WELCOME

Dave, Katie and Savannah Seawell have just welcomed a new member of their family. Baby Asher Galloway Seawell arrived in three hours on February 14th and weighed in at 10 lbs, one ounce. He was 23 inches long and healthy in every way. We all couldn't be happier and the new family seems to be thriving. Mom and Dad report Savannah is very excited about her little brother and the baby is sleeping and eating well. Congratulations Dave, Katie and Savannah! Welcome to the world, Asher! Marsea loves you all very much.

NAMIBIA

Visiting Otutati

The patina of their skin mesmerized me: velvety, softly shiny, the color of the red clay African earth I had first fallen in love with in Rwanda. The body paint Himba women use for sun protection and decoration is the salient feature of their culture, rich with tradition and, for me, a beautiful embodiment of quoz. Every morning, including the day of our visit to the village of Otutati in northwestern Namibia, the women milk the cows then spend two hours shaking a calabash container until the milk becomes butter. They grind red rocks into a fine powder and mix it into the butter. The mixture is applied twice a day all over their skin, rubbed in like lotion. The women wash it off only two times in their life. One is when they get married – they wash, go to the village of their new husband and apply the paint made by that village. The other time is if they are hospitalized in nearby Opuwo; the nurses require them to wash before they can get into the ward’s clean white sheets. When I heard that, I felt a little apologetic for my nursing sisters, but then I don’t have to wash the linen.

I never fully understood where all the men were but it was clear the women and children were doing the majority of the work in the village that morning. The chief sat in the center of it all, drinking the fresh, warm milk brought by one of his four wives and issuing orders to the children who were separating the kids from the goats. Young mothers and older women sat working in front of each hut – grinding maize on a large stone, sewing hides into clothes, stirring a pot of porridge. The cluster of mud brick and stick huts housed an extended family and several of these groups made up the village. A large pile of wood designated the center of the village. It was in front of the chief’s large hut and we were cautioned not to walk between that structure and the holy fire. One woman who I noticed did not have painted skin had just returned from the hospital. The fire was laid for a celebration that evening of her return to good health, after which she would re-apply the paint.

We didn’t get to stay for the ritual but we were treated to impromptu dancing and singing by the women. They seemed shy at first, laughing behind their hands and taking only brief, self-conscious turns at dance solos out in front of the group. Gradually, probably encouraged by the bills we were placing in their gourd bowl, the recital really got going and they threw themselves into it, delighting us with their performance. With the help of our guide, we pulled the children aside, not too far away from their moms, because I had been asked by Mark Shadle to try to get a recording of children singing songs their mothers had sung to them when they were little. Four girls about eight or nine years old sang adorably, without hesitation. Several of us had brought small gifts such a stickers, balloons, barrettes, and small balls so that was our chance to pass them out. Unlike some of the other times I’ve done this with children, they did not grab or squabble over the gifts. Tthe older children seemed to be making sure their younger siblings got something.

The loving kindness of the Himba people was demonstrated over and over. The teamwork and cooperation was everywhere evident, with all the adults looking out for all the children and sharing all the work. Women worked on each other’s hair, rubbing in the red butter and arranging intricate plaits. What struck me most was how the moms interacted with the babies. Two or three young women, probably wives of the same man, sat in front of each hut, tending to their chores. They were surrounded by babies. These moms had ingenious ways of keeping the crawlers and toddlers nearby and out of trouble, all without cribs, bouncy seats, playpens or any of the other paraphernalia we American moms and grandmothers seem not to be able to live without. Using only a piece of cloth as both sling and ground cover, these beautiful women managed to feed and care for their babies, all the while continuing with their work. One little one, who had obviously only recently learned to sit up, was corralled in the bend of his mom legs as she sat sewing. Whenever one started to fuss even a little, the mom would put the child to her breast, often quite briefly, and all would be right with the world. Even the toddlers seemed calm and content, sitting and playing with some basic toy such as a small scrap of leather.

As I wandered around the village, I was filled with questions and frustrated by being a visitor who did not know their language. Our guide interpreted for us but couldn’t be with everyone as we scattered out, drawn by the various activities of their morning routine. I wanted to be respectful and not interfere with their work that had to be done, but I wanted so badly just to sit down and chat with the women – about how beautiful they and their children were, about how wonderful my grandchildren were, about all the things that mothers care about the world over. I watched them nursing their babies and I wanted to talk about all the new moms and babies I had been privileged to work with during my years as a labor and delivery nurse. I felt the presence of my own mother and how much she would have loved to be with me and those babies, moms and grandmothers.

