Moroccan the Boat--er--Ship.

I know this is late, but you'll all live, right?



No pictures this time... sorry.  Hopefully soon.  :(



As most of those who know me know, I was considerably excited to be going to Morocco. When I found-out that our ship would be arriving a day ahead of schedule, I was even more excited. When I found-out that, again, I would not be able to use my debit card for direct transactions, my enthusiasm was curbed, dramatically, whereas that meant I would not be able to purchase a plane ticket to my intended destination of Agadir. I will have to return for that, some day. So, I made do with a makeshift experience of Morocco. Roll with the punches.



Because Semester at Sea knew long enough beforehand that we would be arriving early in Morocco, they were able to schedule a few little day-trips to take place shortly after our landing. Because nobody had plans for a day that did not exist in our minds as being on-land, the trips went to lottery, and I was lucky enough to have gotten the chance to visit the SOS Village (orphanage) of Casablanca. Our logistical pre-port happened right after breakfast and those of us on day trips had to leave a bit early, but not so early as to miss comments made about dressing modestly and respectfully. Not everyone pays mind to the pre-port presentations, though.



I chose to spend most of my time off of the ship in Morocco wearing hijab (a headscarf). Morocco is an extremely liberal country, in regards to Islam, so whether or not a woman covers her head is her choice, as in the United States. I chose to cover my head out of respect for hijabis (women who wear hijab regularly as a part of their religious or moral lifestyle) and because I feel like I truly understand why women choose to be hijabis. The first reason women choose to be hijabis is to show deference to Allah (God), the same reason that Orthodox Jews cover their heads; the second reason is to show respect for oneself, the same reason that many people in the United States dress modestly. People can argue about whether or not hair is immodest or sexual, but I think that a lot of people on this ship will have a different view of it on Neptune Day, when a bunch of my female classmates get rid of theirs. The point is that there is a tradition of modesty in the culture, and I chose that as one thing I wanted to respect.



I felt like I had made the right decision when the orphanage director thanked me for covering my hair and told me that it is important in Morocco and would earn me more respect.



The children in the SOS Village (a non-adoption facility model originally created in Austria) knew Arabic, a good deal of French and a surprising level of English. Between different students and the children, we were able to have small, but meaningful conversations. The visit was intended to be a service trip, but we did not wind-up doing much work; we toured the facilities, but the visit ultimately digressed (or progressed) into private conversations and several games of soccer and basketball, perhaps encouraged by Professor Rohwedder’s donation to the orphanage of what is supposed to be an indestructible soccer ball, made from the same material as Crocs (Crocs was cofounded by an SAS alum, by the way).





The second day of makeshift Morocco, my friend Jeanette begged me (literally) to go on the Casablanca City Orientation with her. I am glad that I decided to go.



The orientation was a basic city tour with a lively guide-woman with a fire that I doubt many of us had expected. We saw the four major districts of Casablanca and heard a good deal about the multinational history of the country, as a whole. We visited the compulsory palace, but the main attraction was, of course, the Hassan II Mosque. The Hassan II Mosque was designed by a French architect and construction was completed in 1993. It is the third largest mosque in the world, smaller than only the ones in Mecca and Medina. Its most interesting feature, though, is the fact that a large portion of the floor is glass and two-thirds of the surface area people can pray on lies directly over the ocean. This is amazing, in and of itself, but it is extremely symbolic in Islam because the Qur’an states that the dwelling of the Lord is above the water, so praying over water is like trying to pray in an airplane: attempting to get closer to the source, or closer to the target of your prayers. Very cool.



