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.