I just finished a paper about the standardization of the Amazigh language and its addition to the school system. I pretty much bashed both the “standardization” and the system, if you were wondering. It wasn’t a bad paper really, better than my Multilingualism one, but I still feel vulnerable when I’m asked to write something without solid references and based mostly on my opinion and what I managed to pick up in class. I like to be correct.
We all get a little bitchy about homework here, mostly because we have very little. OK, let me amend that: we have very little for our seminars. I have plenty from Arabic class. In fact, I approve of the Arabic homework. But back to the seminar stuff. Most of the lectures just barely scratch the surface of the subject matter, so to ask us to write a paper about what we’ve covered just scares us. Compared to a normal Skidmore semester, I have next to no homework, but I suppose the total mind fuck (excuse my French) of having 3 hours of intense language study every day makes up for it. By lunchtime I am nearly brain-dead from Arabic. In theory it’s not difficult, but we’re moving so fast that we have little time in class to review what we’ve learned. By the time I get home, I have enough time to do my homework, eat dinner, and then enough energy to make my bed and fall into it.
It’s a tough schedule, not to mention that being surrounded by a foreign language all the time keeps the brain working. I imagine it like this: my brain is like a cell phone that can’t find service, it keeps searching and searching for a signal, anything, that it can connect to, until it runs out of battery.
In other, more fun news about everyday life in Morocco, which is what you are reading this blog for, I will tell you about making thick string. Yes, you read me right. I’m not quite sure if it’s the business that does it, or the individual that busy the string and then makes it thicker. Any given day you can see men standing on the street spinning string thicker. They use little handheld thingies that look like tiny eggbeaters to spin the string. The fun part about this is that it turns the medina into a kind of Silly String party. First, one end of the string is tied to something on the wall about head height, it’s usually a bit of wire hanger or some sticky-out bit of a building. Next the string is hooked onto any number of wire hangers along the street, just so long as the path takes no sudden turns. Insert other of string into spinner, and GO. So men just stand in the street and hold these spinners and gossip with their friends who are passing by. They also try and amuse passerby like me by pretending the string is pulling them somewhere, or maybe that was just the one guy… In some places you have to duck under flying strings to pass along a street, and in others you have to avoid walking near walls because there is a mass of string oscillating. Today, for instance, I had to walk down the middle of the tiny alley leading to Veggie Street because there was string spinning on both sides. It felt like a high wire act to walk between them, except the wire and I had swapped places. I just reread that simile and it made very little sense.
I am still stressed about my ISP. I need an advisor and I need housing. More on that later when I actually want to think about it.
The henna from the village stay two weeks ago has worn off for the most part. Now my fading hands and feet make me feel like a henna leopard, like I have some kind of faint skin color variation on my hands and feet that looks vaguely like flowers and leaves.
In addition to juicing and slicing, Hajja also likes to fry. Moroccans in general like to fry foods, which is bad for my waistline, but let me tell you, Moroccans know French Fries. Hajja fried some eggplant a few days ago. So tasty. But then again last weekend she fried bread and then sprinkled sugar on it. That may be the epitome of my gastronomic experience here in Morocco: bread fried and sugared.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Martil
This past weekend, myself and a few intrepid friends made the trek to the Mediterranean coast. We took the train to Tanger, spent the night, and then caught a bus to Tetouan in the morning. Form Tetouan we got a grand taxi to Martil, and were lying on the beach by noon. Sadly, some of my travelling companions neglected to bring their passports, which mean a lot of waiting around while they went to the police station and got their international information registered etc. It was frustrating.
