Surf Bali

Over the past 5 years, I must have talked all of your ears off about going to Bali to learn to surf. I’m sure most of you were tired of hearing about it as a long lost pipe dream. One of my friends even said, stop talking about it and just send me a picture of a boarding pass if and when it does happen.

Now that it is a reality, it feels almost surreal.

I had read Eat, Pray, Love nearly 10 years ago and knew I wanted to visit Bali at some point in life. From the book, it seemed to be the place to find balance and also focus on spirituality and meditation. For years, I had wanted to learn to surf. Bali is known for its killer waves and surf culture, attracting many from around the world to learn on it’s beautiful shores and reefs. Put the two together, and you have surfing in Bali.

Batu Bolong Beach, Canggu

To me, surf culture represents quintessentially everything I am not; confident, athletic, balanced, in pursuit of a single passion (finding the perfect wave), laser focused on the waves while radiating calmness, and being nonchalant (ability to let life’s problems come and go like the waves of the ocean). So what better way to learn something that would challenge me to the core - physically, mentally, spiritually and emotionally.

The onset of this journey feels somewhat different from the other extended adventures around the world, to Dubai, Fontainebleau, and Casablanca. Those journeys started with unlimited energy, high hopes and the goals of exploration and adventure whereas this one seems to focus more on re-energizing and reflection.

As I spend my first day here, listening to the Balinese lounge music by the pool, I can’t help but to de-stress and unwind. How could you not, with this beautiful pool, tropical foliage including banana plants and a group of relaxed strangers. This environment almost forces you out of your misery, whether you like it or not. I look forward to the adventures ahead over the coming weeks.

The Ancient Medina

We walk through the labyrinth that is the medina. At first I try to keep track of where we are going, but I easily forget as the narrow alleyways and streets all look the same. I see Berber windows, windows with carvings of the family name for Berber women to look out of. In the past, unmarried women were not allowed to go out of the house, only one day a week. So these windows allowed them to look out, without letting anyone look in. The markings on the window are similar to the ones that Berber women used to have tattooed on their face – with family information. It was their way of communicating where they are from when they went out.

Some of the streets are so narrow that I need to twist my shoulders sideways just to get through. So obviously cars are not allowed inside as they wouldn’t fit anyway. People have furniture etc .sent via the rooftop as that is the only way to get large items into the house. As I peek into homes with open doors, there are beautiful mosaics that line the walls. Fes, known as the home for many artisans and crafts boasts pottery, leather, bronze, and herbs. Youssef, the guy who works at the hostel took me to this awesome restaurant with a terrace that overlooks the entire medina. In all honesty I was freaked out at the thought of having to find my way back. But one thing I’ve improved on this trip is my sense of direction; which is usually horrible. I wander into the medina for a while and manage to find my way back.

I end my trip on the last night exploring the “new Fes” area, which is much more modern.

Fes

I knew that this was the oldest city in Morocco and I had to visit it. And I had to see the Ancient Medina in the city. Little did I know exactly how large the medina was until I got here. I just expected medinas in the city similar to the ones in Casablanca, Rabat and other Arab cities I’ve been to. However, the ancient medina here is home to 300,000 people and is surrounded by 25 km of defensive walls. There are 14 entrances, each gate more stunning than the next. Fes is the oldest city in Morocco and is split into 3 parts, the ancient, middle and new areas. As the ancient medina sits in a valley, there are 2 forts on the hills on either side of it. We drive outside of the ramparts to see these forts and the medina from above, just to visualize its sheer size.

Though I have a map, I am so confused and overwhelmed by the narrow alleys and streets of the medina. It reminds me of the medina we had entered in Rabat last year, and took us nearly an hour to get out as we could not see above and figure out how to get out. It’s like a labyrinth.

I stay in a riad here, an old Arab house with a few floors and a hollow center. You can look down to the bottom floor from the rooms. It reminds me of our time last year in Marrakech and enjoying time on the terrace. This one is cozier and smaller; I feel like I am inside a dollhouse. It is so surreal, especially with the intricate designs on the walls (paintings, murals, carpets and carvings) – maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be stuck in here forever..

Ramadan Continued

I am getting really sick of Pizza Hut and Mc Donalds, and KFC. I feel a personal connection with the staff and the other diners at these fine American establishments. What do they have in common other than being American fast food joints? They are the only restaurants open during the day during Ramadan. I don’t even have to tell the lady at Pizza Hut what I want anymore, she just knows. I smile at the other customers, usually French or Sub Saharan Africans, as we see each other almost daily, same time, same place, same order, for lunch. I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone.

