A Rainy Day in Fez

I originally thought of going to Fes Saturday, but when I awoke to rain,  wind, and a Mid-Atlas chill, I decided to wait until the weather cleared.  Cleared is something of a misnomer, but clearer did indeed arrive with Sunday morning. Still, clouds were rolling by as I walked out the campus gate and toward town to catch a grand taxi, having not found any small taxis near the university exit due  to the absence of the students on a four-day holiday.
At the bottom of the hill, just a couple of blocks from centre ville, I saw two gentlemen preparing to board a bus that was headed in the direction of …Fes.  On impulse, I decided to take this less-swishy version of between-city buses.  Good choice. Plus, these “normal citizen” buses are less expensive.  Only 15 dirhams. The seat was comfortable and I didn’t get car sick because the bus itself was lower in height and so didn’t sway so much from side to side.  The ride took across two plateaus where crops were bursting with green vitality.  The recent rains have done so much for the crops although the early year scarcity means that some crops didn’t get a great start.  As we gradually descended,  the carpet of rocky outcroppings interspersed with plowed and growing fields gave way to larger expanses of leafy, sprouting, verdant farms.

     And I saw the Moroccan miracle of spring – Amid the youthful, thin, waving stalks of wheat uncountable numbers of small, red poppies.  So glorious a sight is only available before the grain and other crops are tall enough to cover the spring fling of wild flowers. While the poppies are my favorite, such an unexpected vibrancy in a rarely colorful land, pinks, yellows, marigold orange, white, and purple blooms also make an appearance, pleasing the eye for brief seconds as the vehicle races by.  When I lived in Settat, I used to walk in the country this time of year, passing through the fields and their massive bouquets of glorious flowers.   Arrived at the Mahatta Tauriqia (Bus station – also grand taxi station but not for grand taxis to Ifrane) at around 12:30 – the trip taking about an hour and a quarter from Ifrane.
I asked a waiting small taxi (In Fes they are painted red.) for a ride to Bab Boujuloud.  He told me that the Bab was just about 200 meters away,  so why waste the ride.  In fact, a Bab was 200 meters away, but not the one I sought.  Still, I went in, past the ancient walls 15 feet thick and into a sort of courtyard. Two men were squatting by one of the walsl holding a bird. Its chirps were audible and, at first I thought that it was a bird they had captured for sale.  My assumption was wrong. Looking like a victim of the Pacific Gyro, the bird, a starling (not my fav but I have compassion for all winged creatures even if they were transplanted by an idiot from England.) was caught up in a pernicious web of thread and plastic, all wound tightly around its leg.  The men were working laboriously to free the bird without injury.  An added problem was the dead carcass of a young chick, also snarled in the fibrous mess.

     At last, frustrated by the determined web, one of the men wanted to gently burn the tangle away.  I asked them to wait as I fished for my nail clippers.  I handed them over and watched as he applied them to each tiny piece of fiber.  At last, though they were making progress, I couldn’t look any longer at that tiny corpse dangling seemingly from its mother’s captured foot. I wouldn’t want the clippers back after its grisly task anyway, so I told them to keep the clippers and I headed into the medina.
First stop, coffee and a petit pan, since I’d yet to breakfast.  The rains returned to drip down on shoppers, and I sipped slower in hopes of it passing.  It did somewhat and I passed through Bab Boujuloud and into a maze of alleys.  One of the things I noticed was that artisan shops which had lined the main alley have given way to clothing and shoe shops, scarf sales and perfumeries. It is still a fascinating place, but the gnarled hands of men working an ancient craft are gone, well, diminishing.  So are the donkeys, although as narrow as the lanes are, and therefore unuseable by motored haulage, the donkeys may last a while longer. I actually got bumped by a passing donkey cart because my ears weren’t attuned to the warning call.
The walk was largely a matter of dodging rain drops, taking quick refuge under awnings, and watching out for the spills of make-shift plastic varieties that dumped a bucketful every 10-15 minutes.  Briefly I recalled my visit to the Morocco Mall in Casablanca, a vast modern fantasy world of high-end shops, Starbucks, and creature comforts.  The souk in Fez isn’t anything like that on a rainy day, but it is still worth doing.  A couple of scarves, a pair of earrings, lunch of chicken tagine, a small bottle argane oil, and long silver chain later, I was ready to go do more regular shopping at Marjane (Wal-Martesque).
Carless, I grabbed another cab, shopped for just the items I could reasonably haul, stuffed them in my goufa (plastic fiber reuseable shopping bag) and took another taxi to the grand taxi stand where I bought the front passenger seat (counts as two) and had an easy ride back into the mountains. When I arrived, winter had returned with sleet and wet snow flakes.  The half mile to my apartment from the main gate was daunting so one of the shuttle buses gave me a lift.  Sigh.

