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wasque wanderer

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annabelle the rescue kitten

i ended up leaving morocco suddenly. i decided i needed to leave, & the timing worked out so that the cheapest flight meant i left two days after i booked it. there were still a few things i wanted to do in morocco but ultimately i had to choose, stay & do them, or leave & miss out.

for my last day in morocco i had debated making the 8hr round trip bus ride to chefchaouen, the blue city. it looks absolutely gorgeous, & was one of the parts of morocco i had been looking forward to seeing the most. yet i felt like i had too much to do to pack & get organized, to work out my newly hatched travel plans, & to finish up some last minute holiday shopping. so i decided to stay in fez and forego chefchaouen altogether.

i woke up that morning & instantly felt regret & sadness. i had come all this way, i was so close, i had been so looking forward to it, & yet, it just wasn’t going to happen. i felt a little stupid, & pretty disappointed.

determined to shake it off, i left my hostel early, skipping their breakfast of primarily bread in order to hunt down some eggs. i had seen a place yesterday with fried eggs on their menu, it was cheap & looked really nice. i headed off, following my tongue.

when i got there they were closed. i figured i was just a little too early so i made a loop around town & came back. no such luck. fine, i thought, i’ll just head into the food market part of the médina. there are plenty of carts, i’ll find something.

there are a lot of stray cats in morocco, maybe the most i’ve seen in one place. where there are cats there are kittens, & that morning i noticed a few. there were 3 fluffy white ones happily playing together on a cart, there were a few adolescent kittens i had spotted along the way, & there was a cluster of 3-4 kittens in front of a meat souk. the rest were a bit older but one stood out to me as particularly young. she seemed to be keeping up with the rest of them though, & i giggled as they scampered around.

some smart older cats scouting out the goods at the fish souk. fish & meat souk owners often throw them unusable scraps. these kitties have the best spot in town!

a few older kitties enjoying some milk put out for them by a souk owner. cats are actually lactose intolerant but they seemed to enjoy it!

i am terribly indecisive when it comes to what i’m going to eat, & the more choices, the harder it is for me. also being on a tight budget, i tend to loop around the same places a few times weighing my options. this is exactly what i was doing when i came back by the meat souk, & saw the littlest kitten was the only one still there. i bent down to say hello & was considering offering her some meat if i could buy or get a little scrap off the meat souk owner. she looked up at me & meowed, & i saw what i thought was meat juice dribbling from her chin. “oh, you just had some didn’t you?” i lovingly cooed to her. i kneeled to take a few pictures.

sweet annabelle, where i found her outside the meat souk. at first i thought she was just meowing & had meat juices on her mouth & that was why it seemed odd/open

when i stood up to look at what i had just snapped, i saw something was definitely wrong. that wasn’t meat juice dribbling from her chin, it was something else. something thicker, & as i looked closer, it almost seemed like her mouth was deformed.

i picked her up to examine her, and saw what appeared to be an infection eating away on her lips. the tip of her tongue was also seemingly dissolving into this puss-filled mess. & the smell was unlike anything i’ve encountered before. when i later showed my friends the pictures they said “oh, that’s some walking dead shit.” they were right. she kind of looked like a zombie.

this picture was when i realized something was wrong.

then it hit me. that feeling i get in my stomach and chest when i am about to do something irrational, impulsive, some might say stupid, & almost always expensive, in order to help an animal.

uh oh. here we go again, i thought.

i needed a game plan & quick, it was already closing in on 1030am & i only had that one day. okay, think think think. i needed something to carry her in. i had just been up by the city gates where a huge outdoor clothing market is set up, & had seen people selling scarves & hats. okay, i’ll start there.

i picked up the biggest wool hat i could find for 5 dirham, roughly 50cents. i rushed back to where she was & found her in the same exact place, huddling and shaking slightly. she looked weak to me, so i thought it would be easy.

she was not weak. it was not easy. she hated being carried in the hat (rightfully so) and was squirming and screaming. i tried holding her in a variety of ways, by pinching the scruff of her neck, holding my thumb and forefingers around her neck & shoulders, keeping the hat closed better. if you’ve ever tried to contain a determined kitten, you know how hard this can be. they are slippery, squirmy little buggers.

i put her down to readjust and she start running off. she was crying & seemed very confused & upset. now i felt like a total asshole. at least she had known where she was before, now she had no idea. she darted into a souk, where the owner immediately shooed her out. she ran around the steps looking for a place to hide. god, what have i done?

i thought about bringing her back to where i’d found her & leaving her but that wasn’t sitting right with me. i watched her try to drink water from a brown, dirty steam coming down the road & thought about the filthy water against her already infected mouth & tongue. no, i thought, i can’t leave her. even if she’s upset, i’m doing the right thing.

a couple souk owners stopped me & asked what i was doing, if i was taking her home. she’s sick, i’d reply, she needs a vet, i’m trying to help her. i got positive responses & well wishes from all of them.

this entire process was repeated twice more, where i’d put her down & let her run around screaming, onlookers gawking & asking questions. each time though, she repeatedly came back to me. this was the only thing i found solace in, otherwise i was feeling like a complete monster. in her squirming she had opened up part of her infection & it was now bleeding a little, which only made me feel worse. still, i knew she needed medical treatment, & no matter how much she protested, i had to get her to a vet.

a vet. in morocco. righto. what could possibly go wrong?

my mind flashed to san ignacio, belize, where i found my magic little brown mutt sara. the vet there worked out of a shed no bigger than 10’x10’ with a dirt floor & a couple kennels in the back that had leaking roofs. i was not feeling optimistic about this venture.

annabelle hasn’t mastered the art of serving face in a selfie. apparently, neither have i

desperate to keep her calm i cooed to her and practiced reiki. i held her close to my chest and let her crawl into my hair with her stinky slimy face leaving the smell of abscess on me. i thought i had passed a souk that sold bird cages but now i couldn’t find it. i was sweaty, scared, anxious, & sad. a souk owner tried to talk to me, and when i showed him the cat he seemed responsive. “please,” i begged “do you have an extra box?” “come with me,” he replied, & we popped into a couple souks, him rapidly speaking in arabic, until we found a shoe vendor with a box he was willing to donate to the cause.

i put her in the box with the hat she hated but that was at least soft. i used my hands to hold the lid on & booked it the last 10 min to my hostel. when i burst in the door & asked a guy working there that i had never spoken to before i help me, he looked perturbed. i was probably the first one to do something like this.

“i know i’m insane, but i need to help this kitten. i found two vets on maps.me but i don’t have data on my phone to call. can you call & ask if they’re open & if they’ll help?” thank goddess for this man & his tolerance for absurdity. he called the first place and got either no answer or a machine, “they’re closed,” he said as he hung up. he tried another number and had a conversation in french. when he hung up he told me that they were open & would help.

i took down the vets number, as well as the number at the hostel. the vet said to be dropped off and cafe sanibel, & that they could be found from there. i ran upstairs to get the money i had gotten from the atm the day before, about $200 USD. “you better hurry,” the guy from the hostel warned, “i’m not sure they work in the afternoons.” it was almost 1130.

finding a taxi is no easy feat either in the middle of the médina. the streets there are so small that cars can’t come through, you have to walk up to a main street in order to find a cab. while the gentleman at the hostel was very helpful, he wasn’t great at giving directions. i started off the in the general direction he had pointed me in, but quickly got confused. a teenage boy was standing there & asked what i was looking for.

great, i thought, just what i need. when people in morocco ask if you need help or directions, they expect you to pay.

“look, i need a taxi,” i started, & he quickly replied that he’d take me. i held up my box “i’m trying to help a sick kitten, she needs the vet. i do not have any money to give you, i need to help her,” i explained. his face showed empathy & he agreed. quickly we rushed off, winding through parts of the médina i had never seen before, until we were spit out onto a main street.

a cab was just pulling up & we waved him down. i started asking about cafe sanibel, but the cab driver seemed very confused. the boy helped translate, & finally i was told to get in. i began thanking him profusely, when he grabbed onto the open door of the cab. “50 durhams,” he started, and i snapped back that i had already told him i wasn’t paying, that i thought he was helping the kitten. i had 20 in my pocket i had already planned on offering if it came down to it, so i shoved that into his hand. “50,” he demanded, his hand firmly holding the cab door open. “i already told you, i’m helping a sick cat, you told me you would help for free! i said i had nothing to give you!” his face didn’t change at all & he repeated himself. “20 is all i have, take it & go.” the cab driver started to drive off, & between that & my yank on the door, we were able to get away from his grip.

the cab driver still had no idea where he was going but the meter was running. he spoke french, arabic, & spanish, but no english. thankfully my spanglish was able to get me through, & between that & pointing on the map he seemed to have an idea. our destination was only 3 miles away, in the new city. off we went, my eyes glued to the navigating app to make sure we stayed on course.

i arrived to cafe sanibel, which is a french cafe. no one there spoke english. i pulled out my phone & showed them the name of the vet’s office, which was also in french. they pointed me in the right direction. they don’t have a website but you can find their info here if you’re interested, it did look quite good!

thankfully the vet was just a hundred or so meters down the street, & i found it immediately. it was not yet noon.

this vets office could not have been a farther cry from the one i experienced in belize. it reminded me of something you would see in hoboken, super slick, nearly all white, with fancy pet products hanging on the wall as you walked in. i was relieved to be in a proper facility, not the dirt floor shack i had imagined from belize. it was nicer than any vet i’ve ever seen in the US, & was certainly the nicest building i’d seen in morocco. check them out on facebook here.

the beautiful waiting room of the vet’s office, featuring one of my favorite quotes: “the greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

i briefly explained the situation to a woman at the front desk who didn’t speak any english but immediately understood when she pulled the kitten out & looked at her. i was brought to a waiting room & told to sit.

within 10 or 15 min another woman came in, who thankfully spoke english. she examined the kitten & explained that she had calicivirus, she said it’s common in kittens in morocco & is easily treated. “when do you leave?” she asked, uh oh, i thought “…well, tomorrow.” “oh, so you won’t be able to treat her, the treatment takes 5-7 days.” i felt a lump in my throat, & immediately started contemplating canceling to flights in order to nurse my sweet friend back to health. i wondered what the hostel would think. “no, i won’t be, i just wanted to help, is there anything you can do?” “well yes, we have to now, we can’t just put her back out on the street.”

my heart jumped, in a good way. i felt a twinge of guilt for dumping this kitten on them but also could clearly see they would be able to handle it. the place was so nice i wasn’t even worried about them not being able to afford it.

my “oh god what have i done” face, waiting in the vet’s office to be seen

the vet approximated her age to be around 6 weeks, & her assistant got to work cleaning her up and assessing her. they took her temperature which was low, & i told them she had been shaking when i found her. “but she’s strong, she’s curious, she’s alert, brave, & very talkative,” i said. she & her assistant smiled, as the kitten started tearing around the exam counter.

i asked about adoption and she said there are no physical shelters, that adoption in morocco happens mostly through the internet & trying to connect them with homes that way. i asked if it was common, “no,” she replied, “but it’s not rare either.”

