Life in Morocco is grand. Really grand. So grand that I'm having too much fun (and have too much homework) to write decent blog updates.
In short, I started taking belly dancing classes.... and I'm awful at it. Mrs. Hall made sure that my hips wouldn't ever move. At the end of the first class, I was doing a little better, but I still have a ways to go. It's really fun.
I go running a few times a week in Hilton Park, a beautiful and shaded forest with an amazing running trail. At the end of the run, I listen to Irish dance music and do dance and other exercises. My calves are looking good. The plan is to be fully in shape upon return to the States. For several reasons, I'm at an Irish dancing high right now. (If you read "transported, transformed", an entry below, you'll get a little insight into that). Also, belly dancing is making my abs rock hard, so 'Insha'Allah' (God willing) I'll have amazing leaps by the end of January!
I pray 4 times a day (Morning, Noonday, Evening Prayer, and Compline) with the Book of Common Prayer, using the Tao Te Ching and the Bible for my scripture readings. I write in my journal, I read novels, and I breathe deeply. I'm at a place of great peace and content. Hamdulilah (thank God) for Morocco.
I'm have Arabic class for three hours a day, Arabic homework for two hours a day, French lessons three times per week and French homework whenever I have the chance. I read Spanish newspapers because English ones aren't available. I'm reading the Gospel of Luke, Proverbs, Deuteronomy, and parts of the Apocrypha. Song of Solomon was fun. I've read two novels, I'm reading two more. I speak phrases in Spanish, French, and two different types of Arabic daily. I love my homestay family, and I hope I can come back and visit them a lot.
When I come back to Transylvania, I hope to take Spanish Conversation, test into French 2, and take Arabic 202 at UK. I will be Moroccan if it's the last thing I do, and to be Moroccan, I have to speak at least 3 languages.
I'm happy. Very happy. I'm already trying to think of ways to be in Morocco as frequently as possible.
Love to everyone reading this! I miss you all.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
the god of the mountain
I believe in the god of the mountain,
the god of fire, of rain, of wind, of sunlight.
I believe in the god of tears and smiles and hugs, of goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of smallness and awe.
I believe in rays of sunlight breaking through the dusty windows of a wooden cathedral.
I believe in dew enthroned on blades of grass, in mist nestled in the bosoms of old evergreen peaks, in baby fawns running through thousand year old forests.
I believe in worn sandstone, in earnest prayer, in peace the settles the storm within.
I believe in the One, emanating in, of and throughout all things.
I believe in Ultimate Surrender, in unconditional compassion, in timeless love.
I believe in adoration.
I believe in my own smallness and in my own light. I believe in the ability to be everywhere at once and in no place in particular.
I believe in the intangible.
I believe in the soul.
I believe in ruach.
I believe that there is One way, and that everyone can attain it, and probably already has, in some way, large or small.
I believe there is no such thing as large, and no such thing as small.
I believe that Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha, the Great Mother, Krisha, Shiva, Brahma and Moses — I believe that at first glance, they divide. Superficiality never yielded the truth of the matter.
I believe that studying comparative religion perpetuates misinformation, stereotypes, and confusion.
I believe we’re all on paths, trails, roads, and highways leading somewhere that may or not be the same place. But we’re all on them, and it doesn’t matter who controls the road we’re on, because the One and the Way created all the roads.
I believe particularities lead us away from truth, and that religion divides.
Love and compassion — acceptance and forgiveness.
These are the vital threads.
These are the fruits of paradise; the nectar of our gods.
Read the Bible, chant om, face your prayer rugs towards Mecca.
Live as an embodied being, become fully a person of particular time and particular place.
Then leave.
the god of fire, of rain, of wind, of sunlight.
I believe in the god of tears and smiles and hugs, of goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of smallness and awe.
I believe in rays of sunlight breaking through the dusty windows of a wooden cathedral.
I believe in dew enthroned on blades of grass, in mist nestled in the bosoms of old evergreen peaks, in baby fawns running through thousand year old forests.
I believe in worn sandstone, in earnest prayer, in peace the settles the storm within.
I believe in the One, emanating in, of and throughout all things.
I believe in Ultimate Surrender, in unconditional compassion, in timeless love.
I believe in adoration.
I believe in my own smallness and in my own light. I believe in the ability to be everywhere at once and in no place in particular.
I believe in the intangible.
I believe in the soul.
I believe in ruach.
I believe that there is One way, and that everyone can attain it, and probably already has, in some way, large or small.
I believe there is no such thing as large, and no such thing as small.
I believe that Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha, the Great Mother, Krisha, Shiva, Brahma and Moses — I believe that at first glance, they divide. Superficiality never yielded the truth of the matter.
I believe that studying comparative religion perpetuates misinformation, stereotypes, and confusion.
I believe we’re all on paths, trails, roads, and highways leading somewhere that may or not be the same place. But we’re all on them, and it doesn’t matter who controls the road we’re on, because the One and the Way created all the roads.
I believe particularities lead us away from truth, and that religion divides.
Love and compassion — acceptance and forgiveness.
These are the vital threads.
These are the fruits of paradise; the nectar of our gods.
Read the Bible, chant om, face your prayer rugs towards Mecca.
Live as an embodied being, become fully a person of particular time and particular place.
Then leave.
The semester is underway...
Today marks the beginning of what I think will be a very difficult semester. Apologies for the paucity of blog postings to come.
I wrote a lot this weekend while we were on excursion in Fez and Meknes, but they are more of the personal type of writing, so I'm not putting them on this blog.
I also hesitate to allow people to read them, because they are my earnest efforts to write well and truthfully and convincingly, but I acknowledge that nothing is really noteworthy. *Sigh*. I tried.
So, if you really feel the need to read what I've written so as to know that I'm alive and thinking and well, then here is the address to my "personal" blog: allisonashley.blogspot.com
The writing was for myself, therapeutic and enjoyable. I wanted to get thoughts on paper.
Do not judge the quality, please. It is what it is.
If you're into the more "travel writing" aspect of my time in Morocco, you'll have to settle for a decreasing amount of updates, as Arabic, French, and Human Development homework are piling up.
I am well. I loved Fez and Meknes. I'll post pictures on my photo site, the address of which is hidden somewhere below in an earlier post.
Ta ta for now.
I wrote a lot this weekend while we were on excursion in Fez and Meknes, but they are more of the personal type of writing, so I'm not putting them on this blog.
I also hesitate to allow people to read them, because they are my earnest efforts to write well and truthfully and convincingly, but I acknowledge that nothing is really noteworthy. *Sigh*. I tried.
So, if you really feel the need to read what I've written so as to know that I'm alive and thinking and well, then here is the address to my "personal" blog: allisonashley.blogspot.com
The writing was for myself, therapeutic and enjoyable. I wanted to get thoughts on paper.
Do not judge the quality, please. It is what it is.
If you're into the more "travel writing" aspect of my time in Morocco, you'll have to settle for a decreasing amount of updates, as Arabic, French, and Human Development homework are piling up.
I am well. I loved Fez and Meknes. I'll post pictures on my photo site, the address of which is hidden somewhere below in an earlier post.
Ta ta for now.
Friday, September 21, 2007
I love Morocco (Ham'dullah for Hotel Majestic)
Several times a week Carly and I will be near the intersection of Mohammad V and Hassan II, which happens to be within a stone's throw of Hotel Majestic, where our group stayed our first week in Morocco.
This afternoon we found ourselves there again, and my throat was hurting and I needed a drink. Hotel Majestic recently got a cooler of soft drinks to sell to its guests (this we discovered in our first visit to Majestic of this week, on Wednesday night). We love the men who work in Majestic, so my thirst was a perfect reason to go to Majestic for the drink instead of somewhere else. (Also, I knew Majestic would be a safe haven in which to drink my soda; it's Ramadan, so if I were to drink the soda within eyeshot of norma passersby, I'd get lots of nasty looks and "Shuma"s (Shame!, but with a worse connotation) thrown at me).
We walked up the stairs and saw one of the friendliest hotel managers. We still don't know his name, but we do know that he smiles and enjoys our struggling attempts to speak Arabic. He shook our hands and smiled broadly and touched his heart while he said "Salaam aleikum."
I managed to communicate that my throat hurt a lot, and he assured me that my Fanta would make it feel better.
Carly and I shook hands with him again, wished him a good Ramadan, smiled, and walked down the stairs. And there sat our favorite concierge, who at first seemed to hate all of us American kids, but has since warmed to us. We think he particularly loves when we come back to visit (which is usually to use the bathroom). We repeated the hand-shaking, smiling ritual, wishing each other peace. He too touched his hand to his heart as he spoke and said, "Ham'dullah", or "Thanks be to God", when we said that we were well.
Hotel Majestic is why I love Morocco. Whenever I'm sad, a visit to the Hotel will undoubtedly raise my spirits.
This afternoon we found ourselves there again, and my throat was hurting and I needed a drink. Hotel Majestic recently got a cooler of soft drinks to sell to its guests (this we discovered in our first visit to Majestic of this week, on Wednesday night). We love the men who work in Majestic, so my thirst was a perfect reason to go to Majestic for the drink instead of somewhere else. (Also, I knew Majestic would be a safe haven in which to drink my soda; it's Ramadan, so if I were to drink the soda within eyeshot of norma passersby, I'd get lots of nasty looks and "Shuma"s (Shame!, but with a worse connotation) thrown at me).
We walked up the stairs and saw one of the friendliest hotel managers. We still don't know his name, but we do know that he smiles and enjoys our struggling attempts to speak Arabic. He shook our hands and smiled broadly and touched his heart while he said "Salaam aleikum."
I managed to communicate that my throat hurt a lot, and he assured me that my Fanta would make it feel better.
Carly and I shook hands with him again, wished him a good Ramadan, smiled, and walked down the stairs. And there sat our favorite concierge, who at first seemed to hate all of us American kids, but has since warmed to us. We think he particularly loves when we come back to visit (which is usually to use the bathroom). We repeated the hand-shaking, smiling ritual, wishing each other peace. He too touched his hand to his heart as he spoke and said, "Ham'dullah", or "Thanks be to God", when we said that we were well.
Hotel Majestic is why I love Morocco. Whenever I'm sad, a visit to the Hotel will undoubtedly raise my spirits.
The Reality of Ramadan
(an unedited version of this writing... just posting so that my avid (ha!) readers might be assuaged...)
The Reality of Ramadan
If you ask any Muslim in Morocco “What is Ramadan like?”, they will undoubtedly answer, “I love Ramadan The food is wonderful So much food ” There is very little mention of the fasting part of the holy month. Families buy fresh herbs, bread, cakes and cookies, and then spend the majority of the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the ftour (the breaking of the fast), the snack, and dinner. Three meals occur within a five hour span of time, the family goes to sleep until 3:30 or 4:00am, at which point they awake to eat before the first prayer. They eat, they pray, the go back to sleep before they have to get up again for work or school. After the first prayer, which occurs here around 4:30 am, there can be no drinking, no eating, and no brushing of teeth until the prayer call around 6:45pm. The days are brutal, and people generally feel sluggish, groggy, nauseous, and only want to watch TV and sleep.
Ramadan is a very beautiful tradition in Morocco. Everyone suffers together during the day, everyone rejoices together in the evening. Families come together to pray and eat, friends come to visit and share in the joy of the holiday. It is wonderful.
Now, for my reality of Ramadan. The first day of Ramadan in Morocco was last Friday, September 14. The oulama of Morocco saw the moon on the evening of September 13, and the sirens went off and the TV stations announced that Ramadan would begin the following day.
I woke up at 3:30 in the morning with my family to eat before the first prayer. The meal was small, but enough to make my stomach unhappy. It doesn’t like food in the middle of the night. I try to go back to sleep at 4:00am, but this is when the chanting of the Qur’an begins at the mosque next to my house. And at all the mosques in the immediate area. I counted five different voices loudly chanting over intercoms at 4:00. With my stomach upset and thus unable to sleep, I sat by the window and recorded the chanting. At 4:30, the prayer calls began, and my family prayed before going back to sleep shortly before 5:00. I laid down. At 5:00, a rooster who lives on the next roof, began to cock-a-doodle-do. He cock-a-doodle-dooed until 6:00, when the sun was finally up and he knew his job was done. I lay awake this entire time, curled into the fetal position, listening to my mp3 player, wishing I could sleep. Damn rooster. After this, the noise of the nearby street kept me awake. The last I looked at the clock was 7:00am. I slept for an hour, and woke up at 8:00 to get ready for school. Not a great way to begin my first day of Ramadan.
The day wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I was hungry, but soon the growls of my stomach subsided and I ran on reserve energy. I stayed at school until is closed early at 4:00pm (everything closes early during Ramadan), and then went home to sleep until ftour. By 6:30 the table was set and the family was ready to eat, but we had to wait for the all important prayer call to break the fast. The second Allahu akbar sounded, we dove into the food. The fast is traditionally broken with dates, so I ate a few and then started on a delicious lentil and vegetable soup.
The food, which at first looked so appetizing, quickly turned evil. It hurt my stomach, a lot. I didn’t want to eat anymore, but my family kept shoving food in front of me, saying, “Kuli, kuli.” “Eat, eat.” I tried to eat some more, but soon felt so awful I had to stop. My body was rejecting the food. I went to sleep around 9:00pm, missing the dinner that came at 11:00.
Saturday and Sunday I visited Casablanca with some friends, and went along with Quranic allowance that said travelers don’t have to fast. Still, I ate very little. All day Saturday I ate a piece of bread, a Diet Coke from McDonald’s, water, and then had ftour with friends at Rick’s Café. Yes, the Rick’s Café of Casablanca, the film, fame. It was beautifully decorated and very American, and a welcome respite from the filthiness of the city of Casablanca. I’m a sell-out, and lame, I know. But when you’re sick and missing home and Casablanca is disgusting and taxi drivers rip you off, Rick’s Café sounds like heaven.