A timeless scene in Morocco – Fountain and fresh fruit

Al Akhawayn University – Home at Last – A Leap into a Job Overseas

The globe near the gate at Al Akhawayn University.

Mosque at Al Akhawayn

    August 26, 2011  Al Akhawayn University (the meaning of the name in Arabic is “Two Brothers”) came about as a result of a collaboration between two kings: King Hassan II of Morocco (The father of the current king, Mohammed VI.) and King Fahd bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud of Saudi Arabia (half-brother to the current ruler of Saudi Arabia, King Abdullah.)

The story goes that an oil tanker caused an oil spill off the coast of Morocco, endangering fishing, tourism and natural resources.  There was once such spill in 1989.  King Fahd, in the spirit of brotherhood, created a generous endowment to take care of the clean-up and any residual losses.  Nature intervened and sent the oil slick out to sea instead of onto the beaches.  Whether King Hassan II offered to return the money is not known, but King Fahd apparently told him to keep it.  In 1993, by Royal Decree, a plan was made to build a university an hour’s drive from the imperial city of Fes.

Ifrane offered a beautiful environment for the creation of a university, sitting as it does at 1665 meters in the midst of verdant forests and a temperate climate.  The university, opened in 1995,  is modeled off of American universities, with a broad range of departments and opportunities for research.  Though not free, Al Akhawayn is a public school.  The administration gives scholarships to 30% of its students.  The criteria for entry is high and includes a high level of English language proficiency.

Many of the international students are from the United States.  Well, why not?  It is a lovely campus with  highly qualified instructors.  Several of them are globally recognized as experts on Berbers, Arab History, Islam, and all things Moroccan.  I’m hoping to sit in on some classes and add to my own knowledge.

I wish all of you could see this place where I’ve landed, the school, the staff, my apartment, the town, and the possibilities. One of my initial concerns, after such a social and pleasant month in Rabat, was whether Al Akhawayn would offer collegiality and friendship. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. One afternoon as I was returning from the center of Ifrane, where I had gratefully discovered a coffee shop that was open for tourists during Ramadan, a car stopped along the lane. Inside was another faculty member, a counselor at the university and one of the faculty orientation team. She explained the upcoming NFO, new faculty orientation and gave me a schedule. She also invited me to accompany her and a friend to the souk, the weekend tent souk a couple of kilometers from the center of town. So, the next day, goufa in hand (large woven grocery bag) I met her at the main gate.

The souk, when we arrived, was the standard Moroccan style, tarps strung together to form a haphazard roof.  Beneath, three dozen retailers, each with his own little space, has fruits, vegetables, eggs, or other wares spread out all around, a scale and weights at the ready. Whatever cuisine looms on your cooking horizons can be created from the vast, aromatic choices of the souk.

The ladies, both of whom buy and cook for athletes, went from vendor to vendor, picking the best of the fruits and vegetables. Two of us went off together, and our companion shopped on her own.   I was able to be of service by translating  the prices from Arabic into English. I remember from Settat how many people still use riyals rather than dirhams.  A dirham is 20 riyal, so when one vendor told her 460 riyals, he really meant 23 MAD. While my haul was nothing to the other ladies, the blue plaid goufa was full to bursting with fruits, parsley, and veggies.  Speaking derija with everyone was fun and gratifying. I felt completely comfortable in the souk, and among all those people who seem, on the surface, so different.

