So we get catcalled. A lot. But my favorite, as you know, is when guys who watch us go by on the street just say the only English words they know (which might be cuss words) or the first thing that comes to mind, like this guy the other day who looked at me quizzically and said: A-RAbot! (Rabat!) to which I responded: SaH (Correct!) and walked on.
So my host father thinks he's funny that he can't speak English. Or Hebrew. But he tries. Our conversations with him consist of two word sentences, him responding in French, us nodding and smiling, him attempting to dredge up some word from his Hebrew lexicon, failing, but thinking that the French word that he's repeating over and over again is eventually going to make sense to us, and then laughing. Oh and yesterday he came out without his shirt on. I think he was trying to find it. But our host(grand)father is not a small man in circumference, and Lisa could NOT stop laughing though (silently, alhumdulilah) though I, ever the stoic, remained stonyfaced.
We went to "Cyber" on Saturday night since we don't have Internet in our house. Not the one near the house ("Sakana," warned our host sister), the one near the synagogue, which, by the by, you wouldn't know was a synagogue if there weren't an armed guard and men saying Kiddush Levana in their kippot outside. Good cover, Jews of Rabat. Anyway, at Cyber it took 10 minutes to load the computer and for us to realize that the keyboard was in French so that a "Q" is where the "A" should be and the ";" is where the "M" should be. It was rough. And then I realized I had to pee. Desperately. I asked the teenage guy at the desk -- who must have thought it was hilarious to watch American girls poking his keyboards -- if there was a "beit al-maa", he said "wee" and proceeded to show me the Turkish bathroom (=hole in the floor). That wasn't going to happen. So I grabbed my roommate, paid for our time, and we RAN to the hotel down the block. A blessing on French toilets.
Bon Iver is your artist of the day. I've been listening to him quite a bit lately, and its just the sort of sad, beautiful music that I love any time of day. This song- and the video is appropriate, I think- is called Wolves (Act I and III).
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Cutlure Shock, Part ...
I don't know how many parts to my culture shock there will be, but for now, this is part 1.
Medina Living; Class Identity. Host family; Jewish Identity. Harassment dialogue; Female Identity.
These are the things that are on my mind. I have not much else to say otherwise (you andI both know that that's a lie, but this is a blog, not a journal, and you are a passive audience far away, not a chum on my left ready for a pillowchat. As I understand that this is unfair to you, I will relate a bit about my home stay and relay to you this article about being an American woman abroad which I just read that I found excruciatingly moving.
I live in the Medina. What this means is that the roads and houses are narrow, the motorcycles are fast and loud, and when you walk out of the house, whether it be night or day, it smells like a mixture of garbage and urine. The house is small - though I haven't explored it all. It sits on to top of a Hanut (Hewbrew speakers, read: Chanut. It's a Makolet, basically), wherefrom was procured our breakfasts this morning. When you get to the door, which is bright red, you unlock the outer treis and then the door itself only to be faced with some of the steepest, but ornately tiled, steps I've ever seen. I'm amazed still that my host (grand)father is able to climb them (recall, he's 71). You come into a sort of middle open space that is the connector for all of the other rooms. Behind you when you walk in are two rooms with toilets. I call them rooms with toilets because they are just that. And they're next to each other. Why? To quote my host mother, "This one is mine. You are a little girl, this one is yours." And a room - on the other side of the house - with a sink and a shower (!?). There is a dining room and a bedroom and a TINY kitchen, and then there is a sitting room...which now mine and Lisa's. We sleep (or, in my case, try to sleep) on couchybed things with two sheets. I'll stop describing now and just take some pictures, but I will say two more things.
My host family speaks French. My host father speaks very very little Arabic, his Hebrew is actually better. Needless to say, we don't communicate well. My host sister, who is returning to Beit/s Ya'acov in France speaks fluent French, her Hebrew is better than her fathers, and her Arabic is FusHa. Who speaks FusHa!? Foreigners. Weird. But we can communicate with relative ease. My host mother speaks perfect French, and her Arabic is good, not great, but she makes up for it in enthusiasm. She is spunky, full of life, and overly concerned about our well being. She took us to see every possible mode of transportation that we might take AmidEast last night around 10pm, to make sure we understood how to take a Grand Taxi, a Petit Taxi, and the bus. On the way we stopped to say hello to all the neighbors. Saying hello is not a short wave, its a "Labas? Labas! Labas Aleyk? Labas! Labas Aley Ochtik? Labas labas!" and it goes on. We never did figure out where the bus stops. The FrenchArabic that is spoken here is going to make me crazy. I'll understand the first chunk of what someone is saying, and then all of a sudden I'll be totally lost in the French only to come back 4 1/2 seconds later when the Arabic starts up again. Sentences were so totally confused, and even more so when you're dinner conversations are held in Farabrewnglishench, over the sounds of the Darija (Moroccan Frarabic)-dubbed Turkish soap opera on TV. But the food was great. It was the first REAL food I've had in Middle East: Traditional couscous. With meat. And I ate it. It looks like I won't be holding to a strict "vegetarian sustainable kosher" diet here in Morocco, and instead will be taking up a strict diet of "Polite".
To top it all off, there is no Internet in their house, and I (knowingly) put ice in my water yesterday which was made from tap water, so I was ill this morning. But I'm not complaining yet. This is just the beginning.
