It is my first full day back from excursion, and the routine reality of Rabat is setting in hard. Tomorrow brings class, homework, responsibilities, and the experiences of the past week remain only in memories and pictures. Thus is the nature of the post-vacation funk when you realize that your time is no longer free. It is universal and inescapable; I know you have all felt it.
But do not despair. I sit here and evaluate, take stock of my situation, and realize all the things I am thankful for. I think about what is to come, of all the vacations and experiences that exist only in a calendar or the imagination. In my opinion, one of the best ways to deal with days that feel boring or routine or downright shitty is to look forward to things in the future with great anticipation. Hopes, dreams, and happy thoughts of things yet to come; these can never be taken away from us and they are always there to provide solace and comfort.
So with that in mind, let me go over some of the highlights of the past week’s trip in chronological order. There were many, and I know I will never forget this excursion as long as I live.
We left town early on Saturday, February 20th and headed south. Our vehicle: a 17 seat Mercedes-Benz tourist van. Its contents: 10 people (8 students plus RD and the driver, Simohamed), their luggage, and enough bottled water and toilet paper to last a week. This left a good amount of space for us to spread out, though getting comfortable was always a bit of a struggle. The first couple of days we had a tupperware full of Farida’s cake to smooth out any kinks in the journey.
The drive to Marrakesh was about 4 hours and pretty unremarkable (besides the fact that we were in Morocco). We passed Casablanca, some small towns, some green fields, and soon the pinkish-red buildings characteristic of (as in mandated by) Marrakesh began to appear. We ate lunch at the hotel after checking in. It was standard hotel fare besides the tasty cinnamon-sprinkled orange salad dessert. After a brief siesta we went out to explore the city.
We were encouraged to check out the many attractions by the fact that we were promised reimbursement of admission prices for all museums, palaces, etc. upon return to Rabat. With trusty, but at times confusing (because of their small size), Lonely Planet maps in hand, we took in the Koutoubia Mosque, the biggest mosque in the city.
Then with a bit of searching we found the Sa’adian Tombs, the final resting place of a sultan of that dynasty. This guy went all out on his tomb, using Italian marble and gold, and it was worth seeing. His mother also got a pretty nice final resting place. After the tombs we went to the Bahia palace. With elaborately painted wood-carved ceilings and intricate tilework, it was certainly beautiful. But each room looked the same to me, and, as Aura pointed out, the fact that it was unfurnished made it less remarkable than it could have been. I know I sound jaded; it was more work for the visitor’s imagination I guess, which is not always a bad thing.
We finally wound our way to Djemaa El-fna, the city’s main square and most famous attraction. It is an exciting and hectic place that is guaranteed to get your heart pumping faster. Tons of people milling about, tourists and locals alike, soaking in the action and enjoying the sights. We had to duck away from cobra snake-charmers who tried to put snakes around our necks (at least they enjoyed it, and we did after the fact). We tried this amazing spiced and slightly spicy cider/tea/chai hot beverage, small glasses for 2 dirhams. Cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and probably a score of other spices made it indescribably delicious. There are tons of numbered dining carts that set up shop each evening at sunset and intensely advertise their food with every tactic in the book. I saw circles around musicians and huddles of men listening intently to storytellers weaving (presumably lewd and crude) yarns, part of the street theater acts. I drank my weight in fresh orange juice and wandered through some of the souqs and markets surrounding the square. It was an unforgettable place.
We returned later for dinner, though we chose a sit-down place just off the square. Fadoua informed us that we each had 80 dh at our disposal, and with that in mind we let rumbling stomachs choose for us. Nearly everyone got two plates and a drink, and we chowed down with a vengeance. I had the spiced and intensely flavorful tanjia marrakeshia, a local delicacy, accompanied by a ¼ rotisserie chicken and fries and topped off with a café au lait. It was an incredible meal. Unfortunately rain shut down Djemaa El-fna and spoiled any other plans for the evening. The verdict on Marrakesh (slightly soured by the rain): plenty of historical sights, plenty of tourists; its worth seeing if only for the square, but it’s far from my favorite place in Morocco. It makes me a little sad that some tourists only see a place like that when the country has so much else to offer.
Sunday the 21st was a long day in the van, but I still preferred it to Saturday. We left at 8 and headed southeast. The scenery began changing pretty quickly, and soon we were rewarded with beautiful mountain panoramas out of every window. I was not prepared for the grandeur of the high Atlas mountains, and that made it all the more stunning. Some people were sleeping, but I could not take my eyes off of the landscape. The hills became mountains, and the mountains soon became snowy peaks. We crossed over the tizi n’tichka pass at 2,260 meters and stopped for some breathtaking scenery. A little later we enjoyed a picnic lunch (at a restaurant) of bread with tuna, cheese, pb & j, nutella, and chips. It was deliciously plain fare.
The descent out of the mountains went pretty quickly. The road was winding, switchback, at times hairpin, and always narrow, and I held my breath on more than one occasion as we rounded a corner or passed another vehicle. But we made it down safely, and I knew that Simohamed was always in control. It reminded me of the mountainous roads we took in Costa Rica, where you are liable to get passed by a local going uphill around a corner if you are not driving fast enough for their liking (which is never fast enough). People who say driving in Boston is scary have no idea what they are talking about.
A refreshing stop to frolic and smell the almond tree blossoms rejuvenated everyone. We continued on, passing through Ouarzazate, aka Ouallywood. We did not stop, and I was fine with that. It seemed like a place trying too hard to become something it is not, though the King and his development plans are sure working hard. (Correction from a previous entry: Black Hawk Down was filmed in Rabat, not Ouallywood.)
Then we continued southeast towards Zagora, entering what I shall call the cubist realm. The rocks and the landscape between Ouarzazate and the Draa valley were bursting with right angles. It was incredible to look at, a cubist’s version of Mars. The cubes slowly faded, and we crossed into the Draa Valley, the homestretch to Zagora. It is lined on both sides with beautiful rocky hills. The left side reminded me more of the walls of the Grand Canyon, with distinct layers of rock and majestic slopes. The right side was more rounded foothills and seemed less inviting to me. Down the middle runs a wide swath of date palms that is the main source of the livelihood of the people who live there. It is lush and green and very inviting, fed by an old and extensive system of irrigation.
Finally we reached our destination, the ‘gateway to the desert,’ and checked in to our very decorated and gaudy hotel, Kasbah Asmae. After a stroll around town and a coffee, we enjoyed dinner in an open-sided tent in the courtyard. It was very tasty, a lamb tagine with salad and fruit for dessert. Afterwards I led the expedition to the Kasbah Sirocco, described in the Lonely Planet guide as having a “subterranean stone cave bar,” which I was very excited to enjoy after a long day of driving. However, and to my great disappointment, the bar has recently been converted to a parking garage. This was only the second time Lonely Planet let me down during the trip. The other time was in Marrakesh, when we could not find the ‘special coke’ (cheap red wine in coke bottles sold in Djemaa El-fna) they described. Fadoua says that a government crackdown probably made that specialty unavailable. I have to write them an email so they update these two things in the next edition (otherwise Lonely Planet has been a very faithful and informative companion, thank you Mommy dearest!). But we enjoyed Sirocco’s bar nonetheless, though we were forced to sit by the pool instead. Good memories and just a generally good vibe from Zagora.
Monday was the best day all around that I have had in a long time. In the morning turbans were purchased by all; it would not have been a proper desert experience without one. Picture 8 turban-clad Americans going around with Hassan, our Berber guide. He was dressed to impress: brown leather shoes, a 2 piece tailored suit of cloth reminiscent of West Africa, an emerald green grand boubou with wide open sides, and a pale blue turban perched with extra swaths of cloth that seemed to be a part of him. Oh, and he also has an iPhone, though Fadoua said it was a fake one. First he took us through a Kasbah which was inhabited by Jewish people until 1963ish, when they all went to Israel or elsewhere. It was either in Zagora or close by, I don’t remember exactly. We went into the old Synagogue, which is now a dusty and somewhat creepy place.
Then Hassan led us to a silver smithing house. It used to be the Jews who made the silver in this area, but in their absence other people have taken over the trade. We watched two guys make silver pieces literally in front of our eyes in only 10 minutes or so, it was amazing. They were pushing around red hot coals with short metal pokers and at times bare hands (like thick leather I’m sure). They make the molds with only two loops of metal and 2 cakes of mud, which consists of water and the dirt inside the compound. Perhaps the dirt is imported, or perhaps it is naturally useful, I am not sure. Then the molds were sealed with fresh mud and we watched as they poured molten silver from a red hot cup (of iron, perhaps?) that had been sitting among the coals. In barely a minute or two the mold was opened and there were five small hands of Fatima, connected like branches of a tree. They have to be polished and carved later, but the raw formation stage is very quick and very cool to watch. After a session of jewelry buying and bargaining in their shop, we headed back to the van.
It was time for the real desert fun to begin, and what is the most important thing you need in the desert (after a turban of course)? A safari jeep of course! Two old white land rovers to be exact, hunking solid machines with minimal comfort and maximal utility. We took them to the village of Bono, about an hour or more from Zagora. There we stopped for lunch with the Sheiyk (chief) of a semi-nomadic tribe. He welcomed us into his house with big two handed-shakes and a plain but tasty meal of salad, lentils, beans, and fruit. He served all the food, with the help of another younger man, and he made us tea afterwards too (strong, very sweet tea, no mint, flavored with a powdered root whose name I forget; not my favorite tea). Then, with Fadoua translating, we had a little discussion with the chief, whose name I also forget.