The architecture of Al Akhawayn and Ifrane is unexpected and unparalleled in any other location in Morocco. Peaked and red tiled roofs are ready to resist any snow      which may fall in this higher elevation. Indeed, nearby are actual ski slopes, though they don’t always get annual use. Sandra lives in a building opposite mine. She’s on the third floor with a lovely view of trees and empty expanses. I don’t have the view, but my apartment, as you can see in pictures on Facebook, is quite comfortable. I’ve added only a few enhancements such as a beautiful bone inlay mirror and a Moroccan carpet in blue and crimson. Keeping it simple is one of my goals, so while I could appreciate Cheryl’s lovely home, I don’t want to accumulate too much more. At least, that is how it stands at the moment.

There are 19 other instructors in the Language Center, about half Moroccan and half international. All seem committed to quality instruction and to the advancement of the department. I’ve been assigned three preps, writing, reading, and listening and speaking for a total of 20 contact hours each week. In addition, I will post 9 office hours so that students can review assignments, discuss issues, and make up tests. My office is in Building 4, though most of my classes will be in the library. The desk I chose in my office is next to the one window. That way, I can open the window for the refreshing breeze even before I turn on the computer.

On Wednesday and Thursday, Muslims all over the world will be celebrating Eid, the end of Ramadan.  I pray that their Ramadan has been full of peace, family connection and reflection on sacred texts.

Tonight, as I finish this, a lightning storm is causing winds to rush,  trees to flail around, and large round droplets to fall on the thirsty earth.  I can see rain glistening on the leaves and the lightning blanketing the sky with brilliant abstract patterns.

Views and Visions, Ifrane and Tangier, Morocco

Yesterday, a couple of colleagues/friends and I walked into Ifrane for a morning coffee and, …yes, I’ll admit it, two petit pan aux chocolat.  The center of town, an Alpine look-alike, is not distant (perhaps ¾ mile from my apartment), nor an arduous in terms of slopes and inclines, so the stroll is usually a welcome diversion from dashing around on campus.  Coffee drunk  and croissants savored, Sandra and I walked on to the Municipal Marche where I do most of my weekly shopping, which consists of the fixings for harira or another soup, yogurt, apples, bananas, the Moroccan equivalent of Crystal Light, bread, eggs, cheese, plus sunflower seeds and fresh roasted peanuts.  Alas, neither of my peanut/sunflower men was open for business, a slight damper to my day as the treats are effective nibble suppressors.  Those of you who have lived here, particularly in the Peace Corps years, probably used them, as I did, as meat substitutes and protein staples.

Yesterday’s souk find was a COAT!  I couldn’t believe it when I saw one about my size hanging on the rack at a “could be new, could be used” shop at the Marche – black, below the knee length, with a fuzzy liner and good pockets for gloves, plus a hidden hood.  And it fit!  She wanted 500 dirhams, or about $60, but I was firm at 350MAD, and ultimately she agreed.  Living in California, a coat hasn’t been a priority, with an urgent need arising only a few times a year. And boots, are you kidding?  Only a wuss wears boots.  Athleticism in the Bay Area is all about leaping over puddles, dodging tire spray, and managing your umbrella so adroitly that it never blows inside out.

Here, with the still-frequent cerulean skies, and despite one umbrella already in shreds, I’ve been slow to recognize what 5000 feet will mean in terms of serious chills and inclement weather.  The week before our Eid break a storm raged on for days, dumping swimming pools of rain on the lawns and pathways, creating puddles that soaked my leather slip-ons, leaving my footwear a sodden mess and my feet frozen bricks of flesh.

And so it was that the first thing we did in Tangier on our five day Eid break was hunt down and visit Casa Barata (Cheap House), a vast souk of hundreds of stalls.  In one I found white rubber go-go boots in my size, which happens to be larger than most Moroccan women.  Donna Summers and I could be a duo in these boots. The pic on the left is not of me, but it is a dead-on match of what my feet look like in these style-police horrors.  Still, I was grateful to find them and relatively cheaply ($9) as well.  The jacket hunt which followed resulted in an equally fashionable windbreaker-type covering in a death-to-beige hue.  Great for boating if you boat is a tug. Any jacket in a storm was my mantra as I plunked down $10 for the jacket.  Returning by train a few days later, after skimming the surface of Tangier and spotting hundreds of char-broiling sheeps’ heads, bloody hides rolled into lumps of hairy wounds and packed into vans for transport to the tanning factories, and horns by the hundreds that would have Pan drooling, I felt more ready for the approaching winter.