No song for now - gotta run to class. Later. Before Shabbat.
Medina Living; Class Identity. Host family; Jewish Identity. Harassment dialogue; Female Identity.
These are the things that are on my mind. I have not much else to say otherwise (you andI both know that that's a lie, but this is a blog, not a journal, and you are a passive audience far away, not a chum on my left ready for a pillowchat. As I understand that this is unfair to you, I will relate a bit about my home stay and relay to you this article about being an American woman abroad which I just read that I found excruciatingly moving.
I live in the Medina. What this means is that the roads and houses are narrow, the motorcycles are fast and loud, and when you walk out of the house, whether it be night or day, it smells like a mixture of garbage and urine. The house is small - though I haven't explored it all. It sits on to top of a Hanut (Hewbrew speakers, read: Chanut. It's a Makolet, basically), wherefrom was procured our breakfasts this morning. When you get to the door, which is bright red, you unlock the outer treis and then the door itself only to be faced with some of the steepest, but ornately tiled, steps I've ever seen. I'm amazed still that my host (grand)father is able to climb them (recall, he's 71). You come into a sort of middle open space that is the connector for all of the other rooms. Behind you when you walk in are two rooms with toilets. I call them rooms with toilets because they are just that. And they're next to each other. Why? To quote my host mother, "This one is mine. You are a little girl, this one is yours." And a room - on the other side of the house - with a sink and a shower (!?). There is a dining room and a bedroom and a TINY kitchen, and then there is a sitting room...which now mine and Lisa's. We sleep (or, in my case, try to sleep) on couchybed things with two sheets. I'll stop describing now and just take some pictures, but I will say two more things.
My host family speaks French. My host father speaks very very little Arabic, his Hebrew is actually better. Needless to say, we don't communicate well. My host sister, who is returning to Beit/s Ya'acov in France speaks fluent French, her Hebrew is better than her fathers, and her Arabic is FusHa. Who speaks FusHa!? Foreigners. Weird. But we can communicate with relative ease. My host mother speaks perfect French, and her Arabic is good, not great, but she makes up for it in enthusiasm. She is spunky, full of life, and overly concerned about our well being. She took us to see every possible mode of transportation that we might take AmidEast last night around 10pm, to make sure we understood how to take a Grand Taxi, a Petit Taxi, and the bus. On the way we stopped to say hello to all the neighbors. Saying hello is not a short wave, its a "Labas? Labas! Labas Aleyk? Labas! Labas Aley Ochtik? Labas labas!" and it goes on. We never did figure out where the bus stops. The FrenchArabic that is spoken here is going to make me crazy. I'll understand the first chunk of what someone is saying, and then all of a sudden I'll be totally lost in the French only to come back 4 1/2 seconds later when the Arabic starts up again. Sentences were so totally confused, and even more so when you're dinner conversations are held in Farabrewnglishench, over the sounds of the Darija (Moroccan Frarabic)-dubbed Turkish soap opera on TV. But the food was great. It was the first REAL food I've had in Middle East: Traditional couscous. With meat. And I ate it. It looks like I won't be holding to a strict "vegetarian sustainable kosher" diet here in Morocco, and instead will be taking up a strict diet of "Polite".
To top it all off, there is no Internet in their house, and I (knowingly) put ice in my water yesterday which was made from tap water, so I was ill this morning. But I'm not complaining yet. This is just the beginning.
No song for now - gotta run to class. Later. Before Shabbat.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
There's no 911 in Morocco
So, yeah. There's no 911 in Morocco. If you have an emergency, we have been told to call AmidEast (my study abroad program, a United States government sponsored NGO) because they can get to you faster than even private ambulances, and public ones normally take approximately 2 hour to arrive.
But that's the only thing that Egypt has on Morocco. They have an emergency number (I think its 211). Other than that one amenity, Morocco surpasses Egypt in almost every arena. Here are a list of just a few, aside from the awesomeness of the souk which I mentioned in my last post:
1) The taxis are blue, not yellow. (I think its a Rabat thing) And they're not falling apart. Well, at least not all of them. And they adhere to laws. Like the law that they're only allowed to take up to 3 people. Yesterday there were nine of us who needed to go somewhere. In Egypt we would have taken one, maybe two taxis. Here we took 3. Also, did I mention that they're blue?
2) There are traff
ic lights. And stop signs. Admittedly, they are adhered much more as "suggestions" than as "laws", but the fact that we don't have cops directing every single intersection, is sort of nice. Here's a picture of my roommate, Lisa, with one of the aforementioned motorized bicycles. Apparently the idea is that if the motor dies, or you run out of gas, its OK, because you can just bike! I sorta want one, but they made us sign, practically in blood, not to drive while we're here.
3) Egypt was cheap, Morocco is cheaper. Last night - going to dinner, cabbing around, having an orange juice at a cafe - cost approximately $4. Its sort of shocking. Oh and I got my cards in the mail today (IDs, debit card, and insurance card) BUT my debit card STILL doesn't work. I'm getting better at being frugal, but I don't know how much longer I can last. I think I could keep this up for about 2 more weeks. I have 400 dirham.
