparing the “stuff’ to stuff the phyllo. Here is the carrot mixture sautéing in oil and butter of course:

More ingredients to stuff your phyllo (the crushed almond, cheese and chicken mix):

Stuffing and rolling the phyllo before it is either baked or fried:

In the meantime, for those readers who I’ve made really hungry, here are some recommended Moroccan Cooking sites found in my copy of Lonely Planet Morocco:

This site offers a compilation of different recipes and sites. It also has great information on Morocco:

http://www.al-bab.com/maroc/food.htm

Here is another one with over 370 recipes….alas…if only I had the time!

http://www.astray.com/recipes/?search=moroccan

Finally, if all else fails….find a good local Moroccan restaurant and eat without the work!


Coming Next…..I want to wrap up my week in Morocco with a post on my visit to the ruins and one on Morocco today. Stay posted!

Morocco SOCIAL GOOD TRAVEL BY REGION Volunteering Abroad
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The Trials and Tribulations of Teaching English as a Second Language

About two weeks before my departure to Morocco I received the long-awaited email answering the great unknown: My volunteer placement for my program in Rabat. Before signing on with Cross-Cultural Solutions (CCS), I knew the deal. Volunteers would not find out what their placement was until two weeks before the trip. It is standard protocol for CCS and although it may sound strange, it actually makes a whole lot of sense.

In order to really make a difference, there is no way for the organization to know exactly what volunteer work and service will be needed at the time of a volunteer’s arrival. This is especially true since most volunteers like me sign up at least three to six months ahead of time. As a past CCS volunteer, I knew the drill and was not concerned. Once a destination is picked, the rest would follow. Each country offers similar kinds of work such as placements in an orphanage, a day-care center for underprivileged or disabled kids, a nursing home, a hospital setting or teaching English to those in need. I had already done the nursing home last year in Costa Rica and surprised myself by loving it (see earlier blog posts filed under Costa Rica). However, I was game for anything.

As expected, my email came approximately two weeks before my flight to Morocco. I would be teaching English to local Moroccans at an organization called the East West Foundation that works with Moroccans and other Africans living in Rabat who want to learn English to improve their lives. The job sounded interesting enough (although for some reason I personally craved the chance to work with kids). I would be teaching my own class and would have to prepare some lessons in advance. Lessons? What? Then the panic hit. How would I prepare lessons when I had no idea what level I would be teaching or where the students were at? Furthermore, how would I plan lessons when I could hard plan the last two weeks left at home in Minnesota with two kids and a husband and nothing at all packed. I took a few deep breaths, remembering CCS’s words to be patient, open-minded, and flexible. Ok, I could do that, but still how on earth was I going to find the time to prepare for teaching this class?

I sent off a few emails to past volunteers at the East West Foundation and received many helpful and positive responses. Everyone who had worked there loved it and had plenty of advice for a stressed out, over-tired mom like me. I tried my best to print out the best ideas and bought a book called “Teaching ESL The American Way”, and quietly thanked myself for my past ESL experience ten years ago teaching English to illegal immigrants at a church and tutoring Somali girls at a charter high school. Sure, it was ten years ago but I could do it again successfully, especially if I was under pressure.

The days before I left for Morocco were a blur. I could hardly get everything in order before I left, let alone any lesson planning. But I remained optimistic and tried to ease any fears or concern. I’d be fine. I knew how to work in the spur of the moment and make things happen.

I arrived a day and a half early in Morocco which I spent on my own, discovering Morocco and adjusting to the time change (Morocco is six hours ahead of Minneapolis). On Saturday, I did a five hour excursion to neighboring Casablanca which was fantastic and then headed over to the CCS Home Base late Saturday afternoon to check in and get settled. There were five volunteers already there who had been volunteering in Morocco for the past few weeks. One woman was from Canada in her mid-twenties, another woman from New Zealand in her thirties, an American woman in her eighties from the East Coast, and a semi-retired couple from Canada. The new batch of volunteers coming in for my program included a twenty-five-year-old woman from CCS in New York (who is amazing and just so happened to be in a wheelchair, an amazing accomplishment in itself), a grandmother and her grand-daughter and friend from the west coast, and a well-traveled quality manager from New York in her thirties like me. We had quite a diverse group of people (ages, backgrounds, geography) which added to the fun and adventure of the trip.

