It was an early morning in Fes – we were up by 7 and on the bus a half hour later. But the early start was completely worth it: our excursion completely saved the best for last as we headed northward!
The first stop of the day was a few hours away – the ruins of the Roman city of Volubilis. The site represents one of the Romans’ southern-most outposts along the Mediterranean, and it served as a pretty sizeable base for operations further south. I’m a sucker for anything Roman (and ruined) so I was in heaven among the crumbling pillars and well-preserved mosaics throughout the site. Apparently they are not 100% authentic: the whole site was demolished by an earthquake a few decades back and was rebuilt to reflect its appearance as it was known before the earthquake. The excavations are continuing today – our guide mentioned numerous times that they had uncovered only half of the city and still expected to find the remains of a coliseum, among other things. As for what’s there now, we got to walk through a bunch of destroyed homes and baths, as well as the forum, a main temple, and even a brothel!
From there, it was a five-minute drive into (or up to) Moulay Idriss, a small village which looks as though someone plopped it on the top of a hill and the houses gradually spilled downwards like melting ice cream. Which would have been so delicious in the early October sun. But instead, we had a quick walking tour of the small town and then settled for lunch at a B&B owned and operated by the sweetest old lady and her daughter. They cooked us a delicious meal of veggies and rice, chicken with quince (and even showed us exactly what a quince was: like a giant apple that’s too hard to be eaten without cooking it first), with pomegranates for dessert. If there’s 1 thing I’ll miss about Moroccan cuisine, I think it’ll be the incredible profusion of pomegranates – I think I’d only eaten 1 in my entire pre-Moroccan life.
After relaxing for a little while, we hopped back in our van and drove until we hit the old colonial border separating French Morocco from the old Spanish-controlled territory. What a relief to know that I could speak comfortably with the locals here in the language of their once and former oppressors! Well, at least my Spanish is much better than my French (and certainly my Arabic, for that matter).
It was only maybe a half hour further until we came upon the village of Chefchouen, which is, in my humble opinion, the most beautiful place that I have seen in Morocco. The entire village is nestled onto a mountainside in the Rif range, and its name comes from the two twin peaks poking out like horns over the city. What is more, nearly every building in the entire village is painted white and sky blue, so the only colors you see everywhere are the deep green of the tree-covered mountains, and the pure blue and white of the sky and the houses. We checked into our hotel to discover that every room (at least every room on our floor) was decked out in a Pretty Pink Princess theme, including pink walls and pink bedspreads on the huge canopy beds which every little girl dreams of having… or so I imagine.
The sun was just setting as we went out to explore our new location a bit, so we wandered around the tight, hilly, beautiful medina and did a little bit of window shopping at the various shops of wool and silver and fossils. Fadoua met us an hour later for dinner at Café Hassan, where we had carrot soup, beef couscous, and lemon pie (I hadn’t realized how much I missed pie – mmmm!). Before settling in for the night, we did a little bit more shopping, the girls were offered a few thousand camels a piece for their hands in marriage, and we found a bunch of Spanish environmental activists painting a few different murals on the medina walls (which turned out pretty well, we discovered when we returned to the site the following morning).
We got to sleep in all the way until 8:00! But it was all made alright by the best breakfast of my entire semester – they had cereal and milk! Add in some Boston (brand) tea, pineapple juice, and bread with various jams – plus complimentary cookies which I stole for the ride home – and I was a happy young man. And best of all (for those still following the random clogged ear side story) my right ear popped and would remain clear to this day! The left ear, however, remained moody for another week before finally returning to a normal level of hearing.
We had a few hours of the morning free to go out on the town, so we returned to the medina on the hill had a small group photo shoot among the windy blue-and-white alleys, doors, and cobblestone streets. Eventually, we wandered into the Kasbah museum and garden, complete with a tower that had some exquisite views – I took literally hundreds of pictures. A few of the best are up online! We also made a few final shopping stops – I gave in and bought an extremely soft and toasty blue and grey sweater made of a wool/cashmere mixture for 145 dirhams (just short of 20 bucks!). I only barely resisted adding in a pair of knit, woolen socks like Aunt Lil makes for me back home and which would have been perfect for wearing around the house here in Morocco (no one ever goes around barefoot in the house; the sole exception is the very formal, carpeted dining room where you must remove your shoes to enter).
Unfortunately, we had to start the return trip, so we all boarded the van and watched the Rif Mountains drift into the background and fade into our memories. A little past the border back into French Morocco, we stopped at the town of Ouazzane for lunch. Fadoua explained to us that the house at which we were stopping was actually the vacation home of the CCCL’s founders, Farah and Abdelhai, whose families were both very prominent in Northern Morocco (Farah’s family is even a part of the Sharif, meaning that they can trace their heritage back to the Prophet Muhammad). So, as you can well imagine, this house was gorgeous. Set on a hill where it overlooked the stretch into “downtown” Ouazzane, the house was a gigantic and beautiful building with pillars, a huge terrace, and a small fountain. We took a tour through their garden slash orchard, looked at their old olive press and had a basic explanation of how they still use the press and their home-grown olives to manufacture their own olive oil for family, friends, and personal use. Then we had an enchanting (I can’t think of any other word to describe how good this food was) meal of vegetable and bean salads, chicken tajine, and pomegranates, all along with olive oil and tangerines from the property. Eternally jealous of the employee parties which get held here a few times each year, we set off toward Rabat once and for all.
