It’s couscous Friday!
(Every Friday, we go home for lunch instead of eating at the CCCL and most of the families here prepare couscous for Friday lunchtime)
Tomorrow we take off for our southern excursion, the part of this entire trip I am most excited for. During the next week, I will ride a camel, hike up sand dunes, ride in a land rover, spend the night at a girl’s hostel, drive through the Atlas Mountains, listen to Gnawa music, eat lots of bread and dates, explore Marrakesh and chill in Essaouira. I hope I’m making you very jealous right now. :-P
Peace out for the next week or so.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
all in good time
so i lied...
i made the decision a couple of days ago that i'm not going to put up pictures from here until after i get home. some might say lame (which i would have had someone told me), but i do have my reasons:
1) the internet connection here is mad slow so posting would take a ridiculously long time
2) i already have 500 photos and am sure i will be well into the thousands by the time i leave...if i post pictures now people will be sick of seeing morocco by the end of it
3) i'm trying to get on facebook as little as possible because every minute i spend there is one less minute i spend experiencing the culture here. in general, i'm trying to use the internet minimally, just for talking to my parents and a few friends. if you couldn't tell i write a lot of my blog entries beforehand and just spend the necessary five minutes it might take to post.
so, ok, i'm pretty lame, but i've made my decision and i think i should stick with it. in the meantime, there are a few pictures other people have tagged of me in case you need proof that i'm actually here and not pulling a jayson blair. :-P
ok, that's all for now.
i made the decision a couple of days ago that i'm not going to put up pictures from here until after i get home. some might say lame (which i would have had someone told me), but i do have my reasons:
1) the internet connection here is mad slow so posting would take a ridiculously long time
2) i already have 500 photos and am sure i will be well into the thousands by the time i leave...if i post pictures now people will be sick of seeing morocco by the end of it
3) i'm trying to get on facebook as little as possible because every minute i spend there is one less minute i spend experiencing the culture here. in general, i'm trying to use the internet minimally, just for talking to my parents and a few friends. if you couldn't tell i write a lot of my blog entries beforehand and just spend the necessary five minutes it might take to post.
so, ok, i'm pretty lame, but i've made my decision and i think i should stick with it. in the meantime, there are a few pictures other people have tagged of me in case you need proof that i'm actually here and not pulling a jayson blair. :-P
ok, that's all for now.
return to infancy
The idea that showering everyday is a prerequisite for cleanliness is very much a Western one I’ve discovered. Here, it’s not so much a question of how often you shower, but rather how hard you scrub. How I learned this concept…well that’s an interesting story.
During our orientation week, the public baths, or hammams, were mentioned quite a few times as one of those Moroccan experiences we would have to try out. My initial impression was of a less glamorous spa with a large hot tub and bathing suits, but what our academic directors described was more like a nude exhibition in a sauna. A couple of weeks passed by after that first week and various girls came to school with stories of their hammam experiences with sisters, mothers, cousins. I got a little curious and finally this past Sunday I decided I would check it out myself and see these public baths firsthand. I should add that we’re doing a project on the hammam culture as part of our field study class and so my expedition had academic undertones as well. ;)
Unlike the other girls in my group, neither my mother nor my sister could accompany me on my trip to the hammam. My mom was on her period and my sister was in the middle of watching a Bollywood film I bought for her. So, I decided to brave it alone…sort of. Before getting there, my mom assured me that everything would be alright because one of the women at the hammam would show me the ropes and make sure that I was taken care of. I would just have to give her fifty dirhams afterwards as a thank you. Once we got there, all my impressions of bathing suits seemed like a not too funny joke. My mother told me to strip down to my underwear (no bra) and then, clutching a towel tightly against my naked body I entered the world of the hammam.
My companion, the one who would show me the ropes, turned out to be a short-haired, large-breasted, big tummy woman who snatched the towel from my death grip and told me to sit down. I obliged. I made the mistake of fidgeting with my underwear and she ordered me to remove them as well. So, yeah…I was completely nude. She then proceeded to soap every part of my body leaving out only the really private one which I gladly took care of myself. Using a black glove that’s anything but gentle, she scrubbed off every ounce of dirt and dead skin from my body (I’m not exaggerating, the dead skin was falling off in clumps). When she wanted to get my back, I curled up into the fetal position and clenched my teeth while she scraped down my rear side (yes, all of it) with the sandpaper glove. Then, with scalding hot water she rinsed me off. Following my lather, scrub, rinse session I sat in a steam room, to nab a few relaxation minutes before I left. As a final departing note, the woman grabbed one of the large tubs filled with water and dumped the entire thing over my head. I’d say I definitely got my fifty dirhams worth.
My thoughts and notes about the experience:
-The nudity’s not so bad. After the initial shock I realized I was in a room with all kinds of naked women and got over my own exposure.
-Everyone watches everyone. It’s very much a part of the culture here to observe other people.
-As one of the few place meant exclusively for women (they have separate ones for men), the hammam is sort of a sacred female space. It’s where they come to hang out with their friends, chat about the latest gossip and spend some time on themselves.
-Being scrubbed down by another person (once you get over the awkwardness of it) is actually quite nice. My hammam buddy got the spots I might normally have missed and the whole bathing experience felt like a comfortable return to infancy.
Overall, I give it two thumbs up. If you’re ever in Morocco, try out the public baths.