Sunday afternoon we had a group meeting to discuss the volunteer placements for the week. CCS Morocco was currently working with three NGO’s inside Morocco:

1. A group that worked at the Children’s Hospital to provide entertainment and care for the children in the asthma ward (and give their worn out parents a much needed break).
2. A local NGO called “Ibny” (which means “my kid” or “my child” in Arabic) which provides care and education to the street children of Rabat who the NGO is trying to keep off the streets (in 2009, a survey conducted counted 2000,000 beggars on the streets of Morocco. Sadly enough, many parents use their children and even drug them to get money). The objective of this NGO is to get kids off the street, fed, bathed and in school, for a few hours a day.
3. The last volunteer opportunity was at an NGO called Femin Pluriel, a women’s association created in 1999 to offer courses in English, French, computers and other subjects to help improve the lives of women.

Apparently the placements at the East West Foundation were put on hold for awhile so I was slated to work at Femin Pluriel helping Gwen teach English classes to beginners. I remembered the words be flexible, be patient and be open-minded and decided to go with the flow on the change in plans. It wouldn’t actually be that different from the East West Foundation, just a different kind of clientele (mostly educated, unemployed women looking to learn English and improve their lives).

Monday morning I spent some time pouring over the CCS internal library which provides a wealth of information on ESL courses, sample lessons, vocabulary and grammar books. I decided to bring a few good books along in my bag and then headed to the CCS van that would drive us to our placements. First stop was the hospital, followed by the school which hosts Ibny, and finally we were at the gray stone building that held the offices and classrooms for Femin Pluriel.

Photo of road leading up to Femin Pluriel:

View from Femin Pluriel of surrounding street:

Entrance to Femin Pluriel:

I felt my stomach drop as we left the van and rung the bell to be let in. What would it be like? Was I prepared? Would I have enough to teach? All these thoughts raced through my head as we walked into the first floor office and were kindly greeted by two of the woman who ran the administrative side of Femin Pluriel. We took a small tour of the space which featured a classroom at the front, a long library with tables in the middle, and another classroom and computer lab in the rear. It was a nice space with tons of books in French, Arabic and English. Apparently Femin Pluriel has speakers once a month as well usually on women’s topics.

Gwen and I were lead to the classroom area in back near the computer lab where we set up shop and waited for the arrival of our students. Slowly but surely in they trickled in: Four women and two men in all ranging from their early twenties to late thirties. Overall the women were a highly educated group who were fortunate enough to go to university yet were still looking for steady employment (unemployment in 2010 was 8.6% and GDP is $4,600/person). Although education in free in Morocco, if you don’t have the grades to get in to university than you are pretty much out of luck (unless you come from a wealthy family). One of the problems with the educational system in Morocco is that many feel it doesn’t prepare graduates for a real job meaning there is a disconnect between degreed graduates and new employees.
Learning an important world language like English greatly increases a woman (and man’s) ability to find a good job, especially in commerce and the government. That is where Femin Pluriel comes into play: By offering daily classes in English at a small fee taught almost exclusively by volunteers.

The first class went much better than expected. I was extremely thankful for those grueling years of French because teaching English to beginners completely in English would have been impossible (or at least for someone like me who is not a trained ESL teacher). Thus for the most part we were able to teach the class in English and I could clarify things in French. It worked out very well! The students were delightful and very appreciative. We had lots of laughs, especially when we involved a little charades into the mix, and I truly enjoyed the work.

Inside Femin Pluriel: Our classroom

A lovely collage of pictures featuring traditional Moroccan village dress:

The rest of the week was more or less the same, except for the arrival of a new student: Yosef, a twenty-one-year-old security guards who just so happened to be a long boarder on the weekends and illiterate. Yosef was my inspiration. He was abandoned by his parents at six years old and sent to Rabat to be raised by his uncle. He never went to school and somehow managed to survive with a joie de vivre or joy of life that was infectious. His smile was so big and so enthusiastic that his presence in the classroom was hard to ignore. Although he didn’t know how to read or write, he still showed up for class every morning with his enormous grin and desire to learn. He work up every morning at 4am for his job as a security guards, then took two hours off in the morning to attend the english class, then headed back to work until 6pm. Now that is dedication! He had only been coming to classes for a few weeks and had already learned a great deal. It was truly wonderful to help him and the others out.