We had one final rest stop perhaps 20 minutes outside of Rabat, and while everyone else was using the restrooms, I wandered over to look at some construction just winding down for the day to the side of the parking lot. Before I knew it, 8 or so Moroccan construction men came over and just started talking to me, asking how I was and where I was from. Among the first questions, of course, was whether I spoke Arabic, to which I always answer, “Shwiyya,” (a little bit) in true Stuff White People Like fashion. Next they asked if I spoke French or Spanish, and after I told them that I could speak decently well in Spanish, they proceeded to speak with me in Italian. Granted, I could understand them well enough, but the situation as a whole fairly ridiculous: here I was in the middle of Morocco speaking in broken Spanish with a group of construction men who, in turn, answered me in broken Italian. But it was an immensely enjoyable 10 minutes, and made me realize that what I like best about Morocco, I think, is its people. Certainly, they can be a little annoying when they play point-and-laugh-at-the-funny-blond-foreigner out in the medina streets (and that happens even more than you’d think), but for the most part, they are among the friendliest and most outgoing people that I have ever met. As long as you’re nice in return and making some sort of effort to learn about their culture, they’re likely to tell you that your Arabic is quite good (though you haven’t said more than 3 words), continue conversing for an extended period of time, and invite you into their home for tea.
However, I left my new friends after a short while to make the final leg of the trip home to Rabat. Over the past week, our eyes had been opened to a vision of Morocco as a much more diverse and beautiful place than we had even imagined – and there was still so much left to be seen. Our excursion was complete, but our learning was far from over.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Excursion, Days 4-6: Toward Fes
We woke up in the desert to the sound of gongs. Well, at least I’m told that there were gongs ringing. True to my heavy sleeping habits, I dozed right through them. It also didn’t help that the rapid shifts in elevation during our earlier drives through the Atlas Mountains had left my ears half-plugged up and uncomfortably unable to pop. But I digress…
Breakfast was amazing considering we were in the desert – bread, jam, butter, cheese, and fruit, along with tea! We took our Jeeps back through the desert and into Zagora, stopping for a quick tour of an oasis palm grove. There, we got to climb some palm trees (the jagged palm tree bark makes it so easy!) and eat some fresh-picked dates! Once in Zagora, we re-boarded the van with our trusty driver Mohammad and began the long drive northward toward Fes.
Our stop lunch stop was a hotel in N’Koub (for more Moroccan tajine, of course) and we also got the chance to go swimming and to shower off all of the Sahara which had stuck with us. Apparently, this area has more ancient Kasbahs than anywhere else in Morocco, and we took a quick glance at them all from the roof of the hotel.
After driving all afternoon, we stopped for the night in the small town of Rissani, where we had a dinner of eggplant, rice, barbeque chicken, and French fries, with flan for dessert! It was all eaten in the presence of the cutest but loudest kitten I’ve encountered in Morocco.
We were up early the next morning to continue the drive, and stopped in Midelt for some couscous (on a Thursday – heresy! I thought couscous was only for Fridays!). By mid-afternoon we had reached Ifrane, a little mountain village of Swiss chateaux stuck up in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco by someone with a great sense of humor (or the Moroccan monarchs, your pick). It was actually quite eerie – I highly urge you to look at the pictures I posted of it. You drive through miles and miles of desert, then some rocky mountain terrain, and suddenly you’re in this beautiful little forest enclave – it’s surreal. It reminded all of us of New England, and the tree leaves were just beginning to change colors, giving us the first sense of a real October day. After grabbing a quick Magnum (ice cream) and taking a peek at al-Akhawain University, we drove the final hour and a half to Fes!
By the time we reached Fes, it was already just getting dark and we were exhausted, so we decided to stop by an Internet café and then have a nice night in. At the end of our hotel dinner, we were even serenaded by a group of Dutch travelers who broke out into folk songs for a good half hour. We settled into bed after ordering some room service and just hanging out for a bit.
And so, finally, on the following morning our time in Fes began! We met our tour guide Ahmed and started out at the impressive golden Palace Gate. We moved on through the Mellah (the old Jewish quarter) and stopped in a recently renovated historic temple before heading up to a fortress high above the outskirts of the old medina. The view was incredible! The medina seems to stretch out for miles – apparently it was the largest city in the world during its time as capital of the Almohad dynasty – and tourists can get lost in it for hours. Fes’s medina is actually the largest in Morocco, and lies nestled into a valley surrounded by protective hills. The city’s traditional section is made up of “Old Fes” and “New Fes.” Mind you, New Fes was built around the 1200s, so it’s really a relative term. Like any Moroccan city, this old section is then surrounded by the Ville Nouvelle – the “new city” built during the French occupation beginning in 1912.
