Winter in Morocco

It's not even winter. Winter doesn't start officially until December 21. I know this because it's my birthday. The shortest day of the year. And while it's often cold in Ohio around this time of year, there are many places one can go to get warm, like inside of a house, a cafe, a movie theatre. Not in Morocco. Not in the house. Not in the shower. Sometimes under the covers and countless blankets. But usually, you can see your breath inside and outside of any and all structures. This is my biggest complaint about Morocco. I would go so far as to say I hate it. I hate being cold. I hate waking up and not wanting to get out of bed because I'll be cold. I hate taking naps in the afternoon because it's cold. GRRR cold!

But there is one place where one finds warmth. A Hammam. This is a gorgeous cultural experience here in Morocco, and if you ever have the chance, you should try it. It's a foreign idea to us western women, stripping off our clothes, bathing bear-breasted with one another. But it's so warm in there. It's the most wonderful haven from the outside world. I'm not sure if I shared this experience with you before or not, but it's amazing. And I look forward to bringing my visitors to the hammam while they're here- mostly so they forget the misery of the weather. I apologize, I'm really down on that today.

On another note- school is almost over. A week from today I'm leaving for a few weeks- visiting a friend in London and exploring Istanbul and Venice. Thank goodness I'll have a recharge outside of the country. I need a change of pace, central heating, english?

I really miss the twinkly lights that are surely up for the holidays right now. I miss eggnog lattes, christmas trees, fireplaces, and hot showers. Enjoy those things a little extra for me.

B'salama

Megan

breakdown, sad animals, yet on the brink of sheer bliss.

Tonight is the night. I'm sitting on a Moroccan style couch, watching CNN, waiting for the results of the 2008 election. This will, as I'm sure you all know, change the path of our country. It will change the way we're perceived as Americans internationally-- and most pertinently for the moment, it will change the way my friends and I are seen as Americans in Morocco starting tomorrow. For the past three months, living in Morocco, 10 times out of 10 I'm given hugs and thumbs up for supporting Obama. Most people here don't even know who "that other guy," McCain, is. If only the whole world had a ballot, it would be unianimous.

Ilhamdallah, all the other students here are pro-Obama. What does that say about the reality of the situation in the US? Well, if you ask me, it says that well-travelled, highly educated, intelligent, loving, yet highly critical of politicians in general. And yes, we have all come to the conclusion that Obama will take our country in a much better direction than McCain will take us in.

This... is BIG. Starting tomorrow- to be an American will be different. For my future, the future of my peers, my parents, my children... I truly hope that Obama will be the next president of the United States of America. Enshallah.

So, on to the title of this entry: BREAKDOWN. Now, don't get scared. I'm just coming to a point here- ya know, the point of breakdown. This is to say nothing about things here. I think I need moments like these sometimes; they could just be called moments to recharge. Today, it came to crying in class. I was crying, at surface level, because I was struggling to pronounce the words that I had written myself (granted, vowels aren't written in Arabic script and these were words that I just learned). But, it wasn't the day that I could tolerate those little mistakes and being corrected. So I cried, just a few small tears. But, it was good. Then I journaled a bit, realized how much I miss having my friends available to call whenever I want, and then just let it go- or attempted to as best I could.

What warms my heart is that I have such beautiful friends here and I have two immensely cute, super friendly kittens at home who love to snuggle. There is far more to be happy and grateful for in this moment than there is to be critical or negative about. I love this country and my experiences herein.

But on the animal note, the way in which animals are treated in this city is truly frightening. Today, on the old city streets, I was fighting the urge to vomit and or cry as I saw a pained horse standing near by: he had several open wounds on his legs, he was carrying at least 100lbs on it's back, and it's eye was dripping with puss. My eyes are welling up just thinking about it. Now, I've come to know in my travels that it's impossible to talk about this reality as the fault of the citizens. "It's not right, it's not wrong, it's just different" (Thank you AFS). But, it's still a question I find perplexing. There, on the street, there was this subconscious desire to grab the horses owner by the shoulders and slap him across the face. But there is the practical side that tells me not to do it, that it would make no difference. And this question is a lot bigger than the state of care for Animals in the Fez medina. These things come about when crossing cultures, so what does one do? This is, of course, a big question-- perhaps even unanswerable. Wa... hakatha.