Martil is one of a few seaside towns close to Tetouan. I think the area is just one long beach between rocky headlands. That’s another thing, we were in the Rif mountains, which are crazy beautiful. Driving form Tanger to Tetouan, we were passing these enormous hills covered in farmland, and even the peaks were blanketed with green fields almost until the top.
a sleepy shepherd I saw from the train
Martil is one of a few seaside towns close to Tetouan. I think the area is just one long beach between rocky headlands. That’s another thing, we were in the Rif mountains, which are crazy beautiful. Driving form Tanger to Tetouan, we were passing these enormous hills covered in farmland, and even the peaks were blanketed with green fields almost until the top.
view of the Rif mountains from the beach
The beach was pretty much deserted, maybe because it’s a bit early for tourists. There weren’t many hotels, so I’m guessing Martil is for Moroccans on beachy holidays. I didn’t see many other tourists, except for the odd Spaniard. Our hotel was right on the beach, and cost around 88dh ($11) per person for the night. This is one of the many reasons why I love Morocco.
the view from our hotel room
Another reason I love Morocco are the hanoots that are everywhere. Hanoots are kind of like your neighborhood convenient store, with snacks, toiletries, that kind of thing. They are usually housed in a narrow cubicle that faces out onto the street with shelves inside and out that go up to the ceiling. I buy lots of yogurt. So anyway, we found the WalMart of hanoots in Martil, and loaded up on bread, cheese, yogurt and cookies, and had a picnic lunch on the beach. We even brought all our garbage back to the hotel, unlike others before us, who had simply left theirs on the beach. Garbage is a big problem in Morocco, one that continues to bother me where ever we go.
On Sunday we tried to get bus tickets from Tetouan to Rabat, but didn’t consider the fact that it was the last day of school vacation. So we took a grand taxi back to Tetouan and rode the sketchiest bus yet back to Tanger. Sketchy meaning it’s not the nice bus that all the tourists take, it the one that your average Moroccan will take to visit family in another town. It was an uncomfortable experience, mostly because the suspension of the bus was shot and I got moderately carsick, but it got us to Tanger, where we got the train back to Rabat. Mercifully, we found seats for the 5-hour train ride.
a blurry Tetuoan from the bus, but you get the idea
a sleepy shepherd I saw from the trainThe least fun part of the weekend was walking home at 10:30pm through the medina. Dark, garbage everywhere, and men hanging out at corners. I did get a good dinner when I got home though.
Friday, March 26, 2010
back from the village stay
Back from the village stay, and yes, it was a life-changing experience. I know you probably want to know more than that, but you’ll have to be patient because I have to write two papers for this week, and attempt to document this past week to my liking. A challenge if I ever heard it.
So, we drove out past Boujaad, the nearest town to our village, and met half the parents on the side of the road. Most of us were nervous, but it was an expected nervousness because we’d experienced it before. We stared and giggled as half of the students milled around in the road waiting to meet their host fathers for the week.
Long story short, my host brother Mohammed met me at the next stop in the village proper, and I was then introduced to my two host mothers, Fatna and Fatna. We walked out of the village, past the school, turned left, over a hill and got home.
Note: Because both my host mothers were named Fatna, I will call one of them My Fatna because she was the one who pretty much adopted me, escorted me to the bathroom, mashed up my bread, gave me her bracelet, and cried this morning when I left.
Home
My house can more accurately be described as a complex. Out front are the stables for the donkey and mule, as well as the storeroom, laundry lines, the tiny homemade hammam, giant water jars made out of tires, and the entrance to the sheep pen. You have to stoop to enter through the front door, which has a homemade handle and locks, made out of assorted metal bits.
Once through the door, you’re under a covered section that leads into the main yard of the house, which is not roofed; all the rooms of the house open onto this yard. On your left as you enter is a low stone bench where the plastic water jars sit, along with a dipper. Straight ahead is the door to the largest room of the house. All the rooms of the house are pretty similar: rectangular, with a cabinet and pallet of blankets along the back wall. Some rooms have distinguishing features, like TVs, fireplaces, or looms, but really they can be used for anything because there are no large items of furniture. I guess the looms count as large items of furniture, but they looked like they’d be easy to take apart because they were literally tied to the walls and ceiling.
