The bus left this morning under grey skies, but the rain held off. We spent the first half of the day driving through the Middle Atlas, listening to presentations the students on the bus neither wanted to do or hear.
The high point of the day was the scenery we got to see: a tizi (mountain pass), the Ziz river valley, and the beginning of the desert. The Ziz River valley carved out a gorge in most places, and in some it’s big enough that whole villages have sprung up around the river. They cultivate palms and other shorter plants that can live under the palms. The villages are the same color as the earth because they’re made entirely of mud bricks, so the only reason you can see them against the land is a difference in texture and shape.
We seem to have very interesting rest stops. No lie, we stopped in the Ziz River valley, no trees in sight, and had 15 minutes to scout out a private place to relieve ourselves. I’m sure it looked crazy from where the bus stood because there were about 35 girls running all over the hillside, ducking out and disappearing behind rocks.
After another brief rest stop, this time in the town of Errachidia, we continued on to our lunch in Rissani, a crossroads on the edge of the desert. Lunch was something called “buried bread” ( in Arabic “hubsa medfouna”). It was a Rissani calzone is what it was, although I don’t know what exactly was in it.
In Rissani we left our giant tour bus for Land Rovers to take us into the desert. A sandstorm was kicking up around this time, making the 30 minute drive to Merzouga not very scenic. There was nothing around to see anyway, except signs marking side roads to auberges (small hotels) cupped somewhere in the low hills.
In Merzouga we visited the Hasi Labiad Association, which helps women and families by providing women with income from crafts, but also by hooking tourists up with village families. The tourists get to see how a traditional family lives, and the family gets some sort of stipend (I think). Part of the money goes to a village fund, so when there is enough money every few years it goes towards a project for the village. The women of Merzouga also produce traditional Amazigh (Berber) handicrafts that they sell, either to tourists, in fairs around the country, or in Europe.
Also in Merzouga we went to the palm grove, rather uncomfortable in a sandstormish-type environment. Each family has their own plot within the larger grove and throughout there are small irrigation channels. Each family has rights to a certain amount of water as well, like a half-day or quarter-day. When they have finished using their water for the day the channel leading to their plot is plugged with sand.
Water rights are just as important as land rights; for example you could own the land but not the water on it and vice versa. I was quite intrigued by this system of sharing the water. Does it work on the based on the honor code? If you see your neighbor has had his allotted half-day but not plugged his irrigation channel, can you stop the water for him? What kind of etiquette is involved? Anyway, very interesting.
On down the road to our auberge. Because of the inclement weather (sand is weather?) our planned camels for that afternoon were cancelled and we lounged about the auberge (Auberge Ayour) for the afternoon. Once the wind calmed down quite a few of us ventured out into the dunes behind the town. It’s really an island of dunes, only 28km by 3km, but it was big enough for us. Since the wind was still blowing I had my scarf wrapped around my head. I was very stylish. The sunset was gorgeous, but not as beautiful as our buffet dinner.
On this whole trip, everybody ate way too much. I think it was something to do with the ability to eat if you wanted, and not being told to “kuli, kuli” by family members. The fact that it was a buffet, with VEGETABLES, no less, made it even better. I still couldn’t avoid the hubs.
After dinner we had a performance of Gnawa music. The term can be used to refer to the people of western Africa, or the music, or both at once. The group uses big dumbbell shaped castenette thingies, a 3-stringed lute, drums, and vocals. They cross a duple and triple beat, so it’s very catchy. The musicians are also dancers. The dances are vey simples though, just moving back and forth, side to side, to the beat. It’s a very meditative kind of music and dance. We got up and danced too, but I don’t think we were quite as meditative about it.
It was such a beautiful night that some of us decided to sleep on the roof of the auberge. My room was on the roof anyway, it was a tower room, but sleeping under the starts seemed much more appealing than in a stuffy room. The night was wonderful, but like all such attempts, I slept very little. I got a bit too cold for my liking so I went inside. We had to get up at 5am anyway, so nobody got much sleep.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
southern excursion day 1
We had a whirlwind drive across the country to start our week of awesomeness, otherwise known as the Southern Excursion. We left Rabat this morning and went east to the Middle Atlas mountains.
I didn’t mind spending so much time on the bus today because the countryside was so beautiful. As a result, I have far too many blurry photos taken from the bus window, and even worse, from the front of the bus. I couldn’t help it, really!
Occasionally Lahcen would chime in about something we were passing, like onions on the plateau about the town of Eyebrow (it’s really called that, but I don’t remember the Arabic name). The farmers preserve their onion crop on stone walls, to dry them out I guess, to await the time when they go to market in the city. Lahcen’s commentary went something like this:
“Those are how the farmers keep their onions until there’s a good price in the city for them…these are red onions, but in the south there are also yellow onions, which are also interesting…but I like the red onions, but you need to cook them…and if you eat a lot you’ll need chewing gum…(extended pause)…which I have…”
Our first official stop was in Ifrane, a relatively recent city. The French built it up to look like a winter resort in the Alps, so all the houses look like Swiss chalets. It looked a bit like Disney World because everything was so clean, well organized, and followed the same general design scheme. Ifrane is also a destination for Moroccan tourists. We picked up 5 bags of hubs (bread) for lunch and the bus disappeared for about 20 minutes before it was finally located.
We stopped for lunch on the side of the road, pretty much the only spot where the bus could pull off the road. The forest was very open and sunny with lots of fallen trees to sit on. The hubs reappeared and cheese, peanut butter, jam, tuna in tomato sauce, Nutella, and olives were produced from a large cooler. After descending on the food like locusts we scattered around the clearing, perching on logs and gleefully stuffing our faces. Several groups set out in the underbrush to find pee trees, and only two people were lost.
Back on the bus we were all tired and passed out until we reached the town of Azrou. Azrou funnels down a valley between two mountains and eventually spreads out on the valley floor like an alluvial flow. We were dropped off next to the mosque and told to map the town socially, economically, age-wise, etc. in 40 minutes. Yeah right. So we strolled around the town center in groups, gathering strange looks and have men talk to us, you know, the usual. Jesse and I sat for a while on the bluff above the new part of the city and got sunburned. Then the Rock of Azrou (I have no idea why it’s so important) proved just too persuasive. So we climbed it. The Rock of Azrou is a giant knobbly lump of smooth pocked limestone. It also has a crown on top. We made the summit in under 10 minutes, narrowly avoiding the piles of poo along the way. We didn’t stay long at the top because we were already late for the bus. Although the scramble down wasn’t difficult, some construction workers below found it in their hearts to yell at us, Tarzan-style.
Anna sprained her ankle walking around Azrou! Some high curb bit her or something. It could have happened to any of us. Thank goodness Will had his giant first aid kit handy so her ankle could be wrapped.
We made a short stop in the cedar forest near Azrou (I think it was Ifrane National Park) for a lecture and some macaque chasing. Long story short: people in Morocco don’t understand that you shouldn’t litter everywhere. Coming from America, I just don’t understand how you can not not understand that littering is bad for the environment. There’s also a complicated network of reasons why keeping the forests “pristine” is difficult, starting with the fact the macaques eat the topmost cedar branches during a drought. That’s right, only the top ones. There were also men leading (dirty) horses around so tourists could ride them (the horses, not the men).
For the next two hours we drove through country that looked alternately like Scotland, on account of all the sheep and stone walls, and Colorado, on account of the wide open spaces and rocks. Between dozing off and Lahcen’s running commentary, I managed to take even more blurry photos of the countryside. We must have had the same bus driver as when we went to Moulay Idriss, because he was king of the road. Seriously, this man was taking up two lanes with this tour bus, passing cars, negotiating narrow mountain roads.
Our hotel here in Middelt is gorgeous and guess what makes it even more wonderful. That’s right, a western toilet and shower. The roof over the restaurant downstairs reaches out beyond our rooms so we have kind of a balcony, except there’s no doors so we jumped out the windows. We have a stunning view of the snowcapped mountains (very Lord of the Rings-y), and there was a full moon tonight.
In other news: Happy Birthday Mr. Prophet Mohammed! It’s a pity we had to travel today because my family wanted me to be with them for the holiday. Today is Eid Al-Nawlib and there are festivities everywhere.
Perhaps because they are out of the office, the CCCL, Lahcen, Nabil, and Nawal are all working the casual look. Lahcen especially, as he was wearing designer jeans and fancy sneakers (he’s probably in his 40s). All I can say is he should have invested more in a functional belt. Allison and I think we should keep a running Creeper Tally, this instance of I-didn’t-need-to-see-that being point number one.
Clearly, my internet connection will not allow me to upload all the fabulous photos I took throughout the week, so I'm going to try and post them on Facebook. I don't know how that will work, out so keep checking back.
