It's been almost six weeks since I last wrote, but it feels like much longer. A lot has happened in my life, gentle readers, and I'll try my best to give you a partial update, probably in fragmented and spaced-out editions.
I am now an official Fulbright researcher. My language grant ended at the beginning of March, and so I'm one month into my nine month grant. At the beginning of March, I made my way down to the city of Agadir, a popular beach destination for Moroccans and foreigners alike. But I didn't go to work on my tan; I went to visit a truly remarkable organization, Oum El Banine.
The trip from Rabat to Agadir takes approximately 10 hours. I rode the train from Rabat to its final destination, Marrakesh, then took a bus from Marrakesh to Agadir. Along the way, I saw the famous (and truly bizarre!) goats in trees. They're exactly what they sound like. One in Agadir, I checked into a cheap hotel and made my way into the city's main square. Since it was still the off-season, it was fairly quiet, and I made more than a few Moroccan aquaintances who were puzzled by the presence of a non-Moroccan Arabic speaking in Agadir who had absolutely no desire to surf.
The next morning, I met with Marie, a lovely French-Canadian woman who is married to Hicham, an equally wonderful Moroccan man. They live in Agadir and work closely with Oum El Banine, one of Morocco's few NGOs that work specifically with single (never married) mothers. They had offered to be my tour guides for the day, and so we walked to OEB and conversed in an amalgamation of Arabic (Hisham is fluent, I am conversant), French (Marie and Hisham are fluent, I can understand but not speak), and English (Marie and I are fluent, Hisham can understand but not speak). Our first stop was the creche, the organization's day care center. OEB offers free day care for all the women that they work with, and also provides clothing and medical care until the children are two. The next stop was the administrative offices, where I met with some employees and the organization's founder, a truly inspiring woman. Our final stop was the foyer, an apartment with a capacity of seven where single mothers live in the last months of pregnancy and a few months after they give birth. Usually, these women have been cut off from their families, and the foyer offers them an invaluable safe space. I had a few very intense interviews with the women, thanked Marie and Hisham profusely, and made my way to the bus stop, where I had another 10 hour journey ahead of me.
Despite the grueling travel, I was inspired and energized by my visit with OEB. The organization's founder was generous enough to offer me an internship, and so I hope to move down to Agadir towards the end of the summer to finish up my grant.
This is my first experience doing human subject research, and it's an infinitely tricky field. Developing trust is essential, particularly in my field, where most of the women I hope to speak with have been through extremely trying experiences and face difficult choices in the future. Having an internship will let me work closely with these women, and hopefully they will feel comfortable enough to open up with me.
I've visited two other organizations so far, both located in Casablanca. Beyond these visits, I've spent the past month continuing my Arabic studies and taking advantage of Rabat's wonderful libraries to work on a literature review. The biggest challenge has been budgeting my time: I have no classes, no 9-5, no obligations to speak of. It's wonderful but also daunting. A few days have been spent watching The Office in bed with lots of Coca Light, but I'm mostly proud of my research so far. Getting out of the house is important, even if it's just walking down the street to a coffee shop to read an article. So far, it's been an interesting lesson in time management, which isn't my strongest skill.
Beyond my visit to Agadir, the highlight of my reseach so far has been the annual MACECE symposium, which started last Thursday and lasted until yesterday. All current Fulbrighters presented their research findings at the conference. It was a three day orgy of academia, fueled by coffee and pastries and filled with presentations on women's issues, water management, Islamic jurisprudence, and tourism development, to name just a few. Many of us had only recently completed the six-month CLEA grant, and so our research is still in it's infancy. But the opportunity to receive feedback was wonderful, and I made some great research contacts.
My presentation took place yesterday morning. My roommate had an unfortunately timed bout with food poisoning the night before, and so I spent the better part of five hours bringing her to the hospital and then to Rabat's only 24-hour pharmacy. Of course, when this all began my presentation still wasn't ready (Yay, procrastination!), and so my stress and fatigue compounded and compounded, culminating in me bursting into tears in a taxi cab while Stephanie puked out the door and a handful of Moroccans stood by, watched, and yelled at her that she needed to drink buttermilk. Jealous?
Needless to say, my spirits were lagging the following morning when I applied about a pound of cover-up around my eyes and attempted to attain the perfect level of coffee consumption: Enough to be awake, not enough to be jittery, and timed so I wouldn't have to pee during my presentation, which started at 9:00 am.
I was on a panel with two other researchers, both of whom research women in politics/society as well. I spoke last, and my presentation was pretty much a blur. I'm not the best public speaker in the world (Okay, I'm a flat-out awful public speaker.), but I was happy with my paper and the massive revisions I'd made in the past week.
Then came the moment of truth: The discussant. Each presenter is charged with finding a discussant to comment on his or her paper following the presentation. In my case, I asked my adviser, Dr. Fouzia Rhissassi, one of the most prominent academics in the country and the UNESCO chair on Women's Rights. Yes folks, she is a Big Deal. We met Monday to talk about an early draft of my paper, and she was less than thrilled with my work. I was told, in no unclear terms, that if I didn't make massive revisions she would be unable to offer positive feedback. Point taken, I worked my butt off on the paper throughout the week, but I wasn't particularly confident that she would be pleased with my work. So when she took the microphone, I was nervous. Probably more nervous than I've ever been, ever.
But she had nothing but nice things to say! She said I had developed a fine critical voice and was impressed with my research so far. Readers, this was a highlight of my life so far. Even though I was exhausted and over-caffeinated, I was happy and proud of my work.
Last night, I slept like a baby. I slept for nine glorious hours, and have done nothing today but drink coffee and read. Novels, not research. Tomorrow, I'll be back in the groove, following-up on contacts and visiting libraries and polishing up my paper, but that's tomorrow.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Little House of Horrors
Over the past 5 years, I’ve moved approximately 9 times. While every living situation has it’s up and it’s downs, I can confidently say that I have never been overcome with such a profound urge to bolt as I am now.
How did I wind up in this mess?
You may want to get a cup of coffee or something, because this is going to be a long one.
I’d always planned on moving from Fes to Rabat to start my research after I ended my language grant. Rabat, Morocco’s capital, is home to government offices, libraries, NGOs, and, most importantly, a beautiful beach. It's a great place to start research and spend the summer. And so my Fessi roommate Stephanie and I embarked upon the great housing search approximately six weeks ago in the hopes of moving to Rabat in mid-February.
Trip One:
We took the train to Rabat (anywhere from 3 to 6 hours, depending on how lucky you are) Thursday evening with high hopes and good spirits. After enjoying the hospitality of fellow Fulbrighter Chris, we spend the better part of Friday walking around and scoping out the city. Each area in Rabat has it’s own personality, and we wanted to get a feel for each before began looking for places. We saw only one “apartment” that day, an overpriced medina house where we would theoretically rent the middle floor of a three floor house. There was no kitchen, the top floor was a construction site, and the bottom floor was home to a family of eight. The whole scenario was so ridiculous that I almost blurted out, "Seriously?!?," but was able to bit my tongue until after we left the house.
Throughout Friday, we also made several attempts to contact various simsars. A simsar is roughly equivalent to a Moroccan “real estate agent,” but is in reality a mostly unemployed Moroccan man who hangs out a lot and thus knows of housing vacancies. As anyone who has used a simsar will tell you, they are a cruel and fickle group, never truly listening to your housing desires and taking advantage of you at every turn.