From here, we dove back into the medina and wandered through the labyrinthine alleyways. It was quite different from any medina I’d navigated before – since it’s built on hills, you’re constantly moving up and down in elevation, ducking under buildings and going up stairs, so not only can you get lost among all of the twisting streets and dead ends, but you also have to keep track of your position on the vertical plane. Thank God we had Ahmed there to lead us. Unfortunately, we were touring on a Friday – the Muslim holy day – so many of the conservative city’s shops were closed and city life was much calmer than average. But still, we got to pass plenty of donkeys traversing the narrow alleys and a shop owner even placed a live snail on my hand (in hopes that I would then buy it and eat it, I guess…).
Our next official stop was one of Fes’s main leather tanneries. In a country known for its leather goods, the city of Fes is pre-eminent. And let me tell you – this place was crazy. Stacked with bags, jackets, slippers, wallets, and any other leather good and in any color you can imagine from floor to ceiling, the entire shop is a case study in sensory overload. Plus you have to throw in the smell of recently worked leather – for which the shop owners gave us each a sprig of mint leaves. We went to the back of the shop to look out on the men tanning the skins in dozens of gigantic drums down below – the site can’t be described in words, you have to check out the picture I posted. I ended up buying a leather briefcase for 400 dirhams (about $55), bargained down from an initial quote of 1400 dirhams ($190). Ahmed helped quite a bit. The salesman insisted that it is made of camel skin, but I remain skeptical.
We passed by the Al-Qarawiyyin Mosque, which we couldn’t enter as non-Muslims, and spent some quick time touring the nearby medersa before eating a huge lunch of various vegetable “salads” and lamb tajine at a local restaurant (where my left ear finally popped, for all those raptly following my health developments! It felt so amazing, but I remained hard of hearing in the other ear.)
Our tour continued with a Wood Museum (yup, a museum dedicated entirely to wooden crafts) and a textile ship, where we all tried on jellabas (traditional Moroccan robes worn inside the house or out on the street, depending on the style; they look strikingly like Jedi robes) and some more turbans. Finally we passed the Moulay Idriss Mausoleum with an outdoor wishing spot (where all of the money goes toward alms!).
Our day finished up with a tour of the Moroccan Initiative for Human Rights’ recently constructed Women’s Rights Center. They do some amazing work there, functioning as a women’s shelter, women’s employment center, and job training facility. And it’s all non-profit! As we toured, a baking class was having their final examination and we got to try some of the results. My stomach gave them all an A.
It was a long day, so we went back to the hotel, had our Friday couscous, and took a little stroll around the Ville Nouvelle before getting some well-earned sleep. Well, as well-earned as vacation sleep ever is!
Breakfast was amazing considering we were in the desert – bread, jam, butter, cheese, and fruit, along with tea! We took our Jeeps back through the desert and into Zagora, stopping for a quick tour of an oasis palm grove. There, we got to climb some palm trees (the jagged palm tree bark makes it so easy!) and eat some fresh-picked dates! Once in Zagora, we re-boarded the van with our trusty driver Mohammad and began the long drive northward toward Fes.
Our stop lunch stop was a hotel in N’Koub (for more Moroccan tajine, of course) and we also got the chance to go swimming and to shower off all of the Sahara which had stuck with us. Apparently, this area has more ancient Kasbahs than anywhere else in Morocco, and we took a quick glance at them all from the roof of the hotel.
After driving all afternoon, we stopped for the night in the small town of Rissani, where we had a dinner of eggplant, rice, barbeque chicken, and French fries, with flan for dessert! It was all eaten in the presence of the cutest but loudest kitten I’ve encountered in Morocco.
We were up early the next morning to continue the drive, and stopped in Midelt for some couscous (on a Thursday – heresy! I thought couscous was only for Fridays!). By mid-afternoon we had reached Ifrane, a little mountain village of Swiss chateaux stuck up in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco by someone with a great sense of humor (or the Moroccan monarchs, your pick). It was actually quite eerie – I highly urge you to look at the pictures I posted of it. You drive through miles and miles of desert, then some rocky mountain terrain, and suddenly you’re in this beautiful little forest enclave – it’s surreal. It reminded all of us of New England, and the tree leaves were just beginning to change colors, giving us the first sense of a real October day. After grabbing a quick Magnum (ice cream) and taking a peek at al-Akhawain University, we drove the final hour and a half to Fes!
By the time we reached Fes, it was already just getting dark and we were exhausted, so we decided to stop by an Internet café and then have a nice night in. At the end of our hotel dinner, we were even serenaded by a group of Dutch travelers who broke out into folk songs for a good half hour. We settled into bed after ordering some room service and just hanging out for a bit.
And so, finally, on the following morning our time in Fes began! We met our tour guide Ahmed and started out at the impressive golden Palace Gate. We moved on through the Mellah (the old Jewish quarter) and stopped in a recently renovated historic temple before heading up to a fortress high above the outskirts of the old medina. The view was incredible! The medina seems to stretch out for miles – apparently it was the largest city in the world during its time as capital of the Almohad dynasty – and tourists can get lost in it for hours. Fes’s medina is actually the largest in Morocco, and lies nestled into a valley surrounded by protective hills. The city’s traditional section is made up of “Old Fes” and “New Fes.” Mind you, New Fes was built around the 1200s, so it’s really a relative term. Like any Moroccan city, this old section is then surrounded by the Ville Nouvelle – the “new city” built during the French occupation beginning in 1912.