“have you named her yet?” she asked, & i was taken aback by the question. i hadn’t really thought about it, especially because i hadn’t been planning on keeping her. annabelle came to mind, for my butchering of the name of the cafe where i had been instructed to be dropped off by the cab. instead i replied that i hadn’t. i wanted her to find whatever home she was meant to, & didn’t want any attachment to her past holding her back.

the vet explained that the kitten would be able to stay there & receive her treatments, & that after 5-7 days when she should be better, they’d start looking for a home for her. they showed me the kennel where she’d stay, & i joked that it was nicer than my hostel. it wasn’t really a joke though. the room was beautiful & the cages were spacious. they gave her a clean fabric mat to lie on. there were two other patients in that room, one small disgruntled looking dog who was being boarded, & a momma who had just given birth to a litter the day before. “we have to keep her warm in here,” they explained, & the room was easily pushing 80F.

they were patient as i said my goodbyes, annabelle’s little face pushed up against the bars of her cage, looking around full of light & curiosity. i told her that she is strong & brave, & that i had full faith she would live a healthy, happy life. i walked away overjoyed with her prospects but felt tears stinging the back of my eyes.

she was so squirmy & adventurous this was the easiest away for me to get a pic of her mouth

hopefully her infection & virus are almost cleared up by the time of publishing!

up at the front desk we reviewed the bill, for the initial consultation & exam, the treatment & food for 7 days, & the shots she would need. it came to 1000 durhams, or roughly just over $100. i was relieved it was relatively affordable, less enthused about their cash only policy, but overall incredibly grateful & at peace.

i asked again about adoption, & if they put down animals who can’t find homes. the woman seemed offended by my question, & said they don’t do things there like we do in the US. she showed me two adolescent cats in cages in the back of the reception, “they’ve both been here over 1.5 months. not much interest in them but we’re hopeful.”

i thought of the little boy who was in the waiting room with his dog as we were finishing up our appointment. he wandered in & walked right up to me holding annabelle, saying something in french. the vet had laughed & told me “he says she is so beautiful.” my heart swelled watching this little boy see the beauty of annabelle, under her disfigured, smelly face.

i hoped that he would take her home, or another little boy who saw her beauty & all the love she had to offer. i still remain optimistic about her future.

before i left, i put down my email, & got the contact information of the woman who had treated her. in the next couple days i will reach out & ask for an update, which i will of course share.

as i walked away i felt completely at ease. i had been feeling unready to leave morocco for some odd reason, despite how badly i wanted to go, & that morning i had been so frustrated & disappointed that i wasn’t able to go to chefchaouen. now, it all made sense. from my change of plans to my canceled day trip to my feelings of unreadiness to the breakfast spot i had wanted eggs from being closed. everything had pointed me towards sweet annabelle.

one of my favorite parts about the whole adventure was that as i walked back through the médina to find some lunch (or just finally eat) i was stopped by multiple souk owners who had seen me before, & asked for an update.

i never got my eggs after all but these nachos tasted better knowing i had saved a life!

when i explained what i had done & where she was, they all thanked me for helping her. morocco might not be great towards women or queers but apparently sick kittens have a special place in their heart. this, at least, we could agree upon.

i have a tendency of attracting animals in need, it is a gift i have long ago accepted and embraced. annabelle helped remind me of that part of myself, & of the fact that it is with me no matter where in the world i go.

“it’s just money…”

if you ask people “who run the world?” you’ll get two answers: “GIRLS!” (correct answer) & “money,” the unfortunately all too true answer. money is real. as someone who was raised in & continues to live in a middle class world, who is college educated with access to spaces that require class privilege to unlock, i do not mean to be flippant. but here’s the thing i’ve learned: money doesn’t matter. it’s just money.

whoa whoa whoa, back it up. you need money to live, right? well, yes, often times that is true. but not always. i have lived in a community that exists without money, the crystal land in costa rica. i’ve experienced a rainbow gathering, where monetary transactions are banned. i have watched something come out of nothing, i have lived for free, i have been gifted food, shelter, and love without paying one cent.

i have also manifested money. last year while i was on my road trip, i was running low on funds. i kept checking my bank account & reviewing my budget & i just kept thinking “if i just had $1,000 more i would be okay.” that week i was paid $300 for a horse sitting gig i was expecting to do for free, & my last paycheck from work was almost $800, although i honestly couldn’t figure out why.

later in that same trip when i got low on money again & had a similar thought, i shit you not, more money just appeared in my account. i had been checking my balance & knew what it was, & a few days later when i checked again, it was almost $300 more. no records of deposits, refunds, or anything else. the number was just simply higher.

you’re probably thinking i’m crazy, or that i misread it, & trust me, i thought the same at first. but then things started happening, quickly, and they were only able to unfold because i was able to put myself in certain places at certain times.

let me take a moment for a hella privilege check, & to acknowledge some of the safety nets i have. first of all, i have an incredible credit score, which i can largely attribute to my dad paying off bills in my name as soon as i turned 18. this enables me to have a very high limit on my credit card, & the fact that i continuously pay off my full statement before it is due keeps it that way.

secondly, i have my parents, who i try not to rely on but know deep down would bail me out of a situation, or buy a plane ticket home for me. i am also always able to live at home with them while i get back on my feet, if need be.

lastly, i’m from martha’s vineyard, a playground for the rich & famous, where i am able to live for very cheap (i rent a shed & can live at home), work multiple jobs, & save a tremendous amount of money in a few short months.

here’s the thing though: i used to panic about money, last year, and most of this year as well. i compulsively checked my bank account, budgeted, picked up extra shifts, etc. etc. & every time i have come to a place where i just let it go, it comes back to me.

recently, i’ve been panicking about money again. this is natural, at the beginning of a lengthy trip. although my flights & a lot of what i’m doing is already paid for, i have already incurred more expenses than i had planned for. i’ve also treated myself to a few things, like a beautiful handmade rug, an antique camel leather poof, & a couple nice meals (i mean like $15, not 5-star with bottles). money has been leaving my account much more quickly than i had expected, & for a while it felt like the world was crumbling out from under me.

i found myself getting really anxious, & even really angry when it came to money. a couple times in morocco i was conned out of a bit of change (we’re talking $5-30) & noticed that my reaction was of anger, & entitlement. i felt like that was MY money that i should have been able to spend on a nice meal! or a higher quality scarf. i felt rage & resentment bubbling up inside of me & realized, whoa. i was letting money control me. i was letting it dictate my life & my emotions.

then i chose to shift my perspective. it’s just money. it comes & it goes & comes again. if i run out of it, i can use the last bits of it, or my credit card, to buy a plane ticket home. i can live with my parents & find some part time work. i will be just fine. money is temporary & it is designed to be as such.

…then i found a kitten. anyone who knows me knows that i have more than a soft spot for animals, they are my life. i spent thousands of dollars shipping a cancer-ridden dog with an autoimmune disorder home from belize to the US & getting her life-saving treatment. my house & backyard is full of wayward strays i have taken in, or convinced my parents to do so, & with their financial, physical, & emotional help we care for some 20+ critters. i’ve taken on animals and cared for them while finding them a new home, i’ve offered support & logistical resources to friends trying to adopt, & i’ve even given friends money so they could take on a rescue critter or their own. there is nothing i wouldn’t do for an animal in need.

so when i found a sick, stinky, infected street kitten, i didn’t even hesitate to pick her up & book it to my hostel to pick up the wad of cash i had just withdrawn the day before. she ended up costing me a bit over $100 but i would have spent double that, or more, if need be. i would have canceled the rest of my trip if it meant being able to use the funds instead to save her life.

in the cab ride to the vet i started to panic, those feelings of anxiety & attachment to money came creeping in. i breathed deep. i asked myself what was important to me, & the answer was not the numbers in my bank account. it was the crying, squirming, little life i held in a shoebox in my hands.

naturally, like with most things in my life, i posted about her on instagram. in my explanation of the story i mentioned being out $100 from the ordeal but not minding. after lunch i headed back to my hostel, exhausted, smelling like infected cat, sweaty, & with blistered feet from my frantic run around the city that morning. as instagram likes started rolling it, so did $50 on venmo from a friend. the subject line: emojis of a cat & heart.

just a few days prior, i was texting some of my dearest friends in a group chat, expressing my stress & anxiety about being harassed constantly in morocco. i told them i was thinking of leaving, & was looking for cheap flights to anywhere. germany was the cheapest option, & just earlier last month i was saying how next year i wanted to go to see their christmas markets. kismet, i thought. but again, the anxiety crept in about money. morocco may be filled with harassment but it’s hella cheap. i would’ve been able to save a chunk of change by staying but my heart was calling me away.

again, a venmo transaction popped up, $40 from one of my best friends. “go to germany, merry christmas!” my flight only cost $15 but i needed to check a bag to bring some of the leather & goods that i had bought in morocco to europe to ship home. by the time i added a checked bag, it came to $44.67.

this morning, i boarded a train at 630am to go to the airport & catch my flight to barcelona. on my second day in munich i had taken the train to a museum. a cop standing in the station saw me struggling (the train ticket machine was only in german) so he came to help me. he didn’t speak very good english but i thought we had an understanding. i told him i needed it for 3 days, he clicked a few buttons, & i paid, & was on my way. i thought it was a bit less than i had expected but i didn’t question it. i used it once that day then put it in my wallet.

i was sitting on the train this morning when the police came through to check tickets. at first i thought i had lost mine, but found it in the depths of my little wallet. relieved, i handed it over. “no,” he said “this is wrong.” my heart dropped. i explained to him that a cop had helped me buy it & i wasn’t sure what i was doing. i asked him if i could pay for it now. “sixteen,” i thought i heard him say, so i handed him a 20€ note. he shook his head “six-TEE” he said forcefully. i tried to talk my way out of it but those germans, very strict. i handed over 60€ & fought back tears.

i felt ashamed, cheated, robbed even. i felt overwhelming tired, & like i didn’t belong. i felt like going home. like the universe was trying to tell me that it would just keep taking from me until i gave up.

then it came to me, very clearly in my head, “it’s just money.” what? i asked my mysterious brain voice that sometimes delivers me these messages. “it’s just money,” i heard again. deep breath in. deep breath out. it’s just money. it’s just money. it is what it is & i can’t stop or control it. it will come & it will go. money is just money.

this evening i posted on instagram again, & expressed that sentiment. i said those exact words. it’s just money. by this time, i felt it ring true in my heart. i was no longer angry, or ashamed, or feeling betrayed by some cosmic money-thief. i was counting my blessings & moving forward.

another one of my best friends & i were texting, & she said how much she liked that sentiment. we chatted for a little about it, & our conversation moved on.

another venmo notification. $60 with a note “don’t let anyone or anything ruin your holiday.”

the more i let go, the more i welcome in. the more i hold on, the more i push away the exact things that i want. i have felt & learned this to be true with other things in life, things i wanted to do, people i wanted to see or meet, places i wanted to go. i have even manifest two animals who appeared exactly as i had imagined and wanted them to, just days or weeks after i set my intentions for them. but money, that’s a much harder one. a much scarier one.

earlier this year i felt a calling to get rid of all my purchased belongings & only keep things that were gifted to me. there were some logistical issues with this but i recognize that it was largely my own fear that prevented me from following through.

i think it’s time to let go, let come, & let be. my faith is being restored as i challenge myself to change my perspective & open up my heart, my consciousness, my body, & my world, & my wallet to the infinite possibilities of the ever-wise, always knowing, always giving, & perpetually providing universe.

camel trek realness

you’ve all seen the pictures—sunset & sunrise in the sahara, camel trekking through the desert, it all looks so magical. & it many ways, it certainly is. in others however, it’s a bit of a nightmare. here’s an honest account of what a budget 3-day sahara journey looks like.

first of all let me just say that when i was doing my research for this trip, i came across tours for $350-500. then i read in a few places that if you just wait until you’re in the country, you can find them for $75-100. i assumed this had more to do with booking last minute, hostel discounts, and/or haggling. buyer beware, you get what you pay for.

i took a tour arranged through my hostel in marrakech, rodamón. it cost 950 durham (a little over $100) & lasted for 3 days/2 nights. honestly i didn’t ask too many questions, it was much cheaper than i had expected & i trusted the folks there. i guess i just assumed they got a good deal because they sent them so much business.