We finally crossed paths with our simsar, Muhammad, on Saturday morning in Hassan, a nicer part of town near our language school and close to the train station. We had previously told him we would like a two-bedroom apartment, furnished if possible. We also gave him a price range (no more than 4,000 dirhams). He took us to two apartments that day. One had one bedroom, the other had three. Both were completely out of our price range. Typical.
Explaining to him that the price was extremely important to us, he said he knew of a place in Ocean. Ocean is a more modestly priced area where many Fulbrighters live, and, although the street harassment rivals Fes, it's in close proximity to a huge, wonderful vegetable market and is within walking distance of our language school.
Stephanie and I remained cautiously optimistic. But when we arrived to the apartment, we realized that we weren't in Ocean, but were instead in Der Jamee3, an area we'd already ruled out due to the completely sketchy vibe we'd gotten the day before.
Irritated with Muhammad's lying ways, we decided to call it a day. To add to the frustration, he demanded money for the day’s work, which we flat-out refused to pay.
Trip Two:
This day holds the noble distinction of being the worst day I’ve had so far in Morocco. A week after our first excursion, we decided to try our luck again. Stephanie and wanted to take the fast train from Fes to Rabat, which is only 3 stops and is usually on time. We arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. Except that our ticket line’s computer was broken, and so we missed the train by about 2 minutes. And the next train left late and took forever and was smelly and hot. We arrived to Rabat hungry, dirty, and frustrated. After a frustrating exchange with our simsar about where to meet him, he came to the station and brought us to another apartment. This one was fully furnished, nice, and in a decent area. But of course the simsar had lied about the price, and so we left the apartment in a hurry after an awkward exchange with the landlord about how much we were willing to pay. And then, of course, our simsar’s cell phone died, so he couldn’t make any phone calls, and we couldn’t see any other places.
This day happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, and we had originally planned on heading to the Rabat Marine House to watch the game. But I was tired, thirsty, and vaguely sick to my stomach. I hadn’t used the bathroom in 8 hours. I did not want to socialize. I just wanted to sleep. I went back to the train station and bought a ticket for the next train to Fes. And then it started to pour. I mean, really pour. So of course the train was late, and of course once the train arrived I had to stand for the first 45 minutes until a seat freed up.
We arrived back in Fes 12 hours after we left, thoroughly depressed about our situation.
Trip Three:
We received a call from Muhammad telling us about a great place that just came on the market. We make our way to Rabat with positive attitudes on the earliest train Saturday morning.
The first place he took us to that day was a furnished apartment in Ocean. It was a good size, and it was literally right on the ocean, giving us an amazing view of the beach.
Stephanie and I decided we liked the place enough to venture to the landlady’s apartment to negotiate a price. We made our way to Centre-Ville, where we arrived at the tallest, swankiest apartment building in Rabat. One wall of her grand salon was literally nothing but floor to ceiling windows, with a panoramic view of the city. Clearly, she is labas aleeha, a Moroccan expression mean very well off.
After some tea and small talk (she sends her daughter to Al-Akhawayn University, the only private university in Morocco; her son plays Playstation all day), we got down to business. She would rent the place to us furnished or unfurnished (everything was new, she assured us). For furnished, it would cost 4500 dirhams a month, slightly more than we’d originally said was our maximum price. But the thought of moving into a place that had everything was just too tempting- We’d heard story after story from friends about the hassle of purchasing couches, beds, fridges, etc., and it seemed way less stressful to move into a place that was mufarajah (furnished).
And so we decided to go for it. We paid 2 months rent upfront and gave our simsar a commission of a half month’s rent. We’d call her when we arrived in Rabat from Fes the following week to get the keys.
We left her apartment ecstatically happy. We’d found an apartment! Right on the water! Furnished! We were no longer homeless!
We treated ourselves to a gourmet pizza lunch and boarded the next train to Fes with a huge weight off of our shoulders.
The Rahlah Kabeerah:
The following Saturday, we made our way to the 7:50 am train from Fes to Rabat. Much to our dismay, we'd both accumulated lots of stuff in Fes, and if our friend Addie hadn't helped us transport our belongings it would have been next to impossible to make it in one trip. Thankfully we had an extra pair of hands, and the trip went smoothly.
When we arrived to the apartment building, the incredibly kind doorman let us in, and her son took a break from playing Playstation to bring the house keys over.
As we started to get settled, we realized some things were amiss. There was definitely, definitely more stuff in the kitchen the first time we saw it. There were no pots and pans, only a few plates and mugs, and next to no silverwear.
The problems didn't stop there.
The shower head is detachable, but the part that theoretically attaches it to the wall isn't the proper size, and so showering is a cruel misadventure in dexterity, which I sadly lack. Equally annoying is the toilet: The toilet bowl takes approximately 20 minutes to refill after it's been flushed.
The apartment is also incredibly noisy. Stephanie's room faces the main road, where traffic whizzes by at all hours. I have the pleasure of being situated next to a construction site, where work begins promptly at 8:00 am and goes until 6:00 pm, without a lunch break. Very un-Moroccan, and very disruptive to my sleep habits.
The icing on the cake is by far the fridge. The day after we moved in, it stopped working. I found a local mechanic, who told us the compressor was broken. It would cost 1200 dirhams to replace to part. We paid, of course. We needed a fridge.
We asked our landlady to come over to talk about the problem (after all, she had told us that everything was new, and new fridges don't have broken compressors), and she immediately began telling us (yelling at us) that we broke the fridge and that it wasn't her fault or her responsibility. She wouldn't pay for it, and we would just have to deal with it. She even went as far as to call the repair man, talk to him in rapid Arabic, and then report back to us that yes, he confirmed that we broken the fridge. She didn't budge, and we were completely powerless. Hilariously, throughout this exchange, she constantly referred to us as "her daughters." I wish I had the guts to respond, "Your poor daughter!," but I didn't want to incite even more of her wrath.
When the repairman returned the next day to replace the part, he assured us that we did not break the compressor; it was just an old part.
At this point, we decided that we wouldn't be staying longer than the two months we'd already paid. In addition to the constant noise (which, admittedly, isn't our landlady's fault), she is an evil, stingy liar, and neither of us want to give her any more money than we already have.
Over the past 2 weeks, we've slowly but surely gotten settled, shoving ugly knick-knacks in the closet and rearranging the broken furniture she gave us. But the whole situation is transient, and it's difficult to feel completely comfortable knowing that we'll be moving in 5 weeks. We also will have to face our evil landlady's wrath soon when we tell her we're moving out, which adds to the stress. And, typically, a week ago the fridge stopped working again. This time, it was the fan, which cost another 600 dirhams to fix. This time, we didn't even bother calling her. Clearly, she doesn't care at all.
As for where I'll move when our lease runs out, I still don't know. The path my research takes over the past few weeks will play a big part in my decision. I'm making some NGO visits in the upcoming weeks, and if any of these groups are receptive to me working closely with them then it might make sense to leave Rabat and settle elsewhere. Or maybe I'll stay here for the summer and then move cities again in the fall. A lot is uncertain, and uncertainty stresses me out.
As awful as our landlady is, I'll be a little sad to leave this view behind.
How did I wind up in this mess?
You may want to get a cup of coffee or something, because this is going to be a long one.
I’d always planned on moving from Fes to Rabat to start my research after I ended my language grant. Rabat, Morocco’s capital, is home to government offices, libraries, NGOs, and, most importantly, a beautiful beach. It's a great place to start research and spend the summer. And so my Fessi roommate Stephanie and I embarked upon the great housing search approximately six weeks ago in the hopes of moving to Rabat in mid-February.