After arriving back in Rabat (the love of my life), Carly and I went to McDonald’s (again, perhaps I’m a sell-out, but thank God for globalization, because McDonald’s is one of the only restaurants open during Ramadan) and to a café and sat with some other girls from school. Before I ate French fries, and drank Coca-Cola and coffee, the thought in the forefront of my mind was,
I have been sent to Morocco as punishment, and I have served my sentence. I want to go home.
I felt awful, I hated being there, I was ready for it to be over. After eating, I was laughing, thinking (thinking ceases when you have a pounding headache and your stomach is fighting you), studying, and enjoying the day. And I liked Morocco again. Thus ended my decision to fast.
The nail in the coffin of my “attempting to fast” story is that I had a visit from the Demon Diarrhea again last night. My body has reacted violently to the Ramadan tradition of evening binge-eating. I did my best, and I think that in America I actually might be able to do the Ramadan fast, because I could eat as much as I want, at times my stomach will allow. In Morocco, my family wants me to “kuli, kuli” until I either vomit or s*** it all out.
So, Ramadan fasting is very hard on my system. I’m done with self-induced nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and misery. Binge-eating before sleeping is not healthy, in any medical book.
I appreciate the tradition, and love spending time with my family when they celebrate. But no more will I suffer along with them. I only have three months in Morocco, and I refuse to spend one in a constant state of gastro-intestinal war.
The Reality of Ramadan
If you ask any Muslim in Morocco “What is Ramadan like?”, they will undoubtedly answer, “I love Ramadan The food is wonderful So much food ” There is very little mention of the fasting part of the holy month. Families buy fresh herbs, bread, cakes and cookies, and then spend the majority of the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the ftour (the breaking of the fast), the snack, and dinner. Three meals occur within a five hour span of time, the family goes to sleep until 3:30 or 4:00am, at which point they awake to eat before the first prayer. They eat, they pray, the go back to sleep before they have to get up again for work or school. After the first prayer, which occurs here around 4:30 am, there can be no drinking, no eating, and no brushing of teeth until the prayer call around 6:45pm. The days are brutal, and people generally feel sluggish, groggy, nauseous, and only want to watch TV and sleep.
Ramadan is a very beautiful tradition in Morocco. Everyone suffers together during the day, everyone rejoices together in the evening. Families come together to pray and eat, friends come to visit and share in the joy of the holiday. It is wonderful.
Now, for my reality of Ramadan. The first day of Ramadan in Morocco was last Friday, September 14. The oulama of Morocco saw the moon on the evening of September 13, and the sirens went off and the TV stations announced that Ramadan would begin the following day.
I woke up at 3:30 in the morning with my family to eat before the first prayer. The meal was small, but enough to make my stomach unhappy. It doesn’t like food in the middle of the night. I try to go back to sleep at 4:00am, but this is when the chanting of the Qur’an begins at the mosque next to my house. And at all the mosques in the immediate area. I counted five different voices loudly chanting over intercoms at 4:00. With my stomach upset and thus unable to sleep, I sat by the window and recorded the chanting. At 4:30, the prayer calls began, and my family prayed before going back to sleep shortly before 5:00. I laid down. At 5:00, a rooster who lives on the next roof, began to cock-a-doodle-do. He cock-a-doodle-dooed until 6:00, when the sun was finally up and he knew his job was done. I lay awake this entire time, curled into the fetal position, listening to my mp3 player, wishing I could sleep. Damn rooster. After this, the noise of the nearby street kept me awake. The last I looked at the clock was 7:00am. I slept for an hour, and woke up at 8:00 to get ready for school. Not a great way to begin my first day of Ramadan.
The day wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I was hungry, but soon the growls of my stomach subsided and I ran on reserve energy. I stayed at school until is closed early at 4:00pm (everything closes early during Ramadan), and then went home to sleep until ftour. By 6:30 the table was set and the family was ready to eat, but we had to wait for the all important prayer call to break the fast. The second Allahu akbar sounded, we dove into the food. The fast is traditionally broken with dates, so I ate a few and then started on a delicious lentil and vegetable soup.
The food, which at first looked so appetizing, quickly turned evil. It hurt my stomach, a lot. I didn’t want to eat anymore, but my family kept shoving food in front of me, saying, “Kuli, kuli.” “Eat, eat.” I tried to eat some more, but soon felt so awful I had to stop. My body was rejecting the food. I went to sleep around 9:00pm, missing the dinner that came at 11:00.
Saturday and Sunday I visited Casablanca with some friends, and went along with Quranic allowance that said travelers don’t have to fast. Still, I ate very little. All day Saturday I ate a piece of bread, a Diet Coke from McDonald’s, water, and then had ftour with friends at Rick’s Café. Yes, the Rick’s Café of Casablanca, the film, fame. It was beautifully decorated and very American, and a welcome respite from the filthiness of the city of Casablanca. I’m a sell-out, and lame, I know. But when you’re sick and missing home and Casablanca is disgusting and taxi drivers rip you off, Rick’s Café sounds like heaven.
After arriving back in Rabat (the love of my life), Carly and I went to McDonald’s (again, perhaps I’m a sell-out, but thank God for globalization, because McDonald’s is one of the only restaurants open during Ramadan) and to a café and sat with some other girls from school. Before I ate French fries, and drank Coca-Cola and coffee, the thought in the forefront of my mind was,
I have been sent to Morocco as punishment, and I have served my sentence. I want to go home.
I felt awful, I hated being there, I was ready for it to be over. After eating, I was laughing, thinking (thinking ceases when you have a pounding headache and your stomach is fighting you), studying, and enjoying the day. And I liked Morocco again. Thus ended my decision to fast.
The nail in the coffin of my “attempting to fast” story is that I had a visit from the Demon Diarrhea again last night. My body has reacted violently to the Ramadan tradition of evening binge-eating. I did my best, and I think that in America I actually might be able to do the Ramadan fast, because I could eat as much as I want, at times my stomach will allow. In Morocco, my family wants me to “kuli, kuli” until I either vomit or s*** it all out.
So, Ramadan fasting is very hard on my system. I’m done with self-induced nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and misery. Binge-eating before sleeping is not healthy, in any medical book.
I appreciate the tradition, and love spending time with my family when they celebrate. But no more will I suffer along with them. I only have three months in Morocco, and I refuse to spend one in a constant state of gastro-intestinal war.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Transported, transformed
She stared intently at Nabil's face and saw it transform into that of a headstrong young boy, adamant to maintain who he thought he was.
Simultaneously, she saw the streets of late 1800's Manhattan, saw the signs that said,
"No Irish need apply."
She couldn't remove her eyes from his face; she didn't want to miss this frightening and magical transformation. She watched his twenty seven years melt away to eight, and then she was there. She heard it-- "dirty Amazigh"-- screamed at her, clearly.
She squeezed her little brother's hand as she lead him through the filthy streets of the Five Points, and felt the spit of those bigoted demons burn her skirts. She walked as fast as she could, away from the taunts of the Arabic-speaking monsters, as swiftly as her feet would carry her away from the ugly Natives.
And the worlds converged, inseparable.
The names were different, but the characters and the hate the same. She wiped away tears as she screamed and insisted on speaking to her Amazigh grandmother in her grandmother's own tongue, as she scooped up her three year old brother to calm him--to make him stop wailing--after he had been kicked by an American boy.
She saw tattooed chins, thought them lovely, desired one, she was already fourteen, she knew she'd have one soon, she'd be a woman; heard the beat of the bodhran and felt her feet begin to dance. Jolted back to the classroom, she forced her feet to sit still.
And then it was over.
"How was Arabic class today?", Nabil asked.
"Fine."
Simultaneously, she saw the streets of late 1800's Manhattan, saw the signs that said,
"No Irish need apply."
She couldn't remove her eyes from his face; she didn't want to miss this frightening and magical transformation. She watched his twenty seven years melt away to eight, and then she was there. She heard it-- "dirty Amazigh"-- screamed at her, clearly.
She squeezed her little brother's hand as she lead him through the filthy streets of the Five Points, and felt the spit of those bigoted demons burn her skirts. She walked as fast as she could, away from the taunts of the Arabic-speaking monsters, as swiftly as her feet would carry her away from the ugly Natives.
And the worlds converged, inseparable.
The names were different, but the characters and the hate the same. She wiped away tears as she screamed and insisted on speaking to her Amazigh grandmother in her grandmother's own tongue, as she scooped up her three year old brother to calm him--to make him stop wailing--after he had been kicked by an American boy.
She saw tattooed chins, thought them lovely, desired one, she was already fourteen, she knew she'd have one soon, she'd be a woman; heard the beat of the bodhran and felt her feet begin to dance. Jolted back to the classroom, she forced her feet to sit still.
And then it was over.
"How was Arabic class today?", Nabil asked.
"Fine."
Moroccan trains
"And I went into the bathroom, and there was poop everywhere.
Poop on the floor, poop on the walls."
"And I look around and think,
'Why did you poop in the corner? Why couldn't you poop in the hole?'
'It's not like it would have inconvenienced you to poop in the hole.'"
---Raquel Saenz, a story while on the train from Kenitra to Rabat
Poop on the floor, poop on the walls."
"And I look around and think,
'Why did you poop in the corner? Why couldn't you poop in the hole?'
'It's not like it would have inconvenienced you to poop in the hole.'"
---Raquel Saenz, a story while on the train from Kenitra to Rabat
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
I am still alive and well...
I havent had much time to post anything lately, but Im still alive and well in Rabat. Some days are better than others; yesterday was a homesick day, today is better.
News will come soon. Im at an internet cafe right now which has a French keyboard, hence the grammatical errors and conjunctions lacking punctuation.
Postings later.
Love.
News will come soon. Im at an internet cafe right now which has a French keyboard, hence the grammatical errors and conjunctions lacking punctuation.
Postings later.
Love.
Friday, September 14, 2007
My brother Yassine
6:30pm
My brother Yassine...
...is hilarious. Man of little words and little acknowledgment, he never looks at me or talks to me when we’re in the house, and has only, until recently, acknowledged my existence when we’re in the street and I say, “Salaam, Yassine.” When we’re outside the house he’ll look at me and speak. Today I passed him as I walked home and I said, “Salaam, Yassine.” He responded, “Hi, how are you?” “Fine,” I said. “And you?” “Fine,” and he jogged past.
I sat inside the parlor/my bedroom with the door open while Yassine, Zeinab, Fati, and cousin Salima talked in the hallway/dining room. All of a sudden the talking ceases, and I look up from my book and to the doorway.
Yassine is standing there, smiling. “What?” I ask, and smile back, because he looks mischievous. “I am beautiful,” he declares, touching his left hand to his chest. “Yes, Yassine,” I say, “You are beautiful.” Then I laugh.
The best thing he’s done since I’ve been here, and so much like my Kentucky brothers.
8:30pm
My brother Yassine...
...is loud, and angry. Fati had to translate for me everything that was going on in the argument, but after I knew its content, it sounded familiar. Yassine was set to go to university, and now has decided that he’d rather go to school for Computer Science. Universities are free in Morocco, while the school which he’d attend for CS costs a considerable amount of money—money which his family doesn’t have. Yassine won’t go to university; he refuses.
I sat in the hallway and observed the argument between Yassine and his mother and Fati. There was a lot of yelling from all three of them, and the argument seemed to go the way so many of my American family’s arguments have gone. Michael will get in trouble and Mom will get mad and Michael will yell with a booming, hurt and angry voice, with tears flowing down his face, “Allison never gets in trouble You’re always comparing me to her ”, and he will slam his bedroom door.
The Ayad family argument seemed to go in a similar way. Yassine would yell and his mother would respond in a soft voice, trying to calm him. In an effort to be reasonable— to feign reason —, his voice would become quiet. He would speak in soft tones, at a slower rate of speech, seem kind and understanding. His mother wouldn’t go along with whatever his proposed plan was, and this would send him into another fierce fit of yelling. I looked up at his face once, and it seemed he was fighting back tears. (I can imagine the feeling of yelling and fighting back tears. It hasn’t happened to me much in my short life, but I know well the feeling of an oppressive tightness in the throat, an uncontrollable anger, or disgust, or hurt, the yelling while trying not to cry, and the tears unfortunately coming anyway. Hamdull’ah, thank God, that it hasn’t happened recently. Insha’allah it never will again).
Yassine yelled a few final words and stormed out of the apartment, throwing a few more words back at his mother and sister before slamming the door as loudly as possible. I’m sure it reverberated in the apartment of Suleiman’s family below. (Suleiman being my favorite two year old boy in the world).
Fati continued cleaning up the hallway, where we had previously been peeling potatoes and carrots on the ground. Mama vented her frustration and anger, and several times throughout her soliloquy, I caught the word hemaaq, which means “crazy”.
With Fati remaining silent towards the tail end of the fight with Yassine, and her immediate reaction after his angry departure being to clean quietly, I figure that she was the subject of some, if not most, of his words and anger. I imagine, “Fati is the perfect one. Fati never gets in trouble. Fati always makes the right decisions Fati, Fati, Fati ”
I don’t know if that’s what happened, but I don’t think I’m too far off.
Regardless of country, religion, culture, language...
...one would be hard pressed to convince me that human beings are all that different from one another.
My brother Yassine...
...is hilarious. Man of little words and little acknowledgment, he never looks at me or talks to me when we’re in the house, and has only, until recently, acknowledged my existence when we’re in the street and I say, “Salaam, Yassine.” When we’re outside the house he’ll look at me and speak. Today I passed him as I walked home and I said, “Salaam, Yassine.” He responded, “Hi, how are you?” “Fine,” I said. “And you?” “Fine,” and he jogged past.