From here, we dove back into the medina and wandered through the labyrinthine alleyways. It was quite different from any medina I’d navigated before – since it’s built on hills, you’re constantly moving up and down in elevation, ducking under buildings and going up stairs, so not only can you get lost among all of the twisting streets and dead ends, but you also have to keep track of your position on the vertical plane. Thank God we had Ahmed there to lead us. Unfortunately, we were touring on a Friday – the Muslim holy day – so many of the conservative city’s shops were closed and city life was much calmer than average. But still, we got to pass plenty of donkeys traversing the narrow alleys and a shop owner even placed a live snail on my hand (in hopes that I would then buy it and eat it, I guess…).
Our next official stop was one of Fes’s main leather tanneries. In a country known for its leather goods, the city of Fes is pre-eminent. And let me tell you – this place was crazy. Stacked with bags, jackets, slippers, wallets, and any other leather good and in any color you can imagine from floor to ceiling, the entire shop is a case study in sensory overload. Plus you have to throw in the smell of recently worked leather – for which the shop owners gave us each a sprig of mint leaves. We went to the back of the shop to look out on the men tanning the skins in dozens of gigantic drums down below – the site can’t be described in words, you have to check out the picture I posted. I ended up buying a leather briefcase for 400 dirhams (about $55), bargained down from an initial quote of 1400 dirhams ($190). Ahmed helped quite a bit. The salesman insisted that it is made of camel skin, but I remain skeptical.
We passed by the Al-Qarawiyyin Mosque, which we couldn’t enter as non-Muslims, and spent some quick time touring the nearby medersa before eating a huge lunch of various vegetable “salads” and lamb tajine at a local restaurant (where my left ear finally popped, for all those raptly following my health developments! It felt so amazing, but I remained hard of hearing in the other ear.)
Our tour continued with a Wood Museum (yup, a museum dedicated entirely to wooden crafts) and a textile ship, where we all tried on jellabas (traditional Moroccan robes worn inside the house or out on the street, depending on the style; they look strikingly like Jedi robes) and some more turbans. Finally we passed the Moulay Idriss Mausoleum with an outdoor wishing spot (where all of the money goes toward alms!).
Our day finished up with a tour of the Moroccan Initiative for Human Rights’ recently constructed Women’s Rights Center. They do some amazing work there, functioning as a women’s shelter, women’s employment center, and job training facility. And it’s all non-profit! As we toured, a baking class was having their final examination and we got to try some of the results. My stomach gave them all an A.
It was a long day, so we went back to the hotel, had our Friday couscous, and took a little stroll around the Ville Nouvelle before getting some well-earned sleep. Well, as well-earned as vacation sleep ever is!
Eid al-Adha, Part 1: Not for the Faint of Heart (or PETA activists)
My new friend is watching me as I write this. His name is Phineas, and he is standing in a corner of our living room in a pile of his own waste.
Phineas is our sheep (qebsh in Moroccan Arabic, which is just fun to say). And in 3 days, he is going to die.
Perhaps I should explain. Eid al-Adha (or Eid al-Kebir, “The Big Holiday”) is one of the most important holidays of the Muslim world, commemorating Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Ishmael. For Muslims, Jews, and Christians the story is the same: Abraham so loved God that he was willing to sacrifice his first-born son to appease him, but at the last moment, God stayed his hand and provided Abraham with a ram to sacrifice in Ishmael’s place. In honor of this moment, each year Muslims follow his example and sacrifice a sheep to honor Allah’s benevolence. Farah, one of the CCCL’s directors and an expert in comparative religion, told us that many Moroccans take the ritual quite personally – parents see the sheep as taking the place of their child, while children thank Allah that they have been spared. She also explained that in Morocco centuries ago, the holiday melded with early Tamazight pagan beliefs which claim that the blood of a sacrificed animal can help to rid the home of evil spirits and demons. So that’s a plus. Eid al-Adha also always corresponds with the official Hajj to Mecca each year, upon which only a certain quota of Muslims can embark each year.
And so it was that on Sunday morning I awoke at the brisk, early hour of noon and walked toward the bathroom, only to double-take at the fuzzy creature staring at me from across the living / dining / television room. He’s a bit smaller than some of the other sheep I’ve seen in the shops that have sprung up around the medina in the last week, and is actually rather adorable. He doesn’t make very much noise – though he chews very loudly – and just sort of hangs around as we watch TV and eat our meals. My little cousins love running into the house to feed or play with him – all in all he’s sort of like a temporary pet. I think I’m going to miss having Phineas around after Saturday. And yes, he lives right in our living room – he’s tied up to a hook on the wall (with enough slack to lay down or walk around a bit), eats straw, and does his business right on the tiled floor (my host sister cleans up after him once a day). Virtually every family in Morocco will get one, though I imagine that basic sheep care and storage is a bit easier outside of the city.