So, this is "breakdown" and "sad" but pending the election results, live tomorrow could be sheer bliss. Enshallah, Obama will bring America (and the rest of the world) to a state of greater peace, stability, and hope.

B'salama.

A Little Bit of Everything

The past few weeks have been a potluck of experiences. I'm quite proud of myself for that metaphor. Ya know when you go to a pot luck dinner, only one dish is within your control. When you get there, you find all sorts of goodies, but some of them aren't so good. The thing is though, usually, you find plenty of scrumptious dishes that it evens out to be a wonderful experience. Ok, enough of the metaphor.

In the weeks following the trip to Chefchauoen, I have:

Been to the desert
Nearly died in flash flooding
Had a first kiss with a wonderful guy atop moonlit sand dunes
Wittnessed a medical emergency
Adopted a kitten, Noodle
Fell down a flight of marble stairs, causing immense pain in my right hip that continues today, a week later
Recieved additional funding for my stay here- meaning I'll be here through June
Found out my parents and best friend are coming to visit
Took multiple tests (the final is today)
Got "married" ie bought a wedding ring so the ravenous men here will leave me alone
Moved out of my old house (and will move in to a beautiful refurbished space next Tuesday)

Now on Friday, we leave for Spain. I love Morocco. I love my friends here. And I love seeing my progress in Arabic.

B'Salama

Mint Tea

Wednesday of last week was Eid, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan. So, we had this huge break. We only went to school on Monday and Tuesday and then had a five day weekend. For me, this has had both positives and negatives. I've found that I'm really bad at getting back into the swing of school after such sparing school attendance. I tend to get antsy in class now, and a little crazy. But, I think I provide some entertainment- for my teachers and classmates both. So, I don't think I'm too much of a disturbance. What's really unfortunate is that our class schedule has changed as well, and most days we have class for four hours in a row with no break, and we're at school and in a classroom until dark. Yikes.

But, there were good tidings of this vacation as well. My roommate, Liz, and my other friend George went to Chefchouen for the weekend. For those of you not familiar with Moroccan geography (and assuming that's quite a few because I don't really know it either) it's about four hours away from me on a bus, generally north of where I am in Fes. The bus ride there took as through curvy roads and into the Rif mountains. It's a beautiful trip. But even more beautiful is this quaint town of 40,000. Nestled amidst the valleys of the mountains, Chefchouen is full of white washed houses- and for some reason they paint the pathways between the houses a pale, cauliflower blue. It gives off the feel of an ocean town, but there is no water in sight.

Our first day there, we settled into our hotel (which cost a total of $20 a night for three people in a perfect 3 person room), we took a "pleasant walk" up to the ruins of an old spanish mosque. There, we met two guys from England, Harry and Tom (and for those of you who know my style back in the states, you know that us meeting them was totally thanks to me considering I'm willing to embarrass myself and talk to strangers- when appropriate of course). We ended up spending the rest of the weekend with them, and they showed us a truly pleasent way of walking back from the mosque as our first route was actually somewhat grueling.

We spent our days there drinking mint tea, eating wonderful hot meals, and talking. But the highlight of the trip- for me at least- was our Saturday hike up into the mountains surrounding the city. We hiked about 2 hours out and then returned. For me, this is a big deal because my fear of heights used to be something that completely inhibited me from participating in anything that involved a general upwards direction. But, I was able to conquer my fears partially when I was tricked into climbing a mountain in Argentina, and I couldn't be more grateful that I have maintained a determination to resist that fear. The views from the top were spectacular. If you ever find yourself in Morocco, this would honestly my number one recommendation as of October 10, 2008.