Okay so it was more of a question and answer session, but it was very interesting to hear about his life and his responsibilities as the leader of this tribe. Being old and respected he lives in the village, but as far as I know most of the younger members of the tribe are out living with the animals. He has two wives and 7 children; 2 girls and 5 boys, of which two are away at school while three are out being nomadic. His tribe keeps goats and sheep, but their main source of livelihood is their camels. They also grow crops for subsistence, including wheat, beans, etc. We talked about his relationship with the country’s government. He says they do not pay taxes, and it does not seem like they get many services or benefits from the government. He says when they get stressed, either from life or from the government, they go camp out in the desert with their camels to sing, dance, eat, and just get away from life. It was very amazing to get a small glimpse of this man’s life and to see how he lives in this day and age. Here we are as American tourists (and students) on vacation in the desert for a day, and we are doing the same thing that he does to get away. We have to do a paper on a site of memory for history class (the site can be anything), and I think I might write about this chief and our time in his house. I will let you know.
After lunch, it was finally time to head to the desert proper. The landscape began to get sandier and drier. We saw triangular patterns of brush or straw fences along the sides of the road in the sand, which are apparently to keep the sand in place and counter desertification. We soon turned off the pavement, and then the fun started. Whipping over bumpy terrain, with rocks and dust flying we made our way across the barren landscape. The driver was having a lot of fun, and we were too. We went over and around dunes, skidding through corners like we were in rally cars. After about 20 minutes or so we came to the camp. It is a ring of semi-permanent tents, plus one larger dining tent, a toilet and shower tent, and a couple of other tents for the guides and workers. It was basically a desert hotel of sorts, though, along with a French family of 6, we were the only guests.
Immediately it was off for some dune fun, including jumping and sliding down the sides of small hills of sand. It was the Sahara desert as you might imagine it, dunes as far as you could see. I was surprised by the many scrubby pine-ish tree, and also a few other plant species. There is life in the desert of course (there is life everywhere).
Then we played toss with the Frisbee that I brought (thank you Stiglitz, where ever you are). It was the first time I have played on this trip, actually the first time I have played in way too long. After that came tea and peanuts before our camel ride. Unfortunately the cyber café is closing down so I will be back in a day or two with the rest of the desert and then our trip north, to Rissani, Fez, chefchaouen, and finally home. Geez this is going to be a lot of writing, I hope you all can bear with me. Oh on the way home I finished reading Brave New World, which is a must read for everyone. And some of the stuff that Huxley describes seems all too real in these days of genetic engineering and industrial global capitalism.
I miss everyone, and I hope all is well, especially with the recent storm in the northeast. Boxford is still without power as of an hour ago, and I haven’t heard from my Mom in a couple of days. Maybe Ipswich is too. Hope everyone is safe and happy. Back to the grindstone here in Rabat, but I do get to see my lovely Jill within the next couple of weeks, inchallah. The prospect makes me glow inside. Love and hugs.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Tricks, trips, and tables
Once again, father time (why not mother? father time, mother earth, hmm) is up to no good. He is playing his mind tricks on me. Saturday marks the beginning of the 2010 BU Rabat excursion, a weeklong whirlwind tour of Morocco with the eight of us, plus our lovely RD Fadoua. I am very much excited, and I am looking forward to this trip with great pleasure and anticipation. Which of course means this week has felt like the longest one since we arrived; thus it is the case with time and how it seems to slow down when we look forward to something. Of course the opposite is true as well. When that deadline or dreaded day looms on the horizon, it seems to zoom towards us as if propelled through time fueled by our own displeasure.
We had an Excursion (I feel obligated to capitalize it) orientation yesterday, so now I can tell everyone where I will be for the next week:
1. First we head south to Marrakesh for one night, where we will see museums, shops, and the Jamma Lafna square with its live theater and dance performances.
2. Then we head southeast, stopping through Ouarzazate (the Moroccan ‘hollywood’ where films like Babel, Black Hawk Down, and others have been filmed) for lunch, to Zagora, known as the “gateway of the Sahara.” One night there, also lunch with a local nomadic Chief.
3. Then to Erg Lihoudi, the real desert I am told, for dunes, camel rides, turbans, and a night in tents after a fireside music performance (Gnawa I believe).
4. To Khoub, a town with 40 or 50 kasbahs (castles), for lunch, and then northeast to Rissani for one night on the way north to…
5. two nights in Fez! Complete with a tour of the oldest and most intact Arab medina (old city), seeing one of the oldest universities in the world, and a visit to a battered women’s association and shelter.
6. Then to the Roman ruins at Volubilis (known here as Walylee), after that lunch at Moulay Idriss.
7. North again to Chefchaouen, a small, lush, mountainous city with hippie-inclinations and good sights and hiking.
8. Finally on the road home, south to Rabat with a stop in Ouazazane for lunch on the way.
7 days, 7 nights, including 3 in the dessert, many miles and many pictures. I will let you all know how it goes!
Ok now some more assorted thoughts that I have been meaning to elaborate on.
Oh the Moroccan tea, it warms my soul, it lubricates my joints, it calms my belly, it enlivens my senses. I will miss it when I leave this wonderful place. Farida has already promised to buy me a small silver teapot to take back home with me, so I will have to buy a supply of tea to go with it. I have been instructed in its preparation too, though I do still need to practice.
Normally labelled Moroccan mint tea (they serve ‘Moroccan Mint Tea’ at Mike and Patty’s, for example), there are in fact many ways to serve it. Farida likes mint tea for the summer; she prefers it in the winter with an herb she calls ‘sheeba,’ the name of which I don’t know. I will get a picture or a translation I promise. She has also served tea infused with a mélange of herbs, which included sage, mint, oregano (I think, maybe thyme), and a couple of others. That might be my favorite so far, though the Moroccan mint tea is famous for a reason.
Tables: you miss them when you don’t have them. Some people love to spread out on their beds with books, computer, and papers. This is not for me. Even when I want to read a book for pleasure, I unconsciously tend to sit at a desk or table. If I am reading in my bed, it is usually late at night as I am drifting off. Just me, my book, and my thoughts.
But for homework, I really need a desk or a table to spread out. Everything is in front of me, I am sitting with a straight back, and I am comfortable. Not comfortable in the sense of stretching out in the horizontal direction, but comfortably uncomfortable. Hence the difficulty of getting quality study time accomplished while in my room here. But I have plenty of tables available to me at the center, and the library annex, and I have also commandeered the kitchen table at home on several occasions.
Rachid works hard to support his family. 6 days a week he is at Best Wishes for 8 hours, a popular pizza joint downtown (which I regret to say I have not eaten at yet, though I have tasted his homemade pizza: benin! ledied! Which means tasty in Darija and fus’ha), and three of those days he comes home at 11. Then on the side he works at weddings, which are often late night affairs in Morocco. He is usually home by 4 or 5 am (though he does not work the whole time). The weddings are maybe every other week, though more often in the summer because of increased demand. Anyway, the point is he works hard, harder than I do in many ways. It makes me feel silly complaining about pretty much anything when I see him come home from work sometimes because he looks so tired.
There is a group of students from the School for International Training, and when I say group I mean 55. Yeah. They arrived about 2 weeks after us, and lets just say the Medina got a little more crowded. But I cant act like I own the place, because I don’t. Its just easy to feel entitled when there are only 8 american students as opposed to 63.
Still no Casablanca update yet, sorry. The cyber café is closing down, perhaps I will get to it tomorrow. My friend Alex described it as “post-apocalyptic Miami.” I wouldn’t go that far, but I think she is correct in a way. I’ll let you marinate on that until I get around to writing my own description.
I love you all, and I will be thinking of you over the next week or so.
We had an Excursion (I feel obligated to capitalize it) orientation yesterday, so now I can tell everyone where I will be for the next week:
1. First we head south to Marrakesh for one night, where we will see museums, shops, and the Jamma Lafna square with its live theater and dance performances.
2. Then we head southeast, stopping through Ouarzazate (the Moroccan ‘hollywood’ where films like Babel, Black Hawk Down, and others have been filmed) for lunch, to Zagora, known as the “gateway of the Sahara.” One night there, also lunch with a local nomadic Chief.
3. Then to Erg Lihoudi, the real desert I am told, for dunes, camel rides, turbans, and a night in tents after a fireside music performance (Gnawa I believe).
4. To Khoub, a town with 40 or 50 kasbahs (castles), for lunch, and then northeast to Rissani for one night on the way north to…
5. two nights in Fez! Complete with a tour of the oldest and most intact Arab medina (old city), seeing one of the oldest universities in the world, and a visit to a battered women’s association and shelter.
6. Then to the Roman ruins at Volubilis (known here as Walylee), after that lunch at Moulay Idriss.
7. North again to Chefchaouen, a small, lush, mountainous city with hippie-inclinations and good sights and hiking.
8. Finally on the road home, south to Rabat with a stop in Ouazazane for lunch on the way.
7 days, 7 nights, including 3 in the dessert, many miles and many pictures. I will let you all know how it goes!
Ok now some more assorted thoughts that I have been meaning to elaborate on.
Oh the Moroccan tea, it warms my soul, it lubricates my joints, it calms my belly, it enlivens my senses. I will miss it when I leave this wonderful place. Farida has already promised to buy me a small silver teapot to take back home with me, so I will have to buy a supply of tea to go with it. I have been instructed in its preparation too, though I do still need to practice.
Normally labelled Moroccan mint tea (they serve ‘Moroccan Mint Tea’ at Mike and Patty’s, for example), there are in fact many ways to serve it. Farida likes mint tea for the summer; she prefers it in the winter with an herb she calls ‘sheeba,’ the name of which I don’t know. I will get a picture or a translation I promise. She has also served tea infused with a mélange of herbs, which included sage, mint, oregano (I think, maybe thyme), and a couple of others. That might be my favorite so far, though the Moroccan mint tea is famous for a reason.
Tables: you miss them when you don’t have them. Some people love to spread out on their beds with books, computer, and papers. This is not for me. Even when I want to read a book for pleasure, I unconsciously tend to sit at a desk or table. If I am reading in my bed, it is usually late at night as I am drifting off. Just me, my book, and my thoughts.
But for homework, I really need a desk or a table to spread out. Everything is in front of me, I am sitting with a straight back, and I am comfortable. Not comfortable in the sense of stretching out in the horizontal direction, but comfortably uncomfortable. Hence the difficulty of getting quality study time accomplished while in my room here. But I have plenty of tables available to me at the center, and the library annex, and I have also commandeered the kitchen table at home on several occasions.
