Adventure in Turkey!

At first I thought that going to Turkey from Greece would be like rewinding time back to Morocco. Greece is probably 20 years behind the United States, more or less depending on if you are in a village or a city. Morocco was like going back in time 80 years ago, and squatting to pee or poop in every toilet was definitely new and exciting. Turkey, however, is a mixed bag of magic – you never know what the magician will pull out, but you know it will awe you.

Istanbul was very Muslim (like most of Turkey), and at first I enjoyed hearing the prayer call 5 times a day, because it reminds me of devotion, loyalty, spirituality, obedience, and all of those beautiful things that go along with deeply spiritual or religious people. The prayer call is a beautiful singing of the Quran into intercoms, and it can be heard from far away. At 5am when the sun comes up, and during my naptime were the only times I did not enjoy it.

While there, I had the privilege of visiting the Hagia Sofia during the call for prayer. The Agia Sophia was once a Byzantine church. Its style is dome-shaped (Byzantine style) and it was once adorned with frescos and mosaics of saints. When the Muslims came to power, eventually turning Constantinople/Byzantium, into Istanbul, they destroyed most of Christian artifacts and places of worship, and converted the Greek Agia Sophia into a mosque – it’s now the Turkish Hagia Sofia (pronounced with a hard H). It was for this reason that I felt uncomfortable, and unhappy when I visited the ancient church – or what was left of it. Although the Virgin Mary remains above where the altar once was, there are Islamic sayings on either side looking like big black billboards. The church/mosque is very poorly preserved as well - and ancient. From what I understand, it’s highly unusual for any kind of religious service to be held in the Hagia Sofia these days. Don’t get me wrong, I have been in synagogues turned into churches and churches turned into mosques, then back into synagogues and so on – I had always found them more intriguing than sad. Those places of worship were quite beautiful and their history was powerful. The Hagia Sofia, for me, was just sad – interesting, but not beautiful. There was no powerful positive message in her history or her modern use, only destruction and emptiness.

After leaving, I stood outside facing the Blue Mosque that stands across a large park opposite of the Hagia Sofia. I felt blessed when the call to prayer rang out, and I listened for a little while. After the call was sung from Hagia Sofia, it stopped and the singing began from the Blue Mosque, and then it stopped and the Hagia Sofia sang again – back and forth, back and forth. It was the battle of the prayer calls, and it was beautiful. I wish I could understand what was being said. These days I tend to rely on body language and tones in order to understand people – it works pretty well, but not for readings of the Quran.

One of the reasons my dad and I were so excited to be visiting Turkey - aside from being in an unknown land and unknown culture - was because it was the closest either of us have ever been to our ancestral lands of Lebanon and Syria. In fact, we had the great pleasure of having a fully Lebanese night while we were in Istanbul. We went to a dinner show where attractive and talented male and female belly dancers performed, and they served courses of traditional Lebanese food. Some of it was different than the way that we prepare our food, and do our dances – but it was Lebanese with a Turkish twist.

One of the funny adventures that we had in Istanbul included stalking the Patriarch of Constantinople so that we could receive his blessing. After learning that it was unlikely for us to be granted an audience, we went to the island of Hulki to visit the old Orthodox seminary there, and we also made a pilgrimage to the Patriarchal Fenar where we stayed for an evening service. Unfortunately, we kept missing the Patriarch just as he was leaving. (In case you didn't know there are few Patriarchal leaders of the Orthodox church in the world, and meeting them is like meeting the Pope.) In our undercover hunt we became quite familiar with the back of his Mercedes and its blacked out windows. We did get to see him briefly as he left Hulki to return to Istanbul from his short vacation there. My dad and I were standing behind the church at the seminary when we heard that the Patriarch was leaving, so we ran to the front of the church where the exit road was. I did everything short of yelling “tin efhisas! Your blessing!” as I ran to where his entourage waited. He turned and waved, and then he was off. Seeing him in the flesh was just as cool as anything. I hope that some day my dad receives his blessing though, because I know that’s a desire of his heart.

After nearly a week of walking around Istanbul, getting used to eating Kebab for every meal, stalking the Patriarch, and bargaining at the Grand Bazaar  - we were more than ready to move on to Cappadocia! - the land where dreams come true.