I sat inside the parlor/my bedroom with the door open while Yassine, Zeinab, Fati, and cousin Salima talked in the hallway/dining room. All of a sudden the talking ceases, and I look up from my book and to the doorway.
Yassine is standing there, smiling. “What?” I ask, and smile back, because he looks mischievous. “I am beautiful,” he declares, touching his left hand to his chest. “Yes, Yassine,” I say, “You are beautiful.” Then I laugh.
The best thing he’s done since I’ve been here, and so much like my Kentucky brothers.
8:30pm
My brother Yassine...
...is loud, and angry. Fati had to translate for me everything that was going on in the argument, but after I knew its content, it sounded familiar. Yassine was set to go to university, and now has decided that he’d rather go to school for Computer Science. Universities are free in Morocco, while the school which he’d attend for CS costs a considerable amount of money—money which his family doesn’t have. Yassine won’t go to university; he refuses.
I sat in the hallway and observed the argument between Yassine and his mother and Fati. There was a lot of yelling from all three of them, and the argument seemed to go the way so many of my American family’s arguments have gone. Michael will get in trouble and Mom will get mad and Michael will yell with a booming, hurt and angry voice, with tears flowing down his face, “Allison never gets in trouble You’re always comparing me to her ”, and he will slam his bedroom door.
The Ayad family argument seemed to go in a similar way. Yassine would yell and his mother would respond in a soft voice, trying to calm him. In an effort to be reasonable— to feign reason —, his voice would become quiet. He would speak in soft tones, at a slower rate of speech, seem kind and understanding. His mother wouldn’t go along with whatever his proposed plan was, and this would send him into another fierce fit of yelling. I looked up at his face once, and it seemed he was fighting back tears. (I can imagine the feeling of yelling and fighting back tears. It hasn’t happened to me much in my short life, but I know well the feeling of an oppressive tightness in the throat, an uncontrollable anger, or disgust, or hurt, the yelling while trying not to cry, and the tears unfortunately coming anyway. Hamdull’ah, thank God, that it hasn’t happened recently. Insha’allah it never will again).
Yassine yelled a few final words and stormed out of the apartment, throwing a few more words back at his mother and sister before slamming the door as loudly as possible. I’m sure it reverberated in the apartment of Suleiman’s family below. (Suleiman being my favorite two year old boy in the world).
Fati continued cleaning up the hallway, where we had previously been peeling potatoes and carrots on the ground. Mama vented her frustration and anger, and several times throughout her soliloquy, I caught the word hemaaq, which means “crazy”.
With Fati remaining silent towards the tail end of the fight with Yassine, and her immediate reaction after his angry departure being to clean quietly, I figure that she was the subject of some, if not most, of his words and anger. I imagine, “Fati is the perfect one. Fati never gets in trouble. Fati always makes the right decisions Fati, Fati, Fati ”
I don’t know if that’s what happened, but I don’t think I’m too far off.
Regardless of country, religion, culture, language...
...one would be hard pressed to convince me that human beings are all that different from one another.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
What is Morocco?
(A beautiful day).
Morocco is my walk through the souk with Carly this afternoon, when we stopped for apricots and almonds. I pointed to the apricots and said, “Ash’ra”, signaling to the shop owner that I wanted 10dH worth of apricots. Then I motioned to the almonds and said, “Ash’reen”, for 20dH worth. A kind-faced man standing to my right corrected Carly when she next motioned for 10dH worth of apricots, saying, “Meesh mesh,” the Arabic word for apricot. “La, Meesh mesh... standard Arabic. Mush mesh, Moroccan Arabic.” “Ah!” I said. “Meesh mesh = Fus’ha, Mush mesh = darija.” “Eeyeh,” he responded, smiling. He seemed genuinely happy to know that we knew the words for the different types of Arabic spoken here. As we left, I said, “B’salaama, darija, Ma’asalaama, Fus’ha,” and he smiled and repeated the farewell.
We continued on our walk toward my notebook seller—mulhannut dfftar—a precious elderly man who smiles whenever I visit. (Correct darija might say muldfftar, or seller of notebooks, but today I just ran “shopkeeper notebook” together as one. He seemed to like it). This is the third time I’ve visited him for notebooks. Whenever I see him we say “Salaam aleikum” and exchange French right cheek, left cheek kisses. I love returning to this notebook seller because he always seems genuinely happy to see me, and excited when I try to use darija with him. They’re always funny exchanges.
Today he had a calculator to help show his customers what his prizes were. He seemed proud to be holding and operating that calculator, and he demonstrated his pride at his mastery of the instrument. He held out to Carly the different size notebooks he sold, showing which had more pages, which had spirals, which had the prettiest graphic designs on the covers. Carly made her choice and he typed the price into the calculator, even though we could understand the number he spoke, and he could understand us. It was cute. She bought the notebook and we wished each other Salaam aleikum and B’salaama and were on our way.
We walked through the Ensemble Artisanal, which is the very tourist-y strip of the souk. It’s clean and all the shops sell higher-end goods and art. A nice break from the rush of the souk in the medina, although soon you start to miss the character of the local shopping district.
We made our left turn as we left Ensemble Artisanal and made our way back to the center, down the road where my favorite door-painter works. Four days ago he had just begun his intricate design by stenciling flowers and other flourishes on the wood. Two days ago he had one panel of the buffet table painted; today only the top (fouk) was left. A beautiful, breathtaking design of such precision and detail that you can’t take your eyes from it. We continued the conversation that we had begun through darija at the beginning of the week. I always exclaim, “Zweeyna!” (beautiful), and he replies, “Shokrun”(thank you).
Today, though, Carly and I sat down on the steps across from the beautiful design and he sat down with us. We talked about darija and fus’ha, and how fus’ha is difficult because it is different. I opened my notebook to show him how I had practiced writing the Arabic alphabet, and tried to write my name. I forgot how to connect the “yeh” letter to the “sin”, and so I gave up. He smiled and took the notebook from me and proceeded to write his name, both in Latin letters and in Arabic. Carly and I told him our names and he wrote them for us. There was lots of smiling and laughing at my mistakes and “shokrun’s” when he had written our names for us.
Somehow within that conversation I had used a few Spanish words so he excitedly asked, “Hablas español?” “Sí!” I replied. “Tú hablas español?” “Sí!” We started laughing at how hard we had struggled to communicate before, in broken darija and broken English. Now we had a common tongue in which to communicate! His Spanish wasn’t perfect, and neither was mine, but we were still able to communicate general meanings. Carly has studied Spanish and speaks Italian, so between the two of us, we had a fruitful conversation with our new friend Najib.
He told us that he had lived in Barcelona for four years, but had to return to Morocco because prices had gone up drastically. When the peseta was the currency, he was able to pay for life in Barcelona. With the birth of the Euro he had to come back to Morocco. “Muy caro,” he said. “Very expensive.” He wanted to go out to coffee with us, but we had to make it back to school to use the internet and study, and then had to go home. Through poorly conjugated verbs and limited vocabulary we were able to communicate this to him. Mañana, we promised. And we will go see him tomorrow.
So that is Morocco. Morocco is making friendships with shopkeepers and artisans, and speaking very poor Arabic to them, communicating your appreciation of their art and their kindness. It is choosing your favorite notebook seller and going to see him every few days. It is making friends with people with whom you can’t fully communicate, but with whom you can laugh and gesture and spend time.
I love Morocco.
Morocco is my walk through the souk with Carly this afternoon, when we stopped for apricots and almonds. I pointed to the apricots and said, “Ash’ra”, signaling to the shop owner that I wanted 10dH worth of apricots. Then I motioned to the almonds and said, “Ash’reen”, for 20dH worth. A kind-faced man standing to my right corrected Carly when she next motioned for 10dH worth of apricots, saying, “Meesh mesh,” the Arabic word for apricot. “La, Meesh mesh... standard Arabic. Mush mesh, Moroccan Arabic.” “Ah!” I said. “Meesh mesh = Fus’ha, Mush mesh = darija.” “Eeyeh,” he responded, smiling. He seemed genuinely happy to know that we knew the words for the different types of Arabic spoken here. As we left, I said, “B’salaama, darija, Ma’asalaama, Fus’ha,” and he smiled and repeated the farewell.
We continued on our walk toward my notebook seller—mulhannut dfftar—a precious elderly man who smiles whenever I visit. (Correct darija might say muldfftar, or seller of notebooks, but today I just ran “shopkeeper notebook” together as one. He seemed to like it). This is the third time I’ve visited him for notebooks. Whenever I see him we say “Salaam aleikum” and exchange French right cheek, left cheek kisses. I love returning to this notebook seller because he always seems genuinely happy to see me, and excited when I try to use darija with him. They’re always funny exchanges.
Today he had a calculator to help show his customers what his prizes were. He seemed proud to be holding and operating that calculator, and he demonstrated his pride at his mastery of the instrument. He held out to Carly the different size notebooks he sold, showing which had more pages, which had spirals, which had the prettiest graphic designs on the covers. Carly made her choice and he typed the price into the calculator, even though we could understand the number he spoke, and he could understand us. It was cute. She bought the notebook and we wished each other Salaam aleikum and B’salaama and were on our way.
We walked through the Ensemble Artisanal, which is the very tourist-y strip of the souk. It’s clean and all the shops sell higher-end goods and art. A nice break from the rush of the souk in the medina, although soon you start to miss the character of the local shopping district.
We made our left turn as we left Ensemble Artisanal and made our way back to the center, down the road where my favorite door-painter works. Four days ago he had just begun his intricate design by stenciling flowers and other flourishes on the wood. Two days ago he had one panel of the buffet table painted; today only the top (fouk) was left. A beautiful, breathtaking design of such precision and detail that you can’t take your eyes from it. We continued the conversation that we had begun through darija at the beginning of the week. I always exclaim, “Zweeyna!” (beautiful), and he replies, “Shokrun”(thank you).
Today, though, Carly and I sat down on the steps across from the beautiful design and he sat down with us. We talked about darija and fus’ha, and how fus’ha is difficult because it is different. I opened my notebook to show him how I had practiced writing the Arabic alphabet, and tried to write my name. I forgot how to connect the “yeh” letter to the “sin”, and so I gave up. He smiled and took the notebook from me and proceeded to write his name, both in Latin letters and in Arabic. Carly and I told him our names and he wrote them for us. There was lots of smiling and laughing at my mistakes and “shokrun’s” when he had written our names for us.
Somehow within that conversation I had used a few Spanish words so he excitedly asked, “Hablas español?” “Sí!” I replied. “Tú hablas español?” “Sí!” We started laughing at how hard we had struggled to communicate before, in broken darija and broken English. Now we had a common tongue in which to communicate! His Spanish wasn’t perfect, and neither was mine, but we were still able to communicate general meanings. Carly has studied Spanish and speaks Italian, so between the two of us, we had a fruitful conversation with our new friend Najib.
He told us that he had lived in Barcelona for four years, but had to return to Morocco because prices had gone up drastically. When the peseta was the currency, he was able to pay for life in Barcelona. With the birth of the Euro he had to come back to Morocco. “Muy caro,” he said. “Very expensive.” He wanted to go out to coffee with us, but we had to make it back to school to use the internet and study, and then had to go home. Through poorly conjugated verbs and limited vocabulary we were able to communicate this to him. Mañana, we promised. And we will go see him tomorrow.
So that is Morocco. Morocco is making friendships with shopkeepers and artisans, and speaking very poor Arabic to them, communicating your appreciation of their art and their kindness. It is choosing your favorite notebook seller and going to see him every few days. It is making friends with people with whom you can’t fully communicate, but with whom you can laugh and gesture and spend time.
I love Morocco.
Morocco, Religion, and Sex. (Read the disclaimer)
Disclaimer: Dance families, families with young children.... read this before you let your kids read it. It's not that graphic, but might bring up things you'd rather not discuss with your children yet.
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I am incredibly excited about my ISP because it requires that I think. A lot. And given my choice of topic and constraints placed upon my research by Transylvania, it requires that I think a lot about God. And religion. And sex. And I thoroughly enjoy thinking about all three. Yay for ISP!
What I seek to find is the relationship of sexual practices to religious practices amongst women in Morocco. What is sex like for the woman? Is it pleasurable? Is it meant to be pleasurable? What is considered taboo? What is freely spoken about amongst women? How do men treat women, in the sense of them being potential sexual partners, outside the bedroom? How are they treated in the street? How do they navigate street harassment? How are women treated differently if they wear hijab or burqa, or if they don’t? Have women who originally didn’t wear hijab but decided to wear it—how have they been treated differently? What is important about virginity? How do ideas about virginity and loss of virginity relate to religiosity? What does the Qur’an say about virginity? About women’s sexual lives? What does the Qur’an say about men, and sex, and paradise? How do women’s perceptions of what men want effect how they perceive sex? Does sex scare them? Does the wedding night scare them? Does the wedding night feel blissful? How are they treated by their husbands, by their brothers, by their fathers? What do their mothers teach them about sex, about their wedding night, about their duties as a mother and a wife—domestic and sexual duties? If women choose to lose their virginity through sexual intercourse before marriage, how do they perceive themselves? How do others perceive them? If a woman’s virginity is forceably taken from her, how does she perceive herself, how do others perceive her? How important is the hymen in the definition of virginity? If a “virgin”, by American definition, uses tampons before she has sex, how is she perceived by herself, her community, her first sexual partner? What importance does society place upon virginity? What attributes are assigned to virgins? What must one do/be in order to be considered sexually pure? How does sex affect a Muslim woman’s religious life?
These are the thoughts and questions that run through my mind. It seems a topic pregnant with possibility and rich with opportunities for cross-cultural understanding. Damn, I’m excited.