The room I slept in was the living room and bedroom for several people. It had a TV on a low table by the door, a cabinet along the back wall, and an enormous pile of blankets and carpets. Everybody sits on carpets and blankets instead of furniture. The walls were whitewashed and then the bottom half was painted blue. There was a giant clump of blue flowers painted over the window, and a stalk of grain over by the door. Up near the ceiling the word “Allah” was painted in blue, which I think was to indicate the direction of prayer. Once everybody was done with dinner and somebody wanted to go to bed (usually me) carpets and blankets and were spread on the floor for sleeping. Both Fatnas slept in the same room with me, along with either Atiqa, Usama, or Abd Al-Wahad.
Every small family in the house had their own room: Abd Al-Kabir, Zahra, Usama, and Driss; Mohammed and Atiqa, Nadia and Zuhir (I think), and I really don’t know about Abd Al-Wahad. My Fatna showed me her room, although she kept it locked and didn’t sleep in it while I was there. The only other different rooms were the kitchen and fireplace/storeroom. The kitchen was where the food and utensils were stored, and the food was prepared. The fireplace was in another room entirely where bags of something were also stored.
Most of the women in the house wove carpets. Zahra’s loom was in the kitchen, presumably because that was her domain (she made the bread). Atiqa’s loom was in the room she shared with her husband Mohammed, and the Fatnas worked one giant loom next to the kitchen. If Nadia had a loom I didn’t see it, but then again, I never went into her room.
So, I know you really want to know about the bathroom situation. It’s a non-question really: you just walk around the back of the house and do your business. I added new dimension to this, however, by using toilet paper. Nobody in the village really uses TP, if they really need to remove, er, something, they use rocks. There was a tiny hammam that looked like a teepee in the front yard. I didn’t use it, so I can’t report anything about it. I brushed my teeth in the front yard next to the door. Nobody really brushes their teeth there either. I gave My Fatna some toothpaste when she requested it one night. Her teeth aren’t in good condition, but neither would yours be if you ate mostly bread and drank tea with your sugar. Poor little Usama’s front teeth are already black, and he’s only 6. He’s a menace, so when he gets smacked upside the head he starts bawling because it hurts his teeth.
The oldest of the five brothers (don’t ask me what his name is) lives on the next hill over, probably no more than 100 yards from the big house. He lives with his wife Khadduj, and two daughters Umima and Shaima. He came over to the big house pretty often. Kate stayed with them and said that he was in a bad mood frequently.
So, we drove out past Boujaad, the nearest town to our village, and met half the parents on the side of the road. Most of us were nervous, but it was an expected nervousness because we’d experienced it before. We stared and giggled as half of the students milled around in the road waiting to meet their host fathers for the week.
Long story short, my host brother Mohammed met me at the next stop in the village proper, and I was then introduced to my two host mothers, Fatna and Fatna. We walked out of the village, past the school, turned left, over a hill and got home.
Note: Because both my host mothers were named Fatna, I will call one of them My Fatna because she was the one who pretty much adopted me, escorted me to the bathroom, mashed up my bread, gave me her bracelet, and cried this morning when I left.
Home
My house can more accurately be described as a complex. Out front are the stables for the donkey and mule, as well as the storeroom, laundry lines, the tiny homemade hammam, giant water jars made out of tires, and the entrance to the sheep pen. You have to stoop to enter through the front door, which has a homemade handle and locks, made out of assorted metal bits.
Once through the door, you’re under a covered section that leads into the main yard of the house, which is not roofed; all the rooms of the house open onto this yard. On your left as you enter is a low stone bench where the plastic water jars sit, along with a dipper. Straight ahead is the door to the largest room of the house. All the rooms of the house are pretty similar: rectangular, with a cabinet and pallet of blankets along the back wall. Some rooms have distinguishing features, like TVs, fireplaces, or looms, but really they can be used for anything because there are no large items of furniture. I guess the looms count as large items of furniture, but they looked like they’d be easy to take apart because they were literally tied to the walls and ceiling.