Trip One:
We took the train to Rabat (anywhere from 3 to 6 hours, depending on how lucky you are) Thursday evening with high hopes and good spirits. After enjoying the hospitality of fellow Fulbrighter Chris, we spend the better part of Friday walking around and scoping out the city. Each area in Rabat has it’s own personality, and we wanted to get a feel for each before began looking for places. We saw only one “apartment” that day, an overpriced medina house where we would theoretically rent the middle floor of a three floor house. There was no kitchen, the top floor was a construction site, and the bottom floor was home to a family of eight. The whole scenario was so ridiculous that I almost blurted out, "Seriously?!?," but was able to bit my tongue until after we left the house.
Throughout Friday, we also made several attempts to contact various simsars. A simsar is roughly equivalent to a Moroccan “real estate agent,” but is in reality a mostly unemployed Moroccan man who hangs out a lot and thus knows of housing vacancies. As anyone who has used a simsar will tell you, they are a cruel and fickle group, never truly listening to your housing desires and taking advantage of you at every turn.
We finally crossed paths with our simsar, Muhammad, on Saturday morning in Hassan, a nicer part of town near our language school and close to the train station. We had previously told him we would like a two-bedroom apartment, furnished if possible. We also gave him a price range (no more than 4,000 dirhams). He took us to two apartments that day. One had one bedroom, the other had three. Both were completely out of our price range. Typical.
Explaining to him that the price was extremely important to us, he said he knew of a place in Ocean. Ocean is a more modestly priced area where many Fulbrighters live, and, although the street harassment rivals Fes, it's in close proximity to a huge, wonderful vegetable market and is within walking distance of our language school.
Stephanie and I remained cautiously optimistic. But when we arrived to the apartment, we realized that we weren't in Ocean, but were instead in Der Jamee3, an area we'd already ruled out due to the completely sketchy vibe we'd gotten the day before.
Irritated with Muhammad's lying ways, we decided to call it a day. To add to the frustration, he demanded money for the day’s work, which we flat-out refused to pay.
Trip Two:
This day holds the noble distinction of being the worst day I’ve had so far in Morocco. A week after our first excursion, we decided to try our luck again. Stephanie and wanted to take the fast train from Fes to Rabat, which is only 3 stops and is usually on time. We arrived at the station with plenty of time to spare. Except that our ticket line’s computer was broken, and so we missed the train by about 2 minutes. And the next train left late and took forever and was smelly and hot. We arrived to Rabat hungry, dirty, and frustrated. After a frustrating exchange with our simsar about where to meet him, he came to the station and brought us to another apartment. This one was fully furnished, nice, and in a decent area. But of course the simsar had lied about the price, and so we left the apartment in a hurry after an awkward exchange with the landlord about how much we were willing to pay. And then, of course, our simsar’s cell phone died, so he couldn’t make any phone calls, and we couldn’t see any other places.
This day happened to be Super Bowl Sunday, and we had originally planned on heading to the Rabat Marine House to watch the game. But I was tired, thirsty, and vaguely sick to my stomach. I hadn’t used the bathroom in 8 hours. I did not want to socialize. I just wanted to sleep. I went back to the train station and bought a ticket for the next train to Fes. And then it started to pour. I mean, really pour. So of course the train was late, and of course once the train arrived I had to stand for the first 45 minutes until a seat freed up.
We arrived back in Fes 12 hours after we left, thoroughly depressed about our situation.
Trip Three:
We received a call from Muhammad telling us about a great place that just came on the market. We make our way to Rabat with positive attitudes on the earliest train Saturday morning.
The first place he took us to that day was a furnished apartment in Ocean. It was a good size, and it was literally right on the ocean, giving us an amazing view of the beach.
Stephanie and I decided we liked the place enough to venture to the landlady’s apartment to negotiate a price. We made our way to Centre-Ville, where we arrived at the tallest, swankiest apartment building in Rabat. One wall of her grand salon was literally nothing but floor to ceiling windows, with a panoramic view of the city. Clearly, she is labas aleeha, a Moroccan expression mean very well off.
After some tea and small talk (she sends her daughter to Al-Akhawayn University, the only private university in Morocco; her son plays Playstation all day), we got down to business. She would rent the place to us furnished or unfurnished (everything was new, she assured us). For furnished, it would cost 4500 dirhams a month, slightly more than we’d originally said was our maximum price. But the thought of moving into a place that had everything was just too tempting- We’d heard story after story from friends about the hassle of purchasing couches, beds, fridges, etc., and it seemed way less stressful to move into a place that was mufarajah (furnished).
And so we decided to go for it. We paid 2 months rent upfront and gave our simsar a commission of a half month’s rent. We’d call her when we arrived in Rabat from Fes the following week to get the keys.
We left her apartment ecstatically happy. We’d found an apartment! Right on the water! Furnished! We were no longer homeless!
We treated ourselves to a gourmet pizza lunch and boarded the next train to Fes with a huge weight off of our shoulders.
The Rahlah Kabeerah:
The following Saturday, we made our way to the 7:50 am train from Fes to Rabat. Much to our dismay, we'd both accumulated lots of stuff in Fes, and if our friend Addie hadn't helped us transport our belongings it would have been next to impossible to make it in one trip. Thankfully we had an extra pair of hands, and the trip went smoothly.
When we arrived to the apartment building, the incredibly kind doorman let us in, and her son took a break from playing Playstation to bring the house keys over.
As we started to get settled, we realized some things were amiss. There was definitely, definitely more stuff in the kitchen the first time we saw it. There were no pots and pans, only a few plates and mugs, and next to no silverwear.
The problems didn't stop there.
The shower head is detachable, but the part that theoretically attaches it to the wall isn't the proper size, and so showering is a cruel misadventure in dexterity, which I sadly lack. Equally annoying is the toilet: The toilet bowl takes approximately 20 minutes to refill after it's been flushed.
The apartment is also incredibly noisy. Stephanie's room faces the main road, where traffic whizzes by at all hours. I have the pleasure of being situated next to a construction site, where work begins promptly at 8:00 am and goes until 6:00 pm, without a lunch break. Very un-Moroccan, and very disruptive to my sleep habits.
The icing on the cake is by far the fridge. The day after we moved in, it stopped working. I found a local mechanic, who told us the compressor was broken. It would cost 1200 dirhams to replace to part. We paid, of course. We needed a fridge.
We asked our landlady to come over to talk about the problem (after all, she had told us that everything was new, and new fridges don't have broken compressors), and she immediately began telling us (yelling at us) that we broke the fridge and that it wasn't her fault or her responsibility. She wouldn't pay for it, and we would just have to deal with it. She even went as far as to call the repair man, talk to him in rapid Arabic, and then report back to us that yes, he confirmed that we broken the fridge. She didn't budge, and we were completely powerless. Hilariously, throughout this exchange, she constantly referred to us as "her daughters." I wish I had the guts to respond, "Your poor daughter!," but I didn't want to incite even more of her wrath.
When the repairman returned the next day to replace the part, he assured us that we did not break the compressor; it was just an old part.
At this point, we decided that we wouldn't be staying longer than the two months we'd already paid. In addition to the constant noise (which, admittedly, isn't our landlady's fault), she is an evil, stingy liar, and neither of us want to give her any more money than we already have.
Over the past 2 weeks, we've slowly but surely gotten settled, shoving ugly knick-knacks in the closet and rearranging the broken furniture she gave us. But the whole situation is transient, and it's difficult to feel completely comfortable knowing that we'll be moving in 5 weeks. We also will have to face our evil landlady's wrath soon when we tell her we're moving out, which adds to the stress. And, typically, a week ago the fridge stopped working again. This time, it was the fan, which cost another 600 dirhams to fix. This time, we didn't even bother calling her. Clearly, she doesn't care at all.
