Celebrate Good Times, Yellah!

Please excuse my prolonged absence from the blogging world. A combined set of bad circumstances kept me preoccupied:

∗On Friday, my roommate and I took a walk to a beautiful, secluded ocean spot near my apartment. We were so surprised that we’d never visited this oasis (see left)! It was peaceful and calm, not like the other beaches that are full of Moroccan shebab (youth) pushing the limits of cultural appropriateness with their girlfriends. Turns out the reason it was so under-populated is because it’s a popular hang out for homeless, drunken soldiers. We experienced an encounter with one such man that left us badly shaken, but nonetheless, physically and materially unharmed. And though we now flinch at harassment that once wouldn’t faze us, we found there were a great many people here who cared about and supported us in our time of need.

Papa Hamid celebrating! Photo credit to Wajida Syed

∗ Then Monday morning I woke up with a sore throat. No matter, I was prepared: I brought Halls Fruit Breezers and plenty of ibuprofen from home. Turns out those weren’t quite enough. That night I alternated between burning hot and shaking all over with cold. My host mom insisted it was because I’d drank cold water with hot food the night before. When my alarm went off Tuesday morning, I rolled over and grumbled to my roommate that I wasn’t getting up for school. While I would have liked to spend the day wrapped up in a blanket in front of the TV, my host sister and I ended up entertaining the painters (who finished painting weeks ago) all day.

"Happy Birthday Hamid"

And though I was still sick enough to go to the doctor this morning (turns out I have bronchitis – which Mama Rachida now says was caused by too much sun), it didn’t stop me from celebrating last night! It was Papa Hamid’s birthday. Robin and I bought noise makers and candy to accompany the smoothies and two cakes Mama Rachida provided. The neighbors came over with their two sons, their host student, Wajida, and a cousin who just finished his high school studies in France. Some have told me that men in Morocco often don’t celebrate birthdays, but Papa Hamid has reminded us over and over from day one that his was March first. I’m glad I got to see what a birthday celebration is like in my household.

 

About the title of this post: “yellah” is an idiomatic phrase used to mean, “come on,” or “get going.” I often hear mothers yelling it at children who are lagging behind or at the end of phone conversations. Many phrases like this have crept into my vocabulary in the past two months. And there will be more to come, inshallah!

More Photos!

Because I had some technical malfunctions when it came to uploading pictures last time, here’s another go. Take 2!

 

Dreaming in Moulay Idriss

This weekend I found my own little piece of heaven in a place called “Moulay Idriss.” While visiting the Roman ruins in Volubilis the weekend before, my friends and I had spotted this tiny little city, nestled between mountains. On Thursday, we decided to follow our fancy and stay at Dar Zerhoune, a bed and breakfast run by an acquaintance of ours, for the weekend.

The inn itself was largely a guest house, tucked into the back alleys of the city. Our host, Fayssal, met us at the city square, right where our taxi left off.  To start off, he gave us a tour of the 450 year-old house: three bedrooms with two beds and a bathroom (including a shower with a brick floor) each, a traditional salon with a small library, a kitchen at our full disposal, a dining room that looks out on the first terrace and – up the last spiral staircase – yet another rooftop terrace with two couches. From there we could see Volubilis and the entire city.

The only downside was the heat – or lack thereof. While it was fun and old-timey to use hot water bottles to warm our sheets, the rooms got so cold on the last night that our Nutella froze. Whoops.

Our first night in Moulay Idriss we hit the one main street to find food, and boy did we find it. Fayssal led us to a roadside restaurant with the best kefta and chicken I had ever eaten. The meat was tender and thoroughly spiced, but not spicy. The onions, eggplant and other vegetables grilled with it only enhanced the flavor.

But the second night topped the first, in terms of cuisine. We picked up fresh ingredients (tomatoes, green pepper, hot pepper, kefta, pasta, garlic, basil, parsley, etc.) from the bustling Saturday market and cooked up a spectacular spaghetti dinner. The only thing missing was the wine; Moulay Idriss is one of the holiest cities in Morocco because of its shrine so alcohol is even more difficult to find than usual.