we were picked up from our hostel at 7am, a portuguese guy name vosco, who ended up being my best friend in the trip, and i. turns out our hostel was the first stop, so we spent the next hour+ picking up other people. finally, with a total of 14, we were on our way.

our group! taken on the second day while exploring a gorge. these folks quickly found their way deep into my heart. we hailed from mexico, canary islands, spain, portugal, brasil, china, italy, belgium, & i held it down for the US

the roads out of marrakech are some of the windiest i’ve ever experienced. i thought the buses i took across costa rica were rough, or the winding mountain roads i drove in california were harsh but those were tame in comparison. we’re talking hairpin turn after hairpin turn with a measly guardrail separating us from dropping off the mountains. i broke out my quease-ease auromatherapy pen & was huffing emphatically.

an example of the incredibly windy mountain roads

mountain views from our first stop

a couple hours in we stopped for a 15 min break at a little shit pit with junk food snacks, fresh squeezed orange juice (common in morocco), toilets you had to pay 3 durham for, and an amazing view of the mountains. we also stopped a time or two at little turn offs lined with people selling chachkies, for the views & photo ops.

photo op example

around lunch we were brought to an ancient berber village for a tour. apparently their biggest claim to fame is being used as a movie set, for gladiator, game of thrones, lawrence of arabia, & pretty much anything else that called for an ancient city with a desert backdrop. the tour cost 25 durham ($2.50) & lasted about an hour. along the way they had us stop at little shops set up, watch an artist demo in his studio, etc.

the ancient berber village that was our first stop

eventually we were dropped off at a total tourist trap pit of a restaurant, where our driver & guide surely get commission. this restaurant, like the one we stopped at the next couple days, has price fix menu with minimal options. you end up paying around 100 durham ($10, which is a lot for food in morocco) for subpar crap. it was frustrating but you have no choice.

the food might’ve been overpriced but the garden patio was on point

back on the bus, we drove for a few more hours with another stop or two.

pro tip: before you leave for the tour, make sure you have lot of small bills/coins. these snack shops are small & either can’t or won’t make change. i was unable to buy water at one because i didn’t have small enough currency. a liter of water costs 10 durham everywhere i went.

that night we arrived at a decent enough place, tucked into the mountains of god-knows-where. dinner was included, but heat was not. we were shuffled off into rooms of 2-4. we chose to have 4 people in our room, vosco, the outgoing former actor from portugal who lived in london, jing, a sweet, smart, & kind chinese woman who now lives in the alps of italy, and a funny man from the canary islands who only spoke spanish, & who’s name i never quite caught. we all got along well & had a great time together. i cherish their friendships & hope to reconnect in the future.

our hotel for the night

our room featured beds that were smaller than twin, only 1 working light (a raw lightbulb dangling from the ceiling) 2 outlets, and a shower curtain instead of a door to the bathroom. when the spanish guy started farting on the toilet, he & the rest of us burst into laughter. i pooped in the bathroom downstairs off the lobby, that looked like it was the set of a horror movie. the food was at least pretty good, soup, bread, & tajine, which they even made vegetarian for vosco & i.

the only heat in the hotel was this fireplace on the first floor

i quickly made a friend, aka trip highlight

the highlight of that day was our after dinner walk. our odd little foursome set out, guided only by the full moon. we did not realize until jing saw online the next day, that it was a super moon, & the biggest since 1983. we walked along the winding, empty, mountain road for a bit until we found a large pull off that turned into huge boulders leading down to the river. jing & vosco had nice cameras they were playing with, and my canary friend & i just wandered and enjoyed the view.

he & i ended up sitting down, jing & vosco were standing, and we all fell into complete and utter silence & stillness. i was meditating and basking in the glory of the moon, i felt the energies of everyone else fall into something similar. i didn’t check for the time before or after but would estimate it lasted about 30 min. when we came out from it (i feared my ass was getting frostbite) vosco commented that we were all so still & quiet for a moment he feared we had somehow all died. we giggled and made our way back up to the road.

that & a similar walk through the sahara the next night were certainly my favorite moments of the trip. those along with the friendships that were created & laughs we all had as a group made it all worth while.

the next day we were up early again, shuttering against the frigid cold. breakfast was 1 small pancake, bread, and tea or coffee. it was all cold & rather bland, even by moroccan standards.

the cat was more interested in my breakfast than i was

view from the back of the hotel

we left by 730 and were similarly shuttled around through the countryside, which was at least phenomenally beautiful. similar stops with another tour of another berber village, followed by another crappy, overpriced, fixed menu. this tour was at least a bit more interesting & included a visit with a berber rug making family.

rug demo and explanation in their home

there are 56 of them in their extended family, about half live in town and the other half up in the mountains with their animals. they make rugs from camel and sheeps wool, as well as cactus silk, which is extraordinarily strong. it almost feels like one of those outdoor rugs you’d get for your patio. the woman are all weavers, & they process the wool as well as weave it. the house was covered in rugs, on all the floors, hanging on all the walls, and piles upon piles of them stacked in each room we walked by as we made out way down the hall.

the man who explained everything to us could not have been nicer or more informative. we sat in the floor sipping berber whiskey, which is thankfully just tea. we were all a bit worried when our guide said we’d be enjoying some at 10am on our nearly empty stomachs. berber tea is comprised of mint, sage, absinthe, rosemary, & verbena sweetened with a bit of sugar. it is delicious, & a nice break from just mint tea. a belgium couple & i both bought stunning rugs, which is probably my favorite purchase from morocco.

our host pouring us berber whiskey

our berber host & i with my rug. he made me promise i would not resell it, & asked we take this picture together

we shuffled along again, now heading deep into desert. i do not think i have ever experienced such vast, completely flat, barren, land. everyone once in a would we come across a small town & marvel aloud about what they must do for work, or fun.

barren af, drastically different from the mountain roads of the first day

all of the sudden, the sahara appeared on the horizon. the massive dunes rising out of the plains looked like mountains, & we were all completely in awe. it is totally odd how it just…begins. there is no segway between the rocky plains and the monstrous dunes, the sand just beings and then literally never ends.

pic taken from the van of this incredibly vast countryside, sahara breaking on the horizon

by the time we got to the camel trekking camp in merzouga the sun was already beginning to settle. we were instructed to take only what we would need for the night, and leave the rest in the van.

mike marker at the entrance to the sahara, an omen perhaps?

i emphasize, we were told only to take what we would need for the night. we were not instructed then or at our last stop in civilization to stock up on water, nor were we told to bring toilet paper. i know these plus warm clothes are common sense, but it seemed a bit odd to me that we weren’t warned of the complete lack of resources at the camp. i had my 40oz. hydroflask filled but overlooked the toilet paper because for some idiotic reason i thought they would at least have that covered.

spoiler alert: they didn’t.

i grabbed my toothbrush and clean underwear, & put on every item of clothing i brought with me—this consisted of long underwear, leggings, a wool thermal shirt, thin long sleeve, thin athletic jacket, sweatshirt, wool socks with boots, & scarf.

spoiler alert: this is not nearly fucking warm enough.

we wandered off towards the dunes where there were some camels lined up and lying down. i cannot emphasize enough the complete and utter lack of directions, throughout out entire trips, & here. we saw a guide and more people moving towards one pile of camels so we wandered instead to another. there were a few men sitting around but no one said anything. minutes later a familiar face finally arrived and instructed us to being mounting.

my trusty steed, who’s name i was never told, & who seemed to hate me

now, i wasn’t exactly expecting these camels to be pampered. and they weren’t exactly abused either but they fell somewhere in the grey area of kind of heartbreaking to watch. they have their noses pierced with ropes running through them for leading, and the guides step on their front legs to get them to get up. the camels groaned and cried as they were asked to move. the guides were not too harsh but were far from encouraging or gentle. i already felt sad for them.

by this time the sun was heading for the horizon, casting a beautiful warm golden light across the sand. we began riding off into the sunset, or actually a combination of parallel and away from it. this made it not entirely ideal for photographing.

camel train heading into the desert

the paths in to the desert are worn and dirty, there was trash scattered about. i tried to look past it but on the empty open sand canvas each bit stood out dramatically, & broke my heart to see. there are tire tracks from the trucks and quads that also go out on tours, which, along with the trash, certainly disrupted the secluded and natural feel.

our #squad, the spaniard, vosco, & i. we had our own little camel trio, & shared a tent together

the sun quickly disappeared behind the horizon and with it, the last rays of warmth. from here on out it proceeded to be the coldest night of my life (& i spent 4 winters in vermont so i don’t say that lightly).

after riding for about an hour, we arrived at our campsite. we passed a few other sites on the way in, including a beautiful one that must be for the people in that $350-500 range. their set up included a bunch of cute little white bungalow tents, with a couple larger ones mixed in. there was the whir of a generator in the background, & i have to imagine, toilets as well.

our camp was certainly more rustic, which in & of itself doesn’t bother me. the tents were short, dark, and had ratty blankets covering the doorway openings. we were sectioned off and assigned tents, vosco, the spaniard, and i were directed into one. vosco asked jing, who had just been assigned a neighboring tent, if she wanted to join us. she agreed but was immediately stopped by the guide and sent back to her original assignment. we were never sure why.

our tent had 6 bed set ups, thin foam pads on the ground with one pillow and two blankets each. since there were only the three of us we gave away a couple blankets & rationed the remainging extras.

calling our tent “rustic” would be generous

when we were leaving to get on the camels we were told dinner would be at 11, with no explanation as to why. we arrived and were settled in the camp by 7, and everyone was beginning to get hungry. being the perpetual snack hoarder i am, thankfully i had a couple things to ward off hanger.

another couple groups arrived to the campsite, & together they outnumber ours by about 2:1. we were not introduced to them. thankfully sometime before 8 maybe (i stopped carrying my phone, there was no point) the call for dinner was made.

we all shuffled into the largest tent where there were small, short tables with pillows on the floor. four of us from out tour took one, & we were joined by another portuguese man, ricardo, who explained that he was on a 4 day tour & they had just spent the entire day out in the desert.

look ma, i’m on a camel! they were actually incredibly uncomfortable to ride

bread and soup was brought out and i will thrilled to have something warm, though severely disappointed when it arrived cold. it was quite bland but even still, i was grateful for some sustenance.

dinner came around & was actually a bit warm, a large plate of chicken tajine (no vegetarian option this time). we didn’t all have forks so we used our hands and spoons and giggled and chatted while we ate. a few cats wandered in & we shared the last scraps of chicken with them, which they ate feverishly. finally desert was presented, a classic fruit combo of clementine and pomegranate. no water, tea, or other beverages were included, and i wondered about those who didn’t bring enough—or any—out here, expecting to have access to something.

after dinner the guides built a fire a short walk away from the camp, and they brought out a couple drums. a few of the guides sat in the sand and began playing and singing. the group of perhaps 40 or so of us all huddled around the small fire, stealing whatever scraps of warmth we could.

someone had a joint going with a little hashish, and i took a couple hits and enjoyed a gentle buzz. vosco also had some and we ended up dancing like fools outside the circle, using the blankets we had wrapped around us as wings or capes as we twirled and dove around laughing.

vosco dancing around the campfire

the singing and drumming was a blast, and after the guides finished they opened up the floor to anyone else who wanted to play and/or sing. a couple people played songs, including one in spanish and one in japanese.

after the music was done some of us noticed the guides laughing hysterically with one another, it seemed that whatever they played for us was made up, or total crap. since no one spoke berber, we were none the wiser. they were laughing so hard they were bent over and nearly face first into the sand. i was totally amused by whatever little prank they pulled on us.