As for where I'll move when our lease runs out, I still don't know. The path my research takes over the past few weeks will play a big part in my decision. I'm making some NGO visits in the upcoming weeks, and if any of these groups are receptive to me working closely with them then it might make sense to leave Rabat and settle elsewhere. Or maybe I'll stay here for the summer and then move cities again in the fall. A lot is uncertain, and uncertainty stresses me out.
As awful as our landlady is, I'll be a little sad to leave this view behind.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
B'salaamah, Senoir Qibsh.
Perhaps my most memorable in Morocco thus far (and trust me, gentle readers, there have been many), was my experience during Eid Al-Kabir (Eid Al-Adha). This holiday, which marks Abraham’s sacrifice of his son Isaac to the Lord, is celebrated by Muslims around the world. (As you may recall, the story ended on a happy note when the Lord replaced Isaac with a ram at the last minute, rewarding Abraham for his willingness to make an immense sacrifice for his faith.)
This year, Eid Al-Kabir took place in early December, and so this entry is both cursed and blessed with the gift of time to reflect and ruminate on my experience. While I doubt I can add anything that hasn't been said before, I wanted to share this unique experience with my family and friends that read this blog.
So, the facts. Moroccans celebrate Eid Al-Kabir with the sacrifice of a sheep (qibsh), which is followed by eating nearly all of the animal.
In the weeks leading up to the Eid, subtle changes occur in the medina. Knives, barbeque sets, salt, and cumin, the accoutrements of Eid, are on display on every street corner. Moroccans drag reluctant sheep through the streets to their homes, where the sheep will live until they meet their maker. The sheep often live on the roofs, and so the bleats of sheep that seem to know what awaits them adds to the usual cacophony of roosters and stray cats in heat that make up our daily medina soundtrack.
Here is a photo of my friend Susannah's sheep, who we nicknamed Senoir Qibsh.
Our landlord Mustafa and his mother Fatima invited my roommate Roz and I to their home for the holiday. Not wanting to 1) Offend our wonderful landlords by refusing their invitation, and 2) Miss out on this singular experience, we accepted. We'll only stay for the sacrifice, we told each other. Whatever happens, we will not eat innards.
When we arrived to our landlord's apartment, the sheep was already up on the roof. The families in the building must have staggered themselves, because our group was the only one there. Our small group was composed of Roz, Mustafa, Fatima, a family friend, a butcher, and me. (Similar to Jewish dietary law, the sheep must be butchered in a specific way, and trained butchers are in hot demand during the Eid.)
The butcher and the friend held down the sheep, said B'ismilah (in the name of Allah) and slit it's throat. After the sheep stopped convulsing, the family decapitated the animal, drained the blood into the roof’s drain, and skinned it, the last of which involved poking a hole in the skin and blowing into the hole, effectively loosening the skin from the body. Then they went to work on the innards, cutting everything out and placing them in a large bowl.
Afterwards, we made our way downstairs, where Roz and I drank tea and watched Men in Black while Fatima prepared lunch. This is when Roz and I started to panic and doubt our resolution to avoid eating innards. We knew that brains take a day to prepare, and so they wouldn’t be on the menu. But what other organs would be presented to us? As we watched Fatima bring bread, cumin, salt, and soda out to the table one by one, I felt like we were in some insane parody of “The Tell Tale Heart,” in which every passing minute compounded our fear. It didn’t help that the decapitated carcass sat just feet from us on a spare table, slowly dripping its remaining blood into bucket.
Finally, lunch was served. Roz and I eyed the meat kabobs (neither of us had any idea what type of meat it was), made eye contact, silently weighed our options, and dug in.
The meat was chewy. And smoky. And wrapped in fat. I tried to keep my bread-to-meat ratio high, and followed every bite with a large gulp of soda. Fatima’s eyes were on us as we made our way through the kabobs, and so I tried my best to fight my gag reflex, keep a smile on my face, and not think about what I was eating. Roz did the same.
When we left, we thanked Fatima and Mustafa profusely. And, despite the greasy, charred taste that wouldn’t leave our mouths, we meant it. They opened their home up to us, not because they had to, but because they wanted to share the holiday with us. And I’m truly grateful for their hospitality.
Roz has a motorcycle, and, as we made our way back to our house, the streets were smoky with makeshift barbeque pits, where young men cooked sheep's heads. As we entered the gate of the medina, the streets literally ran red with blood. The slight rain only added to how surreal the experience was; it looked like the apocalypse.
I left the day with a mixed perception of the Eid. In many ways, the holiday has become less about the sacrifice's religious origins and more about the expensive rituals (and associated status). A nice sheep will set a family back more than 100 dollars, and families that can't afford a sheep sacrifice a smaller animal, like a goat or a chicken. Shortly before the Eid, a girl in the hammam asked me for money so that her family could buy an animal. This is not uncommon. And it seems to me that such a spiritual event taking on such a capitalistic dimension is the antithesis of the holiday.
And yet it is difficult to deny the impact of an entire nation (not just Morocco, but the larger Islamic ummah) celebrating the holiday together. It's about more than eating a sheep's brains; it's about faith. Not just individual faith, but collective faith. It's something Americans, raised in a nation of "secularism" and religious plurality, may have a difficult time fathoming. Even though I am not Muslim, there's immense power in the though that the King of Morocco and families in the slums of Fes, and everyone in between, celebrate a moment of faith, of belief, together.
And so the contradictions, and the beauty that lies within them, continue.
PS- I finally found out what sort of meat I consumed several weeks later, when my Arabic teacher asked us about our Eid experiences. "What did you eat?," she asked me. "Bouchra, I don't know." "You don't understand the question?" "No, I have idea what I ate."
After much discussion, she decided that I ate the sheep's pancreas. Bi Sahah. And B'Salaamah, Mr. Qibsh.
This year, Eid Al-Kabir took place in early December, and so this entry is both cursed and blessed with the gift of time to reflect and ruminate on my experience. While I doubt I can add anything that hasn't been said before, I wanted to share this unique experience with my family and friends that read this blog.
So, the facts. Moroccans celebrate Eid Al-Kabir with the sacrifice of a sheep (qibsh), which is followed by eating nearly all of the animal.
In the weeks leading up to the Eid, subtle changes occur in the medina. Knives, barbeque sets, salt, and cumin, the accoutrements of Eid, are on display on every street corner. Moroccans drag reluctant sheep through the streets to their homes, where the sheep will live until they meet their maker. The sheep often live on the roofs, and so the bleats of sheep that seem to know what awaits them adds to the usual cacophony of roosters and stray cats in heat that make up our daily medina soundtrack.
Here is a photo of my friend Susannah's sheep, who we nicknamed Senoir Qibsh.
Our landlord Mustafa and his mother Fatima invited my roommate Roz and I to their home for the holiday. Not wanting to 1) Offend our wonderful landlords by refusing their invitation, and 2) Miss out on this singular experience, we accepted. We'll only stay for the sacrifice, we told each other. Whatever happens, we will not eat innards.
When we arrived to our landlord's apartment, the sheep was already up on the roof. The families in the building must have staggered themselves, because our group was the only one there. Our small group was composed of Roz, Mustafa, Fatima, a family friend, a butcher, and me. (Similar to Jewish dietary law, the sheep must be butchered in a specific way, and trained butchers are in hot demand during the Eid.)
