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more of Morocco

Under African Skies

Thursday marked the beginning of the five day holiday celebrating the autonomous community of Andalucía; how did I celebrate? By leaving Andalucía of course. Leaving the country and continent in fact, and traveling all the way to Africa. It sounds much grander than it really is. We (my two American friends Joanna and Melissa and my two Spanish friends Julio and Juan) drove 6 hours to Malaga where we traded the car for a more water bound form of transportation to cross the Straight of Gibraltar to Morocco In reality, we crossed to Spain. There are still two Spanish cities in Morocco, Ceuta and Melia; therefore, setting foot onto the African continent was a bit of a let down. Seeing as we were still officially in Spain, we had to take a taxi (paying in euros) to the border where we were deposited in to a sort of mayhem. The distinction between “first” and “third” or “developed” and “developing” nations couldn’t have been more blunt. We wandered a bit dazed through the out stretched hands of women carrying literally everything they owned on their backs and and the swarm of men competing to establish themselves as our guides and or taxi drivers.
Naturally, all of us spoke Spanish; in addition, Joanna has studied classical Arabic, I’ve got a bit of French under my belt and then there’s English of course. Some how between the four languages we negotiated a taxi to the near by city of Tetouan. You’d think that with multiple languages to aid in the communication, one would understand better; however, we still couldn’t help feeling that we were being cheated out of our Durham (the currency of Morocco) but then you stop and think, “Wait, I’m trying to haggle over 2 euros” and it puts things into perspective.
As we arrived to our hotel in the ancient Mercedes cab, school was just letting out and the streets were swarming with children. What immediately struck me and continued to impress throughout the trip was the sundry of colors: women in bright vails and skirts, men in robes with pointed hoods, the green of the Moroccan flag reflecting the lush landscape, and shoes of every imaginable tone and shade. 17 euros a night got us a triple room in a 3 star hotel with private bath and breakfast included, not to mention an incredibly helpful staff who walked our weary bodies directly to a sandwich shop for dinner.
Friday morning, after our hefty breakfast of Moroccan mint tea, fresh orange juice, an assortment of pastries and yogurt, we set out to explore the city and its market district know as the “medina” which was originally a fort built to keep out the Spanish. The strategy back then was to build like a labyrinth to confuse invaders (or those with an extremely poor sense of direction) but I was so awed by the sensory experience of the colors, sents, and sounds that I didn’t mind getting lost. Joanna and Melissa haggled over scarves, while the boys learned that not everyone who approaches you really wants to be your friend, and I gorged my self on olives and photo opportunities. Upon finally stumbling out of the medina we found our selves at the royal palace just as prayer was being called. I felt obtrusive witnessing such a spiritual act yet completely awed at the same time. There were hundreds of men filling the plaza, each with their own prayer rug with shoes neatly placed beside. The sound of the mass simultaneously rising and bowing was like a collective inhale and exhale, and when they began chanted together, even us western bystanders could feel the presence of Ala. Suddenly it was over; they bid fair well to each other, picked up their rugs, put on their shoes and dissolved back into the city.
My house mate had told me of a mountain town that was a must see called Chefchaouen, so on Saturday we crammed into another decrepit taxi and headed south. Chefchauen was like a story book village and as a result, much more touristy. The town colors are blue and white meaning they can be found in the buildings, tiles, and hand woven rugs and blankets that line the streets. We opted for less grand lodging at only 5 euros a night and enjoyed sampling couscous, Moroccan soup and mint tea at the various hole in the wall restaurants.
Once again, we found ourselves dazzled by the colors and sents of the market place: beads, scarves, leather, iron, animal skins, fabrics, mint, curry, cinnamon, incense, dirt, shit, donkey… Melissa and I succumbed to the offer of henna painting and wandered into a woman’s house where her daughter sat us down and, with a syringe, coaxed the thick paste into intricate designs on our hands. We walked to the waterfall where women were washing their clothes and past herds of sheep and goats as we made our way up the hill to a dilapidated tower. From the top one could see the village, mountains and country side. I was surprised by how lush the vegetation was; coming from Almería Spain where it is so dry I expected Africa to be a desert (I guess I’ve got to travel further south to find that). Since Morocco is a Muslim country, and therefore dry, much to Juan’s dismay, there was not a beer to be found anywhere and we had to celebrate the setting sun with yet another glass of sweet mint tea. So sweet in fact that honey bees decided to invite themselves to our party, rather impertinent but they felt they had a claim to get drunk on sugar as much as us.
It would have been easy to have gotten lost in the story book land of tea, blue and white, but the 5 am prayer call also signaled the embankment of our return trip home. It was like seeing a film in reverse: the taxi back, crossing the boarder, the ferry, the car ride and then finally home again, back to my clean bed, hot shower, bills to pay and a new day of spoiled children to teach. At least now I can say I’ve been to Africa.