Our last day came before we knew it. I felt bad to be leaving so soon after we had just gotten to know our new friends and make some progress. We had talked about food, about hobbies, about jobs and about life. It was a great learning experience for us as well. As the class was ending, a fresh pot of Moroccan mint tea appeared along with some homemade Moroccan biscuits and sweats. Traditionally tea in Morocco is something that happens every day from 4-6PM and cannot be rushed. Yet the door bell rang and our van was waiting. It was time to say goodbye and hope that somehow we had ever so slightly made an impact on their lives.

Our students:

Friday morning I had the opportunity to visit another work site, the asthma ward at the Children’s Hospital.

Packing up our bags of fun for the children:

There are only two Children’s Hospitals in all of Morocco: A country of 33 million people! Thus families of ill children often have to travel very far away from home in order to receive care for their children.

Picture of the outside of Rabat’s Children’s Hospital:

The volunteer work needed at the hospital was mainly entertainment (coloring, playing, drawing, singing, reading, etc) of the children in the playroom so their wary, tired parents could get some kind of break. I enjoyed this experience immensely.

Inside the playroom at the hospital:

Although the children are sick and being treated for asthma, they still are just kids and were smiling, laughing and playing with rigor and energy. It was a perfect place for me being an energetic mother of two! I played ball, I tickled and hugged them and just showed them that I cared. The mothers watched carefully from outside the playroom and a few times I caught their eyes and were rewarded with a kindhearted smile of appreciation. As a stay at home mom, I know exactly how important it is to get a break away from the kids and even more so, for these moms who were far away from their homes and villages holed up in a small, not so clean hospital room for sometimes weeks on end.

I also enjoyed speaking with a couple of interns as well as one of the doctors about their lives and work in the hospital. I was amazed by how gracious these people are to work in an overcrowded, understaffed hospital for probably a lot less money than they would receive being a doctor here in the United States. I am always amazed by the incredible people I meet when I volunteer. It sure brings hope that there are good people in the world who care about others and not only money. Truly inspirational people that keep me motivated to come back again and volunteer and help out in any way I can, even if it is small. This kind of rounds up my review of volunteering in Morocco. It was not so much what I did but everything that I learned and everyone I met in such a short time. I hope that somehow they felt the same and I was able to give them something, even if it was small. Perhaps a glimmer of hope?

Me and Mohammed, the CCS Country Manager:

My favorite quote posted inside the CCS Home Base:

Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION Volunteering Abroad
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My Day at the Hammam

Whenever I travel, I try very hard to use the “third eye” approach and follow the all important mantra, “When in Rome”. Before going to Morocco, I asked past CCS volunteers about the highlights of their experience and visit in Morocco. I heard over and over again from the women that I must go to the hammam.

Ok, what on earth is a hammam? A hammam is a traditional, communal Moroccan bathhouse. Communal? Indeed! That is a cultural shock in itself going into a bathhouse and disrobing in front of a bunch of Moroccan women strangers. But after hearing about the hammams, I knew that I’d have to suck in my pride and modesty and just go for it. If Moroccan women go on average once a week and it is known as their most beloved beauty secret, then I would have to give it a try.

My day at the hammam was planned for Friday afternoon, which was the end of my volunteer program and my last full day in Morocco. I worked that morning in the dirty, filthy Asthma ward at the Children’s Hospital (and yes I loved it!) and was ready for a little R&R after being around dozen loud and busy children.

Around 3 PM, I gathered my essentials: Shampoo, Conditioner, Hair brush, lotion, towel, and 100 dirhams (equivalent to US$12) and headed to the hammam for the experience of a lifetime.

I was dropped off at the corner and walked hesitantly towards the discrete entrance. There was no awning or writing anywhere on the outside to tell me it was the hammam. Just an ugly, old looking building complete with dirty whitewashed siding. I obviously was out of place and thankfully a delightful Moroccan woman approached shy me and asked me if I’d ever been to a hammam before. I told her in french (thank God I spoke french!) that this was my first time. She gently lead me in and brought me over to the main room where I was to disrobe. Immediately I felt a bit queasy as everyone inside was naked except for their underwear. Even the women working behind the counter at the cashiers were in the nude! I had to continually remind myself that it was only the human body. No big deal. I’ve had babies. This couldn’t be all that bad, right?