Saturday afternoon (before our pasta feast), the four of us made the three-mile hike to Volubilis with a picnic lunch. We ate around 4:30 p.m., trying not to drop olives and orange peels on a 1900 year-mosaic. Then we spent the next two hours discussing all those things you’re supposed to avoid with family (from religion, to politics, to relationships). At 6:00, we watched the sun set over the hills. The cloud in front of the sun itself shielded our eyes from its brightness while still allowing us to see the pinks, oranges, purples and blues that followed its descent.

When we left the train station on Sunday, protestors filled the street between us and our way home. We proceeded with caution, but as it turned out, everyone there was relatively calm. Families sat under umbrellas with children, watching the crowds and soaking up the sun. Young men and women milled about, some wearing Moroccan flags, some carrying signs, some carrying umbrellas left over from the morning’s rain. One man slept on the grass beneath a palm tree. I found out tonight that five people were killed in a protest to the north and east of Rabat, but I saw no violence in the capital. Don’t believe the newspapers. At least for tonight, Rabat is safe from the fires of revolution.

This entry also posted to The Incubator.

Strike A Pose, There’s Nothing To It

For $25 per month, Meditel gives me a little magic stick that guarantees internet access virtually anywhere. It does not guarantee, however, that it’s fast internet. In fact, it’s generally too slow to upload more than three pictures in an hour. For that reason, I hadn’t uploaded very many photos of my trip until Wednesday, when I camped out at an cafe with free WiFi (pronounced wee-fee) for a couple hours. Here are some of the best ones:

 

Five Weeks of Family Matters

Today is the five-week anniversary of my moving in with Mama Rachida and Papa Hamid, and it’s also the Prophet’s Birthday.

Eid Mubarak Said! To celebrate, Mama Rachida whipped up even more food than usual, including a flaky pastry glazed with honey and sesame seeds. That came with breakfast and our morning tea, which we ate sitting for the first time on the zebra print sofa in the hall.

Then for lunch we enjoyed a roast something (Mama Rachida called it “shwa”) accompanied by bread and a rice salad dressed in mayonnaise and hard boiled egg. The fowl – whatever it was – came complete with olives, cheese and what was likely a turkey salami on toothpicks.

The entire immediate family gathered for the meal — plus one addition. The painter who last week redid our apartment, floor-to-ceiling, joined us for the third time this week. The other students and I marvel at the relationships that unfold in our families: one day you hire a man to paint your hallway, the next you invite him to Eid lunch. He even came with the family to visit Rachida’s aunt this afternoon!

This is the only family portrait I have of all of us so far. From left to right, there’s Rihab, not facing the camera, Mama Rachida, plying people with food as always, Papa Hamid, me, Robin (my roommate) and then the painter, Yussef. My host brother, Yassine, was the one taking the pictures on my camera; hence the unusual coloring. That yellow bottle is mayonnaise — not mustard, in case you were wondering.

Dinner tonight consisted of a vegetable soup of a color and consistency similar to split pea soup, crusty bread to dip in it and an encore of the leftover fowl and rice salad followed by fruit for dessert. At the end of the meal, Rihab’s crazy antics catapulted the whole family into an impromptu musical performance, complete with rhythm, vocals and shimmying. All I could think was, why can’t all days end like this?

 

Signs of Unrest in Morocco

At approximately 12:30 p.m. (7:30 a.m., in D.C.) I saw a man try to light himself on fire in front of Parliament.

At least, that appears to be what happened. I was sitting with friends in an outdoor cafe, facing the street, when all of a sudden, a woman in a red coat started moving quickly towards the street. There was a man surrounded by people with smoke coming up. We saw a clear liquid pouring from a bottle; it wasn’t clear whether it was water or gasoline.

An infant’s high-pitched wail pierced the air while everyone looked on.

Men in blue uniforms quickly stopped the fire and took the man away. Once he was gone, most of the crowd dispersed. About 10 minutes later, a red ambulance with flashing lights parked at the side of the road.

