Lunch with the Ambassador

It's not everyday you get to chill out with the high-ups in our government and much less in an informal setting, but just recently I got the chance to do that.  I can't explain exactly how it all came about.  It could have been that through my email blasting, which I've been doing over the last month, that word got around about my counterpart's trip to the U.S. to participate in the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market and at the opening of an exhibition titled Empowering Women hosted by the Museum of International Folk Art.  Another possibility was a referral from a dear friend of the Cherry Buttons Cooperative, Dr. Susan Schaeffer Davis, who not too long ago brought a delegation of U.S. Americans to Morocco and took them on a tour of events, some of which were attended by embassy staff and perhaps even the ambassador's wife.  Dr. Davis was one of the victims of my email blast to which she responded and said that she had recommended that the embassy staff meet my counterpart, Amina Yabis, if they were ever in the Fez region.

I got a call from Peace Corps staff alerting me of the ambassador's visit a couple of days prior to the expected arrival date, and then shortly after that phone call, embassy staff contacted me.  I was given a date, but few specifics: only that the ambassador's wife wanted to meet Amina and that they were aware that a Peace Corps volunteer was in the neighborhood so they also asked that I be present.  I was told not to contact security personnel as they would be responsible for doing so.  I relayed the information to my counterpart, but I forgot to tell her not to call any security personnel.

The day before their arrival, embassy security called me to give me an approximate time of when they would be there and to settle on a meeting point.  At the time, Sefrou was in full Cherry Festival mode.  The streets were decorated, there was a lot of foot traffic, music playing on different stages throughout the city, fantasia was on exhibit in the evenings, and expo tents were set up all over town, but the visit was not to partake of the festivities.  We decided we would meet at the artisana tent expo where Amina would be present with her cooperative ladies.

The following day there was a bit of drama.  Amina had told the Pasha, the equivalent of the security chief of the region, about the ambassador's visit and that he and his family may possibly dine in her home.  Amina said the Pasha did not take too well to the late notice and rebuked Amina for it.  At the artisana expo, local security personnel from either the police or other services approached Amina for more details, but she had none to give.  She told them to speak to me and I told them exactly what I had told Amina.  They wanted an itinerary that I simply didn't have.  When they realized that we were in the dark as much as they were, they cooled off and later on apologized to Amina.

As soon as the drama subsided, the black Suburbans arrived.  Amina and I went over to meet Ambassador Kaplan and his wife as they exited their vehicle.  On another suburban, members of the ambassador's family got out and we greeted them all.  A couple of volunteers who were planning to meet with Amina for Camp GLOW business came over to the tent and also greeted the ambassador and his family.  The ambassador's wife went over to Amina's booth, greeted the coop ladies and apprentices, and her family got to buying the coop's famous button necklaces and bracelets.

In conversation with security personnel, we determined that Amina would indeed host the ambassador and his family at her home for lunch.  As soon as we decided, Amina took off to get things prepared.

In the meantime, the ambassador and his family took a lap around the artisana expo with only the entourage of the security personnel.  The ambassador's visit was quite a contrast to the visit from the Minister of Artisana who had come through Sefrou only a few months back.  The entourage that followed that man was a good 50 meters long of what we PCV's call The Suits.  When the minister came to the artisana, all the artisans, members of the chamber of artisana, apprentices, and even myself formed a line for the minister to shake our hands.  Security personnel were out in full force with multiple vans shadowing the glossy, black Mercedes Benz-- the typical transport for government officials.  It was just a lot of pomp and circumstance everywhere.

I was happy that the political entourage was not there.  After all, this was not an official visit.  He did not come to make a proclamation or to shake hands with the political hierarchy; the ambassador and his family were here as your everyday tourist.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Jewish cemetery in Sefrou.  I was about to say goodbye and to tell them that I would meet them at Amina's, but they urged me to come along.  I was honored to be accompanying the ambassador and his family, but more importantly I was psyched about the ride in the Suburbans.  For all my criticism of entourages, I was now part of one and I got to say that it did feel pretty cool.  The cemetery attendant greeted everyone with a "shalom" and then he began to blurt out some rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic that I could not understand nor could begin to translate.  Apparently, he thought that I was the tour guide for the group--not the first time this has happened.   The security personnel went over to the gentleman and explained that I was not Moroccan, but American, and that I was still learning.

