My plan for my last few days in Morocco was to visit all the places I hadn’t, say good-bye to all the friends I’ve made, and have some experiences that would help me wrap up, perfectly and succinctly, all the various observations I’ve made about this country thus far. Instead, I got a stomach infection. As such, I’ve spent the last three days mostly confined to my bed. After three days of being unable to eat more than two pieces of bread at most and waking up the fourth day with a fever of 100.1 I decided – well, my mother decided – that it was time I visited a health clinic. I now have at my disposal a lovely little invention called antibiotics as well as stomach soothing medicine that, when poured into a “half-glass of water and stirred vigorously”, is more than vaguely reminiscent of watery mud. Thanks to the combination, I was actually able to walk out of the house today to meet my friend for a good-bye tea, of which I even managed a few sips, at the beautiful little café at the Oudaiyas. On the walk to meet Chakib at Rue de Consuls, I started mulling over what I would write in this, my final blog entry. I was thinking about it as I instinctively walked left when rounding the corner in the road, knowing he would be leaning against one of the cars parked there. It was on my mind as I veered sharply into a small, dark blue alley in the café, knowing that it would lead to another, hidden section of the place, with a view even more beautiful. I was thinking about this entry as I said goodbye to Chakib, automatically leaning in to kiss both his cheeks Moroccan style instead of awkwardly going in for a hug. On the way home, as I took a back way on the outskirts of the medina so as to avoid the sounds and smells of the market – something my stomach just wasn’t capable of dealing with at the moment – I searched my brain for something cathartic enough for a FINAL ENTRY. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, even as I was extra careful not to step on the loose cobblestones in the street – they inevitably douse the bottoms of your jeans with water – and to wave to the fruit guy, who always gives me a good price. It was when the fruit guy waved back that it hit me. I know this place, I thought. I know where the short cuts are, where to buy the best fruit, and how to avoid getting splashed with water. Overjoyed at my discovery and ultimate blog topic – Knowing a Place – I made an automatic right onto my street and looked around, preparing to take it in for the last time. It wasn’t my street. Not even close. There is no way there have been that many shoe sellers on my street without my noticing. I backtracked to the main road and realized that, while I knew which road I was on, I had no idea where my street was. Did I miss it? Had I not gone far enough? Well. So much for Knowing a Place.
I got back home easily enough. I just hadn’t gone far enough down the first time. I took a right by the first mosque instead of the second. I’m glad I did. It reminded me why I love to travel to new places. Coming to Know a Place is a wonderful feeling, but one of the most amazing things about being in a foreign country is all that you don’t know. I’m writing this post with semi-dried henna on my hands. I didn’t realize two things about henna. The first is that it is actually clay like and thick, drying like small lines of mud on your hand. The second is that you leave it on overnight and then wash it off in the morning. I’m pretty happy with my decision to leave the tips of my fingers clean. It allows for typing. Eating, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about. I guess I’ll find out tonight.
And that is, I think, where I will leave things. I can find no conceivable way to wrap up an experience from which I am still learning. And so, with henna on my hands, an infection in my stomach, a suntan on my face, and whole lots of pictures on my camera, I leave this country knowing only that I will one day come back.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Here and Now
The Moroccan Ministry of Culture, which houses the Institute of Dramatic Arts and Film Animation as well as the Institute of Archeology (a fitting combination if I’ve ever seen one…), is set back from a winding road on the outskirts of Rabat, surrounded by the skeletons of buildings that have been abandoned in the process of (de)construction. I was told on the taxi ride to the Ministry today that it was a good thing we (two Moroccan friends and myself) did not take the bus. We would have never gotten there. We did though, and good thing too, because we brought the drums. Today, Daha Wassa, a Moroccan theater company founded by young artists associated with the Institute of Dramatic Arts, performed their production called “Trois nuits avec Madox” in the basement of the Ministry. The room was small and cold. The cement walls were painted in bold colors, the shadows of dancers in bold black strokes along the front wall and Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald along the back. The house was an extension of the stage, consisting of twenty or so folding chairs and several light-blue wooden benches along the edges of the room. A bench ran across the back wall such that the players were completely surrounded by the audience, all of whom were on their level. Horizontal theater. The set included a small table, a few shots glasses, several bottles of alcohol, three chairs and a bar. The people sitting on the back bench could, if feeling particularly disruptive, reach out with their feet and knock over the table.
The play was a little over an hour long and was entirely in Moroccan Arabic. Of which I understand nothing. Armed with just a brief plot outline and my senses, I sat down. As the play progressed, I experienced in miniature what I can only assume happens to the deaf. With the loss of verbal comprehension, my other senses sharpened. I couldn’t understand the words, but I could understand the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, the smell of the cigarette smoke, and the dynamism with which the actors moved about the stage. The sound effects were my favorite part of the evening. For rain, a woman seated on the back bench poured tiny pebbles from one large plastic bottle into another. The wind was a low whistle from a source I could not locate. A man carrying a large metal sheet covered with pieces of packaging tape of varying size created thunder. When they were not on stage, the actors sat in the first row of the seats, as part of the audience. I was delighted by the fluidity with which they transitioned from audience member to player, at one moment laughing at the taxi driver who flailed around like Kramer from Seinfeld and the next having water violently splashed in their face by the woman with a water bottle simulating rain as they entered the bar.
When the play drew to an end, three men at various points in the room began to play the drums, including the ones we have placed in the back of the taxi. In lieu of a curtain call, the five actors danced back on stage and proceeded to grab audience members at random until two thirds of the house was jamming to the sound of drums and laughter. It was this incorporation of the audience into the company combined with the audience itself – funky art students with crazy hair and lots of oversized jewelry – and the plot of the show – a story of five strangers united by suspicion, confusion, disbelief, and an ultimate acceptance of the volatility of reality – that reminded me why I love this kind of immediate, actual theater. Daha Wassa, when translated from Dareeja, means Here and Now. And that’s how I felt tonight. Without being able to understand a word, I was seamlessly incorporated into a here and now that was a construct of both the actors on stage and the audience members laughing on both sides of me.
