For the last month or two, the weather here seemed impervious to Earth's shifting axis. While most places I have lived shift into fall sometime in September or October, my new hometown of Meknes, Morocco weathered on as if Fall were a state of mind. Temperatures regularly approached 100 and I sweated every time I walked anywhere.
But then November came. On Sunday night, while sitting outside at a cafe with my friend, I found myself rubbing my arms to keep warm. That night, a thick fog, strangely out-of-place here in Morocco, settled over the city. And then during the night, I had to wrap myself tightly into my recently purchased wool blanket to escape the chill. The trend continued last night; it rained. And today while walking to lunch at noon, for the very first time in my Moroccan experience, a daytime breeze felt chilly.
The high temperature is still in the 80s, but it is declining fast. I have been told tales of miserable winters, damp and soggy in houses without heat. I keep telling myself it can't be that bad. After months of sunshine and sweat, it is hard to imagine this wonderful country giving me anything else.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Insha'allah, Part 3
After last week's couscous, Didouche and his family invited us to lunch again. In correct Moroccan fashion, I answered "Insha'allah" to the request.
Once again, God did will it. All of us American teachers met and headed over to Didouche's house.
Instead of couscous, this time we had rfissa. But even though the food changed slightly, the hospitality did not change a bit.
Once again, God did will it. All of us American teachers met and headed over to Didouche's house.
Instead of couscous, this time we had rfissa. But even though the food changed slightly, the hospitality did not change a bit.
Friday, October 30, 2009
What are you supposed to say to that?
The end of the month has arrived, which, among other things, means that Daniel and I got paid.
We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).
Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).
In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).
I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.
After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?
I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.
Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."
Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.
I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.
After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.
Then I paid and walked back home.
We decided to celebrate by going out and buying stuff. Stuff like trash cans and large glasses (I question whether Moroccans adequately hydrate based on the average size of glasses here).
Daniel and I were wandering around a store browsing the inventory and asking questions of the boy who was working there in our broken Darija. After a while, some of the other customers picked up on the fact that we were foreigners (not too hard) and that we spoke a little Arabic (a little harder).
In typical friendly Moroccan fashion, a middle-aged man approached us with his wife and started jabbering to us in Arabic. I could understand bits and pieces: he knew an American who knew Arabic and Berber really well and he wondered where we were from. I responded and gave my standard response about how Arabic is hard, but I'm learning little by little (the literal expression shwiya b shwiya is a great set phrase).
I nodded as he continued to talk about his American friends and how they met. I got the gist of it, but I didn't want to interrupt his flow to ask about every third word that I didn't fully understand.
After a minute or so Daniel's comprehension maxed out. So he wandered off. I continued standing there out of respect, continuing the conversation. We gradually exhausted topics like my work and his friends, and so he decided that it would be a good time to talk about himself. I figured that was fair enough. We had already talked about the basics of my existence, so why not move on to the basics of his?
I asked if he was from Meknes and what he did. He said he was from Meknes and that he used to be in the Army.
Then without changing his expression or tone, he told me, "But that was a long time ago. I spent 26 years in an Algerian prison."
Since his expression hadn't changed, I wasn't sure how to respond. My mind conjured up as best as possible what two and a half decades in an Algerian prison would be like. Words failed me. I said, "Ohhhh..." and kind of grimaced, nodding my head in the most sympathetic expression I could muster. The only thing I could think to ask was when he got out. "2003", he said. Hmmm, 26 out of the last 32 years as a military prisoner. I grimaced and nodded again.
I didn't have any clue of what the right thing to say was. No conversation transition seemed appropriate. We just kind of stood there for a while. I nodded my head as he talked about it a bit more, once again emotionless, without a single display of pain or suffering or any sort of appeal for sympathy.
After his narrative drew to a close, I shifted into the long Moroccan goodbye. He said that maybe we would see each other around. I said, "Insha'allah" and I told him that it was a pleasure meeting him.
Then I paid and walked back home.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Under the Weather
On Tuesday I was a little under the weather.
I have no idea what caused my illness, but I do know that I shuttled back and forth between my bed and the bathroom well over 20 times during the course of the day.
Experiences like that raise the strangest dilemmas and most profound questions. Is it better just to stay in the bathroom and wait? Should I try to find something a toilet substitute to keep in my room to save me the ever more taxing journey? They also raise architectural questions: why aren't bathrooms fitted with temporary beds? Not being able to do much else for the entire day left me plenty of time to contemplate these oft-ignored issues.
I was scheduled to teach at 6:30, and around 3 or 4 I had thought that I was feeling well enough to go into work. So I didn't phone in sick, but when 5:30 came around, the frequency of my bathroom commuting increased again. So I called my boss to let her know. She said she couldn't find a substitute and so asked me to teach. I dressed and headed in to do my real business.