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I am incredibly excited about my ISP because it requires that I think. A lot. And given my choice of topic and constraints placed upon my research by Transylvania, it requires that I think a lot about God. And religion. And sex. And I thoroughly enjoy thinking about all three. Yay for ISP!
What I seek to find is the relationship of sexual practices to religious practices amongst women in Morocco. What is sex like for the woman? Is it pleasurable? Is it meant to be pleasurable? What is considered taboo? What is freely spoken about amongst women? How do men treat women, in the sense of them being potential sexual partners, outside the bedroom? How are they treated in the street? How do they navigate street harassment? How are women treated differently if they wear hijab or burqa, or if they don’t? Have women who originally didn’t wear hijab but decided to wear it—how have they been treated differently? What is important about virginity? How do ideas about virginity and loss of virginity relate to religiosity? What does the Qur’an say about virginity? About women’s sexual lives? What does the Qur’an say about men, and sex, and paradise? How do women’s perceptions of what men want effect how they perceive sex? Does sex scare them? Does the wedding night scare them? Does the wedding night feel blissful? How are they treated by their husbands, by their brothers, by their fathers? What do their mothers teach them about sex, about their wedding night, about their duties as a mother and a wife—domestic and sexual duties? If women choose to lose their virginity through sexual intercourse before marriage, how do they perceive themselves? How do others perceive them? If a woman’s virginity is forceably taken from her, how does she perceive herself, how do others perceive her? How important is the hymen in the definition of virginity? If a “virgin”, by American definition, uses tampons before she has sex, how is she perceived by herself, her community, her first sexual partner? What importance does society place upon virginity? What attributes are assigned to virgins? What must one do/be in order to be considered sexually pure? How does sex affect a Muslim woman’s religious life?
These are the thoughts and questions that run through my mind. It seems a topic pregnant with possibility and rich with opportunities for cross-cultural understanding. Damn, I’m excited.
The best day thus far (September 12)
September 12
It is times like these that I love Morocco the most.
I left the tea reception at the CCCL around 6:25 because I told Fati I would be home by 6:30 so we could go to the hammam. I start walking, and decide that I’m courageous enough and have an inner compass good enough to go an entirely new way through the medina, hoping to meet up with Avenue Mohammad V. I start walking and taking random turns, all of which I think will lead me to Mohammad V. They don’t. I get lost and make it to a dead end of Impasse Ben Barka or something like that. Two little boys are sitting on the side of the street trying out French phrases they’ve heard older boys yell at girls who pass by. There's no one else around, so they're my only source of help. I decide to ask them where Mohammad V is. “Mohammad Chamsa?” I inquire. They look at me skeptically. “Shnu?”they ask. “What?” I repeat myself, and the littlest boy looks at me like I’m crazy and points straight and then to the right. I repeat the gesture and he nods. Off I go.
I make it to another very large street, this time one that I recognize; it’s the “food souk” that Carly has to walk down to get home. I look both ways but by this point I’m so disoriented I can’t decide which way to start walking. A man in the street makes eye contact with me and looks like he has decided not to harass me but to keep walking. A perfect opportunity to ask for help, I thought. I began to move toward him and he stopped in the street. I repeated the same query I had asked the boys, “Mohammad chamsa?” “Mohammad V?” he replies, in English. “Yes,” I said, a little exasperated, but in more of a joyful, laughing at myself way than a nervous one. “Where is it?” “Oh,” he said. “You go left, and then straight.” “Left and then straight?” “Yes,” he said. I smiled and thanked him profusely (hamdullah he spoke English), and started walking.
This path didn’t appear familiar either, but with no other options than to keep walking or look stupid asking someone else where Mohammad V was, I just decided upon the former. I would keep walking and hopefully find Mohammad V. I laughed inside, a lot. People seemed to be getting used to the presence of American students in their streets. I didn’t get harassed as much nor did I get as many looks. (My hair was pulled back and out of the way, so this may have been the reason for the lack of ridiculous amounts of attention). I finally made it to Mohammad V, and when I did, I started walking the wrong way—towards Hassan II, where our hotel was. I almost made it to Marche Central, the European market, when I figured out home was the opposite way.
I turned around and made it home fairly quickly, laughing at my mistakes and enjoying the cool night air.
Around 7:30 Fati and Zeinab and I started off for the hammam with buckets and soap, shampoo and towels. It took us 30 minutes to walk the 100 yards to the hammam because Fati met her brother and two best friends, Chaoula and Ali, in the street. They talked forever, and very rapidly, with lots of clicks and rolls of the tongue, guttural ch’s and hard clicks deep in the throat. (Watching darija conversations amongst young people really is fascinating. They’re loud and excited and place great emphasis on different parts of their speech; the older generation is milder in their manner of talking). Zeinab and I made jokes and giggled in Darija-glish, our new hybrid of language. Katie, JP, and Mike from school passed by while we stood as Fati was chatting, so I was able to demonstrate to Zeinab that I’m not some strange quiet American but that I really do have friends and really do talk when I can communicate. Katie was headed to another hammam with Julia, while JP and Mike were trying to figure out where they live. (Many of the students still have trouble figuring out exactly where they live; they don’t sell maps to the medina, and none of us have yet developed a good sense of where things are. Getting lost is really fun, though, because you discover different nooks and crannies that you had no idea existed before).
The hammam
The hammam was a wonderful experience; definitely one of the highlights of my time in Morocco so far. It was while I was sitting butt-naked on the tiny white stool in the hammam that I thought to myself, “Hey, I could get used to this.” And by “this” was not only meant the hammam and being naked (which is super fun and liberating), but the rhythm of life in Morocco. I love walking from place to place with medina-dwellers and stopping about 20 times before we reach the destination so they can say Salaam aleikum to and kiss the cheeks of everyone they know who passes. I'm going to start a naked public bath, kissing in public movement in America when I get home. (haha!)
The hammam is an incredibly relaxing experience. Women take off their hijab and gossip; they complain about problems at home and relieve some of the tension of their lives. They scrub each other and wipe away all the dirt and dead skin that rests on their bodies. Tonight Fati scrubbed me, and large rolls of dead skin the size of cooked rotini pasta fell from my arms, legs, and back. Kind of gross. The process was a little harsh but pleasurable at the same time. Now my skin feels like a baby’s bottom.
On the way home from the hammam we passed some of the Ayad family’s neighbors — two women and a two year old boy named Suleiman. Zeinab immediately picked him up and started playing with him, cooing, “Suleiman, Suleiman.” Fati talked to the two women. Soon Zeinab had convinced Suleiman to kiss her cheek (the command was “Bes’hha”, I believe), and brought him over to me to kiss me as well. “Suleiman zweyn”, I said to him, and kissed his forehead. (Zweyn means beautiful and a whole slew of other positive adjectives). “Bes’hha”, Zeinab said, and held him close to my face. He was shy, but finally kissed my cheek, which sent both Zeinab and I into a cacophony of clapping and “mez-yaan” (good).
Suleiman and his mother live in our apartment building, so we said goodbye to the other neighbor and began walking home. Suleiman held Zeinab’s right hand in his left, and reached out to grab my left hand in his right. I don’t think I’ve been as happy since arriving in Morocco as I was at that moment to be walking home hand-in-hand with two-year-old Suleiman. He kept smiling up at me and holding both our hands tightly so he could jump high in the air. We walked him to his apartment and said goodnight.
A beautiful day
Today was a very good day, both in terms of weather and in terms of my general temperament. I was quiet and solemn and more internal than I’ve been since the beginning of Morocco, but it felt good to be that way. I wanted to read, I wanted to write, I wanted to study. I just wanted to be quiet and observe. There’s very little time to be quiet when you’re amongst 39 other twenty year olds. The company of our American peers is a relief, and most of us take advantage of the situation and unload all of our stress and anxiety on each other. There’s a lot of complaining, a lot of “I miss....”, a lot of negativity towards cultural differences and slight inconveniences we’re all experiencing as a result of being Americans in a foreign and Muslim country. It gets tiresome after a while.
The day finished perfectly: my baba maghribi (Moroccan father) made spaghetti for dinner. I love spaghetti, and this comfort food was definitely needed at the end of a long day. Fus’ha (Arabic language kindergarten), field study preliminary work, too many people and too much complaining, missing home, tea reception, hammam, Suleiman, spaghetti.
Hammam, Suleiman, spaghetti. Nothing gets better than that. (Except for my sister Zeinab, who is now making jokes and laughing at me).
(Ex
It is times like these that I love Morocco the most.
I left the tea reception at the CCCL around 6:25 because I told Fati I would be home by 6:30 so we could go to the hammam. I start walking, and decide that I’m courageous enough and have an inner compass good enough to go an entirely new way through the medina, hoping to meet up with Avenue Mohammad V. I start walking and taking random turns, all of which I think will lead me to Mohammad V. They don’t. I get lost and make it to a dead end of Impasse Ben Barka or something like that. Two little boys are sitting on the side of the street trying out French phrases they’ve heard older boys yell at girls who pass by. There's no one else around, so they're my only source of help. I decide to ask them where Mohammad V is. “Mohammad Chamsa?” I inquire. They look at me skeptically. “Shnu?”they ask. “What?” I repeat myself, and the littlest boy looks at me like I’m crazy and points straight and then to the right. I repeat the gesture and he nods. Off I go.
I make it to another very large street, this time one that I recognize; it’s the “food souk” that Carly has to walk down to get home. I look both ways but by this point I’m so disoriented I can’t decide which way to start walking. A man in the street makes eye contact with me and looks like he has decided not to harass me but to keep walking. A perfect opportunity to ask for help, I thought. I began to move toward him and he stopped in the street. I repeated the same query I had asked the boys, “Mohammad chamsa?” “Mohammad V?” he replies, in English. “Yes,” I said, a little exasperated, but in more of a joyful, laughing at myself way than a nervous one. “Where is it?” “Oh,” he said. “You go left, and then straight.” “Left and then straight?” “Yes,” he said. I smiled and thanked him profusely (hamdullah he spoke English), and started walking.
This path didn’t appear familiar either, but with no other options than to keep walking or look stupid asking someone else where Mohammad V was, I just decided upon the former. I would keep walking and hopefully find Mohammad V. I laughed inside, a lot. People seemed to be getting used to the presence of American students in their streets. I didn’t get harassed as much nor did I get as many looks. (My hair was pulled back and out of the way, so this may have been the reason for the lack of ridiculous amounts of attention). I finally made it to Mohammad V, and when I did, I started walking the wrong way—towards Hassan II, where our hotel was. I almost made it to Marche Central, the European market, when I figured out home was the opposite way.
I turned around and made it home fairly quickly, laughing at my mistakes and enjoying the cool night air.
Around 7:30 Fati and Zeinab and I started off for the hammam with buckets and soap, shampoo and towels. It took us 30 minutes to walk the 100 yards to the hammam because Fati met her brother and two best friends, Chaoula and Ali, in the street. They talked forever, and very rapidly, with lots of clicks and rolls of the tongue, guttural ch’s and hard clicks deep in the throat. (Watching darija conversations amongst young people really is fascinating. They’re loud and excited and place great emphasis on different parts of their speech; the older generation is milder in their manner of talking). Zeinab and I made jokes and giggled in Darija-glish, our new hybrid of language. Katie, JP, and Mike from school passed by while we stood as Fati was chatting, so I was able to demonstrate to Zeinab that I’m not some strange quiet American but that I really do have friends and really do talk when I can communicate. Katie was headed to another hammam with Julia, while JP and Mike were trying to figure out where they live. (Many of the students still have trouble figuring out exactly where they live; they don’t sell maps to the medina, and none of us have yet developed a good sense of where things are. Getting lost is really fun, though, because you discover different nooks and crannies that you had no idea existed before).
The hammam
The hammam was a wonderful experience; definitely one of the highlights of my time in Morocco so far. It was while I was sitting butt-naked on the tiny white stool in the hammam that I thought to myself, “Hey, I could get used to this.” And by “this” was not only meant the hammam and being naked (which is super fun and liberating), but the rhythm of life in Morocco. I love walking from place to place with medina-dwellers and stopping about 20 times before we reach the destination so they can say Salaam aleikum to and kiss the cheeks of everyone they know who passes. I'm going to start a naked public bath, kissing in public movement in America when I get home. (haha!)
The hammam is an incredibly relaxing experience. Women take off their hijab and gossip; they complain about problems at home and relieve some of the tension of their lives. They scrub each other and wipe away all the dirt and dead skin that rests on their bodies. Tonight Fati scrubbed me, and large rolls of dead skin the size of cooked rotini pasta fell from my arms, legs, and back. Kind of gross. The process was a little harsh but pleasurable at the same time. Now my skin feels like a baby’s bottom.
On the way home from the hammam we passed some of the Ayad family’s neighbors — two women and a two year old boy named Suleiman. Zeinab immediately picked him up and started playing with him, cooing, “Suleiman, Suleiman.” Fati talked to the two women. Soon Zeinab had convinced Suleiman to kiss her cheek (the command was “Bes’hha”, I believe), and brought him over to me to kiss me as well. “Suleiman zweyn”, I said to him, and kissed his forehead. (Zweyn means beautiful and a whole slew of other positive adjectives). “Bes’hha”, Zeinab said, and held him close to my face. He was shy, but finally kissed my cheek, which sent both Zeinab and I into a cacophony of clapping and “mez-yaan” (good).
Suleiman and his mother live in our apartment building, so we said goodbye to the other neighbor and began walking home. Suleiman held Zeinab’s right hand in his left, and reached out to grab my left hand in his right. I don’t think I’ve been as happy since arriving in Morocco as I was at that moment to be walking home hand-in-hand with two-year-old Suleiman. He kept smiling up at me and holding both our hands tightly so he could jump high in the air. We walked him to his apartment and said goodnight.