The kind Moroccan woman showed me where to put my stuff and then gently asked me, “Vous voulez une dame”? (ie. Do you want a “woman”). Thank goodness I did my homework and read the Lonely Planet explanation of a hammam. For 50 DH, or roughly, US$6, you could hire a tabbeya or bath attendant to scrub you down. Of course I hired one!

Next, we passed through the three rooms starting with the cold room first, followed by the medium temperature room and ending up in the hot room, where I would get my scrub down. The hot room was tiled in white, heated marble and amass in thick, lush steam. There were probably about six other women there in the process of bathing and I of course was the only western woman present. I thought I’d feel awkward but to my surprise I felt fine. It helped having my nice Moroccan friend next to me, who chatted with me the entire time.

Once inside the hot room and situated sitting on the delicious heated floor, the real pleasure and pain began. My entire body was loaded up with savon noir (black palm soap made with resins from olive) and then the attendant began the process of exfoliating my sensitive skin by using a el-kis or a course glove. The first five minutes were absolute hell. She scrubbed me so hard that I thought my skin would fall off and bleed. But to my surprise and shock, once the savon noir was off, my skin was shiny and new, and not even the slightest bit red. Thankfully after five minutes of torture, my skin warmed up and the scrubbing no longer felt like I was being attacked by sandpaper. Instead, it was heaven. I was tossed and turned around like a limp, rag doll, thrown around the heated floors and scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed. Every single inch of my body (except of course for the private area) was scrubbed and it took a good 45 minutes until she was done with me.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the fact that my arms would occasionally flop across her enormous, sagging breasts (sorry not trying to gross you out but this is true! She wasn’t wearing a top either!!!!), and I tried to relax. Once I got past this fact I thoroughly enjoyed myself in the hammam and never felt so clean before in my life.

After the scrub down, buckets of hot, medium warm and cool water were dumped over my head and then I got a nice long head massage and shampooing. By the end of it, I was thirsty as hell and was so relaxed I could hardly move. I didn’t spend much time in the medium or the cool room and instead went outside to the lobby area to get dressed, slowly but surely.

I paid my “dame” and gathered my belongings, of course, after meeting another kind Moroccan lady who wanted to know all about my experience and what I thought. We talked for a good fifteen minutes and then I was out the door, hair wet and pulled back into a ponytail and feeling young, fresh and clean!

(Sorry folks…no pictures here of the hammam! ha ha).

The Moroccan hammam has been a tradition for ages. Both men and women go to the hammam but of course there are separate ones for each gender. Moroccan women are known for their beauty treatments and secrets. They prefer to use all natural products for their beauty maintenance such as olive oils, henna, ghassoul (clay), eggs, fruits, vegetables and plant-based products. Perhaps that is how they achieve such beautiful, perfect skin! If only we could have the same kinds of traditions back in the States! We’d all look like queens!

Later that afternoon, as a farewell gift we received henna that was applied artfully by Khadija at the Home Base. Henna is a tradition in many parts of the world such as Africa, India and some Arab nations. Traditionally it is done for weddings as a symbol of beauty but now it can be done for other occasions as well. Henna derives from the henna plant which can be found in the Sahara desert and is mixed together and poured into syringe-like instrument. It is applied wet using traditional designs and art onto the hands, palms, and legs. Then you have to not move and wait at least an hour or so for it to dry until you can gently peel it off, leaving a beautiful reddish (or black depending on the henna you use) design on your skin. I’ve been told that it lasts about two to four weeks. So we will see! Here are some pictures of its application:

The arms:

The legs:

A close-up of the work while it is drying:

Once dried and peeled off, the end result (note the staining is darker on the palms than on the rest of the arm):

I tried to fool the kids when I got home by telling them I got a tattoo. They were quite alarmed so of course I told them I was just kidding. It has been a fun conversational piece yet I’m ready for it to fade away!

Coming next…Finally I will discuss my volunteer experience teaching English and also a day spend at the Children’s Hospital. Stay tuned!

Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION
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Dating 101: Rock the Kasbah

Once again, I found myself at the city’s beloved landmark of beauty: the Kasbah des Oudaias. A Kasbah is a fortified area that once housed the ruling family, its guards and everything needed for living under attack. Nowadays, Kasbahs are still a beautiful place to live, with its traditional whitewashed and brilliant blue blue painted buildings and stunning, winding alleyways with gorgeous, lush gardens and views of either the landscape or in Oudaias case, the magnificent blue sea.

