A Spiritual Oasis

I often find myself in situations where I push the pause button for no more than a minute and think to myself, "Ten minutes ago, would I have ever imagined I would be in this moment?" Of course the answer is always no, and the follow-up question is inevitably, "Where am I?" Well, let me rewind a bit and give you some context.

One weekend, I had decided to join some other professors on a trip to the Tafilalt Oasis, on the outer limits of the Sahara Desert. We had been traveling for hours across barren plains and winding through rocky hills when we suddenly descended upon a lush green valley, bursting with date palms and woven with rivers. It was a true oasis in all respects of the term and a fresh gulp of water for the eyes. Now, what's interesting about this particular oasis is that just a few kilometers down the river, or immediately beyond the dam that is plugging this plentiful paradise is a region laden with cracked, dried riverbeds and entire families meagerly surviving on 5 liters of water a day. Why the drastic contrast? Well the answer is not all that surprising . . . religion.

Apparently, and as explained to me by one of my colleagues, an expert on the region, Sufi religious prayer centers, known as Zawiyats, speckled the area dating back to the time when caravans were crossing the desert from Algeria to Timbuktu. These Zawiyats were places where the community gathered for prayer rituals, where the harvest was collected and distributed amongst families, and where any tribal disputes were settled.

Well, not too long ago ,the kingdom of Morocco asked that these Zawiyats turn over their papers to the government. Most of the Zawiyats did just that and find themselves conveniently located on the green side of the dam, however some did not, and only one of them is barely surviving today. This is where I find myself now, seated among some of my colleagues and Sufi men and children, in the central gathering room, deep in a labyrinth of dirt walls, in the middle of the desert, on a stark black, starry night. The Sufi women are on the roof because they are not permitted in the inner room. There is a circular opening in the ceiling where you can see them occasionally taking a glimpse of their unexpected visitors. Below, we lounge on woven pillows and rugs, sipping cup after cup of mint tea, and snacking on fresh dates and peanuts. We had just witnessed poetic chanting from the Qur'an and were about to see the hadhra, a rhythmic invocation of Allah using drums and dance. Now, you'll get a glimpse of what carried us well into the night.

Just press play.

The Sahara

Some fluff in the muff

We knew something was wrong when the motor of our 97 VW Polo was louder than any beat-up, sheep-carrying, furniture-transporting vehicle on the road. However, what could be the problem? We had no idea . . .

We press on though, hoping it is nothing more than a busted muffler, until we come upon a honey farm on the side of the road, a place where you can not only find, but taste, over fifty different flavors of bee vomit . . . jasmine, eucalyptus, orange blossom, and Italian? Anyway, naturally we stop to stick our greedy little paws in various honey jars before we decide to continue on to our final destination, Chefchauen, home to cheese pruducin' goats and peace plant providin' mountains.

After I gather up my honey purchases from the small store, I walk outside to my three traveling companions, bewildered, observing the the back of the car. I join them, survey the situation, and am immediately aware of the cause of our growling vehicle. It appears that a small, black, furry animal has managed to be entirely sucked up and engulfed by our muffler. So much so, we are not quite sure if it is a cat, a baby goat, or a small child. However, regardless of the unidentifiable object, I jump into action, grab an empty plastic bag from the car, put it over my left hand, and squat down behind the rear bumper preparing myself for what is about to be yanked out. As I wrap my hand around what I assume to be the neck, or some part of the spinal column, I am receiving little moral support from the three members of my audience, two of whom can't stop crying they're laughing so hard and the vegetarian who is about to vomit from the whole scene. But, not one to stop a show, I pull as hard as I can, trying not to rip the muffler off or a vertebrae out of our furry foe. However, I only come away with a handful of charred fur and the final verdict that it's a cat, possibly a kitten, wedged in that pipe. Just as I'm about to jerk out my fifth handful of fur, my support team finally shows up, in true Moroccan fashion, with a woman in a gelaba serving us mint tea on a silver tray. So this is how they handle this sort of thing. Finally the honeyman comes out, takes one look at the situation and politely listens to my friends' desperate explanations in broken French, Arabic, and Spanish. I just quietly sip on my tea while manually shearing the kitten. After the honeyman grasps the gist of what my companions are so exhaustingly trying to communicate, he calmly walks to the back of the honey store and comes back with a young, strapping mechanic, complete with a gray jumper and gloves to match. Now, was is too simple-minded of me to assume a honey farm in the middle of the Rif Mountains probably would not have an on-site mechanic? Possibly so, but regardless of my ignorant assumptions, Sidi Fix It stepped right up to the plate, took off his glove, yanked out a clump of fur from the suffocated feline, smelled it, and declared us all idiots. Apparently, a small kitten sucked up into a muffler looks strikingly similar to a blown out filter. They assured us we would be fine for the rest of our trip and that we were not animal killers (the vegetarian was almost in tears by now).

