Day 14 - 3/22/12 - Last Day at the Fondation

Final Day at Fondation

In the morning, I know I have a check-list of things to buy.    This means going to the bank for more cash.    There is the hotel bill to pay as well – apx.  1200 dh or about $250 for the week – completely amazing considering how comfortable we have been.  Not fancy – no frills, welcoming and safe.    We usually go to the ATM and the money exchange as a group so as not to get fleeced going out the door.   

Hilda, Jennifer and I go into the medina.   I find a man who decorates mini baboush key chains with names or sayings – Salem Alecheim – Peace in Arabic.  The perfect gift to bring back home at 5 dh each.  

Our last day at the Fondation.

African huts at The Fondation

Today brings another group of young kids.   And I have a surprise – A has returned!   So I get to work with him again.   The plan is to have them make a garden and maybe some animals to go inside on a large piece of mural paper as a group project. 

Me, A and friends with their garden

Many of the children are much younger or somewhat disabled, but A is older and up for a challenge so I teach him and another boy at my table how to make their trees and house three-dimensional so that they stand up.   They become very excited by this and even create a sun, which is meant to stand in the sky high above the garden.

The Moroccan Flag 

We have a last tea and say a fond good-bye to the Fondation and to Fouzia Chaouki the director who has welcomed us so graciously.  

Hilda and I take a taxi over to Chellah before dinner to do a bit of painting.

Watercolor of Chellah

We have a surprise waiting for us at the hotel:  Ikuko decides she will take us all out for dinner to a really nice French restaurant as a thank you for our hard work.   Le Grand Comptoir is right in the middle of downtown Rabat and comes highly recommended by Helene and Gabrielle.   Everyone gets a little dressed up.

Hilda and Richard on the way to dinner

Day 13 - 3/21/12 - Casa: Visit to the Hospital

We are up by 7:00 am and waiting in the lobby.   Hilda and I grab eggs and tea across the street in the snack shop.

Everyone meets at the Rabat Ville train station to catch the 8:00 am train to Casablanca where Gabrielle has promised to meet us at 9:00 sharp with “Deux grand taxi.”     She is there as promised and we all cram into the two large white Mercedes, which represent our means of travel around Casa, which is not as walkable as Rabat.

At the hospital - (http://www.aufaitmaroc.com/maroc/societe/2011/4/13/lart-de-soigner)  - Hopital Ibn Rochd – University Hospital Centre – we are greeted by Boushra Benrazzi who is the sole practicing art therapist in the country of Morocco and works with adult psychiatric patients.   Boushra has a diploma in art therapy from the faculty of medicine in Tours, France and  is interested to learn of American approaches to art therapy.

Ibn Rochd University Hospital Center

She shows us around the facility, which is housed in a series of low, white washed stucco buildings surrounded by gardens.  The sun is bright and the sky is a lovely blue.   The facility looks charming in cheerful in this light.  Bougainvillea and other flowers grow along the walk ways.

Boushra points out the gardener who is busy in one of the many gardens.  She has commissioned various artists to create bright, abstract cheerful images on some of the blank walls.

She herself is a tall, energetic person with a wonderful wide smile, who wears bright orange pants and big hoop earrings as well as a white lab coat to distinguish herself as clinical staff.   But the reality of the hospital is far more grim as this is not a private facility but state funded and suffers from lack of funding just like state psychiatric facilities in the states.   She tells us that for extra amenities a basic as soap they must rely on donations.   We see blankets laid out on bushes in the sun.

Solar power to dry blankets

It’s clear they must be washed by hand and then dried this way as an inexpensive means of laundry.   We are led through a unit for women, who are all very curious to see us and say hello.  We are, of course, asked not to photograph the patients.   Despite the wall murals meant to brighten, the unit remains spare, devoid of furnishing or personal items as is usual so that nothing can become a weapon as is often the case with a distressed or agitated person.   

Boushra show us the garden for the patients where they can grow their own flowers and peppers and other vegetables.

Tasting the fruits of the garden

She explains that she is involved in designing all of the recreational programs, such as basketball, not just the art therapy.   Sounds very familiar to us.