On Monday, we were back to school. I've been hanging out a lot with people at school, and sharing meals with them often. It's nice to be constantly eating with other people here- I tended towards loner meals back in the states. I just found that everyone was running on their own busy schedule, and here, everything is quite leisurely. I can't lie, most of our food comes in the form of a tagine, which I thought I would get sick of. But now that the weather is getting colder, I think I'll continue to be very appreciative of the warmth of a tagine and a good bowl of harira (traditional Moroccan soup). I've had this relationship with most of the food here- when I first got here, I thought I would die eating tagines and harira and drinking mint tea for a year. But, I've found that all these things have grown on me- I even crave a cup of mint tea occasionally. Watch out, I may just become more Moroccan that I bargained for.

B'Salama

Mind Your Language

I haven't mentioned too much about the language here in Morocco. I think a large part of me is trying to ignore the fact that I don't speak it. Now, you might think I'm referring to Arabic. And then you'd say that I'm being hard on myself, that I've studied it for over a year and of course I can have some basic conversations. But then, I'd tell you that unfortunately, you are mistaken. It is not Arabic that my fellows speak here in Morocco. It is a whole new animal.

The language in Morocco is referred to as Darija (and in addition to that, there are 4 Berber dialects that are spoken in various regions, and pretty drastic regional differences within Darija itself). People warned me of this when I was back in the states, in fact I was prepared to use French to get along for a while before I picked it up. But a note to those who have Morocco in their future: Darija is not something that one simply picks up. In my opinion, it is related to Fusha in about the same way that French and Spanish are relatives. I wasn't prepared to learn a whole new set of conjugations, vocabulary, etc. And I most certainly was not prepared to be critisized for my inability to speak Darija. Alas, I am. And I plan to set out on a Darija adventure for the next six week session starting in late October- that is, if all goes according to plan.

Tonight, my roommates and I are planning a Mid-East Feast complete with Hummus, Falafel, and Mojadara. I was one of the sorry souls that was under the impression that some of these foods would be readily avaliable in Morocco. Yet again, however, I was mistaken. The cuisine here is nothing like the fresh, green, cool, healthy wonder-food that hails from the Middle East. The food here is heavy, over-cooked, tomato-based, greasy, and sweet. People here have not yet gotten word of the benefits of the Mediterranean diet, or of the hazards of consuming 2,000g of sugar on the daily (hence, obesity and diabetes are on the rise, and people teeth aren't so hot here either). And to my surprise, Middle Eastern foods are much more avaliable in Columbus, Ohio than they are here in Fez. Apparently there is a Syrian restaurant in the capitol, Rabat, but it's also fairly pricey. Oh how I miss Aladdin's and their scrumptious vegetarian combo...

But anyways, tonight we're creating our own. The chickpeas soaked for a good 2 days, and now they've started their 2 hour boiling stint. We may not be successful in finding tahini- we haven't been so far. But there are plenty of recipes for tahini-free hummus online. Liz, my wonderful roommate with just as much love for Middle Eastern cuisine, has mastered the preparation of Falafel- which I'm very much looking forward too (although I'll miss the tahini yogurt dressing I get from Aladdin's- Can you tell I'm kinda over the food here much? How about I list all the other things I miss... no, I won't bore you with that). And Mojadara, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of indulging in this Palestinian treat, is a lentil dish garnished with caramelized onions. Yum-City, as Mr. Bertolino would say.

I'll have to let you know how it goes. This is our first collective stint with rejuvinating dry chick peas. At first, none of us knew that you had to boil them. Thank God for the internet and all sorts of crazy cooking websites. In our past experiences with dinner parties, more people than expected always show up- but we're planning for it this time. Our house is ideal for entertaining...

Cheers

Sometimes, I'm Spanish.

I've commented before on the amount of people that will talk/holler at me when I'm walking down the street. It's incredible. But I don't think I mentioned the ethnicity game these young men play, it's quite interesting. Sometimes, I'm Spanish. Most times, I'm French. And many times, I'm English/American/"Hello Beautiful." My roommate and I both find this interesting, and we've been trying to come up with the reasoning behind their guess. We've decided that it must be based on the clothing one sports on a particular day. We've deduced that skinny jeans, colorful scarfs, and crazy tennis shoes= Spanish. We think flip flops and sandals tip them off to our Americanness. And there is a general assumption that all tourists here are French. Which I am not. I do not like being spoken to in French, AT ALL. Are you listening Morocco?