Rachid works hard to support his family. 6 days a week he is at Best Wishes for 8 hours, a popular pizza joint downtown (which I regret to say I have not eaten at yet, though I have tasted his homemade pizza: benin! ledied! Which means tasty in Darija and fus’ha), and three of those days he comes home at 11. Then on the side he works at weddings, which are often late night affairs in Morocco. He is usually home by 4 or 5 am (though he does not work the whole time). The weddings are maybe every other week, though more often in the summer because of increased demand. Anyway, the point is he works hard, harder than I do in many ways. It makes me feel silly complaining about pretty much anything when I see him come home from work sometimes because he looks so tired.
There is a group of students from the School for International Training, and when I say group I mean 55. Yeah. They arrived about 2 weeks after us, and lets just say the Medina got a little more crowded. But I cant act like I own the place, because I don’t. Its just easy to feel entitled when there are only 8 american students as opposed to 63.
Still no Casablanca update yet, sorry. The cyber café is closing down, perhaps I will get to it tomorrow. My friend Alex described it as “post-apocalyptic Miami.” I wouldn’t go that far, but I think she is correct in a way. I’ll let you marinate on that until I get around to writing my own description.
I love you all, and I will be thinking of you over the next week or so.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
my life, a 'hands-on' approach
People eat lots of different things. I love eating raw fish paired with a ball of rice that has been seasoned with vinegar and sugar. Others love to suck the marrow out of animal bones after eating the flesh around them. Still others enjoy a soup made from an aged preserved bird’s nest, while someone else might eat a worm that has been pickling in the bottom of a bottle of tequila. How about scorpions, lard, dog meat, …you get the point.
People also have many ways to eat those things they enjoy. Some use shaped bits of minerals to transfer food into their mouths, others little sticks. Some use no utensils and only one hand to eat, while some might prefer to drink their food. Here in Morocco, using metal utensils to eat is quite normal. But forks and knives have not eclipsed the triumvirate + bread method, or that of thumb, forefinger, and middle finger aided by a morsel of bread. I hope that this method never dies out, nor do I think it is in danger of doing so. I really enjoy eating in this manner, and it is something I want to bring back to my American life. I might just be saying that now because I am in Morocco, but I think from now on I will eat more with my hands. (I don’t like to say I am going to do something without following through on it, though I know I am guilty of this, as you probably are too, from time to time.)
At home here we generally use our hands to eat from the main communal dish. Salad is served from a large bowl onto small individual plates, or rather, usually one plate for me and one for everyone else, and we eat it with tiny spoons. Their size matches the diced morsels of tomato, onion, cucumber, and lettuce that usually make up the salad. This is how it is done. For example, when I prepared the salad one day the size of my lettuce shreds caused a chuckle. I tried to explain that chez moi we usually serve the lettuce in bite sized chunks, but this did not fly. The size of the salad morsels here make them rather difficult to eat with one’s hands; maybe next time I will suggest cutting the veggies in bigger pieces so they are compatible with the triumvirate + bread method (and thus less prep work for the cook). Perhaps this style of salad is residual from the colonial period. How to phrase that question in Arabic…? I am not quite there yet.
Speaking of hands and their proximity to food, I would like to spend a few minutes pointing out some observations I have made concerning Moroccan habits and customs. Some are critiques, but I don’t mean to be critical in an offensive or orientalist way. It is much easier to point out the idiosyncrasies of a society when one is an outsider. It is also very easy to assume the point of view that the way we do things at home is the only way to do it, which is far from accurate. I would love to read a Moroccan’s observations of life in the US and whatever critiques they might come up with. That said, with the risk of offending or seeming like the American assuming a superior attitude that I would like to avoid, here we go:
-hygiene and cleanliness: handwashing is not a common habit when food preparation is involved, nor do I always observe my family washing their hands before we eat from the communal plate. Think about that in light of the Islamic cultural norm of eating with your right hand because left hands are reserved for other business, and you see the contradictions emerging. Also cow hoofs and goat hoofs are commonly available in the markets, and I am told they are a specialty (Aura was welcomed for her first meal at home with hoof, mmm). But I think about that as a delicacy in light of the other cultural taboo of eating pig because it is a dirty animal. Hmm, feet strike me as some of the dirtiest parts of any animal, but that may just be me.
-Motor bikes: people buzzing around the Medina often use their helmets to protect their handlebars, as opposed to their heads. Hmm.
-Minimal effort is made to keep the streets in the Medina clean during the day. People usually throw their trash on the ground without thinking twice, though there are a few trash cans on the biggest streets in the medina. You often see shopkeepers scrubbing the few feet of pavement in front of their doorways in the mornings. Every night the streets are swept by garbage crews (using big palm fronds) and the trash is collected in trucks. No sort of recycling in the formal sense with bins and collections that we have it in the States, but that doesn’t mean recycling doesn’t happen.
-Energy and resource demands for the Moroccan household are less than in the US, but that goes without saying. Less water is needed from washing fewer dishes and utensils and from shorter and less frequent showers. Energy needs for heating the home are nonexistent for some, minimal for others, and probably significant for a small minority. Gas for cooking and heating water is the extent of fuel needs in my house. I will do a bigger entry on environment and energy in the future.
-Screen Time: Television, according to more than one Moroccan, is "like another member of the family." I agree completely with this sentiment. The TV is on probably 10-16 hours per day, depending on whether or not Farida has to go out. It is sometimes more like background music rather than active entertainment, but it's on none the less. It is very important to turn off lights when they are not in use, but the TV is only turned off when the house is empty. For example, the power was out Sunday afternoon. They ran an extension cord upstairs from the neighbors house, and guess what it was used to power...the TV of course!
Perhaps they dont realize that TVs use more energy than probably all the lights in the house, but I think everyone would benefit from less screen time. I think more quality family time could be discovered with less TV time, and maybe people would start reading for pleasure more (something I have yet to witness). Of course people in the States would all benefit from less screen time in our lives, though it seems that the trend of technology and society is taking us in the opposite direction.
In the context of a discussion about the subjectivity of knowledge, Aura and I started talking about things that are universal. See Aura’s blog for her take on this topic:
The best example I have, and the most inescapable, is the cycle of life from birth to death. Everything that can be said to have life is ‘created’ (in some way or another) and must eventually die. Of course one can debate the qualifications for having life, like whether a virus is alive (I don’t know if science has settled that one yet); but you know what I mean when I say life. A similar example is time, as in we are all subject to the ticking of the clock. The process of aging will take its toll on all of us, and gray hair seems to be a universal sign of this (for some sooner than others haha).
We were also thinking about universally recognizable signs or symbols across any sort of border. Like laughter and a smile, which as far as I know always signifies happiness. How about different ways of greeting other people, especially those people we already know. It pretty much always involves some sort of physical contact, either touching hands, shaking or otherwise, embracing each other, a form of kissing, or some combination of all of the three. That’s all that I remember, but if you can think of any let me know. Or if you have any corrections for me, I would always appreciate that too.
Okay time to wrap it up. Casablanca this weekend was fun, it was good to get out of Rabat. More on that trip later, including pictures of the inside of the incredible Hassan II mosque (3rd largest mosque in the world). This weekend we have our big excursion around the country for a week, which we are all very excited for! Just 8 americans, our Moroccan RD (probably several drivers and guides), and the open road. Fez, Marrakesh, dessert camel rides, Gnaouwa musical performances (descendents of slaves who have retained that as their cultural identity), and more. It should be a blast.
The man next to me is smoking and listening to American pop music out loud in the internet café, including the artist known as Lady Gaga. I know she’s talented, but I thought I would escape her by coming to Morocco. Apparently that is not possible. I miss craisins, teddies peanut butter, chocolate covered pretzels, and all of you! Also Boston, 30 glenville avenue #1, riding Maeve (my shiny purple bike), Rhonda the Honda, Artemis, Birdy, Athena, Preston, and Crystabel. Okay Ma’salam, bislemah, love and goodbye.
People also have many ways to eat those things they enjoy. Some use shaped bits of minerals to transfer food into their mouths, others little sticks. Some use no utensils and only one hand to eat, while some might prefer to drink their food. Here in Morocco, using metal utensils to eat is quite normal. But forks and knives have not eclipsed the triumvirate + bread method, or that of thumb, forefinger, and middle finger aided by a morsel of bread. I hope that this method never dies out, nor do I think it is in danger of doing so. I really enjoy eating in this manner, and it is something I want to bring back to my American life. I might just be saying that now because I am in Morocco, but I think from now on I will eat more with my hands. (I don’t like to say I am going to do something without following through on it, though I know I am guilty of this, as you probably are too, from time to time.)
At home here we generally use our hands to eat from the main communal dish. Salad is served from a large bowl onto small individual plates, or rather, usually one plate for me and one for everyone else, and we eat it with tiny spoons. Their size matches the diced morsels of tomato, onion, cucumber, and lettuce that usually make up the salad. This is how it is done. For example, when I prepared the salad one day the size of my lettuce shreds caused a chuckle. I tried to explain that chez moi we usually serve the lettuce in bite sized chunks, but this did not fly. The size of the salad morsels here make them rather difficult to eat with one’s hands; maybe next time I will suggest cutting the veggies in bigger pieces so they are compatible with the triumvirate + bread method (and thus less prep work for the cook). Perhaps this style of salad is residual from the colonial period. How to phrase that question in Arabic…? I am not quite there yet.