our guides probably singing bullshit to us

as the fire wound down people trickled off. vosco and i went off with some of our other friends to walk along the dunes. the moon was so bright, we didn’t need headlamps. even in the darkness the dunes were a fierce red color, unlike anything i’ve seen before.

we were tempted to ride down the dunes on our blankets, an idea that was likely fueled by the hashish. we scampered off to find a steep dune for our sledding, and ended up losing the rest of our group.

some of the dips were so deep they looked like portals to the underworld. i have faith it wasn’t just the hashish that made me trip out staring down into the valleys that were so stark the sand was blackened by shadows. we mused over the height of the desert, as it was entirely impossible to tell where sea level was vs. the valleys vs. the mountainous dunes.

the ripples across the sand were stunning. we stood at the top of one dune and i became mesmerized by the sand i pushed down, which rippled and seemed to breathe as it slid. thankfully we decided that our sledding endevor would likely end with cold sand in places we certainly didn’t want it, & that 10 seconds of fun would result in a night full of discomfort. instead we walked, and shared stories.

hashish inspired photo of ripples at night

we could have wandered for hours, other people were simply specks on the hillsides of the enormous dunes. there really are no words to capture the impressive size of the sahara, which left me in awe because i knew it was only the tip of this extravagant expanse.

after a while we decided it best to head back to camp while we still had a firm idea of where it was. i could see how disorienting the desert can be, and marveled at all those who were able to navigate it throughout history.

the fire was still going & a few people were still huddled around it. we stayed up a bit past midnight talking about the world, our place in it, our responsibility to it, our connections to one another, & to this vast, glorious universe that created us. oneness was the topic of conversation, & my soul felt full afterwards.

our conversations were heady af. pictured here, vosco & a friend (not ricardo)

finally everyone else had peeled off to bed, and vosco followed. i was left behind with a portuguese man name ricardo, who was a bit heady for my liking. he was a self-described yogi, who said he follows a modern version of yoga, with his own added twists (insert eye risk here). if you’ve ever lived in vermont, you know the type.

as vosco left us to go to bed & it was just the two of us left, ricardo turned to me & said “don’t worry, i’m not a rapist.” entirely caught off guard i just kind of looked at him confused & said okay. “and even if i was,” he continued, “you could yell & all these people would hear you.”

let me tell you, nothing quite reminds you of your womanhood like sitting around a campfire in one of the most remote places on earth & being told by the man you’re sitting next to, basically, that he could rape you. men reading this: don’t ever fucking say that. seriously. it has happened to me multiple times, where a man has declared himself not-a-rapist, & it only ever makes me less sure of their intentions, & leaves me feeling drastically less safe. also in case you haven’t been following the news, declaring yourself not a predator certainly does not make it true.

praying for sunrise…& that god awful conversation to end

anyway, after ricardo-the-not-rapist told me he wasn’t a rapist & reminded me of my severe vulnerability, it kind of killed the mood. he made a few other condescending comments, told me that my desire to live in the US & teach people about sustainable living was “putting myself in a box” & “not living up to my potential” because i wanted to live in my home country instead of abroad. sufficiently annoyed and done with his mansplaining of my own life, i went to bed shortly thereafter.

it never ceases to amaze me how yogi types and self proclaimed enlightened folks can be such condescending dickwads.

when i got back to my tent, the lingering warmth lent to me by the fire quickly evaporating, i settled in for what would turn out to be the coldest night of my life. now i pride myself on having survived four vermont winters, including -40F (with wind chill, -20F air temp) but what i had during all four of those winters was a heated home. with walls. & not an endless sea of freezing sand below me.

note the open doorway covered only by a blanket

the bottom of the tent was a thin tarp, & our sleeping pads were no more than 3” thick. i put 1 of my blankets under me to add as insulation against the frigid ground, and folded it in such a way at least part of it was on top of me as well. my top blanket i left folded in half to double its thickness. at first, i was feeling optimistic, thinking the blankets would hold in my heat & i would be chilly but fine.

then it seeped in. the relentless cold. soon my lower back felt like there was an ice pack on it. it was so cold it actually became physically uncomfortable. i thought about dragging the sleeping pad next to me under mine to double my insulation but any movement cost me escaped warmth, & both my tent mates were sleeping. i rolled onto my side to minimize the surface area of contact with the cold, which helped a little. i was unable to move for the rest of the night because i lost too much warmth if i did.

that night i dreamt of snow. i am not sure how much i slept that night, probably less than an hour or two. i was convinced i hadn’t slept at all as my mind kept racing, thinking of warm thoughts, of moving my mattress pad on top of the other, of heat and warm showers & how this was only temporary. i didn’t even realize i was asleep until i woke up from my dreams of snow, & a dear friend.

shot from our ride in that captures the scale of this place well, zoom in to see the 2 people at the top! the sahara is yuge, simply yuge.

as i laid there, i felt a deep connection to the earth below me. i could feel the billions of sand grains stretching far & wide, transporting the cold to each other. it felt like the entire sahara was sending it’s cold to me, like an endless network of ice stealing away the warmth by body was attempting to imprint upon it. never before have i felt or seen the ground communicate with me in this way. perhaps i was delirious, but it was one of the most profound moments i’ve ever experienced of connection and communication to such an expanse of land. it was truly humbling.

5am couldn’t have come soon enough, the night felt like it dragged on forever. finally we awoke to claps & calls of “yallah, yallah!” or “let’s go!” in arabic. coming out of my blankets was horrible but once i accepted the cold as part of my body i was able to stand and move. returning to warmth was my primary motivation.

crappy iphone pic of our camels lying down in the early dawn light. brightness up to be able to see them!

we walked back to our camels who had all slept together where they were left, with their tack still on. one of the camels had a horrible time trying to get up, and was screaming and groaning. it seemed sick and/or injured, but was eventually forced to get up & join the others in the train. i felt waves of pain and sadness pouring off of it, & my heart was heavy. i did not appreciate the way these animals were treated.

we were told that we would ride up to the great dune to watch the sunrise but instead we just walked the hour back to the road. the sun rose behind us, just as it had set behind us the night before. this made it hard to appreciate or photograph, and we did not stop to watch it.

sunrise pics, taken while trying to face backwards on a moving camel

finally we arrived back at the base site, where breakfast was served. 1 pancake type fried dough thing per person, plus bread, & coffee or tea. the tea burnt my tongue & i have never before been grateful for that sensation. it was literal days before the last bits of the cold finally left my body, & the rest of that day i remained fully bundled and huddled. i could feel the cold rising up off my legs.

i wasn’t going to wear my scarf like this because it felt appropriative but it was so fucking cold i ended up doing it anyway. repping moglo here!

overall, i am grateful for the opportunity to experience the sahara. what i wish though, is that we were better informed of any aspect of the trip before departing, that the way there was not littered with tourist-trap stops, & that we were given any amount of time to actually enough the desert during daylight. i was also deeply saddened by the treatment and condition of the camels, who seemed miserable at best. if i were to do it again, i would certainly spring for a more expensive trek & perhaps do four days, so i had some time to experience the desert in the light. lastly, i would certainly have packed much better & warmer, so i could have enjoyed my night a little bit more.

munich does it better

cheese in sausage—it’s call käsewurst & it is even better than it sounds. served on a bun with some spicy brown mustard this vies for top spot in my “favorite things i put in my mouth” list for this trip.

just look at that oozing goodness…

christmas markets & tram—they say there’s no place like NYC at christmas…i am a diehard rockettes fan & try to make a yearly homage to this famous christmas city. & while i hate to say it, i think munich does it better. endless christmas markets that go on every night (& some during the day) for weeks on end serve as a gathering place for locals & tourists alike. filled with delicious food, handmade crafts, gorgeous decorations, & often times singers & other entertainment, you don’t have to love christmas to enjoy these magical pop-up fairs. the people watching alone is pure gold. they also take one of their trams, deck it out in decorations, serve holiday drinks on board, & cart you around the city looking at lights while listening to christmas music. it’s 2€ for the 30 min ride & it is positively jolly. info here!

all aboard the holly jolly booze cruise! certainly a kid-friendly event but adults can get extra jolly with some glühwein or feuerzangenbowle.

mug deposit—instead of disposable cups vendors at the markets use glass & ceramic mugs to serve their drinks in. how, you ask? by requiring a 6€ deposit at time of purchase. this brilliant, simple system cuts down on what i would assume to be hundreds of thousands of cups & lids. plus there are no straws in sight! imagine if every fair, carnival, & other event in the US did this? dear god we need to catch up…

& just like magic, i drank something & didn’t generate any trash!

non plastic disposal food stuff—my spaetzle & lecker came in a recycled/recyclable paper container & was served with a wood/bamboo disposal fork. again, these are simple, small changes that add up to make a tremendous difference. & guess what? i was able to eat my food just the same. imagine that!

managed to eat food without dropping it on the floor, or adding plastic to landfills (aka the ocean)!

specific bike lanes, everywhere—i don’t just mean like the weak ass bike paths you can find in some parts of the US. i mean a comprehensive split lane bike/pedestrian system that runs everywhere in the city, & includes crosswalks as well. i know this is common throughout europe, & seeing how flawlessly it worked made my heart ache for something similar back home where tourists overcrowd our streets in the summer & it’s dangerous for cyclists, motorists, and pedestrians alike.

doesn’t mess with houseless people or their stuff—walking down the street one night i saw a couple polizei go up to someone who was living on the street. in the US this typically means trouble, so i stuck around to watch the situation unfold. from what i saw it seemed the police were actually checking up on them, & i saw them digging around in a plastic bag. as i walked away they went in the same direction & i saw them going through another similar looking plastic bag & saw that it was actually full of coats & warm things. i’ve been googling & haven’t been able to find anything about any sort of city initiative or program. it was an unexpectedly different approach from what happens in the US where police will actually take things from people, hassle them, & force them to move. similarly, when walking in the early morning i noticed that houseless people i had seen the day before were able to leave their things on the street—blankets, pillows, seating, signs, & in some cases bowls etc for their dogs. their belongs were left untouched by police, street-cleaners, & passerbys alike. i even walked by someone’s things that included a cup of change knocked over, & no one touched it. this simple way of respecting their belongings & making it just a little easier for them to live on the streets was unlike anything i’ve seen before.

everyone is allowed to enjoy the city in peace

free wifi throughout the city—there are multiple hotspots located throughout the city that are entirely free, & hassle free! no surveys, email login, signup, or hoop jumping required. one of the free city wifi’s did have a 30 min limit but it appeared you could use it day after day—i didn’t try twice in one day so it might have a daily limit. godsend for tourists & locals alike.

want your skating adventures on snapchat now? now you can, no data or international sim card required

staying safe in morocco

existing alone in the world as a woman, never mind traveling abroad as one, is an exhausting and at times terrifying experience. traveling alone as a woman in morocco is probably not the worst but also not the best thing i’ve ever done. overall on a scale of 1-10, 1 being feeling completely safe & 10 being panic attack, i’d say i lived at a steady 7-8 throughout my trip. i’ve gotten quite a few questions about this, so i just wanted to take a few moments to share some of my experience.

first things first, this is a country under sharia law

that does not apply to foreigners/tourists but does certainly inform the atmosphere and general attitude towards women. i think the biggest way in which this particular fact impacted me was knowing that if i were to get in trouble, for defending myself against a man who was harassing or assaulting me, for example, i feared the police/law wouldn’t be on my side.

the same ways in which i am conscious of my standing and lack of protection as a queer person in the deep south of the US, i was conscious of my social standing, even as a foreigner, in morocco. it was like a blanket cloaking me that slowly felt heavier throughout my trip.