It was like a fairly tale in Cappadocia. The people were warm, helpful, friendly, and always interesting to learn from – and the terrain was nothing like I had ever seen before. It was the Grand Canyon and the Sahara Desert in one package. Cappadocia (or Kapadokya in Turkish) looked like sand piles molded into different shapes, but when closer, it is unexpectedly hard rock. No wonder people live in caves here - thanks to the chemicals from the volcanic lava that originally made the valley thousands of years ago, its warm in the winter and cold in the summer.

We woke up our first morning, at 4:30am so that my dad could conquer his fear of heights by watching the sunrise from a hot air balloon! We floated up gently, while befriending the master driver, and laughing the whole way. Laughter is the best way to cope!

Cappadocia is the world capital for hot air balloons. We saw the skies filled with balloons, near and far, with different colors or logos. It was something I had never seen before – and unless I woke up at 5:30am and drove around the mountain that blocked the view from our hotel, I would probably not see it again.

After an exilerating ride, we had glasses of champagne to celebrate a successful landing, following by a brief nap before moving on to explore the valley.

In Cappadocia, many people live in caves, and have been living in caves since before the time of Christ. In the cave villages we explored churches from the Byzantine times – most of which are now preserved in open-air museums. In the churches were fresco (paint on plastered walls) and secco (paint directly on walls). The paintings appeared like cave drawings, and many of the icons that remained had eyes scraped off from when Islam took over the region. The icons made at that time, and even now, have eyes that appear to be following you in the room. They see everywhere. The Muslims did not like this component of Byzantine art, so during the time when Christianity was banned, the extreme Muslims scraped off the eyes of the saints. Interestingly enough, in all of the churches I went to, the eyes of Jesus and the Virgin Mary still remained.

Remember how I said that the only way I would see the hot air balloons again would be if I woke up at 5:30am and drove around the mountain that blocks the view from my hotel? Well, the day before leaving Cappadocia, my dad and I woke up early to go hiking, so that we could see the hot air balloons and the sun rising one last time before we left. I hiked to the top of a panoramic viewpoint where I faced the hot air balloons in front of me, and the sun rose from behind. Just before the sun came up, all of the hot air balloons glowed from the light of their fire, and lit the sky like 100 bright stars blinking. The sun came from behind Euclydes volcano 60km away in Kayseri, and slowly, but surely, touched every inch of the rocky volcanic terrain of the valley.

Our last day in the Cappadocia region was spent in Kayseri, Turkey. Kayseri was the birthplace of Saint Basil the Great during the time of Assyria. However, there were no remains, relics, or religious sanctuaries to pilgrim to. The city was highly developed, but quite obviously a more conservative section of the country, and the only place in Turkey where the vibe made us feel unwelcomed. That same day, we flew from Kayseri to Izmir, where locals told us that Kayseri was quite conservative and their least favorite city in Turkey. Izmir was the opposite. It was less touristic than Istanbul, better developed (similar to cities in Europe and the U.S.) and highly secular. And to put the cherry on top, the seafood was the best that I had eaten (outside of Greece and Norway). There we walked the bazaar, and sat for hours drinking Turkish coffee, smoking nargile (Turkish waterpipe) and playing toula (backgammon).

From Izmir, we drove to the ancient ruins of Ephesus, and walked about the marble town through Byzantine ruins and memorial sites, until we grew wet and tired from the rain.

Not far from Ephesus was where we were staying - through the mountains to a secluded ancient Greek village called Širençe (pronounced shee-ren-jay). Širençe is known for their local fruit wines. The entire town shut downs at 8pm - its the village life. After Ephesus, before we were too late, we walked to a wine shop. We drank flights (tastings) of fruit wine from mulberry, cherry, and raspberry, to apple, blackcurrant, and blueberry - until finally we settled on our old friend Cabernet Sauvignon. 

Since we traveled during the off-season, the village was essentially deserted. Restaurants would only stay open if people were eating in them, and the last to close was one out of dozens of wine shops. A 9pm bedtime, and plenty of rest-time was perfect after a very busy couple of months, so my dad and I enjoyed relaxing by the fireplace and playing board games.

Back in Izmir, I learned about Pamukkale/Heiropoulos, which is a UNESCO World Heritage Site near Denzli, Turkey. About a 3 hour drive from where we were stayig. The ancient Greek ruins of Heiropoulos remain from a city built on top of a travertine covered mountain. The combination of sulfur from the hot springs there, and the surrounding environment, caused the mountain to be pure white travertine. In order to preserve the travertine, shoes are not allowed on the white walking path that connects all of the hot spring baths. So on our free day, we drove there and, in cold wet rain, we hiked up the mountain with shoes in hand, and relieved ourselves from the cold every time we reached hot water – which wasn’t frequent! It was a challenge! During the summer busy season, the baths are overflowing, and the weather is hot – but during the winter many of the baths were cold, and dried out. It wasn’t until we reached the top that we relaxed our feet in Jacuzzi-hot fresh water. By then, we desperately wanted to dry off and put on wool socks.