4) I can JOG! I have gone jogging in the park up the road for the last two mornings. I go with a friend or two at 6:30am when its cool and people are still sleeping after their shuhur meal, and I RUN. I RUN IN AN ARAB COUNTRY AND AM NOT HARASSED! (poo poo poo). Like the blue taxis, this might just be just a Rabat thing, as it is the political capital of this city, or maybe just a Ramadan thing, but it is SO refreshing not to be catcalled...I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
5) I have yet to see a MaybeDead person! I saw one every other week or so in Egypt, but none here (poo poo poo!). But, I just found out today, that I'll be living in the Old City (Medina) in the Mellah (Jewish Quarter) which is going to be in a relatively seedy, but also ancient and awesome part of Rabat which houses the synagogue and one kosher restaurant called Le Circle (Nine of us last night had an adventure last night finding it only to realize that it's actually NOT open during Ramadan. I think its a bar during the rest of the year). My host mother and father are more like host grandmother and host grandfather. She's in her 50s and he's in his 70s! She's a housewife and he's retired. Their kids all live in France, they have a beautiful big house, and she cooks a lot. And they keep kosher. I'm stoked.
6) FRENCH. Grrrrrrrrr. As my cab driver explained it: It's all about who occupied whom. The English occupied Egypt, so they speak English -- but they don't. And the French occupied Morocco, so they speak French -- which they do!
In other ways, Morocco is just the same as Egypt. There are the same *Gay?*Men (i.e. men who hold hands and caress one another in public). The same cats (picture) and mice guts on the streets, evidence of snack times past. Same cafe/makolet/street vendor culture which, though weird now because its Ramadan, will, I'm sure, provide ample places to people watch. Same men who shout anything they know in English at you whether it be curse words "Where you from?", "Welcome!" or "Spice Girls!", or "Is the circus in town?" (if there are a lot of us walking together).
We went to the beach today, fully clothed, or at least most of us were. We played soccer, volleyball (with the soccer ball), and waded in the water. Then we watched the sunset from the jetty. Lovely. And then came the nightly search for food during Ramadan. I ended up with nuts and bread and fruit. Typical fare. Everyone else managed to get pizza or kofta (Arab sausage). Then we went out to Hotel Balima (I call it Hotel Bulimia) for tea/coffee/juice. Cute.
Side note, slightly related to Hotel Bulimia: My friend today was talking to some Moroccans and when she was ready to go she said what she thought was the Moroccan word for "goodbye" which is "bislama" literally, "in peace". Instead she said "bismiallah" which means "in the name of God" which is the beginning of the Shahada or "testimony" which is a statement of affirmation of Muslim belief. Dyslexia is one of my favorite things in foreign languages. We all have it, and it makes for some amusing anecdotes.
And for the song, today's artist is Gomez, who I was introduced to by a good friend of mine who is now music major, so you know it has to be good. Ambivalently upbeat both in music and lyrics, the song (live) is called Hamoa Beach.
But that's the only thing that Egypt has on Morocco. They have an emergency number (I think its 211). Other than that one amenity, Morocco surpasses Egypt in almost every arena. Here are a list of just a few, aside from the awesomeness of the souk which I mentioned in my last post:
1) The taxis are blue, not yellow. (I think its a Rabat thing) And they're not falling apart. Well, at least not all of them. And they adhere to laws. Like the law that they're only allowed to take up to 3 people. Yesterday there were nine of us who needed to go somewhere. In Egypt we would have taken one, maybe two taxis. Here we took 3. Also, did I mention that they're blue?
2) There are traff
ic lights. And stop signs. Admittedly, they are adhered much more as "suggestions" than as "laws", but the fact that we don't have cops directing every single intersection, is sort of nice. Here's a picture of my roommate, Lisa, with one of the aforementioned motorized bicycles. Apparently the idea is that if the motor dies, or you run out of gas, its OK, because you can just bike! I sorta want one, but they made us sign, practically in blood, not to drive while we're here. 3) Egypt was cheap, Morocco is cheaper. Last night - going to dinner, cabbing around, having an orange juice at a cafe - cost approximately $4. Its sort of shocking. Oh and I got my cards in the mail today (IDs, debit card, and insurance card) BUT my debit card STILL doesn't work. I'm getting better at being frugal, but I don't know how much longer I can last. I think I could keep this up for about 2 more weeks. I have 400 dirham.
4) I can JOG! I have gone jogging in the park up the road for the last two mornings. I go with a friend or two at 6:30am when its cool and people are still sleeping after their shuhur meal, and I RUN. I RUN IN AN ARAB COUNTRY AND AM NOT HARASSED! (poo poo poo). Like the blue taxis, this might just be just a Rabat thing, as it is the political capital of this city, or maybe just a Ramadan thing, but it is SO refreshing not to be catcalled...I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
5) I have yet to see a MaybeDead person! I saw one every other week or so in Egypt, but none here (poo poo poo!). But, I just found out today, that I'll be living in the Old City (Medina) in the Mellah (Jewish Quarter) which is going to be in a relatively seedy, but also ancient and awesome part of Rabat which houses the synagogue and one kosher restaurant called Le Circle (Nine of us last night had an adventure last night finding it only to realize that it's actually NOT open during Ramadan. I think its a bar during the rest of the year). My host mother and father are more like host grandmother and host grandfather. She's in her 50s and he's in his 70s! She's a housewife and he's retired. Their kids all live in France, they have a beautiful big house, and she cooks a lot. And they keep kosher. I'm stoked.