When I arrived, she pulled me off to the side and said that she had found someone, and she complimented me on my appearance: "You look absolutely awful." I thanked her for her kind words and when her husband offered to drive me back home, I readily consented. We stopped at the local grocer, and he bought me some potatoes and lemons. Then he told me to add a bit of the lemon to water and gave me instructions on how to make a good potato soup.
Two days later, I am happy to report that now I am very much above the weather and back in the swing of things.
I have no idea what caused my illness, but I do know that I shuttled back and forth between my bed and the bathroom well over 20 times during the course of the day.
Experiences like that raise the strangest dilemmas and most profound questions. Is it better just to stay in the bathroom and wait? Should I try to find something a toilet substitute to keep in my room to save me the ever more taxing journey? They also raise architectural questions: why aren't bathrooms fitted with temporary beds? Not being able to do much else for the entire day left me plenty of time to contemplate these oft-ignored issues.
I was scheduled to teach at 6:30, and around 3 or 4 I had thought that I was feeling well enough to go into work. So I didn't phone in sick, but when 5:30 came around, the frequency of my bathroom commuting increased again. So I called my boss to let her know. She said she couldn't find a substitute and so asked me to teach. I dressed and headed in to do my real business.
When I arrived, she pulled me off to the side and said that she had found someone, and she complimented me on my appearance: "You look absolutely awful." I thanked her for her kind words and when her husband offered to drive me back home, I readily consented. We stopped at the local grocer, and he bought me some potatoes and lemons. Then he told me to add a bit of the lemon to water and gave me instructions on how to make a good potato soup.
Two days later, I am happy to report that now I am very much above the weather and back in the swing of things.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Catching a Game
My roommate Daniel is a huge soccer fan. He played in high school and college, and since then he has found it very useful for developing relationships in his time abroad in Brazil, Vietnam and France.
My experience has been similar. When I learned how to talk soccer, door after door began to be opened. I can't claim to be nearly as talented as Daniel or to possess his knowledge of the sport, but the desire is there.
So, last night, I readily consented when Daniel asked if I wanted to go to a cafe to watch the Barcelona - Zaragoza match on TV. We set out intending to look far and wide to find a cafe showing the game, but we didn't have to go any farther than the cafe on the corner of our street. In Morocco, the biggest soccer game of the year is the Real Madrid - Barcelona game, and almost every adult male is a rabid supporter of one of the two clubs. So most cafes show all the regular season games on their big screens.
I found the coverage of the game quite interesting. The commentary here is generally in Fusha, the modern standard form of Arabic. So if a Moroccan hasn't completed his education (as is the case with many Moroccans), he can't understand follow it as we might John Madden and Pat Summerall discussing American football.
What was even stranger was the halftime show. The main commentator spoke in Fusha, but the guest expert was actually Spanish. He responded to the questions in Spanish and his responses were dubbed over in Fusha. I have no idea if he was reading a translation of the questions or if he spoke Arabic or what. But it gave the halftime discussion a really strange dynamic, like a much more boring version of an old Jackie Chan movie.
Barcelona was up 4-1 late in the game when one of the Moroccans near us leaned over and struck up a conversation in English. His English was not perfect, but pretty good. We tried to say a few things in Arabic and French, but mostly we talked in English. The last twenty minutes of the game or so, we talked about soccer and Meknes and traveling (he claims that he is the only Moroccan ever crazy enough to travel to Algeria for a vacation; not only is it a dangerous place, it also has very poor relations with Morocco). He also mentioned a soccer league that he plays in around town; Daniel sounded very interested. As we left the cafe after the game (Barcelona won 6-1), we discovered that he lives in the building right next to us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he said that if we needed absolutely anything we should just let him know.
In the next few weeks, I think Daniel and I will be taking him up on his offer and asking more about that soccer league.
My experience has been similar. When I learned how to talk soccer, door after door began to be opened. I can't claim to be nearly as talented as Daniel or to possess his knowledge of the sport, but the desire is there.
So, last night, I readily consented when Daniel asked if I wanted to go to a cafe to watch the Barcelona - Zaragoza match on TV. We set out intending to look far and wide to find a cafe showing the game, but we didn't have to go any farther than the cafe on the corner of our street. In Morocco, the biggest soccer game of the year is the Real Madrid - Barcelona game, and almost every adult male is a rabid supporter of one of the two clubs. So most cafes show all the regular season games on their big screens.
I found the coverage of the game quite interesting. The commentary here is generally in Fusha, the modern standard form of Arabic. So if a Moroccan hasn't completed his education (as is the case with many Moroccans), he can't understand follow it as we might John Madden and Pat Summerall discussing American football.