I walk around Casa one weekend to check out the Hassan II mosque and I am parched. It is a sickening 88 degrees raging with humidity and I just can’t bear being outside anymore without being able to drink water. I guess if I looked more like a tourist and less Moroccan I would be less offensive. But I still do not want to drink water in front of others. So of course, like clockwork, I go to Pizza Hut, eat lunch (usually the salad bar, as the thought of eating pizza daily totally disgusts me).

Then I realize the lack of food options and further more places to eat food makes me miss home. I get annoyed that I can’t just buy similar frozen or pre-prepared items that I normally buy in the States that I also managed to find similar versions of in France and Dubai when I lived there. But this is all part of the trials and tribulations of being abroad, away from home..blah blah. A week later at work, I am doing research on the agro-industry sector of Morocco and everything clicks. There in plain text, in a thick 200 page report on the state of the Moroccan economy. Therein lays the answer to my annoyance; as to why there isn’t a demand for such products and why it is so difficult for the sector to flourish here. I find this rather amusing and subsequently forget about my annoyance, satisfied with the answers provided.

It is hard to stop things that are second nature, or subconscious to our being. For example to chew a piece of gum, or to drink from a bottle that is held in my hand. There are the cultural differences and shocks that one must get used to.

Though I may talk a lot about my frustrations, I have enjoyed the time here as well. As I am not fasting, I treat Ramadan as a time for reflection. A friend of mine that had worked with me in Dubai last summer decided to give up sweets during this time, thus being my inspiration to use it as a reflection period. Sharing iftar with my Moroccan host family every day is something phenomenal. The typical meal consists of dates, harira (lentil soup), chabekia (something to the effect of jalebi), eggs, bread, etc. 

To just feel as I am part of this whole month and see how the city is transformed is quite wonderful. After iftar, the streets are flooded, the malls are open and the city of Casablanca is alive. I am confused to see malls open at midnite, and people shopping for clothes. As I sit in a taxi at 11pm to meet a friend, I see people getting their hair cut. I am perplexed and astonished, but that is life here, and now. People really don’t sleep at all. Perhaps the one time every year that Arab cities around the world resemble the city that never sleeps.

Rabat

Rabat is the complete opposite of Casablanca; the capital of Morocco, it is much quieter than the frenzied essence of Casa. The streets are wider, less people, very clean (of course since the King resides there) and calm. I go to visit some new friends and instantly feel the difference. As we drive along the Corniche, I notice the hazy sun shining on the water. It is just like the hazy sun on the beach I had imagined in Camus’  L’Etranger. The hot Algerian sun, which I assume looks the same all across the Maghreb. The waterfront is not your typical beach as there are cliffs and rocks that line the water, with patches of green (seaweed perhaps).  

Once in a while, it is nice to escape the craziness that is the life of Casa.

India

tbd

We’re Not Dead

“We’re not dead”..says a friend, ever so casually as we had just crossed over the train tracks.

“In fact, someone died just last week while trying to cross the tracks”. 

So why did this simple phrase strike such a nerve. I wonder. That’s right. We aren’t dead. But we could have been. It sends a shiver down my spine. The Colorado shootings that recently took place and other instances surrounding mortality in the recent few days have got me thinking.

I recall questions posed by two of my friends about my wandering nature. 

Why are you always wandering?

I guess I like the adventure and challenge. 

You realize you can find the same thing just at home.

I guess so.

Why do you want to deal with developing world challenges when you can deal with bigger challenges elsewhere?

 I don’t know.

 I start to think about these things more deeply. Why am I always wandering, what exactly am I looking for? Why do I want to forever been in this ambiguous and unrealistic phase of wandering and wondering what will happen next? Why here? Why not my own country. Every minute of being here in Morocco forces me to think of India, whether I want to or not. From the garbage lining the streets, to the smells, to the yells of the vegetable vendor on the street. The utter chaos that is life here, is that of India. So then why didn’t I go there, make a difference there. Why here, not there?

This entire city reeks of India, in the most endearing terms of course. And now I’m off to India for one week. I think it will be a good time to reflect on my time in Morocco by completely removing myself from the country for some time. Perhaps I will have a more objective view.

At least I have been spared one more chance to figure it out.