Settling in... sort of.

It's been a while. I haven't really been free to do my own thing- not at all. On Thursday, I returned from Marakkech to Fes. It was an 8 hour, sweaty, silent, boring, hungry, disgusting train ride. The only communication I had was laughing and gasping as the man next to me tried to put his humongous suitcase on the tiny baggage rail above the heads of the people behind us (unfortunately I was half asleep when it finally came crashing down- i mean, inevitable, right?), a little bit of french with an old woman next to me to make sure i hadn't missed my stop, and with a man that i'm pretty sure was on the verge of proposing to me- a common occurrence here fee al-magreb.

I left Marakkech a little tearfully. I was staying with Mohamed in his hometown the day before. We were planning on travelling, but I let my dad's warning get into my head. He was afraid I'd get raped. I keep forgetting that I'm a 20year-old, fairly independent individual. I love my parents, especially my dad, and am eternally grateful for him looking out for me. But I can't allow him to limit what I do here. It's just not worth it. Mohamed and I had all thesee travel plans, to Agadir, Essouira, and into the mountains. But instead, I turned into a little girl and went back to Fes.

I met Mohamed's family, everyone except his dad, when I was at his house. He lives in a cement shack in a town called tannahout. Please know that I don't say 'shack' with criticism, but it's the only way to describe it. It was one of those moments when I realized, I'm not in Kansas anymore, ya know? It was the most barren, basic, jail like house i've ever been in. I honestly felt like I was in a decorated prison cell- cement floors, walls, ceilings. There was one rug in the living room that we kicked our shoes off before stepping on. It was made of bamboo like material. We sat on thin mattresses on the floor and watched their nice flatscreen tv, complete with sattelite and channels from everywhere (a common phenomenon amongst the poor in the 3rd world.) Heck, I don't even have a TV, but this way, people are in touch with the crazy world we live in, and Mohamed's barely educated, Berber mother from the Mountains of the Sahara probably knows more about the election in the US than most Americans do.

Upon my arrival, I was greeted with laughter. Ya, I kinda look like a boy with my buzz-cut. And I don't speak a word of Berber. I'm just now starting to speak a little bit of Moroccan Arabic, but I could forget on the Berber all together. We just laughed at eachother, not understanding anything, and they threw me into the small kitchen and critisized my inability to evenly pat the fried bread cakes they were making. The house was full of only women, Mohamad's father and eldest sister work and live in the city of Marakkech. They were casually dressed inside the house, still with scarves tied around their hair, but not around their necks (not hijabs). In the dirt streets surrounding their house, women were fully dressed in hijabs and jelabas, not the men of course. I'm trying my best to be accepting of this disparity between men and women, but my western upbringing keeps yelling at me: this is bull shit, it's unfair. But, at the same time, I'll probably be buying a jelaba and wearing hijab in the near future. I can't stand sticking out as much as I do.

I am really grateful that I have the willingness to try new things. It hasn't gotten me into trouble yet, although people love to make me feel like I'm doing things wrong. This may not make sense to my readers, but I just feel like I'm always screwing up here, making the wrong decisions. But the universe has me in it's arms, I feel supported, here or there.

I went to a Turkish steam bath with Mohamad's sister Hassna and his cousin Fatima. For those of you, like me, who don't know what this is, get ready. The three of us walked hand in hand, barely communicating, probably three miles in 90 degree weather, wearing long sleeves and pants, to this decrepid looking building with two doors- one for men, one for women, seperate, but equal, right? (I can't help myself). The first room, we stripped, everything came off apart from our underwear- bra, gone. Hello Hassna and Hello Fatima. I mean, really. That was a bit intimate considering I'd met them less than an hour before. But, Mohamed told me it was a way for the family to show me hospitality. Ok, lets see. Then, the steam part. As if I wasn't already hot enough. I think this country has plans to kill me by draining me of all vital liquids. Somehow, Hassna and Fatima weren't at all bothered by the fact that we had just endured another temperature increase, and were content only to use hot water to bathe. Are you SERIOUS. I was totally rocking out with a huge bucket of 'cold' water. really it was luke warm, but considering it was at least 130 degrees in there, it was ok. Fatima then proceeded to scrub me with one of those exfoliating gloves. She washed my entire body at least three times over the course of our trip to the turkish bath. We also played, laying down on the floor and testing our limits pouring cold water over our naked, steaming bodies. Yikes, seriously.

I'm realizing now that I can't relay all my experiences here. I mean, I made mention of that before. Everything is new, I'm always over stimulated, and I sleep a lot. I always take a nap after lunch and when I wake up they're serving me food again. So, I'll stop now. But, Abderrahim, my professor, did ask me an interesting question the other day when we were again riding the horribly sweaty train to Rabat with his family. He asked me, what are the things you love about moroccans, and what are the things you hate. Here are a few I came up with:


I love:

The hospitality. Literally, an aquaintence becomes a friend in less than a half hour, and they will do ANYTHING for you. My first aquatintence on the plane let me stay at his house, shower, nap, eat... until I could meet with my tour group and check into the hotel. He also insisted on paying for most things, although I did demand to buy him dinner.

Their patience (or timelessness, which could be something I don't exactly love, it all depends on your perspective I suppose). Everyone is so patient with me, my inability to speak the language. I only hope I can be a little more patient with myself in that respect. The reason I mentioned timelessness, well they can afford to be patient because no one is ever in a rush. There's no where to be too fast. If you're two hours late, even three, its no big deal. I remember in Fes, Abderrahim (my professor) said he'd meet me around 7 and didn't end up showing up till I was asleep, around 10:30.

The food. Enough said. I just love learning a new cuisine, although globalization has made somethings familiar- McDonalds being one.

Sitting rooms. Every house, even the cement shack in tannahout, has a sitting room. All the walls are lined with these couch like things. Perfect for sitting and chatting, eating, or sleeping. This way, guests- even overnight ones- are never a problem.

The call to prayer. It happens 5 times a day. Usually, its a beautiful, deep, rich, male voice. Sometimes they overlap eachother, echoing between the different mosques. They serve as a reminder for me to say a little prayer, and they remind me that I'm in another world from the one I've always called home.

Motorbikes. Thats right. It's European style. And in a week from now, Ensha'allah (God willing) I'll be a proud owner of my own motor vehicle, hell yes.


I'm not loving:

Sticking out so much. I'm used to being a fairly modest member of society. Ya know, I don't think people see me and think: whore. In Moroco, its a bit of anoither story. I don't know, perhaps its an exaggeration, but sometimes I feel like I need to ward off the eyes of all the men around me. I need a shirt that says in Moroccan Arabic: I'm a lesbian. I mean, who knows if I am... But I could use a little less attention. I'm going to purchase a jelaba and hijab soon though. I can't handle the sticking out thing.

Train stops. They last hours. Of the four trains I've taken, all have been around 2 hours late, either delayed during the trip or delayed in coming to pick me up.

Feeling religiously inadequate. Some of you know I feel this way in the states. Here, just multiply that feeling by 1,000. Geeze, the whole country is Islamic. The name of God is EVERYWHERE. And here I am, stripped of religion, wandering the streets. Yikes.

The lack of equality between men and women, especially in leisure activities. Men sit in cafes all day, they swim at the beach, they wear shorts and sleeveless shirts. Women do none of these things. They work at home or in the office, they don't even go to the beach 9 times out of 10, and they cover completely, God only knows how they aren't drenched in sweat like me.

Ok, if I still have your attention now, thanks my friend. I'm glad you're along for the journey.

Hopefully, my next post will find me smiling- moto keys in hand.
Blessings. Ma'Salama (or salami?)