I didn’t mind spending so much time on the bus today because the countryside was so beautiful. As a result, I have far too many blurry photos taken from the bus window, and even worse, from the front of the bus. I couldn’t help it, really!
Occasionally Lahcen would chime in about something we were passing, like onions on the plateau about the town of Eyebrow (it’s really called that, but I don’t remember the Arabic name). The farmers preserve their onion crop on stone walls, to dry them out I guess, to await the time when they go to market in the city. Lahcen’s commentary went something like this:
“Those are how the farmers keep their onions until there’s a good price in the city for them…these are red onions, but in the south there are also yellow onions, which are also interesting…but I like the red onions, but you need to cook them…and if you eat a lot you’ll need chewing gum…(extended pause)…which I have…”
Our first official stop was in Ifrane, a relatively recent city. The French built it up to look like a winter resort in the Alps, so all the houses look like Swiss chalets. It looked a bit like Disney World because everything was so clean, well organized, and followed the same general design scheme. Ifrane is also a destination for Moroccan tourists. We picked up 5 bags of hubs (bread) for lunch and the bus disappeared for about 20 minutes before it was finally located.
We stopped for lunch on the side of the road, pretty much the only spot where the bus could pull off the road. The forest was very open and sunny with lots of fallen trees to sit on. The hubs reappeared and cheese, peanut butter, jam, tuna in tomato sauce, Nutella, and olives were produced from a large cooler. After descending on the food like locusts we scattered around the clearing, perching on logs and gleefully stuffing our faces. Several groups set out in the underbrush to find pee trees, and only two people were lost.
Back on the bus we were all tired and passed out until we reached the town of Azrou. Azrou funnels down a valley between two mountains and eventually spreads out on the valley floor like an alluvial flow. We were dropped off next to the mosque and told to map the town socially, economically, age-wise, etc. in 40 minutes. Yeah right. So we strolled around the town center in groups, gathering strange looks and have men talk to us, you know, the usual. Jesse and I sat for a while on the bluff above the new part of the city and got sunburned. Then the Rock of Azrou (I have no idea why it’s so important) proved just too persuasive. So we climbed it. The Rock of Azrou is a giant knobbly lump of smooth pocked limestone. It also has a crown on top. We made the summit in under 10 minutes, narrowly avoiding the piles of poo along the way. We didn’t stay long at the top because we were already late for the bus. Although the scramble down wasn’t difficult, some construction workers below found it in their hearts to yell at us, Tarzan-style.
Anna sprained her ankle walking around Azrou! Some high curb bit her or something. It could have happened to any of us. Thank goodness Will had his giant first aid kit handy so her ankle could be wrapped.
We made a short stop in the cedar forest near Azrou (I think it was Ifrane National Park) for a lecture and some macaque chasing. Long story short: people in Morocco don’t understand that you shouldn’t litter everywhere. Coming from America, I just don’t understand how you can not not understand that littering is bad for the environment. There’s also a complicated network of reasons why keeping the forests “pristine” is difficult, starting with the fact the macaques eat the topmost cedar branches during a drought. That’s right, only the top ones. There were also men leading (dirty) horses around so tourists could ride them (the horses, not the men).
For the next two hours we drove through country that looked alternately like Scotland, on account of all the sheep and stone walls, and Colorado, on account of the wide open spaces and rocks. Between dozing off and Lahcen’s running commentary, I managed to take even more blurry photos of the countryside. We must have had the same bus driver as when we went to Moulay Idriss, because he was king of the road. Seriously, this man was taking up two lanes with this tour bus, passing cars, negotiating narrow mountain roads.
Our hotel here in Middelt is gorgeous and guess what makes it even more wonderful. That’s right, a western toilet and shower. The roof over the restaurant downstairs reaches out beyond our rooms so we have kind of a balcony, except there’s no doors so we jumped out the windows. We have a stunning view of the snowcapped mountains (very Lord of the Rings-y), and there was a full moon tonight.
In other news: Happy Birthday Mr. Prophet Mohammed! It’s a pity we had to travel today because my family wanted me to be with them for the holiday. Today is Eid Al-Nawlib and there are festivities everywhere.
Perhaps because they are out of the office, the CCCL, Lahcen, Nabil, and Nawal are all working the casual look. Lahcen especially, as he was wearing designer jeans and fancy sneakers (he’s probably in his 40s). All I can say is he should have invested more in a functional belt. Allison and I think we should keep a running Creeper Tally, this instance of I-didn’t-need-to-see-that being point number one.
Clearly, my internet connection will not allow me to upload all the fabulous photos I took throughout the week, so I'm going to try and post them on Facebook. I don't know how that will work, out so keep checking back.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Chellah: archaeological site or playground?
Happy Birthday Mom!
After weekdays where all our waking hours are scheduled, a free day baffles me. It’s a Friday too, so the whole atmosphere is very slow. I guess I could do something, but I would much rather sit around and read, like I would do at home when I’ve nothing to do.
On the bright side lunch was absolutely amazing today. We had a roast chicken covered in fries and stuffed with tasty shredded squash, and bread of course. I was actually still hungry when it was gone; there’s first. Today was also a good day to be fretted over during a meal because I got tasty chicken pushed onto my plate. Second-best meal in Morocco thus far, the first being the pastilla at the CCCL during orientation week.
This afternoon I took a break from all my relaxing and went to Chellah with Emily and her sister Aicha. The Chellah complex was originally built by the Romans to oversee the Bouregreg river valley. It’s an ideal spot for a fortification because it’s on a little peninsular plateau jutting out from Rabat proper, it has several springs, and has a great view of the river valley. Once the town was abandoned by the Romans, the Almohads and then the Merinids used the citadel as a burying ground. The tomb of sultan Abou el Hassan is within the ruins, as are several domed tombs of saints. A spring-fed well is a home for eels that are fed hard-boiled eggs by local women praying for fertility.
Rabatis frolic inside Chellah
The whole complex is built on hill, and the top part is a large garden covered in storks and egrets. The storks also nest in the ruined minaret. Apparently, having a stork nest in your minaret is good luck. Elsewhere in the complex are obvious signs of Roman architecture, such as toppled columns, pedestals, inscribed stone blocks, and even a mosaic. The ruins are overgrown with grasses, wildflowers, agave, and prickly pear.
Chellah is also overrun by something else: people. As a future archaeologist I didn’t know what to think about this. You can climb all over the Roman ruins because none are more than 6ft tall. You can also walk around inside the mosques which accompanied the burying ground. It was a strange experience for me, coming from culture which would generally rope off the whole area to promote preservation, but also to prevent people from hurting themselves. None of that here; there were only a few men in uniform armed with whistles that they would sound occasionally.
The Chellah grounds are used as a park by the Rabatis. Whole families were having picnics on the hill, children were playing soccer, couples were talking, and groups of young men were sprawled everywhere. This had nothing of the air of an archaeological site.
As we were walking into Chellah we asked Aicha about the history of the complex, but she knew very little, despite the fact that she said she and friends used to eat lunch and meet up there often. The draw of Chellah has little to do with its status as a historical site and more to do with it being a green space, a park. The ruins serve as more of a playground than a museum piece. This goes along with what we’d heard in class: that history is not seen as “dead” in Morocco. For example, people still visit the tombs of saints that died hundreds of years ago and speak to them as if they were sitting next to them. The past is very much still a part of the present. Museums, too, are not very prominent in Morocco, probably for the same reason.
As far as preservation goes, people climbing all over the Roman stone walls aren’t going to do much to damage the area, so why not let them? It was really fun to be able to walk freely around the ruins. The Islamic part was the area that had the guards, but then again the buildings there were still intact for the most part.
I think it’s nice to be able to open up the complex to everybody and make it a part of city life. Instead of having a somber and contemplative air as an abandoned town and necropolis, Chellah is still full of life and activity. The use of space reflects the Moroccan view of the past as a part of life in the present. ISP here is come.
Emily and I agree that our diet rich in bread and sugar is making us crave…bread and sugar. It’s a self-perpetuating problem.
After weekdays where all our waking hours are scheduled, a free day baffles me. It’s a Friday too, so the whole atmosphere is very slow. I guess I could do something, but I would much rather sit around and read, like I would do at home when I’ve nothing to do.
On the bright side lunch was absolutely amazing today. We had a roast chicken covered in fries and stuffed with tasty shredded squash, and bread of course. I was actually still hungry when it was gone; there’s first. Today was also a good day to be fretted over during a meal because I got tasty chicken pushed onto my plate. Second-best meal in Morocco thus far, the first being the pastilla at the CCCL during orientation week.