On top of the mountain are the ruins of Heiropoulos, where Saint Phillip once resided. There we paid homage to the first burial place of St. Phillip (coincidentally we were there on the day that he was celebrated in the church), and we walked around the ruins of the original Apollo Theatre (so it was another Friday at the Apollo). Nearby, we hiked hills and saw beautiful views overlooking Denzli and Pamukkale, until finally it was time to kick off our socks and sneakers and head back down the mountain for one last night in Širençe.

Since our flight was out of Izmir, my dad and I returned to Izmir for our last night together in Turkey. The party continued when on from Izmir to the Istanbul airport until finally my dad and I shared our tearful goodbye.

After that, it was an enjoyable 8 hours (but then delayed to) 13 hours in the airport before flying to Kathmandu, Nepal.

I am so proud of my dad for overcoming his fears, and being open to new things during our trip. I became well traveled in the last three months of Europe, so he began to look to me for answers to travel questions. It made me feel smart and special for being trusted (at times), and for knowing what I’m talking about (at times). It was the most amazing experience to share all of this time with my dad. The last month was the most time we ever spent together in my life and I had him all to myself! He has come so far as a father and a person, and I basked in his loving moments, and we were able to grow together during our occasional conflicts. I left from him feeling extraordinarily grateful and blessed for our experience together. I already miss having a partner who shares love and trust with me. Inshallah we will do it all again some day soon.

Cheers.

Moroccan Love

My first night in Morocco I rejoiced in the splendor of having both my parents all to myself. My mom and I arrived from Italy and met my dad at our hotel in Casablanca for the night. All night we talked and showered each other with love. That day and the days to follow we also spent our time becoming aquainted with the man who would drive us through over 10 different cities and villages throughout Morocco, his name was Mr. Hussine. He was a man who truly served us and loved us in every way, and in doing so he added air to my fire of faith.

We only had a short time, but before leaving Casablanca we toured the third largest mosque in the world. The Mosque of Mohammed Houssine II.

It is the largest mosque outside of the Holy Land of Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Surprisingly the mosque took only 6 years to build its total of 13 hectors of marble floors, cedar carved ceilings, and chandeliers made out of Italian Murano glass.

 Being in a Muslim country, I had the opportunity to learn more about Muslim traditions. In Morocco the religious demographics look something like; 80% Sunni and 15% Shi'a - the other 5% being Jews and Christians. Shi'a Muslims were described to me as the more "hardcore" Muslims, like Orthodox Jews, or more strict Christians. Sunni Muslims were described to me as "everyone else." The guide who told me about Sunni and Shi'a may have been a little bias since he himself is Sunni. He described Moroccan Shi'a as the "extremist" Muslims - at least as far as Moroccan culture, and his opinion goes.

Some of the traditions I learned about had to do with daily devotions to God. For example, each limb and head must be washed three times as purification before prayer, and, in case you didn't know, prayer is 5 times a day: at sunrise, lunchtime, late afternoon, sunset, and dinnertime. Muslims, at least the ones who participate in prayer, must be pretty darn clean people if they are washing that often. There are a baths for purification in every mosque I've seen, in case people come from work or school. During prayer, women kneel in in the back behind the men in the mosque. Reason being, everyone is kneeling bent over in prayer, and a bunch of women's butts in the air can be a major distraction for the people behind them. I can understand that. I also like the tradition of covering up in order to keep the body sacred, so that some day only the husband will see what is underneathe. That might even be better than being a virgin till marriage. It makes everything so much more sacred.

After the tour of the mosque, we drove from Casablanca to Rabat where we had the rare pleasure of entering the Royal Palace and admiring the Moroccan mosaics and Moorish architecture. We went to a beautiful building covered in mosaic designs, cedar carved ceilings, and marble floors. It was a mausoleum that contains the tombs of the great Mohammed V and Mohammed Houssine II - former kings of Morocco and saviors of Moroccan culture. All of the streets are named after them, so asking directions isnt so helpful. 