The room I slept in was the living room and bedroom for several people. It had a TV on a low table by the door, a cabinet along the back wall, and an enormous pile of blankets and carpets. Everybody sits on carpets and blankets instead of furniture. The walls were whitewashed and then the bottom half was painted blue. There was a giant clump of blue flowers painted over the window, and a stalk of grain over by the door. Up near the ceiling the word “Allah” was painted in blue, which I think was to indicate the direction of prayer. Once everybody was done with dinner and somebody wanted to go to bed (usually me) carpets and blankets and were spread on the floor for sleeping. Both Fatnas slept in the same room with me, along with either Atiqa, Usama, or Abd Al-Wahad.
Every small family in the house had their own room: Abd Al-Kabir, Zahra, Usama, and Driss; Mohammed and Atiqa, Nadia and Zuhir (I think), and I really don’t know about Abd Al-Wahad. My Fatna showed me her room, although she kept it locked and didn’t sleep in it while I was there. The only other different rooms were the kitchen and fireplace/storeroom. The kitchen was where the food and utensils were stored, and the food was prepared. The fireplace was in another room entirely where bags of something were also stored.
Most of the women in the house wove carpets. Zahra’s loom was in the kitchen, presumably because that was her domain (she made the bread). Atiqa’s loom was in the room she shared with her husband Mohammed, and the Fatnas worked one giant loom next to the kitchen. If Nadia had a loom I didn’t see it, but then again, I never went into her room.
So, I know you really want to know about the bathroom situation. It’s a non-question really: you just walk around the back of the house and do your business. I added new dimension to this, however, by using toilet paper. Nobody in the village really uses TP, if they really need to remove, er, something, they use rocks. There was a tiny hammam that looked like a teepee in the front yard. I didn’t use it, so I can’t report anything about it. I brushed my teeth in the front yard next to the door. Nobody really brushes their teeth there either. I gave My Fatna some toothpaste when she requested it one night. Her teeth aren’t in good condition, but neither would yours be if you ate mostly bread and drank tea with your sugar. Poor little Usama’s front teeth are already black, and he’s only 6. He’s a menace, so when he gets smacked upside the head he starts bawling because it hurts his teeth.
The oldest of the five brothers (don’t ask me what his name is) lives on the next hill over, probably no more than 100 yards from the big house. He lives with his wife Khadduj, and two daughters Umima and Shaima. He came over to the big house pretty often. Kate stayed with them and said that he was in a bad mood frequently.
Friday, March 19, 2010
thoughts before the village stay
Yesterday was one of the rare memorable Arabic classes. Before break we were learning parts of the body and Fatima Zahra (our teacher) told us to sing the “head, shoulders, knees, and toes” song. Now, I can do it in English, and I can do it in French, but I cannot do it in Arabic. I think we massacred the poor children’s song. Fatima Zahra told us to go on our break pretty quick after that.
St. Patrick’s Day has passed. Some students went out for expensive beers to celebrate. Only a few people remembered to wear green. The day was probably as exciting as this paragraph is creatively-written, which is to say, NOT.
I bought two disposable cameras in preparation for our village stay, as the one my father shipped has not yet arrived. We’re all pretty excited for the village stay that starts tomorrow. In fact, I am so excited, I will go to bed soon. The last time I will see a bed for a week.
And, for the record, I am not uninspired while writing this, I am just extremely tired. Several of us went to the hammam today, which tires you out by sucking all the moisture from your body. Afterwards we walked all the way to Marjane (a Wal-Mart type establishment) and all the way back. Don’t worry, Diana’s host-brother was with us, so we were safe and stuff.
Goodbye computer and internet! Goodbye bed! See you next Friday!
St. Patrick’s Day has passed. Some students went out for expensive beers to celebrate. Only a few people remembered to wear green. The day was probably as exciting as this paragraph is creatively-written, which is to say, NOT.
I bought two disposable cameras in preparation for our village stay, as the one my father shipped has not yet arrived. We’re all pretty excited for the village stay that starts tomorrow. In fact, I am so excited, I will go to bed soon. The last time I will see a bed for a week.
And, for the record, I am not uninspired while writing this, I am just extremely tired. Several of us went to the hammam today, which tires you out by sucking all the moisture from your body. Afterwards we walked all the way to Marjane (a Wal-Mart type establishment) and all the way back. Don’t worry, Diana’s host-brother was with us, so we were safe and stuff.