With Khadija as our tour guide, we spent the afternoon exploring the lovely Kasbah and all its splendors, including the hidden Moroccan dating game. As mentioned in my earlier post (Islam 101), dating is forbidden in the Islamic world. Premarital sex and even kissing the opposite sex is a no-no. However, with the advent of modernity and the constant throng of romance seen on the Internet, TV and Western movies, a new kind of dating in Morocco has been created: Secret Dating.

When walking through the lush gardens of the Kasbah, I was shocked and stunned to see young lovers, somewhat hidden from view, in the process of making out. Per Khadija, this is the new secret dating game that can be found throughout urban Morocco.

Here are some examples:

The lush gardens offer the perfect place for hidden romance:

The gorgeous flowering trees offer perfect protection from the sun:

Per Khadija, this is what is going on. For Muslims, dating is strictly forbidden. If you are interested in getting to know someone from the opposite sex, then technically you need to meet them in a public place with a third person present, usually a member from the family such as a brother. Thus if you are in love with someone or even just like them a lot, generally in Morocco you skip the whole dating game and go directly to marriage (of course after asking the young woman’s father for her hand).

However, for some Moroccans, this is beginning to change, especially among the young generation (like the ones seen smooching in the photo above). Dating is done completely in secret, meaning the parents have no idea, yet it always takes place in a public place such as the Kasbah or another favorite, the beach.

Here is a photo of the beach dating scene. Note the hijabs and jellabas, not your typical beach wear in a western country:

Another interesting fact Khadija told me about dating: It is only done IF there is a future of marriage ahead. You do not date just to date. Instead, you start at the end game of a relationship. You start when a man tells you that he wants to marry you. Once it is determined that you will get married, then you can start going on your secret dates. During the secret dating process, you always go to public places and never go to a private location because to do so may dishonor the woman. Normally the secret dating game goes on for about six months until an engagement. Finally, it is never acceptable in Morocco for a woman to ask a man out. It simply does not happen.

Khadija herself has been involved with a man, who she has been secretly dating for two years now and will eventually get married. Her parents do not really know about him however her friends do. She is an educated, career-driven woman yet she remains traditional at the same time and respects her religion.

Khadija told us a very interesting fact. Apparently over the last four years that CCS has been open in Morocco and had volunteers, six volunteers have met and married Moroccan men! One even met her future husband in only two weeks and neither one could speak the same language. Amazingly enough, they are still married today (and hopefully they can at least communicate now). Thus, bottom line: Love can happen anywhere, even in Morocco!

(Note: Non-Muslims can intermarry. However, a non-Muslim must convert to Islam in order to marry a Muslim).

Here are some more lovely photos of the Kasbah as well as the beach in Rabat. Two romantic places for a public secret date!

Coming up next….more posts on Morocco!

CULTURE SOCIAL GOOD
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Women in Morocco

One thing I was extremely curious about was the role of women in Islamic Morocco. Before going on my trip, I did my homework and read an excellent book by a well-known author and sociologist, Fatima Mernissi called “Dreams of Trespass: Tales of a Harem Girlhood”. The book is a memoir depicting in beautiful, poetic detail Fatima’s early childhood and life in a Moroccan harem during the 1940s up until the independence from France in 1956.

In those days, most Moroccan households were traditional harems or enclosed households in which extended families lived together under one roof and practiced the tradition of women’s seclusion meaning women stayed and lived in the harem and rarely left. Mernissi describes harem life in exquisite detail from her point of view as a prepubescent girl. Harem life to her and especially to her mother and the older generation is like living in a prison. A women can not leave the harem without a male’s permission and it is completely enclosed by a large wall so no one can see in or out. The harem is kept by a gate keeper who protects the women and makes sure no one gets in or out without permission. There is a strict code of behavioral conduct and practices that must be followed inside the harem. For instance, all family meals must be taken together and women must dress and behave a certain way. The men had the power, especially the older ones and there was a strong hierarchy among the women themselves based on age, importance and status. Married women were treated better than divorced women who were looked down upon. Women spent their days inside the harem splitting up the household chores and also doing various activities such as traditional embroidery and crafts. They were let out only to go to Koranic school (where they studied only the Qur’an and not other subjects) and go to the hammam once a week (a traditional Moroccan bathhouse). Some harems involved multiple wives for the men such as the harem of Fatima Mernissi’s grandmother, however, the traditional of many wives began to subside during the 1940s. The 1950s brought huge change to Morocco with its emancipation from France in 1956 and harems slowly but steadily began to die out. Today harems are a thing of the past yet they continue to have a lot of allure and mysticism for the tourists who could only imagine in their heads what such a place would have been like.

