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.