The play was a little over an hour long and was entirely in Moroccan Arabic. Of which I understand nothing. Armed with just a brief plot outline and my senses, I sat down. As the play progressed, I experienced in miniature what I can only assume happens to the deaf. With the loss of verbal comprehension, my other senses sharpened. I couldn’t understand the words, but I could understand the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, the smell of the cigarette smoke, and the dynamism with which the actors moved about the stage. The sound effects were my favorite part of the evening. For rain, a woman seated on the back bench poured tiny pebbles from one large plastic bottle into another. The wind was a low whistle from a source I could not locate. A man carrying a large metal sheet covered with pieces of packaging tape of varying size created thunder. When they were not on stage, the actors sat in the first row of the seats, as part of the audience. I was delighted by the fluidity with which they transitioned from audience member to player, at one moment laughing at the taxi driver who flailed around like Kramer from Seinfeld and the next having water violently splashed in their face by the woman with a water bottle simulating rain as they entered the bar.
When the play drew to an end, three men at various points in the room began to play the drums, including the ones we have placed in the back of the taxi. In lieu of a curtain call, the five actors danced back on stage and proceeded to grab audience members at random until two thirds of the house was jamming to the sound of drums and laughter. It was this incorporation of the audience into the company combined with the audience itself – funky art students with crazy hair and lots of oversized jewelry – and the plot of the show – a story of five strangers united by suspicion, confusion, disbelief, and an ultimate acceptance of the volatility of reality – that reminded me why I love this kind of immediate, actual theater. Daha Wassa, when translated from Dareeja, means Here and Now. And that’s how I felt tonight. Without being able to understand a word, I was seamlessly incorporated into a here and now that was a construct of both the actors on stage and the audience members laughing on both sides of me.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
"His throne was on water"
The Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca is the largest mosque in Morocco and the third largest in the world. When you get off the train station in Casa, the mosque doesn’t seem all that impressive. In fact, it looks a lot like the many other mosques dotting the horizon. And about the same size. But then you start to walk there. And you keep walking. And as you walk, you realize that the minaret you thought was a few hundred meters away is actually much farther. The many roads that lead to the colossal structure are small and run down, exhibiting yet another paradox in the Moroccan capital of industry. The blue and green tiled minaret towers above it all: the satellites that populate every rooftop, the skyscrapers that are such a shock after a month in Rabat, and the cranes that dot the horizon. Hassan II is not only impressive for the height of its minaret, but also for its girth, two thirds of which juts over the Atlantic Ocean. I found myself, as I stood there craning my neck and blinking in the wind, thinking about the other religious monuments I’ve visited. Notre Dame de Paris came to my mind first. For me, the mystical and powerful quality of Notre Dame lies in its age - in the number of people that have passed through its doors and poured their souls into its confessionals, altars, and pews. The stairs that lead up to the cathedral are worn away by the footfalls of millions and the building is alive with their prayers. Unlike Notre Dame, upon which construction began in the mid-1100s, Hassan II was opened in 1993. And yet, as I stood there, so buffeted by the wind off the ocean that I could lean forward without falling, I found myself awed by a similar sense of power. Perhaps the mosque has had less time than Notre Dame to accumulate prayers, but the prospect of building such a structure requires an equal amount of dedication.
Now that it is on my mind, I see this dedication everywhere I look. It was present in the way the woman in the bathroom at the train station retied her head scarf, peering into the mirror to ensure that the pin fell just right and that sides framed her face perfectly. And then again as another woman on the train did the same thing. She had no mirror, but did it by heart, her gnarled fingers familiar with the manipulation of the fabric, swooping her hair back into the green scarf with an unassuming grace. A few minutes later, still on the train, I watched a young boy reach into the pocket of his black Reebok wind pants and pull out a 2 dirham coin. He shyly crept out of his seat and placed it in the hand of a woman in a spotted headscarf who was asking each passenger to spare her some change. It’s always something small: the press of a young woman’s hand into that of the blind man on Rue Souika as she guides him across a puddle, the orange the man at the fruit stand hands to the giggling toddler, the schoolgirl reaching down to pick up the vegetables that have fallen off a vendor’s cart. Even in the case of the giant mosque, it is the individual mosaics, tiles, fountains, and columns that combine to inspire such awe. And so, with a little over three days left in my month in Morocco, I am reminded of the importance of minutia in the face of a structure into which St. Peter’s Basilica could fit with ease.
Now that it is on my mind, I see this dedication everywhere I look. It was present in the way the woman in the bathroom at the train station retied her head scarf, peering into the mirror to ensure that the pin fell just right and that sides framed her face perfectly. And then again as another woman on the train did the same thing. She had no mirror, but did it by heart, her gnarled fingers familiar with the manipulation of the fabric, swooping her hair back into the green scarf with an unassuming grace. A few minutes later, still on the train, I watched a young boy reach into the pocket of his black Reebok wind pants and pull out a 2 dirham coin. He shyly crept out of his seat and placed it in the hand of a woman in a spotted headscarf who was asking each passenger to spare her some change. It’s always something small: the press of a young woman’s hand into that of the blind man on Rue Souika as she guides him across a puddle, the orange the man at the fruit stand hands to the giggling toddler, the schoolgirl reaching down to pick up the vegetables that have fallen off a vendor’s cart. Even in the case of the giant mosque, it is the individual mosaics, tiles, fountains, and columns that combine to inspire such awe. And so, with a little over three days left in my month in Morocco, I am reminded of the importance of minutia in the face of a structure into which St. Peter’s Basilica could fit with ease.
Friday, January 22, 2010
She sells sea shells
In the past three weeks – has it really already been three weeks? – I have done a lot of learning. I have learned how to tie a head scarf, how to describe myself in Classical Arabic, several odd and unrelated words in Moroccan Arabic, how to eat with my hands (three fingers, right hand only), the fastest way to get from the house to my classroom, at what time the sunsets and when it rises, that art escapes definition, that prices are never fixed, how to eat a Sharon fruit, that the best macaroons are at the end of my street, that almonds from the Rif Mountains are like nothing I’ve ever tasted, how to make a cup of Moroccan mint tea, that a smile and a nod go a long way, that sometimes it’s ok to be late, that Berber is actually a Roman-like language - written from left to right - that has been practically erased from written memory, why the men on Mohammed V feed the pigeons (to prevent them from swarming the markets), that the most interesting people are those that know how to look, that Moroccan minarets are square, and that cockroaches, when burned in a fire, emit loud pops and sparks just like pine needles do.
