Eastern European Exploits: Poland

Expedition: Europe

When most students study abroad in Europe they hit the highlights: London, Rome, Paris. I would love to see the bastions of Western Europe someday, but I was lucky enough to find a trip to my ancestral homelands of Poland and Lithuania and Europe’s last dictatorship – Belarus.

There are 22 students in this group and a week in Lublin kicked off our trip. We are studying the political development of the previously mentioned states after the collapse of the USSR. Poland was the perfect introduction. Here’s a dabble of what I’ve learned. 

The Poles

Despite the eastern geography, Poles consider themselves “western.” They watch the same movies, wear the same clothes, keep the same religions (mostly Catholicism) and share many of the same values as most of the Western world. Most middle aged and young poles speak English including the

Hundreds of Poles gather for the march of the three kings. 

students I met, making getting around simple. Over 80 percent of the population identify as Roman Catholic as evident by the ornate and ancient chapels dotting every other block of Lublin. Despite the religious dominance, Poles pride themselves with their tolerance, being one of the earliest states in Europe to write that into the state laws. In short, Polacks are charming, curious about Americans and can hold their liquor.

The Places

The biggest difference between home and Poland is that Minnesota’s visible history only goes back a couple hundred years. Here, it’s thousands of years. In the center of Lublin’s sprawls is old town, a cobble-stoned blend of renaissance and medieval architecture. Every five feet there’s a new tavern and then across the big brick bridge is a freaking castle. All that’s missing is a dragon. The streets tell the history of countless occupations of Poland. An open space near the castle is the only reminder of the Jewish section of the city that was razed by the Nazis.

The main street of Lublin's old city is lined with shops and taverns leading straight to the castle. 

Their occupation left its mark beyond the old city. On the corner across from our hotel is a curved, four-story, bleak yellow building home to the multinational brigade, a military alliance between Poland, Lithuania and Ukraine. In the 1940s it was the Gestapo secret police headquarters in Lublin. Just a few miles beyond the city is the Majdanek concentration camp, home to the largest execution of Jews in concentration camps time lasting over 12 hours. The locals call it hell, the Nazis called it the Rose Garden. It’s been mostly preserved as a museum, but the reality of what happened there will never, ever leave that place. That ground is cursed.

Poland has a rich history, haunting as it may be. The modernized city fused with ornate buildings and brick roads is bafflingly beautiful. 

The Education

The university doubles as a museum commemorating JPII

During Lublin week were hosted the John Paul II University, home of Pope John Paul II. Many of our lectures were in the room he taught in for 25 years. His legacy is a point of pride for the teachers and students. We learned about Polish history, policy and language from esteemed individuals such as a leader from Poland’s Solidarity movement against the Soviet Union and former under-secretary of state. We learned about national security from a Polish ambassador and even dabbled in the language. Local media thought we'd make a nice spot for the evening news and interviewed my roommate and I (https://lublin.tvp.pl/28511526/studenci-z-minnesoty-na-kul-wspolny-projekt-edukacyjny). A fantastic educational experience and chance to get on Polish TV. 

TLDR: Poland is welcoming, rich with history including a dark Nazi period and has plenty of taverns. Also I studied in Pope JPII’s classroom and got on TV.

One if by land, two if by sea - three if by air

If Paul Revere were still alive he would warn you that I'll be there soon. I am part British after all.

In almost exactly 24 hours I'll be back in Minnesota, likely shivering my knees off not yet acclimated to the unseasonably warm yet tundra in comparison to Morocco like climate.

Cause who doesn't love a good African sunset? Taken from the Agdal, Rabat train station. 

The past 4 months have gone by in a flash. I learned some Arabic, ate incredible food including sand bread, speaking of sand rolled down a sand dune, learned more than I could ever quantify, made the best of friends (you are all missed. so much.), did a lot of journalism (one here - http://bit.ly/1Oy8VRW), saw a huge part of this country including the part that is technically Spain but lets not get into that now, learned to surf, lived in a village, Rabat and Casablanca, met some of the bravest people, and so so much more. 

Still, there's no snow here. 

"I know you don't want me to miss Minnesota, but I do." -Riley from Inside Out. I couldn't help but relate when I watched this in Casablanca. 

I'm so sad to leave. I know I will be back someday, but knowing that life will go on here and that I will miss it makes me want to stay. Of course, I'm missing life everywhere that I'm not. None of this, however, will keep me from enjoying and living life wherever I am - soon to be Minnesota.