During my stay in Morocco, we were fortunate to have an hour long discussion on women’s rights and the role of women in Morocco by the CCS Home Base Manager, Khadja, a native Moroccan from Agadir (a small town south of Rabat which is famous for Argan Oil). Khadja is a thirtysomething women who encompasses both traditional and modern Morocco. She was a past Peace Corps volunteer and is fortunate to be the only women in her family to have continued her education past middle school. She is a highly educated women which is striking in a country that has only a 56% literacy rate overall and and illiteracy rate among women of 64% (much higher rate in the countryside). Thus to be from a small village and to finish her degree at a university represents an amazing accomplishment for Khadja. Obviously she is very bright as well as very lucky that her traditional parents allowed her to move away from the village and continue her education.

A photo of me and Khadja, an educated, modern Moroccan woman wearing her traditional hijab and floppy sun hat, just like me!

Morocco is one of the most complex places in the world. It represents an intricate, complicated melange of both the Western and Arab worlds that is often hard for a foreigner to understand. Being only eight miles off the coast of Spain and having centuries of invasions from the Romans, the Spanish, and the French, Morocco provides an amazing mixture of cultures from Mediterranean countries and the Arab world. Combine this past with the present day changes in the world due to technology (i.e. the Internet) and access to the good old satellite TV, and Morocco is faced with immense pressure to move forward into more western, modern culture.

Of course the traditions remain. Islam is THE most important influence in a Moroccans life and dictates more or less how a Muslim Moroccan should live and behave (for example, premarital sex is forbidden, drinking if forbidden, a man can still legally have up to four wives, etc). Yet, things are changing in Morocco, especially among the youth. and especially for the young, modern Moroccan woman.

When you walk along the street nowadays, you can find the entire gamut of attire starting from the full-fledge burka (which is very rare), to the more traditional jelaba and caftan (long robes), to the more western clothing (jeans, sweater, blouses) either with or without the hijab (veil or head scarf). Some Moroccan women, especially in Casablanca, would even wearing high-spiked heels and skinny jeans with a color-coordinated hijab. The contrasts in apparel were striking and very confusing, especially for a western woman like me. It is a known fact that the Qur’an states it is obligatory for a woman to wear a hijab. However, nowadays it is becoming more of a personal choice rather than a religious obligation. I would say that overall, most (perhaps 75%) of the women wear the hijab however it is truly beginning to change and it is not necessarily worn for religious reasons anymore. Sometimes it is worn as a fashion statement.

As you leave Rabat (the country capital) and cosmopolitan Casablanca and enter the countryside and the small villages, every woman wears the hijab and almost all wear traditional dress. As with any place, change in rural areas takes long thus the countryside is much more traditional.

Here is a brief history of Women in Morocco:

Before the arrival of Islam, women lived by Aljahilia or “The Period of Ignorance”. Women had no role in society except for men’s desires or as a slave. The arrival of Islam in 622 AC, marked a drastic change for women’s lives. Women received three basic rights dictated by the Islam religion: (1) The Right to live (2) The Right to be honored and respected as a mother, and (3) The right to own a business and work. These rights enormously effected women’s lives and their treatment in society by men. Women were gradually enabled to rise their status remarkably yet of course they still weren’t and still aren’t equal.

The independence of Morocco from France in 1956 also represented a significant change for women and women’s rights. One of the biggest changes was the ability of women to go to school and receive an education. Before 1956, women were only allowed to attend Koranic schools which taught them mostly about religion and did not learn sciences, math, arts, history, politics, etc. However, still today there is lot that needs to be done in regards to women’s education as only 64% of women are literate and in the countryside nearly 90% of women are illiterate, with the biggest issue being that most girls stop their education by eleven or twelve years old.

