Hot Biscuits!

Without fail, as I stand on my balcony sizing up the day with a cup of tea or coffee in hand, a man walks by on the street below rolling his wooden cart and annoncing his presence to the neighborhood.  “Hot biscuits! Hot biscuits!” he shouts.  The man’s a tease—ok, maybe he isn’t, but the sound of whatever he is yelling in Arabic is nothing other than “hot biscuits” in English.  Imagine my excitement the first time I heard him yell “hot biscuits.”  I thought I had it made.  “Wonderful!” I thought. “Someone selling fresh baked goods first thing in the morning that will roll right up to the door of my building. Who could ask for more?”  Well, evidently I could.  It is at moments like that that I must remind myself that I live in an Arabic speaking country and that my biscuit man is not, in fact, roaming the streets shouting “hot biscuits!” every morning.  I still haven’t quite figured out what he is selling/collecting, but it sure ain’t hot biscuits.

Sana Saida! Happy New Year!

Happy 2009! 

In my small Rabat neighborhood 2009 didn’t exactly start with fireworks and the sounds of party horns.  Instead, when I stepped out on the balcony at midnight, lights were out and the only noise in the area seemed to be coming from the three other people in my apartment and the neighborhood cats.  (I did see a couple kids with New Year’s hats on earlier in the day though!)  Part of the reason for this may be that those who chose to celebrate the coming of a new year did so to usher in the year 1430 A.H.  The Islamic lunar calender tends to be 11 to 12 days shorter than the solar calender so the Islamic New Year varies from year to year.  In any case, Auld Lang Syne rang in 2009 for me.

Not to worry though—fun was had by all only a few weeks earlier during Eid al-Adha or Eid ul-Kabir as it is known across north Africa.  Eid ul-Kabir is also known as the “Festival of Sacrifice.”  I ventured back to Fez to spend the Eid with my host family so that I could experience the real deal—and did I ever.  The biggest component to Eid is the sacrificing of a sheep by every family with the financial means to purchase one.  Sheep are expensive which means that families start saving months in advance.  In the case of my host family, I had the pleasure (there are so many words that could go here) to witness the sacrifice of not one but two sheep.  (Family was visiting so one of the sheep was meant to belong to them.)  Until the butcher arrived and began sharpening his knives the two sheep had been residing quite peacefully in the hall closet.  Then came time for their short walk to the bathroom (yes, the same room where I used to take by bucket showers) where the butcher and my host father were waiting.  For those of you who are squeamish, vegetarians, and/or fans of sheep while they’re alive, I’ll spare you the gory details and just say that there was a lot of blood and that every last piece of the sheep was put to good use.  Although I did sample a few of the different things put in front of me, it will be a VERY long time (hopefully) before I eat sheep meat again.  

 

Couldn't quite bring myself to give dinner a name

 

Surf’s Up!

Because I don’t have enough excitement in my life already…

I am now officially a proud member of the Oudayas Surf Club.  Just minutes from my apartment, a quick walk along the coast takes me to a great surf club financed and patronized by Morocco’s very own King Mohammed VI.  Twice a week, decked out in my wetsuit with a board tucked under my arm, I hit the beach with my surf instructor Annan.  Although the waves haven’t exactly been huge lately, (Ok, so they’ve been a bit more like large ripples in the water) I’ve managed to catch several of them.  In any case, the surf lessons are a great way to get out in the water for some exercise, soak up some sun, and test my water-related French vocabulary.

As with everything in life—the numerous wipeouts make the waves I do catch that much sweeter.

Oudayas Surf Club

Life in the Big City

 

Although Fez will probably always have a special place in my heart, I have officially transitioned to life here in Rabat.  The initial experience of moving from Fez to Rabat was a bit like being catapulted back into the 21st century.  I felt like a girl from the country stepping out into the overwhelming big city.  Rabat really is a wonderful city with much to see and do, but it lacks the ancient and traditional feel of the Fez medina.

My first couple of days here in Rabat were consumed with furniture and necessity shopping.  My roommate and I had a very successful trip to a market that sells used and new furniture where, I am proud to say, I got us quite the deal on beds, bed frames, and dressers.  After buying the mattresses and other furniture we realized that the taxi in which we had traveled to the market could not also serve as a miniature moving van. (Picture a cab not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.)  The solution was to hire a young guy with a truck to transport our purchases and haul them up the 6 flights of stairs to our apartment. (I’ll admit, I didn’t tell him that we live near the top of the building and that the elevator is broken…) The tiny little truck piled high with two double mattresses, four wooden bed frames, two dressers, and the three of us crammed into the cab of the truck must have looked like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, but we made it back with limbs and furniture intact.

Since then, it has simply been a process of settling in and getting to know the neighborhood.  Although Rabat has a very large ex-pat community and plenty of people from the diplomatic crowd, we managed to find an area that does not make it feel as though we’re living at the UN.  Slowly but surely I’m getting to know some of the people in the area—or at least seeing some familiar faces and continuing to use some of the Moroccan Arabic I’ve been learning.