This afternoon I took a break from all my relaxing and went to Chellah with Emily and her sister Aicha. The Chellah complex was originally built by the Romans to oversee the Bouregreg river valley. It’s an ideal spot for a fortification because it’s on a little peninsular plateau jutting out from Rabat proper, it has several springs, and has a great view of the river valley. Once the town was abandoned by the Romans, the Almohads and then the Merinids used the citadel as a burying ground. The tomb of sultan Abou el Hassan is within the ruins, as are several domed tombs of saints. A spring-fed well is a home for eels that are fed hard-boiled eggs by local women praying for fertility.
Rabatis frolic inside ChellahThe whole complex is built on hill, and the top part is a large garden covered in storks and egrets. The storks also nest in the ruined minaret. Apparently, having a stork nest in your minaret is good luck. Elsewhere in the complex are obvious signs of Roman architecture, such as toppled columns, pedestals, inscribed stone blocks, and even a mosaic. The ruins are overgrown with grasses, wildflowers, agave, and prickly pear.
Chellah is also overrun by something else: people. As a future archaeologist I didn’t know what to think about this. You can climb all over the Roman ruins because none are more than 6ft tall. You can also walk around inside the mosques which accompanied the burying ground. It was a strange experience for me, coming from culture which would generally rope off the whole area to promote preservation, but also to prevent people from hurting themselves. None of that here; there were only a few men in uniform armed with whistles that they would sound occasionally.
The Chellah grounds are used as a park by the Rabatis. Whole families were having picnics on the hill, children were playing soccer, couples were talking, and groups of young men were sprawled everywhere. This had nothing of the air of an archaeological site.
As we were walking into Chellah we asked Aicha about the history of the complex, but she knew very little, despite the fact that she said she and friends used to eat lunch and meet up there often. The draw of Chellah has little to do with its status as a historical site and more to do with it being a green space, a park. The ruins serve as more of a playground than a museum piece. This goes along with what we’d heard in class: that history is not seen as “dead” in Morocco. For example, people still visit the tombs of saints that died hundreds of years ago and speak to them as if they were sitting next to them. The past is very much still a part of the present. Museums, too, are not very prominent in Morocco, probably for the same reason.
As far as preservation goes, people climbing all over the Roman stone walls aren’t going to do much to damage the area, so why not let them? It was really fun to be able to walk freely around the ruins. The Islamic part was the area that had the guards, but then again the buildings there were still intact for the most part.
I think it’s nice to be able to open up the complex to everybody and make it a part of city life. Instead of having a somber and contemplative air as an abandoned town and necropolis, Chellah is still full of life and activity. The use of space reflects the Moroccan view of the past as a part of life in the present. ISP here is come.
Emily and I agree that our diet rich in bread and sugar is making us crave…bread and sugar. It’s a self-perpetuating problem.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Casablanca
I went to Casablanca today, and I am exhausted now. We did so much walking. The whole program went, but not on the bus: SIT gave us train tickets, meal vouchers, and the addresses of sights in the city, and then left it up to us to go. We took the train this morning (about an hour) and made it to Casablanca in time to go to the 11am tour of the Hassan II Mosque. It’s the third largest mosque in the world, and one of the only ones in Morocco that allows non-Muslims inside, for a fee of course.
The Hassan II Mosque
The Hassan II MosqueThe Hassan II Mosque took only 6 years to build, but workers and craftsmen were on the job 24 hours a day in shifts. The cost is estimated to be in the hundreds of millions of dollars (US$). The materials are the best money can buy: local and Carera (Italian) marble, cedar wood, titanium, and Venetian glass. The whole building is marble, something like 10 hectares, our tour guide told us. The cedar wood and titanium were chosen because they resist corrosion. One-third of the mosque is built on land reclaimed from the sea, and hangs out over the ocean. Hassan II built the mosque like this because a verse in the Qur’an says that the throne of God is on the water. He took it literally. The central portion of the roof can also be retracted, like a stadium, to let daylight and fresh air in, especially during Ramadan when the mosque is filled to capacity, 25,000 inside and 80,000 outside. It’s an enormous complex, and you can see the minaret from miles away.
the opulent interior of the Hassan II Mosque
On our English language tour, we met up with two other travelers. These two guys were friends who worked in London, one was Australian and one was Danish. We all (6 from the SIT program and these 2 guys) walked along the coast to Ain Diab on a super sketchy abandoned road and then on an equally abandoned sidewalk. We had lunch at a McDonald’s, if you can believe that. They were one of the only places that accepted our food vouchers. The McDonald’s here are so classy they look almost like Panera Bread back home.
After lunch we walked along the beach and enjoyed the ocean until the beach suddenly ended. A nice man let us through a gate and into Ain Diab proper, right into the parking lot of the movie theater Amine had told me about the day before. Weird coincidence. We went to the Al-Saud library, one of the sights that was recommended to us, only to find the staff had no idea we were coming. We had an awkwardly short tour and then left.
We walked along the main drag of Ain Diab, which looks strangely like Manhattan Beach with all the palm trees, beachside cafes, and expensive houses. Our group split because the guys wanted to find a bar, and some of us didn’t. 4pm is a bit too early to start drinking if you ask me, and alcohol is expensive here too. I had avocado juice instead, although it was more like an avocado smoothie (so tasty!). We took a taxi back to the train station, bought relatively expensive munchies, and then spent an uncomfortable hour on the train back to Rabat because it was so crowded we had to stand.
I have never been so glad to get back to tea. My feet hurt from all the walking and I got a bit of a sunburn. I like the French: J’ai attrapé un coup de soleil. It literally means “I caught a sun cut.”
I have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow, but whatever it is, I’m going to sleep in.
the opulent interior of the Hassan II MosqueOn our English language tour, we met up with two other travelers. These two guys were friends who worked in London, one was Australian and one was Danish. We all (6 from the SIT program and these 2 guys) walked along the coast to Ain Diab on a super sketchy abandoned road and then on an equally abandoned sidewalk. We had lunch at a McDonald’s, if you can believe that. They were one of the only places that accepted our food vouchers. The McDonald’s here are so classy they look almost like Panera Bread back home.
After lunch we walked along the beach and enjoyed the ocean until the beach suddenly ended. A nice man let us through a gate and into Ain Diab proper, right into the parking lot of the movie theater Amine had told me about the day before. Weird coincidence. We went to the Al-Saud library, one of the sights that was recommended to us, only to find the staff had no idea we were coming. We had an awkwardly short tour and then left.
We walked along the main drag of Ain Diab, which looks strangely like Manhattan Beach with all the palm trees, beachside cafes, and expensive houses. Our group split because the guys wanted to find a bar, and some of us didn’t. 4pm is a bit too early to start drinking if you ask me, and alcohol is expensive here too. I had avocado juice instead, although it was more like an avocado smoothie (so tasty!). We took a taxi back to the train station, bought relatively expensive munchies, and then spent an uncomfortable hour on the train back to Rabat because it was so crowded we had to stand.
I have never been so glad to get back to tea. My feet hurt from all the walking and I got a bit of a sunburn. I like the French: J’ai attrapé un coup de soleil. It literally means “I caught a sun cut.”
I have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow, but whatever it is, I’m going to sleep in.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
a moment on the roof
I had a wonderful day, but not for any one particular reason. Arabic this morning went quickly, mostly owing to the fact that our real classes ended early with a nice quiz. All the classes gathered downstairs after their quizzes for a lecture on Koranic schools. We pretty much got to play pretend. We all sat on plastic mats while Badrdine (one of the Arabic teachers) gave a little presentation on Koranic schools. Children go to these schools until they’re around 10 years old, and they learn to memorize the Koran by reciting it, almost in a singsong manner. Students write on wooden boards covered in dried clay, with ink made from goat skin and milk mixed with water. I won’t go into all the details of the presentation, but it was a fun time. The whole thing was in Arabic, and miraculously I understood all of it.
As it was a glorious day, I hauled myself up to the CCCL terrace after lunch and just lay out in the sun. It was the noon (12:45ish) call to prayer, the sun was shining, and I had a full stomach. I can’t really describe it, but baking there in the sun, letting the muezzins’ voices wash over me, I felt calm and complete and one with the world. There was no other place I would have rather been at that moment.
In the afternoon we had short presentations on our upcoming Southern Excursion (!) and our day trips to Casablanca tomorrow. Then we all piled onto the bus and went to the Royal Institute for Amazigh (Berber) Culture. The whole visit was kind of surreal. It’s this giant, obviously new, building, but there was nobody in it. We had a short tour from the Director of Translations, but saw probably three other people in the whole complex. We got a lengthy lecture from the Director of Translations, outlining the institute’s purpose and mission. Of course I nearly fell asleep, like everyone else. If can’t be helped really: 3pm is prime naptime.