A beautiful day
Today was a very good day, both in terms of weather and in terms of my general temperament. I was quiet and solemn and more internal than I’ve been since the beginning of Morocco, but it felt good to be that way. I wanted to read, I wanted to write, I wanted to study. I just wanted to be quiet and observe. There’s very little time to be quiet when you’re amongst 39 other twenty year olds. The company of our American peers is a relief, and most of us take advantage of the situation and unload all of our stress and anxiety on each other. There’s a lot of complaining, a lot of “I miss....”, a lot of negativity towards cultural differences and slight inconveniences we’re all experiencing as a result of being Americans in a foreign and Muslim country. It gets tiresome after a while.
The day finished perfectly: my baba maghribi (Moroccan father) made spaghetti for dinner. I love spaghetti, and this comfort food was definitely needed at the end of a long day. Fus’ha (Arabic language kindergarten), field study preliminary work, too many people and too much complaining, missing home, tea reception, hammam, Suleiman, spaghetti.
Hammam, Suleiman, spaghetti. Nothing gets better than that. (Except for my sister Zeinab, who is now making jokes and laughing at me).
(Ex
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Night of September 10
September 10 7:00pm
My host family’s home is beginning to feel like that: home. I am relieved and content to be sitting on the floor next to my sister Fati and the television, which is playing “Two Days Notice”. I just returned from a photography trip down the section of Avenue Mohammad V that is near my house, and it was slightly jarring. The stares and jeering comments from men on the street and the looks from the women are entirely manageable when I am with friends or walking to school. At dusk and alone Avenue Mohammad V is a different matter. I carried my camera and my cell phone and started taking pictures of butcher’s shops, orange juice stands, djellaba and qamis shops, people in the street, and the stares and comments were nearly excruciating. Maybe it was just that I was looking for interesting human subjects to photograph, and this was why I looked into their faces and made note of the stares.
I stand out a lot in Morocco. My hair is larger than normal, due to a paucity of hair products and lack of a hair dryer, so when I see myself in the mirror, even I am stunned at how I look. If I am surprised by my hair, imagine the surprise of people on the street to see a young girl with blue eyes, porcelain skin, and crazy curly hair. The people who don’t notice, or don’t appear to, are few and far between.
9:00pm
I just got back to the house from a night walk in the souk with Fati and Salima, Fati’s cousin. The hustle and bustle of the souk was more than I wanted to handle tonight; I don’t know why I said I wanted to go. Too many people, too many smells, too many stares.
The night walk was made worlds better when we visited Salima’s mother to say goodnight. Her mother speaks a little Spanish, so we’ve talked before. (She gave me ice cream my first day with the family and we carried on a broken conversation). We exchanged como estas? and then she proceeded to squeeze my cheeks with both hands and shake my face back and forth, peppering me with what seemed like compliments while she smiled a lot. She told me that her son, who lives in Spain, would be arriving Wednesday or Thursday for Ramadan, and then she squeeze my cheeks and shook my face again. Usually, I hate that, but here, I so crave touch that I didn’t mind at all. I actually liked it. (All the students are still getting to know each other so we don’t give friendly hugs and kisses on the cheek and things yet. Mostly, I miss hugging my friends from home). After we said goodnight to Salima’s mother, I met Fati’s other cousin, Naoufal. Naoufal is an adorable guy, slightly chubby with a little gut, which is strange for Moroccan teenagers. He had a big smile and sparkling eyes and braces on his teeth. And, (if my “gay-dar” is correct at all), he is the first Moroccan man I’ve seen who might be gay. Shortly after I met him one of his guy friends came up, and they held hands for quite some time and flirted—at least, this is what it would look like in America. I have observed Moroccan male-male interaction for a little over a week now, and this exchange was uncharacteristic, and slightly effeminate. It made me smile a lot and made me think of Common Grounds and Edwin, Cory, and Jesse. (Happy sidenote: when Naoufal’s flirtatious friend asked if I was australiya, Fati replied, “La, maghribiya”).
Naoufal joined Fati and I on our walk home, and when we were about 2 minutes away, a group of guys apparently said something derogatory to us. I understand barely a word of darija and Fati didn’t hear the comment, but whatever it was was enough to send Naoufal into an angry yelling fit, and a nearby shop owner came out of his shop to hold Naoufal back from the boy who had yelled the comment. It was an interesting altercation, and we left without a fistfight. After Naoufal had left us, Fati told me that Naoufal had yelled at the boy, “I’m walking with my sisters! Leave us alone!” I continue to be numbered amongst the family.
My host family’s home is beginning to feel like that: home. I am relieved and content to be sitting on the floor next to my sister Fati and the television, which is playing “Two Days Notice”. I just returned from a photography trip down the section of Avenue Mohammad V that is near my house, and it was slightly jarring. The stares and jeering comments from men on the street and the looks from the women are entirely manageable when I am with friends or walking to school. At dusk and alone Avenue Mohammad V is a different matter. I carried my camera and my cell phone and started taking pictures of butcher’s shops, orange juice stands, djellaba and qamis shops, people in the street, and the stares and comments were nearly excruciating. Maybe it was just that I was looking for interesting human subjects to photograph, and this was why I looked into their faces and made note of the stares.
I stand out a lot in Morocco. My hair is larger than normal, due to a paucity of hair products and lack of a hair dryer, so when I see myself in the mirror, even I am stunned at how I look. If I am surprised by my hair, imagine the surprise of people on the street to see a young girl with blue eyes, porcelain skin, and crazy curly hair. The people who don’t notice, or don’t appear to, are few and far between.
9:00pm
I just got back to the house from a night walk in the souk with Fati and Salima, Fati’s cousin. The hustle and bustle of the souk was more than I wanted to handle tonight; I don’t know why I said I wanted to go. Too many people, too many smells, too many stares.
The night walk was made worlds better when we visited Salima’s mother to say goodnight. Her mother speaks a little Spanish, so we’ve talked before. (She gave me ice cream my first day with the family and we carried on a broken conversation). We exchanged como estas? and then she proceeded to squeeze my cheeks with both hands and shake my face back and forth, peppering me with what seemed like compliments while she smiled a lot. She told me that her son, who lives in Spain, would be arriving Wednesday or Thursday for Ramadan, and then she squeeze my cheeks and shook my face again. Usually, I hate that, but here, I so crave touch that I didn’t mind at all. I actually liked it. (All the students are still getting to know each other so we don’t give friendly hugs and kisses on the cheek and things yet. Mostly, I miss hugging my friends from home). After we said goodnight to Salima’s mother, I met Fati’s other cousin, Naoufal. Naoufal is an adorable guy, slightly chubby with a little gut, which is strange for Moroccan teenagers. He had a big smile and sparkling eyes and braces on his teeth. And, (if my “gay-dar” is correct at all), he is the first Moroccan man I’ve seen who might be gay. Shortly after I met him one of his guy friends came up, and they held hands for quite some time and flirted—at least, this is what it would look like in America. I have observed Moroccan male-male interaction for a little over a week now, and this exchange was uncharacteristic, and slightly effeminate. It made me smile a lot and made me think of Common Grounds and Edwin, Cory, and Jesse. (Happy sidenote: when Naoufal’s flirtatious friend asked if I was australiya, Fati replied, “La, maghribiya”).
Naoufal joined Fati and I on our walk home, and when we were about 2 minutes away, a group of guys apparently said something derogatory to us. I understand barely a word of darija and Fati didn’t hear the comment, but whatever it was was enough to send Naoufal into an angry yelling fit, and a nearby shop owner came out of his shop to hold Naoufal back from the boy who had yelled the comment. It was an interesting altercation, and we left without a fistfight. After Naoufal had left us, Fati told me that Naoufal had yelled at the boy, “I’m walking with my sisters! Leave us alone!” I continue to be numbered amongst the family.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Regarding "the immersion experience" entry
After more observation, I don't think the ceramic bucket in the shower was for ablutions, after all.
So I'm safe.
So I'm safe.
Descriptions of family life
(writing from 5:00pm September 9. Not good writing, but descriptive nonetheless).
I’ve been looking for the right moment to write for two days now. Whenever I am in an incredibly extreme mood to type, I am occupied. So now, I will try to wax interesting, perhaps philosophical as well, even though the writing bug has not quite bitten me.
This is my third homestay; the first two were in the states for Junior Miss competitions. I consider myself fairly experienced at the homestay, and as such, take it as a very good sign that (1) I feel comfortable enough and (2) the family is quite pleased that yesterday I helped dry the dishes and today washed and dried my own. I’m acclimating to this life quite easily, keeping my things very organized, neat, and together, and I’ve already mastered Moroccan table manners. I can eat with only the three fingers of my right hand quite proficiently.
My host family is wonderful. Fatimazahra, my 20 year old sister, speaks nearly fluent English and is a great help when I can’t express my meaning to other members of the family. Zeinab is my 13 year old sister, and she and I share a room. My family’s home is quite small; the total floor space of the apartment is less than that of my 472 Second Street apartment. Mama Amina and Baba Boubker sleep in one room, which also contains the closets of clothing for the whole family. Fatimazahra has her own room, but her bed is about the size of a large armchair, and her room doubles as the computer room. They have a computer and the internet, which is very very nice. The kitchen is very compact, and all the appliances are at least 75% the size of their American counterparts. Zeinab and I sleep in a large and long room, the perimeter of which is lined with beautiful navy blue and gold pillows and couches. At least one room in each Moroccan house is decorated in this way, with something of a sectional sofa lining every wall. The room is kept very clean and ready for entertaining. At night Zeinab and I remove some pillows and place sheets and pillows on the couches, and they become our beds. A round table is in the center of the room, and my belongings are hidden underneath, folded into neat piles and divided into zones.
The only other room in the house is something of a family room, again with large long sofas surrounding the perimeter. There is a TV and a DVD player in this room, and the kids are often in here to watch TV, listen to music and dance. Yassine, my eighteen year old brother, sleeps here at night.
I think my family is rather affluent, by Moroccan standards. They have four TV’s; one in my parents’ room, one with DVD player in the “family” room, one in Fati’s room, and a very small one in the kitchen. They have a computer, the internet, and a digital camera, a Western toilet and shower in their bathroom. If not affluent, they are progressive. Fati wears very cute Western clothes, and yesterday I taught her the phrase “dressed to the nines”. She looks more Western than I do, in terms of our dress. I want to wear traditional Moroccan clothing, and she wants to look like she’s a sorority girl. Very interesting.
I have been amazed at the compact-ness of things here. The bathroom has half the floor space of my bathroom at 3200 Blenheim Way, or the bathroom at 472 West Second Street. (It’s smaller than Rosenthal bathrooms, for Transy kids). The toilet is in the shower itself, so each time someone takes a shower, the toilet paper is placed outside the shower stall so as not to get wet, and the toilet seat is closed. The sink looks to hold at most a pint and a half —definitely not more than a quart — of water, almost the size of an airplane lavatory sink. The shower head is the size of the “sprayer” on American kitchen sinks. The laundry machine, which is in the kitchen, is about the size of my American family’s trash compacter.
(and the writing had to stop so I could help my family with something).
I’ve been looking for the right moment to write for two days now. Whenever I am in an incredibly extreme mood to type, I am occupied. So now, I will try to wax interesting, perhaps philosophical as well, even though the writing bug has not quite bitten me.
This is my third homestay; the first two were in the states for Junior Miss competitions. I consider myself fairly experienced at the homestay, and as such, take it as a very good sign that (1) I feel comfortable enough and (2) the family is quite pleased that yesterday I helped dry the dishes and today washed and dried my own. I’m acclimating to this life quite easily, keeping my things very organized, neat, and together, and I’ve already mastered Moroccan table manners. I can eat with only the three fingers of my right hand quite proficiently.
My host family is wonderful. Fatimazahra, my 20 year old sister, speaks nearly fluent English and is a great help when I can’t express my meaning to other members of the family. Zeinab is my 13 year old sister, and she and I share a room. My family’s home is quite small; the total floor space of the apartment is less than that of my 472 Second Street apartment. Mama Amina and Baba Boubker sleep in one room, which also contains the closets of clothing for the whole family. Fatimazahra has her own room, but her bed is about the size of a large armchair, and her room doubles as the computer room. They have a computer and the internet, which is very very nice. The kitchen is very compact, and all the appliances are at least 75% the size of their American counterparts. Zeinab and I sleep in a large and long room, the perimeter of which is lined with beautiful navy blue and gold pillows and couches. At least one room in each Moroccan house is decorated in this way, with something of a sectional sofa lining every wall. The room is kept very clean and ready for entertaining. At night Zeinab and I remove some pillows and place sheets and pillows on the couches, and they become our beds. A round table is in the center of the room, and my belongings are hidden underneath, folded into neat piles and divided into zones.
The only other room in the house is something of a family room, again with large long sofas surrounding the perimeter. There is a TV and a DVD player in this room, and the kids are often in here to watch TV, listen to music and dance. Yassine, my eighteen year old brother, sleeps here at night.
I think my family is rather affluent, by Moroccan standards. They have four TV’s; one in my parents’ room, one with DVD player in the “family” room, one in Fati’s room, and a very small one in the kitchen. They have a computer, the internet, and a digital camera, a Western toilet and shower in their bathroom. If not affluent, they are progressive. Fati wears very cute Western clothes, and yesterday I taught her the phrase “dressed to the nines”. She looks more Western than I do, in terms of our dress. I want to wear traditional Moroccan clothing, and she wants to look like she’s a sorority girl. Very interesting.