Quoz was all around me. This ancient tribe has been living in this remote part of Namibia for centuries, close to the earth, using utterly primitive tools, farming and herding, giving birth and dying. Without any of the trappings of modern civilization to distract me, what I saw was their humanity and their community. What I felt was thankfulness for the sisterhood of all women in our global village.

COOKING AND FEASTING IN FEZ

Crispy phyllo triangles encasing snowy goat cheese with black olives and paprika, sprinkled with coriander seeds. Fresh artichoke hearts, sliced oranges, garlic and red onions sautéed in butter and olive oil then simmered in a bath of fresh-squeezed orange juice and garnished with preserved lemon. Plump eggplants, tomatoes, jalapeno and Anaheim chilies stewed with onions and garlic, spiced with paprika, cumin, black pepper and coriander, then garnished with cilantro, purple olives and yellow peppers. Tagine of lamb with peppers, onions, garlic and stewed quince. Date balls with walnuts, rolled in coconut. Apple pastille flavored with saffron, topped with toasted almonds and orange blossom cream. Our feast of Moroccan delights was ready to be served.

The four students in our cooking class at the Riad Tafilalet in Fez reluctantly took off our chef’s jackets. We walked from the small, magical kitchen of noted Moroccan chef Lahcen Beqqi into the tiled courtyard dining room as we morphed into lunch patrons and enjoyed our creations. Between bites, we exclaimed about the delicious food we had helped create and relived the day.

Lahcen begins every day the same way all good chefs do: he goes to the market to see what’s fresh. Trailing his students like ducklings, he strode up and down, past countless stalls in the souk, his experienced eye scanning the offerings of vegetables, meat, grains, nuts, and spices. Several times some of us got left behind as we foreigners stopped to ogle the exotic food laid out before us. The market was in high gear, teeming with shoppers and the occasional donkey-drawn wooden cart, one of which, crammed full of live snails, almost ran me over.

When we finally reached the end of the grocery stalls, the chef gathered us in a huddle to discuss the day’s menu. Suggestions for dish after dish came tumbling out of his mouth. How could we possibly choose? Somehow decisions were made and we turned around to retrace our steps and begin the shopping in earnest. Lahcen knew exactly who to buy from and what the correct price should be, no indecision or bargaining whatsoever. The only hiccup came when he realized that he had underpaid for some items and quickly went back to the vendor to correct the mistake. He taught us how to choose from the abundant piles: only the most perfectly round onions for they are the sweetest, only the tightly closed artichokes because they are the freshest. Glistening dates still on their stems went into brown paper packets, soft white goat cheese was wrapped in butcher paper and fresh vegetables were tucked into a straw basket. He examined and discussed with the butcher several lamb shoulders, then chose the best for our tagine, a traditional stew. Laden with our treasures, we returned to the riad to get down to business, the delightful business of learning to cook Moroccan cuisine.

My classmates and I were unable to conceal our childish delight at playing dress-up as we donned our chef’s jackets, embroidered with the name of the riad. We were a group of four: myself, my new friends from Seattle, Hugh and Linda Straley, and a thirty year-old American woman named Lacey who had been traveling for five years. Five years! When I asked her where she had traveled, she answered “Everywhere!” and I believed her. She entertained us with interesting stories including an account of her time learning acupuncture at a remote clinic in China without benefit of knowing any Mandarin or her teachers speaking any English. She had most recently paused her travels to earn some money at a bed and breakfast in France where she polished her culinary skills. She was by far the most talented student among us. I hope she carries through with her plans to open an inn and restaurant featuring locally grown food, either in Montana or New Mexico.

Besides chef and students, there were two more members of our cooking team. Lahcen introduced them to us as Fatima Couscous and Fatima Tagine.( Moroccans probably think most Americans are named John or Mary and my impression is that most Moroccans are named either Mohammed or Fatima). Their round, smiling faces were framed in white head scarves and they tolerated the Western novices with patience, kindness and good-natured giggles. My chest swelled with pride when one of them praised the way I folded the triangle pastries or samosas. They anticipated the chef’s every move, gathering the cutting board and proper knife before he could even reach for it. They kept constant but unobtrusive watch on the pots we were supposed to be tending, pantomiming to encourage another stir or gently placing a hand covering ours when we should just leave it be.