Speaking of hands and their proximity to food, I would like to spend a few minutes pointing out some observations I have made concerning Moroccan habits and customs. Some are critiques, but I don’t mean to be critical in an offensive or orientalist way. It is much easier to point out the idiosyncrasies of a society when one is an outsider. It is also very easy to assume the point of view that the way we do things at home is the only way to do it, which is far from accurate. I would love to read a Moroccan’s observations of life in the US and whatever critiques they might come up with. That said, with the risk of offending or seeming like the American assuming a superior attitude that I would like to avoid, here we go:
-hygiene and cleanliness: handwashing is not a common habit when food preparation is involved, nor do I always observe my family washing their hands before we eat from the communal plate. Think about that in light of the Islamic cultural norm of eating with your right hand because left hands are reserved for other business, and you see the contradictions emerging. Also cow hoofs and goat hoofs are commonly available in the markets, and I am told they are a specialty (Aura was welcomed for her first meal at home with hoof, mmm). But I think about that as a delicacy in light of the other cultural taboo of eating pig because it is a dirty animal. Hmm, feet strike me as some of the dirtiest parts of any animal, but that may just be me.
-Motor bikes: people buzzing around the Medina often use their helmets to protect their handlebars, as opposed to their heads. Hmm.
-Minimal effort is made to keep the streets in the Medina clean during the day. People usually throw their trash on the ground without thinking twice, though there are a few trash cans on the biggest streets in the medina. You often see shopkeepers scrubbing the few feet of pavement in front of their doorways in the mornings. Every night the streets are swept by garbage crews (using big palm fronds) and the trash is collected in trucks. No sort of recycling in the formal sense with bins and collections that we have it in the States, but that doesn’t mean recycling doesn’t happen.
-Energy and resource demands for the Moroccan household are less than in the US, but that goes without saying. Less water is needed from washing fewer dishes and utensils and from shorter and less frequent showers. Energy needs for heating the home are nonexistent for some, minimal for others, and probably significant for a small minority. Gas for cooking and heating water is the extent of fuel needs in my house. I will do a bigger entry on environment and energy in the future.
-Screen Time: Television, according to more than one Moroccan, is "like another member of the family." I agree completely with this sentiment. The TV is on probably 10-16 hours per day, depending on whether or not Farida has to go out. It is sometimes more like background music rather than active entertainment, but it's on none the less. It is very important to turn off lights when they are not in use, but the TV is only turned off when the house is empty. For example, the power was out Sunday afternoon. They ran an extension cord upstairs from the neighbors house, and guess what it was used to power...the TV of course!
Perhaps they dont realize that TVs use more energy than probably all the lights in the house, but I think everyone would benefit from less screen time. I think more quality family time could be discovered with less TV time, and maybe people would start reading for pleasure more (something I have yet to witness). Of course people in the States would all benefit from less screen time in our lives, though it seems that the trend of technology and society is taking us in the opposite direction.
In the context of a discussion about the subjectivity of knowledge, Aura and I started talking about things that are universal. See Aura’s blog for her take on this topic:
The best example I have, and the most inescapable, is the cycle of life from birth to death. Everything that can be said to have life is ‘created’ (in some way or another) and must eventually die. Of course one can debate the qualifications for having life, like whether a virus is alive (I don’t know if science has settled that one yet); but you know what I mean when I say life. A similar example is time, as in we are all subject to the ticking of the clock. The process of aging will take its toll on all of us, and gray hair seems to be a universal sign of this (for some sooner than others haha).
We were also thinking about universally recognizable signs or symbols across any sort of border. Like laughter and a smile, which as far as I know always signifies happiness. How about different ways of greeting other people, especially those people we already know. It pretty much always involves some sort of physical contact, either touching hands, shaking or otherwise, embracing each other, a form of kissing, or some combination of all of the three. That’s all that I remember, but if you can think of any let me know. Or if you have any corrections for me, I would always appreciate that too.
Okay time to wrap it up. Casablanca this weekend was fun, it was good to get out of Rabat. More on that trip later, including pictures of the inside of the incredible Hassan II mosque (3rd largest mosque in the world). This weekend we have our big excursion around the country for a week, which we are all very excited for! Just 8 americans, our Moroccan RD (probably several drivers and guides), and the open road. Fez, Marrakesh, dessert camel rides, Gnaouwa musical performances (descendents of slaves who have retained that as their cultural identity), and more. It should be a blast.
The man next to me is smoking and listening to American pop music out loud in the internet café, including the artist known as Lady Gaga. I know she’s talented, but I thought I would escape her by coming to Morocco. Apparently that is not possible. I miss craisins, teddies peanut butter, chocolate covered pretzels, and all of you! Also Boston, 30 glenville avenue #1, riding Maeve (my shiny purple bike), Rhonda the Honda, Artemis, Birdy, Athena, Preston, and Crystabel. Okay Ma’salam, bislemah, love and goodbye.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Thoughts from afar
Rediscovering old music is almost as good as discovering new music. Old is a relative word; by old I mean something that I know well and have listened to many times before. New is relative in a similar manner, here it means new to me.
Two albums as examples: The Score by The Fugees. I got the Score from Allan some years ago by copying the CD onto my computer. It is an amazing CD and a very important one in many people's lives, mine included. When discussing musical tastes last week with Alex, a senior and fellow BU Rabat student, the Score came up. We were talking about its merits, and she and I both produced some lyrics on the spot. That night in my room I listened to the whole thing while reading and writing in my journal. I had forgotten how good it really is. Hence the pleasures of rediscoverng old music.
The second example is Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen. I have had Bruce's Greatest Hits CD since about 6th grade I think (it was a birthday present, along with Bob Dylan's Hard Rain). A couple of years ago I got We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions; by that I mean I copied the disc that was a present to my Mom (I think). Two very different sounds on those two CDs, and both confirm he is the Boss, no question. But neither are mainstays of everyday listening for me. Nebraska might prove to be a different story.
I copied it onto my computer before leaving for Rabat; it was a christmas present to Papa. I picture him as a young and vulnerable Bruce singing his heart out on a lonely front porch in the middle of nowhere. It really gets to me, especially my father's house. Allan, Papa, and I have a special history with that song, but I only knew the cover by Ben Harper (incidentally very good). Ok, well wikipedia tells me the album is Bruce's sixth, released in 1982, so he was not very young. But if you listen to it, you will understand what I mean. A 'new' album that has acquired symbolic significance because I have become attached to it in a place far from the one I call home.
Today is monday, and I am engaged in that most venerable of age old college past times, and apparently one that is harder to leave behind than loved ones. I speak of procrastination of course. I should be reading for my biweekly class, Constructing Gender in North Africa: Women, Islam and Politics, which I have Tuesday and Friday mornings. It is a very interesting class and it has showed how woefully ignorant I was of the place of women in the Islamic world. We are currently reading chapters from a book by Assia Djebar entitled, Women of Algiers in Their Apartment.
Ok woeful ignorance is an exaggeration. Before this semester, I have had little contact with any Muslim women (or men for that matter), nor have I studied any of these issues at BU or before. Ignorance yes, but lamenting that ignorance is neither justified nor constructive. Better to put energy into becoming more knowledgeable about the subject, which is exactly what I am doing. Or will be doing soon when I continue to read the chapters.
It seems to me that lamenting a situation one cannot influence is never very constructive. Instead it is better to take action to rectify a situation that one has deemed in their mind to merit lament. Holding regrets has also never made sense to me. What is done is done, the past is the past. Even if you could travel back in time to change things, would you? I would not. We can learn from the past, we can use things that have happened to inform the decisions we will make. The aphorism (maybe that is the wrong word, ok, the phrase) don't cry over split milk is applicable and will always be so in my opinion.
Take the situation of my study abroad plans for the West African country whose name begins with the letter N (it is not Nigeria). It was very disappointing to hear that my program was canceled, and I lamented the fact at the time. But would it have benefited me to wallow in self-pity, despair induced by a situation out of my sphere of influence? Not one bit. I cut my losses, spent some time thinking, and decided to come to Rabat instead.
I have thought about how things would be different if the US state department had not issued that travel alert, or if BU had been less concerned about potential concerns for the safety of its students. Bu those thoughts do not wear a cloak of regret or a veil of sadness. It is merely speculation about the what if?s in life, a kind of speculation that has a small place in my life. I cannot help but wonder about things.
What if I had gone to the local school in Ouagadougou, taught in french, instead of the english-speaking International School of Ouagadougou? What if I had gone to UVM instead of BU, or had been accepted to one of the schools that instead placed me on their wait-lists? What if I had never started working at Camp Roatry??? (that's a big one, as some of you know.) The point is that the course of my life has taken many twists and turns to get me here, to this very moment typing in the basement of the library annex of the Center for Cross Cultural Learning in the capital city of Morocco, Rabat, on the continent of Africa. I cant help but analyze some of those turns in my mind sometimes, but in the end I always remain confident of the decisions that I have made. I hope you are all able to sit for a moment and think about the many twisting roads and criss-crossing paths that you have traveled in order to reach this exact moment in your lives.
Speaking of exact moments, ever think about the fact that the present does not exist. We can speak definitively of the past, of events and people and moments in time that have passed behind us and will never exist again. We can also think about what is to come, the experiences we will have in the future and what choices we will make. But as soon as you try to put your finger on the exact moment that you are experiencing right now it is gone. It has already rushed past you, and you will never be able to get it back. There is no such thing as the present!
I dont write these thoughts with the intention of making anyone sad or to cause worry. Just some of the thoughts spouting from this head of mine here in Morocco. The idea of the present not existing I have thought about before this semester. But my history professor brought it up the first day of class when he was introducing his flexible, liberal, 'coffee culture' style of teaching and learning that he apparently fell in love with while studying at UC Santa Cruz. He is my favorite professor here and seems like a really intelligent and interesting person. Anyways he mentioned that idea and cited a French philosopher whose name I wrote in my notebook somewhere. We are studying the history of North Africa, with Morocco as the focus. He stresses the importance of historiography (the study of how history is written) and epistemology (the study of how knowledge is produced) for understanding history. What is forgotten is as important as what is written. It should be a great class.