In a nutshell: the Amazigh is the cultural group that was present in North Africa before the Arabs overran it in the 9th century A.D. The word “Berber” was a term used by the conquerors, and has therefore begun to fall out of usage in favor of “Amazigh”, the name the people themselves use. Translated it means “The Free People”. The Amazigh resurgence in Morocco today is a cultural movement that calls for recognition of equal cultural rights, including language. Many Moroccans are of Amazigh descent, something like one third (and probably more) of all Moroccans. The Amazigh people were never persecuted, but in the face of widespread Arabization that occurred over centuries, many were simply absorbed into the Arab culture and stopped identifying with the Amazigh culture. The movement today aims to preserve the Amazigh language by teaching it in schools, standardizing it, and creating a more visible identity. The Amazigh dynamic within Morocco is difficult for me to understand, but to make a long story short, it was once pretty taboo to identify with being Amazigh. That is no longer the case. The institute gave us some of their nifty publications: a brief survey of Amazigh history and national landmarks.
Later I met up with some friends by the riverfront walk, and we did a little shopping in the souk. I bought a backpack for our Southern Excursion next week. The shopkeeper said 200 dirhams and I got it down to 150 and left it there, although my shopping companions assured me I could have got it lower. At least I brought it down some: it was my first real bargaining experience where somebody would actually bargain with me.
I came home, had a nice late tea with my family, took a shower (kind of), and my clothes are in the washing machine. Tea has become interesting lately, because I just spectate while the family talks together. It’s kind of nice because I get to observe, instead of having to try and describe my day’s activities in sub-par French. This evening I think Amine and Al-Hajj were arguing about a traffic incident, or the location of some event, because the table was turned into an impromptu map: the knives were the curbs of the roads, the jam saucer became a building, and after a brief search the spoon was designated the autobus. I think the whole thing was actually about a bus getting stuck on a curb somewhere (?).
As it was a glorious day, I hauled myself up to the CCCL terrace after lunch and just lay out in the sun. It was the noon (12:45ish) call to prayer, the sun was shining, and I had a full stomach. I can’t really describe it, but baking there in the sun, letting the muezzins’ voices wash over me, I felt calm and complete and one with the world. There was no other place I would have rather been at that moment.
In the afternoon we had short presentations on our upcoming Southern Excursion (!) and our day trips to Casablanca tomorrow. Then we all piled onto the bus and went to the Royal Institute for Amazigh (Berber) Culture. The whole visit was kind of surreal. It’s this giant, obviously new, building, but there was nobody in it. We had a short tour from the Director of Translations, but saw probably three other people in the whole complex. We got a lengthy lecture from the Director of Translations, outlining the institute’s purpose and mission. Of course I nearly fell asleep, like everyone else. If can’t be helped really: 3pm is prime naptime.
In a nutshell: the Amazigh is the cultural group that was present in North Africa before the Arabs overran it in the 9th century A.D. The word “Berber” was a term used by the conquerors, and has therefore begun to fall out of usage in favor of “Amazigh”, the name the people themselves use. Translated it means “The Free People”. The Amazigh resurgence in Morocco today is a cultural movement that calls for recognition of equal cultural rights, including language. Many Moroccans are of Amazigh descent, something like one third (and probably more) of all Moroccans. The Amazigh people were never persecuted, but in the face of widespread Arabization that occurred over centuries, many were simply absorbed into the Arab culture and stopped identifying with the Amazigh culture. The movement today aims to preserve the Amazigh language by teaching it in schools, standardizing it, and creating a more visible identity. The Amazigh dynamic within Morocco is difficult for me to understand, but to make a long story short, it was once pretty taboo to identify with being Amazigh. That is no longer the case. The institute gave us some of their nifty publications: a brief survey of Amazigh history and national landmarks.
Later I met up with some friends by the riverfront walk, and we did a little shopping in the souk. I bought a backpack for our Southern Excursion next week. The shopkeeper said 200 dirhams and I got it down to 150 and left it there, although my shopping companions assured me I could have got it lower. At least I brought it down some: it was my first real bargaining experience where somebody would actually bargain with me.
I came home, had a nice late tea with my family, took a shower (kind of), and my clothes are in the washing machine. Tea has become interesting lately, because I just spectate while the family talks together. It’s kind of nice because I get to observe, instead of having to try and describe my day’s activities in sub-par French. This evening I think Amine and Al-Hajj were arguing about a traffic incident, or the location of some event, because the table was turned into an impromptu map: the knives were the curbs of the roads, the jam saucer became a building, and after a brief search the spoon was designated the autobus. I think the whole thing was actually about a bus getting stuck on a curb somewhere (?).
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
complications
If this were the fall, I would just turn my laptop off and leave it at home. But as it is the spring, I need to bring it with me to the CCCL all the time; spring is the season for registration, housing, and internships. I’m currently trying to line up an interview with the archaeologist from Klamath National Forest, and having a hard time of it. First of all, California is 8 hours behind Rabat time, which makes this a mammoth task to begin with. Add to that my sporadic internet connection and limited availability, and you’ve got one stressed Geneva.
Conclusion: I broke down and bought a modem at Maroc Telecom this afternoon. I can get internet at my house now, but only if I unwind my laptop’s power cord to its fullest extent and sit right up against the window frame. The poor connectivity may also be due to the fact that I am surrounded by brick and adobe houses with very little space between. (Hajja’s making dinner, I think, and it smells like…hot dogs?) My laptop battery is also about to give up the ghost, become an ex-battery, expire and go to meet its maker, etc. In other words, it’s about to die and get recycled and sent to China.
When I bought my modem today, I waited for 20 minutes, but then it took less than 10 minutes to actually buy it. In the US such a transaction would take way longer. One of the nice things about Morocco is that kind of speed and single-mindedness. I suppose it makes administration and bureaucracy a total mess here, but it makes buying things much simpler for me.
I’m getting sucked into the soap operas here, Scheherazade especially, and not just because I like the music. All of them have catchy opening songs, and when they pause for commercials there’s a special little jingle that is becoming as familiar to me as anything back home in the States.
I miss being active. I never realized how much I structured my day around practice and workouts, let alone the importance of the social aspect. I don’t want to join a gym for several reasons: they’re not as clean as I’d like (this is probably the only place I’d complain of cleanliness), I don’t want to be hassled by muscle-y Moroccan men, and I don’t want to spend the money. So that leaves me rounding up friends to go running and doing improvised weight circuits in my room like a creepy person. Did I mention one of the family’s previous students rowed for Yale? Yeah. They showed me pictures and I felt woefully unfit.
I miss you Skidmore Crew! I can’t wait to get back on the water in the fall!
I have an exam tomorrow morning in al-arabiya (this way of saying it is an abbreviation of al-lugha al-arabiya, meaning “the Arabic language”). I suppose I should study for a bit…
Conclusion: I broke down and bought a modem at Maroc Telecom this afternoon. I can get internet at my house now, but only if I unwind my laptop’s power cord to its fullest extent and sit right up against the window frame. The poor connectivity may also be due to the fact that I am surrounded by brick and adobe houses with very little space between. (Hajja’s making dinner, I think, and it smells like…hot dogs?) My laptop battery is also about to give up the ghost, become an ex-battery, expire and go to meet its maker, etc. In other words, it’s about to die and get recycled and sent to China.
When I bought my modem today, I waited for 20 minutes, but then it took less than 10 minutes to actually buy it. In the US such a transaction would take way longer. One of the nice things about Morocco is that kind of speed and single-mindedness. I suppose it makes administration and bureaucracy a total mess here, but it makes buying things much simpler for me.
I’m getting sucked into the soap operas here, Scheherazade especially, and not just because I like the music. All of them have catchy opening songs, and when they pause for commercials there’s a special little jingle that is becoming as familiar to me as anything back home in the States.
I miss being active. I never realized how much I structured my day around practice and workouts, let alone the importance of the social aspect. I don’t want to join a gym for several reasons: they’re not as clean as I’d like (this is probably the only place I’d complain of cleanliness), I don’t want to be hassled by muscle-y Moroccan men, and I don’t want to spend the money. So that leaves me rounding up friends to go running and doing improvised weight circuits in my room like a creepy person. Did I mention one of the family’s previous students rowed for Yale? Yeah. They showed me pictures and I felt woefully unfit.
I miss you Skidmore Crew! I can’t wait to get back on the water in the fall!
I have an exam tomorrow morning in al-arabiya (this way of saying it is an abbreviation of al-lugha al-arabiya, meaning “the Arabic language”). I suppose I should study for a bit…
Monday, February 22, 2010
Tangier etc.
