not that this is worthy of an entire post or anything, but the guy who owns the Internet cafe I'm sitting at just started blasting celine dion ("To Love You More"). the words international superstar come to mind. go team celine!
and now he's playing spice girls ("Viva Forever").
this is yang and my summer mix. ;)
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
franish
The people here speak French with a Spanish accent, rolling the r in words like après. The Saharan region used to be a Spanish colony, and only after the end of colonization did Morocco claim the territory as its own. As a result, the people here speak Spanish fluently in addition to broken French and the local Arabic dialect. Oh, the multilingual benefits of colonialism. :)
Also, the Arabic spoken here, known as Hassaniya, is much closer to Modern Standard than the darija of the north. Translation: I can understand about 50% of what is spoken to me about 25% of the time. Nothing worthy of a pat on the back, just a bit of validation for the past two years with Maha and al-Kitaab.
I’ve recently taken to buying cherry Halls cough drops from nearby hanoots. A friend confessed his own Halls addiction a couple of weeks ago and since that time I constantly crave the sour cherry, minty taste. Sometimes I fake a cough at the cash register to convince the shop owner (and myself) that I am making a worthy purchase. Most of the time I tell myself this is the same country where I could by Vicodin over the counter if I wanted to, so thank you I’ll take my plastic bag of Halls and be on my way now.
Note: Tomorrow is my last day in Laayoune. I take another twenty two hour bus ride back to Rabat where I’ll most likely stay for the rest of my time here. Only 18 or so days left. Let the countdown begin. :(
Also, the Arabic spoken here, known as Hassaniya, is much closer to Modern Standard than the darija of the north. Translation: I can understand about 50% of what is spoken to me about 25% of the time. Nothing worthy of a pat on the back, just a bit of validation for the past two years with Maha and al-Kitaab.
I’ve recently taken to buying cherry Halls cough drops from nearby hanoots. A friend confessed his own Halls addiction a couple of weeks ago and since that time I constantly crave the sour cherry, minty taste. Sometimes I fake a cough at the cash register to convince the shop owner (and myself) that I am making a worthy purchase. Most of the time I tell myself this is the same country where I could by Vicodin over the counter if I wanted to, so thank you I’ll take my plastic bag of Halls and be on my way now.
Note: Tomorrow is my last day in Laayoune. I take another twenty two hour bus ride back to Rabat where I’ll most likely stay for the rest of my time here. Only 18 or so days left. Let the countdown begin. :(
Monday, April 27, 2009
deep deep south
I believe I was indirectly propositioned for marriage this morning. I was sitting in an Internet café, making small talk with the waiter about him being Amazigh (Berber), me being Indian, etc etc. You know, the usual. Then he asked me the following questions in succession: (1) Are you married? (2) Are you looking for a husband? and (3) Can I get your number? To the first two questions I answered “no” and “absolutely not.” The third I dodged by taking his number on a slip of paper and silently vowing to avoid said Internet café. Not because I’m scared. Just that attention like this sometimes makes me blush. :-P
Since arriving in Laayoune I have found nothing but kindness from the people I have interacted with. Starting with the guy at the hotel reception desk who let me borrow his phone charger because I stupidly forgot mine in Rabat. And ending with all the associations I have been introduced to here who tell me over and over again that I am to feel so welcome as if I am a daughter or sister. Marhaba. I’ve said Shoukran so many times, I’m pretty sure the entire Sahara thinks it’s the only word of Arabic I know.
A few days ago, the first time I checked my email here, I saw that I had received a somewhat panicky message from my mother telling me that she can’t believe I decided to come here (here being the Western Sahara) by myself. Then, later that night I received a similar panicky phone call. I can’t lie; the idea of traveling alone gives me the same uneasy jolt that I’m sure my mother’s stomach is feeling right about now. Only now it’s been a few days since my entry into Laayoune and when I look around I can’t help but see just another city where kids play soccer in the street. In fact, if it weren’t for the white jeeps with their big black “UN” labels sitting outside the Hotel Nagjir, I might forget about the conflict altogether.
Someone told me tonight that if I were to keep my mouth shut and not say a word, people would mistake me for a native Saharan. Unfortunately, I get this blank stare on my face when someone shoots me a rapid question in Arabic and it kind of throws off the whole act. Not that I mind revealing my true identity. As it turns out, Shah Rukh Khan is a sensation that’s hit ALL of Morocco, including its most southern parts. My “Indian origin” is a straight path into the hearts of the Moroccan people.
Since arriving in Laayoune I have found nothing but kindness from the people I have interacted with. Starting with the guy at the hotel reception desk who let me borrow his phone charger because I stupidly forgot mine in Rabat. And ending with all the associations I have been introduced to here who tell me over and over again that I am to feel so welcome as if I am a daughter or sister. Marhaba. I’ve said Shoukran so many times, I’m pretty sure the entire Sahara thinks it’s the only word of Arabic I know.