this was also evident in the fact that nearly all of my exchanges were exclusively with men. men own the souks, wait on customers at restaurants, run hostels, lead tours, hang on the streets, try to con you, etc. i think i only interacted with women a handful of times, in fact all that come to mind were three: a shop owner, the hammam manager, and an herbalist who did a demonstration on a tour stop.

let me be clear: i am not trying to say that i in any way understand what it is like to live as a woman under sharia law. i am also not saying that i was drastically looked down upon by every man i talked to or met, or that i witnessed women being treated horribly. this is just to say that it was the tinted glass i saw my experience through, & that it did surface in my mind on a frequent basis.

being gay is criminalized, which certainly weighed on me as well. i was very careful to not come out during my travels, which is something i’ve never experienced before. it is my understanding that foreigners can be prosecuted for homosexuality but that these cases are sporadically enforced and typically stem from instances of same-gender or same-gender presenting couples engaging in pda.

in short, this is heavily male-dominated society, & misogyny & queerphobia hung thick in the air.

souk owners will hassle you

this can include anything from simply calling out to you (often repeatedly), to blocking your path while talking at you, to literally grabbing you and pulling you toward their store. they will act polite, they were say it’s just a look, just for free, that they’re inviting you for tea, but there’s no two ways around it, it gets obnoxious.

this was drastically worse for me in fez than in marrakech, because the city isn’t as busy. in marrakech the streets are so packed it’s easy to disappear into the crowd. in fez, you were an open target with few other people to deflect or buffer.

in the main square of marrakech they set up tents full of food vendors at night. a fun place to grab a bite to eat turned human-dodging hell. these men were some of the most adamant, and most physical. they would block your path, shove menus in your face, swarm you, and literally make it impossible for you to move. as a woman, even in a small group, this ranged from simply overwhelming to flat out terrifying. & there was absolutely no way to get them to stop. we ended up having to physically push past a few.

in fez, since they had more time where you were vulnerable to them, they would walk alongside you and ask you repeatedly to come into their store, to just look. they would guilt you, claim they weren’t trying to sell anything, and try to make you feel rude for turning down their “invitation to tea.”

responding to souk hasslers

one of my friends from the hostel in marrakech said that on her first day she tried to avoid eye contact and didn’t speak to anyone. she said she got nasty looks, and was heckled more. once she changed her approach, made eye contact & responded, even if it was just “no thank you,” she said she got better results.

i went with the latter approach right out the gate and found it to be quite successful in marrakech. in fez, however, the sexual harassment was so much worse & the heckling was ruder, so i reverted to avoiding eye contact & not responding. by the end of my trip i was rolling my eyes, and nearly turning around to snap the necks of men who called after me.

what i did find most helpful, was placing my right hand over my heart. this is a gesture of respect & gratitude in morocco, and coupled with a few “no thanks you,” a smile, and a quick pace, i found it to be the most successful. it almost always changed the attitude of the person i was exchanging with, and made them more respectful.

sexual harassment is real, and it’s awful

along with souk hassling, i found sexual harassment to be drastically worse in fez than marrakech. in marrakech the hassling was typically because they wanted you to come into their store, i think i only counted 2-3 times my appearance was mentioned & it was typically fairly respectful and complimentary.

in fez, the men were disgusting. think construction worker in nyc kind of repulsive. commenting on my body, my leggings, making gross sounds as looking me over, constantly asking if i’m looking for a husband.

this is where i felt the above mentioned tension of sharia law the clearest. there were times, especially in my last few days there as my tolerance was all but vanished, that i thought about turning around and reaming the men for their behavior. while i wasn’t planning on physically assaulting them or doing anything illegal, i wasn’t sure how this would be taken by onlookers, the men themselves, and/or the police if they were to get involved. i knew the odds were stacked against me, which only compounded my feelings of helplessness, frustration, & anger.

everyone expects money—& can get violent if you won’t give it

if anyone offers you directions, asks if you’re lost, helps you find a cab, tries to take your luggage at the airport, they are looking for money. even if they say they’re not, even if you tell them you won’t pay, even if they claim they just want to help, they will ask for money at the end of your exchange.

it is also a common con that they will try to mislead you, send you in the wrong direction, or tell you a street in the médina is closed. they will claim gps doesn’t work (maps.me does have some difficulty if you’re under a roof in the médina) and intentionally try to get you confused & turned around so you have to rely on them. they will also follow you, as i wrote about in an earlier blog post. it can border on stalkerish behavior, and is extremely unsettling.

be direct and clear, be insistent, and increasly firm. tell them that you know what you’re doing, where you are, & where you’re going, even if you’re not.

it is also common for someone to try to casually show you something small/nearby, then slowly drag you into a “tour” you will have to pay for. these men are good at what they do & slide you into the situation without even realizing what’s happening. it happened to me in fez & it was extremely frustrating to get dragged around for 20 min knowing i will have to pay for this colossal waste of time. i had to stop my “guide” and forcefully tell him i wanted to be brought back to the main médina, & left alone.

if you do find yourself in a situation where someone is demanding money & is getting aggressive but you’re unable to get out of it, it’s better to just pay & get out of there. i had friends in marrakech who this happened to, and they ended up cornered on an empty street at night with two men threatening to “smash their faces in.” finally a scooter rode by & they cried for help, the man on the bike stopped & yelled at the violent offenders so they were able to escape. at that point, it probably would’ve been better to just pay & get out of there.

how i got conned

in one instance there was a boy who insisted he’d help me get a taxi for free (i was clutching a sick kitten in a box so i believed him) then demanded money. i gave him 20 durham but he wanted more. the cab door was still open and he was holding onto it, preventing me from closing it, and demanding more money. finally the cab driver started to drive off, and between that movement & a strong yank on the door i was able to get it away from him. & you thought getting a cab in nyc was tough!

i also ended up paying for the above mentioned “tour” i didn’t want, as well as someone helping me bring my luggage into the airport. he did so by literally grabbing it out of the cab & taking things out of my hands. in the end i gave him a coin & told him i never wanted his services, something i was clear about but he ignored.

there was also a young boy who hung around my hostel & would try to get money out of me by walking me to the door, despite there being clear signage that i continued to point out, and me firmly saying i didn’t want or need his help & i wouldn’t pay him.

you have to be extremely defensive & even aggressive to avoid this. either get used to being firm & rude, or opening your wallet.

staying safe

if you’re checking a bag you can bring all sorts of goodies like knives and mace. if you’re going with carry on only, such as myself, you have to get a bit more creative. in addition to common sense & the usual tactic ingrained in women to stay safe, here are a couple things i did that made me feel better.

sound genade—i happened upon this nifty little bugger in the clearance luggage/travel section of tj maxx. it’s a small device, maybe the size of a piece of gum but thicker, that you can clip onto your bag. you tug on it to pull the pin out & it squawks at 120 decibels for 30 min, or until the pin is reinserted. drastically louder, scarier, and more incessant than a rape whistle, it attracts attention, confuses the attacker (it’s really fucking loud) and can double as protection against bears. isn’t it sad yet amusing that the same tactics can be used to deter aggressive wildlife as menfolk?

get yerself a big ol’ metal water bottle—my 40oz hydroflask is quite the weapon when fulled loaded. it’s inconspicuous, heavy, hard, fits perfectly in your hand, & will never be taken by security. plus it’s hard to dent & nearly impossible to break, so you won’t have to worry about damaging it. plus it’s easy to clean off the brain matter from it.

always scout an exit route—physically, as well as identifying potential allies in a situation. for me i could continuously scout out other foreigners if i felt like i was in a sketchy or potentially dangerous situation. unfortunately most of the souk owners and men lingering around are all friends with one another, so they don’t make a good backup plan. assess your surroundings at all time (ladies, you know the drill).

look & act confident & capable—the con artists and hecklers target anyone who looks unsure, confused, or lost. avoid looking at your phone incessantly, walk quickly, look confident & even bitchy, & insist that you know where you are going. puff up & put on that resting bitch face.

threaten to call the police—this was a tactic i never used but read on a couple other blogs that it is effective in scaring people off.

bash back—similarly, there are a couple phrases you can use in response for sexual harassment, “suma alik” translates to “shame on you” & “htarm rask” means “respect yourself.” a friend of mine told me about them, and i was able to find more info and pronunciation guides here.

avoid pda or coming out if you’re queer—it is my understanding that tourists can be prosecuted. this is, in my opinion, absolutely not worth risking. pda between hetero couples is even frowned upon, and those in different gender (or different gender presenting) relationships should still use extreme caution. kissing, even a quick peck, will get you looks of shock and disgust.

dress modestly—meaning covered from wrist to ankle, with no low cut shirts. even with this you will likely experience harassment but any skin exposure will gain extra unwanted attention.

in conclusion…

i think overall what burnt me out so quickly was the fact that i was constantly bombarded by men who felt entitled to my time, energy, money, body, etc. and who absolutely blatantly refused to take no for an answer. it was like all the worst things about rape culture shoved down your throat every time you stepped outside, whether they were looking for your money or looking to sexually harass you, it all blurred into the same feelings of overwhelming helplessness.

i think the best ways to handle traveling as a woman alone in morocco is to stay for a shorter amount of time, only go out during the day, stay in groups (preferably with men), and try to make yourself as inconspicuous as possible. having a thick skin & sticking to busier areas/times of the year helps too.

listen to you gut, use whatever self-preservation/care tactics you’re able, and try to keep your exposure time in short blocks so you don’t get too overwhelmed at once. this country is certainly worth seeing, just not at the expense of your own well-being.

hammam journey

let me preface this post with a disclaimer: a have the utmost respect for this as a tradition and part of moroccan culture. this is my experience as a westerner, from the US, where we really have no equivalent. also i tend to be a bit cheeky.

ahhh, your first hammam. confused about what to expect? i was too. let me walk you through my experience so you can better prepare yourself.

if you’re thinking “well isn’t it kind of odd to have someone else bathe me?” the answer is yes. there really isn’t a way around feeling a bit awkward, especially if you’ve never experienced anything like it before. even the nakedness and contact of a massage can’t prepare you for this experience. i’ll be frank, it’s a bit odd.

at the beginning of my experience, i was flirting with mortified. about half way through, i settled into just feeling like a car at the carwash. by the end, i was starting to feel a bit luxurious & pampered. but still very naked, with a stranger washing my body.

i went to a hammam down the street from my hostel, rodamón, in marrakech. two of my friends from the hostel had gone already and really enjoyed it, & another friend had done one in dubai & loved it. “it’s so wonderful,” she said, “plus there’s so much steam you can barely even see in front of you!” it sounded pretty fabulous, & was on every “things you must do in morocco” list i had come across. so, why not, right? when in rome, etc.

my friend and i booked them for that evening, 45 min hammam followed by a 45 min massage. i figured if nothing else, i would enjoy the latter. plus for only 350 durham (roughly $35) i thought it was hard to go wrong. the place we went is called assal hammam spa, & was really beautiful. afterwards people kept asking me if the one we did was traditional or touristy, & honestly i have no idea. if i had to guess, i’d assume the latter.

we were brought upstairs to a central sitting area with two doors into private rooms flanking it. tucked into one corner was a nook the size of a (small) dressing room, with a curtain hanging. we were ushered in there together, & given robes, disposable slippers, and tiny paper thongs.

if i’m losing you already at “tiny paper thongs,” trust me, i was right there with you. but alas, i donned the wee shred, and suited up in my robe.

we were then brought into separate bathing rooms, & mine was quite beautiful. it was all stone, lined on either side with benches that were covered with what i can only best describe as a mix between a yoga mat, and those squishy plastic thing you put under rugs to stop them from moving. along the back wall was a spicket that poured into a large collecting bin (if you’re familiar with a classic moroccan water fountain in town, it’s like that) with two buckets awaiting in the water. the whole floor was slightly slanted towards the drain. there was no steam. it was softly lit, but you could see clear as day.