During our orientation week, the public baths, or hammams, were mentioned quite a few times as one of those Moroccan experiences we would have to try out. My initial impression was of a less glamorous spa with a large hot tub and bathing suits, but what our academic directors described was more like a nude exhibition in a sauna. A couple of weeks passed by after that first week and various girls came to school with stories of their hammam experiences with sisters, mothers, cousins. I got a little curious and finally this past Sunday I decided I would check it out myself and see these public baths firsthand. I should add that we’re doing a project on the hammam culture as part of our field study class and so my expedition had academic undertones as well. ;)
Unlike the other girls in my group, neither my mother nor my sister could accompany me on my trip to the hammam. My mom was on her period and my sister was in the middle of watching a Bollywood film I bought for her. So, I decided to brave it alone…sort of. Before getting there, my mom assured me that everything would be alright because one of the women at the hammam would show me the ropes and make sure that I was taken care of. I would just have to give her fifty dirhams afterwards as a thank you. Once we got there, all my impressions of bathing suits seemed like a not too funny joke. My mother told me to strip down to my underwear (no bra) and then, clutching a towel tightly against my naked body I entered the world of the hammam.
My companion, the one who would show me the ropes, turned out to be a short-haired, large-breasted, big tummy woman who snatched the towel from my death grip and told me to sit down. I obliged. I made the mistake of fidgeting with my underwear and she ordered me to remove them as well. So, yeah…I was completely nude. She then proceeded to soap every part of my body leaving out only the really private one which I gladly took care of myself. Using a black glove that’s anything but gentle, she scrubbed off every ounce of dirt and dead skin from my body (I’m not exaggerating, the dead skin was falling off in clumps). When she wanted to get my back, I curled up into the fetal position and clenched my teeth while she scraped down my rear side (yes, all of it) with the sandpaper glove. Then, with scalding hot water she rinsed me off. Following my lather, scrub, rinse session I sat in a steam room, to nab a few relaxation minutes before I left. As a final departing note, the woman grabbed one of the large tubs filled with water and dumped the entire thing over my head. I’d say I definitely got my fifty dirhams worth.
My thoughts and notes about the experience:
-The nudity’s not so bad. After the initial shock I realized I was in a room with all kinds of naked women and got over my own exposure.
-Everyone watches everyone. It’s very much a part of the culture here to observe other people.
-As one of the few place meant exclusively for women (they have separate ones for men), the hammam is sort of a sacred female space. It’s where they come to hang out with their friends, chat about the latest gossip and spend some time on themselves.
-Being scrubbed down by another person (once you get over the awkwardness of it) is actually quite nice. My hammam buddy got the spots I might normally have missed and the whole bathing experience felt like a comfortable return to infancy.
Overall, I give it two thumbs up. If you’re ever in Morocco, try out the public baths.
Monday, February 23, 2009
el jadida
This past weekend was one of those rare occasions when we did not have a scheduled excursion nor did we have any obligations to stay at home. So, a group of four of us took off Saturday morning for a tiny city about three and a half hours south of Rabat called El Jadida (“The New”).
The city is supposedly well known for its fish dishes and while I myself did not indulge in this regional delicacy, I did accompany my friends to Restaurant Tchikito a place described in the guide book as “an authentic experience.” Likewise, upon arriving at Tchikito the first thing we saw was the kitchen, set up right near the entrance with full fish (head, eyes and tail included) fried in batter and hung in plain view as if to warn “Leave your squeamish stomach at the door.” Luckily, after three weeks in Morocco, particularly after witnessing a chopped off camel’s head in the markets of Fes, squeamishness is not a word my stomach concedes. My friend signaled to the waiter with three fingers and he returned with three plates of fried goods. For myself, I ordered my latest drink of choice, a Fanta Citron, and pulled out the bottle of DanUp vanilla yogurt I had secretly stashed in my purse. While three hungry faces polished off the entire cast of Finding Nemo, I too finished my shake in a matter of minutes. The aftermath of lunchtime: three plates of piled up fish bones and one empty yogurt bottle.
Following lunch we wandered through the older part of the city which was formerly inhabited by the Portuguese. The guide book really only recommended one monument and we just so happened to stumble upon it while walking through one of the smaller markets. The Portuguese Cistern is an underground chamber with a vaulted ceiling that reflects a mirror image onto a thin layer of water that is constantly on the ground. An opening in the center of the room lets in just enough light to make the pillars, arches and reflections perfectly visible. The vault had such a sense of both mystery and architectural history I felt like Indiana Jones uncovering a dreamy archaeological find. I took what must have been hundreds of pictures until my friends insisted we see the rest of the town.
We walked along the beach for that unknown, doesn’t matter period of time that you might associate with beach walking. El Jadida’s cafés warmly greeted us on the right while crashing waves beckoned to us from the left. I opted to keep my dry clothes and turned right. Out on the café’s terrace we sat sipping overly sugary coffees and watching groups of men play soccer on the beach.
After a large pizza dinner, two scoops of gelato, and a few glasses of wine, I polished off the weekend with a long and heavy Sunday sleep.
And that is the story of a simple weekend in El Jadida.
The city is supposedly well known for its fish dishes and while I myself did not indulge in this regional delicacy, I did accompany my friends to Restaurant Tchikito a place described in the guide book as “an authentic experience.” Likewise, upon arriving at Tchikito the first thing we saw was the kitchen, set up right near the entrance with full fish (head, eyes and tail included) fried in batter and hung in plain view as if to warn “Leave your squeamish stomach at the door.” Luckily, after three weeks in Morocco, particularly after witnessing a chopped off camel’s head in the markets of Fes, squeamishness is not a word my stomach concedes. My friend signaled to the waiter with three fingers and he returned with three plates of fried goods. For myself, I ordered my latest drink of choice, a Fanta Citron, and pulled out the bottle of DanUp vanilla yogurt I had secretly stashed in my purse. While three hungry faces polished off the entire cast of Finding Nemo, I too finished my shake in a matter of minutes. The aftermath of lunchtime: three plates of piled up fish bones and one empty yogurt bottle.