What was even stranger was the halftime show. The main commentator spoke in Fusha, but the guest expert was actually Spanish. He responded to the questions in Spanish and his responses were dubbed over in Fusha. I have no idea if he was reading a translation of the questions or if he spoke Arabic or what. But it gave the halftime discussion a really strange dynamic, like a much more boring version of an old Jackie Chan movie.
Barcelona was up 4-1 late in the game when one of the Moroccans near us leaned over and struck up a conversation in English. His English was not perfect, but pretty good. We tried to say a few things in Arabic and French, but mostly we talked in English. The last twenty minutes of the game or so, we talked about soccer and Meknes and traveling (he claims that he is the only Moroccan ever crazy enough to travel to Algeria for a vacation; not only is it a dangerous place, it also has very poor relations with Morocco). He also mentioned a soccer league that he plays in around town; Daniel sounded very interested. As we left the cafe after the game (Barcelona won 6-1), we discovered that he lives in the building right next to us. In typical Moroccan hospitality, he said that if we needed absolutely anything we should just let him know.
In the next few weeks, I think Daniel and I will be taking him up on his offer and asking more about that soccer league.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Insha'allah, Part 2
I did indeed eat couscous with the handyman's family on Friday afternoon.
The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.
Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."
We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.
After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.
Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.
The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.
We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.
His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.
The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.
After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.
As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.
So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.
The two American girls and I waited around outside work for a while after our agreed upon meeting time, but Didouche, the handyman, finally arrived and we proceeded to walk to his house. First, he asked about my roommate Daniel, and I had to explain that Daniel had not finished preparing for his six hours worth of class on Friday evenings, so he wouldn't be coming.
Didouche is a Berber from the Sahara. Like many of his countrymen, he moved up north to one of the more populous cities. He's done quite well for himself all things considered. He married a woman from the area around Meknes, and they have three beautiful children. Based on the incessant friendly greetings he engaged in during our walk back to his house, I would conclude that he's well-known and well-respected in the community. I asked him how long he has been living in Meknes, and he told me, "Fifteen years, all in the same house."
We passed from Hamriya, where I work and live and where the new town founded in the French colonial period is centered, into a newer and more crowded residential area. The area might be considered subpar to most Westerners, but it has electricity, running water and paved roads.
After wandering through a maze of streets, we approached Didouche's house. He pointed it out, walking in and heading up the stairs. Following, we passed the nauseatingly stinky shared bathroom on the ground floor and ascended two cramped flights of stairs to his family's place. On the way up, we observed the other families' houses as the doors on each floor were open for the entire world to see, displaying well-made beds and tidy kitchens in a very cramped space.
Upon entering Didouche's floor, his wife greeted us in English and shook hands with us. The children approached us one by one, greeted us in Darija, and kissed us on the cheeks. To the right was a kitchen and a bedroom just barely visible on the other side and to the left was a tiny family room and another barely visible bedroom. Later Didouche explained that the girls sleep in that bedroom and the boys sleep on the couches in the main room.
The two couches were of the Moroccan style, each only five or six feet total. The other two sides of the room were taken up by the TV stand and by the walkway to the bedroom. So the family room was close to eight feet by eight feet.
We sat down and watched some TV on a nice plasma screen TV (one of the only luxuries I observed in the house) and occasionally tried to say nice things in Darija. Didouche was constantly teaching us new words and trying to joke around with us.
His wife brought out one giant bowl of couscous and set it on the table. Like my previous experiences eating couscous with Moroccans, we each received a spoon and began to dig in (quite literally), starting on the edges where it wasn't quite as hot. Didouche's wife rolled couscous balls and gave one to each of us in turn--a tradition I'm still not quite sure I understand.
The couscous is topped by carrots, pickles, chickpeas, and meat. The meat is usually hidden under the vegetables and so when it starts to appear after a few minutes of eating, the family will begin to toss the best morsels over to the side of the bowl of the guests. If you stop eating, the family will egg you on to continue. If you truly can't eat anymore, it is polite to say a few set phrases in Arabic such as "Praise be to God" or "May God replenish you". I lasted longer than the girls did, but eventually I had to throw my hands up in surrender to my small stomach and say the same.
After couscous, Didouche's wife brought out some Moroccan tea as the children cleaned up the table. Surprisingly, the boys helped out in the task. In most Moroccan families, the girls do all of the chores. We drank the tea and munched on some almonds, still attempting to joke around with our feeble Darija. Asking what things are called and trying to say them can really help carry a conversation when neither of you speak the other's language well enough to really discuss much of substance.
As we left the cramped confines of Didouche's house to walk back to work in the hot midday sun, they asked us if we would like to come back next Friday. After a meal like that, there's no way I could say no.
So in Arabic I said that I would love to, Insha'allah.
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