 All the Mohammeds can be confusing too, though its considered a strong and honorable name to have. In order to honor the Prophet Mohammed, many Muslim families follow the tradition of naming their firstborn daughter Fatima, and their firstborn son Mohammed - after the firstborn children of Mohammed the Prophet. If ever I forgot someone's name while in Morocco, Mohammed was a pretty good guess.

Being from an Arabic Christian family, despite my studies, I am not as well read with living in Muslim tradition, and not even Arabic traditions since my family is strictly Lebanese and Syrian American. We do our best to carry on traditions and teachings from the previous generations, but things are so vastly different from country to country in the Middle East. Our language, Levantine Arabic, differs compared to Egyptian, Moroccan, or Saudi Arabic. Nonetheless, we enjoyed saying our "family phrases" among other Arabs who understood what we were saying. A few of my favorites growing up, were the most commonly heard among the Moroccans too. I can't write in Arabic, but phonetically, inshallah (in-sha-luh), meaning "God willing" or allah a'akbar (ull-ah ah-ahk-bahr), meaning "Glory to God." My Arabic accent is noticeably Levantine. Many times when I spoke, the Moroccans would ask me if I am Syrian or Lebanese. When shop keepers would haggle me on the streets, the conversation normally involved confusing them by speaking Arabic and saying 'no' to everything they asked me, or telling them where I'm from in order to get a better price. 

Shop Keeper: hello miss, you come into my shop!

I say nothing.

Shop Keeper: English? English?

I say: 'la'a (luh-uh)' meaning 'no' in Arabic with my Syrian accent.

Shop Keeper asks me in Arabic if I speak Arabic.

I say: 'shwaya', which means "a little"

And then while he continues to guess where I'm from, I keep saying no in Arabic while I walk away and eventually he stops chasing me.

Life is a chase ladies, let me tell ya. Whenever I was interested in whatever the person was selling, I became the chaser. I always made sure to tell the salesperson in Arabic that I am Syrian and Lebanese. Then he says in English "I give you good price" or "friend price", "global price", "Berber price" - and all the other ways of saying the "lowest, cheapest, price." Then the hustle begins - the bargaining hustle.

At most shops we spent a half hour shopping, then bargaining another half hour. Thats when, understanding the unwritten rules of bargaining is important. Like, making the lowest offer, but not an insulting offer, not wasting anyones time by playing too many games, knowing what the item is worth - what it might have cost to be made - and how much one is willing to spend. I think I figured out the tells the sellers make when they respond to the buyers first price. Here is my theory based on experience; when the salsemen snears, it means the buyer went too low and insulted him. When he laughs and pretends hes laughing because its too low of an offer, its actually an on-the-money-offer and the laughing is part of the hustle to raise the buyers price. If the seller says nothing, it means the buyer is spot on and the seller is taking her seriously. And, if the seller makes a nervous laugh, then he's actually bummed out because he may not profit from the price the buyer offered. Thats when I think its time for the buyer to consider whether she still wants it, and whether the seller needs the money more than she needs to have the thrill of bargaining and saving money. Normally the other big rule is for the buyer to never waste anyone's time if she isn't truly interested.

Once my parents and I had that down, we were ready for Fez and Marrakech. Markets galore. Shopping heaven! 

Before arriving in Fez on our drive from Casablanca to Rabat to Fez, we went to a local hub of tents where we ate a Moroccan barbecue lunch. We ordered lamb by the kilo, had chicken tagine, and ate beef kefta kebab. Everything tasted full of flavors of cumin, saffron, paprika, and other rich local spices. We drank traditional Moroccan mint tea and basked in the local Moroccan atmosphere. We ate with our hands and observed the grills and cooking styles. It was fantastic. 

While in Fez, we were told by our driver, Mr. Hussine, and by online tripadvisor reviews, that walking in the Fez medina at night was not advised without a guide - for safety reasons. We kept it simple by going to a belly dancing show which we quickly discovered was very touristic and extremely overpriced. We left early. After taking suggestions from Mr. Hussine, and the hotel concierge, we decided from then on to do things that were more our speed, less touristic and less expensive. After all, my dad speaks Arabic, and we are all fairly well traveled and smart Arabs, theres no need for us to be looked after.