Goodbye computer and internet! Goodbye bed! See you next Friday!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
not about much of anything
Much to relate from the past few days.
Allison, Rachel, and I went to the Exotic Gardens in Kenitra this past Sunday. They’re not really exotic gardens in my opinion because the subdivisions looked remarkably similar. In any case, they were super fun because there were multiple levels and stairs and bridges tucked into corners. It was really more of a playground. It would make the world’s best game of Hide-and-Seek.
I finally got to go up on the terrace; I went up with Hajja when she was hanging laundry. It’s a shared terrace because the house is divided into smaller apartments, and everybody gets access to the terrace. The terrace is the clothes dryer. The view is magnificent, if you can look past the roofs of the neighbors: you can see the Oudaya kasbah, the Bouregreg River, the ocean, Sale, and way up the Bouregreg valley to where the suburbs of Sale are spilling over the hillside into the valley below.
Aside from the view, I was also treated to a minor rant about Hajja’s neighbors, who don’t keep their part of the house clean enough. I think Hajja also said that the other families rent from Al-Hajj, whose house it is. Mind you, this was all in French. Al-Hajj grew up in this house.
Our house is on the Rue des Consuls, which back in the day was the only street in the entire city where foreign representatives could live. Hajja is sure my room was once the office of a diplomat. She also said that a few years ago somebody knocked on their door and asked to see the house because their great-great-great(-great) grandfather had been a diplomat and lived here
I had never really associated our house with history before. The house is old, sure, but I had never stopped to think that it had a history; it’s just the building where I live. It’s very Moroccan, living in history. In fact, that’s what I want to do my ISP about.
My friend’s host sister has started teaching a belly dance class just for us CCCL-ers. Monday and Wednesday nights we get to see just how uncoordinated we are. Personally, I just don’t think American hips can move like Moroccan ones. And talk about a workout: I didn’t even know those muscles existed. Happily there were also showers at the dance studio, as I believe my brother may have messed up our hot water. You have to turn the gas on manually here to get hot water.
Allison, Rachel, and I went to the Exotic Gardens in Kenitra this past Sunday. They’re not really exotic gardens in my opinion because the subdivisions looked remarkably similar. In any case, they were super fun because there were multiple levels and stairs and bridges tucked into corners. It was really more of a playground. It would make the world’s best game of Hide-and-Seek.
I finally got to go up on the terrace; I went up with Hajja when she was hanging laundry. It’s a shared terrace because the house is divided into smaller apartments, and everybody gets access to the terrace. The terrace is the clothes dryer. The view is magnificent, if you can look past the roofs of the neighbors: you can see the Oudaya kasbah, the Bouregreg River, the ocean, Sale, and way up the Bouregreg valley to where the suburbs of Sale are spilling over the hillside into the valley below.
Aside from the view, I was also treated to a minor rant about Hajja’s neighbors, who don’t keep their part of the house clean enough. I think Hajja also said that the other families rent from Al-Hajj, whose house it is. Mind you, this was all in French. Al-Hajj grew up in this house.
Our house is on the Rue des Consuls, which back in the day was the only street in the entire city where foreign representatives could live. Hajja is sure my room was once the office of a diplomat. She also said that a few years ago somebody knocked on their door and asked to see the house because their great-great-great(-great) grandfather had been a diplomat and lived here
I had never really associated our house with history before. The house is old, sure, but I had never stopped to think that it had a history; it’s just the building where I live. It’s very Moroccan, living in history. In fact, that’s what I want to do my ISP about.