The actual cooking process is, I must admit, something of a blur in my memory. I do remember that we laughed a lot. Many tasks got started very quickly in the beginning with each of us starting on different prep tasks, making it difficult to get a sense of where it was all going.. Throughout the day, I struggled to find an opportunity to stop, quickly wipe off my hands and take notes or photographs, both of which I badly wanted to help me remember the experience. I finally just focused on the cooking and enjoyed being in the moment: the small room steamy from the pressure cooker filled with the lamb tagine, the heady smells of oranges and garlic, the colors and textures of Chef Beqqi’s proprietary spice mixtures, the courage and determination of my fellow students as we fumbled and persevered in an exotic environment; the practiced and graceful dance of the three Moroccans on their tiny, culinary stage.

Although I expected a lot more of myself, I did come away with two new skills. I learned how to grate a fresh tomato, hopefully without adding any of my own protein to the dish. You halve a tomato horizontally and grate it against the largest holes on a box grater. Miraculously, the flesh pulls away and the skin remains intact, sheltering your fingertips and knuckles. The resulting pulp makes a fine start for a fresh tomato sauce. The second skill I hope to use the next time I need to bring the hors d’oeuvres to a potluck. Starting with phyllo dough made by Pepperidge Farm instead of by Fatima, I think I can produce a reasonable likeness of the goat cheese samosas. The secret is in the spices of course and I’d have to guess at those. Chef Lahcen was a little evasive when we questioned him about the contents of his spice mixtures. He was forthcoming with “paprika, cumin, black pepper, ground coriander” but when we asked him the proportions, he would vaguely reply “lots of paprika, less cumin, a pinch of black pepper, some coriander”. Who can tell whether it was the vagueness of an experienced chef who cooks by instinct and feel, much like our grandmothers did, or understandable protectiveness of his intellectual property. He promised us recipes by email but they haven’t shown up yet; however, he has put a few on his website at www.fescooking.com.

Much of my Moroccan cooking adventure was steeped in the exotic. I’ve never prepared and cooked a quince or skinned an almond. Who knew saffron adds a subtle but wonderful flavor and color to apples in a dessert? We were told how to make the fabulous orange blossom water but I can’t imagine ever pulling that off. Maybe they sell it at Whole Foods but I’ve never seen it. As he deftly extracted the hearts from the artichokes, Lahcen told us that Moroccans use all parts of the plant. The long stems they are sold with, as well as the leaves, go into the stock pot. Even the tiny fibers of the choke are dried and turned into an emulsion to flavor yogurt. Some things were just different or low tech like grinding walnuts with a mortar and pestle instead of in the Cuisinart.

A couple of times when I stepped back to take a picture, the reality of where I was and what I was doing hit me. Quoz was definitely all around but with Lahcen and the two Fatimas forming a bridge, I easily walked into the world of this exotic cuisine. We found much in common and I enjoyed much that was familiar: the delicious aroma of garlic sautéing in olive oil, the classic French combination of eggplant and tomato, the necessity of a perfectly sharpened knife. I had dreamed of this adventure ever since I had read a New York Times travel article about Fez, an exotic place with extraordinary cuisine, and it did not disappoint. Neither did our sumptuous Moroccan feast.

FINDING BRIDGES TO QUOZ IN MOROCCO
Part One

In the old city or Medina in Fez, you can find a camel’s head advertising the butcher’s wares; huge, white satin, bejeweled thrones for rent for wedding ceremonies; and enormous, gleaming copper pots, also available on loan, to cook the camel for the marriage feast. For everyday meals, there are couscous in different shades and grinds; glistening, sticky dates; sweet, red onions; plump, brown almonds; dusky, purple eggplants; beef carcasses with one testicle still attached to attest to its preferred gender; golden honey flavored with thyme or oranges for drizzling over pastilles; and pastel-colored blocks of ambrosial nougat imbedded with almonds. Moroccans use their favorite foods in enticing combinations of savory and sweet: lamb with quince, couscous with raisins, saffron and apples.

Juxtapositions challenged me at every turn in the Medina. By far the most striking one was myself with this place, this Other, this quoz. For a long time, in my personal dictionary, the definition of exotic has been Morocco. I have fantasized about hearing the call to prayer drifting through a market crowded with donkey carts and shoppers in caftains and jellabas. I envisioned dark narrow alleys, colorful, tiled doorways and soup pots bubbling in street cafes, redolent with the fragrance of exotic spices. And then I was there, inside that dream, trying to take it all in, trying to stay in the moment – smelling, listening, and looking around in all directions. Armed with my new resolve for this voyage, I wanted to live the question of what happens when I am face-to-face with The Other? Do I simply observe or do I want to connect? What relationship, if any, is possible? Are there any ways into the not-me and how will it feel being there?