A few days ago, the first time I checked my email here, I saw that I had received a somewhat panicky message from my mother telling me that she can’t believe I decided to come here (here being the Western Sahara) by myself. Then, later that night I received a similar panicky phone call. I can’t lie; the idea of traveling alone gives me the same uneasy jolt that I’m sure my mother’s stomach is feeling right about now. Only now it’s been a few days since my entry into Laayoune and when I look around I can’t help but see just another city where kids play soccer in the street. In fact, if it weren’t for the white jeeps with their big black “UN” labels sitting outside the Hotel Nagjir, I might forget about the conflict altogether.
Someone told me tonight that if I were to keep my mouth shut and not say a word, people would mistake me for a native Saharan. Unfortunately, I get this blank stare on my face when someone shoots me a rapid question in Arabic and it kind of throws off the whole act. Not that I mind revealing my true identity. As it turns out, Shah Rukh Khan is a sensation that’s hit ALL of Morocco, including its most southern parts. My “Indian origin” is a straight path into the hearts of the Moroccan people.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
size ten feet are about a forty two here
it's a running joke in my family that my brother and i share my slippers. i will wake up sometimes in the morning, needing to go to the bathroom and searching for the plastic blue men's slippers i bought because they were the only ones that would fit my feet. my host mother will walk in, laugh and tell me Nourredine went to get his hair cut. and i can't help but shrug in a what's mine is yours kind of manner. after all, you're never really part of the family until you've shared an article of clothing.
i turned 21 last night and took two shots of tequila to commemorate the occasion. it wasn't exactly the big bang type of celebration that typically accompanies 21's, but a) i'm sick (unfortunate, i know), b) i have interviews today for my independent project and c) i didn't want moui to see me in a drunken state. anyways, the 21st anniversary of my birth has come and gone, and now i am moving on to more important subject matter...
my independent project. i'm looking into the economic and social development of the Western or Moroccan Sahara. hence the 22 hour bus ride to the deep deep south of morocco. i have an interview in about twenty minutes, which will mark the official beginning of my research. wish me luck.
i turned 21 last night and took two shots of tequila to commemorate the occasion. it wasn't exactly the big bang type of celebration that typically accompanies 21's, but a) i'm sick (unfortunate, i know), b) i have interviews today for my independent project and c) i didn't want moui to see me in a drunken state. anyways, the 21st anniversary of my birth has come and gone, and now i am moving on to more important subject matter...
my independent project. i'm looking into the economic and social development of the Western or Moroccan Sahara. hence the 22 hour bus ride to the deep deep south of morocco. i have an interview in about twenty minutes, which will mark the official beginning of my research. wish me luck.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
i stared UP into his eyes
I met the Moroccan Yao Ming tonight. Two meters tall, which I don’t know how to translate into feet, but I’m guessing far above six feet. My head came up to just below his shoulder. And in Morocco, where everyone seems to be 5’6” and below, Yao stands out like a tulip in a field of dandelions.
Friday, April 17, 2009
nearing the end
I finished my last class of Arabic this morning. We had a final exam followed by a cooking lesson on how to make couscous. Don’t get too excited…my lack of finesse in the kitchen doesn’t change from one continent to the other. I will return from Morocco without the slightest clue how to knead dough or use a tajine. A disappointment, now, to multiple families and multiple mothers.
This weekend is officially the end of our homestay and the beginning of the independent study project (ISP) portion of the program. For the next three weeks we’re all supposed to be conducting independent field research on a topic of our choice and then at the end of the program, our last week here, we present our findings and hand in our final papers. Unofficially, even though I’m supposed to leave home tomorrow, I’ll be staying with the ElMoudden family a little longer. Well, technically, I’ll only be here in Rabat a few days at the beginning and then a few at the end of our ISP, but since it’s a question of me avoiding saying goodbye, I am giving my homestay an extended deadline.
So, here’s the plan for my next three weeks…in Rabat for a few days, day trip to Casablanca, travel down to Laayoune (city in the deep south of Morocco, a region formerly known as the Western Sahara), in Laayoune for a week or so, make my way back north hopefully stopping in Marrakech and Essaouiara, in Rabat for the last few days.
Boy does time fly. ;)
By the way, the bus ride to Laayoune is about twenty two hours. Be ready for some great bus stories next week.
This weekend is officially the end of our homestay and the beginning of the independent study project (ISP) portion of the program. For the next three weeks we’re all supposed to be conducting independent field research on a topic of our choice and then at the end of the program, our last week here, we present our findings and hand in our final papers. Unofficially, even though I’m supposed to leave home tomorrow, I’ll be staying with the ElMoudden family a little longer. Well, technically, I’ll only be here in Rabat a few days at the beginning and then a few at the end of our ISP, but since it’s a question of me avoiding saying goodbye, I am giving my homestay an extended deadline.