6) FRENCH. Grrrrrrrrr. As my cab driver explained it: It's all about who occupied whom. The English occupied Egypt, so they speak English -- but they don't. And the French occupied Morocco, so they speak French -- which they do!
In other ways, Morocco is just the same as Egypt. There are the same *Gay?*Men (i.e. men who hold hands and caress one another in public). The same cats (picture) and mice guts on the streets, evidence of snack times past. Same cafe/makolet/street vendor culture which, though weird now because its Ramadan, will, I'm sure, provide ample places to people watch. Same men who shout anything they know in English at you whether it be curse words "Where you from?", "Welcome!" or "Spice Girls!", or "Is the circus in town?" (if there are a lot of us walking together).We went to the beach today, fully clothed, or at least most of us were. We played soccer, volleyball (with the soccer ball), and waded in the water. Then we watched the sunset from the jetty. Lovely. And then came the nightly search for food during Ramadan. I ended up with nuts and bread and fruit. Typical fare. Everyone else managed to get pizza or kofta (Arab sausage). Then we went out to Hotel Balima (I call it Hotel Bulimia) for tea/coffee/juice. Cute.
Side note, slightly related to Hotel Bulimia: My friend today was talking to some Moroccans and when she was ready to go she said what she thought was the Moroccan word for "goodbye" which is "bislama" literally, "in peace". Instead she said "bismiallah" which means "in the name of God" which is the beginning of the Shahada or "testimony" which is a statement of affirmation of Muslim belief. Dyslexia is one of my favorite things in foreign languages. We all have it, and it makes for some amusing anecdotes.
And for the song, today's artist is Gomez, who I was introduced to by a good friend of mine who is now music major, so you know it has to be good. Ambivalently upbeat both in music and lyrics, the song (live) is called Hamoa Beach.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Moroccan Souk = CRAZY COLOR/SMELL COMBO
This one's for Roxana (!). It's a picture of me with the baby stork that I thought about putting up yesterday, but refrained from because I look more hilarious than the baby stork. But, with Roxy's prompting, here it is, proudly displayed for all to see:
And this one's from tonight's Iftar. Did I mention that there are 27 girls and 3 boys on this program. It was the boy on the left's 21st birthday tonight, ironically placed in the middle of Ramadan:
Too zonked to write more. I'll just write one glimpse of the souk here in Rabat.
The souks all over Morocco are supposed to be fantastic, especially those in Fes and Marakesh. But all I've ever seen are those in Egypt (and Israel and the West Bank)...so I didn't know what to expect. Lets leave at this: I was blown away. The colors ranged from burly brown to ostentatious orange, baby blue to nautical navy, precious pink to rich red. The smells ranged from rancid meat -- I saw more goat heads, feet, and strung up bodies than I ever wanted to in my life -- to spices I never imagined that come in all shades of green and red. I could go on, and eventually will, but for now, I'm going to see if I can get my act together enough to write in my journal and figure out how I can co-ordinate people to go jogging tomorrow, but I wonder if I can summon enough courage, even with a bunch of girls in thi semi-suburban area (Agdal) to go when no one's around in the early Ramadan morn. Song of the moment: Stevie Wonder's "Have a Talk With God". It's Ramadan AND Elul, folks.
And this one's from tonight's Iftar. Did I mention that there are 27 girls and 3 boys on this program. It was the boy on the left's 21st birthday tonight, ironically placed in the middle of Ramadan:
Too zonked to write more. I'll just write one glimpse of the souk here in Rabat.
The souks all over Morocco are supposed to be fantastic, especially those in Fes and Marakesh. But all I've ever seen are those in Egypt (and Israel and the West Bank)...so I didn't know what to expect. Lets leave at this: I was blown away. The colors ranged from burly brown to ostentatious orange, baby blue to nautical navy, precious pink to rich red. The smells ranged from rancid meat -- I saw more goat heads, feet, and strung up bodies than I ever wanted to in my life -- to spices I never imagined that come in all shades of green and red. I could go on, and eventually will, but for now, I'm going to see if I can get my act together enough to write in my journal and figure out how I can co-ordinate people to go jogging tomorrow, but I wonder if I can summon enough courage, even with a bunch of girls in thi semi-suburban area (Agdal) to go when no one's around in the early Ramadan morn. Song of the moment: Stevie Wonder's "Have a Talk With God". It's Ramadan AND Elul, folks.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Adeventures are available at any and every turn in Rabat, even during the Holy Month (not Elul)
Couldn't bear to disappoint my readers, so I'm writing about my first day with the AmidEast Rabat crew.
Here was my day in basic nouns. For all of those who have taken Kaufman's US History class, this could be terms to combine for IDs. One potential thesis might easily be the title of this post.
TERMS:
Ramadan
Oriented
Darija
Ancient Romans
Mosquito
Baby Storks
Pottery Wheel
Carpet Souk
Iftar
Na'ana
Henna
Now allow me to elaborate:
Today was the second day of Ramadan. [Ramadan is a time of elevated spiritual attentiveness and focus. Fasting every day from sunrise to sunset, Muslims are careful to pray the requisite five times a day, and abstain from such practices as eating, drinking (obvi), smoking, procreating, among others. Approximately three restaurants in the area are open, and the streets are relatively dead during the day, but if you are a Muslim male you will not be served at any of them unless you have an official government note stating that you have a medical condition. OK, moving on.]