I think that the best thing about the city tour, though, was being able to just witness people living their lives. Our bus stopped by a famous tourist beach for people to break for drinks and to use the restroom, where I saw a good number of families and friends enjoying the holiday (we arrived on the last day of Ramadan, the month when Muslims fast; the tour was on Eid ul’Fitr, the festival that ends Ramadan). I saw more men than women pushing strollers. I saw a hijabi walking with her arm linked to that of a girl who was dressed immodestly by American standards (spike heels, skintight clothing, low-cut top), but they were so obviously good friends. I doubt that I would ever see such a thing in the United States. We may have more ethnic and religious diversity than Morocco, merely because the United States is an immigrant country, but we do not mesh and bond as easily as Moroccans of different creeds seem to: Morocco is a nation with many cultures: Berber, European, North-African, Arab, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Muslim, Christian, Jewish. The United States is a country with many nations: whites, blacks, Asians, Hispanics, Christians, Jews, Muslims, Atheists. There is a monolithic difference.





Prior to sailing, I had signed-up for the overnight trip to Volubilis and Fes. The description piqued my interested because it said we would be visiting the oldest university in the world that is still functioning; said school is located in Fes. After having dealt with bank-related problems for all of Spain and the first couple of days of Morocco, I was ready to sit-back into a pre-paid adventure and not have to do so much with the SAS f-word (flexibility). But in the best laid plans of mice and men and me, and yes, SAS, as well… things are not always what they seem, and what is on paper is not always what is in store.



We all, including the three brave, young children of one of the ship’s nurses (with their parents, of course), hopped on a tour bus and headed out of Casablanca early in the AM. We had a few hours drive to the city of Meknes where, aside from being able to appreciate a community designed to have open spaces and let the sun in, I was able to withdraw cash from an ATM. I was relieved, and I happily meandered around the main loop of the city square, passing through a souk where people were peddling all sorts of things I had absolutely no interest in buying with my newly obtained dirham.



After returning to the bus, we made our way to Fes for a wonderful lunch tagine. A tagine is a unique piece of pottery used to roast and steam food at the same time; whatever is cooked in a tagine is also called a tagine. Ours was beef, potatoes, carrots and some other sort of vegetable I avoided because it looked like a nightshade, and I tend not to have a taste for them. Lunch was a great opportunity to get to know some of the Lifelong Learners, who really are one of the best things about Semester at Sea. Our lunch was quite long and leisurely; I think we were in the restaurant for well over an hour. But once we got back on the road again, it seemed like we had only broke for five minutes.



Morocco, and most other countries I have been to, in general, are very different from my part of the United States (the northeast) because they really do not have suburbs. Cities are dense and far apart, but the space between them is usually green (or whatever color nature or farms are in that area) and sparsely settled. Everything is shoulder to shoulder in Connecticut. I prefer the way things are in Morocco, especially considering that they do have railways connecting their cities.



We went out into the boonies. That’s fine, considering that we needed to get out there to see Volubilis. Volubilis is not a modern city, but, rather, a set of Roman ruins. Yes, Roman. Yes, as in the Roman Empire. Yes, as in the same thing as in Rome. They did not have a coliseum, but they had expansive houses and public baths. They even had a traditional fertility symbol used in marriage ceremonies; I did not photograph it, though a good number of the other people on the trip did. It was not the sort of thing I want my aunts and uncles to see when they look through my photo album. While it was not the most interesting thing to me, and it’s not why I signed-up for the trip, there were parts of it that struck me strangely. I have seen Roman ruins in other countries, and it is amazing that they are so similar. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re all Roman, after all. The Roman Empire, when it spread into new territories, did not adapt itself to the local culture in the way that the Persian Empire did. That is why the structures are uniform. I also found it interesting that our local guide for Volubilis (many countries require that a local guide be hired in certain cities, as an economic gesture, but in this case it was merely because the man is an expert) seemed to know Latin better than he knew English. He would mutter a lot in both Arabic and Latin, but he was a very knowledgeable and kind-spirited man, always looking to keep the children in the shade. Because the ruins are on the top of a hill and ruins, rather than full structures, they are in full sun, which is not the best in an arid climate after noon.



After trekking around in the heat, we were all very happy to get back to our bus and the word “hotel” sounded like… well, it sounded pretty darn good.