So I can’t pretend to like everything on this trip. I did not like this weekend’s trip to Tangier, and here are the reasons why:
1. the 4 hour bus ride there
2. living with 5 other girls in a cramped, but nice, apartment
3. how those same girls thought it would be a good idea to buy lots of bad wine and get drunk last night
4. tourists are not a novelty, they are a source of income only
5. we got hassled way more by men on the street
6. other things…
Here are the things that I liked:
1. lunch on Saturday at a tapas restaurant called Zoco Chico, where the owner was very nice and the food was amazing
2. walking around the medina
3. the view from pretty much anywhere in the city
4. the cleanliness of the streets
Once we got back to Rabat we tried to catch a cab, and a cabbie herded four of us into a Petit Taxi, which is illegal (only three per Petit Taxi). And then we noticed he didn’t have a meter, so we got out, got hassled, and hailed another cab which dropped us off right outside the medina next to a clump of police officers. I was tired, sketched out, and hungry. It was not a good time.
I was so glad to get back home to 57 Rue des Consuls. I returned in the midst of a cleaning frenzy which was precipitated by the washing machine overflowing (?). My French isn’t working so well right now, but they got the idea that I’m tired.
I didn’t come to Morocco because it was going to be easy. I decided to study abroad in North Africa because I knew it would be different from everything I had ever experienced and I would come away from it a wiser person. This is hard, I admit. I’m tired of eating so much bread and cookies and sugar, I’m mentally exhausted from living in three languages, and I miss my friends and family back home just like everyone else in the program at this minute.
I think it’s a turning point though. Having such an awful time in Tangier really made some of us realize how much at home we were in Rabat. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. This is also the time where we just have to abandon all our feelings of discomfort with our surroundings, and accept what and where we are. It’s no use missing what you can’t have.
This next part is because I know you appreciate my honesty and frankness, and also because I just need to complain to somebody: some of the girls in this program are rather high maintenance. If they absolutely require a western toilet and hot water so they can shower everyday and shit without squatting, then why did they choose to study abroad in Morocco? The mean part of me can’t wait to see what they do for the village stay.
1. the 4 hour bus ride there
2. living with 5 other girls in a cramped, but nice, apartment
3. how those same girls thought it would be a good idea to buy lots of bad wine and get drunk last night
4. tourists are not a novelty, they are a source of income only
5. we got hassled way more by men on the street
6. other things…
Here are the things that I liked:
1. lunch on Saturday at a tapas restaurant called Zoco Chico, where the owner was very nice and the food was amazing
2. walking around the medina
3. the view from pretty much anywhere in the city
4. the cleanliness of the streets
Once we got back to Rabat we tried to catch a cab, and a cabbie herded four of us into a Petit Taxi, which is illegal (only three per Petit Taxi). And then we noticed he didn’t have a meter, so we got out, got hassled, and hailed another cab which dropped us off right outside the medina next to a clump of police officers. I was tired, sketched out, and hungry. It was not a good time.
I was so glad to get back home to 57 Rue des Consuls. I returned in the midst of a cleaning frenzy which was precipitated by the washing machine overflowing (?). My French isn’t working so well right now, but they got the idea that I’m tired.
I didn’t come to Morocco because it was going to be easy. I decided to study abroad in North Africa because I knew it would be different from everything I had ever experienced and I would come away from it a wiser person. This is hard, I admit. I’m tired of eating so much bread and cookies and sugar, I’m mentally exhausted from living in three languages, and I miss my friends and family back home just like everyone else in the program at this minute.
I think it’s a turning point though. Having such an awful time in Tangier really made some of us realize how much at home we were in Rabat. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. This is also the time where we just have to abandon all our feelings of discomfort with our surroundings, and accept what and where we are. It’s no use missing what you can’t have.
This next part is because I know you appreciate my honesty and frankness, and also because I just need to complain to somebody: some of the girls in this program are rather high maintenance. If they absolutely require a western toilet and hot water so they can shower everyday and shit without squatting, then why did they choose to study abroad in Morocco? The mean part of me can’t wait to see what they do for the village stay.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
respect your zone
So you know about my newfound love affair with bread already, but I bet you are still curious, eh? Bread is anathema in the US, but here bread is life. Bread is at every meal, in fact, it is the entire meal of breakfast unless I can beg an orange or a banana from Hajja. More often than not I get fresh-squeezed orange juice…Since many Moroccans eat with their hands, bread is used as a utensil to scoop the tasty food up. In the Raissi house we have small forks for most meals so this isn’t necessary. Even so, bread is used to mop up tasty sauces.
Another thing you should know about Moroccan table etiquette: RESPECT YOUR ZONE. Many meals for a single family are served in one large dish in the center of the table, and you are armed with a large spoon, if there are any utensils at all. At a round table, in a round dish, everyone has their own wedge of space from which they can eat. You must eat only the food within this zone, unless a zealous host deposits other choice tidbits in it. This practice results more often than not in the creation of walls between the zones. This phenomenon is especially prevalent on Fridays, as Fridays are the day of couscous, a slightly sticky dish that holds together well. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end because AL-Hajj just eats the rest when we’re done. OK, maybe not all the time, but I think it happened last Friday.
Side dishes, or salads, are served in individual plates for each diner. Hajja favors cabbage and cucumbers, or beets and potatoes. These are eaten with the minuscule forks I mentioned earlier.
I don’t know what the deal with meat is, but perhaps it is relatively expensive, because we don’t have it often.
In academic affairs, today was our first day of FusHa (standard classical Arabic), and we reviewed grammatical delicacies such as the idafa (possessive), question words, masdar (the gerund, a.k.a. nouns ending in –ing), and the several ways to say “because”.
This afternoon’s lecture was on Moroccan politics, which I enjoyed more than I thought I would. The addition of a cappuccino to my afternoon schedule may have had something to do with that.
I spent the afternoon messing about on the internet, applying for another summer internship (At Mesa Verde!) and trying to Skype with my dad, except the internet cut out about 10 minutes in (Sorry dad!) and I couldn’t reconnect. Balls.
It also had been raining all day, so evening plans to go out with some friends and Amine got cancelled. I did, however, have a pleasant experience with my French this evening, when I skipped English in my thought process and went directly from idea to French. If only my Arabic would do the same…
I think I am pretty much better after the great Weekend of Stomach Badness, but my tummy still aches. Perhaps I could tell my family that it only tolerates vegetables.
Another thing you should know about Moroccan table etiquette: RESPECT YOUR ZONE. Many meals for a single family are served in one large dish in the center of the table, and you are armed with a large spoon, if there are any utensils at all. At a round table, in a round dish, everyone has their own wedge of space from which they can eat. You must eat only the food within this zone, unless a zealous host deposits other choice tidbits in it. This practice results more often than not in the creation of walls between the zones. This phenomenon is especially prevalent on Fridays, as Fridays are the day of couscous, a slightly sticky dish that holds together well. I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end because AL-Hajj just eats the rest when we’re done. OK, maybe not all the time, but I think it happened last Friday.
Side dishes, or salads, are served in individual plates for each diner. Hajja favors cabbage and cucumbers, or beets and potatoes. These are eaten with the minuscule forks I mentioned earlier.
I don’t know what the deal with meat is, but perhaps it is relatively expensive, because we don’t have it often.
In academic affairs, today was our first day of FusHa (standard classical Arabic), and we reviewed grammatical delicacies such as the idafa (possessive), question words, masdar (the gerund, a.k.a. nouns ending in –ing), and the several ways to say “because”.
This afternoon’s lecture was on Moroccan politics, which I enjoyed more than I thought I would. The addition of a cappuccino to my afternoon schedule may have had something to do with that.
I spent the afternoon messing about on the internet, applying for another summer internship (At Mesa Verde!) and trying to Skype with my dad, except the internet cut out about 10 minutes in (Sorry dad!) and I couldn’t reconnect. Balls.
It also had been raining all day, so evening plans to go out with some friends and Amine got cancelled. I did, however, have a pleasant experience with my French this evening, when I skipped English in my thought process and went directly from idea to French. If only my Arabic would do the same…
I think I am pretty much better after the great Weekend of Stomach Badness, but my tummy still aches. Perhaps I could tell my family that it only tolerates vegetables.
Monday, February 15, 2010
bathe once a week but soaps every day
No internet when I arrived at the CCCL today. I never realized how essential the internet is to my existence. OK, maybe not my existence, but my feelings of comfort.
This morning it rained buckets, literally. In the Raissi household, water from the roof is funneled down into the house and collected in buckets to be used later for watering the plants. Soukaina had to change the buckets several times during the morning.
And that’s another thing, as the youngest member of the house, and a girl, Soukaina does lots of chores. She cooks when Hajja is at work and sees to the requests of her father and brother. I certainly never had to do that much around the house, but then again I’ve also never had to live with a mom, a dad, and a brother.
When I get back home in a few months I will be happy to help with household chores (within reason, family!). I’m still treated as (what I think of as) a guest. It’s a strange and new dynamic for me because I’m used to going about my own business by myself. Like I said before, the family thing is brand new to me.