pictures of the hammam room, from their website. i was unable to take any pictures as i was busy being naked & confused.

my hammameuse (hammamer?) wore all black, with her pants scrunched up about mid calf. she spoke only arabic & french, so there was minimal communication other than gestures & “is good?” every once in awhile.

she gestured for me to sit, and grabbed a bucket. there is no graceful technique here, they are literally throwing buckets of water at/on you. she checked to see if the temperature was okay (“is good?”) and when i agreed, got busy with the bucket.

after i was sufficiently soaked, she gestured for me to lie down. first she slathered me in some sort of soap, had me turn over to get the other side, then buckets for a rinse. next was an exfoliant applied with a plastic scrubbing glove. i grew up riding horses & couldn’t help but feel the similarity here. i had to sneak a glance to see how similar it was to the ones we’d use to bathe horses for the shows. pretty much the same thing.

after a second rinse she sat me up, & without any warning, dumped a couple buckets of water directly on top of my head. after the first bucket i at least knew what was coming so i could hold my breathe accordingly, but that first one really felt a bit like waterboarding. she applied something to my hair, & i took a few more buckets to the face.

now feeling like a drowned, harassed rat (shoutout to anyone who catches that reference) with hair plastered on my face, spitting out water from my mouth, i was ready for my mask. or, i wasn’t ready & had no idea that was coming next, but it was.

i was instructed to lie back down and my body was slathered in oil, i’m assuming argan. she then applied a mask to my face with a soft brush, that was thick & smelled like molasses. she confirmed “is good?” & although some was getting into my right eye & burning like hell, i was worried that would mean i’d take more buckets to the face so i just replied yes. i spent the next 10 or so min trying to blink it out discreeting, listening for her movement toward the fountain in case i needed to hold my breath.

thankfully she sat me up before taking the mask off, so i was able to prepare myself. i then stood as she tossed bucket after bucket onto my body, was instructed to heave up my boobs so she could toss under them, & lift my arms to get at the pits. hut two, i was all done.

i was robed, handed my slippers, and shuffled off in a daze to the massage room across the way, where another woman also got incredible familiar with my naked bod (soggy paper thong & all). the massage was pretty much the same as any other i’ve had, except again i assume the oil was argan.

overall is was really a pretty lovely experience, but having done the hammam once i’m not sure i’d do it again. it was certainly the cleanest i’ve ever been (i don’t think i have ever spent 45 min scrubbing down every inch of my body) and my skin was exceptionally soft. that said, i think i’d prefer to do the cleaning myself, and only outsource for the rub down.

the ladies at assal could not have been nicer though, and i would certainly recommend them. if you’re staying at rodamón, they come get you then walk you back which is lovely considering how easy it is to get lost, and made me much more comfortable making an appointment in the evening.

check them out here!

a day in marrakech

my first day in marrakech i signed up for a walking tour that left from my hostel in order to get my bearings in this new city, as well as meet friends. a group of eight of us departing with our guide latif, and i am so grateful for his guidance as well as the connections we made amongst ourselves.

latif guiding us through bahia palace on our walking tour

during the tour i asked him about buying leather and/or learning from some leather makers. i told him i make small pouches and was looking for some material to purchase. “tomorrow, go to the leather market. ask for my friend khalid.” that already felt unlikely but i figured any lead was better than none.

towards the end of our tour he stops and greets a man on his bicycle, who gives him a handshake and hug. “this is my friend khalid!” he says. “come find me tomorrow, just ask for khalid, everyone knows who i am,” this new man tells me. i am already feeling the power of manifestation at work, yet still doubt my ability to navigate the crowded souks and seeks out a man with a name as common as khalid in a muslim country.

the next day i set out from my hostel around 11:30, looking for the leather market and this man named khalid. in morocco, i assumed this was nearly a lost cause. armed with only this vague information and a general sense of direction, i headed out into the médina alone. some wandering brought me to the square, a feat in & of itself. then i took off across the square and down the street, a way back home again. i thought i had seen signs for the leather market on our walk home yesterday, and was hoping to retrace my steps.

a merchant carrying leather through the crowded souks of the médina 

as i wandered deeper into the médina, i lost my bearings. sigh. guess i wasn’t so clever after all. a few men asked to show me the way to where i was going, a classic marrakech scam that ends either with you paying, getting yelled at, or worse. the night before two of my new friends were threatened and nearly beaten by a man who gave them directions.

one man was very persistent and started following me. i took a few turns, turned around once i saw he was far in front of me, dipped into side areas, all in an effort to lose him. & yet, he kept appearing beside me. now i was lost, and had a stalker. great. finally i told him rather forcefully that i knew where i was going (blatant lie) and that i didn’t want his help. the anger in my voice seemed to convince i’m to move on to a new target, and he left. i had ended up in a quieter part of town, it seemed a bit more developed, possibly the new city. i turned back & tried to find my way back to the slightly more familiar médina.

a kid sucked me into his scarf dyeing demonstration, showing me all the natural colors that are used for creating the bright colors morocco is known for. there were men hunched over large vats dipping masses of fabric into bright red dye, up to their shoulders. “this is my family, this is what we do. no chemical dyes here, natural, natural.” i was a sucker and bought two scarves, they were unlike anything i had seen so far.

the natural dyes and dyeing process supposedly used on my scarves 

now in hindsight i can tell you i started seeing these scarves everywhere once i bought them, and that the blue one bled onto my hands and clothes in the desert. certainly a rip off, but it wouldn’t be a trip to morocco if my wallet & i came out entirely unscathed. at the time though, i thought it was a decent enough deal.

i set off again & another man comes up to me, showing me all the same things. i tell him that i just got to town and am just looking, that i just saw the same demonstration and have no money to spend. spices, he says, herbs. at this point i am a bit curious & also too tired to push back, so i follow him. he starts leading me down smaller & darker alleyways, down stairs, into a basement room. no, no thank you, i say, & go to leave. in broken english he tells me he is a nice man, no harm, that he likes women. i see some people and light at the other end of the room so i follow him deeper into the building.

he introduces me to the man at the herb shop, who i tell i have already bought spices the day before and am not interested. leather, i say, i am looking for leather. “that way,” the herb man gestures vaguely and walks off.

i make my way “that way,” back out of the basement building and toward the street where i had come from. my original friend swoops in, “leather?” he asks, “yes,” i say, “come, come, right this way,” he gestures and walks ahead of me. he brings me to a small souk filled with leather bags and goods, introduces me to a man there. feeling entirely overwhelmed, a bit frustrated, and totally off track, i say “i am looking for a man named khalid. he told me to find him in the leather market,” i am getting ready to turn and walk away. “that is my brother! here!” i turn around and sure enough, there is khalid.

relief and serendipity washes over me, i am baffled by the fact i found this man in the middle of the biggest city in morocco, after getting totally and utterly lost. i explain to him that i do leather work and want just the material. “go with my brother,” khalid says, “it’s okay, he is my brother, he will take you and show you.”

so off i go with fahid, khalid’s brother. he tells me he is a high school history and spanish teacher, that he works with his brother on the weekends. he says he’ll take me to the souk where his brother buys leather.

we get there are there are two kids working, teenagers maybe. there are two stalls next to each other, each stacked floor to ceiling with leather on three of the walls. in the center, there is barely enough room for the two of us to stand.

fahid helping me sift through floor to ceiling leather 

fahid starts going through the piles of leather with me. “not shiny,” i say, “ not plastic feeling, not suede. no bright colors. natural, soft, good quality.” he keeps pulling out pieces to show me. yes like this, no too shiny, more like this one but darker, i am quickly sifting through the options. i show him the pouch i am wearing, thick dark brown leather that has been worn down by friction and the oil of my chest and hands. “this is what i make, this small. i usually buy scraps. small, cheap.” he laughs at me, “kat,” he says, “i like you, you are smart.”

he asks the teenage boy for a phone number and pulls out his phone to start dialing, “better to talk to the boss,” he says, and makes a call. a brief conversation takes place in arabic, as i stand there clutching my selections in my hand. “they have more over here,” he says, “leave these, we will look and come back.” off we go again, my favorite five pieces of leather waiting for me on the floor.

the other space is twice the size of the first two out together but is filled with some crap as well. “not this,” fahid says, pulling at some cheap, metallic material, “china, not morocco.” i find two more pieces i like, and the boy from the original souk comes down a ladder on the other side of the room. they are chatting in arabic, and the boy seems annoyed. he grabs some of the material i am looking at, large, beautiful pieces of leather, pulls them from the hand & starts folding them and putting them back on the shelves. “too big,” says fahid, “these pieces they won’t cut. you understand?” “yes,” i say, “of course. i like scraps, little pieces. scraps, discolored, holes, scraps.” i hold up one selection, “how much for something like this?” i ask fahid. “we wait for the boss,” he replies. “i’m not asking the boss, i am asking my friend. how much, usually, for something like this?” he laughs, “you are good at this, kat.” “i know,” i reply. still, he offers no price.

a man comes in, they shake hands, and chat in arabic. he is stern faced, glances at me, and looks annoyed. i take my two pieces from the larger souk and we all head back to the smaller ones, where my original five pieces are also waiting. he looks over my selections, starts barking about how he won’t cut this piece or that. fahid is arguing back, i hear “canada,” (this is where i told him i am from, i do not often admit i am american during my travels unless i read a situation as safe) “student,” “artisan,” a few times, while the boss rolls his eyes, “yeah, yeah,” he rebuts.

after clacking on his calculator, picking up each piece, examining and folding it, he comes to a number. i have already decided what i will not spend more than, and he is over double that. “great,” i reply, “now tell me what i can get for this.” “well, i won’t cut that one,” he says, grabbing a larger piece from the pile, “fine, i don’t want it,” i counter, tossing it aside. “this one is very strong, nice,” he has picked up a rather thick piece, “yeah, forget that one too. scraps, i want scraps. small pieces. hand luggage,” i respond.

we go back & forth, me shoving off anything he seems hesitant about, trying to show that price is my determining factor, not attachment to any particular piece. at this point fahid has taken a step back, and it is just the boss and i communicating in short english phrases. he seems to respect my wit and confidence, although i do get the sense he is less than thrilled to be doing such negotiating with a foreign woman.