Fez evoked all my habitual responses: soaking it all in, making photographs and notes to anchor my memories, being curious and asking questions. Although it wasn’t exactly clear to me as it happened, I also found a way in, discovered a bridge to take me from myself to the other. Actually there were two bridges, two people who guided me from myself out into a relationship with this exotic, foreign place and culture. One was the chef for the cooking class I had arranged, but that story will come in Part Two. First, I want to tell you about Thame..

It seems absurdly simple now. Why did I even ask that esoteric question of how to relate to quoz? For eons, when encountering new places or new experiences, people have gotten a guide. I’ve had dozens and dozens of guides over the years, some quite memorable and some woefully inadequate. But Thame (pronounced Tommy) came to me one afternoon in Fez to fulfill that old saying about when you need a teacher, one will come. I felt completely outside of Moroccan culture, as baffled by its ways and mores as tourists are completely confused by the warren of tiny streets in the Medina. I wanted very badly to find a way in.

Dressed in a brown wool jellaba, the traditional hooded robe of the Berbers, and white, crocheted skull cap, Thame guided me and my marvelous, new travel companions, Hugh and Linda Straley, to mosques and Koranic schools, vegetable stalls and fabric shops, elaborately tiled courtyards and bustling squares. We saw very few tourists, possibly due to the cold and rainy weather, but there were many residents out shopping and visiting, coming home from school or work. Around 150,000 people live in the Medina, many of whom work in the new city or European Sector as Thame called it. The hint of disdain in his voice as he said that didn’t seem to be racially based but more like “How could anyone chose to live there instead of here?” How indeed. His love for this place was as crystal clear as the ambiance was dark and dense. And that love was everywhere returned to him.

Thame’s stature in the community was constantly demonstrated. He could hardly move along past a few stalls before someone would call to him. He’d make eye contact and flash a radiant smile of recognition, white teeth in brown face. He’d nod, wave his umbrella or exchange a few words. Older people would fall in step with him and pick up a conversation that seemed to be only recently interrupted. Shopkeepers would call to him, seeming to say “Ah, you’ve got Americans today – very nice, very wealthy. Bring them here to look in my shop.” Thame would greet them but, thankfully, usually keep us moving. We had heard many stories of tourists being relentlessly hassled by touts and “fake guides” here but being with Thame, an officially licensed guide, prevented any of that nuisance. It was like being a visiting relative, shown around town by a well-loved uncle who had lived in that community all his life. Even beggars would greet him with a hopeful smile and he’d respond, inconspicuously handing them a few small coins. One of the five pillars of Islam is alms-giving and Thame was nothing if not a devout Muslim.

Islam occupies a central place in Thame’s life. He lives his religion and its values so vibrantly that I think I began to understand it a little. He made it visible and real to me. His values about money, his family and his community were illustrated in his many stories. His warmth and wisdom were genuine and captivating .Twice during our afternoon tour and once again the next morning when we went out with him, the call to prayer rang out through the old city. Before long we would find ourselves in a carpet workshop or ceramics factory where Thame turned us over to the salesman for a spirited tour ending up in a showroom crammed with products for sale. You’ve all probably been there, standard procedure everywhere, with a commission on the purchases for the guide. Sadly, the Straleys and I are not big shoppers but Thame seemed more surprised by that than disappointed. During these shopping breaks, he would excuse himself, find a spigot to do his ablutions and duck into a quiet, hidden corner to pray. During decades of guiding, he had devised a way to be devout and productive at the same time.

Islam has long been mysterious to me. I know no Muslims well, only a few are acquaintances. In Thame, our guide, I found a bridge not only to this place but also to this religion. I certainly can’t claim anything like true understanding of either. Thame and Lahcen, our cooking class chef (about whom I’ll write soon – check back) made the connections between me and what I had always thought of as not-me. Crossing over those bridges, I found a place, a culture, and a religion that felt more knowable, more comfortable than I could ever imagine. I am truly in their debt. I am also left with the questions: Where is quoz now? And what will happen when I meet it again?

ESPANA'S ESPECIAL TREASURES

High above the rooftops of Cadiz on the Atlantic coast of Spain, a tall, square tower holds a simple but magical box, the Camera Obscura. From inside a small, dark room at the top of the Torre Tavira, you can get a 360 degree view of the picturesque city below complete with people strolling and cars passing by. It’s just like being inside a huge camera. The light comes through an opening a story above, bounces off a mirror, then through a lens and finally onto a large white disk about six feet across. The guide can raise or lower the disc to bring objects into focus either in the foreground or the background. Everyone in our group waited eagerly as the guide rotated the mechanism which acted like a periscope peering out at the city. Finally, there she was, the MV Explorer, our home-away-from-home, snugly docked in the harbor.