The butcher and the friend held down the sheep, said B'ismilah (in the name of Allah) and slit it's throat. After the sheep stopped convulsing, the family decapitated the animal, drained the blood into the roof’s drain, and skinned it, the last of which involved poking a hole in the skin and blowing into the hole, effectively loosening the skin from the body. Then they went to work on the innards, cutting everything out and placing them in a large bowl.
Afterwards, we made our way downstairs, where Roz and I drank tea and watched Men in Black while Fatima prepared lunch. This is when Roz and I started to panic and doubt our resolution to avoid eating innards. We knew that brains take a day to prepare, and so they wouldn’t be on the menu. But what other organs would be presented to us? As we watched Fatima bring bread, cumin, salt, and soda out to the table one by one, I felt like we were in some insane parody of “The Tell Tale Heart,” in which every passing minute compounded our fear. It didn’t help that the decapitated carcass sat just feet from us on a spare table, slowly dripping its remaining blood into bucket.
Finally, lunch was served. Roz and I eyed the meat kabobs (neither of us had any idea what type of meat it was), made eye contact, silently weighed our options, and dug in.
The meat was chewy. And smoky. And wrapped in fat. I tried to keep my bread-to-meat ratio high, and followed every bite with a large gulp of soda. Fatima’s eyes were on us as we made our way through the kabobs, and so I tried my best to fight my gag reflex, keep a smile on my face, and not think about what I was eating. Roz did the same.
When we left, we thanked Fatima and Mustafa profusely. And, despite the greasy, charred taste that wouldn’t leave our mouths, we meant it. They opened their home up to us, not because they had to, but because they wanted to share the holiday with us. And I’m truly grateful for their hospitality.
Roz has a motorcycle, and, as we made our way back to our house, the streets were smoky with makeshift barbeque pits, where young men cooked sheep's heads. As we entered the gate of the medina, the streets literally ran red with blood. The slight rain only added to how surreal the experience was; it looked like the apocalypse.
I left the day with a mixed perception of the Eid. In many ways, the holiday has become less about the sacrifice's religious origins and more about the expensive rituals (and associated status). A nice sheep will set a family back more than 100 dollars, and families that can't afford a sheep sacrifice a smaller animal, like a goat or a chicken. Shortly before the Eid, a girl in the hammam asked me for money so that her family could buy an animal. This is not uncommon. And it seems to me that such a spiritual event taking on such a capitalistic dimension is the antithesis of the holiday.
And yet it is difficult to deny the impact of an entire nation (not just Morocco, but the larger Islamic ummah) celebrating the holiday together. It's about more than eating a sheep's brains; it's about faith. Not just individual faith, but collective faith. It's something Americans, raised in a nation of "secularism" and religious plurality, may have a difficult time fathoming. Even though I am not Muslim, there's immense power in the though that the King of Morocco and families in the slums of Fes, and everyone in between, celebrate a moment of faith, of belief, together.
And so the contradictions, and the beauty that lies within them, continue.
PS- I finally found out what sort of meat I consumed several weeks later, when my Arabic teacher asked us about our Eid experiences. "What did you eat?," she asked me. "Bouchra, I don't know." "You don't understand the question?" "No, I have idea what I ate."
After much discussion, she decided that I ate the sheep's pancreas. Bi Sahah. And B'Salaamah, Mr. Qibsh.
Monday, January 26, 2009
In which I went skiing in Morocco.
Perhaps the biggest misconception about life in Morocco is that the weather is perpetually warm. True, spring is balmy, summers are brutally hot, and fall is temperate, but, at least in Fes, from approximately mid-October until mid-March the climate is horribly, horribly cold. The absence of central heating and insulated walls makes the temperature all the more awful. At the moment, I can see my breath in the house. My roommates and I have developed several coping mechanisms for dealing with the weather: We sleep with many, many blankets, constantly wear spandex and long-sleeved shirts under our clothes, and use a Butagaz, essentially a gas tank with a metal grate on top that acts as an archaic space heater.
In Fes, the temperature hovers just above freezing, and so rain, sometimes sleet, pounds down on our house, the sound amplified by the plastic roof that covers our open courtyard. Further up in the mountains, the rain turns into snow, creating the perfect conditions for a Moroccan ski adventure.
That's right. My first ski trip since high school took place in North Africa.
Our ragtag group of skiers gathered at 7:00 am last Saturday morning. 14 in total, we piled into our rented van while the rest of Fes still slept. Most of us dozed on the bus as we climbed further and further up into the mountains. Along the way, we passed through the town of Ifrane. I'd driven through Ifrane a few times before, but it never ceases to make me smile. France developed the town, which is situated about 45 minutes from Fes, as a resort village in the 1920s. The architecture is firmly European, the trees are neatly groomed, and joggers and recreational bikers abound. The drive through Ifrane is like passing through the Swiss Alps for ten minutes, only to be plopped back into Morocco again once you reach town limits.
We reached the Mischliffen resort an hour or so after we left Fes. Several inches of powdery snow were on the ground, and we took the opportunity to throw some snowballs and marvel at the fact that we were several inches deep in snow. In Morocco.
After some scrambling to find "suitable" boots, skis, and poles for all of us (Suitable is a relative term. My skis were a good foot taller than me and appeared to be about 20 years old. I did only pay around 5 dollars for all of my equipment, though.), we hobbled over the basin, where people were skiing, snowboarding, sledding, and generally taking in the scene. There were about 4 trails in total, but when we first arrived none of rope tows were running, and so we skiied around in the basin for awhile until one rope tow started up (50 cents per run).
After a truely meskeenah fall off of the rope tow, I began my first run. I quickly realized that super long, un-curved skis are extremely difficult to control, and so my hopes of parallel turning were replaced by a strong desire not to wipe out completely. I failed at even this modest goal when I took a spectacular wipeout on an icy patch.
The top of the run was pretty beautiful, though.
After a few trips down the open trail, a bunch of us decided to hike over to an unopened trail. This was perhaps my worst idea ever. Hiking in ski boots while knee-deep in snow and carrying skis on your shoulder is extremely difficult. Making our way down the ungroomed trail was even more difficult. Out of fear for our lives, Stephanie and I opted to take off our skis and walk down the mountain/slide down on our butts. The final straw proved to be getting my boots back into my binding at the bottom of the run. In case you're wondering, it took 2 friends 15 minutes to shove my boots back into my skis. Yikes.
We finally made our way back to the lodge, where we enjoyed some hot chocolate before heading to Azrou, a beautiful little town in the mountains, for lunch.
On the way to Azrou, we stopped briefly at a cedar forest which is famous for its Barbary apes. Apes were chilling in the road, climbing in the trees, and aggressively begging for food. As Stephanie posed for a photo, one of the apes attacked her leg. Barbary apes do not mess around.
After lunch, we made our way to our driver's family's house for tea. The house is located in a Berber village, and the landscape was incredibly beautiful. More importantly, I got to play with the family dogs a little bit.
We boarded the van once more to make our way back to Fes. 12 hours after we departed, we arrived to our city once again, and once again the city was dark. While my shins ached for the next few days and my socks took nearly a week to dry, I can now proudly say that I went skiing in Morocco, and lived to tell the tale.
In Fes, the temperature hovers just above freezing, and so rain, sometimes sleet, pounds down on our house, the sound amplified by the plastic roof that covers our open courtyard. Further up in the mountains, the rain turns into snow, creating the perfect conditions for a Moroccan ski adventure.
That's right. My first ski trip since high school took place in North Africa.
