Supdigzura: The Land of Teachers.

The past weekend started on Thursday at 6 AM for me. My alarm sounded and I sprang to my feet, ready to hit the road with my boss, Hassane. A few days earlier, he had proposed a road trip to his hometown of Safi in order to deliver some teaching materials to his old school. At first, I was somewhat skeptical of this proposal, recalling all of Hassane's prior flakiness. However, I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured that, as long as I returned in one piece, it would be a beneficial experience as I had yet to travel South (except for the weekend in Marrakech).

In the car, I fell asleep almost immediately and woke up in Casablanca. We were driving through random streets and alleyways looking for Hassane's cousin and one of his brothers (he has four brothers and four sisters) who sell trucks and truck parts. We found them and hit the road again.

Safi is around a five hour drive. We arrived a little after one in the afternoon, or 13.00.
Hassane's mother lives in the province of Safi in a small town pronounced sup-dig-zura. Pulling into town, we stopped at the local market in the center of town which was the opposite of touristy. It is nice to walk around the shops without people trying to drag you into their shops. It was also interesting watching Hassane greet all of his old friends as he spotted familiar faces all over the town.
Our next stop was the house that Hassane grew up in. His mother was a very kind woman who spoke no English and very little French which means I had to rely on my very basic Arabic to tell her that I was comfortable and didn't need anything. Moroccan people are great hosts, although they can be overbearing if you refuse to eat something. (The only word my host family knows in English is 'EAT!')

After a quick lunch, Hassane and I had to begin our errands. Before we left, he and his mother completed a very bizarre petrol transaction which involved him pouring some of the oil in a big jug into smaller jugs that he had in the trunk of his car. Not only was it weird, it probably dangerous as a large portion of the gas ended up on the basement floor.
That being said, Hassane put gas in his car no less than 6 times over the course of the two days that I spent with him. I didn't ask him about it.

We visited his old school and delivered the books and CDs. The headmaster was very grateful but also informed us that there was a teacher strike in many of the public schools around the country.
We drove further out into the middle of nowhere, making random stops to visit schools where Hassane miraculously knew the principals.
All the while, he was telling me about his friend 'The Poet' who is known internationally as one of the best poets of the Arab world. We planned to meet him later that night.

The final stop before our meeting with the poet was at his former brother-in-laws' house. That is not a misplaced apostrophe. Two of Hassane's sisters married two brothers from another family and both couples ended up divorced. However, Hassane maintains that his sisters were wrong and that the two brothers were keepers. Thus, we were going to visit them on their farm.

As we drove on, the road gradually stopped being a road and turned into dirt. There were beautiful landscapes all around us as the sun was going down. Eventually, the dirt paths ceased to be paths and we were driving over mounds of dirt/rock. We reached the house just as the sun was going down. It had been a long day of driving from school to school and I was ready to relax.
Every Moroccan home that I have been into has at least one or two rooms completely dedicated to wrap-around couches that engulf the entire room. At the farm house, I had just settled myself on the sofa when Hassane announced that we had to leave in order to make it to the cafe on time.

Before we clammored back into the little old VW Golf, we used one of the gas tubs in the trunk to fill up the car once more.
On the way home, we got lost, bought Hassane's mother a new phone and ran into the poet.
Once, at the cafe I was surrounded by local teachers. There were about 6 of them and they all taught at local schools.
The poet was an unassuming man of 33 but it was obvious that the others had a lot of respect for him. He thought it was fascinating that my parents are writers. He got very excited when I told him that my father wrote a book.
Hassane, the poet, a friend and myself relocated to the friend's house for a brief dinner and long discussion. We conversed in French, English and I occasionally showed off a word in Arabic.
After dinner, we relocated once again to the house of the poet where I fell straight asleep. Later that night, I had an interesting encounter with a Turkish toilet but I will not go into detail.

I was awakened the next morning at 11. Then, Hassane informed me that I had had such a profound effect on the poet that he wanted to dedicate one of his books to me. He also gave me a signed copy of his most recent work. We said an emotional goodbye to the poet and his wife and exchanged e-mails.
After that, I was ready to get back to Rabat.

Driving out of Safi, I received a text from my roommate Lyall saying that a few of the volunteers wanted to visit the beach town of El Jadida and that they were taking the train from Rabat at 5 o'clock that evening (Friday).

We passed through El Jadida the previous day and I thought it would be nice to spend the night there. I sent Lyall a text asking him to pack my other backpack with a bathing suit and a towel because I had only packed for a one-night trip.

Hassane dropped me off in El-Jadida around 4 o'clock on Friday and I reserved a couple rooms at a hotel.
Their train got delayed and they weren't due until 10 that night so I had a lot of free time to explore the town. But, I was exhausted so I grabbed a panini and watched Dante's Peak in the hotel... TO BE CONTINUED