I was a bit disappointed with the fact that we were staying in a western-style hotel, but I realize that I signed-up for a tour, not a nomad camp stay or family visit. But when the guy in the souvenir shop attached to the hotel (exhibit “a”) just assumes that he should speak to me in German (exhibit “?”), I think that it’s a bit too distant from the local culture to be socially responsible, if we are supposed to be becoming better global citizens. Then again, because the hotel was western-style, it had a great pool I was able to go in without having brought my swimsuit (not that underwear is terribly less modest).



The next day began my quarrel with the f-word. As much as I try to tell myself that I got a lot out of Fes, I still feel pretty disappointed. To put it bluntly, it was a shopping tour. We saw a potter, a weaver, a brass-worker, a leather-tanner and were invited quite cordially to make offers on all of their wares. The small trips we had to cultural sites were merely to take pictures; we received almost no explanation. I think we passed by that university I had been so excited to visit. We went into the courtyard of the Qur’anic school, just to photograph it. But I will try to focus on the things I learned on this shopping trip. One thing that was very obvious to me, as subtle as these things were, was the simple fact that girls who had their heads covered got better treatment: less aggressive sales pitches, having things carried for them, being offered better prices for the same items. Actually, I think that’s all I really got out of it, aside from being annoyed by high-pressure group sales. Pictures!



From left to right: a tannery, the Jewish quarter (as seen from the bus, distinguishable by the balconies), a sad little donkey transporting a bunch of water bottles. Seriously.



And here are the nurse’s two extremely well-behaved daughters riding on a donkey through the medina of Fes.



And that was my makeshift Morocco. We’ll see what goes on in Ghana.



Until then, health, happiness and peace,

Celeste

Que quiero y que tengo.

So, I owe you all a blog about Spain, don’t I?

We landed in Spain on the fourth of September, the morning after the ship medical staff had performed the Flamenco de la Salud, which consisted of excessive castanet usage and another reminder to use common sense.

I had lunch on the ship, and this is when I realized that the crew tries to make the food more comforting while we are in port, probably to make people who are staying on the ship feel better about not being out on the town.  At lunch, I met a girl named Ariel, and she and I went out with a guy named Vince to see what was up in Cadiz.  The port of Cadiz is right in the center of town, but it was not a bustling area.  It was time for siesta, so we were nearly alone on the streets.  We saw a lot of lovely gardens, but what really threw us over was the beach (see photo).  You’d think that we wouldn’t want to see water after having been on a ship for a week… but reality is a funny thing.

We sat down at a café and had some water before wandering back to the ship to meet-up with others.  I, eventually, found Dennis and cornered him to finalize our plans for Madrid.  After a few hours, we decided that we would chuck out in the morning: we had to pay for first class tickets because everything else was sold-out.  We left early on the fifth and arrived around lunch time.  The gentleman at the information desk in the train station gave us simple directions to our hostel and some good tips for getting around Madrid.  People like him make the world go round.

We went to our hostel… and the hostel told us to go to another hostel.  But I think that the hostel we wound-up in was probably better.  The bad thing was that I emptied my euro-coffer in one fell swoop paying for our room.  See previous entry for open letter to my bank.

We took a bit of time to get settled in and grab a bite to eat before heading to Las Ventas for a bullfight—what?!  Yes, Mom, I’m sorry I had to tell you that way.  I made video blogs, but they would take too long to upload.  I’ll just have to save them for a Christmas DVD or something of the sort.  Maybe.

A lot of people on the trip are trying to face their fears: those who are agoraphobic are going skydiving.  I’m not afraid of heights.  I’m afraid of not being able to challenge or question myself.  Ever since I learned about bullfighting I just knew that it was wrong, that it was morally bankrupt, that it was sick.  And because this is something I knew, that is why I had to challenge it.  Luckily, I am comfortable enough with Dennis that I could cry in front of him without feeling too lame.  I would have preferred to go with my brother, but he didn’t come on this trip.