I guess this is the place for final thoughts.

It's been a weekend of goodbyes to friends, places, smells, sights, animals - the works. All of them life changing. If you've been one of those people who keeps clicking on my blog then it's time to say goodbye to you too. It has been my pleasure to take you with whenever I've remembered to update my blog. I do suspect this blog has been more fun for me than for you, but I hope we've all had a grand time.

The adventure will never end,

Simeon Lancaster

Title suggestions are welcome

As my taxi gurgled and lurched it's way to the train station early yesterday morning I remembered that I had agreed to update you with my blog. Been a while, hasn't it. Sorry I suppose. Things get busy you know.

It's been over a month since I've last written, and quite a lot has happened. This post shall follow no particular order or have a premeditated theme because this is a blog and I can do that. Feel free to enjoy.

Last time I left you shortly after I returned from the village of Beni Koula in rural north Morocco. Since then I've moved from Rabat to Casablanca where I'm living now with four great friends, also journalism students. We have a villa just a short trot in a red taxi from the train station. It's spacious (plenty of room for activities) and provides a comfortable base of operations to work from. My favorite place? The roof of course. Even though were shrouded in the stardulling light of a metropolitan mass there are always a few especially bright stars that poke through on the cloudless nights. Earlier last month there was a meteor shower which, if you looked at just the right time, would grace the heavens with a streak of burning space rock. I like the roof.


We are in the final days of our independent study period. Drafts are in and final touches are being applied. It's a constant state of melancholy - happy to be going home soon but so sad to see it go. All this is to be expected I supposed. But we've been keeping busy finding/interviews sources, doing field work, researching, etc. The end goal is to have our work published in major media outlets in the west.

We even had time to take a short break for Thanksgiving to chug our way north and stomp through Tangier. You'll never find a more chill place of culture and memory. It's lovely really. You can see Spain and the rock of Gibraltar. The people are one of a kind. The older generation remembers the days when Jimi Hendrix tore up the Moroccan sky with mad jams and many are more than willing to show you around the city to the choicest of places to watch the sea slip silently under the sun. I'm willing to bargain that the chill nature of this coastal haven is partly thanks to the overabundance of hash. It's smoked as casually as a cigarette.

The week certainly has not been dull. Yesterday, I got up so early that it was actually still quite night like outside. Nothing to indicate morning at all actually. I had to catch and early train to catch another train to make it to an interview. A full day of interviews, setbacks and jumps ahead later I was ready to head back to Casa. On the way to the station I passed parliament and stumbled upon quite a commotion. A protest in front of parliament is no surprise. What set this one apart was the number of inspired-to-action young men breaking from the main group and moving towards police lines. The next 30mn for these rowdy youth was a grand game of run from the men with the swinging clubs and big shiny stomping boots. The police would charge, protesters would run, reassemble, and try a different approach always to be met with the same track and field reminiscent response. There was one particular long legged uniform whose stride quite resembled that of a gazelle. He frequently outpaced his comrades and eagerly yet vainly swung his standard issue smashing stick through the air. If you give an overzealous man a club...

This is all to say I will truly miss it here - the evident lack of true democracy coupled by some of the bravest people I've met who are willing to speak dissent in a clear voice. We forget how convenient everything is in the great, or at least better than most, U.S.A. Liberties are not meant to be taken for granted and we should be incredibly thankful for a free press. Without it, democracy is a farce.

I'll be back for Star Wars,
yours truly

A Hobbit's Tale

For full effect listen to ---> track 2 <--- of the Fellowship of the Ring film score while you read. 

On a cloudy Sunday afternoon, a white busvan brimming with 12 American students dragged up a dirt rode into the northern Moroccan village of Beni Koula. I was among those students, and what we were about to experience is perhaps the closest to the life of a hobbit as we will ever achieve (minus the ale).

In each of our respective host homes we were awaited with steaming dishes of wholesome food surrounded by still warm from the oven chunks of ever-present bread. Mornings and the daily tea times consisted of bread with peach jam and dishes of straight from the branch olive oil (said by the villagers to give you super human abilities) - all washed down by the best tea I've had in Morocco - a perfect balance of sweet and mint.