Following lunch we wandered through the older part of the city which was formerly inhabited by the Portuguese. The guide book really only recommended one monument and we just so happened to stumble upon it while walking through one of the smaller markets. The Portuguese Cistern is an underground chamber with a vaulted ceiling that reflects a mirror image onto a thin layer of water that is constantly on the ground. An opening in the center of the room lets in just enough light to make the pillars, arches and reflections perfectly visible. The vault had such a sense of both mystery and architectural history I felt like Indiana Jones uncovering a dreamy archaeological find. I took what must have been hundreds of pictures until my friends insisted we see the rest of the town.
We walked along the beach for that unknown, doesn’t matter period of time that you might associate with beach walking. El Jadida’s cafés warmly greeted us on the right while crashing waves beckoned to us from the left. I opted to keep my dry clothes and turned right. Out on the café’s terrace we sat sipping overly sugary coffees and watching groups of men play soccer on the beach.
After a large pizza dinner, two scoops of gelato, and a few glasses of wine, I polished off the weekend with a long and heavy Sunday sleep.
And that is the story of a simple weekend in El Jadida.
Friday, February 20, 2009
:) = :)
As an international relations student, Samuel Huntington’s “Clash of Civilizations” is one of those arguments that I know by heart. I’ve discussed and debated it in too many classes and honestly I could do without seeing Huntington’s thesis for a while. So, when I saw that my reading assignment for yesterday was none other than my fave Huntington, I wanted to scream a little. What was interesting about yesterday, however, was the format in which the discussion would take place. As a teacher at Mohammed V University, my professor invited us to join one of his classes and discuss the article with his students. For those of you who may not know about Huntington’s clash, here’s a brief summary:
Since the end of the Cold War, a new world order has emerged in which the fault lines of conflict are culturally tied as opposed to the political and economic motivations of the past. What Huntington eventually comes to describe is a clash between the Western civilization and the Islamic civilization in which the differences between these two cultures stand in opposition to one another. This opposition is the new source of tension and conflict.
Now, imagine a room with American exchange students sitting on one side and Moroccan graduate students sitting on the other. A visual representation of Huntington’s clash? Maybe the tensions were a bit high in the beginning as they naturally would be when two groups are set at odds with one another. But then, somewhere in the middle of our discussion, a Mohammed V student raised his hand and offered his own take on the supposed rift between us and them. He described two children playing with two different toys, one expensive, and the other cheap. Then he said, “Even if the toys are different, the smile is the same. We all sleep the same way, and we all love the same way.”
I can’t say that I’m idealistic enough to fully believe this myself, but his thought did make me smile. a lot.
Since the end of the Cold War, a new world order has emerged in which the fault lines of conflict are culturally tied as opposed to the political and economic motivations of the past. What Huntington eventually comes to describe is a clash between the Western civilization and the Islamic civilization in which the differences between these two cultures stand in opposition to one another. This opposition is the new source of tension and conflict.
Now, imagine a room with American exchange students sitting on one side and Moroccan graduate students sitting on the other. A visual representation of Huntington’s clash? Maybe the tensions were a bit high in the beginning as they naturally would be when two groups are set at odds with one another. But then, somewhere in the middle of our discussion, a Mohammed V student raised his hand and offered his own take on the supposed rift between us and them. He described two children playing with two different toys, one expensive, and the other cheap. Then he said, “Even if the toys are different, the smile is the same. We all sleep the same way, and we all love the same way.”
I can’t say that I’m idealistic enough to fully believe this myself, but his thought did make me smile. a lot.
Monday, February 16, 2009
why i have no pictures of fes
to have forgotten my camera would have been a rookie mistake. no, i decided that i wanted my battery to be fully charged (as opposed to just 3/4 charged) so i left it at home plugged into a socket in the wall and didn't realize until we were halfway to meknes (our first stop). sad face. it took me a while but i eventually came to terms with the fact that i will have no pictures of fes. that didn't stop me from continuously thinking, wow my camera would have taken an amazing picture of that, but hey no point crying over battery chargers in wall sockets.
while i was busy not taking pictures of fes, here are a few things i did do (presented especially for you in list form)
-we took a guided bus tour of meknes, one of the four imperial cities in morocco
-i walked through the roman ruins in volubulis and sat in the orgy room of what used to be a brothel (probably the most painful portion of my camera-less weekend)
-a mute/deaf man tried to walk us back to our bus despite many refusals and then asked for money
-the guys in our group were pulled on stage during dinner and forced to bellydance
-we saw the tanneries in fes, which smell pretty bad, but are amazing...if i recommend one sight to see in fes, this would be it (this was the second most painful camera moment)
-i was almost run over by a donkey in a very narrow street
-i haggled with a man over some fes caps
-a man on the street offered to give us all his camels (a really twisted moroccan fantasy?)
-a couple of friends and i decided to wander through the medina and then walk all the way back to the hotel, but were luckily stopped by a woman who spoke english and informed us that it would take over two hours to walk back to our hotel...we ended up taking a cab
-i ate spaghetti for dinner which sounds so unauthentic, but was my first dinner that wasn't steamed vegetables
a few other thoughts about fes...the vendors are SO much more aggressive than in rabat. even glancing at one of their products means to them that you're interest. and pointing? forget about it...you're a prime sales target. the medina (or old city) in fes is also the largest in north africa and it's very easy to get lost in the narrow, winding streets. some of the streets are so tiny that we could only walk through one at a time and even then it was a tight squeeze. obesity is simply not an option for the citizens of fes.
i'm back to the daily rabat routine now which means it's time for lunch at home.
while i was busy not taking pictures of fes, here are a few things i did do (presented especially for you in list form)
-we took a guided bus tour of meknes, one of the four imperial cities in morocco
-i walked through the roman ruins in volubulis and sat in the orgy room of what used to be a brothel (probably the most painful portion of my camera-less weekend)
-a mute/deaf man tried to walk us back to our bus despite many refusals and then asked for money
-the guys in our group were pulled on stage during dinner and forced to bellydance
-we saw the tanneries in fes, which smell pretty bad, but are amazing...if i recommend one sight to see in fes, this would be it (this was the second most painful camera moment)
-i was almost run over by a donkey in a very narrow street
-i haggled with a man over some fes caps
-a man on the street offered to give us all his camels (a really twisted moroccan fantasy?)