So, to Chefchauen we merrily arrived, muffler intact, honey stocked, one more vacancy in the pet cemetary and a very important lesson learned: When you think you have some fluff in your muff, just sip your tea and let a professional do the work.

A call to prayer: Chefchauen

Sunset in Essaouira

Please shower with your pans on.

This is what the campus-wide e-mail read this past week, but the message was intended for me. For those of you who don't read Moroccan English, "pans" means "pants", but in this context it is specifically referring to bathing suit bottoms. So, the background . . . well, I'm officially a member of the Al Akhawayn swim team (one of two women on the team), and after a rigorous practice one Monday evening, I hit the showers. Now I won't go into extended detail about my shower routine, but part of it does consist of removing my bathing suit and rinsing out the chlorine. Well, I should have known something wasn't kosher when upon doing this I received a wave of stares, whispers, and 'discreet' pointing from the other women in the shower. Now, I understand women need to cover themselves in public, so that men may not be tempted to lust after them, but I assumed that this rule did not apply to women with other women. And, I assumed wrong. Immediately after this incident, everyone received a strongly worded e-mail asking pool users to shower with their pans on. They might as well have just sent the e-mail directly to me, but reprimanding for any wrong doing seems to be a public event here. So, a word to the wise . . . women, keep your pans on . . . and men, don't remove your pots.

A venture up the coast to Asilah

Some things you are guaranteed to see driving up the coast of Morocco:

1. Roadside stands selling a tasty combination of onions and melons

2. Highway patrol officers stopping traffic to ask for a cigarette

3. Jars of honey carefully balanced upon a tower of rocks

4. A shepherd, staff in one hand, cell phone in the other

5. More honey

6. Flamingos

7. Camels "re-fueling" at the gas station

8. Two men walking along the shoulder of the highway, in the middle of the desert, nicely dressed, and carrying nothing but a silver tray with a complete tea set

The Donkey and the Mercedes: My first impressions

I live in a little town named Ifrane. To those who have visited Morocco for a few days or even a few weeks, you may have not ventured to Ifrane or even heard of it. However, to wealthy Moroccans and many Europeans it is hardly unheard of. It is the summer vacation spot for those who cannot bear the heat of Fez and Marrakesh. It is the destination for those who want to sit in sidewalk cafes sipping mint tea and talking over tajine. It is the hotspot for young, affluent Moroccans wearing tube tops and head scarves. It is a unique little place, somehwhat similar to Disneyland with its manicured lawns (which no one is to walk upon), tidy streets, and even a small train carrying tourists from the central square to the local market. However, walk about five minutes outside of Ifrane towards Fez and you will find yourself in a land similar to images seen in the movie Babel. Rocky, dry farmland, sheep herders living in tents, and Berbers walking alongside their cargo-carrying donkeys.

It should also be mentioned that the university in which I teach sits high on a hill overlooking this little economic oasis and apparently was funded by money given to Morocco by a Saudi King. Apparently a Saudi oil carrier had a little accident off the coast of Morocco, spilling vast amounts of oil along the shorline. Well, the Saudi King dished out money to tidy things up, but the money was never used thanks to the strong Altlantic currents sweeping the mess to someone else's shore. So where did all that money go? Ding ding ding . . . you guessed it! Toward building Al Akhawayn University (meaning Two Brothers University, named after the the Saudi King and Moroccan King Hassan II). So it's no wonder that as I walk down the flower-lined walkways and past the Gucci -sportin' , English-speaking students of this campus, that I have to remind myself that I'm in Africa.

A Soldier's Welcome

Is that a drum or are you just happy to see me?