Ok time to head home for lunch. Hammam tonight, get excited for me! After that a lovely skype chat with my dear Jill. Ooh and part of lunch is taktooka, a saute of fire-roasted peppers, tomatoes, garlic, herbs, and spices (including cumin!). It comes out looking like a sauce I would normally put on pasta, but we eat it from a plate with bread. It is tasty mmm smoky and slightly spicy. I will get the recipe from Farida, dont you all fret, and I will be preparing it with her the next time.
love and hugs and kisses from Rabat.
Two albums as examples: The Score by The Fugees. I got the Score from Allan some years ago by copying the CD onto my computer. It is an amazing CD and a very important one in many people's lives, mine included. When discussing musical tastes last week with Alex, a senior and fellow BU Rabat student, the Score came up. We were talking about its merits, and she and I both produced some lyrics on the spot. That night in my room I listened to the whole thing while reading and writing in my journal. I had forgotten how good it really is. Hence the pleasures of rediscoverng old music.
The second example is Nebraska by Bruce Springsteen. I have had Bruce's Greatest Hits CD since about 6th grade I think (it was a birthday present, along with Bob Dylan's Hard Rain). A couple of years ago I got We Shall Overcome: The Seeger Sessions; by that I mean I copied the disc that was a present to my Mom (I think). Two very different sounds on those two CDs, and both confirm he is the Boss, no question. But neither are mainstays of everyday listening for me. Nebraska might prove to be a different story.
I copied it onto my computer before leaving for Rabat; it was a christmas present to Papa. I picture him as a young and vulnerable Bruce singing his heart out on a lonely front porch in the middle of nowhere. It really gets to me, especially my father's house. Allan, Papa, and I have a special history with that song, but I only knew the cover by Ben Harper (incidentally very good). Ok, well wikipedia tells me the album is Bruce's sixth, released in 1982, so he was not very young. But if you listen to it, you will understand what I mean. A 'new' album that has acquired symbolic significance because I have become attached to it in a place far from the one I call home.
Today is monday, and I am engaged in that most venerable of age old college past times, and apparently one that is harder to leave behind than loved ones. I speak of procrastination of course. I should be reading for my biweekly class, Constructing Gender in North Africa: Women, Islam and Politics, which I have Tuesday and Friday mornings. It is a very interesting class and it has showed how woefully ignorant I was of the place of women in the Islamic world. We are currently reading chapters from a book by Assia Djebar entitled, Women of Algiers in Their Apartment.
Ok woeful ignorance is an exaggeration. Before this semester, I have had little contact with any Muslim women (or men for that matter), nor have I studied any of these issues at BU or before. Ignorance yes, but lamenting that ignorance is neither justified nor constructive. Better to put energy into becoming more knowledgeable about the subject, which is exactly what I am doing. Or will be doing soon when I continue to read the chapters.
It seems to me that lamenting a situation one cannot influence is never very constructive. Instead it is better to take action to rectify a situation that one has deemed in their mind to merit lament. Holding regrets has also never made sense to me. What is done is done, the past is the past. Even if you could travel back in time to change things, would you? I would not. We can learn from the past, we can use things that have happened to inform the decisions we will make. The aphorism (maybe that is the wrong word, ok, the phrase) don't cry over split milk is applicable and will always be so in my opinion.
Take the situation of my study abroad plans for the West African country whose name begins with the letter N (it is not Nigeria). It was very disappointing to hear that my program was canceled, and I lamented the fact at the time. But would it have benefited me to wallow in self-pity, despair induced by a situation out of my sphere of influence? Not one bit. I cut my losses, spent some time thinking, and decided to come to Rabat instead.
I have thought about how things would be different if the US state department had not issued that travel alert, or if BU had been less concerned about potential concerns for the safety of its students. Bu those thoughts do not wear a cloak of regret or a veil of sadness. It is merely speculation about the what if?s in life, a kind of speculation that has a small place in my life. I cannot help but wonder about things.
What if I had gone to the local school in Ouagadougou, taught in french, instead of the english-speaking International School of Ouagadougou? What if I had gone to UVM instead of BU, or had been accepted to one of the schools that instead placed me on their wait-lists? What if I had never started working at Camp Roatry??? (that's a big one, as some of you know.) The point is that the course of my life has taken many twists and turns to get me here, to this very moment typing in the basement of the library annex of the Center for Cross Cultural Learning in the capital city of Morocco, Rabat, on the continent of Africa. I cant help but analyze some of those turns in my mind sometimes, but in the end I always remain confident of the decisions that I have made. I hope you are all able to sit for a moment and think about the many twisting roads and criss-crossing paths that you have traveled in order to reach this exact moment in your lives.
Speaking of exact moments, ever think about the fact that the present does not exist. We can speak definitively of the past, of events and people and moments in time that have passed behind us and will never exist again. We can also think about what is to come, the experiences we will have in the future and what choices we will make. But as soon as you try to put your finger on the exact moment that you are experiencing right now it is gone. It has already rushed past you, and you will never be able to get it back. There is no such thing as the present!
I dont write these thoughts with the intention of making anyone sad or to cause worry. Just some of the thoughts spouting from this head of mine here in Morocco. The idea of the present not existing I have thought about before this semester. But my history professor brought it up the first day of class when he was introducing his flexible, liberal, 'coffee culture' style of teaching and learning that he apparently fell in love with while studying at UC Santa Cruz. He is my favorite professor here and seems like a really intelligent and interesting person. Anyways he mentioned that idea and cited a French philosopher whose name I wrote in my notebook somewhere. We are studying the history of North Africa, with Morocco as the focus. He stresses the importance of historiography (the study of how history is written) and epistemology (the study of how knowledge is produced) for understanding history. What is forgotten is as important as what is written. It should be a great class.
Ok time to head home for lunch. Hammam tonight, get excited for me! After that a lovely skype chat with my dear Jill. Ooh and part of lunch is taktooka, a saute of fire-roasted peppers, tomatoes, garlic, herbs, and spices (including cumin!). It comes out looking like a sauce I would normally put on pasta, but we eat it from a plate with bread. It is tasty mmm smoky and slightly spicy. I will get the recipe from Farida, dont you all fret, and I will be preparing it with her the next time.
love and hugs and kisses from Rabat.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
There is no ham in the hammam
Once you go to the hammam, your life will be changed forever. I know that sounds dramatic, but it is true. I have never felt as clean as I did when I walked out of that door a week ago. Part sauna, part bath, part spa, the hammam is one of Morocco’s best offerings.
For only ten dirhams, about a dollar and 30 cents, you too can experience the wonders of this public bath. Bring a towel, clean clothes, soap and shampoo, and don’t forget your scrub glove.
The door was unmarked from the outside, just a stone archway down a small street near our house. During the day until the evening it is reserved for women, and then I believe at 7 it becomes available for men. I went with my host dad Rachid. Upon arrival we entered a changing room, stripped to our underwear, and then left our clothes and belongings with the man at the desk.
Weighted with a cinder block, a large door in the center of the wall of the main room drew my attention. I knew that my future waited behind that door. Reminiscent of the entrance to a vault, I was somewhat apprehensive. But I was determined to see it through, to get an “authentic” hammam experience, and at that point there was no turning back.
As we entered a large tiled chamber with high-vaulted ceilings, I was blasted with hot wet air. It was the kind of heavy humidity where you instantly feel sweaty without exerting a muscle. It felt as hot as a sauna but with more moisture, the air so very close and thick. I had been warned that the hammam is intense, but I was not prepared for this.
There are three chambers, and each one is hotter than the one before it. That is because the heat source is at the back, a projection from the wall resembling a fountain or well. The water coming out of it is steaming, probably hot enough to scald you if you were to submerge your hand. We staked out a spot along a wall in the third chamber, and I sat down with our soap. While Rachid drew water into several buckets for our use, I took in the scene around me: A steamy tiled room, strewn with buckets and scantily-clad men in various stages of washing themselves. Mmm, hammam.
Once our buckets had cooled down some we rinsed off, but this first stage seemed a bit unnecessary because I was already sufficiently moist. Then came the soak phase. By that I mean we sat against the wall and soaked in the thick air around us. Talking from my hat, I think the purpose of this phase is for the skin to become fully saturated and ready for cleaning.
We sat for a few minutes, but I couldn’t tell you how long exactly. It was difficult to distinguish the passing of time in the chamber, and I had left my trusty watch with my clothes. The fact that I became a bit faint at this point probably also contributed to this difficulty. Rachid noticed, and we moved to the second chamber, which was still very humid but slightly cooler.
The snake phase was next. I have named it thus because it was when I learned that I too can shed my skin. Using a rough cloth glove, I went about scrubbing myself down to remove the dead skin. I tried to imitate those around me, and it was a lot more exfoliation that I am used to. Apparently it was not enough. Rachid offered to scrub my back, and I accepted.
I had been warned about this most communal aspect of the hammam, and I felt confident that I could handle it. The male bonding I was comfortable with, but I had not been sufficiently alerted about the scrubbing force that is applied. It felt like he was sanding me down like a piece of wood (though with fine sandpaper, not the coarse stuff). It was not painful per se, but it was very intense. And the skin, oh the skin, it came off in lots of little rolls. So much of it, I had no idea how much dead skin the body holds.
After that I went over the rest of my body again more thoroughly. It was disgusting and yet I could not stop. I felt compelled to scrub and scrub, to get it all off. I felt like a new person in a way.
After becoming a snake I lathered up with soap and shampoo to fully cleanse my new skin. Then I sat against the wall while Rachid finished his wash. We rinsed off one last time, but with cold(ish) water, and it felt so good! Then we sat for a few more minutes, I assume for a final soak of the hammam air. By this point I was ready to leave.
The hammam experience can take as much time as you want it to, but at the very least it is a place to wash with hot water (something that is not available to everyone at home). We stayed for about 40 minutes, but I did not figure that out until we left. I have heard that some people stay for an hour or even two, but I do not think I would survive that long. My best pre-hammam advice: drink lots of water. I kept wishing for a drink of water despite the humidity. They do have water in the main room before you enter the vault, but I did not notice it (or know to seek it).