The following day we took a walking tour of the Medina. The Medina of Fez is the old town of the city and is separated by walls. Fez is one of Morocco's four imperial cities, alongside Rabat, Casablanca, and Marrakech. Each of the imperial cities has an old town, like the medina, and a new town. The difference between the two is as dramatic as first world versus second world lifestyles. In the new town there are Mcdonalds, chain hotels, nice restaurants, and paved roads with street lights. In the medina - which is enclosed within the greater city area - there are no cars, only occasional motorbikes, and many mules carrying things to and fro. Its as easy to walk into an ally where a blacksmith is firing away as it would be to get a taxi in new town. The medinas are all a little bit different, and in the case of Rabat and Casablanca, they were rather dirty and small compared to the glorious and exciting medinas of Fez and Marrakech.

In the Fez medina the carts are pushed down the streets carrying lamb skins, and goods to sell, and the pusher yells "Ballak ballak," for people to get out of their way. We walked past carts of lambs skin being taken to the tannery to be made for leather, we peaked in bakeries where bread is made in fire ovens, and we saw into factories where weavers create the classic Berber, and Moroccan rugs by hand. During our tour - aside from seeing the oldest university in the world and beautiful Moroccan archetectures - we basically went shopping. A dream come true for the Adam Family!! Because the shopping was part of the tour, we were presented many unique creations of rugs and leathers and the styles were all explained to us.

At the rug factory we looked at hand-made rugs from the Berbers from antiquity, and from Moroccan weavers. There are native tribes in all of the Middle Eastern countries in Africa - Morocco, Libya, Algeria, Tangier, and Egypt - and most of them are referred to as "Berber." Moroccan Berbers are Moroccan, but they are classified differently - not less than - just regarded as having a different culture and traditions than a Moroccan who is not Berber. They are regarded as simple people who have less, do lots of hard manuel labor, and are more of the live-off-the-land people. Driving through the mountains, one could distinguish a Berber home from another's home because of the made-from-scratch look of the straw and clay walls, versus the smooth architectural designs of other homes.

When my family and I were bargaining with people, we started being called 'Berber cousin' or 'Berber from the High Atlas' meaning that we do a lot of bargaining. The high Atlas is comparable to the top of the Alps, so I imagine those people don't get out too often and don't make too much money - so, they must be super bargainers.

My dad, being the fantastic bargainer that he is, was able to get me a free Moroccan rug to take home for the house I'll some day have. Talk about a gift from God! Way to go dad! The owner, Moustafa, shook our hands and told my dad that he is a Berber from the High Atlas - meaning, he is a hard man to bargain with. At the rug shop we drank mint tea, and a couple different men showed me pictures of their daughters named Yasmín. Everyone kept telling me I have a Moroccan name, the name of a princess. And so they treated me like a princess, and I was very grateful. Moustafa told us, some people come into his shop and spend $60,000, and he shakes there hands and says "goodbye." On the other hand, some people come into his shop and only spend $500, and they hug and kiss and have long cheerful goodbyes. We recieved the latter, and it was so warm and sweet - perfect example of Moroccan love, which we experienced continually throughout our trip. 

Since our tour of Fez was on a Friday, which is a holy day for Muslims - like the Sabbath for Jews or Christians - I felt bad to be keeping our guide Mohammed from his prayer time. When I asked him about it he explained to me that there are 3 kinds of prayer; theres prayer 5 times a day, but work is also prayer, and so is spending time with family. I felt like his prayer assistant after that, since he was working for my family that day. 

Mohammed was a fantastically bubbly warm man, full of life with wrinkles from smiling. He loved telling us about Islam, and laughed watching us shop and bargain in the stores. He also explained to us the safety of Fez, saying that we could stay on the main roads of the Medina at night and be just fine! So we went out that night and ate tajine at a local spot. Tajine is like the Moroccan version of a crock pot. Throw in some seasoning, meat, and veggies, then leave it on the grill all day at a low temperature. The cost difference between a local meal and a tourist meal (even though the food is the same) was as much as $100. A local meal for three of us was only $22, rather than $30 a plate at the tourist spots. Talk about exploitation.

The next day began a long adventure. Our plan was to drive 8.5 hours to Merzouga, on the border of the Sahara desert. From there we would ride camels 1.5 hours and camp in the desert for the night, the way the tribes and nomads do. We drove through the Atlas Mountains on winding roads, through valleys where rivers are in the winter from the melted snow of the mountains. Sometimes, on long car rides and winding roads, I become car sick, so I sat in the front seat. We stopped in small villages like Midelt and Rissani along the way for food and bathroom breaks, which gave us a great opportunity to see different lifestyles and meet people all over Morocco. A couple hours after lunch and driving through winding mountains, I felt worse than carsick had ever made me feel, and I asked Mr Hussine to pull over just as I opened the door to vomit. 