In celebration of all this learning, I’ve decided to do a little teaching. The other day, I accompanied my friend Conner to a small, blank classroom on the outskirts of Rabat where he teaches English every day. The class theoretically takes place between 4 and 6pm, but since “being on time” isn’t really a concept in Morocco, most students showed up around 4:45. But the ensuing hour and fifteen minutes was some of the most fun I’ve had in this country. As Conner, who’s been here for four months and counting, knows well, a curriculum is sort of beside the point. You never get the same group of students twice and the range of abilities is huge: some unable to understand either the French or English alphabet and some fairly fluent in both. So teaching becomes tangential. And fun. We played head shoulders knees and toes, we SOLD and BOUGHT the same red marker about 10 times, we learned tongue twisters and spent too long trying to describe a PECK, and we read as many different clocks as I could draw. In the meantime, the students made fun of my Arabic and tried to teach us some Arabic tongue twisters which I’m convinced are just a combination of the hardest sounds known to man and don’t actually mean anything. But as I watched their faces light up with joy each time they remembered or word, or when I made a fool of myself by taking off my shoes and wiggling my TOES around, and when I watched the way the oldest (a man about 25 years old) urged on the youngest (who may have been 9), and when I felt their little kisses on my check when the class was over, I realized that I’m still learning.
In an attempt to combat the outrageous amount of (delicious) food that I’ve been consuming in the past couple of weeks, I’ve started running in the mornings. Rabat is a different city between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30. The streets are practically empty and the soft light that infuses everything as the sun slowly rises makes me feel somehow full and energized. Or maybe it’s the sea air. Or the women that I see, some running, some walking, decked out in baseball caps on top of headscarves and full-length sweat suits under their wind proof pants and jackets. Or maybe it’s the sea gulls that are, for some reason, less obnoxious and more romantic early in the morning. Or the little speckled dogs who trot after me for several meters before deciding that I am far too boring and slow. Or maybe it’s just running. Whatever it is, it feels good.
Things to do in my last 6 days here:
-Go to Casablanca
-Learn how to prepare couscous
-Have tea on the terrace of one of the beautiful houses in the Oudaiyas
-Go surfing (!?)
-Get henna-ed. The kind that I actually want. While I’m sitting still and not trying to walk away.
-Visit Chellah, the dusty old fortress at the edge of Rabat
-Fill up my little journal with contact information and promises of continued communication
-Keep on learning.
In celebration of all this learning, I’ve decided to do a little teaching. The other day, I accompanied my friend Conner to a small, blank classroom on the outskirts of Rabat where he teaches English every day. The class theoretically takes place between 4 and 6pm, but since “being on time” isn’t really a concept in Morocco, most students showed up around 4:45. But the ensuing hour and fifteen minutes was some of the most fun I’ve had in this country. As Conner, who’s been here for four months and counting, knows well, a curriculum is sort of beside the point. You never get the same group of students twice and the range of abilities is huge: some unable to understand either the French or English alphabet and some fairly fluent in both. So teaching becomes tangential. And fun. We played head shoulders knees and toes, we SOLD and BOUGHT the same red marker about 10 times, we learned tongue twisters and spent too long trying to describe a PECK, and we read as many different clocks as I could draw. In the meantime, the students made fun of my Arabic and tried to teach us some Arabic tongue twisters which I’m convinced are just a combination of the hardest sounds known to man and don’t actually mean anything. But as I watched their faces light up with joy each time they remembered or word, or when I made a fool of myself by taking off my shoes and wiggling my TOES around, and when I watched the way the oldest (a man about 25 years old) urged on the youngest (who may have been 9), and when I felt their little kisses on my check when the class was over, I realized that I’m still learning.
In an attempt to combat the outrageous amount of (delicious) food that I’ve been consuming in the past couple of weeks, I’ve started running in the mornings. Rabat is a different city between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30. The streets are practically empty and the soft light that infuses everything as the sun slowly rises makes me feel somehow full and energized. Or maybe it’s the sea air. Or the women that I see, some running, some walking, decked out in baseball caps on top of headscarves and full-length sweat suits under their wind proof pants and jackets. Or maybe it’s the sea gulls that are, for some reason, less obnoxious and more romantic early in the morning. Or the little speckled dogs who trot after me for several meters before deciding that I am far too boring and slow. Or maybe it’s just running. Whatever it is, it feels good.
Things to do in my last 6 days here:
-Go to Casablanca
-Learn how to prepare couscous
-Have tea on the terrace of one of the beautiful houses in the Oudaiyas
-Go surfing (!?)
-Get henna-ed. The kind that I actually want. While I’m sitting still and not trying to walk away.
-Visit Chellah, the dusty old fortress at the edge of Rabat
-Fill up my little journal with contact information and promises of continued communication
-Keep on learning.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
The Red City
Marrakech, sometimes referred to as the Red City, is true to its name. The walls and houses of the city are a dusty pink in the afternoon light, a rusty red at night, and a pale orange in the first light of day. The feel here is quite different from that of Rabat. I suddenly find myself surrounded by tourists and my blonde hair, which is so easy to spot in the narrow streets of Rabat, is no longer distinguishable among the crowds of Americans, Swedes, and Germans.
I have been spending my time in two very different and equally incredible places. The first is the house where I am staying for the two to three nights that I will be in Marrakech. It is in the medina, not a five minute walk from the central square. The walk to the house is winding and quiet. The door is easy to spot as it nearly completely covered by a vast and beautiful vine of some kind that spreads tiny purple flowers on the ground beneath it. Upon reaching the door, the vine is the only clue as to what lies beyond. The door opens into a cool, tiled hallway which opens in a courtyard that feels like a personal rain forest. A giant tree is the dominating feature and it rises up the 3 stories and splays out onto the terrace. All of the rooms in the house are open to the air. A winding spiral staircase connects each floor and ends on the terrace, which is more of an extensive series of balconies. I woke up at 7:30 this morning and spent 2 hours there, reading and watching the line of shadow slowly retreat across the clay as the sun made its way into the sky. When I returned to my room, I found a small bird in my shower. After frantically flapping against the closed window, he fled to my dresser, obstinately refusing my help. I opened all the windows and left the room, giving him enough privacy to make his escape. I walked up to the terrace and watched as he winged his way out of my small window and fluttered about the tree, cleary wondering why on earth humans lock themselves into such small, dark closets to bathe.