I have been amazed at the compact-ness of things here. The bathroom has half the floor space of my bathroom at 3200 Blenheim Way, or the bathroom at 472 West Second Street. (It’s smaller than Rosenthal bathrooms, for Transy kids). The toilet is in the shower itself, so each time someone takes a shower, the toilet paper is placed outside the shower stall so as not to get wet, and the toilet seat is closed. The sink looks to hold at most a pint and a half —definitely not more than a quart — of water, almost the size of an airplane lavatory sink. The shower head is the size of the “sprayer” on American kitchen sinks. The laundry machine, which is in the kitchen, is about the size of my American family’s trash compacter.
(and the writing had to stop so I could help my family with something).
The immersion experience (readers be warned)
Reader discretion advised, again. I'm candid in this one:
September 9 7:36pm
My general mood: happy, content, satisfied, at home, comfortable.
The story of my homestay experience has been one of social faux pas after cultural faux pas after religious faux pas, then repeat. My first day here I walked onto the family’s carpets with my shoes, which, I found, is a no-no because the family prays on these rugs. One must be bare-foot on the prayer rugs, which are found on the entirety of the floor of every room except the bathroom, kitchen, and front hallway. In the rest of the house, one must wear “slippers”, which for me are my Chi Omega flip-flops and thus everyday shoes for the souk, walking Boulevard Mohammad V, etc. I feel bad wearing my constant street shoes in the house, but it is insisted upon.
And now for what I feel is the worse faux-pas, the one for which I could be embarrassed, very apologetic, and red in the face, for quite some time. Instead, I’m taking it in stride, cleaned up my mistake, and on I go. Actually, I don’t even know if I made a mistake..... I just think I did. Insha’Allah there is no problem.
So, I’m on my period right now, which means I use tampons. (Tangent: I was talking to my sister Fati, who is also on her period, and I asked her if she used pads or tampons. “Pads,” she said, “because I’m still a virgin.” Interesting societal note. I told her, “In America, we use tampons whether or not we are a virgin.” “I know,” she said). For my first tampon change yesterday, I looked to the side of the toilet in the bathroom and saw what looked like a small trash can/bucket, and inside what looked like a pad wrapped in toilet paper. Convenient, I thought, and placed my carefully and discretely wrapped tampon and the equally wrapped trash from the new tampon in the bucket. Today I asked Fati what I should do with my tampon when I’m finished, “Should I put it in the trash can beside the toilet?” “No,” she said, and she proceeded to instruct me that I should take a small trash bag and place it in the bag, and place the bag in a larger trash bag in the kitchen. “Ok,” I said. So I go to the bathroom and realize that the small trash bucket, or what I thought was for trash, is actually a small ceramic bucket. Inside are my used tampons from before, but the blood has seeped out and into the bucket, having been mixed with the water from the shower that had also been in the bucket previously. I noted again the fact that the bucket was ceramic. Dammit, I thought. This is probably what the family uses for ablutions. (Ablutions are the ritual washing of hands and arms and face before performing prayer). Without embarrassment or red face, but with a considerable acknowledgment of my American ignorance, and an extreme disappointment at my ignorance at the rhythm of sacred life within my family — and I’m a student of religion Oh the disgust at my stupidity — I placed the soggy trash from the ablution bucket into the trash bag along with my current trash, and wrapped it carefully and tied the bag shut. Then I ran some water in the sink, rinsing out the ceramic, and used as much soap as I could lather on my hands to scrub the areas the blood had touched. I don’t know if any member of the family had noticed it and been horrified at my offense — no one had said anything, although before when I had made a mistake in walking on the carpets, Fati had calmly corrected me. She hadn’t mentioned anything with this larger offense, so, Insha’Allah, no family member had noticed, or if they had, they took it all in stride as a part of an American adjusting to life here in Morocco. I hope I cleaned the basin well, and I hope that if they did notice, they will not mind too much purifying the basin for use for prayer.
In the end, though, Insha’Allah the basin was not used for ablutions at all.
*Sigh*. The wonders and joys of adjusting to life in Morocco.
September 9 7:36pm
My general mood: happy, content, satisfied, at home, comfortable.
The story of my homestay experience has been one of social faux pas after cultural faux pas after religious faux pas, then repeat. My first day here I walked onto the family’s carpets with my shoes, which, I found, is a no-no because the family prays on these rugs. One must be bare-foot on the prayer rugs, which are found on the entirety of the floor of every room except the bathroom, kitchen, and front hallway. In the rest of the house, one must wear “slippers”, which for me are my Chi Omega flip-flops and thus everyday shoes for the souk, walking Boulevard Mohammad V, etc. I feel bad wearing my constant street shoes in the house, but it is insisted upon.
And now for what I feel is the worse faux-pas, the one for which I could be embarrassed, very apologetic, and red in the face, for quite some time. Instead, I’m taking it in stride, cleaned up my mistake, and on I go. Actually, I don’t even know if I made a mistake..... I just think I did. Insha’Allah there is no problem.
So, I’m on my period right now, which means I use tampons. (Tangent: I was talking to my sister Fati, who is also on her period, and I asked her if she used pads or tampons. “Pads,” she said, “because I’m still a virgin.” Interesting societal note. I told her, “In America, we use tampons whether or not we are a virgin.” “I know,” she said). For my first tampon change yesterday, I looked to the side of the toilet in the bathroom and saw what looked like a small trash can/bucket, and inside what looked like a pad wrapped in toilet paper. Convenient, I thought, and placed my carefully and discretely wrapped tampon and the equally wrapped trash from the new tampon in the bucket. Today I asked Fati what I should do with my tampon when I’m finished, “Should I put it in the trash can beside the toilet?” “No,” she said, and she proceeded to instruct me that I should take a small trash bag and place it in the bag, and place the bag in a larger trash bag in the kitchen. “Ok,” I said. So I go to the bathroom and realize that the small trash bucket, or what I thought was for trash, is actually a small ceramic bucket. Inside are my used tampons from before, but the blood has seeped out and into the bucket, having been mixed with the water from the shower that had also been in the bucket previously. I noted again the fact that the bucket was ceramic. Dammit, I thought. This is probably what the family uses for ablutions. (Ablutions are the ritual washing of hands and arms and face before performing prayer). Without embarrassment or red face, but with a considerable acknowledgment of my American ignorance, and an extreme disappointment at my ignorance at the rhythm of sacred life within my family — and I’m a student of religion Oh the disgust at my stupidity — I placed the soggy trash from the ablution bucket into the trash bag along with my current trash, and wrapped it carefully and tied the bag shut. Then I ran some water in the sink, rinsing out the ceramic, and used as much soap as I could lather on my hands to scrub the areas the blood had touched. I don’t know if any member of the family had noticed it and been horrified at my offense — no one had said anything, although before when I had made a mistake in walking on the carpets, Fati had calmly corrected me. She hadn’t mentioned anything with this larger offense, so, Insha’Allah, no family member had noticed, or if they had, they took it all in stride as a part of an American adjusting to life here in Morocco. I hope I cleaned the basin well, and I hope that if they did notice, they will not mind too much purifying the basin for use for prayer.
In the end, though, Insha’Allah the basin was not used for ablutions at all.
*Sigh*. The wonders and joys of adjusting to life in Morocco.
Friday, September 7, 2007
I met my host sister!
The CCCL hosted a "meet and greet" with our host families tonight, and my host sister is amazing. Her name is Fati, and she is an English studies student at Mohammad V University.
Smitaha Fati, u ihheeyah taliba fe zhemiyat Mohammad V. (heck yes, I'm getting good!)
We had a great conversation about school and her family, and I feel very comfortable about living with her family. I'm going to do my best to practice my Darija, but when it fails me, I know I'll have Fati to help me.
My mother's name is Amina, and father's name is Boubker. My younger host sister is named Zainab and my host brother is Yassine. Amina and Boubker are Arabic teachers, and neither speak English = good for me.
I have two more classes in Darija and then I begin my Fus'ha classes. It's going to be really difficult not to speak Fus'ha in the streets and with my family. I guess I'll keep working on learning Darija at home, and try to become more conversational in that, and then I'll try to keep Fus'ha locked inside my brain so I can continue to learn it back in the US.
Off I go to enjoy the breeze coming off the Atlantic while I eat a dinner of lamb and vegetables (with shots of medicine from the clinique). B'Salaama!
Smitaha Fati, u ihheeyah taliba fe zhemiyat Mohammad V. (heck yes, I'm getting good!)
We had a great conversation about school and her family, and I feel very comfortable about living with her family. I'm going to do my best to practice my Darija, but when it fails me, I know I'll have Fati to help me.
My mother's name is Amina, and father's name is Boubker. My younger host sister is named Zainab and my host brother is Yassine. Amina and Boubker are Arabic teachers, and neither speak English = good for me.
I have two more classes in Darija and then I begin my Fus'ha classes. It's going to be really difficult not to speak Fus'ha in the streets and with my family. I guess I'll keep working on learning Darija at home, and try to become more conversational in that, and then I'll try to keep Fus'ha locked inside my brain so I can continue to learn it back in the US.
Off I go to enjoy the breeze coming off the Atlantic while I eat a dinner of lamb and vegetables (with shots of medicine from the clinique). B'Salaama!
Rabat continues to be wonderful
I'm starting to feel like part of the community of the medina. I recognize the faces of shopkeepers (in Darija, mulhannutiin), I can speak more of the local language, I'm learning to bargain (apparently I paid way too much for a Moroccan dress yesterday...). Today two teenage boys struck up a conversation with Carly and me while we walked to school, asking me where I'm from, where I bought my sunglasses, if I like Arabic. "You must practice, then, in two years, you good." "I hope," I responded. I think that I'd like to make Morocco my annual or bi-annual vacation; it would be great to become fluent in Darija. The people love when you speak even a word of Darija to them, and are highly complimentary when we say things properly. Learning the language is great. (and we're learning it ridiculously fast; in less than a week I've learned as much Darija as I learned Spanish in High School Spanish 1).
Off to run to afternoon sessions. Things are great here. They really are.
Andi usted mezyehn. Kanbri ldarija bezzef. L-maghrib zweyhn.
I have a good Arabic teacher. I like Darija a lot. Morocco is beautiful.
And more to come...
Off to run to afternoon sessions. Things are great here. They really are.
Andi usted mezyehn. Kanbri ldarija bezzef. L-maghrib zweyhn.
I have a good Arabic teacher. I like Darija a lot. Morocco is beautiful.
And more to come...
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
3:56 am September 5
Bathroom of Room 108, Hotel Majestic, Rabat
In all there must be a balance
(or, I still feel like I’m going to die)
Reader discretion is advised.
My medicine kit...... it will be depleted sooner, possibly, rather than later. Thank God for it.
In short, I just took two anti-diarrheals.
I woke up at 3:45 with awful cramping and nausea. Awful cramping and nausea. I walked to the bathroom and let loose on the toilet. It was horrifying, and while I was letting go on one end, felt I had to vomit. I hate vomiting. I managed not to vomit, but then I felt light-headed. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I am incredibly apt to pass out with the onset of extreme pain. I finished on the toilet as quickly as I could, and lay down on the floor in the yogic “child’s pose”. At this point, I was really overheating and breaking out into a heavy sweat. So there I lay, on the filthy floor of the bathroom, my head, arms, and legs against the tiles, which were only a little cooler than my body. I was soon covered in sweat , but I felt so much better on the floor.
After the discomfort subsided a little bit, I rinsed my wrists under cool water, and collapsed on my bed. It wasn’t long before I felt bad again, though. This time I came to the bathroom more prepared, with laptop and mp3 player playing Sufjan Stevens’ “Illinoise” in tow. In the writing of this entry, I took several breaks to plaster my body to the tiles, to drink water, to take anti-diarrheals, to let loose on the toilet again.
I still feel nauseous, but I’m getting better.
(Un moment.... I have to plaster myself to the tiles again).
I’m going to try bed again. Dear God, I feel awful..
In all there must be a balance
(or, I still feel like I’m going to die)
Reader discretion is advised.
My medicine kit...... it will be depleted sooner, possibly, rather than later. Thank God for it.
In short, I just took two anti-diarrheals.
I woke up at 3:45 with awful cramping and nausea. Awful cramping and nausea. I walked to the bathroom and let loose on the toilet. It was horrifying, and while I was letting go on one end, felt I had to vomit. I hate vomiting. I managed not to vomit, but then I felt light-headed. As anyone who knows me will tell you, I am incredibly apt to pass out with the onset of extreme pain. I finished on the toilet as quickly as I could, and lay down on the floor in the yogic “child’s pose”. At this point, I was really overheating and breaking out into a heavy sweat. So there I lay, on the filthy floor of the bathroom, my head, arms, and legs against the tiles, which were only a little cooler than my body. I was soon covered in sweat , but I felt so much better on the floor.
After the discomfort subsided a little bit, I rinsed my wrists under cool water, and collapsed on my bed. It wasn’t long before I felt bad again, though. This time I came to the bathroom more prepared, with laptop and mp3 player playing Sufjan Stevens’ “Illinoise” in tow. In the writing of this entry, I took several breaks to plaster my body to the tiles, to drink water, to take anti-diarrheals, to let loose on the toilet again.
I still feel nauseous, but I’m getting better.
(Un moment.... I have to plaster myself to the tiles again).
I’m going to try bed again. Dear God, I feel awful..
Hotel Majestic September 4. 12:30am (so really it’s September 5)
Today was the best day yet. For the first time since I’ve been in Morocco, I felt not only well, but happy. I laughed for the first time, and it felt good. Refreshing. I felt like myself again.
I haven’t yet described my “normal” day here in Morocco, so I think this an apt time to do so, before the schedule changes on Saturday, when I move in with my host family.