You can imagine my surprise and utter pleasure when I stepped off the plane and into the small lobby of the Casablanca Airport and was immediately greeted by loud cheering, a band of horns, and a group of Moroccan men in matching green robes and Fez hats encircling me with a little jig. At first I thought they must have mistaken me for Hilary Clinton, but after realizing the caliber of this welcome celebration I think it must have been Julia Roberts. However, my dreams of being mistaken for the "Pretty Woman" were immediately crushed when the dancing circle abandoned me for the next Joe Shmoe to disembark the plane. I'm still not quite sure what or who the huge fuss was for. Maybe it's their job. All I hope for is that my farewell is just as exciting.

Ode to cold

They told me once,
They told me twice,
Three times they told,
but I did not heed their warnings
about the cold.

So here I lay in bed,
my fourth day in a row,
on a diet of rice and
tea of something I don't quite know.
Half the town has visited me
bearing gifts of oranges and wine.
By the way they all stare at me,
once would think I might die.

It all began four nights ago,
in the mountains there was snow.
I layed bundled in my bed when
I realized i couldn't feel my toes.
I pressed my feet against the gas stove,
burning with a heat so red,
yet I couldn't feel a thing, not a sting,
my feet were dead.

Now it seems to everyone that
I have a death wish of pneumonia,
because in a week I shall travel south
to the land of the Patagonia.
At a cozy 4 degrees i will board a ship
used to transport cattle,
where the primary means of staying warm
is to drink whiskey straight from the bottle.
For 3 days i will float past glaciars
to the southern most tip of land.
I'll be sure to take lots of photos,
though I probably won't feel my hands!

They told me once,
They told me twice,
Three times they told,
yet I still won't heed their warnings
about the cold.

Bump, Set, Spike

Well ,it's no secret in town that the gringa likes to ''trotar.'' Literal translation: ''to trot'' or ''to hustle,'' but more widely recognized as ''to jog''. I prefer the former. Anyways, so yes I like to trot and trot I do. And the people like to talk about it and talk about it they do. After all, I'm the only person doing any trotting around here without a horse. So what does this mean for my career as an English teacher? Well, to the untrained eye, just about nothing. But to the Chileans, it means that I should not only be teaching English, but Physical Education as well. So let me introduce myself . . . Brooke Mackenzie, part time English teacher, part time PE teacher.

Now I wasn't completely opposed to the idea at first. I mean who wouln't want to play sports with a bunch of rowdy tikes in 10 degree below freezing weather? However, the other teacher didn't want me to just play the usual soccer and games I prefer like dodgeball and who can stay silent longest while standing on their head. Noooo, they had bigger plans . . . . they thought volleyball. There are 3 problems with this particular sport.

1. There is no ball.
2. There is definately no net.
3. The new teacher doesn't really know how to play the sport.

However, this won't stop any determined Chilean because with each of these problems there is an obvious solution.

1. There is a soccer ball.
2. There is an unusually high barbed wire fence diving the property of the school and that of a neighboring farm . . . aka, the net.
3. The teacher makes up the rules she goes.

So with that we began to play volleyball and I have to admit, it has not only been quite entertaining watching a group of kids manipulate a ball with their hands when they are much more comfortable doing it with their feet, but they seem to be learning more English in PE than in English class. Now, rather than greet me with the usual ''hello Miss, how are you?'' which never seems to come out quite right anyway, they cheerfully chime, ''hello Miss! Bump, set, spike!'' With that I simply reply, ''fine, thank you!''