Boushra shows us the basketball court

We are then shown the men’s unit, which like a riad has a central garden and fountain and the sun shines down into the center,

Interior garden

but the four or five men that we see there are walking continuously around the central garden as there seems to be nothing else to do and they have energy they need to burn off.   Most of the patients wear scrubs or pajamas, except for one man with a graying beard who appears handsome, normal even except that he moves very rapidly around the perimeter and becomes annoyed if any of us impede his progress.   Surrounding the perimeter are the patients rooms, which are dark and lack the sun.   At one end are a series of doors painted bright pastel shades.   Boushra explains that they are the isolation rooms, which she has attempted to brighten up with the paint.  Indeed we see that there is one small window in the door, perhaps for checking on patients.   Another man is pointed out that is lying in his room covered by blankets.   Boushra says he rarely leaves his bed.   He is from a wealthy Islamic family, who never come to visit him and have disowned him refusing to pay for his care and so he remains at the state hospital and has for many years.     We meet one young man who is 18.  He sits with his mother, a shy young women in head scarf.    Boushra invites them to join us in the art therapy room where she takes us next.

Gabrielle by the Art Therapy Studio

As soon as we walk into the art room a feeling of calms descends.   It looks newly renovated and spacious with a large round table in the middle and a second room for storage and office space.   The spareness of the rest of the facility is replaced here by numerous paintings made by patients up on the walls and sitting in great stacks against the wall.   Four adult male patients join us in the room and sit down at the round table.  Boushra has a very gentle and loving way with her patients and it is clear from the atmosphere in the room that she is a caring and loving clinician.    Ikuko sits down to join the men

Boushra and Ikuko with patients

and the rest of us stand to observe and converse with Boushra who has numerous questions to ask us.  We each give her a synopsis of what we do in the field with what populations.   Several clinicians join us, possibly psychologists, both women who wear head scarves and white lab coats.   They speak some but not a lot of English.   Boushra seems to have a fair amount of English.  Between Gabrielle and myself we manage to translate for the group.   This task has fallen to me since Helene’s departure on Monday.  Really great for my French, but not much help the others as it is pretty bad.

With Boushra and psychology staff of hospital

Boushra shows us a number of the patients’ paintings along with some of their stories.  There seems to be a real conflation of folklore, myths and identity for some of the patients, as well as some confusion and loss of identity for some coming out of tiny village who lived in a more primitive and superstitious cultures and were now confronted with the stress and strangeness of modern society.   

We have a tight schedule though and Gabrielle reminds us that she has scheduled lunch and then a visit to a gallery in the afternoon so we must go back to the Grand Taxis for the next stop.    Boushra asks how long we are staying and seems very sad to see us disappear – 8 women all practicing the same profession, which she must do in isolation.   She says she has a house near the beach with donkeys and chickens and peacocks and that we must come and stay over night the next time.    Before we leave she presents us all with a pin made out of small flat stones and seed beads, which have been made by the patients.  Mine does not have a pin so she takes her own, which is a brilliant orange, and pins it on me.    I hope very much to return and work with her.

Pins made by patients of the hospital

The taxis loop through the crowded Casablanca streets in the direction of a restaurant that neither the cab drivers nor Gabrielle seem able to locate.

Traffic in Casablanca

I have sat in the front seat of the second cab supposedly to help out the driver with my French, but as usual it’s not much help.  Eventually we arrive and have a meal of shish kebab, tajine, the usual Moroccan fare.    Gabrielle has invited a young Moroccan/Belgian psychologist, Mouna to join us.    She describes working with developmentally delayed/MR teens and their families.   She will join us at the gallery in the afternoon where we will work with a group of children from an orphanage.  

From the restaurant Gabrielle leads us, with her brisk pace, to a printing making studio: Marsam Ateliers d’Arts Graphiques, run by Khalill Chraibi who shows us around.    We see the printing presses and a multicolor job being prepared for lithography by a young woman.    The front room is a gallery and holds work of several of the represented artists.    In the back room waiting for us are about 12 or 15 children from a Casablanca orphanage.   They are a mix of ages and disabilities.   There are numerous adults present as well, but none seem to speak much English, so Mouna is a great help because her English is very good.  Khalill, the gallery owner has arranged a few of the print tables with large sheets of paper and we assist the children to put plastic garbage bags on (with holes for the head and arms of course!) as smocks.   We are then given long brushes and acrylic paint to work with the kids.   This becomes very hectic very quickly for a number of reasons – 1) the language barrier 2) the developmental needs of the children some who are profoundly autistic and some mildly retarded or spastic 3) the cumbersomeness of the materials, and 4) the over-stimulating nature of paint.    We do the best that we can.  Mouna is a great help and asks very smart questions like:  “Isn’t this material a bit too much for these kids?”   Yes indeed it is.   Fortunately we had thought to travel to Casa with some supplies in our bag so we eventually discouraged additionally painting and brought out the dry media – pastels and colored pencils, which have a more calming effect on the kids.  