Our ragtag group of skiers gathered at 7:00 am last Saturday morning. 14 in total, we piled into our rented van while the rest of Fes still slept. Most of us dozed on the bus as we climbed further and further up into the mountains. Along the way, we passed through the town of Ifrane. I'd driven through Ifrane a few times before, but it never ceases to make me smile. France developed the town, which is situated about 45 minutes from Fes, as a resort village in the 1920s. The architecture is firmly European, the trees are neatly groomed, and joggers and recreational bikers abound. The drive through Ifrane is like passing through the Swiss Alps for ten minutes, only to be plopped back into Morocco again once you reach town limits.
We reached the Mischliffen resort an hour or so after we left Fes. Several inches of powdery snow were on the ground, and we took the opportunity to throw some snowballs and marvel at the fact that we were several inches deep in snow. In Morocco.
After some scrambling to find "suitable" boots, skis, and poles for all of us (Suitable is a relative term. My skis were a good foot taller than me and appeared to be about 20 years old. I did only pay around 5 dollars for all of my equipment, though.), we hobbled over the basin, where people were skiing, snowboarding, sledding, and generally taking in the scene. There were about 4 trails in total, but when we first arrived none of rope tows were running, and so we skiied around in the basin for awhile until one rope tow started up (50 cents per run).
After a truely meskeenah fall off of the rope tow, I began my first run. I quickly realized that super long, un-curved skis are extremely difficult to control, and so my hopes of parallel turning were replaced by a strong desire not to wipe out completely. I failed at even this modest goal when I took a spectacular wipeout on an icy patch.
The top of the run was pretty beautiful, though.
After a few trips down the open trail, a bunch of us decided to hike over to an unopened trail. This was perhaps my worst idea ever. Hiking in ski boots while knee-deep in snow and carrying skis on your shoulder is extremely difficult. Making our way down the ungroomed trail was even more difficult. Out of fear for our lives, Stephanie and I opted to take off our skis and walk down the mountain/slide down on our butts. The final straw proved to be getting my boots back into my binding at the bottom of the run. In case you're wondering, it took 2 friends 15 minutes to shove my boots back into my skis. Yikes.
We finally made our way back to the lodge, where we enjoyed some hot chocolate before heading to Azrou, a beautiful little town in the mountains, for lunch.
On the way to Azrou, we stopped briefly at a cedar forest which is famous for its Barbary apes. Apes were chilling in the road, climbing in the trees, and aggressively begging for food. As Stephanie posed for a photo, one of the apes attacked her leg. Barbary apes do not mess around.
After lunch, we made our way to our driver's family's house for tea. The house is located in a Berber village, and the landscape was incredibly beautiful. More importantly, I got to play with the family dogs a little bit.
We boarded the van once more to make our way back to Fes. 12 hours after we departed, we arrived to our city once again, and once again the city was dark. While my shins ached for the next few days and my socks took nearly a week to dry, I can now proudly say that I went skiing in Morocco, and lived to tell the tale.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Najib: Muul a-Taxi/Guardian Angel
As I write this entry, I'm sitting in the international terminal of JFK, awaiting a flight back to Casablanca. As many of you probably know, I returned to the United States for the holidays; it was a wonderful break filled with friends, family, and all the American culture (read: beer, pizza, and Chinese food) I could soak up. But I'm not going to tell you about how much fun my vacation was. Instead, I'm going to tell you a story that should restore your faith in humanity.
Let's start at the beginning.
Fellow Fulbrighter Susannah and I booked the same flight from Casablanca to New York. The flight departed at 11:30 am, which meant it would be difficult/impossible to leave from Fes in the morning and make our flight on time, since Fes is a good 4 to 5 hours from Casa. So Susannah and I decided to spend the night with friends in Rabat, only an hour away from the airport, and to get an early start in the morning.
After a fun girl's night filled with junk food and a terrible movie ("The Women"- don't see it),
we rolled out of bed at 5:35 am, and left the house with our 120 some-odd pounds of luggage at 6:10, hoping to catch a cab to the train station for the 7:00 am train from Rabat to Casa.
When we exited the apartment, It was pitch-black and freezing cold. As we trudged along the sidewalk that runs next to the beach, it became glaringly obvious that no taxis were passing our way. After about a mile and a half of walking, I was close to crying tears of frustration, and my arm muscles were shaking from dragging so much stuff. Why do I always overpack?!?
Just as we were about to admit defeat and resign ourselves to the 7:40 train (which wouldn't be a total disaster, just a little more stressful), an unmistakable blue taxi emerged out of the fog like a beacon of hope and miraculously stopped mere feet from us to let of its sole passenger and pick us up.
With a taxi secured, we made our way to the train station, chatting with our driver in Arabic along the way. I noted with happy surprise that our muul a-taxi (taxi driver) had turned on the meter. Generally, taxi drivers in Rabat don't object to using the meter, but when passengers have many heavy bags it's customary for the driver to charge a higher fee. When we arrived to the station, our driver only asked for the metered fee. Pleasantly surprised, we insisted that he take a tip, and we made our way down to the platform.
We'd arrived at 6:45 am, in time for an earlier train to Casa at that time, and so we loaded our luggage onto the train, content with ourselves for making it so far, so good.
But, holy crap.
As we transferred our bags from the platform to the train, I did a mental check of our many possessions, and realized that Susannah wasn't carrying her small purse, which contained her only true possession of importance- her passport.
Trying to keep calm, I asked,"Susannah, where's your purse?"
Her face crumpled. I could see her entering panic mode (rightfully so). We needed a plan- Did she remember having it in the taxi? Yes. Okay, great. At least she didn't drop it somewhere along the sketchy beach sidewalk. But what to do now?
I waited on the platform with all our bags while she ran upstairs to scope out the situation. Nervously chatting with the station's employees, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. None of them were good. If she didn't have her passport, there was no way she could make our flight. Period.
But then!
I saw Susannah coming down the escalator, purse in hand, just in time for the 7:00 train.
You see, Najib, our taxi driver, noticed the purse immediately after we exited the taxi. He was planning on taking it to the police station, but when he looked in the bag, he saw the passport and airline tickets and realized where we were headed. He decided to return to the station, where he was able to give Susannah her purse back. Najib was truly our guardian angel that morning, and I will think of his kindness every time I'm on the verge of cursing Moroccan men.
And so we triumphantly boarded the train and made our way to Casablanca, where we caught our flight to the United States to experience what can only be described as reverse culture shock. And now, three weeks later, I'm prepared to go through it all again. While my jaunt to the United States was fun, I'm ready to dive back into my studies and experience the emotional roller coaster that is life in Fes again.
Let's start at the beginning.
Fellow Fulbrighter Susannah and I booked the same flight from Casablanca to New York. The flight departed at 11:30 am, which meant it would be difficult/impossible to leave from Fes in the morning and make our flight on time, since Fes is a good 4 to 5 hours from Casa. So Susannah and I decided to spend the night with friends in Rabat, only an hour away from the airport, and to get an early start in the morning.
After a fun girl's night filled with junk food and a terrible movie ("The Women"- don't see it),
we rolled out of bed at 5:35 am, and left the house with our 120 some-odd pounds of luggage at 6:10, hoping to catch a cab to the train station for the 7:00 am train from Rabat to Casa.
When we exited the apartment, It was pitch-black and freezing cold. As we trudged along the sidewalk that runs next to the beach, it became glaringly obvious that no taxis were passing our way. After about a mile and a half of walking, I was close to crying tears of frustration, and my arm muscles were shaking from dragging so much stuff. Why do I always overpack?!?
Just as we were about to admit defeat and resign ourselves to the 7:40 train (which wouldn't be a total disaster, just a little more stressful), an unmistakable blue taxi emerged out of the fog like a beacon of hope and miraculously stopped mere feet from us to let of its sole passenger and pick us up.