So, here’s the plan for my next three weeks…in Rabat for a few days, day trip to Casablanca, travel down to Laayoune (city in the deep south of Morocco, a region formerly known as the Western Sahara), in Laayoune for a week or so, make my way back north hopefully stopping in Marrakech and Essaouiara, in Rabat for the last few days.
Boy does time fly. ;)
By the way, the bus ride to Laayoune is about twenty two hours. Be ready for some great bus stories next week.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
mistaken identity
Since I seem to be recounting my time here in terms of weekend excursions…this past weekend I ventured to Chefchaouen, a town that’s built into the mountains. The entirety of our visit to Chef was rained on which made for cold feet, but also a beautiful misty mountain view. All the buildings in the city are white washed with blue accents and the town has a laid back feel which (along with the large amounts of weed you can find there) attracts a huge hippie crowd. In other words, stoned shopkeepers and grungy European tourists jumbled together among white and blue walls in a city on a hill. That’s Chefchaouen for you.
During our weekend trip, my friends and I naturally resembled the many tourists who were in Chefchaouen at the same time as us. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten to a point in my time here where I take serious offense to someone confusing me for a tourist. Having lived here for two months I think I deserve at least a notch above tourist. Anyways, here are a couple of mistaken identity stories from the past two weekends.
One of the shopkeepers we walked by in Chefchaouen thought he’d try a clever sales pitch by pointing to us and saying I know who you are. American students studying in Spain. This is the point where I would like to brush my shoulder off and rattle off in perfect Moroccan Arabic, Actually, I have lived here for two months, I study Arabic in Rabat, and yes I know you’re trying to rip me off. Only problem is that my brain isn’t quite ready to deliver that entire sentence in Arabic with perfect fluency. So, instead I settled for a La shukran (no, thanks), which seemed to be enough Arabic to make said shopkeeper smile. Case of mistaken identity #1
Two weeks ago, after arriving in Tangier we had to take a taxi to get from the train station to our hotel. Now, in Morocco, there are two types of taxis that you can take: (1) petit taxis which stay within each city’s limits and run on metered pay, and (2) grand taxis with whom you negotiate out a price. The petit taxis are usually the safer bet because when there’s a meter involved I’m less likely to end up on the short end of the money stick. Upon exiting the train station, we were immediately harassed by grand taxi drivers who offered to take us to our hotel for the “discounted” price of ten euros or a hundred dirham. Mistake #1, I AM NOT EUROPEAN. Mistake #2, I know for a fact that cab ride is supposed to cost at most fifteen dirham. So, instead we crossed the street and attempted to flag down a petit taxi. The first few drivers we encountered refused to turn on their meters, the first guy asking for thirty dirham and the second one asking for fifty dirham, claiming that our bags were so heavy he needed extra pay. We scrambled out of those taxis just as quickly as we had jumped in, saying Hshuma (Shame on you) along the way. Eventually, a third driver picked us up (with meter) and we ended up paying about ten dirham for the whole ride. Case of mistaken identity #2
During our weekend trip, my friends and I naturally resembled the many tourists who were in Chefchaouen at the same time as us. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten to a point in my time here where I take serious offense to someone confusing me for a tourist. Having lived here for two months I think I deserve at least a notch above tourist. Anyways, here are a couple of mistaken identity stories from the past two weekends.
One of the shopkeepers we walked by in Chefchaouen thought he’d try a clever sales pitch by pointing to us and saying I know who you are. American students studying in Spain. This is the point where I would like to brush my shoulder off and rattle off in perfect Moroccan Arabic, Actually, I have lived here for two months, I study Arabic in Rabat, and yes I know you’re trying to rip me off. Only problem is that my brain isn’t quite ready to deliver that entire sentence in Arabic with perfect fluency. So, instead I settled for a La shukran (no, thanks), which seemed to be enough Arabic to make said shopkeeper smile. Case of mistaken identity #1
Two weeks ago, after arriving in Tangier we had to take a taxi to get from the train station to our hotel. Now, in Morocco, there are two types of taxis that you can take: (1) petit taxis which stay within each city’s limits and run on metered pay, and (2) grand taxis with whom you negotiate out a price. The petit taxis are usually the safer bet because when there’s a meter involved I’m less likely to end up on the short end of the money stick. Upon exiting the train station, we were immediately harassed by grand taxi drivers who offered to take us to our hotel for the “discounted” price of ten euros or a hundred dirham. Mistake #1, I AM NOT EUROPEAN. Mistake #2, I know for a fact that cab ride is supposed to cost at most fifteen dirham. So, instead we crossed the street and attempted to flag down a petit taxi. The first few drivers we encountered refused to turn on their meters, the first guy asking for thirty dirham and the second one asking for fifty dirham, claiming that our bags were so heavy he needed extra pay. We scrambled out of those taxis just as quickly as we had jumped in, saying Hshuma (Shame on you) along the way. Eventually, a third driver picked us up (with meter) and we ended up paying about ten dirham for the whole ride. Case of mistaken identity #2
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