The ambassador pointed to a grave that he said spelled out his first name Samuel in Hebrew.  The attendant led the group around the cemetery and pointed to graves where the remains had been removed and transported to Israel.  The ambassador said something to the effect that he had read that Sefrou had more of these empty graves than any other Jewish cemetery in Morocco.  In my nearly two years in Sefrou, this was my first time there.  It was interesting to see Hebrew written everywhere and to think that only 50 or so years ago Sefrou had a thriving Jewish population that lived in relative harmony with the Amazight and Arab population.

After the tour of the cemetery, we headed to Amina's home.  Once again I got to ride in the Suburban (it was cool the second time around as well).  Amina greeted the ambassador at the door beaming as she said in her limited English, "Welcome, welcome, welcome, and thank you, thank you, thank you."  We all sat down in Amina's living room and began to chat it up.  RPCV Gregg Johnson was there.  Amina's younger sister and her family were also there.  The ambassador and his family sat in one room while the security personnel sat in another not because there was not enough room, but because it was World Cup season and the other room had the TV tuned to the Paraguay vs. Slovakia match.

The ambassador and his family sat huddled towards one side of the room with the typical octagonal Moroccan table in the middle.  First, Amina's husband walked around with a water kettle and had everyone wash their hands.  Then, Amina began to bring out the food.  She did not do anything outside of what she normally does when she has guests visiting.   She served up the usual garnishes: small saucers of chopped tomato and cucumber, some saffron seasoned rice, some spicy tomato sauce, and a variety of olives.  She brought out the silverware in a tray that we passed around until everyone had one.  She also passed around a basket of bread.  Then, came the family platter of two oven-baked chickens with crunchy fries on top and a thick lemon sauce and green olives at the base--a classic Moroccan dish and one of my all-time favorites.  Not having individual plates to eat from, the ambassador's daughter asked, "So how do we do this?"

I proceeded with my vast knowledge of Moroccan table etiquette to explain how the bread serves as the fork or in essence kind of like a glove for one to dip and grab whatever is in one's real estate or food that is directly in front of you.  Gregg provided some cultural commentary on the tradition by explaining how eating in close proximity to each other and from the same platter was part of the community lifestyle that is exhibited in Moroccan society and how it serves to reinforce family bonds.  However, even with my exemplary demonstration on how to eat Moroccan style or the commentary, everyone went for the forks and went straight for the chicken.  Even though I am a big Moroccan bread fan, I'd much rather eat the meat without bread so I joined them fork in hand in prying the meat from chicken.  After getting our fill of all the garnishes and the chicken, Amina followed it with a platter of watermelon and big, fat Sefrouian cherries.

It was cool to see the ambassador and his family in an informal setting: his family kidding with him calling him "His Excellency" and his youngest grand-child taking bites out of the cherries and spraying everyone around with cherry juice.  It was great to see the ambassador almost eating Moroccan style.  I gave him a break.  It took me a while to replace the fork with bread.

He was happy to see that his security staff also got fed.  He mentioned that in some cases his security staff are not invited to eat.  Amina said that there was no way she would let those men go hungry.  The ambassador was extremely grateful for the food and the company, gave me and Amina his business card, and then we all posed for photos.

We walked the ambassador and his family back to their Suburbans.  I stayed behind with Amina and waved to them as they departed.  Amina was still overjoyed.  She still could not believe that  the Ambassador of the U.S. to the Kingdom of Morocco had dined in her home.  I was happy for her, but I was even more happy for the ambassador and his family who I believe got a different taste of Morocco here in Sefrou.  It was an exciting moment for me.  It was a pleasure to tag along with the ambassador and his family for a bit, being part of the entourage and riding in the Suburbans was a highlight, chowing down some Moroccan grub in typical Moroccan fashion, and just relaxing and shooting the breeze with him and his family.  It was a fine and memorable day in the life of another Peace Corps volunteer.