Most times I'm hollered at, I roll my eyes, look down at the ground, and start walking a little faster. I think these boys must smell my discomfort, and thus they talk to me more than the average bear. I also have this blondish hair that's growing in- natural for the first time in quite a while. But au naturale is not helping me here, in fact, it's probably a strike against me. But, I must admit that at times, the comments I get and the situations I manage to find myself in on the streets can be quite amusing.

Yesterday, I went grocery shopping around 5pm. Since I've been taking Darija tutoring, I'm trying to have all my communications in Darija, especially simple ones like at the produce and meat stands. So, I had already donned my Darija cap before leaving the house. As soon as I started towards the produce stands, an obnoxious moroccan young man came up beside me: "Sister, sister, you must go to the right- that is the main direction." I turned around and glared. But he continued, and he was spitting at me with each of his words. I just charged on, like a fish swimming up stream, figuring I'd lose him when it was obvious that I was interested in the produce section, not the tourist one. But 30 seconds later, on the other side of the mob, he's still behind me, just as obnoxious and authoritative. You see, he knew where I meant to go. Newsflash: No he Didn't. So, I turned around, looked him right in the eye, reminded my self of my Darija hat, and said: "Hey, Seer- Askun hunna (meaning: Hey, Go Away! I live here!)." His eyes bugged out a bit, his goofy grotesque grin faded, he muttered an OK, and left me. I was beaming. Take that you Mushharreebs (trouble makers). I am no longer Megan from Amreeka and I will no longer take your shit. I am Mariam, I live here- back up off.

A few nights ago, some friends and I went to this Eurotrash cafe that just opened up in the middle of the old city. It's a pretty rediculous place, and not one that I could see myself frequenting in the states. But here, its wonderful, and it's another place to go to get out of the house sometimes. On our way there, I was walking beside my friend Jorge. He doesn't spend too much time in the old city, and thus he's still somewhat amused by the seeming friendliness of the Moroccan young men. A group of boys shouted hello as we walked past and he was friendly enough to return their greeting. He was immediately shut down, however: "Not you, HER!" they informed him. I got a good laugh out of that. Good thing I got my "go away" vocab down, "Andee Rajl, Seer MFers! (I have a man, go away)."

And then last night, my roommate Liz and classmate Ben were walking back from a Gnoawa concert at an expat cafe and these little boys were sprinting through the streets. If I'm not in the right mood, they can really piss me off. But lucky for them, I had just gotten a good laugh out of my interaction with the deli man (in which I reaffirmed that a particular meat was turkey by acting out a turkey- although I must say the deliman's impression was better than mine). So when the boys ran past, and the last one stopped at me and barked, I just barked back. One thing they may not know about me, Mariam or Megan, I'm somewhat willing to make a fool of myself and it doesn't bother me too much to lapse sometimes and not act my age. And sometimes I think little boys have it made in life, especially here.

And just quickly, I have to comment on a mistake I made. I've done a fair amount of travelling, one would think I've got the cultural sensitivity down pat. But Morocco is just a whole new world, truly. This is the first place I've been where interactions between friends, men & women, is less physical than in the US, and sometimes I forget that when it's important for me to be mindful of it. Thus, last night on the walk home, I saw Mohamed- the chicken man- outside his stall talking to a friend. As we passed him, I reached over and patted him on the back: "Salam, Mohamed". AHHH this is a big no no. Yikes. Now what do I do. The chicken man may hate me. And he's my only chicken man. What do I do? Should I apologize? Should I hope he forgets? Should I attempt to laugh it off with him? What's your advice, my readers?

Until we meet again...

Things I Never Knew

I didn’t know what a lot of things really were when I was living in Ohio, or anywhere else for that matter.


Dear Morocco,
Thank you for showing me the REAL DEAL on:

Diarreah, or “pissing out the ass” as it was lovingly referred to by my Australian companions the first few weeks as we gripped our toilet paper and fought for the toilet.