When I'm not in my own little palace or wandering around the streets of Marrakech, I am in the Palais Bahia. It is a 19th century palace that housed the king and queen of Morocco and then the French colonizing force when they arrived. It has been turned into a national gallery and currently hosts an exhibition of Moroccan art. Part of my job while in Marrakech is to help disinstall the exhibition. Last night, I was in the palace from 8pm to midnight, alternately helping to take down and pack up paintings and marvel at the stars above the several beautifully tiled courtyards. One of the exhibits is housed in the old receiving room of the Moroccan king. The room is enourmous, with doors about two and a half times my height. For the past couple of months, it has housed a work of art of Alice and Wonderland proportions, meant to recreate for adults the sense of being a small child in a world created for grown-ups. The furniture in the room, which is set up as a monolithic bedroom, dwarfs even the tallest visitor. This morning, as I glanced around the room, I spotted the same species of bird that visited me this morning, perched on top of the giantic mattress sprawled on the ground, recently pulled off the even bigger bed. The appearance of the tiny bird, who I like to think of as my friend from this morning, as unlikely as that may be, lent an even greater sense of distortion to the space. I walked out of the doors, only to find myself in an expansive courtyard beneath an even more expansive and eternally blue sky. Sometimes it's nice to feel small.
With red clay, art work, palm trees, and love. Bisoux.
I have been spending my time in two very different and equally incredible places. The first is the house where I am staying for the two to three nights that I will be in Marrakech. It is in the medina, not a five minute walk from the central square. The walk to the house is winding and quiet. The door is easy to spot as it nearly completely covered by a vast and beautiful vine of some kind that spreads tiny purple flowers on the ground beneath it. Upon reaching the door, the vine is the only clue as to what lies beyond. The door opens into a cool, tiled hallway which opens in a courtyard that feels like a personal rain forest. A giant tree is the dominating feature and it rises up the 3 stories and splays out onto the terrace. All of the rooms in the house are open to the air. A winding spiral staircase connects each floor and ends on the terrace, which is more of an extensive series of balconies. I woke up at 7:30 this morning and spent 2 hours there, reading and watching the line of shadow slowly retreat across the clay as the sun made its way into the sky. When I returned to my room, I found a small bird in my shower. After frantically flapping against the closed window, he fled to my dresser, obstinately refusing my help. I opened all the windows and left the room, giving him enough privacy to make his escape. I walked up to the terrace and watched as he winged his way out of my small window and fluttered about the tree, cleary wondering why on earth humans lock themselves into such small, dark closets to bathe.
When I'm not in my own little palace or wandering around the streets of Marrakech, I am in the Palais Bahia. It is a 19th century palace that housed the king and queen of Morocco and then the French colonizing force when they arrived. It has been turned into a national gallery and currently hosts an exhibition of Moroccan art. Part of my job while in Marrakech is to help disinstall the exhibition. Last night, I was in the palace from 8pm to midnight, alternately helping to take down and pack up paintings and marvel at the stars above the several beautifully tiled courtyards. One of the exhibits is housed in the old receiving room of the Moroccan king. The room is enourmous, with doors about two and a half times my height. For the past couple of months, it has housed a work of art of Alice and Wonderland proportions, meant to recreate for adults the sense of being a small child in a world created for grown-ups. The furniture in the room, which is set up as a monolithic bedroom, dwarfs even the tallest visitor. This morning, as I glanced around the room, I spotted the same species of bird that visited me this morning, perched on top of the giantic mattress sprawled on the ground, recently pulled off the even bigger bed. The appearance of the tiny bird, who I like to think of as my friend from this morning, as unlikely as that may be, lent an even greater sense of distortion to the space. I walked out of the doors, only to find myself in an expansive courtyard beneath an even more expansive and eternally blue sky. Sometimes it's nice to feel small.
With red clay, art work, palm trees, and love. Bisoux.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Palm Trees and Scaffolding
Today, I discovered the art of imitation. I found the deep blue of the Kasbah walls in the brilliance of this morning’s sky. The wooden fishing boats, scattered about the beach like giant jacks (of the dozens of boats in the marina, I have only seen two actually floating in the water like boats are supposed to do), are painted with large strips of color: yellow or brown for the sand they rest on, blue for both the sky and the ocean, and white for the clouds overhead. While leaning out of the second story window of an English school outside the city, I waved to a group of schoolgirls, who waved back, beaming. They kept watching me and waving so I smiled as wide as I could, inadvertently scrunching up my nose in the process. The smallest girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, laughed out loud and scrunched up her nose in return, then blew me a kiss. Mimicry has become a defining characteristic of my stay here. Yesterday, I told the headwaiter at the juice bar, who has become a fast friend of mine, that I’m learning Arabic. “Adrus al-fus-ha,” I said. I’m studying classical Arabic. “Tatekalmeen arabi al-fus-ha?” He asked in Classic Arabic. You speak classical Arabic? “Shway-a,” I answered in the Moroccan dialect. A little. It’s hard to avoid picking up dareeja (the Moroccan brand of Arabic) here. Moroccans laugh at me when I use both dareeja and fus-ha in the same sentence. I find their laughter contagious.
Yesterday I met my friend Chakib – the painter from the Ensemble Artisinal – for tea at the beautiful little cafe in the Kasbah. At one point I asked him how to say seagull in Arabic – he told me and I promptly forgot ten seconds later – and the conversation drifted towards our shared childhood dream: flight. He told me about a painter who used to share his studio, who decided to paint the Kasbah from a bird’s eye view. It’s an uncommon angle and I found myself cocking my head to the side and closing my eyes as I tried to imagine the result. The ocean becomes the ground, the mosque a simple circle. The narrow streets of the Kasbah become an intricate network of lines that connect the dots that are all the people and houses in the city. It’s an interesting perspective and the image stays with me.