-a couple of friends and i decided to wander through the medina and then walk all the way back to the hotel, but were luckily stopped by a woman who spoke english and informed us that it would take over two hours to walk back to our hotel...we ended up taking a cab
-i ate spaghetti for dinner which sounds so unauthentic, but was my first dinner that wasn't steamed vegetables
a few other thoughts about fes...the vendors are SO much more aggressive than in rabat. even glancing at one of their products means to them that you're interest. and pointing? forget about it...you're a prime sales target. the medina (or old city) in fes is also the largest in north africa and it's very easy to get lost in the narrow, winding streets. some of the streets are so tiny that we could only walk through one at a time and even then it was a tight squeeze. obesity is simply not an option for the citizens of fes.
i'm back to the daily rabat routine now which means it's time for lunch at home.
i forgot to post these before i left...oops
Thursday, February 12th
This weekend we leave for our first excursion to Fes, Meknes, and two other cities (I forget their names). It seems unreal that I’ve only been here for two weeks. I already know my way around the medina, for the most part, I’ve taken over three hundred pictures and my companions feel like old familiar faces. Apparently people who did this program in the past said that time flies by and the three months were over before they knew it. I’ll have to spare judgment on that until my time here is up, but here are my sentiments on time in Morocco so far. Right now, it feels as though the days are both too long and too short at the same time. I cover a lot of ground each both literally and figuratively, but the end always seems to come too soon. I know it sounds impossible, but I swear it’s true.
Today, our lecture focused upon the hijab and its cultural/religious history here in Morocco. A few facts about the hijab that I didn’t know before and will now share with you.
-The term hijab was not popularly used until the 1970s when the Iranian Revolution took place.
-During the 1980s many in Morocco considered the hijab unacceptable because the women who wore were associated with plots to overthrow the regime.
-Women see the head covering as their own interpretation of the Koran making it a symbol of female empowerment.
Our lecturer, Farah, expressed a few concerns about recent trends in the reasons why women will wear hijab. She told us that she has spoken with women who hold atheist beliefs, but wear the hijab as a form of legitimacy because they feel they will attract less attention and be taken more seriously. During this discussion, I thought back to my first day at home here. The first time I saw my sister, she was wearing hijab. Then, the next day when we left the house to buy bread, her head was not covered. In response to my confused looks Mi explained that Amal does not usually wear the hijab, but the day before she hadn’t washed her hair and didn’t want anyone to see it. I know that a majority of women still wear because of religious reasons, but I do wonder about what exactly the hijab has come to mean for the women who wear it. Is it an expression of religious belief? A fashion statement? A protection against harassment? A way to gain legitimacy? A symbol for independence? A form of separation? A cover-up for bad hair days? I’m not sure, but I get the impression that no two women would answer the same way.
Friday, February 13th
Friday night movie! We went for a Moroccan film that’s caused quite a stir here. It’s called Amours Voiles (Loose translation…Love and the Veil) and tells the somewhat racy story of a woman who has sexual relations with a man out of wedlock. There were a couple of nude scenes which made the entire male audience go wild. I wouldn’t say it’s the best acting, but I think it’s a worthwhile watch particularly if you know the cultural context. Doubt any of you would be able to find it, but if you can, check it out.
On the way back from the movie tonight, we watched as a homeless man tried to steal a blanket from a homeless woman. The woman was screaming phrases in Arabic that I didn’t really understand, but all I could do was feel sorry for her and keep walking by. As we passed the scene, a second man, completely unrelated to the entire dispute, tackled (I’m talking a full out takedown) the thief, returned the blanket to the woman and started beating the crap out of the first man. If we were in the United States I feel like a good many people would have seen an old woman being robbed, sympathized for her and then passed by not considering it their responsibility to help. My friend’s host brother told us that what we saw was a mild case compared to what usually happens. It is not unlikely to see groups of ten or more men beating someone up for a sin they committed against Allah. The words duty and responsibility really mean something here. I somehow feel safer knowing that. I feel like if I really needed it, I’d have a gang of ten Moroccan men looking out for me.
This weekend we leave for our first excursion to Fes, Meknes, and two other cities (I forget their names). It seems unreal that I’ve only been here for two weeks. I already know my way around the medina, for the most part, I’ve taken over three hundred pictures and my companions feel like old familiar faces. Apparently people who did this program in the past said that time flies by and the three months were over before they knew it. I’ll have to spare judgment on that until my time here is up, but here are my sentiments on time in Morocco so far. Right now, it feels as though the days are both too long and too short at the same time. I cover a lot of ground each both literally and figuratively, but the end always seems to come too soon. I know it sounds impossible, but I swear it’s true.
Today, our lecture focused upon the hijab and its cultural/religious history here in Morocco. A few facts about the hijab that I didn’t know before and will now share with you.
-The term hijab was not popularly used until the 1970s when the Iranian Revolution took place.
-During the 1980s many in Morocco considered the hijab unacceptable because the women who wore were associated with plots to overthrow the regime.
-Women see the head covering as their own interpretation of the Koran making it a symbol of female empowerment.
Our lecturer, Farah, expressed a few concerns about recent trends in the reasons why women will wear hijab. She told us that she has spoken with women who hold atheist beliefs, but wear the hijab as a form of legitimacy because they feel they will attract less attention and be taken more seriously. During this discussion, I thought back to my first day at home here. The first time I saw my sister, she was wearing hijab. Then, the next day when we left the house to buy bread, her head was not covered. In response to my confused looks Mi explained that Amal does not usually wear the hijab, but the day before she hadn’t washed her hair and didn’t want anyone to see it. I know that a majority of women still wear because of religious reasons, but I do wonder about what exactly the hijab has come to mean for the women who wear it. Is it an expression of religious belief? A fashion statement? A protection against harassment? A way to gain legitimacy? A symbol for independence? A form of separation? A cover-up for bad hair days? I’m not sure, but I get the impression that no two women would answer the same way.