With a taxi secured, we made our way to the train station, chatting with our driver in Arabic along the way. I noted with happy surprise that our muul a-taxi (taxi driver) had turned on the meter. Generally, taxi drivers in Rabat don't object to using the meter, but when passengers have many heavy bags it's customary for the driver to charge a higher fee. When we arrived to the station, our driver only asked for the metered fee. Pleasantly surprised, we insisted that he take a tip, and we made our way down to the platform.
We'd arrived at 6:45 am, in time for an earlier train to Casa at that time, and so we loaded our luggage onto the train, content with ourselves for making it so far, so good.
But, holy crap.
As we transferred our bags from the platform to the train, I did a mental check of our many possessions, and realized that Susannah wasn't carrying her small purse, which contained her only true possession of importance- her passport.
Trying to keep calm, I asked,"Susannah, where's your purse?"
Her face crumpled. I could see her entering panic mode (rightfully so). We needed a plan- Did she remember having it in the taxi? Yes. Okay, great. At least she didn't drop it somewhere along the sketchy beach sidewalk. But what to do now?
I waited on the platform with all our bags while she ran upstairs to scope out the situation. Nervously chatting with the station's employees, I ran through possible scenarios in my head. None of them were good. If she didn't have her passport, there was no way she could make our flight. Period.
But then!
I saw Susannah coming down the escalator, purse in hand, just in time for the 7:00 train.
You see, Najib, our taxi driver, noticed the purse immediately after we exited the taxi. He was planning on taking it to the police station, but when he looked in the bag, he saw the passport and airline tickets and realized where we were headed. He decided to return to the station, where he was able to give Susannah her purse back. Najib was truly our guardian angel that morning, and I will think of his kindness every time I'm on the verge of cursing Moroccan men.
And so we triumphantly boarded the train and made our way to Casablanca, where we caught our flight to the United States to experience what can only be described as reverse culture shock. And now, three weeks later, I'm prepared to go through it all again. While my jaunt to the United States was fun, I'm ready to dive back into my studies and experience the emotional roller coaster that is life in Fes again.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
eid a-shukr
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
This is my second Thanksgiving spent abroad, but my first time really celebrating the holiday outside of the country. (2 years ago, I spent my Thanksgiving in an off-season beach town in Egypt; there was lots of felafel, but no turkey.) This year, I'll be eating my Thanksgiving dinner at my school's residence hall, then heading back to the medina for dessert and drinks with Fulbrighters. I'm excited to spend tonight with all of the new people in my life, especially after all of the hard work that’s gone into preparing the meal.
For most Americans, myself included, Thanksgiving is all about the ritual. It just isn't Thanksgiving without turkey, cranberry, corn casserole, and pumpkin pie. It's been a challenge trying to recreate these dishes in Morocco, where many of the basic ingredients Americans take for granted (brown sugar, sour cream, cranberry sauce) are nowhere to be found. Don't even get me started on American desserts.
But, if any group is able to overcome these hurdles, it's my extended social circle. As many of you may know, a staple of my Thanksgiving is corn casserole, a delicious combination of corn, creamed corn, corn muffin mix, butter, and sour cream. It looks vaguely like vomit before it’s cooked, but, once it comes out of the oven, it’s warm, artery-clogging perfection. Amazingly enough, this dish also happens to be a staple of my roommate Roz’s Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, there is no sour cream, corn muffin mix, or creamed corn to be found in Fes. But wait! Roz’s mother is visiting from the States for Thanksgiving, and threw some corn muffin mix (and cranberry sauce) in her suitcase. One missing ingredient down, two to go.
Roz, a master chef, was confident she could make sour cream by combining yogurt, oil, and salt and letting it sit overnight. I remained skeptical, but, as I tried a spoonful of her concoction this morning, I had to admit that it tasted like the real deal.
Finally, the elusive creamed corn. Roz once again came to the rescue, combining regular corn, tumeric, flour, powdered cream, and sugar to create something that was remarkably similar to creamed corn. With all the ingredients available, we proceeded to make the dish, which came out just as we’d both remembered. And, lest you worry that I’m not getting my fair share of pumpkin pie, we’re lucky enough to be friends with a trained pastry chef who will be attending our dinner and supplying some dessert. In addition to corn casserole, our house is making sweet potatoes, green beans almondine, and sangria to bring to the communal dinner. All in all, it should be a great meal.
While I've always had some qualms about celebrating a holiday that essentially marks the beginning of genocide, I do think that Thanksgiving is an excellent opportunity to reflect on your life: what you're grateful for, what you wish was different, and where you're going in life.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year: I have wonderful, supportive family and friends; I was lucky enough to receive an amazing grant; and I’ve developed a pretty great life here in Morocco. I started a new chapter of my life this year, and, while I haven't always been sure-footed, I think I'm on the right path.
But of course there are some things that I want to change in the following year. I want to make more Moroccan friends, especially women my own age. I know I’d learn a lot from them, and (hopefully) the other way around as well. I want to improve my Darija and work on my Fusha and maybe learn a little French; I’m lucky enough to have quite a bit of language money at my disposal, and I want to get as much out of it as possible. I don’t want to squander this amazing opportunity.
It’s easy to think of my Fulbright grant as an excuse to ignore reality for 14 months, but I have some big decisions to make this year. Do I want to go to law school? Graduate school? In what? Should I work for awhile, or dive right back into school? I’m thankful that I have the time to make these decisions, and hopefully a year from now I’ll be a little closer to figuring it all out.
I hope everyone’s holiday is filled with good food and good company!
This is my second Thanksgiving spent abroad, but my first time really celebrating the holiday outside of the country. (2 years ago, I spent my Thanksgiving in an off-season beach town in Egypt; there was lots of felafel, but no turkey.) This year, I'll be eating my Thanksgiving dinner at my school's residence hall, then heading back to the medina for dessert and drinks with Fulbrighters. I'm excited to spend tonight with all of the new people in my life, especially after all of the hard work that’s gone into preparing the meal.
For most Americans, myself included, Thanksgiving is all about the ritual. It just isn't Thanksgiving without turkey, cranberry, corn casserole, and pumpkin pie. It's been a challenge trying to recreate these dishes in Morocco, where many of the basic ingredients Americans take for granted (brown sugar, sour cream, cranberry sauce) are nowhere to be found. Don't even get me started on American desserts.
But, if any group is able to overcome these hurdles, it's my extended social circle. As many of you may know, a staple of my Thanksgiving is corn casserole, a delicious combination of corn, creamed corn, corn muffin mix, butter, and sour cream. It looks vaguely like vomit before it’s cooked, but, once it comes out of the oven, it’s warm, artery-clogging perfection. Amazingly enough, this dish also happens to be a staple of my roommate Roz’s Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, there is no sour cream, corn muffin mix, or creamed corn to be found in Fes. But wait! Roz’s mother is visiting from the States for Thanksgiving, and threw some corn muffin mix (and cranberry sauce) in her suitcase. One missing ingredient down, two to go.
Roz, a master chef, was confident she could make sour cream by combining yogurt, oil, and salt and letting it sit overnight. I remained skeptical, but, as I tried a spoonful of her concoction this morning, I had to admit that it tasted like the real deal.
Finally, the elusive creamed corn. Roz once again came to the rescue, combining regular corn, tumeric, flour, powdered cream, and sugar to create something that was remarkably similar to creamed corn. With all the ingredients available, we proceeded to make the dish, which came out just as we’d both remembered. And, lest you worry that I’m not getting my fair share of pumpkin pie, we’re lucky enough to be friends with a trained pastry chef who will be attending our dinner and supplying some dessert. In addition to corn casserole, our house is making sweet potatoes, green beans almondine, and sangria to bring to the communal dinner. All in all, it should be a great meal.