The Shamal Series: Journey to the Center of the Earth through The Grotte Friouato

Last Halloween weekend a few volunteers gathered to celebrate as best as we could one of our most endeared pagan holidays. We weren't able to go trick-or-treating or to wear any of our superhero costumes; so, our host, Steven, suggested we just do scary stuff the entire weekend.  He suggested we check out a cave near Taza that all the Tazies talk about and then catch a horror flick in the evening.

I headed out to meet everyone late Friday night. We had dinner at a nice restaurant in the heart of Taza's ville nouvelle.  I got myself a tuna pizza that was nice and crispy with plenty of marinara sauce and cheese to complement the tuna. Shortly thereafter, we took a brief walk around town. The Taza medina (old city) is quite stunning with its medieval fortress walls illuminated at night and sitting atop a towering plateau overlooking the sprawling ville nouvelle (french for new city).

In the morning we took a petit-taxi past the ville nouvelle, onto the Taza medina plateau, around the medina arriving at a taxi stand where a number of tan station wagons waited for passengers. We met up with Aziz, an employee of Morocco's Ministry of Water and Forests who also serves as a counterpart for a number of Peace Corps volunteers in the region. We also ran into a couple of tourists, one American and another from the Czech Republic, who were looking to go to the cave, but were waiting for others to fill the taxi. The two young ladies were doing an internship at a veterinary clinic in Fez.  So once we were all together, Aziz bargained with the taxi drivers for a bit and then we were on our way to the Grotte Friouato.

After a 30-minute uphill journey zig-zagging through some beautiful, dense forest passages of pine trees and rocky terrains dotted with stone-stack houses and tiered farming on the sides of the mountains, you come to a wide, open expanse that supposedly is a rain-season lake where winter grains are grown in abundance. We arrived at the base of the Grotte Friouato, checked in with the reception desk, paid 35DH for a flashlight and for the tour, and then made our way to the entrance of the cave.

Not having read anything about the cave, I didn't know what to expect. My only point of reference for this expedition were pictures of the Ozark Caverns in Missouri that I had seen on billboards on I-44 when my family would make the trek from Oklahoma to Pennsylvania for our annual church convention. In those billboards, there was always a little kid pointing to some really cool rock formations as the entire family looked on in utter amazement. The brochures I would pick up from various rest stops also photoshoped the same shot of the kid with his family on a background of wide passageways with railings and lighting that accentuated the rock formations and the many cave pools.  The publicity also showed what looked like a golf cart in one of the shots, and the tour guide and tour group were all equipped with a hard-hat. I wasn't expecting a replica of the brochures here, but when I heard that a number of tourists frequent the cave every year, I figured that those managing the site and the tours were taking precautions to ensure that tourists keep spreading the word.

Aziz accompanied us to the reception and then walked us over to the entrance of the cave upon which he said goodbye to us and wished us good luck. When asked why he wasn't accompanying us, he smiled and said, "Oh no, not me." We entered the cave to a warm stream of air that seemed to be channeling through the entrance. We began our descent to the cave. For the first couple of hundred steps, there was railing available, but then as we reached a more gradual grade, no railing was around and it could have been useful given the uneven and worn concrete steps.

 It was interesting to experience the change of temperature as we descended. It was as if two masses of warm and cool air were sitting idly in the cave, and once you stepped into the cold, you only felt the cold. It wasn't too chilly, but just enough for a fleece.

We took a brief break at the base of the cave, which was actually the entrance to what would be our journey to the center of the earth.  I was already feeling my knees shaking a bit after the 500 or so steps we hiked down.  Then, our guide said, "mn deba l-foq, triq saib swiya" (from here on, the way is a little difficult) and he wasn't kidding.

The entrance to the cave was one of the most challenging parts of the journey.  It was literally a tunnel that you had to squirm, twist, and turn in awkward ways trusting the person in front of you to place your feet on the next step as the view was obstructed by the narrowness of the tunnel and because you could only descend face down meanwhile attempting to retain some balance by grabbing onto the muddy walls.

It was a wake-up call because it made me realize that should anyone twist an ankle, injure their tail-bone or back, or suffer any other accident, there would be no way to get anyone out.  This was just one of the many points during the hike where we looked to the guide and to each other in dismay and wondered if it could get any worse.