7:00am Wake-up
8:00am Breakfast (and a little nap afterwards)
9:00am Leave hotel and walk to CCCL
Anecdote:
The walk from the hotel to school in the morning and back again at night is a great plunge into the life of the medina. Shops line the streets; Avenue Mohammad V—the last leg of the walk— is especially busy, and especially at night. In the morning, the shopkeepers begin baking or cooking or sewing or hammering, while others take large brooms and sweep the trash away from the front of their shop. Stray cats roam the streets looking for food, and little boys play games of tag in the street. Girls lead their younger siblings through the streets, or watch them as they play. We pass the bakers, the butchers, the wool sellers, the souvenir shops, the djellaba shops, the Western clothing shops. We see people in Western clothes and djellabas, in fez hats and high-heels, in burqas, peasant tops, jeans, and hijabs, soccer jerseys, football jerseys, screen print t-shirts, and everything else imaginable. This is definitely a progressive Muslim society; as many women cover themselves as those who choose not to. It is generally the older women who cover their entire bodies, save their toes, hands, and faces, but many younger women can be seen wearing the hijab as well. Moroccans don’t all look the same, either. There is no cookie-cutter look for a Moroccan. There are Moroccans you might mistake for Italians, Moroccans with sub-Saharan features, Moroccans who look Middle Eastern, Moroccans who are pale, Moroccans who have the skin color of Central Americans and the facial features of Arabs.
Possibly the best — albeit the most challenging as well — part of being in Morocco is trying to communicate in a half dozen languages. Spanish, French, Amazigh (Berber), Darija (Moroccan Colloquial Arabic), Fus’ha (Standard Arabic), and English are all spoken, all the time. I was at a cell phone vendor this evening and when my French failed me, I reverted to Spanish, and as I left, thanked the shopkeeper in Darija. I order coffee in French, but tomorrow I’m going to test my new Darija skills in the café (in Darija, the kawwa). I hope to come home speaking more French, conversational in Darija, literate in Fus’ha, and better at my Spanish. All good possibilities.
9:30-12:30 Orientation talks (i.e. Safety, Policies, Schedule, Homestay, Moroccan Culture, Islam, preparing for Ramadan, health, etc).
12:30-1:30 Lunch (which may include cucumber and tomato salad, saffron potatoes or carrots, lentils, pasta with seasoning, couscous, chicken with saffron, beef with amazing seasonings I can’t name, bread, fresh fruit (fresh fruit in America doesn’t compare), water, mint tea, etc.)
1:30-3:00 Intense Arabic: Survival Darija
(3:00- ??? My head hurts from Darija)
3:30-4:30 Another presentation
4:30-6:30 or 7:00 Free time until dinner
During free time, my new soul twin, Carly, and I post notes to our blogs, post pictures, use Skype, and get all the “staying connected to home” stuff done. Then we take off to “find soda”, which is really just a great excuse to get lost in the medina. The medina is the centuries-old walled city and is mostly residential. People walk in the medina, generally, but every once in a while you’ll hear the buzz of a motorcycle and then the driver will rip past you at speeds that would be illegal in residential America. Beggar women sit in the street mumbling in darija; their eyes are sunken into their faces and they are lucky if they have teeth. Today I gave one of the woman my change from buying soda, and she held my hand as we exchanged the “Salaam aleikum” “wa aleikum salaam”. Then she mumbled more words, including Al-Ahzar (I believe it was), which I think is a name of God, though I do not know which.
6:30 Dinner. (See food list above)
7:30 Walk back to hotel
Life begins at night in Rabat. By now Avenue Mohammad V is full of people, and the center of the street is full of vendors selling fruit, orange juice (squeezed for you on the spot), purses, backpacks, CD’s, t-shirts, and necklaces. Our group gets split up by the crowds, which is fun, because now we know how to get from the hotel to school, so being free of our 45-person brigade is a relief. It’s nice to walk in small groups of two or three, where you can walk at your own pace, look at the shops and watch the people.
Tonight as we were standing in a parking lot across from our hotel, a young girl, probably 14 or 15, came up to us, trying to sell us flags. She spoke in quiet darija, and kept motioning to her mouth, to indicate she was hungry, that selling these flags would allow her to feed herself for the night. The students responded alternatively with “La” (darija for no) or “Non”, but she was persistent. For some reason, I made eye contact with her, and she posed her questions to me, demonstrating the number of flags she had. “Je ne comprends pas”, I said. “No, merci”. She motioned to her mouth again, then looked at my hand. She gestured to her own finger, making a sign of a ring, then she pointed at my hand. She wanted my silver spiral ring, which is the only nice piece of jewelry that I own, and I would never part with it. I quickly gave her my mood ring, which I also like very much, but it was free. There’s no huge sentimental value attached to it. She seemed very pleased by the gift. She smiled and said “merci” and walked away. That was that.
I haven’t yet described my “normal” day here in Morocco, so I think this an apt time to do so, before the schedule changes on Saturday, when I move in with my host family.
7:00am Wake-up
8:00am Breakfast (and a little nap afterwards)
9:00am Leave hotel and walk to CCCL
Anecdote:
The walk from the hotel to school in the morning and back again at night is a great plunge into the life of the medina. Shops line the streets; Avenue Mohammad V—the last leg of the walk— is especially busy, and especially at night. In the morning, the shopkeepers begin baking or cooking or sewing or hammering, while others take large brooms and sweep the trash away from the front of their shop. Stray cats roam the streets looking for food, and little boys play games of tag in the street. Girls lead their younger siblings through the streets, or watch them as they play. We pass the bakers, the butchers, the wool sellers, the souvenir shops, the djellaba shops, the Western clothing shops. We see people in Western clothes and djellabas, in fez hats and high-heels, in burqas, peasant tops, jeans, and hijabs, soccer jerseys, football jerseys, screen print t-shirts, and everything else imaginable. This is definitely a progressive Muslim society; as many women cover themselves as those who choose not to. It is generally the older women who cover their entire bodies, save their toes, hands, and faces, but many younger women can be seen wearing the hijab as well. Moroccans don’t all look the same, either. There is no cookie-cutter look for a Moroccan. There are Moroccans you might mistake for Italians, Moroccans with sub-Saharan features, Moroccans who look Middle Eastern, Moroccans who are pale, Moroccans who have the skin color of Central Americans and the facial features of Arabs.
Possibly the best — albeit the most challenging as well — part of being in Morocco is trying to communicate in a half dozen languages. Spanish, French, Amazigh (Berber), Darija (Moroccan Colloquial Arabic), Fus’ha (Standard Arabic), and English are all spoken, all the time. I was at a cell phone vendor this evening and when my French failed me, I reverted to Spanish, and as I left, thanked the shopkeeper in Darija. I order coffee in French, but tomorrow I’m going to test my new Darija skills in the café (in Darija, the kawwa). I hope to come home speaking more French, conversational in Darija, literate in Fus’ha, and better at my Spanish. All good possibilities.
9:30-12:30 Orientation talks (i.e. Safety, Policies, Schedule, Homestay, Moroccan Culture, Islam, preparing for Ramadan, health, etc).
12:30-1:30 Lunch (which may include cucumber and tomato salad, saffron potatoes or carrots, lentils, pasta with seasoning, couscous, chicken with saffron, beef with amazing seasonings I can’t name, bread, fresh fruit (fresh fruit in America doesn’t compare), water, mint tea, etc.)
1:30-3:00 Intense Arabic: Survival Darija
(3:00- ??? My head hurts from Darija)
3:30-4:30 Another presentation
4:30-6:30 or 7:00 Free time until dinner
During free time, my new soul twin, Carly, and I post notes to our blogs, post pictures, use Skype, and get all the “staying connected to home” stuff done. Then we take off to “find soda”, which is really just a great excuse to get lost in the medina. The medina is the centuries-old walled city and is mostly residential. People walk in the medina, generally, but every once in a while you’ll hear the buzz of a motorcycle and then the driver will rip past you at speeds that would be illegal in residential America. Beggar women sit in the street mumbling in darija; their eyes are sunken into their faces and they are lucky if they have teeth. Today I gave one of the woman my change from buying soda, and she held my hand as we exchanged the “Salaam aleikum” “wa aleikum salaam”. Then she mumbled more words, including Al-Ahzar (I believe it was), which I think is a name of God, though I do not know which.
6:30 Dinner. (See food list above)
7:30 Walk back to hotel
Life begins at night in Rabat. By now Avenue Mohammad V is full of people, and the center of the street is full of vendors selling fruit, orange juice (squeezed for you on the spot), purses, backpacks, CD’s, t-shirts, and necklaces. Our group gets split up by the crowds, which is fun, because now we know how to get from the hotel to school, so being free of our 45-person brigade is a relief. It’s nice to walk in small groups of two or three, where you can walk at your own pace, look at the shops and watch the people.
Tonight as we were standing in a parking lot across from our hotel, a young girl, probably 14 or 15, came up to us, trying to sell us flags. She spoke in quiet darija, and kept motioning to her mouth, to indicate she was hungry, that selling these flags would allow her to feed herself for the night. The students responded alternatively with “La” (darija for no) or “Non”, but she was persistent. For some reason, I made eye contact with her, and she posed her questions to me, demonstrating the number of flags she had. “Je ne comprends pas”, I said. “No, merci”. She motioned to her mouth again, then looked at my hand. She gestured to her own finger, making a sign of a ring, then she pointed at my hand. She wanted my silver spiral ring, which is the only nice piece of jewelry that I own, and I would never part with it. I quickly gave her my mood ring, which I also like very much, but it was free. There’s no huge sentimental value attached to it. She seemed very pleased by the gift. She smiled and said “merci” and walked away. That was that.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Link to my photo album!
Here is the web address for my photo album.... I don't think it's a working link, so copy and paste into your browser.
http://picasaweb.google.com/aaasay09
OH, sweet! It might be a link!
I'm on a long break right now, looking out at the Atlantic, getting ready to scour the medina for a Coca-Cola light with my friend Carly.
It's been a roller-coaster ride for me since I've gotten here, with this very moment probably being my happiest. I laughed for the first time today since I've been here, and it felt good.
(My darija is awful and Arabic classes are ridiculous, but I'm getting a little better).
B'Salaama!
http://picasaweb.google.com/aaasay09
OH, sweet! It might be a link!
I'm on a long break right now, looking out at the Atlantic, getting ready to scour the medina for a Coca-Cola light with my friend Carly.
It's been a roller-coaster ride for me since I've gotten here, with this very moment probably being my happiest. I laughed for the first time today since I've been here, and it felt good.
(My darija is awful and Arabic classes are ridiculous, but I'm getting a little better).
B'Salaama!
From the terrace of the school, after lunch
I'm feeling so much better today. I got about 10 hours of sleep last night (although the sleeping pills didn't work so well; I kept waking up all the time, feeling nauseous), and I am drugged up with Advil Cold and Sinus and Zicam. My cold is starting to subside, and my head starting to feel less clouded. We're starting to actually learn things, which makes days better and is helping to keep me awake. When we're just having Orientation talks like "Schedule", "Policy", etc, I start to nod off. Learning Arabic and reviewing Islam makes it more exciting.
It is a beautiful day today; it's about 75 degrees Fahrenheit, with a nice breeze coming off the ocean. The weather is making me feel much better, too. It's difficult to be sick, stuffed up, and living in 90 degree heat.
Altogether, a much better day. Last night I fought off little feelings of homesickness; it's always difficult to be sick anywhere, but especially abroad. I wanted to talk to my mom, to Clay, to Marcie and Charlene---just to anyone from home---but I was also needing sleep, and didn't feel like conquering the language barrier that I would find in the Internet cafe. So, I listened to Enya, ran cold water over my wrists to cool myself, and tried to sleep.
Now I sit on the beautiful terrace next to my new friend Carly, who is kind of keeping me going at this point. We "talked" a lot on Facebook before coming to Morocco, so when I hugged her in the Rabat airport, it felt like I was seeing an old friend. We're pretty much inseparable during the day.
I'm worried about moving in with my homestay family at the end of the week. What if I share a room, or a bed? What if I can't communicate with them at all? (PLEASE let someone speak Spanish or English)! I know I'll be fine and that I'll learn to navigate the cultural divides and language barriers, but it still makes me worried. Not too worried.... just a little.
I'm going to go upload some pictures now, so that you all might get a view of Morocco!
More updates later.
It is a beautiful day today; it's about 75 degrees Fahrenheit, with a nice breeze coming off the ocean. The weather is making me feel much better, too. It's difficult to be sick, stuffed up, and living in 90 degree heat.
Altogether, a much better day. Last night I fought off little feelings of homesickness; it's always difficult to be sick anywhere, but especially abroad. I wanted to talk to my mom, to Clay, to Marcie and Charlene---just to anyone from home---but I was also needing sleep, and didn't feel like conquering the language barrier that I would find in the Internet cafe. So, I listened to Enya, ran cold water over my wrists to cool myself, and tried to sleep.
Now I sit on the beautiful terrace next to my new friend Carly, who is kind of keeping me going at this point. We "talked" a lot on Facebook before coming to Morocco, so when I hugged her in the Rabat airport, it felt like I was seeing an old friend. We're pretty much inseparable during the day.
I'm worried about moving in with my homestay family at the end of the week. What if I share a room, or a bed? What if I can't communicate with them at all? (PLEASE let someone speak Spanish or English)! I know I'll be fine and that I'll learn to navigate the cultural divides and language barriers, but it still makes me worried. Not too worried.... just a little.
I'm going to go upload some pictures now, so that you all might get a view of Morocco!
More updates later.
Hotel Majestic, Rabat. 8:45pm September 3.
I’m sitting on my bed in room 108, feeling not so well. We returned home from dinner at 8:00pm, and I took two Advil Cold and Sinus and two Excedrin PM, took a quick cold shower because the room is 90 degrees, and then set about washing my laundry. All of it could stand to be worn another day, but I find that body odor and the smell of stale sweat are difficult to get out if you leave the laundry for too long. My roommate left and is doing something fun, and I am slowly but surely allowing my drugs to take hold so I might sleep well tonight. Last night was not so fun.