Here’s another cultural phenomenon that I am unfamiliar with: soap operas. I’ve seen three so far in my house:
Aina Aba?- Originally Mexican but dubbed in Darija. It has lots of mariachis and flashbacks.
Scheherezade- Originally Turkish but dubbed in Darija. Great camerawork of Istanbul. Whenever Scheherezade is onscreen the music turns into Scheherezade by Rimsky- Korsakov.
Vaidehi- Originally in…something Indian, but dubbed in Darija. Watching this one makes me dizzy because there are so many shots flashing from one character to another. Al-Hajj likes to sing along to the theme song.
And I’m sure there are more. They’re a bit overdone for my taste, but then again I’m not a connoisseur. The whole family loves them.
This morning it rained buckets, literally. In the Raissi household, water from the roof is funneled down into the house and collected in buckets to be used later for watering the plants. Soukaina had to change the buckets several times during the morning.
And that’s another thing, as the youngest member of the house, and a girl, Soukaina does lots of chores. She cooks when Hajja is at work and sees to the requests of her father and brother. I certainly never had to do that much around the house, but then again I’ve also never had to live with a mom, a dad, and a brother.
When I get back home in a few months I will be happy to help with household chores (within reason, family!). I’m still treated as (what I think of as) a guest. It’s a strange and new dynamic for me because I’m used to going about my own business by myself. Like I said before, the family thing is brand new to me.
Here’s another cultural phenomenon that I am unfamiliar with: soap operas. I’ve seen three so far in my house:
Aina Aba?- Originally Mexican but dubbed in Darija. It has lots of mariachis and flashbacks.
Scheherezade- Originally Turkish but dubbed in Darija. Great camerawork of Istanbul. Whenever Scheherezade is onscreen the music turns into Scheherezade by Rimsky- Korsakov.
Vaidehi- Originally in…something Indian, but dubbed in Darija. Watching this one makes me dizzy because there are so many shots flashing from one character to another. Al-Hajj likes to sing along to the theme song.
And I’m sure there are more. They’re a bit overdone for my taste, but then again I’m not a connoisseur. The whole family loves them.
four dynasties, one weekend
If there’s a Moroccan “Delhi Belly” equivalent, then I definitely had it this weekend, making our excursion to Meknes and Fes less than enjoyable. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say it was very uncomfortable.
This weekend was our Four Dynasties in One Weekend whirlwind tour of the cities of Meknes, Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Fes. We took a bus tour through Meknes, where we were the Tourists. It was very strange: I’ve spent the last few weeks trying not to look like a tourist, because I do actually live in the Medina in Rabat, for a while at least. We only got off the bus to snap photos (and cause one minor traffic accident) and then piled right back on. We stopped at Bab Al-Hamis (the Thursday Gate), Bab Al-Mansour (the Glorious Gate), the granaries of Moulay Ismael, and the mausoleum of Moulay Ismael.
This weekend was our Four Dynasties in One Weekend whirlwind tour of the cities of Meknes, Moulay Idriss, Volubilis, and Fes. We took a bus tour through Meknes, where we were the Tourists. It was very strange: I’ve spent the last few weeks trying not to look like a tourist, because I do actually live in the Medina in Rabat, for a while at least. We only got off the bus to snap photos (and cause one minor traffic accident) and then piled right back on. We stopped at Bab Al-Hamis (the Thursday Gate), Bab Al-Mansour (the Glorious Gate), the granaries of Moulay Ismael, and the mausoleum of Moulay Ismael.
Bab Al-Mansour
granary of Moulay Ismael
mausoleum of Moulay Ismael
Our next stop was the town of Moulay Idriss for lunch. This place was beautiful, but not big enough for our tour bus. Our driver must have had balls of steel to take that bus where he did; we nearly squashed townspeople against the walls of buildings we passed. Moulay Idriss is in the Middle Atlas mountains, situated in a steep valley right on the border between the rolling agricultural lands and the mountain slopes. It reminded me of Great Sand Dunes National Park actually, the way you could see it from miles away, cozying up against the mountains. Jess thought so too.
Moulay Idriss
After lunch at a restaurant I’m sure depends on the tourist trade, we lurched our way down a road more accustomed to donkeys than tour buses. Giant agave plants, sheep, and olive trees were scattered along the hillside. The agave plants sometimes serve as fences (or maybe boundary markers?) so lines of them march up the mountainside.
sheep and agave on the hills of Moulay Idriss
The Roman town of Volubilis sits at the foot of Moulay Idriss, on a slight rise about the rest of the valley floor. As our tour guide mentioned, the Romans really knew how to choose their sites: there are springs in the hills nearby that were accessed by aqueduct, the land is extremely fertile, and you can see for miles and miles in all directions.
a view of Moulay Idriss from Volubilis
Volubilis and the surrounding countryside
our guide in Volubilis
It felt kind of strange being able to scramble over a Roman town with no restrictions. Most of what you can see has been reconstructed by archaeologists from the ruins of the town (it was destroyed in the Lisbon earthquake of…um…a long time ago), so some structures have modern bricks for walls, and column tops have been placed on the bases with no trace of the actual column in between. It was such a peaceful experience to be able to ramble about in the early afternoon. There were however, some pretty serious clouds bearing down on us and it did rain a bit. The whole situation reminded me of Spirited Away, and how there’s this abandoned theme park in a grassland, but at night it lights up and becomes inhabited by spirits. If you think I’m being weird, go rent the movie.
Back on the bus for the ride to Fes. It was the most glorious bus ride I’ve ever had. If you can imagine the green fields of Virginia unrolled over the Green Mountains, you can get some idea of how beautiful the countryside in the Middle Atlas is. Now I just have to think up a subject for my ISP (individual study project) that will allow me to hang around the Middle Atlas for a month. The white buildings and minarets of distant towns stood out against the verdant fields. This just reaffirms the fact that I’m not a city girl. I can’t wait for the rural homestay, and hopefully I can stay in the countryside for my ISP.
Once we got to the hotel in Fes there was a mad dash for the showers. I’m pretty sure we upped the per capita intake of water in Fes by 50 liters.
Dinner was at another tourist restaurant, but this one included an evening’s entertainment. When we arrived there was a small ensemble playing (traditional?) music, and after dinner was served there were dancing musicians, a dancer, a small musical ensemble with dancers, a magician who address the audience in four languages, a belly dancer who did things with fire, and a wedding reenactment. Several of us agreed that this smacked a little much of Orientalism.
This morning we had a walking tour of the Medina of Fes. It made me glad that we’re staying in Rabat. First of all, it’s a labyrinth: I would have gotten lost in probably ten seconds flat. The roads aren’t even wide enough for a tiny car, and some barely wide enough for a single person. It was like an urban Howe Caverns (Google it if you’re not from upstate New York). I liked it because every little space had been used, like some kind of 3-D Tetris.
Fes medina
Because cars can’t fit, people use donkeys and mules to get around the city, which means quantities of donkey and mule poo in the roads. People leading their animals yell “Balak!” in the street, which translates roughly to “Get out of the way or I will run you over with my smelly equine!” By the time a second “Balak!” is verbalized, it’s usually too late and you are under the mule’s hooves, or so our tour guide told us. I am happy to report that nobody in our party was trampled today.
Few is famous for its tanneries, which made me never want to buy leather ever again. We climber up into a (obviously touristy) store that hade balconies from which one could view the tannery. We were given mint leaves to sniff should the smell overcome us. I had the leaves practically stuffed up my nose, a.k.a. it was VERY SMELLY.
tanneries of Fes
The bus ride back to Rabat was pretty short, because I slept the whole way back, and I got back to the house at 6:30pm. Amine was on his way out, Soukaina was at a friend’s house, and I have no idea where Al-Hajj was. Anyway, Hajja made me “un petit repas” (a small meal) for dinner, including potato cakes, a fried egg, some cabbage-olive salad thingy, and cream puffs…and tea and bread of course. We chatted for a few minutes about my weekend, and then when Soukaina got home we chatted a bit more and previewed some of my photos. I’m not used to all this familial attention.
Something our tour guide Ahmed said today stuck in my head: “No Medina without walls.” More on that later.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
medina streets and scrubbly mitt
The subject today is the medina streets. So the streets of the medina are for the most part very narrow, not having been built before the advent of the automobile. This fact does not discourage cars from actually driving through the medina.
For example, on my way to Arabic class in the mornings, I must walk through a street where vendors sell produce. Every morning, men find a way to squish multiple trucks into the space of an American alley: it’s very impressive. Also impressive is the way I don’t get clocked with crates of potatoes and onions as I walk by.
Since they are so narrow, cars can’t pass except on the widest of streets, like Mohammad V and Sidi FataH. If a car encounters a blockage, such as another car, the driver simply stops and commences honking until the other vehicle moves. Delivery trucks are problem in this case, as they squat in one place for a long time.