Changes are happening in Morocco, especially since the change of power to the current king, Mohammed VI, who succeeded his father Hassan II upon his death in 1999. Hassan II was known as to rule with an iron fist and all dissent on his power was repressed. Thus deep resentment of the monarchy grew up until his death and the takeover of his son, Mohammed VI, who quickly vowed to right the wrongs of the era known as the Years of Lead. In 2004, Mohammed VI instituted the much anticipated Mudawana, a legal code that dramatically changed women’s rights by protecting and guaranteeing women crucial rights to divorce, custody, property and inheritance rights, and child support. Before this law, there was no limited marriage age (meaning women could be passed over to marry before puberty), and women needed their father’s permission to marry. Also, women had no choice whatsoever when in comes to divorce. Only a man could initiate the divorce. Since this law, the following changes have happened which dramatically improves a woman’s life in Morocco:

1. The legal age for marriage starts at 18 years old.
2. Women can sign their own marriage contract without their father’s approval.
3. Men can still marry up to four wives, however, the law states that each wife must be provided with her own residence. Also, if a man wants to take on a second wife, then he must obtain the approval from his first wife.
4. Divorce is now a choice for both a man and a woman. Now women can initiate a divorce yet she still needs her husband to sign the divorce paperwork unless it is a case of domestic abuse.
5. A husband now has to pay child support and if there is a divorce, the inheritance must be split in half.

Obviously these changes has greatly enhanced a women’s life in Morocco, yet there is still quite a bit of work to be done. A woman still cannot freely go into a cafe without getting uncomfortable, negative glares by men. The cafe is a man’s world in Morocco. A woman who has a child out of wedlock, is sent to the city to have the baby where the baby is abandoned to an orphanage because premarital sex is considered a sin in Islam. Women cannot wear a swimsuit on the beach. Instead, she must wear either a jelaba into the water or the more modern ones wear a shirt and pants.

However, there is hope that change is coming. Women are more likely than men to use the Internet and Moroccan women have become the most avid Internet users in the Arab world. Also, in 2007 there were 34 women elected to the Parliament, representing 10.4% of all seats, which is just slightly behind the 12.5% of women in the US government.

As expected, the new family law (the Mudawana) has also brought about many social changes in Morocco as well. The rate of divorce has increased with leaps and bounds, and the average age of marriage has gone from early twenties to 28 or 29 years old. Only time can tell whether these changes are good or bad but overall it can only be better for women to have more choice.

Probably the biggest challenges to women and to men overall in Morocco is the high levels of unemployment (13% and growing), the high level of illiteracy, and the large population of people that are living below the poverty level (19% per the World Bank). In a country where the average salary is only a meager US$1677 per year, there are going to be some challenges going forward if things do not get better. Even the highly educated Moroccans are not able to find a job so there is a general sense of restlessness in the air.

However, Morocco is unlike its fellow Arab countries and the people have great respect and admiration for their King. Most demonstrations and protests have been extremely peaceful and well-organized, and are a daily occurrence in Morocco. Whether the masses gets fed up and demands change, only time can tell. At least the King seems to be on top of things and is doing what he can to please the crowd. It will be interesting to see what the next decade brings to Morocco. Who knows, maybe the hijab will be a distant memory of the past in 2020 or then again, in Morocco, where tradition, culture and religion are the center point of life, maybe the hijab will remain a crucial part of a woman’s wardrobe.

Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION
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Three Continents in Two Days

Hello Readers! Bon jour! Salaam!

I’m back and I survived two crazy, insane days traveling from Africa to Europe to the United States, three continents in two days!

Needless to say, I am extremely exhausted and overwhelmed. The last two days have been a whirlwind. I left Morocco on Saturday morning (changing my flight for $250 during the middle of a protest —no worries, a tame one—so I could leave Rabat at 8 am as opposed to 3:30 pm and spend an afternoon and night in Paris). This supposedly “easy” visit to Paris ended up being nuts. I completely forgot about Easter holiday in Europe and Paris was ungodly overwhelmed with hordes and hordes of people and tourists—everywhere. Almost, well not quite, but almost like India (then again nothing can ever be like India).

These stories will come later of course since it was quite an adventure. I just wanted to let you know that I’m back, safe and sound, all in one peace, so far no illnesses, except for being tired.

This week I will be working on my upcoming posts…..
Women in Morocco, Dating 101, My Day at the Hammam, My Volunteer Experience, My Impressions of Morocco.

So please stay posted!

In the meantime, here are some funny pictures from my crossing of three continents:

My Henna in Morocco:

Lunch in Paris (wine withdrawal!!!!!):

Dinner in Paris (wine again….ok I was in a Muslim country for a week):

Almost home:

France Morocco TRAVEL BY REGION