Friday, February 13th
Friday night movie! We went for a Moroccan film that’s caused quite a stir here. It’s called Amours Voiles (Loose translation…Love and the Veil) and tells the somewhat racy story of a woman who has sexual relations with a man out of wedlock. There were a couple of nude scenes which made the entire male audience go wild. I wouldn’t say it’s the best acting, but I think it’s a worthwhile watch particularly if you know the cultural context. Doubt any of you would be able to find it, but if you can, check it out.
On the way back from the movie tonight, we watched as a homeless man tried to steal a blanket from a homeless woman. The woman was screaming phrases in Arabic that I didn’t really understand, but all I could do was feel sorry for her and keep walking by. As we passed the scene, a second man, completely unrelated to the entire dispute, tackled (I’m talking a full out takedown) the thief, returned the blanket to the woman and started beating the crap out of the first man. If we were in the United States I feel like a good many people would have seen an old woman being robbed, sympathized for her and then passed by not considering it their responsibility to help. My friend’s host brother told us that what we saw was a mild case compared to what usually happens. It is not unlikely to see groups of ten or more men beating someone up for a sin they committed against Allah. The words duty and responsibility really mean something here. I somehow feel safer knowing that. I feel like if I really needed it, I’d have a gang of ten Moroccan men looking out for me.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
minus the smiley stickers
Tonight’s festivities…
Puppy chow. No, not the Purina kind…though that is what first came to my mind. Apparently, it’s also the name for a peanut butter, chocolatey cereal mix? Anyways, my friends here decide they would like to expose their Moroccan families to American food/obesity by making some of this “puppy chow” and I decide to tag along for the ride. So, we set off for the nearest grocery store in pursuit of every cavity causing ingredient we can find. [Side note, since being here I crave chocolate daily. I don’t always indulge, but damn, I do want it all the time.] Anyways, after thirty minutes of trekking alongside some major highway and crossing several roads which aren’t meant to be crossed, we find it: Marjane. Only it’s not really a grocery store…more of a MEGAstore with everything a person could possibly want including an ice cream shop and a Pizza Hut. And I think to myself, Wow, a Moroccan Walmart.
Once inside, chocolate cravings are satisfied, ingredients are bought and some over-ambitious man with a full cart almost cuts us in the check-out line. With plastic bags in hand, we begin our long walk back from the middle of nowhere and I think to myself Wow, this is the least cultural experience I have had since being here. Someone (up there) must have heard because while passing under a bridge, my shoe gets stuck and my bare foot sinks six inches deep into pure, authentic, 100% Moroccan mud.
Now I’m allowed to say it…I got down and dirty in Morocco.
Puppy chow. No, not the Purina kind…though that is what first came to my mind. Apparently, it’s also the name for a peanut butter, chocolatey cereal mix? Anyways, my friends here decide they would like to expose their Moroccan families to American food/obesity by making some of this “puppy chow” and I decide to tag along for the ride. So, we set off for the nearest grocery store in pursuit of every cavity causing ingredient we can find. [Side note, since being here I crave chocolate daily. I don’t always indulge, but damn, I do want it all the time.] Anyways, after thirty minutes of trekking alongside some major highway and crossing several roads which aren’t meant to be crossed, we find it: Marjane. Only it’s not really a grocery store…more of a MEGAstore with everything a person could possibly want including an ice cream shop and a Pizza Hut. And I think to myself, Wow, a Moroccan Walmart.
Once inside, chocolate cravings are satisfied, ingredients are bought and some over-ambitious man with a full cart almost cuts us in the check-out line. With plastic bags in hand, we begin our long walk back from the middle of nowhere and I think to myself Wow, this is the least cultural experience I have had since being here. Someone (up there) must have heard because while passing under a bridge, my shoe gets stuck and my bare foot sinks six inches deep into pure, authentic, 100% Moroccan mud.
Now I’m allowed to say it…I got down and dirty in Morocco.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
family of four plus one
I think I had my first family bonding experience tonight. First my mother, sister and I sat down and discussed the pros and cons of tampons vs. pads. Then, my brother came and we switched the topic to that of music…Indian music in particular. I searched my iTunes for what limited Hindi songs I have (believe me there aren’t many) and played a few of my favorites. My brother tried to imitate my neck and shoulder movements which was pretty hilarious. Then, my sister described her relationship with her boyfriend (neither her dad nor her brother know…mom does), who is apparently her eighth (?!). Then, during dinner, I threw out a few Moroccan Arabic words…brd (cold), eya (yes), la (no), safi (enough), naas (sleep) and madukduk (tired). Overall, I’d say today was an A- on the family front.
I also wandered around the Hassan II mausoleum earlier today with a few of my friends. I'd tell you it was beautiful but I think I've used that word way too many times to describe Morocco. So, instead, I’ve made it my goal to put up a few pictures by the end of the week since I’m sure you’re all curious to see what this place looks like. :)
Since being here I seem to get tired around 10 p.m. (which btw is actually dinnertime). So, I’m usually in bed by a little after 11…which is right about now (as if you couldn’t tell by this sort of unmotivated post). Sleepy time for me.
OH, I got the best pick up line yesterday. Here it is.
Hey you, you’re beautiful. Pakistan! Pakistan! Come here, talk to me. You like Morocco? I will build you a palace here.