I work with Ikuko and we try and balance the needs of about five different kids who all want paint at once.    One delayed adolescent, with profound speech impediment, but great spirit has no trouble getting what she needs because she points until we get what she wants.  I work with a sweet boy who is there with his older sister.  She speaks English and tells me he has made their farmhouse when he paints a red house surrounded by figures.  He also does several self-portraits all at the developmental level of about a six year old.    He understands quite a bit of English and I learn that he has Asperberger’s syndrome and has come as a family friend of the gallery owner, whose own son is autistic.   It seems clear that the resources are perhaps not present for art programs for such kids here or they have just mixed the groups together for the experience.   Not an ideal situation for anyone and not terribly therapeutic, although the kids seemed to have fun as much as I could tell. 

After about and hour and a half of this and we encouraged and helped the kids to clean their hands and brushes and then we were all invited to have tea of course!  And delicious Moroccan almond cookies.   It was difficult to converse with the various parents and childcare workers there because of the language gap, but we next encouraged each child to hold up their work and receive applause, just as we had done with groups in Rabat.    Some were too shy and others liked this so much they had to do it several times.

Since the Grand Taxis had been paid for and dispatched, Mouna and Khalill kindly drove us to our train back to Rabat.    But first he gave us each an original print from the Moroccan artist, Meriem Mezian, who does figures in traditional dress and classic scenes of Morocco.

On the train platform, a few young Moroccan women sit near Ikuko and begin to talk to her, curious about why she, a Japanese woman, is there.   They use what English they have to communicate and soon begin bragging about their own cities and how each has the best tajine – Tangier, Marrakesh, Fez…  Soon a few more young women drift over – all strangers but who feel compelled to show off about the wonders of their country.   And soon a lively discussion ensues.   Once all strangers, we are now all friends.

Ikuko and Hilda with new friends at the 

Casablanca Train Station

Day 12 - 3/20/12 - Dinner in a Moroccan Home

I am up very early Tuesday determined to get to the flower market to buy a large bouquet for the evening when we are scheduled to be guests of Majid and Nancy Slaoui - high school friends of my friends Doug and Patrick.  They all went to high school together in Rabat during the early seventies at The Rabat American School.   They now live south of Rabat on the way to Casablanca in a beach community.

Patrick and Doug coached me on what to do and where to go before I left for Morocco and Nancy found us our hotel in Casablanca - the Riad Salam.   Majid has promised to cook us a real Moroccan dinner.

I go to the medina first where there is a small market that sells bouquets already made up with plastic doilies on the bottom, but this seems like buying flowers at the A&P back home with the blooms a little wilted.   For Majid and Nancy's hospitality in inviting all 10 of us to dinner something a little nicer seems needed.   I try to remember our way up to the flower district from our luncheon with Maria, the Moroccan art therapist, the previous thursday.   I head past our favorite local eatery and stop quickly at a street vendor to llok at Moroccan coloring books in Arabic to bring back to my classes in the States.   I realize how quickly I have adjusted to the streets of Rabat and they begin to feel familiar after the utter foreigness and disorientation of Fez.    I do not have the 20 dh for the books and tell the young man I will return.

About a half mile beyond the Catholic Cathedral in Rabat

the flower stalls appear by the great open plaza where we had our tajin luncheon.   Rather than cause too much excitement since I seem to be the only customer at this hour,  stop at the first stall and begin to point out the stems of flowers I want to make a nice loose bouquet.   This seems better than something pre-arranged.  Lillies and irises and stock and a bird-o-paradise  - un ouiseaux - to top it off!   The flower stall owner throws in another.   A grand bouquet.    Fully satisfied I head back across the street.   The vendor has wrapped it all with a big satin bow.   But where is my change?   A 20 dh bill?    I head back to look among the flower buckets.

"Excuse moi Madame."  the shopkeeper points out that my 20 dh has gotten stuck in my enormous head scarf.

Down closer to the hotel, I check in with the my 20 dh change to buy the comics.  The young man has not only not forgotten me, but has wrapped them in a bag waiting for me.   This would never happen in New York.  I am continually struck by the courtesy, honesty and goodwill of the Moroccan people.

The morning is spent once again in the medina.  This time we stop in to see the weaver.   He shows Becky and me the fine quality of his linens and woolens all woven behind the shop on the family looms just as they have been for 100 years.

I buy some mint and rosebuds for Moroccan tea and several bars of Argan oil soap. 

By noon we are back at the hotel, where Richard, Livingston and Ikuko have arrived back from their adventure in the Sahara.   They had a driver who arranged a trip to Zagora and an overnight in a desert tent after a ride on camels.   This adventure will have to wait until next time for me.