This morning we trudged through the humid August air to arrive at the AmidEast Headquarters, a lovely 5-story blue-and-while tiled building with lots of classrooms, computers, and even a small library for our the study abroad students' exclusive use on the penthouse floor. We were "oriented" which meant that we were told a lot of information that a) we had already read in the packets they gave us b) was mostly common sense and c) tended to drag itself out due to the healthy enthusiasm shown by the interjecting staff (who are wonderful, don't get me wrong).
Then we had our first class in "Survival Moroccan Arabic", also known as our first class in Dairja, or the dialect of this region. The class was unexpectedly quite fun, with our peppy pink hijabed teacher popping from one of us to the next asking us to repeat the phrases we'd just learned, and it made me realize to what degree much my summer CLS program advanced me. Lets just say I have my Fusha (MSA) placement exam tomorrow morning, and I'm not studying.
So then we were supposed to go lunch. But nothing was open. Even the fancy French place was closed. Not because it was Ramadan, but because it was Sunday. I had brought a lunch, so I ate - by myself, in a corner (as we all must on Ramadan) - on the top floor of the AmidEast building and then was whisked off to what's called the "Chellah" (pronounced "Shae-LA) castle. It's an ancient Roman castle that the Muslims built - if I'm not mistaken - right on t
op if it.
Anyway, at this castle there were all sorts of crazy things to see. I saw beautiful flowers, lots (LOTS) of cats, which I've come to refer to as the "rats of the Middle East" (but so cuuuutttee), and it it was here that I obtained two grotesque mosquito bites. I saw the mosquitoes as they were biting me and destroyed them but still had the horrible bites to deal with...I later was able to put clay on them and they deflated quite rapidly. I will explain.
I even took a picture with incredible old door that looked like it'd been plucked from "A Secret Garden" which, most likely, this had been at some point or another:
But the COOLEST thing I did at the Challah was to hold a baby stork, which was maybe the weirdest animal I've ever seen up close. They were
all over when we were walking around, so I snapped approximately a bazillion pictures of these furry dinosaurs, but then when our "guide" was talking to us at one point, he picked one up! And I was like "YO!" - (in my head) - and then when he saw the shine in my eyes and the enthusiasm in my stance, he handed it to me. It was WEIRD. Mostly because it looks so sinister yet is so damp, wretched, and helpless. Probably because it had just fallen out of the nest. I mean its likely. And those nests are HIGH. Not to mention ALL OVER the place!
Anyway, that was the highlight of my day. Used some hand sanitizer, got back on the bus, and headed for the pottery makers where I was one of about 6 or 7 people to get my hands (and clothes!) dirty behind the pottery wheel. It was worth the filthy white skirt I had to wear for
the rest of the day.
On our way to the carpet souk we were warned not to buy anything. I think they didn't want us making any outrageous purchases since we're still just "stupid Americans" and don't know anything about anything. Which is partially true. Though, somehow, I wasn't tempted to purchase anything....I'll leave most of that to Grandma and Co. when she comes in October (YAY!!!!)
Tonight we went to a host family for Iftar, the traditional break-fast meal after a day of fasting during Ramadan. It was an elaborate affair. They had the most wonderful dates. I ate nine. And they had glorious sweet tea with na'ana (in Arabic it has an Ayin), or mint. But I only had one glass of that. And after dinner we all got henna on our arms. Mine started annoying me by the time we got on the bus, and most of the chunky stuff is off by now, and my arm just looks an unhealthy shade of orange jaundice.
During that dreary orientation this morning, I made a list of things to do. I have, thus far, done none of them. I probably won't. At least not tonight. Its 11pm and I should go to bed. Or read a book, or do something other than blog. So here's my song, based on a converation I had about Kabbalism and Sufism over Iftar, and while I will admit that it's not the greatest piece of musical or lyrical genius, and it's probably Christian rock to boot, I kind of like it. Here's Glory/Us by Acceptance.
Here was my day in basic nouns. For all of those who have taken Kaufman's US History class, this could be terms to combine for IDs. One potential thesis might easily be the title of this post.
TERMS:
Ramadan
Oriented
Darija
Ancient Romans
Mosquito
Baby Storks
Pottery Wheel
Carpet Souk
Iftar
Na'ana
Henna
Now allow me to elaborate:
Today was the second day of Ramadan. [Ramadan is a time of elevated spiritual attentiveness and focus. Fasting every day from sunrise to sunset, Muslims are careful to pray the requisite five times a day, and abstain from such practices as eating, drinking (obvi), smoking, procreating, among others. Approximately three restaurants in the area are open, and the streets are relatively dead during the day, but if you are a Muslim male you will not be served at any of them unless you have an official government note stating that you have a medical condition. OK, moving on.]
This morning we trudged through the humid August air to arrive at the AmidEast Headquarters, a lovely 5-story blue-and-while tiled building with lots of classrooms, computers, and even a small library for our the study abroad students' exclusive use on the penthouse floor. We were "oriented" which meant that we were told a lot of information that a) we had already read in the packets they gave us b) was mostly common sense and c) tended to drag itself out due to the healthy enthusiasm shown by the interjecting staff (who are wonderful, don't get me wrong).