Unexpected things that have happened in the past couple of days:
-The soldier, looking imposing in his green uniform and severe beret, tiptoeing gingerly past me so as not to step in the puddle that might ruin his shiny black combat boots.
-The sun.
-The chance to spend the weekend in Marrakech, after much uncertainty and phone-tag.
-Yto Barrada, an artist who opened an exhibit at l’appartement-22 tonight, whose husband is from Massachusetts and who knows of the Berkshires. Small world, n’est-ce pas?
-The impressive amount of business cards I now have in my wallet, thanks to the large number of artsy, intelligent, and sort of crazy people I met at the opening tonight.
-The pleasure I experienced in watching two men smear mortar onto a foundation and slowly lay brick after brick, knowing that what was at that moment a complete outline of a house had once been a single brick.
-My own ability to accept that sometimes it’s okay to not know exactly how each day is going to pan out. Mushi mushkil.
Until next time (perhaps from Marrakech), inchallah. Bisoux.
Yesterday I met my friend Chakib – the painter from the Ensemble Artisinal – for tea at the beautiful little cafe in the Kasbah. At one point I asked him how to say seagull in Arabic – he told me and I promptly forgot ten seconds later – and the conversation drifted towards our shared childhood dream: flight. He told me about a painter who used to share his studio, who decided to paint the Kasbah from a bird’s eye view. It’s an uncommon angle and I found myself cocking my head to the side and closing my eyes as I tried to imagine the result. The ocean becomes the ground, the mosque a simple circle. The narrow streets of the Kasbah become an intricate network of lines that connect the dots that are all the people and houses in the city. It’s an interesting perspective and the image stays with me.
Unexpected things that have happened in the past couple of days:
-The soldier, looking imposing in his green uniform and severe beret, tiptoeing gingerly past me so as not to step in the puddle that might ruin his shiny black combat boots.
-The sun.
-The chance to spend the weekend in Marrakech, after much uncertainty and phone-tag.
-Yto Barrada, an artist who opened an exhibit at l’appartement-22 tonight, whose husband is from Massachusetts and who knows of the Berkshires. Small world, n’est-ce pas?
-The impressive amount of business cards I now have in my wallet, thanks to the large number of artsy, intelligent, and sort of crazy people I met at the opening tonight.
-The pleasure I experienced in watching two men smear mortar onto a foundation and slowly lay brick after brick, knowing that what was at that moment a complete outline of a house had once been a single brick.
-My own ability to accept that sometimes it’s okay to not know exactly how each day is going to pan out. Mushi mushkil.
Until next time (perhaps from Marrakech), inchallah. Bisoux.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Tour Hassan, where I was attacked by several henna wielding women. When you tell them you don't want your name written in Arabic on your hand in henna, thank you very much, they roll up your sleeve for you and do it anyway, because "you so beautiful". And then when you don't pay, you have to figure out how to wipe it off using that scrap piece of paper you happened to have in your bag. The result looks a lot like jaundice.
The cemetery below the Kasbah. Rain in the distance. The dark blue line between the water and the sky is actually water. It is the point where the clear water meets the murky river runoff.
My gimbri playing friend. He swung his head round and round while I took the picture so I could capture the tassel on his hat.
The view from my stony patch of sunlight in the Andalusian garden. I spent an hour here pretending to read but really watching various children scramble about the garden, throwing seeds at each other and somehow appreciating the beauty more than most of the camera toting tourists (guilty as charged).
The way it smells after the rain
(This post is in two parts. The first something I wrote yesterday and the second from this morning.)
Remember those new shoes I bought? The (canvas) All-Stars? They will never be dry again. After having hid out in a small cafe during the worst of the rain storm today, I was overjoyed at the sight of the sun peeking through the clouds and decided to do some aimless wandering about town. I ended up at a juice bar with Camille. It turns out that “juice” in Morocco is actually a smoothie. Mine, called Hindi, was avocado, mango, and dried fruit. Sounds weird, tastes delicious. In my excitement over the warmth of the sun and the taste of my smoothie, I forgot the way rain works here in January. Which is more than once. As we headed out from under the protective awning, the sky visibly began to darken. By the time we had walked for about five minutes, Rabat was in full downpour mode. We waited under another awning for the worst of it to die down, by which point the street was ostensibly a river. Unfortunately, we needed to cross this river to get back to the medina. Initially, I tried to hop nimbly on high spots in the road. This failed. I ended up in water above my ankles and this is why my shoes are sitting mournfully in the corner of my room, stuffed with an Arabic newspaper in the vain hope that it will sop up at least some of the water. Mushi mushkil.
My shoes dried after all, thanks in part to the newspaper but mostly due to the sudden appearance of the sun on the most beautiful day I've experienced in Rabat thus far. This morning, a rainbow arched gracefully over the tiny cemetery at the base of the Kasbah. You know how it's nearly impossibly to see the point at which a rainbow begins (or seems to begin, if we are being scientifically accurate)? I could see this one. It emerged from the jetty, licked by the white-tipped waves crashing over its edge. It rose above the murky water and plunged into its depths at precisely the point where the sea seems to split, where the clear ocean water meets the chocolatey brown run off from the river. I sat on the small stone wall that borders the cemetery, relishing the feel of the sun on my back, and watched the rainbow slowly disappear. It seemed to be drawn into itself, slowly rising from the ocean until the last speck of color vanished from the jetty. As the rainbow converged, colors reunited into the soft white light that is so common, and welcome, after rainstorms.
Moments that have made me smile in the past couple of days:
-The sound of the call to prayer from the Andalusian gardens in the Kasbah. You can hear the calls from all the different mosques in the city. It becomes something like a call and response, each voice responding to the variations in tone and pitch of the others. As one dies down, another slowly, subtly takes its place. It is vaguely magical.
-The young Moroccan girl who passed me on the street, beaming, and gave me the best compliment I've ever received: "Tu es bien comme une princesse". You are just like a princess
-The scraggly little kitten in the Andalusian gardens who, while snoozing in the sun, did not realize that he was falling off his perch until he woke up in mid air, scrambling frantically to latch onto the stone wall. He succeeded. I was very proud.
