I discovered water bearers in Morocco long before I ever found them in other parts of the Arab world.  I don't recall if local people ever drank the water in Morocco.  They probably did, but I certainly didn't.  I wanted my water clean and my water vessel even cleaner.  There were no guarantees for either in Casablanca.  Seriously, how can you ever make a goat skin clean enough to drink from?
 
Water wasn't the traditional drink that was served to guests in Morocco.  That was mint tea.  And, there were special ways to prepare it as well.  Most tea pots were about the size of a grapefruit.  The amount of sugar used was about the size of an orange.  Yep, there was no denying it.  Moroccan mint tea was sweet. 
 
I taught at an international school in Casablanca for two years.  Towards the end of my Moroccan experience, my school had a cultural festival that included the making of mint tea.  In addition to all that sugar, a large bunch of fresh mint as well as ground tea leaves were steeped together in hot water.  Now, back home, after very little steeping, I'm good to gulp.  Not so in Morocco.  The tea must be poured into the special tea glasses from at least a foot above.  You actually start with the spout right at the glass' lip and then raise the tea pot while pouring.  Yes, it takes a little practice.  But, it didn't take me that long to learn.  Then, the tea was poured into the tea pot and the process was repeated.  I was assured that the aeration made the tea taste better.

I never believed it.
 

 
My biggest shock was that after two years, some of the teachers at my school were surprised by the process of making tea.  It was their first time to witness it.  I could not -- and still can't -- figure out how you could be in Morocco for two years and never once get served tea.   It was an everyday experience for me.  But unlike most foreigners I knew, I had two Moroccan families and a whole lot of tea.
 
On my second week in Casablanca, I needed a little help at a shoe repair shop to fix my briefcase.  Someone from my school made a map for me.  I “followed” as best as I could, but I became completely lost.  Fortunately, I wandered up to a shoe repair shop that was not much larger than a bathroom.

That’s when I kind of panicked.  I couldn’t speak a word of Arabic.  I could barely speak any French.  How in the world was I supposed to tell the shoe repairman what I needed?  I stood there speechless.

Mohamed looked up at me and said, “I speak English.  What do you need?”

He fixed my briefcase for free.  Then, he closed up the shop so he could give me a walking tour of the city.  That brought me to the oldest part of the city, the medina, with its narrow winding streets and crowds of Arabic speakers.  Mohamed directed me up a dark hallway to the apartment he shared with his parents, two brothers and two sisters. 

For a brief moment, I thought about not going up those stairs.  Anything could have happened.  What did happen was never expected.  I met this Moroccan family who became my family from that very first day.  Only Mohamed and his brother Abdelhadi spoke English.  All the others spoke Arabic or French.  It didn’t matter.  They were family.  Whenever there was a Moroccan celebration, I was not invited to their home.  I was expected.  I had a Moroccan experience like nobody else I ever met and a whole lot of mint tea.

My apartment in Casablanca was a tiny studio that was actually a larger apartment split in two.  One half was my home.  The other half was a guest living room and play area for my landlord and his family who lived on the floor above me.  There was one entrance to this flat.  Go forward to the family section or take a left turn to my place.  The kids were in their play area a lot.  It wasn't hard at all to get drawn into the lives of my second Moroccan family as well.
 
If I was home sick when I should have been at work, everyone knew about it.  Sick people were served tea.  Healthy people were served tea.  Breathing people were served tea.  Everyone was served tea.  And, "tea" in Morocco was much more than a brown liquid with too much sugar.  "Tea" included oranges, figs, dates, nuts, cake, cookies, pancakes and leftovers from the previous meal.  After tea, I never needed to eat anything else the rest of the day.
 
One time I got a cold from Abdelhadi.  As I was in decline, he perked up and said, "Does this mean that I am contagious?"  I don't think I shared his joy in using a new vocabulary word.   As it turned out, things went from bad to worse with the cold.  I missed three and a half days of school.  I had fever, headache, body aches and my landlord's family.  There is nothing quite like Moroccan mothering.  It goes way beyond anything expected.  But, sometimes I wondered how I got any sleep. 
 