Today was a good day, albeit strenuous given the jet lag, the cold, and the constant bombardment of my eyes, ears, and lips with Morocco. I like the country so far — walking through the bazaar after dinner and seeing all the people and all the vendors was particularly exhilirating — but I hate being ill. It puts a damper on everything.
Highlights of the trip so far:
(1) meeting friends in New York (while the plane was delayed for five hours)
(2) My new “soul-twin” Carly
(3) Learning a very small amount of conversational Darija (Moroccan arabic)
(4) the food at the CCCL. Couscous, lamb, potatoes and chicken with saffron, eggplant, tomatoes and the best cucumbers and grapes in the world....
(5) Speaking four languages in one day. (While I can’t claim proficiency in Spanish, French, or Darija, I can truthfully say that I spoke all three and English in one day).
(6) Reading past students’ ISP’s (independent study project) and dreaming about mine
(7) Advil Cold and Sinus
(8) Excedrin PM
(9) Cold showers
(10) Tissues my friend Carly gave me (I forgot to bring any.... Who’d have thought I’d get sick the first day)
(11) My mp3 player, which makes me feel not so alone
(12) Skype, and that Clay got Skype
(13) talking to Charlene and Clay for little bits of time
(14) talking to my mom last night (sorry I had to cut the conversation short, mom )
(15) The CCCL (my school)
(16) Badr, one of the program assistants who makes sure we’re ok all the time
(17) Arabic lesson and Arabic teachers
(18) Just finally being here, but still being connected to little bits of home.
(19) clean clothes, and dreaming about buying a beautiful djellaba
(20) Sleep.
And (20) is where I’m headed now. The drugs are kicking in, and I’m starting to feel a little bit sleepy and euphoric, all at the same time.
Tomorrow (Tuesday) we have five ( ) hours of darija as well as a crash course in Islam. (Carly and I both asked, incredulously, “How are they going to fit a whole religion into an hour?” I guess we’ll find out).
Mselkhir u salaam aleikum (Good evening and peace be upon you )
Today was a good day, albeit strenuous given the jet lag, the cold, and the constant bombardment of my eyes, ears, and lips with Morocco. I like the country so far — walking through the bazaar after dinner and seeing all the people and all the vendors was particularly exhilirating — but I hate being ill. It puts a damper on everything.
Highlights of the trip so far:
(1) meeting friends in New York (while the plane was delayed for five hours)
(2) My new “soul-twin” Carly
(3) Learning a very small amount of conversational Darija (Moroccan arabic)
(4) the food at the CCCL. Couscous, lamb, potatoes and chicken with saffron, eggplant, tomatoes and the best cucumbers and grapes in the world....
(5) Speaking four languages in one day. (While I can’t claim proficiency in Spanish, French, or Darija, I can truthfully say that I spoke all three and English in one day).
(6) Reading past students’ ISP’s (independent study project) and dreaming about mine
(7) Advil Cold and Sinus
(8) Excedrin PM
(9) Cold showers
(10) Tissues my friend Carly gave me (I forgot to bring any.... Who’d have thought I’d get sick the first day)
(11) My mp3 player, which makes me feel not so alone
(12) Skype, and that Clay got Skype
(13) talking to Charlene and Clay for little bits of time
(14) talking to my mom last night (sorry I had to cut the conversation short, mom )
(15) The CCCL (my school)
(16) Badr, one of the program assistants who makes sure we’re ok all the time
(17) Arabic lesson and Arabic teachers
(18) Just finally being here, but still being connected to little bits of home.
(19) clean clothes, and dreaming about buying a beautiful djellaba
(20) Sleep.
And (20) is where I’m headed now. The drugs are kicking in, and I’m starting to feel a little bit sleepy and euphoric, all at the same time.
Tomorrow (Tuesday) we have five ( ) hours of darija as well as a crash course in Islam. (Carly and I both asked, incredulously, “How are they going to fit a whole religion into an hour?” I guess we’ll find out).
Mselkhir u salaam aleikum (Good evening and peace be upon you )
New York. JFK Airport. September 1 4:44 pm.
(A belated entry... from JFK airport before I leave the country)
JFK airport is teeming with people. I’ve decided I don’t much like this airport, because they give very poor instructions on how to get from place to place. When I disembarked from my Cincinnati-JFK flight, there were no instructions at the baggage claim area on how to get anywhere else in the airport except to further Delta connections. I had to ask several perturbed Delta employees how to get to AirFrance.... and finally found the AirTrain that took me to Terminal 1.
I’m writing this from the lower floor of the international terminal, eating a disgusting and greasy piece of pizza. It was the cheapest option at the “Panini Express” kiosk, which sold sandwiches that didn’t look much better for about $9.00. My hunger is gone now, but my back hurts a little from carrying my ridiculously heavy backpack. And I wish I had the internet. There are lots of wireless connections here, but none available to me.... not even one I could pay $19.99 an hour to use Unfair. So here I sulk.
The one cool thing about this airport is that about 12 different languages are being spoken around me right now. And at least I have my computer, so I can write this entry and post it to my blog and Facebook later.
Less than an hour until I meet my group, and stand uncomfortably in a crowd of hundreds while I wait to go through security screening. Really—the lines are incredible. It looks like a rock concert might be going on in this terminal, only people aren’t jumping, and the only sound is the murmur of one thousand voices.
I really wish my backpack weren’t so heavy. *sigh*.
And my adventure begins, with a greasy slice of pizza in my belly. :)
JFK airport is teeming with people. I’ve decided I don’t much like this airport, because they give very poor instructions on how to get from place to place. When I disembarked from my Cincinnati-JFK flight, there were no instructions at the baggage claim area on how to get anywhere else in the airport except to further Delta connections. I had to ask several perturbed Delta employees how to get to AirFrance.... and finally found the AirTrain that took me to Terminal 1.
I’m writing this from the lower floor of the international terminal, eating a disgusting and greasy piece of pizza. It was the cheapest option at the “Panini Express” kiosk, which sold sandwiches that didn’t look much better for about $9.00. My hunger is gone now, but my back hurts a little from carrying my ridiculously heavy backpack. And I wish I had the internet. There are lots of wireless connections here, but none available to me.... not even one I could pay $19.99 an hour to use Unfair. So here I sulk.
The one cool thing about this airport is that about 12 different languages are being spoken around me right now. And at least I have my computer, so I can write this entry and post it to my blog and Facebook later.
Less than an hour until I meet my group, and stand uncomfortably in a crowd of hundreds while I wait to go through security screening. Really—the lines are incredible. It looks like a rock concert might be going on in this terminal, only people aren’t jumping, and the only sound is the murmur of one thousand voices.
I really wish my backpack weren’t so heavy. *sigh*.
And my adventure begins, with a greasy slice of pizza in my belly. :)
Monday, September 3, 2007
A better update from Rabat
The end of my first day in Rabat is nearing an end, and it has been a busy day. I only got about 6 hours of sleep last night, and was very restless and hot, and sick. I have a nice little cold that is keeping me company. Thank goodness for Advil Cold and Sinus.
All the SIT students attend classes at the CCCL, the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning, which is located in the medina (the centuries-old walled city) in Rabat. The CCCL is a 19th century Andalusian house, every inch covered with mosaics. I hope to bring my camera to the center sometime soon so I can take pictures and post them for you to feast your eyes.
We had a 1.5 hour intense Arabic course today, and learned to say hello, introduce ourselves, say where we're from, and that we're students. Four hours later, I can't remember any of it. (Ok, maybe a little bit). I'll do lots of studying tonight.
After our Arabic lesson and a "Safety and Security" talk, my new friend and soul-twin Carly and I decided to leave the center and search for sodas in the medina. We managed to make it to a small shop, buy a Fanta and water, and get lost in the medina on the way back to the center. To say the medina is labyrinthine is an understatement. Most everything looks the same, and there are twists and turns and corridors and tunnels everywhere. We finally made it out.... a fun trip.
Now I'm sitting on the roof terrace of the CCCL, looking to the west to the Atlantic, to the north to the river, to the east and south to the city. The smells of dinner are wafting up from the stairwell, and my stomach is growling for couscous and lamb.
So far, I can't complain.
Salaam!
"Salaam aleikum". Peace be upon you.
All the SIT students attend classes at the CCCL, the Center for Cross-Cultural Learning, which is located in the medina (the centuries-old walled city) in Rabat. The CCCL is a 19th century Andalusian house, every inch covered with mosaics. I hope to bring my camera to the center sometime soon so I can take pictures and post them for you to feast your eyes.
We had a 1.5 hour intense Arabic course today, and learned to say hello, introduce ourselves, say where we're from, and that we're students. Four hours later, I can't remember any of it. (Ok, maybe a little bit). I'll do lots of studying tonight.
After our Arabic lesson and a "Safety and Security" talk, my new friend and soul-twin Carly and I decided to leave the center and search for sodas in the medina. We managed to make it to a small shop, buy a Fanta and water, and get lost in the medina on the way back to the center. To say the medina is labyrinthine is an understatement. Most everything looks the same, and there are twists and turns and corridors and tunnels everywhere. We finally made it out.... a fun trip.
Now I'm sitting on the roof terrace of the CCCL, looking to the west to the Atlantic, to the north to the river, to the east and south to the city. The smells of dinner are wafting up from the stairwell, and my stomach is growling for couscous and lamb.
So far, I can't complain.
Salaam!
"Salaam aleikum". Peace be upon you.
Hanging at the CCCL
Getting ready to go to my first "Intense Arabic" crash course.
Food is wonderful, views are grand. Sights and sounds and smells, oh my!
I can't wait to move in with my host family. Everything is a little too comfortable right now and I yearn for the excitement of not showering for a week, of public baths, Turkish toilets, and language barriers.
hopefully they'll come soon!
Food is wonderful, views are grand. Sights and sounds and smells, oh my!
I can't wait to move in with my host family. Everything is a little too comfortable right now and I yearn for the excitement of not showering for a week, of public baths, Turkish toilets, and language barriers.
hopefully they'll come soon!
Sunday, September 2, 2007
In Paris
After many hours of traveling, I'm finally in Paris.
Safe. And tired. But well fed by AirFrance.
Laptop battery is dying. More updates later.
Safe. And tired. But well fed by AirFrance.
Laptop battery is dying. More updates later.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
In New York
I'm sitting in JFK getting ready to board the plane to Paris.
I've already made "acquaintance/friends" and I'm very excited to be going.
I listened to chants today while I was waiting during my layover and I read Siddhartha. And then I felt better.
Not much more news now.... I've got butterflies and I really can't wait to see what happens next.
I've already made "acquaintance/friends" and I'm very excited to be going.
I listened to chants today while I was waiting during my layover and I read Siddhartha. And then I felt better.
Not much more news now.... I've got butterflies and I really can't wait to see what happens next.
Sitting in the Cincinnati Airport
*Big sigh*.
Thank goodness I'm sitting at the gate and getting ready to board.
This morning my mom and I got on the computer to check my flight. I was listed as a Delta "Non-Rev", which means I was trying to take advantage of my father's status as a Delta Retiree, and was trying to get to New York for free. Yesterday it looked like everything was going to work out perfectly.... but this morning, things had changed. Instead of having 15 open seats on the flight (which meant I would surely get on board), they flight was oversold by 3 seats = I wasn't going to New York.
We made feverish phone calls to the emergency line for Lyon Travel to let them know I wouldn't make my Air France flight to Paris this evening, and called my dad to see if he could do anything. God bless that man. He used his Delta connections to call Delta directly (Expedia had told me that all seats were sold and that I was going nowhere) and explain the emergency, and spent "a small fortune" to get me a seat on the plane. Thank you Dad!
So, after my father spent hundreds of dollars on a seat and pulled all the strings he could, I am sitting at gate B25 with a sense of ease. I'm going to Morocco!
My backpack is heavy, but not over the weight limit. It checked no problem. I was "chosen" by Delta to go through extra security screening, so I spent a good 20 minutes getting screened. (There was no one else there... so I didn't have to wait. That was nice). I like the air puff machine. :)
They're now boarding zone 1, which means zone 5 will be walking on board soon.
I've got happy butterflies in my stomach!
Hopefully I can post an update in New York. If not, I'll send messages from Paris or Rabat.
Thank goodness I'm sitting at the gate and getting ready to board.
This morning my mom and I got on the computer to check my flight. I was listed as a Delta "Non-Rev", which means I was trying to take advantage of my father's status as a Delta Retiree, and was trying to get to New York for free. Yesterday it looked like everything was going to work out perfectly.... but this morning, things had changed. Instead of having 15 open seats on the flight (which meant I would surely get on board), they flight was oversold by 3 seats = I wasn't going to New York.
We made feverish phone calls to the emergency line for Lyon Travel to let them know I wouldn't make my Air France flight to Paris this evening, and called my dad to see if he could do anything. God bless that man. He used his Delta connections to call Delta directly (Expedia had told me that all seats were sold and that I was going nowhere) and explain the emergency, and spent "a small fortune" to get me a seat on the plane. Thank you Dad!
So, after my father spent hundreds of dollars on a seat and pulled all the strings he could, I am sitting at gate B25 with a sense of ease. I'm going to Morocco!
My backpack is heavy, but not over the weight limit. It checked no problem. I was "chosen" by Delta to go through extra security screening, so I spent a good 20 minutes getting screened. (There was no one else there... so I didn't have to wait. That was nice). I like the air puff machine. :)
They're now boarding zone 1, which means zone 5 will be walking on board soon.
I've got happy butterflies in my stomach!
Hopefully I can post an update in New York. If not, I'll send messages from Paris or Rabat.
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