Overall, the hammam was great. I will be going back, but it will not be a weekly affair. Perhaps biweekly. Or I will not stay in the vault for as long, it was a bit much for me.
It was odd to see the openness of the men together in the hammam when I compare that to everything I was told about the closed nature of society here. Everyone is completely exposed to each other, greeting friends and neighbors the same as if they were meeting on the street. It is frowned upon to show your knees and shoulders in the public sphere, but in the hammam I saw a lot more than that.
Then again, it’s really no different than men at a gym in the US. I guess it’s the idea of a changing room space that is free of all the norms that govern behavior normally that perplexes me. If someone dropped their pants on the street, well they would certainly attract attention. But when it happens in a gym or a hammam, we are just supposed to look the other way and pretend it is normal.
That’s the story on the hammam; otherwise all is well here. Yesterday I received my first letter, which changed my day from good to better! The best way to fall asleep is by reading a letter from a loved one.
This morning I helped Farida prepare lentils for lunch. We cooked them with tomato, onion, garlic, and spices, including salt, pepper, ginger, and I don’t know what else. I woke up a little late and I missed the complete spice phase.
Now I am watching Big in the Salon before our lentil lunch. Not sure what is in store for later today, possibly soccer on the beach with Stephen and his host brother’s posse (as Stephen labeled them).
-Rest in peace Howard Zinn. I feel honored to have had the chance to see you lecture on a couple of occasions. Your contributions to our world and our national consciousness will never be forgotten.
For only ten dirhams, about a dollar and 30 cents, you too can experience the wonders of this public bath. Bring a towel, clean clothes, soap and shampoo, and don’t forget your scrub glove.
The door was unmarked from the outside, just a stone archway down a small street near our house. During the day until the evening it is reserved for women, and then I believe at 7 it becomes available for men. I went with my host dad Rachid. Upon arrival we entered a changing room, stripped to our underwear, and then left our clothes and belongings with the man at the desk.
Weighted with a cinder block, a large door in the center of the wall of the main room drew my attention. I knew that my future waited behind that door. Reminiscent of the entrance to a vault, I was somewhat apprehensive. But I was determined to see it through, to get an “authentic” hammam experience, and at that point there was no turning back.
As we entered a large tiled chamber with high-vaulted ceilings, I was blasted with hot wet air. It was the kind of heavy humidity where you instantly feel sweaty without exerting a muscle. It felt as hot as a sauna but with more moisture, the air so very close and thick. I had been warned that the hammam is intense, but I was not prepared for this.
There are three chambers, and each one is hotter than the one before it. That is because the heat source is at the back, a projection from the wall resembling a fountain or well. The water coming out of it is steaming, probably hot enough to scald you if you were to submerge your hand. We staked out a spot along a wall in the third chamber, and I sat down with our soap. While Rachid drew water into several buckets for our use, I took in the scene around me: A steamy tiled room, strewn with buckets and scantily-clad men in various stages of washing themselves. Mmm, hammam.
Once our buckets had cooled down some we rinsed off, but this first stage seemed a bit unnecessary because I was already sufficiently moist. Then came the soak phase. By that I mean we sat against the wall and soaked in the thick air around us. Talking from my hat, I think the purpose of this phase is for the skin to become fully saturated and ready for cleaning.
We sat for a few minutes, but I couldn’t tell you how long exactly. It was difficult to distinguish the passing of time in the chamber, and I had left my trusty watch with my clothes. The fact that I became a bit faint at this point probably also contributed to this difficulty. Rachid noticed, and we moved to the second chamber, which was still very humid but slightly cooler.
The snake phase was next. I have named it thus because it was when I learned that I too can shed my skin. Using a rough cloth glove, I went about scrubbing myself down to remove the dead skin. I tried to imitate those around me, and it was a lot more exfoliation that I am used to. Apparently it was not enough. Rachid offered to scrub my back, and I accepted.
I had been warned about this most communal aspect of the hammam, and I felt confident that I could handle it. The male bonding I was comfortable with, but I had not been sufficiently alerted about the scrubbing force that is applied. It felt like he was sanding me down like a piece of wood (though with fine sandpaper, not the coarse stuff). It was not painful per se, but it was very intense. And the skin, oh the skin, it came off in lots of little rolls. So much of it, I had no idea how much dead skin the body holds.
After that I went over the rest of my body again more thoroughly. It was disgusting and yet I could not stop. I felt compelled to scrub and scrub, to get it all off. I felt like a new person in a way.
After becoming a snake I lathered up with soap and shampoo to fully cleanse my new skin. Then I sat against the wall while Rachid finished his wash. We rinsed off one last time, but with cold(ish) water, and it felt so good! Then we sat for a few more minutes, I assume for a final soak of the hammam air. By this point I was ready to leave.
The hammam experience can take as much time as you want it to, but at the very least it is a place to wash with hot water (something that is not available to everyone at home). We stayed for about 40 minutes, but I did not figure that out until we left. I have heard that some people stay for an hour or even two, but I do not think I would survive that long. My best pre-hammam advice: drink lots of water. I kept wishing for a drink of water despite the humidity. They do have water in the main room before you enter the vault, but I did not notice it (or know to seek it).
Overall, the hammam was great. I will be going back, but it will not be a weekly affair. Perhaps biweekly. Or I will not stay in the vault for as long, it was a bit much for me.
It was odd to see the openness of the men together in the hammam when I compare that to everything I was told about the closed nature of society here. Everyone is completely exposed to each other, greeting friends and neighbors the same as if they were meeting on the street. It is frowned upon to show your knees and shoulders in the public sphere, but in the hammam I saw a lot more than that.
Then again, it’s really no different than men at a gym in the US. I guess it’s the idea of a changing room space that is free of all the norms that govern behavior normally that perplexes me. If someone dropped their pants on the street, well they would certainly attract attention. But when it happens in a gym or a hammam, we are just supposed to look the other way and pretend it is normal.
That’s the story on the hammam; otherwise all is well here. Yesterday I received my first letter, which changed my day from good to better! The best way to fall asleep is by reading a letter from a loved one.
This morning I helped Farida prepare lentils for lunch. We cooked them with tomato, onion, garlic, and spices, including salt, pepper, ginger, and I don’t know what else. I woke up a little late and I missed the complete spice phase.
Now I am watching Big in the Salon before our lentil lunch. Not sure what is in store for later today, possibly soccer on the beach with Stephen and his host brother’s posse (as Stephen labeled them).
-Rest in peace Howard Zinn. I feel honored to have had the chance to see you lecture on a couple of occasions. Your contributions to our world and our national consciousness will never be forgotten.
Monday, January 25, 2010
the homestead
Corrections from last time (thank you Papa):
-It is tajine, not tagine.
-Celery in French is celeri, though it was actually green zucchini and not celery in last week’s tajine.
-The sweet and savory pastry Ibrahim served for our last meal at the CCCL is called Pastille.
-The national soup is known as Harera, and Farida’s version was indeed better than the restaurants’.
Tonight marks the end of the first week of my home stay. Sunday is winding down, and three sounds: 1. the TV showing the beginning of the Cote D’Ivoire versus Algeria soccer match, part of the Africa Cup (which Morocco did not qualify for) 2. the pressure cooker, signaling the approach of dinner, whistling away from the kitchen and 3. the cheerful babble of my four year old sister, Riham, compete with my laptop for my attention. Welcome to life as the newest member of the El Bounti family.
I am technically one of two children in the family, but the age differences do not quite make sense in that respect. I was told the first day by Farida that she and Rachid, my host father, see me more as a brother. She is 31 years old and he is 36 years old, so the title of sibling is more accurate for me. I was very pleased when she said that, because I did not want a family situation which felt too much like high school with lots of rules. Based on this past week, I think that it is an accurate designation, and overall I am very pleased with my Moroccan family.
I feel like an equal member of the family. The key, which Farida gave me on my first day, is an important sign of this. I feel that house keys are not to be given out lightly in any society. I am welcome to anything I want in terms of food, and any possessions I need are free for my use. House key is the wrong word; I should say home key. This place where I live is far from a house, yet it is in every way a home.
We live in the Medina (the old part of Rabat, meaning ‘city’ in Arabic) in a building off of a very narrow street (that before last week I would have labelled an alley). Once I arrive outside the front door I yell up to the third floor, “Farida, c’est John!” She responds by turning on the stairway light, and I wind my way upstairs to the door.
By American standards, this is a tiny apartment. There are basically three rooms, and I have one of them all to myself. It is probably normally a guest room, and I am told that I am the fourth foreign student that has occupied it. It is a decent-sized room with a double bed, a short couch/lounge chair, and a small table. I will be living out of my suitcase for my time here, but that’s not a problem. One of the most important features of my room, and one that I am most thankful for, is the door. Specifically, it opens and it closes.
Besides a few minor gripes arising from cultural and domestic differences (these will work themselves out with time, inchallah), I have no problems with my family nor do I foresee any problems. But the size of the living space dictates the close proximity of me to my family for the portion of each day that I am home, and I know that in a month or two that door could be my best friend. It is also good to be able to retreat to read, write, work, and of course sleep.
Speaking of close proximity in living space, let me describe the rest of the apartment. The kitchen is in the back at the end of a narrow hallway. It is a bit smaller than my kitchen in Allston (which feels crowded with three or four people), yet this one feels bigger. We eat breakfast there at the little table, small cups of strong sweet coffee with breads, pastries, and a choice of spreads. One of my gripes is the absence of peanut butter, which is not widely eaten here. I am told it can be found at the western-style supermarket, Marjene, at the edge of town; I will let you know if I find some. If not, perhaps someone who will be visiting me might like to bring some, preferably Teddie’s brand natural peanut butter…I would be eternally grateful.
A large armoire/shelving unit runs the length of the hallway. It houses all of the family’s clothes and personal possessions (besides shoes, which have a box under the kitchen counter). There is a small sink next to the front door where the hallway ends. This is where I wash my hands and face, brush my teeth, shave, etc. The last room, and most important one, is between the hallway on the left and my room to the right, and it is known as le salon.