After a trip back to Fez to visit friends and my host family, I returned to Rabat intent on finding that same sense of “home” I had discovered during my time in Fez—but doing so with a hot shower and a Western toilet.

View of neighboring Salé from Rabat

Moroccan Linguistics

In addition to daily classes in Moroccan Arabic, we occasionally have a lecture or two in the afternoon during the week.  The topics have covered everything from the history of Fez to researching in Morocco to gender perceptions in both Morocco and Islam.  The last lecture focused on the urban dialects found throughout the country.  Considering my limited knowledge of Moroccan Arabic, I was not anticipating that I would get much from the lecture.  I’m usually quite pleased when I manage to get out a complete sentence before the moment passes let alone recognize differences in the pronunciation of a particular urban vernacular.  However, both the lecture and the professor giving it turned out to be extremely interesting. 

Morocco’s language situation is unique in that the language used on a daily basis is not an official codified language. Moroccan Arabic is actually a blend of many languages and varies slightly based on the region and the historical influences of that particular region.  Classical Arabic is the official language of Morocco and came to this country in the middle of the 7^th century when the Arabs brought Islam to the west.  Since the mid 19^th century, both the French and the Spanish have pursued interests throughout Morocco resulting in the extensive use of both French and Spanish in various regions.  Spanish is fairly prominent in the north (particularly around the port city of Tangiers, which is only 7 miles from the southern coast of Spain) and in the northeast where the Spanish continue to run to cities on the Moroccan coast.  Along with Classical Arabic, French is the official language of the government and spoken as a second language by a large number of Moroccans.  (That’s how I manage to get around in Rabat!)  In addition to the mélange of Classical Arabic, French, Spanish, Hebrew, and a sprinkling of root words left behind by various other visitors to Morocco over the years there are the three tAmazaree dialects of the native “Moroccans” who have been here for approximately 4,000 years or so.  Also known as the Berbers (a name given to them by the Greeks millennia ago), the language of the Amazarees is also central to the evolution of Moroccan Arabic.

Needless to say, Moroccan Arabic is slightly complicated.  The lecturer went on to give examples of how several of the basic words we’ve learned so far are indicative of our being here in Fez and how Moroccans from other regions often have words for the same action or object that are completely different.  Fortunately, Fassi Moroccan Arabic is kind of a standard urban dialect understood by most of the country. Phew. This place is every linguists’ Everest.

Retail Therapy

I’ve discovered two essentials for successfully transitioning from one day to the next here in Morocco—a sense of humor and taking pleasure in the most minute and quotidian activities.  Sometimes it’s the sunny skies that carry me through the day. Occasionally it’s a positive day in the classroom.  One thing that’s sure to give a rough day (week, hour, etc.) a jumpstart is successfully interacting with a Moroccan in Arabic.  Walking home through the Mela (the old Jewish quarter not far from the original Fez medina) yesterday I successfully purchased a new pair of headphones.  As trivial and simple as this may seem, it was a big deal.  I happened to pass a small Hanoot selling electronics and decided to stop and try my hand at bargaining for some headphones. (Mine broke, which denied me another essential—music therapy.)  As usual, I was approached by a young guy eager to chat. He was slightly taken aback by my responding in his own language and broke into an even larger grin than he already had plastered on his face when he found out my name is the feminine form of his own—Kareem. (I go by Kareema here.)  With a couple of quick words to the young guy who appeared from down the street to make the sale, I was guaranteed a decent price for the headphones.  Oftentimes, buying things here can be extremely frustrating simply because my European and American-like features seem to come with a dollar or euro sign stamped in the middle of my forehead.  Prices are usually inflated at least three or four times for non-Moroccans. This made my $4 headphones quite the bargain.

The King and I

Things here in Fez are slowly wrapping up.  I’m starting to make my transition to Rabat.  After having been here in Fez for well over a month I’ve grown accustomed to the traditional ways of the medina (i.e. the Turkish toilet, infrequent showers [if you still consider scooping water from a bucket and dumping it on my head a shower], donkeys hauling goods down the street, the winding alleyways, and the limitless creativity of catcalls and comments from the Moroccan men I pass in the street).  A short visit to Rabat to check out an apartment was truly a wake-up call that life in the capital city will not come with quite as much rustic “charm” as I’ve experienced here in Fez.  My new apartment was quite a find. The walls and floors are covered in traditional Moroccan mosaic designs and, except for my room, the place is furnished.  The roof and balcony both have wonderful ocean views and I can hear the waves crash against the rock walls from my room.  My understanding is that beachfront property here in Morocco is not nearly as coveted as it is in the U.S. and Europe.  I’ve been told that this is largely due to the number of sea invasions Morocco experience throughout its history.  Whether this mindset still applies with the majority of people today, I couldn’t say. 