Cadiz offered a number of charming sights and activities but my fellow Lifelong Learners, Hugh and Linda Straley, and I were eager to go exploring in southern Spain. My new friends from Seattle were not only quite companionable folks to travel with but they also both speak beautiful, fluent Spanish thanks to living for a few years in Panama. As wonderful as our travels were, by far the best part was forging a friendship with these two intelligent, compassionate and easy-going people. I really lucked out – good travel companions are a rare treasure.

Our itinerary took us via rented car to Arcos de la Frontera, Ronda, Cordoba and Seville. Because of this region’s proximity to northern Africa and the Arabic rule from 711 AD to 1492, the Islamic influence is everywhere present and altogether fascinating. An intriguing example is the enormous Mezquita (mosque) in Cordoba, built in the 8th through the 10th century. Its deep rose and white arches spanning hundreds of columns contain a space that draws you in to explore and question. What you find at the heart of this amazing mosque is a gigantic, ornate, full-blown Catholic cathedral! Enormous gilded altar, rococo carved wooden choir, Gothic arches, side chapels and soaring domed roof – all of it plunked down in the middle of the magnificent Islamic house of worship. The juxtaposition was, to these eyes, more than jarring. It just felt wrong.

My new resolve, as I told you previously, is to get more comfortable with living with questions and the Mezquita presented me with my first opportunity. Why? As I overheard a guide say, “Why would you tear the center out of this unique, magnificent mosque and replace it with something we can see so many other places in the world?” What made the Catholic rulers in the 16th century need to put their building just there? It makes me think of the Temple in Jerusalem and the Dome of the Rock, and also the children’s way of choosing who’s It by stacking fists one on top of another. I found myself asking an age-old question: Is it human nature to be dominant instead of additive and collaborative? Will that compulsion ever change?

Ok, I promised a lighter, fun-filled post this time so I’ll move on to the food. What could be more fun than tapas, delightful tortillas, numerous kinds of fresh fish and excellent Spanish wine? Of all the delicious dishes we indulged in, fellow foodie Hugh and I gave the highest marks to the cold almond soup at the parador in Ronda.

All over Spain, fortresses, convents, palaces and castles have been transformed by the government into hotels or paradors, from quite reasonable to decidedly lavish. The one in Ronda overlooks a spectacular river gorge and is connected by an ancient stone, impossibly tall bridge to the old town on the other side. We chose this spot for lunch on recommendation of our interport lecturer, David Geis, a UVA professor who is actually SIR David since we was knighted by King Juan Carlos for his passionate promotion of all things Spanish. He had delighted us all with hilarious and informative lectures, tips and anecdotes as we sailed to Spain. We were not disappointed. The set five course meal at the parador presented some spectacular food but the best selection by far was the first one, a cold almond soup rich with garlic, cream and butter - nectar of the gods!

The remaining Moorish influence visible in Spain was just a teaser for our next port: Morocco. I’m beyond thrilled finally to be going to this intriguing country about which I have long fantasized. With the Straley’s as my travel buddies again, I will be taking the train to Fez and spending three days there exploring around. The highlight promises to be the cooking class I’ve booked on the recommendation of a New York Times travel writer at a riad or sort of B&B in the heart of the medina, the old city. The chef has trained and worked at some of the best restaurants in Morocco and will lead us out to the souks or markets to buy the food first. We’ll cook together and then enjoy our meal. I’ll try to come away with recipes to share with you all. Some of my kids will remember Abiba, a talented Moroccan cook we had once in France. Hopefully I’ll leave Fez able to make some dishes that will evoke memories of her marvelous couscous.

Late update: Before I could get the above entry posted, it was announced that we’ve hit a glitch. Even thought the fuel barge was along side of the Explorer, we could not in fact bunker (take on fuel) in Gibraltar yesterday due to the bad weather and rough seas. We were supposed to be in Casablanca already this morning. As it is they have finally finished the process in thankfully calm water and we’re weighing anchor and heading south as I write. We’ve lost most of a day in Morocco which is a terrible shame but the “f” word on Semester at Sea is “flexibility” and this delay is just one more reason why. I’m going to try to make lemonade of the day by enjoying rare down time, playing with my photographs (and maybe even learning how to post them here) and meeting with my newly formed shipboard family. Please visit here again and read of my adventures in Morocco and more about shipboard life. As always, I adore your comments so please post your feedback, questions, or just a quick note to let me know you’re out there.