In a bigger Moroccan house, the salon is the formal sitting room that hardly ever gets used. The exception would be for receiving (and sleeping) guests. Sure sounds a lot like those fancy and little-used parlors in American houses, huh? But there is no comparison when describing our salon, because this room is used more than any room in any American house I have ever seen.
As is normally the case with the Moroccan salon/living/family room, couches line the walls. But couch is a loose term grounded only in the pillows that support your back. Without these pillows you would probably call this item of furniture a bed, and that is exactly what it becomes during the night with the addition of blankets. My whole family sleeps in the salon each night, and each morning the blankets disappear and it returns to a sitting room. We eat lunch, snack, and dinner there, and we also watch lots of TV and movies there.
In two words, I would describe our salon as comfortable and multi-functional (when the cheese keeps the chips together it’s like one nacho; therefore, the hyphen makes two words into one). Lounging is not just acceptable, it is encouraged. No matter what position you wish to relax (or nap) in, the flexibility of the pillows can accommodate. The multi-functionality of this room is really what makes this house a home.
When I come back from class and I need a place to flop down and unwind, I know I have it. The salon provides shelter from the hectic, stimulating, and at times very overwhelming Medina, and it is a comfort that cannot be found in my bedroom (despite, or perhaps because of, its privacy). Because I know that it’s not the room itself but rather the people who have made it that way that are important and meaningful about the salon. Farida’s smile, and the snacks and tea she puts out, are really what make it feel like home.
Well that is the entirety of my home here in the medina of Rabat, or almost all of it. You may be wondering: ‘JD, what happens when nature calls?’ Well folks, as they say, save the best part for last. It’s not that my bathroom situation is very difficult or different from what I am used to at home in the States, nor am I required to go out back to the hole in the ground. It’s just a bit cumbersome at first, and using the facilities requires some adjustments.
The ‘bathroom’ is behind a small door that is just outside of the entrance to the apartment, which means it is quite obvious when someone has to go. This does not create awkward situations within the family, but rather it’s something I will personally have to get used to. I use the word bathroom, but I think water closet is actually much more appropriate. Not only is it the size of a closet (a small one at that), but everything inside is often covered in water.
That is because it is also the shower room. I am grateful for the shower head and the hot water available for my use, and I have no real complaints. The cumbersome part is trying to keep my towel and clothes dry in this tiny space while working the shower head with one hand and using the other hand to get clean. I also have to simultaneously keep an eye on the floor to make sure water is not leaking out into the hall. I don’t want to make a bad impression by flooding the building.
The toilet is western-style, but it lacks a flush mechanism; rather, it’s a bucket-flush variety. This procedure requires some skill, and I have only begun to master the technique. No worries, plenty of time to practice.
Enough of these details; I hope you now have a somewhat accurate picture of my life here. If you need a laugh during your day, just imagine me juggling shampoo and a showerhead while spraying water all around a tile closet. Ma’salam, goodbye friends and family. My next post will cover the public bath, the Hammam. Love from Rabat.
-It is tajine, not tagine.
-Celery in French is celeri, though it was actually green zucchini and not celery in last week’s tajine.
-The sweet and savory pastry Ibrahim served for our last meal at the CCCL is called Pastille.
-The national soup is known as Harera, and Farida’s version was indeed better than the restaurants’.
Tonight marks the end of the first week of my home stay. Sunday is winding down, and three sounds: 1. the TV showing the beginning of the Cote D’Ivoire versus Algeria soccer match, part of the Africa Cup (which Morocco did not qualify for) 2. the pressure cooker, signaling the approach of dinner, whistling away from the kitchen and 3. the cheerful babble of my four year old sister, Riham, compete with my laptop for my attention. Welcome to life as the newest member of the El Bounti family.
I am technically one of two children in the family, but the age differences do not quite make sense in that respect. I was told the first day by Farida that she and Rachid, my host father, see me more as a brother. She is 31 years old and he is 36 years old, so the title of sibling is more accurate for me. I was very pleased when she said that, because I did not want a family situation which felt too much like high school with lots of rules. Based on this past week, I think that it is an accurate designation, and overall I am very pleased with my Moroccan family.
I feel like an equal member of the family. The key, which Farida gave me on my first day, is an important sign of this. I feel that house keys are not to be given out lightly in any society. I am welcome to anything I want in terms of food, and any possessions I need are free for my use. House key is the wrong word; I should say home key. This place where I live is far from a house, yet it is in every way a home.
We live in the Medina (the old part of Rabat, meaning ‘city’ in Arabic) in a building off of a very narrow street (that before last week I would have labelled an alley). Once I arrive outside the front door I yell up to the third floor, “Farida, c’est John!” She responds by turning on the stairway light, and I wind my way upstairs to the door.
By American standards, this is a tiny apartment. There are basically three rooms, and I have one of them all to myself. It is probably normally a guest room, and I am told that I am the fourth foreign student that has occupied it. It is a decent-sized room with a double bed, a short couch/lounge chair, and a small table. I will be living out of my suitcase for my time here, but that’s not a problem. One of the most important features of my room, and one that I am most thankful for, is the door. Specifically, it opens and it closes.
Besides a few minor gripes arising from cultural and domestic differences (these will work themselves out with time, inchallah), I have no problems with my family nor do I foresee any problems. But the size of the living space dictates the close proximity of me to my family for the portion of each day that I am home, and I know that in a month or two that door could be my best friend. It is also good to be able to retreat to read, write, work, and of course sleep.
Speaking of close proximity in living space, let me describe the rest of the apartment. The kitchen is in the back at the end of a narrow hallway. It is a bit smaller than my kitchen in Allston (which feels crowded with three or four people), yet this one feels bigger. We eat breakfast there at the little table, small cups of strong sweet coffee with breads, pastries, and a choice of spreads. One of my gripes is the absence of peanut butter, which is not widely eaten here. I am told it can be found at the western-style supermarket, Marjene, at the edge of town; I will let you know if I find some. If not, perhaps someone who will be visiting me might like to bring some, preferably Teddie’s brand natural peanut butter…I would be eternally grateful.
A large armoire/shelving unit runs the length of the hallway. It houses all of the family’s clothes and personal possessions (besides shoes, which have a box under the kitchen counter). There is a small sink next to the front door where the hallway ends. This is where I wash my hands and face, brush my teeth, shave, etc. The last room, and most important one, is between the hallway on the left and my room to the right, and it is known as le salon.
In a bigger Moroccan house, the salon is the formal sitting room that hardly ever gets used. The exception would be for receiving (and sleeping) guests. Sure sounds a lot like those fancy and little-used parlors in American houses, huh? But there is no comparison when describing our salon, because this room is used more than any room in any American house I have ever seen.
As is normally the case with the Moroccan salon/living/family room, couches line the walls. But couch is a loose term grounded only in the pillows that support your back. Without these pillows you would probably call this item of furniture a bed, and that is exactly what it becomes during the night with the addition of blankets. My whole family sleeps in the salon each night, and each morning the blankets disappear and it returns to a sitting room. We eat lunch, snack, and dinner there, and we also watch lots of TV and movies there.
In two words, I would describe our salon as comfortable and multi-functional (when the cheese keeps the chips together it’s like one nacho; therefore, the hyphen makes two words into one). Lounging is not just acceptable, it is encouraged. No matter what position you wish to relax (or nap) in, the flexibility of the pillows can accommodate. The multi-functionality of this room is really what makes this house a home.
When I come back from class and I need a place to flop down and unwind, I know I have it. The salon provides shelter from the hectic, stimulating, and at times very overwhelming Medina, and it is a comfort that cannot be found in my bedroom (despite, or perhaps because of, its privacy). Because I know that it’s not the room itself but rather the people who have made it that way that are important and meaningful about the salon. Farida’s smile, and the snacks and tea she puts out, are really what make it feel like home.
Well that is the entirety of my home here in the medina of Rabat, or almost all of it. You may be wondering: ‘JD, what happens when nature calls?’ Well folks, as they say, save the best part for last. It’s not that my bathroom situation is very difficult or different from what I am used to at home in the States, nor am I required to go out back to the hole in the ground. It’s just a bit cumbersome at first, and using the facilities requires some adjustments.
The ‘bathroom’ is behind a small door that is just outside of the entrance to the apartment, which means it is quite obvious when someone has to go. This does not create awkward situations within the family, but rather it’s something I will personally have to get used to. I use the word bathroom, but I think water closet is actually much more appropriate. Not only is it the size of a closet (a small one at that), but everything inside is often covered in water.
That is because it is also the shower room. I am grateful for the shower head and the hot water available for my use, and I have no real complaints. The cumbersome part is trying to keep my towel and clothes dry in this tiny space while working the shower head with one hand and using the other hand to get clean. I also have to simultaneously keep an eye on the floor to make sure water is not leaking out into the hall. I don’t want to make a bad impression by flooding the building.
The toilet is western-style, but it lacks a flush mechanism; rather, it’s a bucket-flush variety. This procedure requires some skill, and I have only begun to master the technique. No worries, plenty of time to practice.
Enough of these details; I hope you now have a somewhat accurate picture of my life here. If you need a laugh during your day, just imagine me juggling shampoo and a showerhead while spraying water all around a tile closet. Ma’salam, goodbye friends and family. My next post will cover the public bath, the Hammam. Love from Rabat.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Edible treasures
It is now the night of January 18th, and I am sitting on the bed in my petit chamber. Actually it’s bigger than the cold cell I rent (with the help of my parents of course) in Allston, so I will make sure to enjoy these quarters while I am here. I have barely been in the country for a week, so it is hard to make accurate generalizations and descriptions of life in Morocco. I will instead share with you some of my experiences so far, though you must keep in mind my location and perspective (the American 20-something male, somewhat educated, lens of Rabat that is).