In an effort not to make the holiday seem too barbaric, I should emphasize that the proper method of sacrifice is very exact and meant to cause the least possible amount of pain to the animal. Also, Moroccans use all of the animal after the sacrifice. Any part of the sheep that can be eaten is eaten – and I mean ANY part. Everyone eats lamb for days. The wool is used to stuff the mattresses of our couch / beds or can be woven into rugs. I’m not yet sure what happens to the rest, but I am intrigued to find out. Well, and maybe slightly nervous.
Hopefully you’re just as excited for Part 2 – coming once Eid is over!
[UPDATED! Side note for curious Bible-ophiles or BU Core Curriculum enthusiasts: After further investigation, I have discovered that the story of Abraham's sacrifice is presented differently in the Quran and the Bible. According to the Muslim holy book, Ishmael was nearly sacrificed by Abraham, while Christian and Jewish scripture both place Abraham's other son Isaac on the chopping block. This is significant because Isaac and Ishmael shared Abraham as a father, but had different mothers (Sarah, Abraham's first wife, and Hagar, Sarah's maidservant, respectively). Following a jealous maternal conflict, the two sons split and went on to father the Jewish and Arab peoples, respectively. Naturally, each of these groups wanted to promote their own ascendency by claiming that their ancestor was the son favored by both Abraham and God. So for Muslims, the sacrifice (and other events follow and recreate the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael from Abraham's land) has merged with pre-existing pagan traditions in the region and evolved into the modern Hajj. Interestingly, Moroccan Jews perform their own sacrifice in honor of Abraham and Isaac, but at a different date.]
Phineas is our sheep (qebsh in Moroccan Arabic, which is just fun to say). And in 3 days, he is going to die.
Perhaps I should explain. Eid al-Adha (or Eid al-Kebir, “The Big Holiday”) is one of the most important holidays of the Muslim world, commemorating Abraham’s near-sacrifice of Ishmael. For Muslims, Jews, and Christians the story is the same: Abraham so loved God that he was willing to sacrifice his first-born son to appease him, but at the last moment, God stayed his hand and provided Abraham with a ram to sacrifice in Ishmael’s place. In honor of this moment, each year Muslims follow his example and sacrifice a sheep to honor Allah’s benevolence. Farah, one of the CCCL’s directors and an expert in comparative religion, told us that many Moroccans take the ritual quite personally – parents see the sheep as taking the place of their child, while children thank Allah that they have been spared. She also explained that in Morocco centuries ago, the holiday melded with early Tamazight pagan beliefs which claim that the blood of a sacrificed animal can help to rid the home of evil spirits and demons. So that’s a plus. Eid al-Adha also always corresponds with the official Hajj to Mecca each year, upon which only a certain quota of Muslims can embark each year.
And so it was that on Sunday morning I awoke at the brisk, early hour of noon and walked toward the bathroom, only to double-take at the fuzzy creature staring at me from across the living / dining / television room. He’s a bit smaller than some of the other sheep I’ve seen in the shops that have sprung up around the medina in the last week, and is actually rather adorable. He doesn’t make very much noise – though he chews very loudly – and just sort of hangs around as we watch TV and eat our meals. My little cousins love running into the house to feed or play with him – all in all he’s sort of like a temporary pet. I think I’m going to miss having Phineas around after Saturday. And yes, he lives right in our living room – he’s tied up to a hook on the wall (with enough slack to lay down or walk around a bit), eats straw, and does his business right on the tiled floor (my host sister cleans up after him once a day). Virtually every family in Morocco will get one, though I imagine that basic sheep care and storage is a bit easier outside of the city.
In an effort not to make the holiday seem too barbaric, I should emphasize that the proper method of sacrifice is very exact and meant to cause the least possible amount of pain to the animal. Also, Moroccans use all of the animal after the sacrifice. Any part of the sheep that can be eaten is eaten – and I mean ANY part. Everyone eats lamb for days. The wool is used to stuff the mattresses of our couch / beds or can be woven into rugs. I’m not yet sure what happens to the rest, but I am intrigued to find out. Well, and maybe slightly nervous.
Hopefully you’re just as excited for Part 2 – coming once Eid is over!
[UPDATED! Side note for curious Bible-ophiles or BU Core Curriculum enthusiasts: After further investigation, I have discovered that the story of Abraham's sacrifice is presented differently in the Quran and the Bible. According to the Muslim holy book, Ishmael was nearly sacrificed by Abraham, while Christian and Jewish scripture both place Abraham's other son Isaac on the chopping block. This is significant because Isaac and Ishmael shared Abraham as a father, but had different mothers (Sarah, Abraham's first wife, and Hagar, Sarah's maidservant, respectively). Following a jealous maternal conflict, the two sons split and went on to father the Jewish and Arab peoples, respectively. Naturally, each of these groups wanted to promote their own ascendency by claiming that their ancestor was the son favored by both Abraham and God. So for Muslims, the sacrifice (and other events follow and recreate the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael from Abraham's land) has merged with pre-existing pagan traditions in the region and evolved into the modern Hajj. Interestingly, Moroccan Jews perform their own sacrifice in honor of Abraham and Isaac, but at a different date.]