“this,” i keep saying, “it’s all i have. show me what i can get for that.” after swapping a few more pieces & clacking on the calculator he comes back with a number that is still too high. “this is all the money i have,” i respond, “check,” he says with a firm face. fahid steps back into the negotiations, “give him whatever else you have and it’s a deal.” “fine, here,” i pull my wallet out of my bra, revealing an additional 40MAD, or $4USD. “there, see?” i open my wallet wide and show him there truly is nothing else, “happy? that’s all i have. now i have nothing to buy lunch with.” the boss grins, he seems amused by my attitude now. “deal,” he extends his hand to shake, “and this,” he pulls out a piece from the discard pile, “is a gift.”

he bundles & tapes my purchases, & gives fahid a few coins to go buy a plastic bag (the leather is too large for my small daypack). fahid comes back with the bag and we head off again, i am feeling quite pleased & proud of my purchases. “that was very good,” fahid says, & although i have no real idea if the prices were truly fair, he does seem genuinely impressed with me.

the bundle of leather i ended up with, hand for scale 

on our walk back we chat more, he tells me about his family, his five brothers and five sisters, about teaching high school. he asks what i do & we exchange pleasantries and laughs as we navigate our way back to his souk, him stopping to shake hands and swap greetings with other men as we pass by. he tries to get me to stop in his friends lamp shop, but i laugh and tell the man that my new friend here took all my money. when we return to his souk, i buy a small leather backpack from him and khalid, who tells me it’s no problem to take me to cash machine to get more out for my purchase from them. it was already my plan to buy a backpack, and i settle on a beautiful one for 300MAD, or roughly $30. i am happy to give them my business after all the time and energy they offered to me.

i tell fahid that i would like to watch some leather workers work, and he brings me to his friend’s souk down the way. they are busy watching football (real football, as in soccer, not the american version) as the world cup is coming up soon. no work will be done while the game is on, so he brings me a different direction to his friends who are making slippers. i am offered a seat and some tea and i watch these two men churning out slippers, each one with a different task in the assembly line, working efficiently and quickly, their hands almost hard to follow as they effortlessly move across the materials and tools.

leather workers working through a pile of slippers

sitting here, on a stool in front of the souk, amongst moroccan men, i am not bothered by anyone. none of the other souk owners hassle me, and no one stops to bother me like when i am navigating the médina alone as a foreigner. i am offered tea but after one sip feel lightheaded and realize it might not be wise to accept an unknown brew from strangers. i take a few activated charcoal tablets, just in case, and drink water. i discreetly pour out the rest of my tea and when fahid reappears a few moments later, i ask to be brought back to the main square.

as we part ways with big smiles and a handshake, i feel overjoyed. i am confident in my navigation skills and ability to make my way back to my hostel through the winding, cluttered, busy streets using my proficient sense of direction and photographic memory, confidently fending off the hasslers who descend upon me even thicker than before now that they see me walking through the market with two large bags.

on a quieter street near my hostel i come across two stray adolescent cats, one who is exceptionally outgoing and curious, meowing and demanding my attention. i soon find myself sitting on the ground, off to the side. while i am busy with this sweet black and white female, her larger, orange, intact male friend comes and stands on my bags. he starts clawing at them, so i go to gently shoo him off, and as i’m doing so be begins peeing. i quickly move him off my bag but in the process he sprays all over the other one, thankfully only getting his mark on the plastic and not in the leather goods inside. there are two men across from me, one selling nuts and sweets from a cart, the other sitting on a carton next to a doorway, possibly his home. they are laughing, i look up at them and am laughing, “he peed on my things!” i exclaim, they nod, and we all laugh together even harder.

the kitten friend who did not pee on my things 

my day feels complete, and i continue my journey home, a smile spread across my face the whole way back. when i arrive to my hostel i am gushing with the excitement and synchronicities of my day to my new friends. everyone is asking “did you ever find khalid?” and are entirely amused by the fact that i did, despite, or perhaps only because, i was entirely lost in a part of the médina that none of us had yet ventured through.

arrival to morocco

i have this weird tendency to not start a new journal because i feel like nothing will be good enough to start off a new journey—like i need something really special to get it going.

i feel similarly about this blog.

i read over my old posts and remember all the others i promised myself i would write, about the women’s full moon circle and celebration in costa rica, or our silent meditation walk home. about my meditative and spiritual experience with the waves i had one day at the beach, traveling across costa rica by bus alone without a phone, doing an ayahuasca ceremony. about finding my way to the crystal land, transporting ayahuasca plants there, participating in a rainbow gathering. about meeting a friend who had taken a vow of silence but made me giggle anyway, sitting on the floor of the overcrowded bus together or sharing strangers’ leftovers at the bus stop cafeteria we had lunch at along the way. i feel like i shouldn’t move forward until those are done.

and maybe one day they will be but today is not that day. today i am sitting on the terrace of my hostel in morocco, listening to arabic music, basking in the gentle sun of wintertime in north africa. today i am moving forward with whatever i have, as it is, as i am.

my current view as i write this post

(the rest of this post is copied from my journal from my first night here…)

this time i am just jumping in. after a few weeks of this trip causing me anxiety, of expectations & projections, after months of the entire thing feeling surreal, i am here. after 24hrs of travel, i’ve arrived in marrakech, morocco.

when i got to the airport in london i just kept thinking “why didn’t i pick some place easier? more comfortable. where i could get a manicure, drink lattes, and be surrounded by familiar culture.”
then i landed in morocco and remembered why. because i’m not a basic bitch. because i’ve been craving drastic.

because this isn’t about being comfortable.

in fact, it’s just the opposite. there is still a part of me that doubts myself, that fears i’m all talk and no game.

baby’s got game.

i want to push myself to the most extreme i can find—just to prove i can handle it. i want to squash any doubts, rise above any challenges, i want to find my limits, and break them.

i am unstoppable.
i am resilient.
i am strong.
i am capable.
i am open.
i am learning.
i am accepting.

this whole trip is about manifesting, and i am starting that right now.
as soon as i got in the shuttle to come to the hostel, i felt at ease. at home. comfortable. the unknown excites me. i’ve been queasy and tired all day and now i feel confident and energized. i am curious. i am exploring. i am unfolding. i am a traveler. this lights me up.

i cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings. the colors, energies, sights, sounds, smells. the tastes.

morocco, you’re stealing my heart.

eulogy for my little brother

the eulogy i read for my little brother, Sidra Royal Bullard Dumont, who lived in this body july 30, 1993–june 24, 2017.

(i tried posting over the summer but there was an error when i uploaded.)

sid holds a place in my heart that no one else does. he wasn’t just my friend or my best friend or someone who i cared for in a way like i care for my family. he was my little brother. he was someone i protected & looked out for, someone who looked up to me, someone i stumbled through some of the most complex, confusing parts of life with, someone i had hopes & dreams & secrets & memories with. someone who held my hand through life like no one else. my little brother.

it all started at crow hollow. we shared countless sunny days, bareback trail rides, sweaty hours, horses & tack together. we grew we laughed we fell we jumped…we jumped things we probably shouldn’t have. we shared lunch we shared lessons we shared work we shared pieces of our hearts. we galloped, oh god did we gallop. we dressed our horses up in funny costumes. we competed against each other & coached each other & endlessly cheered each other on.

the older barn rats all adopted younger barn rats & my friend loren & i were lucky enough to pick out sid. he worked hard, he rode exceptionally well, he shared his really great snacks, & he didn’t mind getting bossed around. okay maybe he minded getting bossed around but somehow he admired & adored us anyway. & we were kinda mean. like really mean. not in a truly malicious way, but in the “i’m gonna throw sweaty dirty lineament water on you & push you in the manure pile” way. all of us older kids were, a little hard on the younger ones. but we loved them & helped them out & watched out for them & cherished them.

i remember the moment it really happened, when sid truly became my little brother. we were all running around the barn, older kids kinda terrorizing the younger ones. & sid had a rake he dropped, one of those hard metal ones, & it fell on the ground in front of me.

i went to run after him & i hit that rake so hard & so perfectly it came up & the handle slammed me square in the forehead. it was something out of a cartoon.

sid was standing there in front of me panicked, & i just started laughing. & laughing & laughing & laughing. & i said “you did it. you finally stood up to me.” & in whatever prepubescent playground mentality of hierarchy i was in, in that moment i truly adopted him as my little brother. & we both knew it. he loved that story. he thought it was the funniest thing. he would tell it over & over & over. i can still hear his laugh & exactly how he would describe the whole scene.

he absolutely loved telling stories about our good old days. the days we spent together at the horse shows, or training for them, or goofing around on our beloved horses together. all of our best memories are with horses. one of his other favorite stories to tell was with his pony maggie. one day we rode the horses out to this huge open hacking field & i was trying to help him with someone with maggie so i was riding her while he watched from the ground. he was yelling funny things at me & i couldn’t stop laughing & maggie was taking off with me & he was yelling more about how i was going to fall off this tiny pony & i was hysterical.

maggie was now bucking & i was shrieking “you’re gonna make me piss my pants, you’re gonna make me piss my pants!” he still cracked up over that years later.

some of our worst memories are with horses too. like when maggie was severely injured & we had to rush her off to tufts for emergency care. but as with everything, we were together & we were there for each other through the hard, the scary, the sad times, as well as the elated, the hilarious, & the joyful times.

we grew up, we moved barns, we shared growing pains & heartaches & hit all sorts of bumps that come with fumbling your way through adolescence. our responsibilities & worries got bigger, reality got a little clearer, & sometimes things were a little scarier than those carefree, sunshiny days together.

in high school, i experienced my first heartbreak. my high school sweetheart & i had been dating for 2 years when he dumped me a week before valentine’s day. i was beyond devastated in the way you are when you lose love for the first time. sid sat through many sob-filled phone calls as i poured out my teenage heartbreak angsty feelings & tried to make sense of dating & love & all the confusion that comes with it.

on valentine’s day i came to school, a total wreck, & found a package in my locker. mixed cd’s, candy, & a beautiful card from sid saying how much he loved me. i remember crying. i remember being totally floored by the gesture of love. i remembering thinking that this was what family is. this is how we survive this sometimes painful life.

& that was just the person sid was, incredibly thoughtful, impeccably attentive, immensely compassionate, & extraordinary generous. he always wanted to give, to help, to support, to love other people through life.

sid experienced hardships, a disproportionate amount of them. he struggled & he hurt & through it all he somehow always thought of other people first.

we all have stories like this. examples of sid’s empathy & kindness. from little things to bigger gestures to sitting there with us through some of the hardest moments of our lives. he lived in a constant act of service to the rest of humanity. sometimes the people who hurt the most have the hardest time watching others suffer. & he wanted to give all of himself & his life to helping people & animals.

he & i had a dream of having a healing ranch. where people who were struggling & animals who were hurting could all find refuge, in a safe space, & in each other. we wanted to help people who had experienced violence by showing them the many gifts & lessons that horses have for us. by experiencing a relationship that is based in respect & love & mutual support. we would sit on the phone for hours talking about all our big ideas & wild hopes & this immense, & beautiful dream we would create together.

being separated was hard. sid spent a few summers up in vermont at a riding camp called vershire & as much as he loved it & i knew he loved it, i missed him. one year loren & i borrowed her parents mini van, found a bed & breakfast that would allow our parents to pay for a room & us to stay even though we were under 18, & we took the first boat off island to drive up to vermont & surprised him for his birthday. his face that day was easily one of the best things i’ve ever seen. no one else lit up when i walked into a room the way he did.

when i went to college it was hard, in a lot of ways i had acted as an outlet in his life, someone he could hang out with & ride with & spend time talking to. he was really having a tough time adjusting to his big sister being gone.

my freshman year of college i flew home from where i was in virginia to be in the fall fuzzy with him, the last horse show of the year, which is filled with games & costumes & chilly giggles. we were reigning cray-paper pair champions, a game where 2 people ride next to each other & hold a piece of cray paper & have to ride according to the announcers instructions without breaking it. we had his 2 horses, maggie & smokey, who were as close as we were.

truly, it was unfair. our legs would be bruised from smashing together because they moved so flawlessly mere inches away from one another. even after we won the announcer kept asking us to do harder & harder commands, everyone amused & captivated by our effortlessly synchronicity. he ended by asking us for a victory gallop, which he gladly provided, just the two of us laughing & laughing & galloping down the arena with our hands in the air, thin paper flapping between us perfectly in tact. we were truly inseparable.

i spent my first 2 years of undergrad at a precious place in roanoke, virginia called hollins university. it was a quirky place with the strongest sense of community i have ever come across. it was the most open, loving, & supportive place i’ve ever been. i raved about it to sid, & although i left the year he went, he decided to follow in my footsteps. & just as i thought, hollins embraced him, fiercely, & he flourished.

it was a happy place for him, & he connected with lots of people i hold dear in my heart. of one of favorite pictures of him is at fall formal, with one of my closest friends. i remember them sending me that picture that night & swelling with pride. my little brother. following in my footsteps. being loved & embraced by the same people. my heart was full. i’m grateful to the hollins community for all they gave me, & even more grateful for all they gave sid. he more than anyone needed that sense of love & acceptance. i know it had a profound impact on him, & as his big sister, it brought me immense amounts of joy & peace to know he was being held in the same ways that community held me.

sid had 3 big loves: horses, music, & people. as his illness began to steal his body he lost many parts of his ability to engage with the first two, but even through all of the pain & turmoil he experienced he never lost sight of his love for people.

there are good people, & then there are people who exude pure love. sid was one of the latter. to be around him was like being near the sun, you couldn’t help but feel his warmth & have your life lit up a bit brighter.

there was the person sid was, when we were kids & growing up, reckless with his body & incredibly strong, & then there was the person he became as his body deteriorated. in those later years we spent hours on the phone together talking about the earlier ones. & while i could hear the twinge of pain in his voice, i could also hear his smile. even if they were behind us, they were the best years of our lives. & we were able to keep them alive by remembering them.