In search of spring

We drove into the mountains in search of spring. The skies were gray, that was a good sign. We didn't know where we were going. We ended up in a little village, completely deserted at siesta time. We parked the car across from an abandoned farm house; our curious feet decided to explore. It must have been a handsome home at one point; some obstinate blue paint still clung to the walls, attempting to maintain its dignity. The only remnants left behind were a decaying briefcase filled with tiles, a lonely shoe consumed by ashes and a shiny new red tractor. Feeling like trespassers, in this tiny hidden town, we quietly picked our way up a hill towards the mouth of a cave. As we scuttled our way through the rocks, I can across a wild flower in bloom.
The cave was small, no more than a cubby hole really, but if offered us refuge. The dirt and musty sent had a calming effect on my whirling mind. Outside the wind was picking up, signaling the start of the late afternoon and limited daylight; there was still more to explore. One path lead up and the other down. A teatherd donkey skeptically watched us make our way up the next hill. Suddenly, like an alarm clock going off in the village, the ice cream truck announced the end of siesta.

Carnival

Sorry, things got a bit out of order. This was supposed to be the first entry about carnival in Aguilas which explains the "Musona". The next day are the pictures in the wig, the last day was the parade. Then there was a picture of the parade here in Vera with my students.

Carnival is ushered in by the “Releasing of the Musona”. A mythical and terrifying beast that is half human, half animal, half civilized and half wild, representing the duality within all of us. Although its form varies from year to year, it is often related to that of a bear which comes out of hypernation about the same time of year. The musona must be coaxed down from the castle to the town below through the chants of “musona-na, musona-na” and the bellows of conch shells. Those who take part in the theatrical coaxing, dress in pegan-like costumes adorned with shells, straw, and bones giving the event an eeri, ancient feel.

Artzy pics of the mining town and mountains

Carnival

Carnival was to be repeated on Saturday. We bought our last minute costumes at the corner store (for me this involved a pink wig and mask) and headed back to Aguilas. This time, however, there was no Musona nor morbid, pegan costumes; instead, it was a blaze of bright colors and feathers. The true spirit of Carnival lies in the freedom of the costume. Once the costume is put on, the wearer is filled with a certain sense of liberty that accompanies the shedding of one’s normal appearence and adopting a new, more excentric one (whether it be a crossdressing nun, a disco queen or Waldo). Carnival is like Halloween for adultes, except instead of candy you get alcohol (and it’s not free). It was a theatirical night which ended with a scene of us, make-up smeared, feathers limp, and strands of synthetic pink hairs everywhere, waiting over an hour for a plasticy hamburger (literally, mine had a piece of plastic on it).
However, that didn’t stop us from coming back the next day to see the parade. Having danced in a parade myself, I know how much energy and pep is necessary, but this parade lasted 5 hours! I have no idea how the dancers did it, in heels no less and most of them being children. Apparently, the Rio de Janeiro style is really in now: Samba, sequins, feathers, and flashy colors. Some of the costumes were amazing and some of the adult dancers were very talented, but on the whold, there’s only so many (1) little kids you can see in too much make-up and skimpy outfits before it becomes just plain creepy.
Luckily, for the kids in the pueblo where I teach, “parade” still means dressing up in adorebly goofy costumes and being lead down the street through the camera flashes of the parent poperatzi. By the end of the week I was so carnivaled out that I now understand why the 40 days of lent suceed it.
Aside from carnival, a decectible earthquake and working on my c.v., life has been pretty tranquila here. I’m still making a fool of myself salsa dancing once a week and I tried to trim my own hair (it went about as well as the time I tried to cut Kehlen’s hair and then had to pay for it to be fized at a salon- only this time I lack the funds to cover teh damage). This past weekend a group of friends and I went to this deserted mining town. The houses were all in ruins and there was a beautiful, yet ghostly feeling; I kept waiting for a tumble week to roll by but none did. We also stopped at the space obervatory up in the mountains, and although it was day and we couldn’t enjoy the unubstructed view of the sky, the view of the surrounding mountains crinkling their way to the sea was breathtaking.
Oh, and I’ve been out sick for the past two days with my weird throat thing (those of you familiar with in know my treatment, it’s rather gross)

Carnival Pictures:
- The Musona (This will be explained later, the program I'm currently using doesn't recognized the entry I wrote about this day of carnival since I used a different computer program, what a pain!)
- Participants of the "release of the musona"
- Me, pretty in pink
- A cute group of witches
- Rio style