We kept descending down some more steps onto some amazing rock formations.  There was sparkle everywhere.  Who on earth had come here and sprayed sparkle all over these rocks?

Brown and white rock icicle-like formations with water drops at their tips, boulders with coral-like surfaces, and undulated cave walls that resembled my mother's vanilla or chocolate icing on the many a birthday cakes she made for me were all part of the amazing show we were witnessing as we descended further and further down into the cave.

Without any sort of markers along the way, we were completely reliant on our guide.  When I entered the cave, I thought how would we be able to get people out if we injured ourselves.  As we kept going down I thought, how the heck would we get back, God forbid, anything should happen to our guide, and the chances of injury weren't unlikely.  The cave floor and the walls we used for support were muddy and very slippery. There was no light in the cave save our flashlights, no railing anywhere to be seen, and for sure no way to communicate with anyone on the surface.  Fortunately, our guide was fearless.

He led us through the nooks and cranies of the cave with ease, lighting passageways, and cautioning us to thalla f rask, which generally means to take care of yourself, but in this particular instance, he meant each word literally: thalla is the transliteration for the verb to take care; the "f" sound is the preposition that follows the verb; ras is the word for head, and the "k" sound attached to the word adds the possession "your".  After banging my head a couple of times through the tunnels, I began to understand why those silly-looking hard-hats were on the brochure and made me wish I had one.

Later on with tired knees, we reached what I deemed to be the Bridge of No Return.  It was a 2x6 wooden plank placed over a deep crevice that you could not see the bottom to, and to make matters worse, the plank was not bolted or holstered.  Our fearless guide walked through it so easily I believe he could have performed several scissor kicks and back flips without a glitch.  Then came Steven, he looked at it and looked back at the group and could only laugh.  I was genuinely freaked out.  My knees were already trembling a bit with every step, and now I faced this wobbly plank.  I took a deep breath and took baby-steps to the other side.  We all made it safely, hamdullah (thanks be to God).

After we crossed the bridge, we came upon a number of shallow cave pools that at the time were a little empty.  To cross each pool, we would walk around the narrow fringes of it and we encountered more wobbly planks, but it was not as terrifying because we could at least see where we would fall.

We finally reached the end of our downhill hike to the center of the earth.  We had descended nearly 2 kilometers.  Surprisingly, there was railing at the end of the hike signaling that this was the furthest one should go, but technically the cave goes down even further and I believe they have yet to reach its bottom as of yet.  We turned off our flashlights for a bit to experience the pitch-black darkness and silence that surrounded us.  It was one of those overwhelming moments that your mind has a hard time grasping.

We thought at first that it would be a difficult uphill climb, but it turned out to be a much easier trek.  We tip-toed across the cave pools, took our time crossing the Bridge of No Return, powered through the steep inclines, and snaked up through to the cave entrance until we saw the reassuring light at the end of the tunnel.  We took another deep breath and marveled at our feat.  I walked over to the guide and asked him how many times he has gone all the way down and he said that he did it at least twice a day in high season.  Anyhow, I still felt that I had accomplished something.  Now at the entrance to the cave, I felt that should I injure myself that I would have a chance of surviving.

Finally, to celebrate our journey to the center to the earth and back, fittingly we took ghetto-esque shots and then climbed to the top of the mountain for some sun salutations.

Right next to the cave's main entrance, there was a balcony cafe that we crashed for a bit.  The park staff served us the classic sweet-as-molasses mint tea and then we busted out some bread and tuna.  After getting our fill, we took a brief ride to Bab Boudir, another forest preserve where the East and Middle Atlas Mountains converge.

Our taxi took us back to Taza where we parted ways with the two veterinary students.  I headed back to Steven's spot with the other volunteers where we proceeded to cook some dinner and carve a pumpkin. To cap the night, we watched an old Halloween classic: The Exorcist.  It was a good ending to our more than scary perhaps reaching the level of terrifying Halloween weekend.

To learn more about Taza and the Grotte Friouato, please visit this link:

http://www.morocco.com/blog/taza-and-gouffre-du-friouato

Photos are a compilation of PCV shots and those of our veterinary friends.