My friend’s host sister has started teaching a belly dance class just for us CCCL-ers. Monday and Wednesday nights we get to see just how uncoordinated we are. Personally, I just don’t think American hips can move like Moroccan ones. And talk about a workout: I didn’t even know those muscles existed. Happily there were also showers at the dance studio, as I believe my brother may have messed up our hot water. You have to turn the gas on manually here to get hot water.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
ankle splashers and The Giant Tea
A word on the accursed Ankle Splashers mentioned in the previous entry. So I told you the medina is paved, right? Well, the whole thing is kind of tiled with stones blocks. The streets are anti-crowned so there’s a low spot in the middle for all the water to flow down. It’s like an open sewer but don’t think about it too much. I don’t know what the surface is like underneath these paving stones, but it is obviously not level because the stones crack sometimes. When the stones or mortar around then crack, water gets under them and when you step on the paving stone it spews water. Thus, the accursed Ankle Splashers. Constant vigilance is the only way to avoid damp pants, but even then the lurkers may get you. I try and keep an eye out for the loose mortar, but even I don’t stay dry all the time.
The situation is reminiscent of “Indiana Jones and the...” ( I forget, but it was the one with Sean Connery) and Indy has to cross the room on stones that spell out God’ name in Hebrew and he dithers over how to spell it and has to choose the right stones or risk certain death when he falls through the floor. Yes, so that is like walking around the medina after it rains. It’s like looking for some kind of sacred sign in the paving stones that tells you where not to step. Although wet pantlegs aren’t as bad as almost certain death, but then the Indiana Jones movies give people false idea about archaeology. I definitely recall telling people that I study archaeology and they respond “Oh, like Indiana Jones?” and I have to say no, because my idea of a future does not, in fact, involve stealing sacred golden monkeys from unidentified ruins deep in the jungle, retrieving large pieces of jewelry from old flames who live in the Himalaya, witnessing human sacrifice, snakes, the Holy Grail, or Sean Connery. But I don’t mind snakes that much. So yes, paving stones.
Jesse and Allison came over for tea today, which was epic. I think Hajja or Souakina actually baked something for the occasion, and all the sweets were brought out, in addition to two little bowls of my favorite olives, popcorn, and hubs of course. So much tasty food. Gods, I am going to gain so much weight here. But after having read Fatima Mernessi’s book “Scheherezade Goes West”, I don’t feel that bad about it. You should read it too (especially you, mom).
So while we are eating all this tasty food, we start talking about dancing and eventually we all end up dancing around the living room (TV salon) to Egyptian music with scarves ties around our hips. Soukaina always leaves a scarf lying around the living room in case company comes and she needs to veil. It’s like relay race sometimes if one of Amine’s friends shows up: somebody gets up and tosses the scarf to Soukaina who throws it around her head with practiced ease and is really to receive the visitor in seconds flat. I digress; we were dancing around the living room. Hajja closed all the windows, and anytime we heard anything in the vestibule we paused to see what it was. Al-Hajj was also closed into his room after tea so he couldn’t see us.
I don’t think I have any room for dinner after all the tasty sweets…
The situation is reminiscent of “Indiana Jones and the...” ( I forget, but it was the one with Sean Connery) and Indy has to cross the room on stones that spell out God’ name in Hebrew and he dithers over how to spell it and has to choose the right stones or risk certain death when he falls through the floor. Yes, so that is like walking around the medina after it rains. It’s like looking for some kind of sacred sign in the paving stones that tells you where not to step. Although wet pantlegs aren’t as bad as almost certain death, but then the Indiana Jones movies give people false idea about archaeology. I definitely recall telling people that I study archaeology and they respond “Oh, like Indiana Jones?” and I have to say no, because my idea of a future does not, in fact, involve stealing sacred golden monkeys from unidentified ruins deep in the jungle, retrieving large pieces of jewelry from old flames who live in the Himalaya, witnessing human sacrifice, snakes, the Holy Grail, or Sean Connery. But I don’t mind snakes that much. So yes, paving stones.
Jesse and Allison came over for tea today, which was epic. I think Hajja or Souakina actually baked something for the occasion, and all the sweets were brought out, in addition to two little bowls of my favorite olives, popcorn, and hubs of course. So much tasty food. Gods, I am going to gain so much weight here. But after having read Fatima Mernessi’s book “Scheherezade Goes West”, I don’t feel that bad about it. You should read it too (especially you, mom).