-The two little birds that flew in through a gap in the ceiling today and visited for breakfast. I offered them bread, but they were content to peer around, shake their heads a bit, and fly off. The sky is always better.
With sunshine and sea breeze. Until next time.
Remember those new shoes I bought? The (canvas) All-Stars? They will never be dry again. After having hid out in a small cafe during the worst of the rain storm today, I was overjoyed at the sight of the sun peeking through the clouds and decided to do some aimless wandering about town. I ended up at a juice bar with Camille. It turns out that “juice” in Morocco is actually a smoothie. Mine, called Hindi, was avocado, mango, and dried fruit. Sounds weird, tastes delicious. In my excitement over the warmth of the sun and the taste of my smoothie, I forgot the way rain works here in January. Which is more than once. As we headed out from under the protective awning, the sky visibly began to darken. By the time we had walked for about five minutes, Rabat was in full downpour mode. We waited under another awning for the worst of it to die down, by which point the street was ostensibly a river. Unfortunately, we needed to cross this river to get back to the medina. Initially, I tried to hop nimbly on high spots in the road. This failed. I ended up in water above my ankles and this is why my shoes are sitting mournfully in the corner of my room, stuffed with an Arabic newspaper in the vain hope that it will sop up at least some of the water. Mushi mushkil.
My shoes dried after all, thanks in part to the newspaper but mostly due to the sudden appearance of the sun on the most beautiful day I've experienced in Rabat thus far. This morning, a rainbow arched gracefully over the tiny cemetery at the base of the Kasbah. You know how it's nearly impossibly to see the point at which a rainbow begins (or seems to begin, if we are being scientifically accurate)? I could see this one. It emerged from the jetty, licked by the white-tipped waves crashing over its edge. It rose above the murky water and plunged into its depths at precisely the point where the sea seems to split, where the clear ocean water meets the chocolatey brown run off from the river. I sat on the small stone wall that borders the cemetery, relishing the feel of the sun on my back, and watched the rainbow slowly disappear. It seemed to be drawn into itself, slowly rising from the ocean until the last speck of color vanished from the jetty. As the rainbow converged, colors reunited into the soft white light that is so common, and welcome, after rainstorms.
Moments that have made me smile in the past couple of days:
-The sound of the call to prayer from the Andalusian gardens in the Kasbah. You can hear the calls from all the different mosques in the city. It becomes something like a call and response, each voice responding to the variations in tone and pitch of the others. As one dies down, another slowly, subtly takes its place. It is vaguely magical.
-The young Moroccan girl who passed me on the street, beaming, and gave me the best compliment I've ever received: "Tu es bien comme une princesse". You are just like a princess
-The scraggly little kitten in the Andalusian gardens who, while snoozing in the sun, did not realize that he was falling off his perch until he woke up in mid air, scrambling frantically to latch onto the stone wall. He succeeded. I was very proud.
-The two little birds that flew in through a gap in the ceiling today and visited for breakfast. I offered them bread, but they were content to peer around, shake their heads a bit, and fly off. The sky is always better.
With sunshine and sea breeze. Until next time.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Camel Skin and Espressos
(This is once again backdated. Google does not seem to function on the connection we've established at the house, so I wasn't able to update last night.)
Last night, the four of us who are staying in the house met up with a couple of other students/researchers and we all went to see a Gnawa band play at one of the local restaurants. Gnawa is a type of music brought to North Africa with black slaves from Mali, Guinea and Ghana in the17th and 18th centuries. It is both a fusion of African tradition and Islamic folklore, taking the form of music as well as healing ritual. We didn’t see the full ritual last night, the players having to contend with the sound of dinner chatter and the frantic waiters scurrying past them every few minutes. Despite that, and perhaps only due to the power of suggestion, the incense they were burning combined with the power of their singing felt like it had the ability to heal. One of my favorite images from last night was the juxtaposition of the three men, in their traditional robes, wearing the little red hats that take their name from the city of Fez, and the sleek silver espresso machine that would intermittently spit out coffee into mugs placed surreptitiously above their heads. Morocco.
Today, while exploring the kasbah – the oldest part of the medina – I came across a man playing the same instrument that one of the men was playing last night. He saw me looking and started to smile, telling me to take his picture. Taking photos of Moroccans is generally considered rude and intrusive, so his permission was both sweet and unexpected. I asked him about the instrument. It is called a gimbri, and is made of a single piece of hollowed out wood (apparently his was from the saf-saf tree) with camel skin stretched over the top. It has three strings and it looks for all the world to be an ornately decorated cardboard guitar that pre-schoolers fashion out of rubber bands and a shoe box. I still can’t believe the sound that comes out of its hollow center. It manages to be deep and mournful while having a cheerful quality that makes you want to dance. It reminds me of Morocco. An oxymoronic combination that somehow makes perfect sense.
Places I discovered today:
-Tour Hassan II, the enormous unfinished minaret intended for the Hassan mosque, built in 1196.
-A stall in the souk where I bought myself a fluffy pink bath towel.
-The Oudaïa Kasbah, a fortress at the edge of the medina, with buildings of blue and white stucco that evoke Andalusia.
-The surf hut on the beach, where I drank tea and listened to Jason Mraz in the rain.
-L’ensemble artisinal: a goldmine I stumbled upon. It houses a number of Moroccan artists who use it as a studio, a residence, and a marketplace. I met a young painter there who was eager to answer all my questions and welcomed me back anytime I want. I will be sure to take him up on that.
Until next time. Bisoux!
Last night, the four of us who are staying in the house met up with a couple of other students/researchers and we all went to see a Gnawa band play at one of the local restaurants. Gnawa is a type of music brought to North Africa with black slaves from Mali, Guinea and Ghana in the17th and 18th centuries. It is both a fusion of African tradition and Islamic folklore, taking the form of music as well as healing ritual. We didn’t see the full ritual last night, the players having to contend with the sound of dinner chatter and the frantic waiters scurrying past them every few minutes. Despite that, and perhaps only due to the power of suggestion, the incense they were burning combined with the power of their singing felt like it had the ability to heal. One of my favorite images from last night was the juxtaposition of the three men, in their traditional robes, wearing the little red hats that take their name from the city of Fez, and the sleek silver espresso machine that would intermittently spit out coffee into mugs placed surreptitiously above their heads. Morocco.