After Rob, my American class/roommate, and I had stuffed ourselves plump with dinner from our host family we would head over to our host cousins, home to two more American students and eat dinner with them. After the main dish was consumed a basket larger than a cat was brought forth overflowing with fresh picked apples, bananas, oranges and my favorite - pomegranates.

A light meal. 

Now that we were all as stuffed as the pillows we were sitting on it was time for music and dancing. A conglomeration of traditional Moroccan music and American pop provided a canvas for a plethora of dance moves. This became a nightly occurrence.

Eventually, when we were too tired to go on, myself, Rob and host brother Mohammed would lumber as bear who had eating too many berries back across the starlit courtyard and burrow into our blankets.

The mornings came early, as they tend to do. After (attempting) to milk the cow with my mother Nora and eating a quick breakfast we hustled down the road with the village kids to the local school to teach English, plant olive trees, and for those bestowed with an artistic eye, paint murals. Enthusiasm was unbound.

Action shot! Look at all that enthusiasm! So enthusiastic they're running!

Afternoons were spent roaming the village surroundings, eating roots of bushes, climbing trees just big enough not to classify as bushes, picking prickly pears, cracking open cool rocks and poking sticks in scorpion holes. The daily roaming was brought to a casual halt by those dazzling sunsets that make you want to smoke a pipe in a tree and write a poem.

Pricking of the prickly pear.

It was a sad departure on Friday morning, but as soon as we had wifi we eagerly blasted back onto the grid sponging up what remnants of the past weeks news we could gather.

Main takeaways?
1. The presence of clocks is directly related to the speed of the passage of time.
2. Quit touching the cactus.
3. Never be afraid to stuff yourself silly, then do it again and dance.

Adventure in southland

Last week we deviated from the standard monotony and loaded onto a van headed south. It was a week of destinations graciously interrupted by lunch every so often.

These, however, we no ordinary destinations.

Chapter 1: Meknes, Center of the Universe


We were dampened by a welcome drizzle as we drove through the crowded streets of Morocco's former capital city of Meknes. A dapper tour guide met us with a smile and more answers than questions asked. We enjoyed a mere slice of the 25 miles of wall surrounding the old city including a gate tiled in green, the official color of Meknes and Islam. All the royal cities have their own color to indicate religious locations or public spaces. All the houses, however, even the homes of the wealthy, look the same from the outside out of respect for the poor and to ward "the evil eye."

Fun facts? So many, so fun. Meknes, for example, is home to the oldest Jewish community in North. Africa including a Talmudic school. There are currently less than 100 Jews in Meknes.

Next stop - the half-intact ancient granaries that fed the 12,000 horses of Moulay Ismail at the turn of the 17th century. Half-intact because an earthquake in 1755 collapsed much of the roof. It's called the Lisbon quake because people are more likely to hear about Lisbon than Meknes.
As a special treat we toured the only Mosque in Morocco open to non-Muslims. Not because of any religious prohibitions, but because when the French occupied Morocco they wanted to prevent any Frenchies from being converted to Islam. The rule persists.

Chapter 2: Romans at Volubilis


What's the next best thing to seeing a fully intact Roman military outpost turned cultural center? Seeing the ruins of one obviously.

The only thing that draws out my inner 5-year-old more than Roman ruins are dinosaurs. Rome occupied this region for 400 years and left all the classics behind: pillars, triumphant arch saunas,

well-kept mosaic depictions of demi-gods, brothel, a temple to Jupiter with an alter directly adjacent to a 4th century church with an immersion pit and of course, a vomitorium. Discovered in 1920 by the French, this ruinous city is the best kind of reminder of the reach of the Roman Empire.


Chapter 3: Fez

We rolled into Fez mid evening. A couple of us enjoyed a walk around town and capped off the night with dinner and writing on the balcony. Balconies are one of my favorite things closely following escalators and hammocks.

The next day we were up early to visit a fort overlooking Fez's old medina, dwarfing the medina in Rabat we've learned to call home. Over 960,000 allies twist and wind through the city, some so narrow the edges of my hat would scrape the sides as I passed through. Rumor has it if you take a wrong turn or get left behind it is impossible to find your way out. We took a guide. He showed us cool stuff like the oldest university in the world, founded by a woman. Renowned people like the scholar Maimonides studied there.

We visited the ancient tannery where I parted with a wad of cash but walked out with a very nice leather jacket - a move I have yet to regret. After visiting a cool art place and appreciating the art and stuff we boarded the busvan and trekked to the city of Azrou.