Then Jennifer and Raquel arrive back from their adventure to Marrakesh.  They describe a lot of mopeds whizzing around the grand market plaza and a tea salesman who sold them both $50 worth of tea and other herbs including some very expensive magical ingredient to make “The King of Teas.”   Sounds like our adventure in the spice shop.   Yet another adventure that will have to wait until I return.   I begin to feel the end of the trip coming.

We all cab over to the Fondation where several groups of very young children  are scheduled to work with us.    We will see each group for one hour keeping it time limited, which is already progress from what we have done with the others.   Again we have the room with numerous tables, which has been much more conducive to group work and we plan to do paper bag puppets  - a nice sustainable project that could be replicated by the teachers when we leave and which also promotes communication, sequencing and a whole host of other skills.

The children are really very little.   I have a very shy, very tiny 5 year-old boy,  another boy a bit older and a girl similar in age.   I am not sure how much French they speak so I communicate with gestures, pointing to eyes, nose, mouth, etc…   Raquel works across the table from me.   When we are later given plasticine to make animals for the puppets, she makes animal sounds to communicate with the kids and this seems to work.   I make a little clay dog for the tiny boy and then other boy and few more seem to need clay dogs too.  

It is hard to call what we are doing with these children art therapy because we do not know them, can barely communicate and will never see them again, but we are certainly having a good time.  

In the next group I have a much older boy, A with big round brown eyes .   He seems so eager to be working with me, so earnest and willing to learn.  He understands easily the concept o f the puppet and makes everything including a baseball cap.    He also wants a dog for his puppet.   When we finish with the children, tea is served.  We have pictures and good-byes with all the kids and teachers.

We are back to the hotel by five and I have told everyone to be ready by 6:30 so that Majid’s driver can collect us in his van.   Majid comes as well in is compact.  Livingston and I climb in the back and say hello to Thor, a Norwegian business associate of Majid’s who is staying with him.    We drive through the city following the mini-van and Majid points out the strikers in front of the union building.   He describes the different cities in Morocco and how one is recognized for being from a certain place;  those from Fez are Fassi, those from Sale are Saffi.  Majid’s father was Fassi, but his mother was Berber and yet his last name is typical for someone from Sale so it seems to get very complicated.   He tells us about the World Music Festival in Fez each June and the Pop Music Festival in Rabat in May.   They’ve seen Whitney Houston -  not long before her untimely death – Sting, Elton John, Quincy Jones – top acts come each year and play all around the city.   We drive out to the coast to a beach community where they live in a comfortable suburban home – again seeming like an upscale California neighborhood.

Nancy greets at the door, a very warm and welcoming American woman, who keeps a very Western home.   Their three children are all grown and have been educated in the US.   Their oldest now lives in Casablanca with the first grandchild.   Richard feels immediately at home because he is allowed to go off and play the X-Box and we all relax a bit because there is no need to struggle with the language barrier in this home.    The drinks and wine flow along with a beautiful spread of olives and nuts.

Nancy describes her life in Morocco as being in an expat bubble.   Her father was in the military so she was used to travel and being in foreign lands, but she said she only uses French now when she goes to certain stores and that she barely speaks any Arabic at all.   She has two Masters degrees in special education and ESL, and has worked for years in the American schools in Rabat and Casablanca with special needs children from very wealthy families of the diplomatic and business class.   

She describes a young boy from a Moroccan banking family who decided to scribble on the desk.  She wouldn’t let him leave for the day until he had cleaned the desk up.  The classroom attendants were horrified because the boy was from the upper class.   They told her, “Oh no miss – don’t make little R clean up.”    Nancy said the boy had probably never dressed himself let alone cleaned anything is in his life, but she insisted.   When the mother stormed into the classroom looking for him because she and their driver had been waiting, the principal backed her up.  Little R was made to clean up his mess probably for the first and maybe the only time in his life.  

She talked about the high school students she currently works with a the American School in Casablanca and how they all need community service in order to graduate.  We talked about the possibility of the students collaborating with art therapists in the future through the Fondation if we return and do more work with them.

Dinner is served with a large plate of kefta (spiced hamburger beef) to start. 

Then there was couscous filled with vegetables and chicken.    It was a huge plate placed in the middle of the table and this is Tuesday!   We had learned that couscous was traditionally reserved for Friday because it precedes the holy day.  Women take the entire day to prepare the couscous grains from scratch and then have a feast prepared so they do not have to work on the holy day.  We ate our fill, said fond good-byes and were escorted back to the Splendide by van.    The next day we would all rise early to travel to Casablanca by train for our tour of the psychiatric hospital.