Sunday, November 22, 2009
More Pics!
Hey all! I've put up more photos!
They are all on the Google/Picasa site alongside the first batch - the link to the right should take you straight there!
Also, keep checking back because I'm hoping to get up some more photos and posts of my excursion and my Iberian adventure by the end of the week!
Lots of exclamation points!
They are all on the Google/Picasa site alongside the first batch - the link to the right should take you straight there!
Also, keep checking back because I'm hoping to get up some more photos and posts of my excursion and my Iberian adventure by the end of the week!
Lots of exclamation points!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Rumination: The Land that Didn't Listen to It's Parents
“Stop eating with your hands!” “Don’t talk to strangers!” “Don’t play in the road!” “Cross the street only at the crosswalk, when you get a signal!” “Don’t eat too many sweets!” “Use your inside voice!” “No rollerblades in the house!” “Take a bath every day (…or every few days… or once a week, for that matter)!”
These are all things that you will never, ever hear in Morocco.
Here in the medina, life is sort of like a little kid’s paradise. You eat with your hands (and usually a piece of bread), reserving silverware only for soup and couscous. You say hello to anyone and everyone, and men are free to say virtually anything to try to get a woman’s attention. And I mean anything. You play soccer or tag in the middle of the street and cross even major roads wherever and whenever you want, regardless of traffic. Meals, especially during Ramadan, tend to be all sugar and simple carbohydrates, all the time. The volume of even peaceful conversations tends to be quite elevated, let alone the intensity of actual arguments. And bathing is basically optional – if you get to the hammam (public baths) once a week, then you’re doing better than most people.
It all makes for a really relaxed, laid back society, right? Well, in some ways. Moroccan culture has developed its own idea of hashuma, or “shame.” Almost any action that is contrary to societal expectations and the status quo can be considered hashuma, from poor or disgraceful behavior to inappropriate dress to a range of other offenses. And Moroccans, especially family members, are rarely afraid to call you out on it – either verbally or by pulling down one of their lower eyelids (often reserved for younger children and adolescents who should know better).
However, some parental classics still apply. For example, “Make your bed!” takes on additional importance when the household furniture is couch by day and bed by night. Also, sharing extends to every aspect of life, from the communal plate and communal cup at meals to virtually any item which you bring into the house. You lose the concept of “mine” and gain the permanent idea of “ours.” Of course, when you’re sharing cups and food to this degree, you are also unfortunately bound to share germs with each other – hence, “Wash your hands!” remains a popular adage. Additionally, I don’t think that I have ever encountered a more charitable people – the idea of giving is built into not only society, but religion (with its mandatory alms gift each year at the end of Ramadan). It is not uncommon, then, to see people giving food and money to the myriad handicapped people begging on the streets, as well as supplying the rampant street cat population with food or drink.
In the end, Moroccan society is paradoxically both far more open and far more closed off than American society – it’s all just a case by case evaluation.
These are all things that you will never, ever hear in Morocco.
Here in the medina, life is sort of like a little kid’s paradise. You eat with your hands (and usually a piece of bread), reserving silverware only for soup and couscous. You say hello to anyone and everyone, and men are free to say virtually anything to try to get a woman’s attention. And I mean anything. You play soccer or tag in the middle of the street and cross even major roads wherever and whenever you want, regardless of traffic. Meals, especially during Ramadan, tend to be all sugar and simple carbohydrates, all the time. The volume of even peaceful conversations tends to be quite elevated, let alone the intensity of actual arguments. And bathing is basically optional – if you get to the hammam (public baths) once a week, then you’re doing better than most people.
It all makes for a really relaxed, laid back society, right? Well, in some ways. Moroccan culture has developed its own idea of hashuma, or “shame.” Almost any action that is contrary to societal expectations and the status quo can be considered hashuma, from poor or disgraceful behavior to inappropriate dress to a range of other offenses. And Moroccans, especially family members, are rarely afraid to call you out on it – either verbally or by pulling down one of their lower eyelids (often reserved for younger children and adolescents who should know better).
However, some parental classics still apply. For example, “Make your bed!” takes on additional importance when the household furniture is couch by day and bed by night. Also, sharing extends to every aspect of life, from the communal plate and communal cup at meals to virtually any item which you bring into the house. You lose the concept of “mine” and gain the permanent idea of “ours.” Of course, when you’re sharing cups and food to this degree, you are also unfortunately bound to share germs with each other – hence, “Wash your hands!” remains a popular adage. Additionally, I don’t think that I have ever encountered a more charitable people – the idea of giving is built into not only society, but religion (with its mandatory alms gift each year at the end of Ramadan). It is not uncommon, then, to see people giving food and money to the myriad handicapped people begging on the streets, as well as supplying the rampant street cat population with food or drink.
In the end, Moroccan society is paradoxically both far more open and far more closed off than American society – it’s all just a case by case evaluation.
My Friend, the Bucket
At my homestay, showering is something of a process. In the absence of any real running hot water, my host sister has to heat up a pot of water on the stove and then I take a bucket into the bathroom and do my thing, letting the water drain down our Turkish toilet.