Chapter 4: Azrou 

The rain picked up as we pulled into Azrou, a city tucked in the foothills of the Middle Atlas mountains that I fondly refer to as Moroccan Twin Peaks. The air was filled with the scent of decomposing nature as a slight chill descended on the town making my new jacket unexpectedly necessary. This is a town where the bar has two kinds of beer, both worth the equivalent of two USD. The people are amiable and more than willing to let me practice Arabic, even though my vocabulary is exhausted within the first five minutes of conversation. It was a late night in the soggy town but for a reason I can't quite place it holds a warm memory - perhaps the fall-like climate just reminds me of home.

The next morning was bright and I was less than chipper. Not to worry, I perked up as we took a quick stop in the biggest ceder forest in the Mediterranean. Ceders are my favorite tree, closely followed by pines and olive trees. Oh yes, there was a monkey too, the endangered Barbary Macaque, eating rifa offered by a group of nearby forest-goers. He didn't enjoy it long before two dogs teamed up and lunged at him - the rifa was the real target.

Chapter 5: Camelot

Just kidding, we didn't go to Camelot, but we did ride camels... a lot. HA.

It was a long ride to Merzouga, the city on the edge of the Sahara. We passed small sand dunes being fruitlessly held back by small fences in an attempt to prevent the ever encroaching threat of desertification. Flooding from a couple days of rain with no place to flow also slowed us down. After a brief lunch of sand-bread we convoyed up in three land rovers for a journey to lands unreachable by a mere busvan.

After a short stint of civilized driving our drivers went off-road in a competitive bout of the closest thing to pod racing I've ever experienced. After a quick stop at an NGO working to increase literacy rates in the region (which are atrociously low unfortunately), we went from land rovers to camelback. I named my camel Nudeba meaning scar for the scars of his neck. He was probably the runt of the herd but he was a worthy stead. We rode across sand dunes comparable only with those of the desert planet of Tataouine until we reached some particularly noteworthy dunes. We parked the camels at the bottom and scrawled to the top in preparation for the setting of the Sahara sun. But first a few of us rolled down the dune and tripped our way up again. It was everything I expected and more. Sand is course and gritty, and it does get everywhere, but the silence and beauty of the desert is like nothing else. The pinnacle of the trip.

The rest of the night was a conglomeration of dinner (yus), star gazing (supernovas x3), listening/dancing/playing along briefly with a traditional gnoua band (highly spiritual music) and swimming in the open pool underneath the stars surrounded by sand. The last thing I wanted to do was sleep, but alas I am only human.

Chapter 5: Dar Taliba (House of the Students [f])

We were all sad to leave the sand. But adventure does not wait so high-ho off again. Retraced our tracks with the land rovers, back to the beloved/despised busvan and off on a long long drive to Wyzazet. Nice views and a stop at desert oases were nice distractions. In Wyzazet we stayed at a Dar Taliba, a girls dormitory for young women who leave their homes in the really rural areas to get an education - quite a bold en devour. We had dinner with them and learned about their lives and struggles and shared what stories we could over the ever present language barrier. The best way to describe what happened next is shenanigans. Song and dance were accompanied by marriage offers and apparently impromptu wedding ceremonies for many of the guys in our group. There may be some goats owed. We got out of there in the morning and passed sites many of you would recognize from films such as Kingdom of Heaven, Gladiator, etc. A long long long drive down the road was the final destination.

Chapter 6: Marakesh

Honestly I don't have a lot to say about this city. We did not get along. It's a money-grubbing tourist trap with no way out except for whatever cash you have on hand. We saw some cool stuff I guess and I got stung by a bee.

I was so tired on the busvan ride home the next day that for the first time I actually slept on the bus. At home I was awaited with a meal and my energetic younger host-brothers. As much as I love the road it was nice to be able to feel at home. Been back in Rabat for a couple days now, and I'm already looking forwards to the next excursion.

I do apologize for the length and hold no hard feelings if you've skipped to the end. Also, photos will be added soon, I lost my card reader in the desert. UPDATE: As I'm sure you've noticed, photos have been added.  Okay I have things to do now, so byyyye.

And 10,000 sheep bleeted out.

The scenic rooftops of Rabat provide an excellent backdrop for the carcass of the Eid sacrifice. A meaty smoke filled the air on Thursday and Friday as sheep were lead to a sacrifice of biblical proportions. 