My visit to Rabat this weekend was for just over 24 hours but, as seems to usually be the case here in Morocco, it was filled with adventure.  Trying to leave the train station in Rabat turned out to be a challenge because the police and security services had the surrounding area and roads closed to cars and people.  Turns out this was all due to the fact that King Mohamed VI was out and about.  The streets were lined with people waving Moroccan flags wanting to wave to their king on his way back from opening the next session of Parliament.  I ended up being in the right place at the right time because I just happened to be near where the King’s motorcade turned towards the palace when he and his menacing security detail (all of them perched precariously in convertibles) drove by.  After greeting the king (from a distance) my friends and I made our way through the throng of people only to see a group of about thirty or forty little boys start what looked like either a celebration or protest at one of the outlets of a major intersection.  These boys, who couldn’t have been a day over 10 or 11, sat or lay down in front of cars while singing and chanting.  People passing by laughed and continued on their way.  A few police in the area finally came over to chase the boys away but it took a while.  I haven’t a clue what they were shouting, but it was quite a sight. 

Meanwhile, here in Fez I’ve been informed that we will be without water for 3 days or so.  Something about dead cows due to flooding…

View from my new balcony in Rabat

 

Shweea b Shweea (little by little)

Arabic lessons are slowly progressing.  I’m discovering it to be a difficult language simply because many of the sounds they regularly use to produce words are not in my repertoire.  Contracting my vocal chords in the middle of a word and making a sound like I’m trying to spit is not an easy thing to master.  Nevertheless, I am slowly advancing.  I can’t believe how much I’ve learned after only a week and a half of class.  Living with a family that speaks no English and limited French has forced me to learn quickly.  

The language center where I’m taking classes is great.  I’m in a class for beginners with four other Fulbrighters.  Having such a small class is very beneficial.  I like the practical aspect of learning a language out of necessity.  The language portion of my brain is certainly getting a workout because I’m doing a lot of hopping around from Arabic, French, and English.  My host brother Mohamed is starting German classes at school so I’ve even been using a little of my German. 

Jellabah Shopping

Life in Fez continues to present new adventures.  Jellabah shopping with my host mother and a couple Fulbright friends on Saturday turned into quite a spectacle…

Jellabahs are the traditional dress that women wear here in Morocco.  They come in a variety of colors and patterns.  Most have some kind of fancy trim around the sleeves, collar, and down the front.  Those that are slightly more understated are considered appropriate for everyday wear.

Back to the shopping trip…We walked to an area not too far from the medina and ended up on a street that looked as though it had to be jellabah central.  The problem with buying anything here is that everyone sees us and assumes we’re tourists with plenty of money to spend on souvenirs. Having my host mother along helped some but most shopkeepers were asking exorbitant prices.  There was one shop that Mamam Aiassia led us away from immediately because the guy asked too much…little did we know, he had asked for about triple the price of a normal jellabah.  She was disgusted. Walking back past his shop, he said something to my host mother and she got VERY upset with him.  We ended up standing in the middle of this very crowded street as my host mother and this jellabah man yelled and wagged their fingers at one another.  A crowd gathered around the fighting and the police ended up coming.  Mamam, the shopkeeper, and the three of us Fulbright girls were escorted by the policeman down an alley to resolve the dispute.  All I could think of was how we were told at every orientation to avoid Moroccan prison at all costs!  After more yelling and some brief mediation by the police, we were able to push our way back through the crowd (many had followed us into the alley to watch the rest of the argument) and make our way down the street.  After a few more stops, we ended up coming home without jellabahs.  Evidently yesterday was not meant to be a Jellabah buying day.

L’Aaila (The Family)

I’m now living in the heart of the 1200 year-old city of Fes with a wonderful Moroccan family.  It’s an adventure–to say the least.  To get to my house, I wander through the narrow winding streets of the medina.  Not paying attention can easily lead to being run over by a donkey or a man maneuvering a cart that won’t stop if you get in its way.

Living with a Moroccan family is a great way to get to know the people and the culture.  Although we can’t always communicate very well, (they speak very little French and I speak very little Arabic) I’m enjoying seeing life in Morocco from the inside out.  Because I’m in class all day, I spend most of my time with them during meals.  It’s Ramadan so the first meal begins at about 6:30pm.  My host mother is a truly wonderful cook.  This is the only way to really get to know the joys of Moroccan cooking.  The problem is that they’re not particularly pleased by my size.  At just about every meal the family tells me I’m too thin and that, as a result, I will never find a husband.  Not to worry though; they’ve made it their goal to make me “beautiful” (i.e. much larger) by the time I leave.  This is a painful process for me.  Most Americans have experienced the sensation of being “stuffed” after a big meal or eating more than necessary (Thanksgiving, anyone?).  I think my few days here in Morocco have taken me past that feeling several times.  It hurts.  I’ve run out of ways to explain that I’m full.  I have quickly learned many a Moroccan phrase to explain that I’ve had enough (most of which involve Allah) but they simply don’t work.  The mother will literally pick up food off of the communal platter and hold it to my mouth until I take it.  The one time I leaned away they were NOT happy.  As a result, the mom stuffed a huge piece of bread with sausages (I don’t even eat these in the US let alone in Morocco) and a bunch of other stuff and made me eat it.  This generally gets repeated again at 1am when we have our second meal.  I made it to the third meal only once (3:30am).  In short, I’m getting plenty to eat.

Outside of mealtime, the family is great.  I have a younger sister named Miriam -age 8- and a brother named Mohamed (13).