Meals are some of my favorite times of the day, and I have a feeling I will return in May with a few extra pounds on my frame. However, all of the walking I will be doing will help combat the rich and delicious fare. I have not had a meal I disliked, and I have greatly enjoyed most of them so far. I will describe a few of the highlights:
-Tagine (perhaps tajine? I have not seen it spelled, and I cannot read Arabic yet): the word describes the conical ceramic ware used to cook the dish of the same name. Because there are so many kinds (you can put anything inside) it seems to describe the vessel more than the food inside it. The first night at a restaurant we had a chicken and green olive tagine with preserved lemon, very tasty and I believe what my dear mommy was imitating at my going-away party (She came pretty close!). Preserved lemons are tangy, salty, and oh so interesting, mmm one of my favorite things so far. My host mother, whose name is Farida, has also served a beef and celery (I think it was celery, comment on dit celery en francais?) tagine and a garlicky chicken and potato tagine. The latter was very tasty, and my fingers are still tinted yellow.
-The Method: At the center last week for orientation we the Americans were well fed and watered, pampered by the jovial cook Ibrahim, and we ate almost entirely western-style with plates and silverware. The exception was our last dinner, on Saturday night, when we ate Bastille with our hands. We were told during orientation that most Moroccans eat with their hands, and so far I have found that true. But it’s not only the hands that are used, and there is an important style that I am still trying to master. A triumvirate (more coordinated than the Romans) of the right thumb, forefinger, and middle fingers are used to escort food from the communal dish to one’s mouth. Though one’s hands are washed, it is important that the fingers don’t fully enter one’s mouth, because those fingers will soon be back in the dish.
The triumvirate can function on its own, but it is more often than not accompanied by Hobbs, the Darija word for bread. It comes in thick disks of varying diameters, and the texture and taste is pretty close to French bread (baguettes are also widely available). The bread is torn into small pieces, and those are used to scoop up a bite of food. Mothers are the bread-keepers and distributors, and the bread is very freely given (especially to guests). It can be tricky to keep the morsels on the bread, but I am sure my skills will improve. Its fun to eat with your hands.
Also a quick word on the communal dish. Like in others parts of Africa I have experienced (and probably many other parts of the world), imaginary zones known by all are ascribed to the dish based on the number of people at the table. One only takes from the zone in front of them, for it is improper to cross into another person’s zone. The choicest morsels do however seem to find their way into my zone when I am not looking. I guess it pays to be a guest.
-Couscous: We were served couscous once at the center for lunch, and it was toute seule, accompanied by a thin gravy. I ladled some of the sauce and stuff from other dishes onto it, but I am not sure about the different ways it is prepared and served. I will report back. It seems like it is not a normal accompaniment to tagine, but I could be wrong.
-Bastille: Ibrahim made this for our last dinner at the center, somewhat of a special occasion. A big pastry that combines layers of a chunky and sweet almond paste on top of scrambled egg (like what you might find in a quiche) resting on a bed of shredded savory chicken. He showed us how to attack it with a stab of the triumvirate, and hilarity ensued as we tried to emulate him. The dish comes from the country’s Analusian heritage, hence the name. Ibrahim also tried to put more sugar on top, but I found the almond layer quite sweet enough. It is definitely a dish to try, though he said it is usually reserved for special occasions.
-Soups: I have tried two so far, and both were quite excellent. Haveva or Halela, I’m not exactly sure how it is said or spelled, I got with my family at a little restaurant near our house. It is tomato-based as far as I can tell, with little chunks of many vegetables. I could only recognize a few, but the chickpeas stood out loud and clear. I am also told it usually has lentils, but I did not find them in my bowl. Farida says that her version is better, but I will have to take her word until I am able to put it to the test. I am told haveva is a staple during Ramadan.
Farida prepared Sob’a (perhaps Sop’ba?) for us, a soup with many vegetables including carrots, green beans, skinny green zucchinis, onion, garlic, parsley, and probably a host of others. It is then pureed or blended to a smooth brothy texture, and it can be drunk or spooned depending on your preference. It was salty and tasty, very good to dip bread in.
-Fruit: By fruit I mean citrus fruits, and by that I mean oranges. So good, the best oranges I have ever tasted. And I don’t think I am just saying that because I am putting a spin on everything I eat. Even if I hated it here (which I don’t!) I would stay for the oranges and the orange juice. We got OJ with our ‘continental’ breakfast (hot beverage, cold beverage, croissant) every morning at the hotel, and it was oh so tasty. I was even forced to drink 2 glasses a couple of mornings, woe is me. I don’t think it will be a regular fixture at my house, but no matter, there are plenty of juice stands around where I can get a glass for 4 or 5 dirhams (7-8 dirhams per dollar).
Actually there are plenty of other fruits here, and they are probably all just as good as the oranges. I may be somewhat biased. After every meal fruit is served, a course that I always have room for (my dessert stomach has become my fruit stomach). You have to use a knife to help peel your orange, and most other fruit (apples, pears, etc.) are peeled too. I even tried a banana. It was ok, maybe better than the ones we get in the US, but I don’t think I have been converted just yet. Same story with pears.
Meals are some of my favorite times of the day, and I have a feeling I will return in May with a few extra pounds on my frame. However, all of the walking I will be doing will help combat the rich and delicious fare. I have not had a meal I disliked, and I have greatly enjoyed most of them so far. I will describe a few of the highlights:
-Tagine (perhaps tajine? I have not seen it spelled, and I cannot read Arabic yet): the word describes the conical ceramic ware used to cook the dish of the same name. Because there are so many kinds (you can put anything inside) it seems to describe the vessel more than the food inside it. The first night at a restaurant we had a chicken and green olive tagine with preserved lemon, very tasty and I believe what my dear mommy was imitating at my going-away party (She came pretty close!). Preserved lemons are tangy, salty, and oh so interesting, mmm one of my favorite things so far. My host mother, whose name is Farida, has also served a beef and celery (I think it was celery, comment on dit celery en francais?) tagine and a garlicky chicken and potato tagine. The latter was very tasty, and my fingers are still tinted yellow.
-The Method: At the center last week for orientation we the Americans were well fed and watered, pampered by the jovial cook Ibrahim, and we ate almost entirely western-style with plates and silverware. The exception was our last dinner, on Saturday night, when we ate Bastille with our hands. We were told during orientation that most Moroccans eat with their hands, and so far I have found that true. But it’s not only the hands that are used, and there is an important style that I am still trying to master. A triumvirate (more coordinated than the Romans) of the right thumb, forefinger, and middle fingers are used to escort food from the communal dish to one’s mouth. Though one’s hands are washed, it is important that the fingers don’t fully enter one’s mouth, because those fingers will soon be back in the dish.
The triumvirate can function on its own, but it is more often than not accompanied by Hobbs, the Darija word for bread. It comes in thick disks of varying diameters, and the texture and taste is pretty close to French bread (baguettes are also widely available). The bread is torn into small pieces, and those are used to scoop up a bite of food. Mothers are the bread-keepers and distributors, and the bread is very freely given (especially to guests). It can be tricky to keep the morsels on the bread, but I am sure my skills will improve. Its fun to eat with your hands.
Also a quick word on the communal dish. Like in others parts of Africa I have experienced (and probably many other parts of the world), imaginary zones known by all are ascribed to the dish based on the number of people at the table. One only takes from the zone in front of them, for it is improper to cross into another person’s zone. The choicest morsels do however seem to find their way into my zone when I am not looking. I guess it pays to be a guest.
-Couscous: We were served couscous once at the center for lunch, and it was toute seule, accompanied by a thin gravy. I ladled some of the sauce and stuff from other dishes onto it, but I am not sure about the different ways it is prepared and served. I will report back. It seems like it is not a normal accompaniment to tagine, but I could be wrong.
-Bastille: Ibrahim made this for our last dinner at the center, somewhat of a special occasion. A big pastry that combines layers of a chunky and sweet almond paste on top of scrambled egg (like what you might find in a quiche) resting on a bed of shredded savory chicken. He showed us how to attack it with a stab of the triumvirate, and hilarity ensued as we tried to emulate him. The dish comes from the country’s Analusian heritage, hence the name. Ibrahim also tried to put more sugar on top, but I found the almond layer quite sweet enough. It is definitely a dish to try, though he said it is usually reserved for special occasions.
-Soups: I have tried two so far, and both were quite excellent. Haveva or Halela, I’m not exactly sure how it is said or spelled, I got with my family at a little restaurant near our house. It is tomato-based as far as I can tell, with little chunks of many vegetables. I could only recognize a few, but the chickpeas stood out loud and clear. I am also told it usually has lentils, but I did not find them in my bowl. Farida says that her version is better, but I will have to take her word until I am able to put it to the test. I am told haveva is a staple during Ramadan.
Farida prepared Sob’a (perhaps Sop’ba?) for us, a soup with many vegetables including carrots, green beans, skinny green zucchinis, onion, garlic, parsley, and probably a host of others. It is then pureed or blended to a smooth brothy texture, and it can be drunk or spooned depending on your preference. It was salty and tasty, very good to dip bread in.
-Fruit: By fruit I mean citrus fruits, and by that I mean oranges. So good, the best oranges I have ever tasted. And I don’t think I am just saying that because I am putting a spin on everything I eat. Even if I hated it here (which I don’t!) I would stay for the oranges and the orange juice. We got OJ with our ‘continental’ breakfast (hot beverage, cold beverage, croissant) every morning at the hotel, and it was oh so tasty. I was even forced to drink 2 glasses a couple of mornings, woe is me. I don’t think it will be a regular fixture at my house, but no matter, there are plenty of juice stands around where I can get a glass for 4 or 5 dirhams (7-8 dirhams per dollar).
Actually there are plenty of other fruits here, and they are probably all just as good as the oranges. I may be somewhat biased. After every meal fruit is served, a course that I always have room for (my dessert stomach has become my fruit stomach). You have to use a knife to help peel your orange, and most other fruit (apples, pears, etc.) are peeled too. I even tried a banana. It was ok, maybe better than the ones we get in the US, but I don’t think I have been converted just yet. Same story with pears.
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