Then we had our first class in "Survival Moroccan Arabic", also known as our first class in Dairja, or the dialect of this region. The class was unexpectedly quite fun, with our peppy pink hijabed teacher popping from one of us to the next asking us to repeat the phrases we'd just learned, and it made me realize to what degree much my summer CLS program advanced me. Lets just say I have my Fusha (MSA) placement exam tomorrow morning, and I'm not studying.
So then we were supposed to go lunch. But nothing was open. Even the fancy French place was closed. Not because it was Ramadan, but because it was Sunday. I had brought a lunch, so I ate - by myself, in a corner (as we all must on Ramadan) - on the top floor of the AmidEast building and then was whisked off to what's called the "Chellah" (pronounced "Shae-LA) castle. It's an ancient Roman castle that the Muslims built - if I'm not mistaken - right on t
op if it.Anyway, at this castle there were all sorts of crazy things to see. I saw beautiful flowers, lots (LOTS) of cats, which I've come to refer to as the "rats of the Middle East" (but so cuuuutttee), and it it was here that I obtained two grotesque mosquito bites. I saw the mosquitoes as they were biting me and destroyed them but still had the horrible bites to deal with...I later was able to put clay on them and they deflated quite rapidly. I will explain.
I even took a picture with incredible old door that looked like it'd been plucked from "A Secret Garden" which, most likely, this had been at some point or another:But the COOLEST thing I did at the Challah was to hold a baby stork, which was maybe the weirdest animal I've ever seen up close. They were
all over when we were walking around, so I snapped approximately a bazillion pictures of these furry dinosaurs, but then when our "guide" was talking to us at one point, he picked one up! And I was like "YO!" - (in my head) - and then when he saw the shine in my eyes and the enthusiasm in my stance, he handed it to me. It was WEIRD. Mostly because it looks so sinister yet is so damp, wretched, and helpless. Probably because it had just fallen out of the nest. I mean its likely. And those nests are HIGH. Not to mention ALL OVER the place!
Anyway, that was the highlight of my day. Used some hand sanitizer, got back on the bus, and headed for the pottery makers where I was one of about 6 or 7 people to get my hands (and clothes!) dirty behind the pottery wheel. It was worth the filthy white skirt I had to wear for
the rest of the day.On our way to the carpet souk we were warned not to buy anything. I think they didn't want us making any outrageous purchases since we're still just "stupid Americans" and don't know anything about anything. Which is partially true. Though, somehow, I wasn't tempted to purchase anything....I'll leave most of that to Grandma and Co. when she comes in October (YAY!!!!)
Tonight we went to a host family for Iftar, the traditional break-fast meal after a day of fasting during Ramadan. It was an elaborate affair. They had the most wonderful dates. I ate nine. And they had glorious sweet tea with na'ana (in Arabic it has an Ayin), or mint. But I only had one glass of that. And after dinner we all got henna on our arms. Mine started annoying me by the time we got on the bus, and most of the chunky stuff is off by now, and my arm just looks an unhealthy shade of orange jaundice.
During that dreary orientation this morning, I made a list of things to do. I have, thus far, done none of them. I probably won't. At least not tonight. Its 11pm and I should go to bed. Or read a book, or do something other than blog. So here's my song, based on a converation I had about Kabbalism and Sufism over Iftar, and while I will admit that it's not the greatest piece of musical or lyrical genius, and it's probably Christian rock to boot, I kind of like it. Here's Glory/Us by Acceptance.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Day One All Alone
So I woke up at 8am this morning before my alarm, having gotten 10 hours of glorious sleep in a bed where I only saw one bug and was too tired to care. The rest of this hotel, though, is perfectly clean. In fact, I was impressed with the cleanliness of Morocco all around today.
I had 200 dirham on loan from the program that had been dropped off at the hotel (AmidEast is a wonderful organization) and had to budget it for my day. And so far so good.
So today's a national holiday, and I was slightly worried I wouldn't find anything open or be able to get a cab. But I walked outside, made sure I remembered the name of my hotel (Oumlil) and walked to the closest (same block) corner store to buy phone charge, tissues, and a big bottle of water (I hadn't had anything to drink since the flight to Paris the day before since I'm afraid to drink the tap water here -- I was parched!). That went well. When I say "that went well" I mean I wasn't ripped off. And getting a cab went well. I only paid 12 dirham (about $1.50) for my 15 minute ride there.
I don't think that Marjane (which is basically a Moroccan Carrefour with lots of comforting, potentially kosher French products) is ever very busy at 10am when I arrived. But it got busy. There weren't enough cashiers. The lines were super-long and not moving very fast. The kids with their parents were antsy. And then there was a shopper revolt. I kid you not. One man started it. He asked people to clap and walk out in protest. No one walked out, but people made noise. They clapped and stomped. What's nice is that most of them didn't take it so seriously and were able to chuckle a little bit (I joined the chuckling...not the clapping). The manager came out to deal with the situation and there was a screaming match. It was really fun.
As soon as I got out of the shopping area I sat down to eat. I had only eaten an apple, a cliff bar and a luna bar yesterday, so food tasted GOOD. I was sitting at a sandwich/coffee spot and got some funny looks for eating my bread straight, but I was too hungry to care. On the way back I saw a guy on a motorized bicylce. Right. I thought it was a motorcycle until I saw him peddling. Then I was confused, because he was going as fast as the cars -- uphill. I still don't fully understand the chrank it was. I hope to clarify in future posts.