So while we are eating all this tasty food, we start talking about dancing and eventually we all end up dancing around the living room (TV salon) to Egyptian music with scarves ties around our hips. Soukaina always leaves a scarf lying around the living room in case company comes and she needs to veil. It’s like relay race sometimes if one of Amine’s friends shows up: somebody gets up and tosses the scarf to Soukaina who throws it around her head with practiced ease and is really to receive the visitor in seconds flat. I digress; we were dancing around the living room. Hajja closed all the windows, and anytime we heard anything in the vestibule we paused to see what it was. Al-Hajj was also closed into his room after tea so he couldn’t see us.
I don’t think I have any room for dinner after all the tasty sweets…
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
anti jameel
I think some of my new Arabic vocab is starting to stick. I can recognize more words on TV and I can pick out a few in my family’s conversation. I have a strange mélange of vocab though, as some words I know only in darija or fusHa and not French.
Today’s not-so-fun academic exercise included waiting around for 40 minutes for a meeting with Abdelhay to chat about the upcoming ISP. I’m thinking I want to do something with the perception of history in Morocco and how it affects archaeological sites and materials.
I finally got home and began to get hamman equipment together because Jesse and I were going to go. When Hajja got home she told me that our hammam is closed to women after 6:30pm, when it’s the men’s turn to use it. Dammy. Thankfully the hamman Jesse goes to is open to women only and all the time. Jesse’s hammam is larger than ours and cleaner, however, there were considerably more people and it was exponentially louder, especially with the addition of screaming soap-covered children.
After I got home there was teatime, where I was literally cornered (as usual) and couldn’t leave until everyone had finished their tea and biscuits. I hurried to meet Allison for dinner at her house, although the wait was fine because her mother had forgotten twice that I was coming. Therefore dinner was spaghetti and involved CHEESE.
The best part was getting to meet another Moroccan family and seeing another house. Allison’s sisters are 3, 5, and 7 years old, and all the most adorable little girls ever. OK maybe with the exception of Isabella, but I guess I’m a bit biased. Malek, who’s 3, was teaching me words out of her school book in the manner of 3-year olds, but they weren’t the words written on the page. I know because I could read it. We played some games with family photos that I didn’t quite understand because the rules were created by Malek.
It was nice to be speaking English at home, a home anyway, even if it wasn’t mine. It gets kind of trying here at my house having to listen to all the conversation but not know what any of it means because it’s all in darija. I mean, I can usually get the gist of it if I pay attention because it’s usually based on what’s the TV at the time or about the food. Except that time they were talking about some kind of traffic accident and made the spoons roads and the knife a bus, etc. Anyway, Allison and I got to speak English and have our own conversational privacy where were were on the understanding side of the conversation wall instead of being the loners on the outside.
Walking back home at 11pm through the medina was an adventure, to put it mildly. All the shops were closed up, so the street was bare except for the odd pile of trash here and there and the roving bands of young men. Since I was a single female, and obviously foreign, of course I got “bonjour”ed and “bonsoir”ed and “salut”ed and “ooo la la”ed. My personal favorite was “anti jameel” which is in fact Arabic for “you’re beautiful” except the adjective was the wrong gender. Does that signify anything or were they just being lazy about adding the “a” to the end that would make it grammatically correct? I was tempted to holler back “ana a’rif”, which means “I know”, but responding to catcalls (hahaha because there are cats everywhere in the street) is a bad idea. I just had to hold my smirk in until the posse had passed.
The worst part about having to walk to or from home is the fact that I must walk down the veggie street. I forget the real name of the thoroughfare, but it’s a market street for fruits and veggies and meat and chicken and essentially any food item a Moroccan cook would want. During the day you have to dodge flying crates of produce, tiny trucks, pieces of animals on hooks, bikes, motorbikes, children with backpacks, mothers with children with backpacks, puddles, piles of goo, sewers, garbage and cats. At night you only have to worry about the last five and the roving bands of young men. The only good thing about walking down the veggie street at night is the absence of chickens. Chickens smell vile. The award for Most Vile Moroccan Smell is a toss-up between camel fart and chicken coop.