Talk about hype. There's more hype around the Muslim festival of Eid than around the Super Bowl.

Earlier this week the markets were filled with the implements of sacrifice - charcoal, sharpening stones for knives, barbecue sticks, mini grills, fans for the fire and of course, hay for fattening the sacrifice. Crowds pushed to the edges of the road as flatbed motorcycles shuttled sheep to nearly every home in Rabat followed by kids yelling "Howli! Howli!" (Sheep in Darija, the local Arabic).

The two day festival is based on the multi-faith Abrahamic narrative of God commanding Abraham to take his beloved son, Isaac or Ishmael depending on who you ask, up to a hill and sacrificing him as a testament of faith. At the last possible edge of your seat moment angels intervene and stay Abraham's hand and replace the son with a ram. To commemorate such a moment nearly every Muslim family saves money and purchases their own sheep to sacrifice. 

Above - Hamse and us. Below - Hamse BBQ

My host-family's particular sacrifice became my roommate for two nights. Got to know him quite well as he frequently woke me up to share in his final hours by bleeting loudly into the night in conversation with hundreds of other sheep humbly awaiting the same fate. We fondly referred to him as Hamse. 

On Thursday morning the family gathered as with much pomp and jubilation we brought the poor chap up to the roof and after sprinkling him with salt, a ritual practice not just for flavoring, slit his throat in a swift motion. Blood drained, skinned, lunch. There was something primal about the whole "they killed it and now they are going to eat it" thing. Day one they ate his innards, wrapping liver in fat. Day two was butchering the rest of the carcass and bagging it up for future use. Each meal of course was accompanied by more pastries, salads and alternatives to sheep than one could ask for. A true feast. 

Anyway, sacrifice is over. Back to the grind. I'm really falling in love with this country. This week we're going on an excursion to the south. Great things are in store so stay tuned to read about camels, sand bread and the largest cedar forest in the Mediterranean area. 

TTFN!

The real thing

God favors that spot in particular.

I was sort of hoping that my rushed life of deadlines and meetings would slow down a bit and that I would adapt to lax "Moroccan time." Quite the contrary.

Between Arabic homework, class readings, fascinating lectures from the most interesting people, interviews, attending protests and press conferences and having coffee/tea with the most inspiring, passionate and entertaining people in the Moroccan media scene I am busy. Blogging is not a priority, but I've found the time just now. The life of a journalist does not offer much time for R&R, but it does offer a chance to see the world, meet every kind of person and most of all - live an adventure.


As I learn more and more about the complexities of Moroccan politics, the reality of the not-so-free (an understatement) media landscape in Morocco, the red-lines and taboo topics, and the way everything ties back to a certain royal figure the more I'm drawn into this world. The reality is this country has strong ties to the west and thus maintains a liberal image without truly offering any of the democratic privileges usually associated - especially to the media. It's far too complicated to explain here, but it is something else to be able to practice journalism in this environment, especially as a student.

The way home. 

There's no end to potential stories here. It is truly under reported. There are too few journalists and too little freedom. Publishing real, independent journalism in Arabic and sometimes French will make powerful enemies. There are far too many examples.

But we're publishing in English so it's probably OK. In journalism, we learn best by doing so during our time here some of our work will be published on Reporting Morocco, our student-run publication. Others might end up in mainstream western outlets.

For one of our field trips we took the train to Casablanca to visit Le Desk, a ballsy new media publication in Morocco. Their website is set to go live Monday. This publication is unique in that it's business model, pay-to-read, avoids advertising boycotts imposed on previous publications that the shadowy part of the government did not fancy. One form of that indirect harassment I mentioned.

I just had coffee with a couple other students and Omar Radi, one of the journalists there. Great dude. Crazy, funny and willing to take an hour to just talk with us. The other day I had an interview with Samia Errazzouki, another journalist here who is known for reporting on one of the big red-lines - W. Sahara. Meeting the pioneers of media under a less than friendly regime is inspiring to say the least. I'm kind of rambling here but that's what happens on a blog, right?

Local life is as interesting as ever. Bales of hay and barbecue sticks are being sold everywhere in the market in preparation for the Eid sacrifice festival next week. I'll write more about that later, I'm sure. I'll have a sheep for a roommate for a couple days.

As always, it's an amazing time to be alive. If you're still reading, I'm still writing.

-Simeon