Motorbikes are a whole other story. Imagine walking down a narrow alley and hearing the growl of the engine. You don’t know from which direction it’s coming, but you know it’s getting closer and closer. Suddenly a screeching motorcycle or motorbike rounds the nearest corner and you must throw yourself up against the wall, only to have the offending motorbike almost snag your sleeve. Scary stuff.
In other news, this evening I bought (with Soukaina doing the actual speaking and me just providing the capital) one of the lovely scrubbly mitts that you use in the hammam to rub your skin off. I also got a ball of the henna soap that goes with it. The rest of the family laughed a little when Soukaina told them about my purchases; I guess previous students weren’t as enamored of the hammam as I am.
This coming weekend we have an excursion to Meknes, Fez, and Volubilis. I’m pretty excited, because it means we get to be tourists, as opposed to awkward residents. I mean, I stick out when I’m walking through the souk (market) on account of my blondness and general aura of Westernity (yes my own word). I do live here, but I am obviously out of place and strange; there aren’t many tourists toodling about on the back streets of the medina. I’ve gotten used to seeing Moroccans everywhere around me. I even stare at the European tourists now when I see them on my street (which also happens to be part of the souk). In conclusion, this weekend I can take pictures openly and feel OK about sticking out, instead of wishing I somehow looked less un-Moroccan.
Valentine’s Day is this coming Sunday, when we’ll be in Fez. Soukaina and I were talking about it, and I said I would be glad to get away from all the hearts and pink and red ridiculous commercialism (but I didn’t know the French word for “commercial”). We both think the mass quantities of chocolate are a good idea, on account of Soukaina being genuinely in love with chocolate and me being a brand new Moroccan and finally admitting to my love affair with sweets and BREAD. (If you were wondering, the Arabic word for bread is “hubs” but the “h” sound is a kind of hacking in the back of your throat and the “u” is very short.)
My brother’s club music is currently battling for supremacy with the radio in the kitchen and the TV in the living room. It’s a good thing I don’t have a lot of homework to do. I just have to squash a third language into my head while speaking a different one and thinking in still another. You know, no problem. But much of it is Jay Sean, so I guess I can’t complain that much.
For example, on my way to Arabic class in the mornings, I must walk through a street where vendors sell produce. Every morning, men find a way to squish multiple trucks into the space of an American alley: it’s very impressive. Also impressive is the way I don’t get clocked with crates of potatoes and onions as I walk by.
Since they are so narrow, cars can’t pass except on the widest of streets, like Mohammad V and Sidi FataH. If a car encounters a blockage, such as another car, the driver simply stops and commences honking until the other vehicle moves. Delivery trucks are problem in this case, as they squat in one place for a long time.
Motorbikes are a whole other story. Imagine walking down a narrow alley and hearing the growl of the engine. You don’t know from which direction it’s coming, but you know it’s getting closer and closer. Suddenly a screeching motorcycle or motorbike rounds the nearest corner and you must throw yourself up against the wall, only to have the offending motorbike almost snag your sleeve. Scary stuff.
In other news, this evening I bought (with Soukaina doing the actual speaking and me just providing the capital) one of the lovely scrubbly mitts that you use in the hammam to rub your skin off. I also got a ball of the henna soap that goes with it. The rest of the family laughed a little when Soukaina told them about my purchases; I guess previous students weren’t as enamored of the hammam as I am.
This coming weekend we have an excursion to Meknes, Fez, and Volubilis. I’m pretty excited, because it means we get to be tourists, as opposed to awkward residents. I mean, I stick out when I’m walking through the souk (market) on account of my blondness and general aura of Westernity (yes my own word). I do live here, but I am obviously out of place and strange; there aren’t many tourists toodling about on the back streets of the medina. I’ve gotten used to seeing Moroccans everywhere around me. I even stare at the European tourists now when I see them on my street (which also happens to be part of the souk). In conclusion, this weekend I can take pictures openly and feel OK about sticking out, instead of wishing I somehow looked less un-Moroccan.
Valentine’s Day is this coming Sunday, when we’ll be in Fez. Soukaina and I were talking about it, and I said I would be glad to get away from all the hearts and pink and red ridiculous commercialism (but I didn’t know the French word for “commercial”). We both think the mass quantities of chocolate are a good idea, on account of Soukaina being genuinely in love with chocolate and me being a brand new Moroccan and finally admitting to my love affair with sweets and BREAD. (If you were wondering, the Arabic word for bread is “hubs” but the “h” sound is a kind of hacking in the back of your throat and the “u” is very short.)
My brother’s club music is currently battling for supremacy with the radio in the kitchen and the TV in the living room. It’s a good thing I don’t have a lot of homework to do. I just have to squash a third language into my head while speaking a different one and thinking in still another. You know, no problem. But much of it is Jay Sean, so I guess I can’t complain that much.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
on being a pedestrian
Third day of classes. I have Darija vocab coming out my ears. I think I’ve absorbed maybe a third of it…? I’m also getting better about navigating through the medina, although it still requires constant vigilance on my part to spot this sign, or that door.
Traffic here is terrible, for us anyway. Anytime you cross the street you take your life in your hands: you just have to look for a break in the cars streaming by…and GO! They won’t stop for you, but if you get too close they beep. Motorbikes are also very popular; people double up on them, and triple up on normal bikes. Despite the fact that you almost get run over by a car, you can actually stop in between lanes to wait for the cars to go by, as long as there are marked lanes (I think that’s the unspoken rule…). I may get a ticket for jaywalking when I get back home because of this habit of crazy street crossing. I mean, you just walk right out into the middle of an intersection and kind of dance around the cars streaming by.
Traffic here is terrible, for us anyway. Anytime you cross the street you take your life in your hands: you just have to look for a break in the cars streaming by…and GO! They won’t stop for you, but if you get too close they beep. Motorbikes are also very popular; people double up on them, and triple up on normal bikes. Despite the fact that you almost get run over by a car, you can actually stop in between lanes to wait for the cars to go by, as long as there are marked lanes (I think that’s the unspoken rule…). I may get a ticket for jaywalking when I get back home because of this habit of crazy street crossing. I mean, you just walk right out into the middle of an intersection and kind of dance around the cars streaming by.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
kasbah!
I went for a run and took a shower; it was a good day. Classes were slightly less taxing than the 30-minute run. We have Arabic in the morning for 3 hours. It’s the local dialect of Arabic called Darija, as opposed to the classical Arabic called FusHa, which we start next week. Our teacher, Fatima Zohra, is very nice. The whole class is like playing Charades, but it works.
Our lecture this afternoon was disappointing because the lecturer’s English wasn’t really up to it, but she made a good effort. We were done super early, therefore, a bunch of us went to the Kasbah. It’s right across the street from my house really. It has a beautiful garden that, in theory, is good for studying, but the kittens are distracting. Street cats are everywhere, and not bending down and petting all of them tries my patience daily, especially the kittens.
So the Kasbah. A kasbah is really just a walled town and they’re all over. In fact, most cities have a kasbah at its center. The kasbah here marks the first area of settlement of Rabat, where the river Bouregreg meets the Atlantic Ocean. All the houses inside the kasbah are painted white and blue; it looks almost like Greece.
Our lecture this afternoon was disappointing because the lecturer’s English wasn’t really up to it, but she made a good effort. We were done super early, therefore, a bunch of us went to the Kasbah. It’s right across the street from my house really. It has a beautiful garden that, in theory, is good for studying, but the kittens are distracting. Street cats are everywhere, and not bending down and petting all of them tries my patience daily, especially the kittens.
So the Kasbah. A kasbah is really just a walled town and they’re all over. In fact, most cities have a kasbah at its center. The kasbah here marks the first area of settlement of Rabat, where the river Bouregreg meets the Atlantic Ocean. All the houses inside the kasbah are painted white and blue; it looks almost like Greece.
I got home around 3:30 and tried to study my Darija vocab. I tried. But I ended up taking a nap, so it’s really just like home.
Later in the afternoon I went for a run down by the beach with my friend Becca. The glorified sidewalk is actually under construction. That’s one of the things I like about Morocco, the public works are open to all. Really though, we almost ran between a dump truck and a bulldozer; there aren’t any fences or guards or anything. We were running on half-made sidewalks and curbs and it was fine.
The coast is spectacular, by the way: the waves have been eating away at the sandstones and limestones to create a 30-foot drop to the ocean. The waves were huge today, easily breaking over the tops of the cliffs.
Crazy people surf here actually; there’s an official surf club on the beach. Some members were walking home and ran me off the sidewalk with their boards (in a nice way).