Here comes the adventure, as if this was not an adventure already.

Mr. Hussine pulled our car to the nearest city, called Rashidia so that he could find me anti-nausea medication at a pharmacy. Usually, once I get out of the car and sit for a little while, the sickness goes away. Not this time. I threw up on a palm tree in the road, on the sidewalk, and in between I had to make some bathroom trips to the nearest Turkish toilet (hole in the ground) which was utter torture in my condition, I'm sure you can imagine. Next to the hole in the ground was a spout and bucket to wash it off after whatever mess the user makes.

My mom tried walking me to a nearby hotel. I became sick again on the way and when I looked up gasping, I saw a little man trotting over with some water to pour on my hands. At this point I was staggering in the streets, nearly faint, in what is practically the desert, trying to find a bathroom. We found a hotel and went upstairs, and to my dismay no one worked there and a couple who didn't speak English was sitting in the lobby. It looked like a hotel from a horror film. I said to the couple sitting down, 'please, emergency', and made some motions like I will be sick. When she started to get out of her chair I said in Arabic "yella yella" which means go or hurry up. So this stranger must have seen our faces and understood because she opened the door to her hotel room door and let me use her bathroom. It was just as horrifying inside as outside, and the toilet seat was broken clear off the hinges. What a sweet girl to let a complete sick stranger, who she couldnt communicate with, to use her bathroom. Mom looked so panicked, and it really was sudden, and peculiar, so there was urgency in both of our faces.

My worst nightmare while sick, is now a Turkish toilet.

Dunn dunn dunnn

After I made it back to the cafe where my dad was drinking tea, Mr Hussine had returned from urgently visiting every pharmacy in town to find me something useful. After several pharmacies he found one that was open and showed up with syrup to soothe my stomach. 

Thats when I told them it wasn't car sickness and they needed to take me to a hospital right away.

Glory to God, we were in a town that had its own small hospital. Mr. Hussine drove us while I stuck my head out the window continuing my new ritual. I got really funny mortified looks from people passing in cars and motorcycles, but all I could think about was my butt in Mr Hussine's face while I put half my body out the side of the car.

I went into the hospital and they sat me down. Everyone spoke French and Arabic but no English. Hell no was I sitting down in a waiting room, not unless they wanted a scene. I was in misery. I got a little bossy at this point. 'Tell them I need a bed and a toilet right away,' I said to Mr Hussine. So they took me to a room and laid me down on a brown plastic bed. I was moaning and after another episode of sickness I foggily looked over to see a man in plain clothes holding my right hand. I said thank you. Who is this? Is this the doctor? All of the interns were dressed in street clothes with an opened white doctors coat on top, so I had no idea what the doctor would look like. Would she be wearing Adidas or Nike? My parents told me the man holding my hand trying to soothe me was just the guy whose mom was in the bed next to mine. He felt bad for me because I was so miserable, so he held my hand. I started balling like a baby thanking him and praying in Arabic. It really was so touching that so many strangers were trying to take care of me in little ways. I felt so grateful.

One of the interns stuck me with an IV and some medicine, which was probably the most painful and bloody IV ever. At this point I was crying and breathing so heavily that I was making noises in pain. After a few seconds my pain noises and deep breathing turned into gasps of laughter. I suddenly felt like God was tickling me and everything that was happening - between the Adidas doctor, using a strangers bathroom, and all of the looks I got vomitting all over the town of Rashidia - I started laughing uncontrollably. The intern (who is taking all this time to still put the IV in me) began to laugh at my insanity too. Then my mom joined in with her loud laugh, and eventually my dad started to chuckle at how ridiculous it all was. The intern finished with the IV and gave me a thumbs up, I burst out laughing with tears streaming down my face, and gave him a thumbs up right back. In between laughing there was a lot of crying and praying, until finally I had released so much energy that I began to doze in and out of sleep.

 Its always best when energy is released through laughter.

So then I laid there in between episodes of sickness, nearly falling asleep on a few occasions until my dad rubbed my forehead or my mom whispered to him really loudly. Or my parents took goofy pictures around me! Hah! It was so perfect to have my parents with me for this. I was taken care of. No taxi to the hospital, no conerns for how I would get anywhere or get medicine I needed. My mom, dad, and Mr Hussine were doing all they could. Even breaking into the doctors room to clean out my bucket of vomit. Mr. Hussine really went above and beyond for me, and we created a strong heartfelt connection from there on out.