This isn’t the first instance I’ve heard of such things happening in Morocco since the unrest began in Tunisia. I doubt, however, that it will be in the news. The whole thing was largely quashed of in a matter of minutes.

The Moroccans and ex-pats living here tell me Moroccans are too content with life the way it is to uproot the way others in the MENA region have. Things aren’t bad enough here, they tell me. I agree with them; it’s unlikely that anything will come of this. But I’m watching and listening to see what does happen.

This entry originally posted to The Incubator.

Rethinking the Hamam

What’s the topic on everyone’s minds in the Middle East/North Africa region right now? Revolution, of course.

My amazing Islamic World and the West professor, Stuart Schaar, gives us great summations of the situation each Wednesday, but rather than reiterate what he has said, I’d like to point you towards his most recent article. He told us yesterday that he’ll also be coming out with an updated edition of his Middle East Reader very shortly. Originally the publishers weren’t interested, but with all this conflict, they’re rushing him to do it.

*****

Though I take shower much less frequently in Morocco (about 2-3 times per week) than aux États Unis, the hamams ease my discomfort from time to time. A hamam is a public bathhouse, divided by sexes, at its most basic. Generally Moroccan hamams include three rooms, of varying levels of heat. They have taps in the wall that pour hot or cold water into large plastic buckets.

My first experience with a hamam was less than stellar. My host sister and her friend took my roommate and me to the one down the road from our house during our first weekend at the home. The space was cramped with only one small room to wash, and two women — one young and beautiful, the other old and shriveled — sitting naked, staring up at us. We wore underwear, but I still felt incredibly exposed.

“How could anyone get comfortable being naked in front of other people all the time?” I wondered. How many times had I felt that exact same sensation in bad dreams of losing clothes in public places?

Wajida at our favorite smoothie place

But my second experience was much more comfortable. My host brother drove my roommate and our friend, Wajida, to a more prestigious hamam, where for $1.50 each, we received a two-hour steam bath in a hall with tiled walls, vaulted ceilings and many, many naked women.

There were bodies of all shapes and sizes; some, I never knew existed in real life. Almost every age was represented: from little girls of about 8 to gray-haired, saggy women. This time I was almost immediately comfortable. Everyone was naked! No one had anything to hide!

I can only wonder, how would my regard for my body be different if I had grown up seeing the female body as something routine, almost ordinary, rather than taboo and dangerous?

The best part was the incredible scrub down that is customary at the hamam. For 50 dirham ($6.25), one of the women who work there will do it for you, or you can do it yourself, using a serrated glove called a kis to rub the dead skin right off your body. The women will also cover you in “sabon,” a dark soap that is especially formulated to prepare you for the kis. Waj and I traded off doing each others’ backs, and left the hamam feeling  immaculate, elated and exhausted.

This entry also posted to American University’s The Incubator.

You Can’t Forget the Golden Age

This weekend marked my first time leaving Rabat since I arrived for orientation, three weeks ago. I travelled with six women and Carson (the token male) north to Tangiers, where I learned a thing or two more about Morocco:

1. It’s really, really close to Spain. Of course, I knew this in theory before, but I’d never seen it put into practice. From my hotel room (the same hotel at which Allen Ginsberg and others of the beat generation stayed back in the day), I could see the strait of Gibraltar and a lurking, blurry, blue landmass: Spain.
2. It gets a lot of rain. Throughout Saturday, we got caught in spurt of rain after spurt of rain. Once when we were particularly close to the ocean, the wind picked up. Everyone around us scattered, hiding under the nearest palm tree or statue. It’s a good thing I bought that LL Bean raincoat before I left. But after 20 minutes or so, the sun came out again and warmed us well enough.
3. It really helps to travel with a man. When the group split up, I went with the male-less division to visit the Medina (a winding, hilly series of storefronts, similar to Rabat’s, but less walled off) and the Kasbah. On our way, we accidentally picked up a “guide,” who kept running ahead, pausing to look back and saying, “Come on, please,” even when we assured him we were fine. When we finally arrived at the Kasbah (a museum near a spectacular cliff, hidden behind a wall, that opens up onto the entire ocean), we told him, “Safi!” or “That’s enough!” and he left without question.Just as we were deciding what to do next, another man came along. This one was more insistent, and what’s worse, he knew the way back better than we did. He half-followed, half-led us through the maze of the Kasbah until we finally found a place we recognized. We tried the same spiel (“Safi! Baed meni!”), to which he said, “All right. I help you, you help me. Give me money.” We refused, maintaining that we’d been trying to get rid of him for the past half hour. With that, this friendly man turned on us. “Fine, I am Moroccan dog. I follow you Americans around like a dog. Fuck you! Fuck you and your country!”He shouted this at our backs; we didn’t dare slow down until we were out of the Kasbah and back among the crowds of the Medina. Even then, we only stopped to buy a pair of shoes for one of the girls (hers had broken in the flight from the man’s fury), then continued on to meet up with Carson. We refused to leave his side for the rest of the afternoon.

Though that last experience might paint a bleak picture of my visit to Tangiers, I’ve started a new tradition in the past week that I think is relevant, in light of it. My professor, Stuart Schaar, attended Bernard Lewis’ (author of “What Went Wrong?: The Clash Between Islam and Modernity in the Middle East“) introductory class on Early Islam at Harvard circa 1958 and now bemoans the academic’s knack for leaving out any positive aspect of the religion. “He just left out the Golden Age!” Well, I refuse to leave out the Golden Age. Though I had one bad run in on my trip, for the most part, I enjoyed a wonderful weekend away. I saw and tasted beauty unlike any in the U.S. I stuck my toes in the Mediterranean!

But potentially the best part of going away was realizing upon my return that Rabat is finally starting to feel like home. Sure, Robin and I got lost on our walk back from the train station in the rain. But a short time later, we found our way again — without a map, without a GPS and without asking for directions.

I Would Walk 500 Miles…

Today I walked the streets of Rabat more than I have in quite a while. More than I intended, perhaps.

Last week, the city completely overhauled the bus system. The numbers changed, the routes changed and  brand-spanking-new “to-buses” (short for autobuses) replaced the old clunkers that circulated Rabat during the first two weeks of my stay here.

Prior to the revamping, state workers handed out pamphlets outlining the changes — all in Arabic. So it came as quite a surprise to my French-speaking friends when come Monday morning, their bus simply didn’t show up.

Earlier this week, AMIDEAST posted the new bus routes in our study abroad room. So armed with this new information, two friends and I attempted to take the bus from our homes to Agdal today. Passing the entrance to the Medina, we saw our bus up ahead and sped up, weaving through the crowds of old women and men to get to the #3 bus.

When we emerged, the doors to the bus had already closed, but the driver reopened them when he saw our frantic pleas. We sat down, paid our 3.6 dirhams to the fare collector and settled in. I felt victorious — I’d finally conquered my fear of public transportation (bred by many a bus mishap in D.C.).

But 15 minutes later…”Uh oh,” Carson said. “This is the wrong bus.”

How could he be sure? Certainly there was more than one way to get to Agdal.

“Nope, that’s the only road that goes to the university,” Carson said, indicating the one opposite the bus.

So we got off the bus and walked. And walked. And walked. Once at the cafe, my friend realized she’d left her wallet at home. I offered to share a cab with her but realized that wouldn’t help the situation. She would still have to pay at some point. Instead, we took a cab to her apartment, and I walked the rest of the way to my apartment alone.

Those 10 minutes made me realize how holed up I’ve been the past three weeks. I’ve barely been out on my own for more than an instant. Was it the cool night breeze or this rediscovered independence that made me feel so invigorated?

This weekend I’m off for a jaunt to Tangier. I’m leaving the laptop behind, so I’ll likely have no internet until Sunday. See you then, blogosphere!

In Case You’re Interested…

Here are a couple wonderfully educational videos for you to enjoy:

• Alif Baa
• Wahed, Ithnan