That’s another thing, we girls get yelled at everywhere we go. The main road parallels the sidewalk by the beach, so can you imagine the amount of catcalls and beeping we were subject to? Yeah. A lot. You’ve just got to understand that these guys don’t mean anything hostile when they holler at us in the street. Back in the day, and still, it was a manner of courting: the only place where the sexes could mingle was the street. Guys yell at girls to get their attention, and girls can look back at them, or something, to indicate their interest. It works against however, because when somebody shouts at me I generally look. Some guys are just trying to be polite I think, but others are just trying to get your attention. Broken English is popular, as is French, and sometimes Arabic, but I don’t usually get the Arabic because I am blond, and therefore a European. Some guys will actually follow you, but that hasn’t happened to me yet. I’ve also learned to ignore pretty much everything in the street as I walk.
Later in the afternoon I went for a run down by the beach with my friend Becca. The glorified sidewalk is actually under construction. That’s one of the things I like about Morocco, the public works are open to all. Really though, we almost ran between a dump truck and a bulldozer; there aren’t any fences or guards or anything. We were running on half-made sidewalks and curbs and it was fine.
The coast is spectacular, by the way: the waves have been eating away at the sandstones and limestones to create a 30-foot drop to the ocean. The waves were huge today, easily breaking over the tops of the cliffs.
Crazy people surf here actually; there’s an official surf club on the beach. Some members were walking home and ran me off the sidewalk with their boards (in a nice way).
That’s another thing, we girls get yelled at everywhere we go. The main road parallels the sidewalk by the beach, so can you imagine the amount of catcalls and beeping we were subject to? Yeah. A lot. You’ve just got to understand that these guys don’t mean anything hostile when they holler at us in the street. Back in the day, and still, it was a manner of courting: the only place where the sexes could mingle was the street. Guys yell at girls to get their attention, and girls can look back at them, or something, to indicate their interest. It works against however, because when somebody shouts at me I generally look. Some guys are just trying to be polite I think, but others are just trying to get your attention. Broken English is popular, as is French, and sometimes Arabic, but I don’t usually get the Arabic because I am blond, and therefore a European. Some guys will actually follow you, but that hasn’t happened to me yet. I’ve also learned to ignore pretty much everything in the street as I walk.
Monday, February 8, 2010
to begin with...
So people, this is so you don’t have to email me constantly about my whereabouts in the beautiful Maghreb (Morocco). I will try and post as often as possible, with pictures because I know you are clamoring for them, but internet access, and my willingness to sit around in internet cafes will be limited. That said, welcome to my blog!
I have just finished my first weekend with my host family, who is adorable, by the way. My father is Al-Hajj Mohamed and my mother is Hajja Fatima, the “Hajj” means they’ve done the pilgrimage to Mecca. My sister is Soukaina, she’s a bit younger than me, and my brother is Amine, who is a few years older than me.
Their home is the ground floor of an old building in the Medina (old city) of Rabat. It has a roofed central courtyard and rooms around that: 4 salons, a kitchen, and the toilet. A salon doesn’t have an American equivalent; it’s more like a living room that doubles as a bedroom. There are sofas up against the walls with pillows and a table in the center of the room, with wheels usually. During the day, the family uses it as a living room, and at night the pillows come off and blankets come out. One room is the dedicated living room, with a TV, and that’s where we eat all our meals (yes, with the TV on). At night Soukaina sleeps there. Amine has his own room, but both he and Soukaina use it as a living room; it has the computer. I get my own room, which is nice. It’s the formal sitting room and is usually closed (?). It’s an enormous room and I don’t use all of it.
We have a Turkish toilet. Yes, it is a hole in the floor. Before you cringe in disgust, know this: it’s very hygienic and easy to use. If you can aim. But think about it, how many times have you had to scrub the toilet and really hated it? This is way less to scrub. It’s been better since a roll of toilet paper magically appeared a few days ago. You flush the toilet by pouring sometimes violently depending on the amount of ahem, material.
The shower at home is just a nozzle, added recently I think, in the wall above head level. Moroccans here don’t shower every day, or every other day: they go to the hammam once a week. Soukaina says she goes twice a week in the summer. The hammam is the bathhouse. And I LOVE it. I told Hajja I wanted to build one in the US. The hammam Soukaina and I went to on Saturday is a few blocks from the house in a nondescript building near the main road through the medina. We brought a few buckets, plastic stools, and toiletries. We paid 10 dirhams (8 dirhams = $1) to get in, and 1 dirham to rent a few more buckets. Once inside the hammam proper, you fill up the buckets and stake out your space within the room. Oh yeah, and you’re naked (undies only) with probably a dozen other women. What followed was a confusing and variable series of soaping, scrubbing, shampooing, and rinsing. The best part is the scrubbing. Imagine this: rubber sandpaper. It’s a mitt-type thing, and you just scrub the top layer of your skin until it comes off. Brilliant. To make a long story short, we were in there for about 90 minutes, and I emerged cleaner than I have ever felt. But I was tired for the rest of the day. My family nodded knowingly, saying “Ah, hammam.” The heat takes a lot out of you.
I hung around the house after the hammam and then went out later with Soukaina and Amine and their friends, who we dropped off at a taxi, then strolled about for an hour. I practiced my few words of Arabic. Oh, I forgot to mention, we speak French at home. Well, we speak French when we need to communicate, and then they speak Arabic the rest of the time. Darija is the name of the Arabic dialect spoken here.
We got back around 10pm and then had dinner. Nights are late here, and dinner is past my usual bedtime. “Tea” falls at my dinnertime. Meals involve a lot of bread and the family telling me to “Guli, guli!” which means “Eat, eat!”.
More on classes later, because today has been our first real day of classes.
Pictures later too. Be patient.
I have just finished my first weekend with my host family, who is adorable, by the way. My father is Al-Hajj Mohamed and my mother is Hajja Fatima, the “Hajj” means they’ve done the pilgrimage to Mecca. My sister is Soukaina, she’s a bit younger than me, and my brother is Amine, who is a few years older than me.
Their home is the ground floor of an old building in the Medina (old city) of Rabat. It has a roofed central courtyard and rooms around that: 4 salons, a kitchen, and the toilet. A salon doesn’t have an American equivalent; it’s more like a living room that doubles as a bedroom. There are sofas up against the walls with pillows and a table in the center of the room, with wheels usually. During the day, the family uses it as a living room, and at night the pillows come off and blankets come out. One room is the dedicated living room, with a TV, and that’s where we eat all our meals (yes, with the TV on). At night Soukaina sleeps there. Amine has his own room, but both he and Soukaina use it as a living room; it has the computer. I get my own room, which is nice. It’s the formal sitting room and is usually closed (?). It’s an enormous room and I don’t use all of it.
We have a Turkish toilet. Yes, it is a hole in the floor. Before you cringe in disgust, know this: it’s very hygienic and easy to use. If you can aim. But think about it, how many times have you had to scrub the toilet and really hated it? This is way less to scrub. It’s been better since a roll of toilet paper magically appeared a few days ago. You flush the toilet by pouring sometimes violently depending on the amount of ahem, material.
The shower at home is just a nozzle, added recently I think, in the wall above head level. Moroccans here don’t shower every day, or every other day: they go to the hammam once a week. Soukaina says she goes twice a week in the summer. The hammam is the bathhouse. And I LOVE it. I told Hajja I wanted to build one in the US. The hammam Soukaina and I went to on Saturday is a few blocks from the house in a nondescript building near the main road through the medina. We brought a few buckets, plastic stools, and toiletries. We paid 10 dirhams (8 dirhams = $1) to get in, and 1 dirham to rent a few more buckets. Once inside the hammam proper, you fill up the buckets and stake out your space within the room. Oh yeah, and you’re naked (undies only) with probably a dozen other women. What followed was a confusing and variable series of soaping, scrubbing, shampooing, and rinsing. The best part is the scrubbing. Imagine this: rubber sandpaper. It’s a mitt-type thing, and you just scrub the top layer of your skin until it comes off. Brilliant. To make a long story short, we were in there for about 90 minutes, and I emerged cleaner than I have ever felt. But I was tired for the rest of the day. My family nodded knowingly, saying “Ah, hammam.” The heat takes a lot out of you.
I hung around the house after the hammam and then went out later with Soukaina and Amine and their friends, who we dropped off at a taxi, then strolled about for an hour. I practiced my few words of Arabic. Oh, I forgot to mention, we speak French at home. Well, we speak French when we need to communicate, and then they speak Arabic the rest of the time. Darija is the name of the Arabic dialect spoken here.
We got back around 10pm and then had dinner. Nights are late here, and dinner is past my usual bedtime. “Tea” falls at my dinnertime. Meals involve a lot of bread and the family telling me to “Guli, guli!” which means “Eat, eat!”.
More on classes later, because today has been our first real day of classes.
Pictures later too. Be patient.
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