Luckily, Morocco has a special institution devoted to alleviating this process (and alleviating my smell after not showering for nearly a week), and this magical place is called hammam (the public baths). It elevates the bucket shower not only to something that is tolerable, but something that is even enjoyable.
You begin by accumulating supplies at home: towel, clean change of clothes, shampoo and soap (you can even by special olive-based soap in the market), a small scooping bucket, and an amazing Moroccan scrubby glove, amusingly called a “kiss” in Arabic.
When you arrive at hammam, you store your bags and strip down. For men, most choose to keep on their underwear, though some prefer to go all the way. I hear that women tend to hammam in the buff (though some keep undergarments on for modesty) – but I’ll never really be able to confirm this one way or the other, as the sexes are completely segregated through the process.
Once rid of your dirty clothing, pick up a bucket or 2 from the front desk and then enter the hammam proper, consisting of three rooms, each one progressively hotter and steamier as you move through. The first destination is the hottest room, where scalding water is constantly running from the faucet into a basin and people are constantly filling and dumping buckets of it, which never fails to remind me of Fantasia – as if any minute the Sorcerer will run in and put a stop to the whole scene Mickey has dreamed up.
After quickly washing out your bucket, you dump some water onto the floor tiles to heat them up, and then for anywhere from 10 minutes to half an hour, you just lie down and relax, taking in the biggest breaths of the thick, steamy air that you can manage. Eventually it is time to actually get clean, and you apply your first coat of soap – preferably the olive stuff if you have it. After this, the “kiss” comes into play, and you rub yourself raw, removing all of the dead skin and grime which builds up after a week of medina life. Naturally, it’s about impossible to scrub your own back, so it’s necessary to ask a friend, family member, or perfect stranger to help you out. It’s a very literal example of the proverb “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Every time I go in, it always amuses me to see an entire room of practically-naked men scrubbing and massaging each other in the midst of a society where homosexuality is not only a mortal sin, but is simply thought not to exist at all.
It’s usually around this point that my host brother Hisham – who is, by the way, maybe 30-something and at least 200 pounds – tells me to flip over onto my stomach and then proceeds to crack my back and contort my arms and legs, releasing all of the week’s tension. It’s amazing.
After rinsing all of the dead skin off with the hot water (and yes – you can see the skin coming off – it’s kind of gross), you move into the other two chambers and fill up the bucket again with cooler water. Here, you shampoo your hair and lather up your body with soap as you would in any typical shower, and then rinse off using the bucket system.
Once you’re done with this, you move back into the reception area, reclaim your bags, and dry off. However, far from done, most Moroccans just tend to hand around for a bit and socialize or lay down on the benches to relax. Also, you can do any necessary shaving here. I was surprised to find that besides their facial hair, lots of young Moroccan men also tend to shave their chests and armpits, while the older crowd with often shave their whole heads.
Finally, after 1 and a half to 2 hours, it is time to change into your clean clothes and go home. Hammam takes the idea of a long, steamy shower and elevates it to a new level. But for the next few days, you feel cleaner and your skin feels healthier and softer than ever before. This is one tradition that America should totally catch on to.
Luckily, Morocco has a special institution devoted to alleviating this process (and alleviating my smell after not showering for nearly a week), and this magical place is called hammam (the public baths). It elevates the bucket shower not only to something that is tolerable, but something that is even enjoyable.
You begin by accumulating supplies at home: towel, clean change of clothes, shampoo and soap (you can even by special olive-based soap in the market), a small scooping bucket, and an amazing Moroccan scrubby glove, amusingly called a “kiss” in Arabic.
When you arrive at hammam, you store your bags and strip down. For men, most choose to keep on their underwear, though some prefer to go all the way. I hear that women tend to hammam in the buff (though some keep undergarments on for modesty) – but I’ll never really be able to confirm this one way or the other, as the sexes are completely segregated through the process.
Once rid of your dirty clothing, pick up a bucket or 2 from the front desk and then enter the hammam proper, consisting of three rooms, each one progressively hotter and steamier as you move through. The first destination is the hottest room, where scalding water is constantly running from the faucet into a basin and people are constantly filling and dumping buckets of it, which never fails to remind me of Fantasia – as if any minute the Sorcerer will run in and put a stop to the whole scene Mickey has dreamed up.
After quickly washing out your bucket, you dump some water onto the floor tiles to heat them up, and then for anywhere from 10 minutes to half an hour, you just lie down and relax, taking in the biggest breaths of the thick, steamy air that you can manage. Eventually it is time to actually get clean, and you apply your first coat of soap – preferably the olive stuff if you have it. After this, the “kiss” comes into play, and you rub yourself raw, removing all of the dead skin and grime which builds up after a week of medina life. Naturally, it’s about impossible to scrub your own back, so it’s necessary to ask a friend, family member, or perfect stranger to help you out. It’s a very literal example of the proverb “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.” Every time I go in, it always amuses me to see an entire room of practically-naked men scrubbing and massaging each other in the midst of a society where homosexuality is not only a mortal sin, but is simply thought not to exist at all.