Sweating, or reverse showering in one’s own persperation. I can’t begin to count the amount of clothes that have waves of salt that have formed as the copious amounts of sweat have dried. I do not like this, in fact, I don’t particularly enjoy sweating at all when it’s not in the context of an intentional work-out.

Leg strength, squatting while constipated can be quite a testastament to muscle capacity.

Olive oil, the real stuff. It’s wonderfully pure and almost sweet.

Honey, also the real stuff with chunks of honeycomb dispersed throughout.

Unhealthy food, especially in Ramadan where people gorge at night on high carbs (breads, sweets, milk) and grease (although these greasy things are very delicious).

Couscous, prepared for one day, choc-full of veggies, meat, and delicious sauce and eaten from a communal dish on the table with one’s hands. *I must say, I enjoy all communal eating. We do a lot of it here in Morocco. You don’t have to eat too much, you get plenty of bread to take advantage of the wonderful sauces, and you feel as though you’re part of something bigger. It’s a little weird when glasses are communal, and a lot of times I’m frustrated only because I wish I had COLD water, with ICE. But, all in all, I love it.

Hospitality, or basically taking a stranger in as if they were your own.

Homeless animals, specifically cats. Al-humdelalla, my roommates have adopted a kitten named Marley who looks as though he’s just been electrocuted. I love him, bizef (a lot).

Paint chips, which are continually falling off my lovely, yet moist bedroom walls.

Cheap furniture, which my room is full of.

Variety of fruit, because the only things really available in the states in my experience have been apples, bananas, and oranges (occasionally)- otherwise, you’re looking at canned.

Good roommates and beautiful old houses, who knew living in Morocco could be so wonderful and hassle free, after a few snags.

“I have nothing to wear!,” which translates, in Morocco, to absolutely everything I own has been saturated with sweat twice over and is now starched with dried sweat and stinks hardcore. (Hopefully we’ll secure a laundry/cleaning laday today in our meeting with the landlord).

Gratitude for a hot, pressurized shower, which we have in our house! Cheers! I’ve experienced multiple other possibilities including: filling a bucket with water (hot of cold, sometimes boiled on the stove first) and scooping it over my head with a Tupperware (which is actually quite nice), cold dribbles from a shower head, only a handle of a showerhead but no ability to put it on the wall. I mean, we really lucked out with this place, and the gas heater is very efficient, sometimes too much so- it’s still freaking hot here.


I’m sure more of these will come. For now, please know that I am THRILLED with what the universe has provided me. I am now the happy resident of a beautiful, old house in the ancient medina. We’re just outside Bab Boujloud and just steps away from LaPos-da (post office) at Bat-ha; a few turns through narrow streets and past tiny, quaint doors you’ll find our house.

Inside, you’ll find Raz (my first wonderful roommate originally from Atlanta, with wonderfully crazy hair, cute glasses, and a shit-ton of smarts- in Arabic and otherwise), Liz (my second wonderful roommate originally from Maine, with an admirable sense of style, great glasses just like mine, and again a shit-ton of smarts), and Marley (our wonderful, handsome, crazy kitten whose black and white fur makes him appear as though he’s just been electrocuted *pictures to come).

The house is four floors and a rooftop that overlooks the city and has a perfect view to the ancient ruins nearby. The first floor is a kitchen, Marley’s room (or the Turkish, squatting, hole in the ground room), a huge living room with couches, dining tables, and a western style plastic table, and two other salons lined with Moroccan style couches and decorated with rugs and beautiful chandeliers. Up one set of mosaic-lined, cement spiral stairs, you’ll find my room. Although its small, its quite cozy. The double bed is a little big for its britches, but oh well. I rearranged it to create a study area behind the bed near the full closet. And the landlord was nice enough to decorate it a bit with a Moroccan lamp. The only other room I share a floor with is our storage room, which is perfect for storing our empty luggage. Basically the place couldn’t be any more perfect. Up another flight are Raz and Liz’s rooms which overlook the primary living room, and a western style bathroom with proper shower. Up another floor is a tiny laundry room and a small staircase which leads to the roof (but only after you pass through a somewhat freaky, triple-padlocked door.) I love it up there, and hope to christen it with a yoga practice soon.