Should’ve taken him up on that offer…
I also wandered around the Hassan II mausoleum earlier today with a few of my friends. I'd tell you it was beautiful but I think I've used that word way too many times to describe Morocco. So, instead, I’ve made it my goal to put up a few pictures by the end of the week since I’m sure you’re all curious to see what this place looks like. :)
Since being here I seem to get tired around 10 p.m. (which btw is actually dinnertime). So, I’m usually in bed by a little after 11…which is right about now (as if you couldn’t tell by this sort of unmotivated post). Sleepy time for me.
OH, I got the best pick up line yesterday. Here it is.
Hey you, you’re beautiful. Pakistan! Pakistan! Come here, talk to me. You like Morocco? I will build you a palace here.
Should’ve taken him up on that offer…
Monday, February 9, 2009
fashion faux pas
I just bought leopard print socks. For those of you may not know, imitation animal clothing is not really my style. But hey, new country, new style, right? Not that leopard print exactly screams of Morocco, but hey, I’m going to work it.
Tonight post-dinner we watched a show that was like a Moroccan version of Judge Judy. Divorced parents with a custody battle on their hands; a lawyer defending each parent and then three judges to make the decision.
My host mother is a chatty type. While I was reading my homework for tonight, (a task that proved to be difficult considering I haven’t done schoolwork in how long?) she sat down next to me and shared essentially her life philosophy. She told me that the reason she continues to go to the CCCL and ask to host exchange students is because she wants to change the way Americans see Islam. She does not support war; she doesn’t believe in killing others. All people, she told me, are God’s children whether they be Christian, Jewish, Muslim, American, Indian…whatever they may be. And she cannot support anything that would harm someone who is just as human as she is. The word Islam, after all is a derivative of the word salaam (peace). I smiled to myself because here in front of me was a tiny Moroccan woman smarter than 90% of the world’s politicians.
To test her I asked, What about Amal? What if she decides to marry someone who isn’t Muslim (musulman)? She told me that it’s not up to her. It’s her daughter’s choice and in the end, c’est la coeur qui decide (it is the heart that decides).
Tonight post-dinner we watched a show that was like a Moroccan version of Judge Judy. Divorced parents with a custody battle on their hands; a lawyer defending each parent and then three judges to make the decision.
My host mother is a chatty type. While I was reading my homework for tonight, (a task that proved to be difficult considering I haven’t done schoolwork in how long?) she sat down next to me and shared essentially her life philosophy. She told me that the reason she continues to go to the CCCL and ask to host exchange students is because she wants to change the way Americans see Islam. She does not support war; she doesn’t believe in killing others. All people, she told me, are God’s children whether they be Christian, Jewish, Muslim, American, Indian…whatever they may be. And she cannot support anything that would harm someone who is just as human as she is. The word Islam, after all is a derivative of the word salaam (peace). I smiled to myself because here in front of me was a tiny Moroccan woman smarter than 90% of the world’s politicians.
To test her I asked, What about Amal? What if she decides to marry someone who isn’t Muslim (musulman)? She told me that it’s not up to her. It’s her daughter’s choice and in the end, c’est la coeur qui decide (it is the heart that decides).
Sunday, February 8, 2009
it's a hole in the ground
I have not quite mastered the Turkish toilet yet. I think I underestimated how difficult it would be. I remember doing it all those years ago in India, but then I realized that India was a good seven years ago and my bum’s been used to something else for quite some time now. Anyways, I’ll spare you the gory details on this. Just know that the toilet is a work in progress at the moment.
Last night I watched a Hindi movie with Amitabh Bachchan followed by Back to the Future in French. Marty McFly has never sounded so hilarious before.
I now have a Moroccan name. I don’t think Rohini was something the fam could handle and apparently all of their past students chose a new name. So, now I go by Iman. It’s the name of a girl I used to babysit for and I always thought it was very pretty. According to my host mother, by the end of this trip, I’ll be so used to Iman that I won’t even respond when called by my actual name. I laughed and thought to myself, We’ll see about that. I think there are too many people who call me Ro or Roho or Roni that it won’t disappear so easily…but we will see.
I get the impression that the fam finds my vegetarianism to be somewhat of a joke. During conversation I will randomly hear the words pas la viande and my father will roll his eyes at the food. Also, mealtime is like rapid back and forth Moroccan Arabic time and as the only person who has no clue what’s going on, I look from side to side like a clueless tennis spectator. Just in case you were wondering, I got that metaphor from my father who kept pointing to me and saying tennis in a French accent. Despite the language barrier I seem to be enjoying my time in this new household and everyone seems to be extremely accommodating.
Note: This entry was written courtesy of the free Internet at Café Arab, where in the course of this post I spilled a drink and made a complete fool of myself. I also dropped my fork twice at dinner the other night making me a class A Moroccan klutz.
Last night I watched a Hindi movie with Amitabh Bachchan followed by Back to the Future in French. Marty McFly has never sounded so hilarious before.
I now have a Moroccan name. I don’t think Rohini was something the fam could handle and apparently all of their past students chose a new name. So, now I go by Iman. It’s the name of a girl I used to babysit for and I always thought it was very pretty. According to my host mother, by the end of this trip, I’ll be so used to Iman that I won’t even respond when called by my actual name. I laughed and thought to myself, We’ll see about that. I think there are too many people who call me Ro or Roho or Roni that it won’t disappear so easily…but we will see.
I get the impression that the fam finds my vegetarianism to be somewhat of a joke. During conversation I will randomly hear the words pas la viande and my father will roll his eyes at the food. Also, mealtime is like rapid back and forth Moroccan Arabic time and as the only person who has no clue what’s going on, I look from side to side like a clueless tennis spectator. Just in case you were wondering, I got that metaphor from my father who kept pointing to me and saying tennis in a French accent. Despite the language barrier I seem to be enjoying my time in this new household and everyone seems to be extremely accommodating.
