I miss the snow down in Africa . . .

After a month of vacation, I returned to Ifrane late at night. When I woke in the morning, this is what I saw from my bedroom window.

Monkey Business

So, I decided that after my trip to the Azores and on my way back to Morocco, I would visit yet another island . . . Gibraltar. Now if I could describe the rock in four words/phrases, they would have to be: Fish n' Chips, expensive, theme parkish, and cheeto-eating monkeys. I decided to hike up the rock to see these famous Gibraltar Barbary Macaque monkeys. It is still uncertain how these tailless creatures came to Gibraltar, either from the Moors some hundred years ago or possibly more than a million years ago. Either way, the people of Gibraltar believe that if the monkey population begins to dwindle, that Britain will lose political control over the rock. So, whenever monkeys seem to be "scarce", Girbraltar has a few sex mongers shipped over from Morocco. Ahhh Morocco, known for just more than exporting phosphate and hash, but horny "apes" as well. Anyway, back to my hike. So, I'm walking up the rock, which I have to say had some breathtaking views of both Europe and Africa, when I see a monkey jauntily crossing the road. I quietly have an internal celebration thinking to myself "wow, I lived in Costa Rica for 2 years and didn't see a monkey until about 3 months before I left. Now I come to Gibraltar and see one within hours. I must be monkey lucky in 2008!" Well, the balloons in my little auto-party were soon deflated when I turned the corner and saw two tours buses and about 30 tourists taking pictures of the "Rock Apes" entertaining them as if we were at a circus. These guys were pulling out all the stops, doing everything from steeling a little boy's bag of chips (which he wholly deserved, by the way) to fornicating with their babies hanging off their backs. Now, tell me if you've ever seen that in a circus or on Animal Planet. It was a strange scene and I have to admit that I immediately wanted to leave, but not before capturing true love. Yes, can any happily married couple or disgustingly in love pair tell me that they would do the above for their partner? I think not.

All I want for Christmas is a mesa natal...

So as many of you may know, I spent the holidays on the Azores off the coast of Portugal. I went into a bit of a bovine shock when I found myself on the lush green island of Terceira, surrounded by well-fed, gigantic cows. I mean, they made Moroccan cattle look like anorexic Olsen twins gnawing on rocky clumps of dirt and dust. And, like the Azorian cows, the people sure knew how to meet their nutritional needs. The Portuguese have a tradition of setting up La Mesa Natal (the Christmas table), a doily-decorated dining table, covered in a variety of cakes, pies, cookies, and candies and adorned with the best liquor the family has to offer. This table is set on Christmas Eve and remains set until New Years Day. Eight days of passing from house to house, gorging on sweets and gulping down port and whiskey. Need I say more? Even the Olsen twins would have gained a pound or two.

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