The way I tried to challenge my view of the bullfight or to justify the opposition was to think of it as an art form, like folk dancing, paying homage to the struggles of our ancestors.  And I think that is the art people find in it.  I feel like the bullfight I saw was unfair, the kills were not very clean, the bulls seemed to be taunted and, what really shook me was when one of the bulls lay down in his own blood rather than face the matador one last time.  It made me feel sick.  I actually felt like it was a worse scene than a lot of the footage I have seen from slaughterhouses.  But I think that it was good that I went.  One of my friends, Jeanette, went to a different bullfight in a small village where they only have one each year.  She thought it was more artistic and respectful of the animals than what I reported from Las Ventas, where there is a bullfight every Sunday.  If I ever see another bullfight, I would only consider seeing one in a small village, where it is less commercial and more traditional.  (One picture: not much gore, will post videos and other photos later for those who are interested in seeing what I saw.)

The next day was ridiculous.

Madrid has a fantastic metro.  They have horrible streets.  And people have no idea where they are, except for cops, who are very helpful.  It took us a good while to find a place where Dennis had wanted to get some business cards made, which was a real task.  My Spanish isn’t that bad, but in Madrid everyone speaks Castilian which can be difficult to understand.  But he likes the cards.  If he’s happy, I’m happy.

I was over a half hour late to my appointment with an NGO for an interview, and the fellow had decided to pack-up and go home.  The street was almost impossible to find: we got off at the right metro stop, but everyone pointed us in a different direction.  By the time we got to the train station with the bus terminal, we were late for Dennis’ class, so we moped and went back to the hostel, banking on “mañana.”

Dennis’ girlfriend used to live in Madrid, so she had a whole list of recommendations for him.  We went to Casa Minga and ate the house specialty: a whole chicken, Manchego cheese, bread and cider.  It was not bad.  He also creeped on her old apartment until security told him to go away.

The last morning, we found our way out to the CrossFit we had been trying to get to the night before, thanks to a very helpful (and attractive) policeman and an elderly British expat.  It was my first CrossFit class.  (In the video blog, I pause for about three seconds here and make a variety of faces.)  I did not have expectations, but it was not that bad.  CrossFit Madrid is run by a nice guy named Javier; I had been e-mailing him beforehand.  There was only one person from Spain in the class… then Dennis and I.  I was not sore immediately after because I did not have time for that kind of crud.

We went back to the hostel to get our things out of storage and then we went to an art museum (Prado).  Art museums creep me out a lot.  I feel like there should be more singing and dancing.  And I was not that satisfied.  The collection was predominately portraiture.  I’m more into French painters—JLD, word!  There was one painting I liked, of Saint Margaret, and a ton that I recognized.  We had an eight-hour bus ride home.  Dennis slept like a baby because he tends to do that, but I could not fall asleep for more than five minutes because I knew that we would miss our stop if I weren’t awake.

We got back on the ship at around 7AM, I took a nap and then went out to the beach with Jeanette.  My body started feeling the CF workout and all of the walking and the stairs and that time of the month in combination… but the ocean washed it all away for at least five hours.  It’s no wonder doctors in Europe prescribe trips to the beach… that ocean is magical.  Of course, when we got out and dried off and started to head back toward the ship to avoid dock-time, I started feeling aches and pains again.  But those were remedied by Chinese food.  Yes, I had Chinese food in Spain.  No, I do not think that is stupid or weird.  Chinese food in Spain is not very sweet and it’s not super salty like American Chinese food… it was a lot like Thai food.  And we actually had tiramisu and chocolate mousse for dessert.  How’s that for multicultural?

When we were all waiting for the ship to tug off, Adam caught me up on seventh deck.  Adam is my partner in one of my classes; he goes to the University of Madrid, usually, so when I told him everything I did, he knew where everything was (except for the CrossFit).  He even knew what I ate at Casa Minga.  We just talked for a couple of hours and watched the sun set (picture) until the wind got to be too much and we went back inside.  That’s when Jeanette and I talked about our respective bullfights and started making a list of ways Semester at Sea could be improved.

The next morning, I woke up a few feet away from Morocco…

(To be continued.)

The frightening thing is that there are people who live like this all of the time.