Today, while exploring the kasbah – the oldest part of the medina – I came across a man playing the same instrument that one of the men was playing last night. He saw me looking and started to smile, telling me to take his picture. Taking photos of Moroccans is generally considered rude and intrusive, so his permission was both sweet and unexpected. I asked him about the instrument. It is called a gimbri, and is made of a single piece of hollowed out wood (apparently his was from the saf-saf tree) with camel skin stretched over the top. It has three strings and it looks for all the world to be an ornately decorated cardboard guitar that pre-schoolers fashion out of rubber bands and a shoe box. I still can’t believe the sound that comes out of its hollow center. It manages to be deep and mournful while having a cheerful quality that makes you want to dance. It reminds me of Morocco. An oxymoronic combination that somehow makes perfect sense.
Places I discovered today:
-Tour Hassan II, the enormous unfinished minaret intended for the Hassan mosque, built in 1196.
-A stall in the souk where I bought myself a fluffy pink bath towel.
-The Oudaïa Kasbah, a fortress at the edge of the medina, with buildings of blue and white stucco that evoke Andalusia.
-The surf hut on the beach, where I drank tea and listened to Jason Mraz in the rain.
-L’ensemble artisinal: a goldmine I stumbled upon. It houses a number of Moroccan artists who use it as a studio, a residence, and a marketplace. I met a young painter there who was eager to answer all my questions and welcomed me back anytime I want. I will be sure to take him up on that.
Until next time. Bisoux!
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Sacrifical Rooster
Today, I fell in love with Morocco. I knew it would happen sooner or later, at some moment in one of my days, whether profound or ordinary. It happened when I was walking down one of the streets in the new city, sucking away at a kumquat (for some reason I am always surprised by the size of these fruits. I feel like the name connotes something much larger), almost shivering at its sourness. It wasn't a stunning sunset, a gorgeous building, a kind person. It was just a feeling. Very sudden and definitive. So I did what any normal person would do. I turned to Will, who was walking next to me, and I said "I love Morocco". And then I bought two of the best macaroons I've ever had. 1 dirham.
One of the many sounds that have become part of the ambient noise of this house is the crowing of a rooster. Just one rooster. I know roosters. I've worked on a farm. They are mean and annoying and, contrary to popular belief, they do not actually crow at dawn. In fact, they crow at every other hour of the day BUT dawn. But this is no ordinary rooster. It yells. Literally screams. When I first heard it, I thought a small child was being tortured. It turns out that this rooster is living downstairs, in the basement. He has been there for a couple weeks. The others in the house tell me that he is going to be killed at some point. I think he knows. Thus, I have deemed him The Sacrificial Rooster.
Among the several things I did not bring to Morocco, the thing I am regretting the most is a towel. For some reason I just assumed I would be given one here. A symptom, I'm sure, of a hotel lifestyle. Last night, after my shower, I spent much longer than I wanted to drying myself with a 1.5 by 3 ft hand towel. Mush muskila. It was also damp. The thing about Rabat during January is that the air is so heavy with moisture that nothing ever truly dries. Socks, shoes, towels. Hanane is taking me to the souk (open air marketplace) tomorrow to help me buy a larger towel. Moroccans get much better prices on items than foreigners do. This is annoying, but I always find myself admiring natives who take advantage of tourists. Why not? We are fairly obnoxious.
Things I Bought Today:
-1 scarf. The first of many. I love scarves.
-1 pair converse sneakers. My poor moccasins are very wet and very dirty and not going to hold up for much longer.
-1 sharon fruit. Kind of like a small, incredibly sweet pumpkin. Delicious.
-5 kumquats.
-2 macaroons. And what macaroons!
Until next time, inchallah. Bisoux.
One of the many sounds that have become part of the ambient noise of this house is the crowing of a rooster. Just one rooster. I know roosters. I've worked on a farm. They are mean and annoying and, contrary to popular belief, they do not actually crow at dawn. In fact, they crow at every other hour of the day BUT dawn. But this is no ordinary rooster. It yells. Literally screams. When I first heard it, I thought a small child was being tortured. It turns out that this rooster is living downstairs, in the basement. He has been there for a couple weeks. The others in the house tell me that he is going to be killed at some point. I think he knows. Thus, I have deemed him The Sacrificial Rooster.
Among the several things I did not bring to Morocco, the thing I am regretting the most is a towel. For some reason I just assumed I would be given one here. A symptom, I'm sure, of a hotel lifestyle. Last night, after my shower, I spent much longer than I wanted to drying myself with a 1.5 by 3 ft hand towel. Mush muskila. It was also damp. The thing about Rabat during January is that the air is so heavy with moisture that nothing ever truly dries. Socks, shoes, towels. Hanane is taking me to the souk (open air marketplace) tomorrow to help me buy a larger towel. Moroccans get much better prices on items than foreigners do. This is annoying, but I always find myself admiring natives who take advantage of tourists. Why not? We are fairly obnoxious.
Things I Bought Today:
-1 scarf. The first of many. I love scarves.
-1 pair converse sneakers. My poor moccasins are very wet and very dirty and not going to hold up for much longer.
-1 sharon fruit. Kind of like a small, incredibly sweet pumpkin. Delicious.
-5 kumquats.
-2 macaroons. And what macaroons!