I went to an oriental dance class last night with a few friends. It was a good workout, if you consider that climbing a flight of stairs may be the only physical activity I have all day. It was a belly dancing class. American hips can’t move like that, period. When I got home (wet to the knees because of the accursed Ankle Splashers) I discovered my sister Soukaina is ridiculously good at oriental dance.
Today’s not-so-fun academic exercise included waiting around for 40 minutes for a meeting with Abdelhay to chat about the upcoming ISP. I’m thinking I want to do something with the perception of history in Morocco and how it affects archaeological sites and materials.
I finally got home and began to get hamman equipment together because Jesse and I were going to go. When Hajja got home she told me that our hammam is closed to women after 6:30pm, when it’s the men’s turn to use it. Dammy. Thankfully the hamman Jesse goes to is open to women only and all the time. Jesse’s hammam is larger than ours and cleaner, however, there were considerably more people and it was exponentially louder, especially with the addition of screaming soap-covered children.
After I got home there was teatime, where I was literally cornered (as usual) and couldn’t leave until everyone had finished their tea and biscuits. I hurried to meet Allison for dinner at her house, although the wait was fine because her mother had forgotten twice that I was coming. Therefore dinner was spaghetti and involved CHEESE.
The best part was getting to meet another Moroccan family and seeing another house. Allison’s sisters are 3, 5, and 7 years old, and all the most adorable little girls ever. OK maybe with the exception of Isabella, but I guess I’m a bit biased. Malek, who’s 3, was teaching me words out of her school book in the manner of 3-year olds, but they weren’t the words written on the page. I know because I could read it. We played some games with family photos that I didn’t quite understand because the rules were created by Malek.
It was nice to be speaking English at home, a home anyway, even if it wasn’t mine. It gets kind of trying here at my house having to listen to all the conversation but not know what any of it means because it’s all in darija. I mean, I can usually get the gist of it if I pay attention because it’s usually based on what’s the TV at the time or about the food. Except that time they were talking about some kind of traffic accident and made the spoons roads and the knife a bus, etc. Anyway, Allison and I got to speak English and have our own conversational privacy where were were on the understanding side of the conversation wall instead of being the loners on the outside.
Walking back home at 11pm through the medina was an adventure, to put it mildly. All the shops were closed up, so the street was bare except for the odd pile of trash here and there and the roving bands of young men. Since I was a single female, and obviously foreign, of course I got “bonjour”ed and “bonsoir”ed and “salut”ed and “ooo la la”ed. My personal favorite was “anti jameel” which is in fact Arabic for “you’re beautiful” except the adjective was the wrong gender. Does that signify anything or were they just being lazy about adding the “a” to the end that would make it grammatically correct? I was tempted to holler back “ana a’rif”, which means “I know”, but responding to catcalls (hahaha because there are cats everywhere in the street) is a bad idea. I just had to hold my smirk in until the posse had passed.
The worst part about having to walk to or from home is the fact that I must walk down the veggie street. I forget the real name of the thoroughfare, but it’s a market street for fruits and veggies and meat and chicken and essentially any food item a Moroccan cook would want. During the day you have to dodge flying crates of produce, tiny trucks, pieces of animals on hooks, bikes, motorbikes, children with backpacks, mothers with children with backpacks, puddles, piles of goo, sewers, garbage and cats. At night you only have to worry about the last five and the roving bands of young men. The only good thing about walking down the veggie street at night is the absence of chickens. Chickens smell vile. The award for Most Vile Moroccan Smell is a toss-up between camel fart and chicken coop.
I went to an oriental dance class last night with a few friends. It was a good workout, if you consider that climbing a flight of stairs may be the only physical activity I have all day. It was a belly dancing class. American hips can’t move like that, period. When I got home (wet to the knees because of the accursed Ankle Splashers) I discovered my sister Soukaina is ridiculously good at oriental dance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)