Note: This entry was written courtesy of the free Internet at Café Arab, where in the course of this post I spilled a drink and made a complete fool of myself. I also dropped my fork twice at dinner the other night making me a class A Moroccan klutz.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
like an unclaimed baggage
Yesterday night I was provided with a white sheet paper. On it, small details placed in list form. Family name: Lmoudden. Mother: Rabia. Father: Lhossein. Daughter: Amal. Son: Nourredine. Languages: Moroccan Arabic, French, English (few). Room: Shared. Toilet: Turkish. Water: Hot. Animals: None. This is what I knew of my host family twenty four hours ago. I descended the stairs of the CCCL with a pretty heavy feeling in my stomach. I consider myself to be someone who is pretty easy to get along with and also someone who is respectful of others. So, I was never really nervous about the idea of insulting or being rude to someone who has so warmly welcomed me into their house. Still, being handed a sheet of paper with four foreign names and then proceeding downstairs into a sea of faces out of which I was to find the one which I belonged to…brings out that twisted knot in your gut feeling.
Doha, our homestay coordinator, had arranged a 4 – 5 pm meet and greet with our new families and of course, I’m standing on the side of a room looking up and down every person I see asking myself Are you my mother? Like the lost duck in that children’s story. Pretty decent looking waiters with trays are walking around and I position myself by one of them shoving cookies down my throat to ease my nerves. 4:30 rolls around (I’m seven or eight cookies in) and Doha walks over to me, takes the sheet of paper I have clenched between my fingers and says “Lmoudden…no, not here yet.” At this point, there’s still a group of seven or eight of us “homeless” kids. But one by one, like puppies in a kennel, people are picked up by new families and so the group gets smaller in size until there are only two of us left. Now it’s 4:45, the chances of them coming are looking pretty slim and I’ve completely lost track of the cookie count. We sit in the entrance hall to be certain that they won’t miss us. Doha comes by and glances at our papers again. It’s ok. They know who you are. They will find you tomorrow. Not a comforting thought. No one wants to be the kid who’s family didn’t show up on the first day. My hands are shaking now and my one buddy and I are talking about anything we can to take our mind off IT. I can feel the tears swelling in my eyes, but I look at his face and try to answer and ask questions about school, family, sports, friends, anything. Families start to leave around 5 and now other students come around sharing stories of their new little sister and older brother. I can feel the dam breaking and I consider finding a private place to let it out. Just when I’m about the reach the peak of an emotional breakdown (around 5:10), I see the door open and a short woman wearing djellebah and hijab, points her finger to me as if to say you’re mine. I wipe away the tears, smile back and kiss my new mother on the cheeks. My friend who sat with me through the hour and ten minute roller coaster gives me a sad/happy look…the last man standing. I try to flash him an encouraging smile, but am swept away by Mi (mom).
So, here is what I’ve learned of my new family so far… My sister, Amal, is very excited that I will be staying with them because she is a huge fan of Bollywood movies. Her favorite actor? Shahrukh Khan of course. My brother, Nourredine, works during the day at a French center and studies at night (comptabilite which if my memory of Vockrodt’s class serves me right is accounting?). My father, Lhoussein, is a vendor at one of the stores in the medina and from what I understood (though I could be wrong…my grasp of the French language is seriously being questioned right now) he sells teapots. My mother, Rabia, is a very sweet woman and has already told me on numerous occasions that I am not a stranger (l’etrangere) in her house. I am a part of the family. The house itself is large. We live on the second floor and there are two salons which act as both a living room and a bedroom at night for the daughters in the family. There’s a beautiful open space in the middle which lets sunlight into the house through yellow accented arches. There’s also the kitchen, the dining room where the TV is always on, the toilet and the shower (al doosh). And of course Nourredine’s room and Mi and Ba’s room.
I am beginning to get the feeling that I did the right thing, choosing this program.
Doha, our homestay coordinator, had arranged a 4 – 5 pm meet and greet with our new families and of course, I’m standing on the side of a room looking up and down every person I see asking myself Are you my mother? Like the lost duck in that children’s story. Pretty decent looking waiters with trays are walking around and I position myself by one of them shoving cookies down my throat to ease my nerves. 4:30 rolls around (I’m seven or eight cookies in) and Doha walks over to me, takes the sheet of paper I have clenched between my fingers and says “Lmoudden…no, not here yet.” At this point, there’s still a group of seven or eight of us “homeless” kids. But one by one, like puppies in a kennel, people are picked up by new families and so the group gets smaller in size until there are only two of us left. Now it’s 4:45, the chances of them coming are looking pretty slim and I’ve completely lost track of the cookie count. We sit in the entrance hall to be certain that they won’t miss us. Doha comes by and glances at our papers again. It’s ok. They know who you are. They will find you tomorrow. Not a comforting thought. No one wants to be the kid who’s family didn’t show up on the first day. My hands are shaking now and my one buddy and I are talking about anything we can to take our mind off IT. I can feel the tears swelling in my eyes, but I look at his face and try to answer and ask questions about school, family, sports, friends, anything. Families start to leave around 5 and now other students come around sharing stories of their new little sister and older brother. I can feel the dam breaking and I consider finding a private place to let it out. Just when I’m about the reach the peak of an emotional breakdown (around 5:10), I see the door open and a short woman wearing djellebah and hijab, points her finger to me as if to say you’re mine. I wipe away the tears, smile back and kiss my new mother on the cheeks. My friend who sat with me through the hour and ten minute roller coaster gives me a sad/happy look…the last man standing. I try to flash him an encouraging smile, but am swept away by Mi (mom).