Until next time, inchallah. Bisoux.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Mush mushkila
It means no problem. And it a stock phrase in Rabat. I heard it today [NOTE: I actually wrote this yesterday, but couldn't post because the internet was cut for some inexplicable reason] in the taxi, when the driver spent about 20 minutes trying to figure out what road I was referring to. I heard it in the same taxi when we finally figured out that the road was about 500 meters from the hotel where he had picked me up. I heard it from the women who pointed me to the CCCL (where I am taking Arabic classes) when they found me standing in front of the door to someone's house (it was locked...I checked) because I thought it was the center. It turns out the tiny blue sign that said CCCL on the side of the door was actually to let me know that I was ALMOST there. I heard it from my host mother when she let me borrow her cell phone charger because I accidentally sent mine back to the US. I heard it again when the charger didn't work and she brought me to buy one on the street. I heard it when I charged my cell phone only to learn that the Swedish phone doesn't work in Morocco. And I heard it when I went out again (I think for the fifth time) with Hanane to buy a Moroccan cell phone. Mush mushila. No problem
The house where I'm living has two floors. Hanane and her impossibly cute daughter - Jeanette, 9 months - live downstairs with Muhammed, Hanane's husband, and her brother. Hanane's mother lives upstairs. I'm staying downstairs with one other girl from Germany. There are two American boys upstairs. The girls are not allowed upstairs. Nor are we given keys to the apartment. The boys are, though. We must be back in the apartment by 10:30 at night. This curfew does not apply to the men. The Western part of me is, of course, slightly annoyed. The feminist part of me (thanks, Mom) wants to stand up and say "I'll come and go as I please, thank you very much!". But in the end, it just doesn't bother me that much. This is a way of life. It is not my way of life. I would not choose it for myself. But this is how it is. Custom. Just like the way the call to prayer happens 5 times a day, including 6:30am. It is loud. And beautiful. Custom. And we say bismallah before we eat. Custom. Perhaps one that needs to change. Or will change. But for now, I am willing to accept it as part of the experience.
Other parts of the experience:
-My resignation to the fact that the family has a Turkish toilet (look it up), as told to me by the CCCL coordinator, and my overwhelming, pampered sense of joy when I walked into the bathroom to find a Western style toilet, toilet seat and all.
-The sugar cane juice they squeeze for you using giant metal presses on the street. Diabetes in a cup. Delicious.
-The snails that people seem to take shots of, also on the street. Not applicable. Sorry. The line has to be drawn somewhere.
-The Avenue Mohammed V, the most famous street in Rabat. At 8pm, it is so packed with people that you cannot move. Hold on to your pockets, but be sure to look around. The mix of Western junk (anything you could possibly want and don't need at all) and traditional Moroccan merchandise is bizarre and somehow beautiful.
-The fact that Moroccan arabic is about half French, half standard Arabic (I think). No berber here. But I can recognize about every 6th word.
-The way that Hanane holds my hand when we cross the street.
-The way you cross the street. Which is carefully. Cars don't exactly stop for pedestrians. It is our job to dodge the cars. Like I said; carefully.
-The way the medina gets dark before the rest of the city, because the streets are so narrow that the sun can't reach them much later than 4 pm.
-Accepting my dismal sense of direction and the fact that getting lost is part of finding my way.
Until next time. Bisoux!
The house where I'm living has two floors. Hanane and her impossibly cute daughter - Jeanette, 9 months - live downstairs with Muhammed, Hanane's husband, and her brother. Hanane's mother lives upstairs. I'm staying downstairs with one other girl from Germany. There are two American boys upstairs. The girls are not allowed upstairs. Nor are we given keys to the apartment. The boys are, though. We must be back in the apartment by 10:30 at night. This curfew does not apply to the men. The Western part of me is, of course, slightly annoyed. The feminist part of me (thanks, Mom) wants to stand up and say "I'll come and go as I please, thank you very much!". But in the end, it just doesn't bother me that much. This is a way of life. It is not my way of life. I would not choose it for myself. But this is how it is. Custom. Just like the way the call to prayer happens 5 times a day, including 6:30am. It is loud. And beautiful. Custom. And we say bismallah before we eat. Custom. Perhaps one that needs to change. Or will change. But for now, I am willing to accept it as part of the experience.
Other parts of the experience:
-My resignation to the fact that the family has a Turkish toilet (look it up), as told to me by the CCCL coordinator, and my overwhelming, pampered sense of joy when I walked into the bathroom to find a Western style toilet, toilet seat and all.
-The sugar cane juice they squeeze for you using giant metal presses on the street. Diabetes in a cup. Delicious.
-The snails that people seem to take shots of, also on the street. Not applicable. Sorry. The line has to be drawn somewhere.
-The Avenue Mohammed V, the most famous street in Rabat. At 8pm, it is so packed with people that you cannot move. Hold on to your pockets, but be sure to look around. The mix of Western junk (anything you could possibly want and don't need at all) and traditional Moroccan merchandise is bizarre and somehow beautiful.
-The fact that Moroccan arabic is about half French, half standard Arabic (I think). No berber here. But I can recognize about every 6th word.
-The way that Hanane holds my hand when we cross the street.
-The way you cross the street. Which is carefully. Cars don't exactly stop for pedestrians. It is our job to dodge the cars. Like I said; carefully.
-The way the medina gets dark before the rest of the city, because the streets are so narrow that the sun can't reach them much later than 4 pm.
-Accepting my dismal sense of direction and the fact that getting lost is part of finding my way.
Until next time. Bisoux!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A List, of sorts
Im squeezed into a stuffy, second floor internet cafe, trying desperately to find the hidden punctuation marks on this cryptic keyboard. The apostrophe still escapes me. Below me, on Avenue Hassan II, a group of people march, clad in different color reflective vests, clapping and shouting in what I imagine is Berber. In the pouring rain. They carry signs that might clue me in to their purpose, but my Arabic is limited to the ability to sound out words, without a clue as to their meaning. This doesnt stop me from being absurdly proud of myself when I do manage to sound out the words, however poorly. Reading sans comprehension. Thats like halfway there, right?
Ive only been here for a few brief hours, so instead of going on at length about my experiences thus far, I will leave you with my to do list:
-Find the apostrophe
-Find a map. I could really use a map.
-Get some Moroccon coins so Im not forced to pay some guy the equivalent of 13 dollars for carrying my luggage to the nearest taxi. In my defense, I thought he was the driver.
-Find out where the women in this country eat. Thus far, nearly every cafe and restaurant I have passed has been occupied solely by men.
-Discover.
Ive only been here for a few brief hours, so instead of going on at length about my experiences thus far, I will leave you with my to do list:
-Find the apostrophe
-Find a map. I could really use a map.
-Get some Moroccon coins so Im not forced to pay some guy the equivalent of 13 dollars for carrying my luggage to the nearest taxi. In my defense, I thought he was the driver.
-Find out where the women in this country eat. Thus far, nearly every cafe and restaurant I have passed has been occupied solely by men.
-Discover.
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