Bitter Sweet Beaucracy

What a girl wouldn't do for a bar of chocolate? In Chile, just about nothing. I walk into a store that seems to have a large selection of chocolate bars. I'd been satisfying that sweet tooth with sugary cakes and cheap cookies. All I wanted now was some semi-quality chocolate. I settle my eyes on a bar of bitter dark in some pretty wrapping (pretty wrapping = yummy chocolate?!?). I tell the woman behind the counter which one I want. Yes, for some reason these candy bars are behind a thick pane of glass. Why? Because thick paned glass = yummy chocolate?!? The woman then takes the chocolate bar to where? Well, I'm not quite sure at this moment and hands me a receipt. I look at her slightly perplexed and she, having probably recieved this look a billion times before, silently points to another woman on the other side of the store. I weave my way through the crowded store, reciept in hand to the ''other woman.'' She takes my reciept and then looks at ME slightly perplexed. Having recieved this look a billion times before in foreign countries, I do as always and start dishing out the dinero. Then the woman takes receipt#1, staples it to another reciept and hands it back to me. But where the heck is my candy? She then points me in the direction of a man waiting behind yet another thick pane of glass (and we already know what that means) who takes my reciepts and miraculously conjures up my chocolate. Chocolate bar in one hand and receipts in other he begins to compare the two. I think he was looking for that little Indian boy with a bow and arrow that indicates you've won a free Tootsie pop. Apparently he didn't win or after a good three minutes of scrutinization he concluded that these receipts do indeed correspond to the candy in hand. And just as he goes to bag my chocolate I almost begin to say the usual ''Oh I don't need a bag,'' but thankfully stop myself. Can you imagine how may receipts I would have to accumulate for the that request, not to mention it would have thrown the whole system out of whack. He finally hands me my chocolate, not to mention my reciepts, and sends me on my way. If you could trace my path in the store that day I imagine it would have looked something like the Star of David. But I had my chocolate and all the proof in the world that it was mine.

The Resourceful Teacher

So, yes I've begun teaching and can you picture me in a room of fifteen 5-7 year olds playing games and singing songs? I know . . . I guess pigs have begun to fly because here I am teaching kids! And I thought all this time I was allergic to them. Anyway, classes with the kids are going well because I've realized that the quickest way to a latino's heart is to play soccer and that I can do! So, how I won them over? Three goals, two assists, and a header that knocked over one of the school bullies. Yes! I'm in their club! Now I just gotta figure out how to teach them English!

My classes with the adults are going amazingly well. I love working with adults! And it seems that the ''resources'' the Ministry of Education was going to send us is just that . . . a word surrounded by quotes. So, I've learned to become resourceful . . . attaching papers without a stapler, using gum for tape, an earing to make a spinning wheel, and you would never believe how useful Cameron Diaz's left leg is to recreate a map of Chile! A wise professor once told me that you know you are in a developed country when you find paper clips on the floor. Well, what I wouldn't give for a few paper clips now!

Chao,

B-ing creative

Pachamama and the Usado

Pachamama is the name of my landlord. She is also my neighbor, my Chilean mother, and my closest friend here in Colliguay. ''Pachamama'' means ''Mother Earth'' in Yquechua. And yes, Pachamama doth provide . . .

Thank you Pachamama for my two story cottage. What appeared at first to be very ''cozy'' was really two large ice chests, one stacked upon the other, in disguise. Yes, I haven't quite figured it out yet, but for some reason it is colder in my cabina than it is outside. However, if I wear every bit of clothing I have, do 28 sit-ups before I get into bed, and spoon my Nalgene filled with boiling water, I manage to stay warm.

Thank you Pachamama for my 8 gaurdian angels who come to me in the form of semi-wild barking dogs. The first night asleep in my little igloo I was suddenly awoken by the little angels barking up a storm . . . or better yet a hurricane. I'm pretty sure they were protecting me from the completely deaf demon (or town drunkard) Ramoncito. You can't have a small town without one. But because of them, I feel safe.

I think I also feel safe due to the little string attached to my bedroom window, running through my grape-vined patio, across my private pool (yes I have a small, empty pool with some cow bones in it), to a bell hanging on the front door of Pachamama. This contraption, along with many others in the house, was invented by the Usado.

Ahhh the Usado (''used'' for those non-spanish speakers). He is Pachamama's partner. I call him this because after our first lunch together (Pachamama, the Usado, the 8 angelitos, and myself) he preferred to be called ''used'' rather than ''old''. It was a little joke of ours. And I was so happy to have an inside joke with my new neighbors, that upon seeing him the next time I yelled out ''Hey Usado!'' You can imagine my surprise when he stared back at me blankly and continued about his business of cutting up empty, plastic Coke bottles.

But all the same, thank you Pachamama for all that you have given me . . . pumpkin, persimmons, walnuts, chicha, a lesson on heating my bath water, a Jehovah's Witness book in Spanish, a room with a view of the snow-capped mountains on all four sides, and all the love and carino a girl could want to keep her warm in this freezing little mountain town.