So, here is what I’ve learned of my new family so far… My sister, Amal, is very excited that I will be staying with them because she is a huge fan of Bollywood movies. Her favorite actor? Shahrukh Khan of course. My brother, Nourredine, works during the day at a French center and studies at night (comptabilite which if my memory of Vockrodt’s class serves me right is accounting?). My father, Lhoussein, is a vendor at one of the stores in the medina and from what I understood (though I could be wrong…my grasp of the French language is seriously being questioned right now) he sells teapots. My mother, Rabia, is a very sweet woman and has already told me on numerous occasions that I am not a stranger (l’etrangere) in her house. I am a part of the family. The house itself is large. We live on the second floor and there are two salons which act as both a living room and a bedroom at night for the daughters in the family. There’s a beautiful open space in the middle which lets sunlight into the house through yellow accented arches. There’s also the kitchen, the dining room where the TV is always on, the toilet and the shower (al doosh). And of course Nourredine’s room and Mi and Ba’s room.
I am beginning to get the feeling that I did the right thing, choosing this program.
Friday, February 6, 2009
on the streets
Harassment. Apparently there’s a lot of it here. Though, if you ask me it’s kind of refreshing in a twisted only Rohini would think this kind of way. The guys who check you out on the street, and believe me there are a LOT of them (not being cocky…these guys would hit on anything that moved) are different from the guys you’ll hear in the states. It all starts with eye contact. I’m not talking about a glance. I mean locked eyes, they don’t back down. Once eye contact is made we take things to the comment level. A few things we’ve heard…fantastique!…I love you...konichiwa (for my Korean friend)…welcome to Morocco…hello, how are you baby…sexy, sexy, sexy. And those are just the ones that we could understand. We’ve also heard our fair share of Arabic phrases that just go in one ear and out the other. During our harassment seminar today, my academic director told us a Moroccan man’s best compliment is to compare your beauty to that of a gazelle. Gazelle eyes are supposedly the most beautiful and for you to reach gazelle status is kind of a big thing. But really despite the things they may say to you at least these men genuinely look you in the face. Not that there’s much else to look at since no one wears anything remotely revealing. I’m just saying it’s nice to be harassed for your face instead of your…other assets.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
a couple of journal entries
due to a slow internet connection i have been slow in posting these...
Day 1
Today I made my first Moroccan friend. We were walking in the medina on the way to the Center for Cross Cultural Learning in the middle of a rare Moroccan rain storm. Without the rain boots and raincoat I had packed away so carefully in my luggage I was a stranded soldier in the line of precipitous fire. I began to run convinced it was the only way to save my already sweaty body from a second drenching. Before I got far however the bullets stopped, and I looked up to find that I was covered. A black umbrella held at the very bottom tip by a man shorter than me barely reached over the top of my head. But, it kept me dry. I turned and smiled at him…c’est d’accord, je suis avec une grande group, c’est d’accord. Il a dit, non, je vous garde, je vous garde. Merci a mon premier ami en Maroc.
Day 3
Leave it to me to find the only Colorado reference in all of Rabat. The owner of the Café Glacier Colorado is perhaps one of the sweetest men I have met here. Apparently, the joint is named after said owner’s distant relatives with whom I share a beautiful state. And despite the fact that I was drinking from a Coke bottle labeled in Arabic, I did feel a little bit at home. :)
This morning we had our first true solo wandering of Rabat. As part of an exercise (“Encounters of a First Kind”) my fellow students and I were dropped in various parts of the city with the goal of safely making it back to the medina and the CCCL. From my understanding, Rabat is basically broken down into two parts: the medina and la ville nouvelle. The first is known as “the old city,” a collection of narrow winding streets where every step brings with it a new smell, a new color. La ville nouvelle, or “the French quarters,” is styled after European cities with broader made for car streets and beautiful hotels/apartments/houses. My drop off was right outside the city limits at the gate leading into Rabat. As I navigated through la ville nouvelle trying to find the medina, I was nearly hit by a car, catcalled at by thirteen year old boys, and assisted by a very kind military officer. No worries, friends, I did make it back and not once did I pull out the map I had secretly hidden in my purse. I feel a little more confident and secure knowing I was able to make my way through this new hometown.
Day 1
Today I made my first Moroccan friend. We were walking in the medina on the way to the Center for Cross Cultural Learning in the middle of a rare Moroccan rain storm. Without the rain boots and raincoat I had packed away so carefully in my luggage I was a stranded soldier in the line of precipitous fire. I began to run convinced it was the only way to save my already sweaty body from a second drenching. Before I got far however the bullets stopped, and I looked up to find that I was covered. A black umbrella held at the very bottom tip by a man shorter than me barely reached over the top of my head. But, it kept me dry. I turned and smiled at him…c’est d’accord, je suis avec une grande group, c’est d’accord. Il a dit, non, je vous garde, je vous garde. Merci a mon premier ami en Maroc.
Day 3
Leave it to me to find the only Colorado reference in all of Rabat. The owner of the Café Glacier Colorado is perhaps one of the sweetest men I have met here. Apparently, the joint is named after said owner’s distant relatives with whom I share a beautiful state. And despite the fact that I was drinking from a Coke bottle labeled in Arabic, I did feel a little bit at home. :)
This morning we had our first true solo wandering of Rabat. As part of an exercise (“Encounters of a First Kind”) my fellow students and I were dropped in various parts of the city with the goal of safely making it back to the medina and the CCCL. From my understanding, Rabat is basically broken down into two parts: the medina and la ville nouvelle. The first is known as “the old city,” a collection of narrow winding streets where every step brings with it a new smell, a new color. La ville nouvelle, or “the French quarters,” is styled after European cities with broader made for car streets and beautiful hotels/apartments/houses. My drop off was right outside the city limits at the gate leading into Rabat. As I navigated through la ville nouvelle trying to find the medina, I was nearly hit by a car, catcalled at by thirteen year old boys, and assisted by a very kind military officer. No worries, friends, I did make it back and not once did I pull out the map I had secretly hidden in my purse. I feel a little more confident and secure knowing I was able to make my way through this new hometown.
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