While I've always had some qualms about celebrating a holiday that essentially marks the beginning of genocide, I do think that Thanksgiving is an excellent opportunity to reflect on your life: what you're grateful for, what you wish was different, and where you're going in life.
I have a lot to be thankful for this year: I have wonderful, supportive family and friends; I was lucky enough to receive an amazing grant; and I’ve developed a pretty great life here in Morocco. I started a new chapter of my life this year, and, while I haven't always been sure-footed, I think I'm on the right path.
But of course there are some things that I want to change in the following year. I want to make more Moroccan friends, especially women my own age. I know I’d learn a lot from them, and (hopefully) the other way around as well. I want to improve my Darija and work on my Fusha and maybe learn a little French; I’m lucky enough to have quite a bit of language money at my disposal, and I want to get as much out of it as possible. I don’t want to squander this amazing opportunity.
It’s easy to think of my Fulbright grant as an excuse to ignore reality for 14 months, but I have some big decisions to make this year. Do I want to go to law school? Graduate school? In what? Should I work for awhile, or dive right back into school? I’m thankful that I have the time to make these decisions, and hopefully a year from now I’ll be a little closer to figuring it all out.
I hope everyone’s holiday is filled with good food and good company!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Makainsh mushkil?
Most days, I feel pretty good about my Arabic skills. Basic, everyday things like grocery shopping and taxi rides are makainsh mushkil (no problem). I’ve even gotten to the level where I can sometimes eavesdrop successfully. But the past few days have been a severe blow to my Arabic ego, largely because of a persistent medical condition that I finally sought treatment for after almost a month of self-medicating.
My past few weeks have revolved around a pretty much constant UTI. Wait, wait. Before you freak out on my behalf, let me clarify: This isn't the horribly painful, peeing-blood, kidney infection type of UTI (Al hum du le lah!). The only symptom of my particular variety is that I have to pee pretty much constantly. Which, you know, isn't the end of the world. But it is exhausting and frustrating to constantly battle your body: "No, self, you do NOT have to use the bathroom. We just went 10 minutes ago. Shut up."
My biggest UTI-instigated setback has been travel, or my lack thereof. Since travel in Morocco generally means non-existent bathrooms (buses don’t have them), embarking upon a voyage with a UTI is a cruel misadventure that I've avoided for the most part (with one notable exception that I’ll blog about later, in sha allah). Even the seemingly simplest of excursions (exploring the medina right outside my house) can go south quickly. And so I’ve generally been staying in the house, where there’s a toilet I know and trust, which means that I’ve missed out on some cool adventures with fellow Fulbrighters.
With an Independence Day vacation looming and a trip to Spanish Morocco in the works, I decided that enough was enough. I found a well-recommended doctor in the Ville Nouvelle, Fes’s new city, and gave her a call. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit me in until the 28th. So I decided to walk-in to another doctor. This is where my problems began.
The doctor was a French woman, with no knowledge of Darija. This made our communication next to impossible, since, while I can understand French pretty well, I can't speak it. At all. I never realized just how much I rely on a combination of basic Darija, even more basic French, smiles, hand gestures, and “makainsh mushkil.” This did not fly with the French doctor. She looked at me like I was crazy when I responded to her questions in Darija (a natural reaction, after 10 weeks of Darija class). After a few botched attempts at communication, she then summoned her male, Moroccan assistant, who spoke to me in Classical Arabic, even after I begged him not to. And so they both spoke to me at the same time, and I understood maybe 20% of what they were saying. Things were not makainsh mushkil.
Despite my general lack of comprehension, I was able to understand that there are no labs attached to doctor’s offices in Morocco. The patient goes to the lab on his or her own, then gets the results later, and brings them back to the original doctor for analysis. I was told to do this by the French doctor.
As I obediently walked to the lab this morning, it dawned on me that I was remarkably close to the original, well-recommended doctor. I guess a little of Morocco has rubbed off on me, because I decided to stop by and plead my case for an emergency appointment. Surprisingly enough, they agreed to squeeze me in today. The doctor was Moroccan, understood my Darija, and, most importantly, didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Al ham du le lah!
While I haven’t gotten any lab work back yet, I'm a lot more comfortable with my new doctor, and I feel well enough to take a trip this weekend, in sha allah. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my chronic UTI experience, it’s that your health is NEVER makainsh mushkil. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ll think of this experience in the future, since I’ll almost certainly encounter health problems again. After all, I’m in a country where even fairly complex medical care is affordable; I might as well take advantage while I can.
My past few weeks have revolved around a pretty much constant UTI. Wait, wait. Before you freak out on my behalf, let me clarify: This isn't the horribly painful, peeing-blood, kidney infection type of UTI (Al hum du le lah!). The only symptom of my particular variety is that I have to pee pretty much constantly. Which, you know, isn't the end of the world. But it is exhausting and frustrating to constantly battle your body: "No, self, you do NOT have to use the bathroom. We just went 10 minutes ago. Shut up."
My biggest UTI-instigated setback has been travel, or my lack thereof. Since travel in Morocco generally means non-existent bathrooms (buses don’t have them), embarking upon a voyage with a UTI is a cruel misadventure that I've avoided for the most part (with one notable exception that I’ll blog about later, in sha allah). Even the seemingly simplest of excursions (exploring the medina right outside my house) can go south quickly. And so I’ve generally been staying in the house, where there’s a toilet I know and trust, which means that I’ve missed out on some cool adventures with fellow Fulbrighters.
With an Independence Day vacation looming and a trip to Spanish Morocco in the works, I decided that enough was enough. I found a well-recommended doctor in the Ville Nouvelle, Fes’s new city, and gave her a call. Unfortunately, she couldn’t fit me in until the 28th. So I decided to walk-in to another doctor. This is where my problems began.
The doctor was a French woman, with no knowledge of Darija. This made our communication next to impossible, since, while I can understand French pretty well, I can't speak it. At all. I never realized just how much I rely on a combination of basic Darija, even more basic French, smiles, hand gestures, and “makainsh mushkil.” This did not fly with the French doctor. She looked at me like I was crazy when I responded to her questions in Darija (a natural reaction, after 10 weeks of Darija class). After a few botched attempts at communication, she then summoned her male, Moroccan assistant, who spoke to me in Classical Arabic, even after I begged him not to. And so they both spoke to me at the same time, and I understood maybe 20% of what they were saying. Things were not makainsh mushkil.
Despite my general lack of comprehension, I was able to understand that there are no labs attached to doctor’s offices in Morocco. The patient goes to the lab on his or her own, then gets the results later, and brings them back to the original doctor for analysis. I was told to do this by the French doctor.
As I obediently walked to the lab this morning, it dawned on me that I was remarkably close to the original, well-recommended doctor. I guess a little of Morocco has rubbed off on me, because I decided to stop by and plead my case for an emergency appointment. Surprisingly enough, they agreed to squeeze me in today. The doctor was Moroccan, understood my Darija, and, most importantly, didn’t make me feel like a complete idiot. Al ham du le lah!
While I haven’t gotten any lab work back yet, I'm a lot more comfortable with my new doctor, and I feel well enough to take a trip this weekend, in sha allah. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my chronic UTI experience, it’s that your health is NEVER makainsh mushkil. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way, and I’ll think of this experience in the future, since I’ll almost certainly encounter health problems again. After all, I’m in a country where even fairly complex medical care is affordable; I might as well take advantage while I can.
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