I had countless experiences of people taking care of me, holding my hand or giving me water. Everyone I came across was so warm and perfect. God's will is perfect in every way, always looking after me.

After the IV treatment, and the medicines, the whole Moroccan Flu ordeal cost 40Durham - $5.

Mr. Hussine was an angel, by getting me whatever I needed and saying I'm like his daughter. He took care of everything from my vomit, to my medicine, to having the car windows down, and my pillow fluffed.

Even though I was still pretty sick, eventually we were able to drive an hour more to a city called Erfoud. We stayed there for the night in lou of our desert tent - which was a disappointment to me, even though it was for the best.

The next day I felt terrible. I was utterly dehydrated, starving but not hungry, and it was the day we would ride camels in the desert. The hot desert. I was even more grateful for our detour the night before. The beautiful Sahara was right out our doorstep.

Even though I felt sick, traveling in the desert on camels wasn't an adventure that I wanted to take from my parents. So I fooled myself into being just fine, and it worked for a while.

Since I convinced myself and everyone else that I was 100% better, the goal was to have as much fun as possible and hold it all in until after the camel ride.

It was a blast to drive from Erfoud through the desert to Merzouga, listening to Arabic music and getting excited for our adventure. The sand dunes looked exactly like the movies - mountains and mountains of dust blowing in the wind, a combination of tan colors, feeling like pillows in between my toes. Looking in the distance, it was impossible to tell how far something was, like being on the ocean.

 We where groups of camels were communing for the day, and put on our turbins. My dad was in white like Lawrence of Arabia, and my mom and I were in different blues. We road our camels laughing nonstop and taking pictures the whole way. It was fantastic. We've never felt so close to our Arab ancestors! Haha I felt such joy listening to the joy of my parents - nothing else mattered.

I thanked my camel, whose name I couldn't say so I called him Mr. Camel. I told him it was an honor to have the ride and that he was a good partner. 

Once we returned my parents went to have lunch at a restaurant. I walked in laid on a bench and passed out from heat exhaustion. The rest of the day was perfect, but after the previous night it was difficult to get through. 

After lunch we drove 6 hours to our next destination, for an overnight in Skoura, and a visit to Ouarzazate the next day. After a restful night I was feeling 100% - for real. Ouarzazate was an interesting city to look around. It is the Hollywood of Morocco where movies like Jule of the Nile, Prince of Persia, Sahara, and even Game of Thrones have been filmed. It sits right at the base of the High Atlas Mountains, the Alps of Morocco with snow on top and all. Ben Kingsley was working on one of the sets for the making of the movie King Tut while we were there, but unfortunately we had no luck in spotting him.

After walking around and touring some movie sets, we drove 4 hours twisting and turning through the Atlas Mountains towards Marrakech. On the drive were some of the most amazing sights. We stopped in several places along the way - at the aloe market, the rose market, the bbq for lunch, the Berber house, and so on. There were breathtaking views, and driving along the edge of cliffs with 100ft drops while Mr Hussine pointed to some of the sights, made it all the more exciting. He said, "I can drive these cliffs with my eyes closed!" While my mom said, "please don't."