Our stay in Tangier was made more interesting by the choice of hotel. The Hotel Continental, with its ornate and fascinating interiors, first opened its doors in 1895 and has welcomed dignitaries both famous and infamous on a regular basis since.  My share of our triple room with breakfast for four nights was $100 even.  Breakfasts were usually taken on the second floor terrace and provided a stunning view of the port and the ocean beyond.  Just as riveting a scene was available from the roof of a restaurant in the Kasbah where we ate a most delectable meal and fended off the importunities of a “faux guide” who at first assured us he wasn’t after any money.  Twenty minutes later, as we are wondering why he is still with us on the roof, we learn that his assurances were akin to those of a politician. But, no money exchanged hands and eventually he left, bereft.  That didn’t prevent us from enjoying the meal and the scene and even the sounds of boys playing soccer in the ancient square just below.

Suite101 – Getting a fix on writing, getting a writing fix

Suite101 is a website born of two dominant trends: the need for information and the opportunity for advertising wherever information exists on-line.  The first is obvious, and the second is expedient.  Hundreds of thousands of articles on an encyclopedic number of subjects reside at Suite101.  Those articles are a platform for discrete advertisements, all placed in the hope that a reader will click on the link and visit the advertiser’s site.

Thousands of writers of different stripes call Suite101 their publisher of record.  They do not need to wait for an editor to assign a story because Suite authors can write about whatever they want, as long as the content is true, original, documented, and well-written.  They are not bound by a single topic and can move between Health and Travel or Education and Business.  To date I’ve written in over a dozen topic areas, with subjects popping up to interest me from as many directions.

A friend sent an email about her daughters running an extreme-style race called the Warrior Dash.  Never having heard of the Dash, I was intrigued, and after doing considerable research, I wrote the article. As it turns out, the Dash is not all that extreme, though people can get injured if they try really hard.  Essentially, it’s a Huck Finn dream come true, all mud and fire, and gettin’ down to it.

Another article sprang from the real life pains and disasters of people I know well.  They seemed to come up in a cluster: health issues, marital problems, and other catastrophes.  In formulating the article, I tried to determine what they had in common and, more important, how those who wanted to could be of genuine assistance.  This was one occasion when I truly appreciated the Topic Editors that Suite 101 has in abundance.  Shortly after I published this article, the Topic Editor wrote me and made some suggestions that would tighten the article and create a solid focus.  Naturally, I made the changes, and the article was better for it.

News stories too, have proven a fruitful impetus to writing.  A story about Rudolfo Brazda, a German concentration camp survivor, put me on the search for information about the rosa Winkel, the pink triangles that homosexual men had to wear once they were captured and imprisoned by Hitler’s Third Reich.  Brazda lived another 56 years after the wars end largely because of the “kindness of strangers.”  He and others waited decades to tell their stories because, in many countries, homosexuality was illegal until quite recently.

Whatever my mood, whatever strikes my interest, I have been finding an outlet in prose, and a way to provide others with information that may prove as fascinating for them as writing for Suite101 has been for me.

Hellooooooo out there!

If no pings go out, does that mean there aren’t aliens?  The defunding of SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence Institute, an array of 42 radio telescopes and over a dozen scientists at the Hat Cre­­­ek Observatory in Northern California may be a blip on a national screen already mined with natural and man-made chaos. For 27 years, SETI has sent the question ‘Are you listening?’ out into the void.  Without the facility and the question, humanity may miss an otherworld answer from Alpha Centauri and beyond.  Penny-pinching at the National Science Foundation and by the State of California has silenced Earth’s primary welcome mat to the cosmos, and barring some groundswell of opinion or big bucks coming into SETI’s Adopt a Scientist program, the dream is over.