Dear People’s United Bank:

Before leaving on this voyage, I called your customer service center to inform you of my itinerary.  I was not bragging, I was just trying to make certain that I would be able to use my card.  I told you all of the countries I would be visiting and when I would be done traveling.  I even informed you of a few suspiciously large looking capital flows I was aware of.  Your customer service representative took note of each country and the specific transactions I mentioned and told me that the only country I would not be able to use my card in would be India.

I have not, yet, been to India.  But as you know, I had to spend five days in Spain without use of my debit card as either a line of credit or for ATM withdrawals.  Thankfully the person I was traveling with allowed me to incur about 200euro worth of debt through him, but it certainly was no fun being broke and having to rely upon someone I just met, the lack of fun was probably exacerbated by the fact that I was in a foreign country.  Oh, and your call center is not open on Labor Day Weekend.  The rest of the world does not recognize the same holidays, so it would make a lot of sense for you to open up a segment of your call center specifically dedicated to travel issues during holidays.

When I finally did get through to your call center, I incurred international charges on my phone (which I had planned to use as only an alarm clock for four months) only to be told that my card was probably locked because I had been guessing at my pin.  The problem with that logic is that I had been rejected for at least 12 transactions before ever thinking to try an ATM.  The ATM situation was furthermore irritating because I am fairly certain I knew my pin, unless of course, when I got a new card shortly before leaving (the gentleman who was ordering for it clarified that it would be the same number as my old card, whereas I knew it was neither lost nor stolen—I actually have it with me, as I put it somewhere I knew I would not lose it before this trip and found it in my luggage), you may have assigned me a different pin along with the new number.

When my mother contacted you, you told her that I never said I was going to Spain.  She was standing next to me in the kitchen when I called your center before leaving and informed you of my full itinerary.  You also told my mother that Spain was on your “fraud” list, even though your service representative told me that Spain was fine, as other members of the E.U. have been for me in the past.  Additionally, you told my mother that you can only keep track of travel destinations for up to a month.  Why did you let me waste my breath talking about Halloween in Singapore, then?

I still cannot make purchases with my card, here in Morocco.  I have been able to use the ATM, thanks to my mother and brother for working to get this all straightened out to the best of their abilities.

But because I cannot charge on my card (with the exception of on this ship), I cannot buy transportation tickets for long distances (whereas most airports and many train stations do not allow for people to pay in cash).  This means that I did not get to go to Agadir, as I had planned to.  I am sincerely disappointed.  I hope that you fix whatever your problem is by the time I get to South Africa: you have a couple of weeks.

What bothers me most about this, though, is the fact that every ounce of it has been passed-off as being my “fault,” and none of your representatives ever issued an apology to me.  I did everything I was supposed to do and little to nothing of what I was not supposed to do, and for some reason your end of the bargain has not been held up substantially.

Do you know how frustrating and frightening it is to be in a foreign country without readily available cash?  Very.  Imagine that you have a twenty-year-old daughter and she is in that same situation.  It would probably be more frightening to you, were you to work somewhere other than a bank, were you to be a professor, thousands of miles away, needing to deal with the first weeks of class, an increasingly complicated car, a son, a dog and the life in front of you.  Your daughter being broke in a Muslim country with the aspiration of getting to a city about 300 miles away might worry you.  If she does it, it could be dangerous.  It might sadden you if she does not, though… because she wants to go there even more than she wants to go to UPenn for grad school.  The fact that she is on the trip of a lifetime that she got a one-time $13k scholarship for might make you kind of angry at the bank for not having her card in order: she’s never going to get to do this again.

When I return to the United States I will be finding another bank to deal with, but until then I am stuck dealing with your shenanigans and would appreciate it if you could make this as simple of a send-off as possible by fixing whatever the problem is.  The first step is that you have to admit that there is a problem, then you need to acknowledge that it is on your end, and then you need to remedy it.

I am grateful for how fortunate I am to be on this trip.  I am extremely frustrated that there is no reason for things to be this complicated.

Sincerely,

Confused in Casablanca