We arrived in Marrakech that evening. As far as my experience went, things have changed a lot in Morocco in the last two years, but the true, loving, genuine, honest, and trustworthy nature of most Moroccans is still the biggest takeaway. In 2011 when I returned from my weekend in Marrakech and the Atlas Mountains, I was completely anamored with the hominess of good Moroccan people, but I also learned a lot from the street hustle of Marrakech. Things like bargaining, and safety tips were necessary, as well as a lot of fact-checking as far as whats real and true compared to what shop keepers wanted me to believe. It was not so trustworthy, and I did not feel safe alone at night. That was 2011. Since then, driving along the main roads in Marrakech was more like driving along the main stretch in Orlando, Florida. Palm trees neatly lining the street, and lights every where. There were shopping malls, casinos, lots of hotel chains, and restaurants. When I stayed in Marrakech before I didn't leave the Medina. Other than a day trip to the Atlas Mountains, Ourika Valley, and Ouzoud Falls, all I knew was the old town. And the old town, like in Fez, consists of streets lined with shops, and clay walls making many mazes inside. No cars allowed, only donkeys, horses, bicycles and motorbikes. In the Fez medina there were hardly any street lights, but there were two main roads paralell to one another with a maze of side paths all around. In Marrakech, the medina has a main square. All around the sides of the square - which is as big as half of a football field - are restaurants looking down from terraces at the busy life of Marrakech. The day and night hustle. My parents and I walked through at night on our first opportunity. The entrance of the Medina involved walking passed the Koutoubia Mosque and approaching, cautiously, the loud drums of the different Moroccan tribes huddled together playing music. After 20 minutes we realized that my experience of it being busy and unsafe two years ago, was not the case any more. Even shop keepers offer honest information about their own products - this is real, that is fake, these are from China, and those are hand made in Morocco. Tourists walked around in shorts and spaghetti strapped shirts. The last time I was in Morocco, I was advised to dress conservatively, and at night I was hissed at by old Muslim women. It appears that, the women who hissed two years ago, are no longer around. It was safe, and loads of fun! It was like a carnival every night, and a festival every day. In the square, we saw tents of barbecue and fish clustered together in the center. Every shop and restaurant or tent would compete for our attention, but not die hard, no one got in my face, or each others' faces. It was sort of like the shop keepers' unwritten rule is, if you got there first, then you win, if they move onto me, thats their choice and I win. As if they have a Divine right to have what comes to them by God's will. A few boys came up to us and said in broken English "come eat, we guarentee no diahrrea." The boy meant it, but he laughed anyway, and we all laughed too and walked away. Great advertisement, since we were advised by locals to stay away from the food markets in the square. I don't want another debacle like the desert crisis of '14. 

We walked around, bought rose insense and frankincense - but no snake charmers. My dad was hell bent on finding a snake charmer. I told him they are out during the day because of the music at night from the many tribes banging away. The charmers play their own music, special for the snakes, banging music probably wasn't good for them.

So the next day - and even the day after that because my mom and I wanted to do it again - we held snakes and gave them love and kisses. I used to be afraid of snakes, but when my mom said "okay lay him on me," I thought, wow, fear really is unnecessary. So I played with the snake, then my dad played with a snake, and we were all a snake loving family.

 The next day we went back to the square, and this time we all did it again. I had no facing my fears mentality - because there were no fears. In fact, the charmers decided, it would be cool to wrap a cobra around me and take pictures while they charmed him into not wanting to bite me with his poisonous teeth. And actually, it was wicked cool! The Cobra's head was directly in front of mine, close enough for me to kiss the back, while the charmer did his trick. The charmer made eye contact with the snake the whole time, and in order to regain the snakes focus when he started to drift, the charmer jumped forward and the snake hissed in his face as if he was about to bite. That was a little scary when it happendd while the snake was wrapped around me, but only because it was sudden and unnexpected, like someone slamming a door. I talked to him and said, thank you Mr. Cobra for being so nice, I'll never hurt you as long as we're friends. And it was all good! 

Then I played with monkies, one of whom was really sweet to me and kept hugging me. After I yelled at the carrier to not tug on the chain around the monkey's neck - the monkey gave me a kiss! 

Then henna.

Since Marrakech is the city of night life, we went out later to the new town for shisha before going to a horse show. At the horse show were tribes representing their music and dances, a belly dancer, and horse riders that do stunts. There was a mix of Moroccans and tourists at the show and it was an impressive performance, with riders jumping on and off their horses in motion, doing stunts and flips. At one point a performer asked me to climb the wall of the stadium to pet his horse and take a quick picture. As the Japanese say, "photo! Photo!" 

At the end of it all, we had many tearful goodbyes leaving Morocco. After all that we had been through together for 10 days, Mr Hussine drove my parents and I to the airport for our sad partings. When it was time to say good bye to Mr. Hussine, he hugged us and began to cry. Our connection was so powerful. He told me that when I am ready to come back to Morocco, I will stay with him and his family in Marrakech. When I said 'really thats so sweet' he said, "yes, 6 months." So, just as Mr Hussine has a home in my heart, I have a home in his and at his home home too. After he left quickly to compose himself, he came back to the gate smiling his big smile and waving frantically while we went through security. I love that man. He is a good man.

After that, it was time for the sad good bye with my mom before my dad and I continued on to Malta and she returned home. The three months I've spent traveling up until now have been a complete gift, and full of miracles. The month I spent with my mom is something I'll always cherish. - Here's to my partner in crime, and life, my undying, unwavering, ageless beauty of a mother who keeps me level, and makes me strong, faithful and fearless. Thank God for His perfect miracles. Saha!

Saha Morocco! See you in another two years! Inshallah