As stated on their website, “The mission of the SETI Institute is to explore, understand and explain the origin, nature and prevalence of life in the universe.” Oh, so it isn’t to provide fodder for dozens of Hollywood movies from “Close Encounters of a Third Kind”, to “Contact.”  But up until recently, those movies, Star Trek, Klingon clones, the fiction of abductions, and the national “really out there” mentality, have paid the bills, kept interest in SETI and its mission alive and in the public eye.  It is “what makes money, what people find sexy,” admitted Dr. Jill Tarter, a chair at SETI.

No longer.  As SETI’s lights dim and the antenna hibernate, a measure of national imagination may fade, too. Financial logic demanded the cuts, but as Steve Jobs has said, “Logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.” Perhaps our current issues are too “out there” to contemplate what might be happening in the heavens.  Nevertheless, there is a part of me that wants to gather with other, like-minded folks on top of Mount Tamalpais, star-filled sky above, and, in the spirit of universal citizenship, wave our LED and photon flashlights…just in case.

Response to Luke Kohlmoos

I would like to address Myth #5, “More Effective Teachers are the Answer”.  (http://thequestionsheet.blogspot.com/2011/05/more-mythical-myths.html) Author Kohlmoos doesn’t specify whether he means “more” as in quantity, or “more” in the comparative sense.  Based on the content of the paragraphs, I believe it is the latter.

When I came to the mainstream classroom, I brought years of university level teaching and “success” with me.  For over a decade, I’d guided and instructed students as they moved through the various levels of ESL instruction using a selection of diverse methodologies and solid pedagogical practices.  Each new class, of course, required a slightly different approach, almost as though the body of students were a single entity with a unique persona.  The added factor was that within that entity were varied individual elements as well.  Thus, my repertoire of strategies, means, and responses was extensive and adaptable.

Regardless, nothing I’d experienced as an instructor overseas or in the United States prepared me for a main stream urban high school.  In short order, I went from feeling confident in my ability to deliver a curriculum effectively, guide the students meaningfully, and produce results adequate to future goals,  to wondering why nothing worked.  This past year, for example, I was assigned four English 1 repeater classes - that is, students who, for the most part, had taken the class before and failed.  The average GPA in these classes was a D or 1.0,  with many students falling well below that level. A D is passing in California high schools and often students are satisfied with that.

Naturally, the majority of these students had low skills which correlated their GPA.  Passed year after year, these sophomores (10^th graders) brought fourth grade competence to the high school classroom.  They had no history of a school work ethic.  Doing homework was unknown, literally, for 95%  of the students. Reading skills were dismal, with the resulting low levels of vocabulary competence.  In an attempt to meet these teens where they were, I created lessons that introduced information with exemplars and scaffolding,  offered texts that made relevant and interesting connections to real life and spoke to the universal condition of humanity through fiction and non-fiction. Over time and with repetition, basic skills were actually advanced, but without a willingness to do anything outside the classroom, the more complex, academic skills and proficiencies remained largely stagnant.  Ten years of experience and special instruction, plus sixty hours a week in class and doing preparation were not enough to make the kind of educational inroads that were always my goal, though, of course, there were the surprises, the successes, and  those who gradually woke up to their own future.  The statistics of teachers who leave the classroom after a few short years are tied to this type of frustration and the often attendant discipline problems. Most teachers truly do want to make a difference, and these assignments are excrutiatingly difficult to sustain.

Today,California has millions of such children; those who have never “bought in” to education in the first place, whose households are largely headed by undereducated adults naïve about the intellectual demands of modern life, and students, who, when queried, admit to a certain “gamesmanship” in regard to the learning process. Several teachers at my school had the same tale, one in which students have confessed that somehow they feel they have “won” if their teachers cannot convince them to do the work or succeed in school.   This is a conundrum worthy of Hercules, but not those who espouse the short-sighted dictums of “No Child”.

Like the Gordian Knot, the issues of why students’ test scores are not rising are many and complex.  It is a short-sighted legislator or “expert” who does not spend enough time in the troubled schools of theUSto know what is really going on.