& so i ask us to do the same. i knew that if i didn’t share all of those stories today, sid’s absolute favorites to reminisce about, he would’ve smacked me. he managed to cram an extraordinary amount of living into his all too short life & it is up to us to sift through & hold onto each of those precious memories.

i recently came across this beautiful song, the only home i know by thomas csorba. the lyrics are eerily applicable & i’d like to take a moment to read them.

there’s been laughter, there’s been tears. all those memories of what got us here. dumb decisions & big mistakes, lessons learned & old heartbreaks.

when we’re old we’ll sing together like we did when we were young. all the time we spent together will never be enough.
in my dreams you’re in my heartbeat, you’re the rhythm in my bones. people tell me i don’t wanna listen to them cause you’re the road that brings me home.

when we’re old we’ll sing together like we did when we were young. all the time we spent together will never be enough.
when i’m gone you’ll bring me flowers when i’m dead you’ll visit my grave, when i’m gone you know i’ll be singing my way through heavens gates.

i’ve got time & i’ve got freedom, all those memories yeah, we’re gonna need em.

we didn’t get enough time together. surely everyone feels that way about the loss of a loved one but losing someone young makes it ring all the more true. yet i feel like i have a lifetime of laughter & love stored up to hold me through. i like imagining sid singing his way through heavens gates, even if you don’t believe in that particular incarnation of heaven i know his soul left this world singing. & i like to imagine he is out of pain, back in his strong body, perhaps even reunited with his old buddy smokey.

which brings me to my last story, another favorite & must share, & the one i’ve been holding onto tightest over the past couple weeks. when we were at red pony, i introduced sid & smokey. smokey hadn’t been ridden in years & didn’t have a terrible amount of training. i had been warned that sometimes he would “just take off galloping & no one could stop him.”

on their first ride together we went out into the state forest. everything was going so well i totally forgot the words of caution i had been given back at the barn. & like most of our rides, we ended up galloping. we were bombing down the firelanes grinning when suddenly i heard in my head “sometimes he just takes off galloping & no one can stop him.” i looked over & he was at a dead bolt. i screamed to sid STOP STOP STOP & he looked at me entirely confused, gave smokey the lightest tug, & he immediately pulled up. WHAT?! he said to me, clearly annoyed by the interruption. “never mind” i said, as a huge grin spread across my face. they were clearly a perfect match, & they clearly adored each other. they connected in a way few horses & people do, & it was a pleasure & joy to watch them work together.

that is the sid i hold onto. the young, strong, carefree, talented, compassionate, incredible friend galloping alongside of me. & in whatever sort of heaven you or i understand, i hope they are reconnected. i hope there is an endless supply of rambunctious ponies, sunshine, & open fields for galloping & laughter.

my buddy, my friend, my partner, a piece of my heart as deeply embedded in my being as the muscle itself. you are missed in such an immense way. we are all lucky to have a hole this big in our hearts where your life touched us.

so as we move forward, which we inevitably will have to do, please remember that. please remember that each & every one of us is lucky to be hurting this much. because that just means we were touched by one of life’s most precious gifts: a friend like sid.

if you still love me…

note: this is a raw, rough-edited post that just poured out of my fingertips & is demanding to be posted without further thought or editing. i’ve long neglected this blog & seek to use it as an outlet more. thanks for riding this emotional roller coaster with me.

i know i generally post some pretty personal stuff but this one is going above & beyond. i’ve grappled with whether or not to share parts of this, or to share it at all. but my bones are aching to write it.

[please note: i provide all this content not as an excuse to dredge up old shit, but to provide context for why this effects me so strongly. with only bits & pieces i would seem a bit insane. over the past year i have found ways to let go of what she has done to me, to respect her relationship, & to care for myself in a way that make wanting her back in my life impossible. i have found lots of closure but clearly, as yesterday taught me, still have a ways to go.]

last summer my ex cheated on me & left me shortly thereafter, supposedly to be single for the first time in her adult life, but apparently in actuality it was to be with the woman she had been seeing. she broke up with me after completely ignoring me for 2 days straight, was 2 hours late to finally meet to have the conversation, & she parked in 2 hour parking in order to deliver the news. to say the least, i felt worthless. & the kicker was, i actually told her i was proud of her for doing it.

in the following days & weeks i stopped responding to her completely. this deeply upset her & she began ratcheting up her behavior, lashing out, vaguely threatening me, demanding money i actually didn’t owe her, blackmailing me with my relationship with my mom, & ultimately involving her in the process. it was ugly, painful, & completely unlike the person i had loved. she admitted it was because i wasn’t responding & she was trying to get my attention.

2 months later, i got an extremely aggressive text from her while at work, using some disgusting & condescending language. when i told her she must speak to me with basic human decency & respect, she replied “lol fuck you.”

that day i blocked her on my phone but happened to run into her & her new gf that night. i was a couple drinks in so i just smiled at the fucked up situation & asked how they were while i kept walking. a few minutes later she liked a post of mine on instagram, a random one without any implicit meaning. it felt like a jab to the ribs, just a reminder she could still get to me.

the next day, she came into where i work. this was the first time she had been in since i had started working there a few months before. i panicked & felt trapped, i couldn’t leave but also couldn’t confront her, i stood in the store shaking as she meandered around selecting a few items before leaving. i had to ask for a break, left crying, & smoked a cigarette. the timing of it all felt too intentional.

in the following weeks she made multiple appearances, some also with her girlfriend. they lived & worked on the other side of the island with multiple other farm stands & health food stores available to them. one time they both came in while the gf bought a single item: a muffin. i began to feel cornered, & harassed.

fast forward to this spring, she found my new instagram account (the only outlet where she wasn’t blocked) & randomly liked a meaningless picture. it felt like she just wanted me to know she could still see me.

i came home & started working at the farm again. while i haven’t seen her/them, i’ve heard from coworkers that they have been in, either on days i was off or in the back doing something else. every minute of every day i am there (40+ hours a week) i am riddled with anxiety. i constantly scan the floor looking for either of them, & am always on edge at any minute they might come in.

finally i broke down & reached out to her. i didn’t ask her to change her behavior, i didn’t feel like i have any right to, i simply stated how it made me feel, that it impacts me greatly & triggers my eating disorder & sobriety (both of which aren’t her responsibility but are my reactions to uncontrollable situations) & i told her to do whatever she deemed fit. she said she wasn’t going to stop coming in.

yesterday her girlfriend tried to come in to sell a painting to my coworker despite being asked to drop it all anywhere other than the farm. i left work early in a panic, in tears, & had a bit of a meltdown. i was frantically texting one friend that i wanted to quit, that i couldn’t change them but could change myself, that it was the only way out for me, for my sanity. i was talking to another & broke down, saying that i wished i could sit down with her & tell her how much she hurts me, let her see me crying & on the verge of leaving a community that has been so wonderful, so healthy, so happy, so healing for me, & how i wondered if she even remembered loving me. if she even remembered what it was like to want good things for me. if she even remembered that i have a heart at all.

today facebook reminded me that this time last year i posted this picture of us. i have since deleted all pictures of her or us so the ones on social media are all i have left. this image really struck me.

there was a time she loved me. she would have done anything for me, or so she said. a time when being confronted with my pain would have hurt her, impacted her in some way. i’m not sure who she is anymore. i’m not sure how she feels anymore. i just wish, so badly, that deep down somewhere inside her, she loved me enough to fully let me go & leave me be.

A meditation on doing dishes

As I washed all of the dishes from preparing and eating a meal that two of my friends had prepared and we all shared, using the gravity rain-water system we have here on the farm, I watched the water pressure change from strong and thick to weak and thinned. What if all of our resources were like this? What if we were connected enough to what we have, especially the finite resources, so that we could actually witness their disappearance in direct correlation to what we were doing and how much we were using? We are all capable of speeding up our shower routine to get out when the hot water starts running out yet have no problem luxuriating in a steamy stream when it’s available to us. What if every action forced us to face its direct consequence, if cause and effect played out before our very eyes?

Similarly, what if we had to work more for every ounce of energy we extract and utilize? Suddenly necessity and luxury would have entirely different ratios and definitions, our lives would be shaped by our surroundings, our output by our input, our current actions by our past and future actions. Sure, it’s fine to splurge and treat yourself, but only with the understanding and recognition that those actions will directly result in additional work and resources at a later time, or a rationing that we had either completed or were about to embrace.

It always amazes me when I get back from a trip and unpack and look at all that I didn’t use. Then I look around my living space and see all that I lived without. When I began downsizing my life and seeking out simpler alternatives I was amazed by how little I felt impacted by the lack of things I thought I so desperately needed. Like the first time you manage to go without a cigarette, or a high, or a drink, and you actually feel good. Like when you speed up your shower routine or get ready really quickly then wonder why it takes you so long to accomplish the same things when you have time on your side. As I was doing dishes and watching the water stream lessen and lessen, I began fine tuning my washing methods, even though I had already been using what I thought was enough caution. I discovered new patterns of soaping and rinsing that allowed me to accomplish the same task using much less water, and much more thought.

Imagine if we applied that everywhere in our lives and our world. If we all took only exactly what we needed and constantly worked to achieve the same (or better) results with less and less energy input. If we had to watch our environment evaporate, weaken, and disappear right before our very eyes, in direct correlation to our actions. If we had to take responsibility to ourselves, our survival, our gluttonous use of resources we have no concept of or relationship with. How much more conscious we’d be, how much smarter we’d work, how many methods we would create and share to lessen, lessen, lessen our impact, and build back the stores we will need to tap into tomorrow.

jungle routines

We settle into a routine here, put our solar power lanterns in the sun every morning, charge our electronics during mid-day when the solar panels are abundant, care for one another, clean up after ourselves in everything we do, give gratitude for the land and elements which provide us with our existence, rise with the sun, settle with the night, tune our ears in to the difference between morning, day, evening, and late night jungle sounds. Warm showers are only available during the day as the hot water runs on a sun-fed system, but often it’s too hot to want that mid-day so we learn to breathe through the initial few seconds of shock during every cold shower. Clothes are washed by hand and dried in a solar-dehydrator, towels are hung on the rungs of our bunkhouse to dry, we grab citronella grass and rub it between our hands to extract the oil we frantically rub all over ourselves as the sun sets and the bugs come out to play with our irresistible skin. There’s an opening and closing, a beginning and ending, a breathing in and breathing out, a using and replenishing, connections constantly being made between the inputs and outputs, and amongst each other. This is life in the purest form I have ever experienced, beauty in its simplest form, gratitude and respect for work in its most basic, primal form.

Goals require planning, rewards require work, travel requires movement, energy requires energy, life requires death which requires life which requires this cycle to loop endlessly back into and onto itself. Where along the way we lost sight of all this I do not know but I do feel a nourishing in my soul and heart that has never been so full, so complete, and so perfect.