So Morocco's pretty, or at least what I've seen of Rabat, which is home to 1.2 million Moroccans (thank you to The Google). There are very few foreigners except for those who live and work at the consulates, which are located here as it is the capital of the Kingdom of Morocco. It's hilly, there are wide side, clean walks, sweet colonial architecture, and trees. Lots. And there are far fewer hijabed women than I saw in Alex. Also - the French is going to be annoying. I mean the fact that I don't speak it. Everything's in French, and people switch mid-conversation from Arabic to French like tossing a ball from one hand to the other. No big deal. They also assume you know French. Which you don't. Maybe I'll pick some up...?
I've spent the early afternoon surfing the interwebs, reading, listening to Arabic music and watching a little Egyptian Arabic TV to get back into the groove. Apparently this double room is all mine until Sunday. Rock on. I probably won't leave it much tomorrow, unless I manage to find the synagogue. I have the address.
So the first song I heard by Geoff Berner was called "Lucky God Damn Jew" but I deemed it inappropriate for this blog (its kinda funny if you wanna youtube it), then I listened to "Whisky Rabbi" and deemed THAT inappropriate as well. So instead I went with this one, called "Iron Grey." Mostly because I liked how he did the video. Oh and he plays the accordion. Sweet.
I had 200 dirham on loan from the program that had been dropped off at the hotel (AmidEast is a wonderful organization) and had to budget it for my day. And so far so good.
So today's a national holiday, and I was slightly worried I wouldn't find anything open or be able to get a cab. But I walked outside, made sure I remembered the name of my hotel (Oumlil) and walked to the closest (same block) corner store to buy phone charge, tissues, and a big bottle of water (I hadn't had anything to drink since the flight to Paris the day before since I'm afraid to drink the tap water here -- I was parched!). That went well. When I say "that went well" I mean I wasn't ripped off. And getting a cab went well. I only paid 12 dirham (about $1.50) for my 15 minute ride there.
I don't think that Marjane (which is basically a Moroccan Carrefour with lots of comforting, potentially kosher French products) is ever very busy at 10am when I arrived. But it got busy. There weren't enough cashiers. The lines were super-long and not moving very fast. The kids with their parents were antsy. And then there was a shopper revolt. I kid you not. One man started it. He asked people to clap and walk out in protest. No one walked out, but people made noise. They clapped and stomped. What's nice is that most of them didn't take it so seriously and were able to chuckle a little bit (I joined the chuckling...not the clapping). The manager came out to deal with the situation and there was a screaming match. It was really fun.
As soon as I got out of the shopping area I sat down to eat. I had only eaten an apple, a cliff bar and a luna bar yesterday, so food tasted GOOD. I was sitting at a sandwich/coffee spot and got some funny looks for eating my bread straight, but I was too hungry to care. On the way back I saw a guy on a motorized bicylce. Right. I thought it was a motorcycle until I saw him peddling. Then I was confused, because he was going as fast as the cars -- uphill. I still don't fully understand the chrank it was. I hope to clarify in future posts.
So Morocco's pretty, or at least what I've seen of Rabat, which is home to 1.2 million Moroccans (thank you to The Google). There are very few foreigners except for those who live and work at the consulates, which are located here as it is the capital of the Kingdom of Morocco. It's hilly, there are wide side, clean walks, sweet colonial architecture, and trees. Lots. And there are far fewer hijabed women than I saw in Alex. Also - the French is going to be annoying. I mean the fact that I don't speak it. Everything's in French, and people switch mid-conversation from Arabic to French like tossing a ball from one hand to the other. No big deal. They also assume you know French. Which you don't. Maybe I'll pick some up...?
I've spent the early afternoon surfing the interwebs, reading, listening to Arabic music and watching a little Egyptian Arabic TV to get back into the groove. Apparently this double room is all mine until Sunday. Rock on. I probably won't leave it much tomorrow, unless I manage to find the synagogue. I have the address.
So the first song I heard by Geoff Berner was called "Lucky God Damn Jew" but I deemed it inappropriate for this blog (its kinda funny if you wanna youtube it), then I listened to "Whisky Rabbi" and deemed THAT inappropriate as well. So instead I went with this one, called "Iron Grey." Mostly because I liked how he did the video. Oh and he plays the accordion. Sweet.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Charles de Gaulle is a Lucky Man
I sit in this lovely, over-capitalized Charles-de-Gaulle Paris International airport and I think to myself, "I know this feeling of tired. This is the tired after a trans-Atlantic, no-sleep, too-many-movies flight. Ahhh...here we go again." And so ti is. My eyes droop, my hands feel like they're made of seaweed as I type, and I'm staring boldfaced at a fellow traveler who is closing his eyes and strumming his guitar. I just had the thought that this feeling of tried might have something to do with my early-morning waterski (which was GORGEOUS - the mountain was out on my way down the shoreline, the water was glass, and I had some killer turns), or the pancake breafkast I prepared for 6 friends and siblings afterward before I finished packing and got the heck out of my house. Maybe...mumkin.