The first day that they noticed that I was sick, they came to my room to check on me.  By "they" I mean my landlord, his wife, all four children and anyone else who might have been in their apartment.  None of them spoke any English.  They brought me orange juice.  Later, breakfast.  Again, lunch.  And, coffee in the afternoon.  They brought me supper and even cleaned the whole apartment.  Yes, it was a mess, but I was sick!  They picked up my clothes, washed all the dishes and even mopped the floor.   They were simply amazing.  They took care of me the whole time I was sick (but I made sure the apartment only needed cleaning the one time).  

The worst part of the sickness was that I had a headache that just didn't seem to want to end.  Aspirin didn't help.  Finally, Abdelhadi decided that it was time for a Moroccan treatment.  He brought the goodies to the landlord's wife and she prepared the treatment.  The "goodies" were a mystery herb that looked sort of like parsley, a few onions, cloves and vinegar.  These were ground in a mortar to make a sort of paste.  What did they do with the paste?  Well, they wrapped it in a cloth around my head and left it on for the night.  It smelled awful.  While applying it, my landlady dribbled the green stuff all over me.  I mumbled, a combination blessing and insult in Arabic.  It was so unexpected that if fueled a whole lot of laughter for several days.
 
So, I experienced this very unusual treatment but I don't really know if it worked.  By the time I got pasted and wrapped, I was nearly recovered.  However, it really was a Moroccan experience not to be missed.  Besides, I'm not sure I would have been allowed to say no anyway.

If you are old enough, the idea of vacationing in Vietnam is simply inconceivable.  It would be like taking a fun-filled trip to Afghanistan or Iraq today.  But, times have changed.  Most of the present population in Vietnam was born after the war.  They may have heard stories about the war from their parents and grandparents, but tourists -- and Americans -- are welcomed with open arms.
 
So, I found myself in the Mekong Delta.
 
That destination stirs up all kinds of memories from news stories about the war.  Everyone knows it was a hotbed for war stories.  And, as I walked through the jungle trail in the delta, I knew my experience was nothing like what anyone once faced during the Vietnam War.  I walked on an elevated surface, high above the muck and mire of a swamp that soldiers of both sides faced.  I knew right away that if I had been old enough to go to Vietnam during the war, I most likely would not have survived the delta and its jungle.

I try to avoid tours whenever possible, and it is usually possible.  However, I took a tour of the Mekong Delta.  It made it so much easier to see so many things I could not have managed on my own, with or without fifteen other foreigners.  I enjoyed a boat trip around the Mekong River.  We stopped at rice terraces to witness some really hot and hard work.  There was that jungle trek, some souvenir shops, and one very unusual snake market.  There were live snakes, bottled snakes in some kind of alcohol and one man "fished" through a container of what hopefully was dead snakes.  I wasn't completely certain they were all dead and I would never put my hand in there under any circumstances.  What can you do with a dead snake?  Of course, what can you do with a live snake either?

As always, the best part of any visit to any country is not the markets, or tours, or the dead snakes you might come upon.  It is always the people.  The Vietnamese people were so gracious and friendly everywhere I went.  It didn't matter if they were bicycle taxi drivers, waiters, rice field laborers, snake dealers, merchants, neighbors on the porch or this very friendly old Buddhist who I passed by in the marketplace.  Everyone I met made me very welcome in their country.

My most unusual experience in Vietnam was probably at the Cu Chi Tunnels.  The tunnels, more than 100 miles of them, were built by the communists so they could travel and live completely hidden underground.  My guide through a portion of the tunnels was the son of a Viet Cong soldier.  Yes, the world had changed.

The original entrance to the tunnels I visited was tiny, built for a population much smaller than the average tourist.   Fortunately, there was an additional entrance for tourists.  Once inside the tunnels, it was cramped and hot.  It was hard to believe that they had been enlarged for tourists.   In some areas I could crawl on all fours.  Other sections didn't provide that luxury.  It required belly crawling.  I ventured down to the second level beneath the surface.  Even if I were allowed, I would not have opted to go down to the third level. 
 
Some things never change no matter where I travel.  If it is hot, I am a sweltering, wet mess worse than anyone else.  It was no different at the Cu Chi tunnels.  I was absolutely and completely drenched.  But somehow, my guide didn't have a drop of perspiration on him. 
 
It just wasn't fair.