It’s usually around this point that my host brother Hisham – who is, by the way, maybe 30-something and at least 200 pounds – tells me to flip over onto my stomach and then proceeds to crack my back and contort my arms and legs, releasing all of the week’s tension. It’s amazing.
After rinsing all of the dead skin off with the hot water (and yes – you can see the skin coming off – it’s kind of gross), you move into the other two chambers and fill up the bucket again with cooler water. Here, you shampoo your hair and lather up your body with soap as you would in any typical shower, and then rinse off using the bucket system.
Once you’re done with this, you move back into the reception area, reclaim your bags, and dry off. However, far from done, most Moroccans just tend to hand around for a bit and socialize or lay down on the benches to relax. Also, you can do any necessary shaving here. I was surprised to find that besides their facial hair, lots of young Moroccan men also tend to shave their chests and armpits, while the older crowd with often shave their whole heads.
Finally, after 1 and a half to 2 hours, it is time to change into your clean clothes and go home. Hammam takes the idea of a long, steamy shower and elevates it to a new level. But for the next few days, you feel cleaner and your skin feels healthier and softer than ever before. This is one tradition that America should totally catch on to.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Hot Nights
So I think I just had a fun, new cultural experience with my new family. It’s a little hard to tell sometimes.
If there’s one thing that I can say about my new family, it’s that they love to eat. The only thing that they seem to enjoy more is feeding me, to the point where I am past full and almost in pain, yet still feel guilty over leaving the communal plate with a few uneaten morsels on it.
Tonight around 10:45 PM, my host sister brought out a plate full of a red sauce which I assumed to be tomato-based, along with the plate of bread obligatory at any Moroccan meal. Told to “Kul!” (translation: “Eat!” – and yes, it sounds just like “cool,” which is a constant source of entertainment for me) I simply obeyed.
To my surprise, it was not really tomato sauce as much as hot sauce, full of peppers, seeds, and whatever else one uses here to make things hot. My sister started gulping the stuff down, while I ate a little bit and enjoyed the burning sensation that began to tickle my tongue. After a couple of bites, I noticed that a few of my host family members were sitting around and looking at me in anticipation. My sister anxiously asked “Izween?” (literally: “Is it beautiful?” but used to mean “delicious” or “pleasing”) to which I answered “Nam, izween – har, wa izween.” (“Yeah it’s good – hot, but good.”) One of my host brothers came over and tried a bite, reacting strongly to the spiciness, and my host cousin started involuntarily coughing after only one bite of the bread dipped in the sauce. However, one of my host sisters ate an entire slice of bread covered in the sauce, and the first sister continued gobbling the stuff down as if it were nothing, though chasing it with large gulps of water. I followed suit, eating a few slices of bread at a moderate pace and drinking the glass of tea they had given me.
So, if this were a test, I think I passed. At any rate, a few of my host relatives were too afraid to touch the stuff at all, and from what I could pick out of the conversation, they were definitely talking about “heat,” “bread,” and “water” and looking at me a bit funny. Eventually, I had to stop and eat some plain bread to help my tongue, but I felt accomplished enough (and still full from our earlier dinner).
Perhaps this would have been a task better left to Grandpa Snazzy or Rene….
If there’s one thing that I can say about my new family, it’s that they love to eat. The only thing that they seem to enjoy more is feeding me, to the point where I am past full and almost in pain, yet still feel guilty over leaving the communal plate with a few uneaten morsels on it.
Tonight around 10:45 PM, my host sister brought out a plate full of a red sauce which I assumed to be tomato-based, along with the plate of bread obligatory at any Moroccan meal. Told to “Kul!” (translation: “Eat!” – and yes, it sounds just like “cool,” which is a constant source of entertainment for me) I simply obeyed.
To my surprise, it was not really tomato sauce as much as hot sauce, full of peppers, seeds, and whatever else one uses here to make things hot. My sister started gulping the stuff down, while I ate a little bit and enjoyed the burning sensation that began to tickle my tongue. After a couple of bites, I noticed that a few of my host family members were sitting around and looking at me in anticipation. My sister anxiously asked “Izween?” (literally: “Is it beautiful?” but used to mean “delicious” or “pleasing”) to which I answered “Nam, izween – har, wa izween.” (“Yeah it’s good – hot, but good.”) One of my host brothers came over and tried a bite, reacting strongly to the spiciness, and my host cousin started involuntarily coughing after only one bite of the bread dipped in the sauce. However, one of my host sisters ate an entire slice of bread covered in the sauce, and the first sister continued gobbling the stuff down as if it were nothing, though chasing it with large gulps of water. I followed suit, eating a few slices of bread at a moderate pace and drinking the glass of tea they had given me.
So, if this were a test, I think I passed. At any rate, a few of my host relatives were too afraid to touch the stuff at all, and from what I could pick out of the conversation, they were definitely talking about “heat,” “bread,” and “water” and looking at me a bit funny. Eventually, I had to stop and eat some plain bread to help my tongue, but I felt accomplished enough (and still full from our earlier dinner).
Perhaps this would have been a task better left to Grandpa Snazzy or Rene….
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