AirFrance is wonderful. I think I watched 6 movies over the course of that flight. Lets see: Two French movies with English subtitles (solid), “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” (yikes), “Yes Man” (most of it…I got bored), and an nutso dance movie that screamed early eighties at me like I was deaf (Diana, I’ll remember the name and get back to you), oh, and the beginning of “Shakespeare in Love”, which I love. So yeah, about six. Jack should be proud.
Actually, the movies were the worst part of that flight. The entertainment system wasn’t working properly, but that was fine with me since my last flight across the world on Lufthansa (I always feel like there should be an exclamation point right there so that its pronounced “LuftHANsa!” as is appropriate) didn’t have those personalized TVs, and the movie they showed was one I’d seen three times before (“He’s Just Not That Into You”) on my way OVER. So I was thrilled. Also, this is my only layover! Incredible. And even better, above my tray table there was a coat hook and a cup holder like you find in cars, the flight attendants were super sweet and brought me loads of pretzels (I forgot to order the Kosher meal) and decaf coffee, AND they serve Perrier + real lemon and free alcohol (!?).
Time to bring this to a close. I (only?) have 2 more hours to chill in Paris. This airport is huge, by the by. We landed right on time - 8:35AM - and taxied until 8:50. Then we walked onto the tarmac, as is the custom in countries other than America (and now Israel), and took a shuttlebus for another - I kid you not, 15 minutes - until we got to our arrival gate. From there I took yet ANOTHER 15-minute shuttlely van to get to the proper gate of departure [ooo looks like I’m getting ready for Arabic syntax again…“gate of departure”- pah! That’s an Idafaa]. And now I sit. And I look. From where I am I can see at least two places to purchase overpriced coffee, a machine that lets you scan your bording pass and tells you all the details of your flight (super useful, even if it IS in French. I’m so glad they use a script I’m more or less familiar with), an excessive number of duty free stores (in Paris they have what I can only assume to be designer purses alongside with the normal candy, perfume, and alcohol), and a PlayStation Station (its cool, and I’m no gamer). Also, the whole airport smells like croissants. I am sitting in a booth shaped like one of these guys à ~ that has Wifi, BUT, since I’m an idiot, and left my WALLET AT HOME (cue laughter) - no joke - I can’t use my credit card to get online and tell you all that I’m alive. But, I am. I’M ALIVE. And I am blessed.
Obviously the next time I'm in Paris the song will be "An American in Paris" by Gershwin, because what else could it be? But I wasn't really in Paris this time 'round (4 hours in the airport doesn't count) so you get, instead, Joni Mitchell's title song "Free Man in Paris" as your song of the post. Recall that I have no cellphone and no Internet . I am free.
AirFrance is wonderful. I think I watched 6 movies over the course of that flight. Lets see: Two French movies with English subtitles (solid), “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” (yikes), “Yes Man” (most of it…I got bored), and an nutso dance movie that screamed early eighties at me like I was deaf (Diana, I’ll remember the name and get back to you), oh, and the beginning of “Shakespeare in Love”, which I love. So yeah, about six. Jack should be proud.
Actually, the movies were the worst part of that flight. The entertainment system wasn’t working properly, but that was fine with me since my last flight across the world on Lufthansa (I always feel like there should be an exclamation point right there so that its pronounced “LuftHANsa!” as is appropriate) didn’t have those personalized TVs, and the movie they showed was one I’d seen three times before (“He’s Just Not That Into You”) on my way OVER. So I was thrilled. Also, this is my only layover! Incredible. And even better, above my tray table there was a coat hook and a cup holder like you find in cars, the flight attendants were super sweet and brought me loads of pretzels (I forgot to order the Kosher meal) and decaf coffee, AND they serve Perrier + real lemon and free alcohol (!?).
Time to bring this to a close. I (only?) have 2 more hours to chill in Paris. This airport is huge, by the by. We landed right on time - 8:35AM - and taxied until 8:50. Then we walked onto the tarmac, as is the custom in countries other than America (and now Israel), and took a shuttlebus for another - I kid you not, 15 minutes - until we got to our arrival gate. From there I took yet ANOTHER 15-minute shuttlely van to get to the proper gate of departure [ooo looks like I’m getting ready for Arabic syntax again…“gate of departure”- pah! That’s an Idafaa]. And now I sit. And I look. From where I am I can see at least two places to purchase overpriced coffee, a machine that lets you scan your bording pass and tells you all the details of your flight (super useful, even if it IS in French. I’m so glad they use a script I’m more or less familiar with), an excessive number of duty free stores (in Paris they have what I can only assume to be designer purses alongside with the normal candy, perfume, and alcohol), and a PlayStation Station (its cool, and I’m no gamer). Also, the whole airport smells like croissants. I am sitting in a booth shaped like one of these guys à ~ that has Wifi, BUT, since I’m an idiot, and left my WALLET AT HOME (cue laughter) - no joke - I can’t use my credit card to get online and tell you all that I’m alive. But, I am. I’M ALIVE. And I am blessed.
Obviously the next time I'm in Paris the song will be "An American in Paris" by Gershwin, because what else could it be? But I wasn't really in Paris this time 'round (4 hours in the airport doesn't count) so you get, instead, Joni Mitchell's title song "Free Man in Paris" as your song of the post. Recall that I have no cellphone and no Internet . I am free.
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