Day 6, Part 2: Childlike Wonder

After all of 5 minutes in my new home to set down my suitcases and try to get organized, my host brother Yassine asked if I wanted to come along for a ride with him since he was headed over to his apartment for a bit. This was the first time I’d heard anything about a second apartment, and came as a bit of a shock to me. I guess I just didn’t expect a host family in the medina (typically the location of lower-middle class families who have had homes passed down to them as the wealthy moved out to newer suburbs) to have a second residence, especially not within the same city’s borders. But, defying expectations as always, it seems Yassine does indeed have his own apartment about 8 minutes away in the Ocean district just outside the Medina.

And let me tell you, those 8 minutes of travel were among the most exciting of my life.

[Side note: Mom, you may want to skip over this part….]

So, it also turns out that Yassine has a car. In the medina. Now, those of you who have been here probably realize the impracticality of driving within the medina walls. For those of you who have not, picture a tight cobblestone street, the broadest of which are about 14 feet wide. As you drive off of the main avenues, the streets shrink down to about 5 or 6 feet wide, no joke. Now, fill these thin streets with not only vendors and merchandise, but people. People everywhere. People who don’t really care whether or not a car is coming toward them, because they don’t plan to move out of your way anyways. People who are in the middle of haggling for goods, people who are praying, people who are playing soccer, people who are riding bicycles or motorcycles, people wheeling carts and carrying bags and visiting with friends and yelling and wandering and generally taking up most of the available space – especially during the daily rush to the market at around 4 or 5 PM.
A sane person might not try to take a motor vehicle through such streets. Moroccans do.

My first hint should have been when Yassine had to climb through the passenger side to get to the driver’s seat – he had to park literally within inches of the wall in order for anything else to pass by the car. Also, I initially attributed the lack of a side-view mirror on the passenger’s side to an odd design choice or perhaps to ease of parking. After my drive, I now think I might have a better inkling of the real reason…

The car itself is an older model Renault, I would guess late ‘80s. It’s pretty small, but still roomy enough inside, and the outside is dark blue with the assorted scratches expected from city driving.

We got in, and the music started up – House music. Now, I’m not sure how prevalent this music is in America – I know I had never really heard it before, except as described by people I know who have been abroad. Basically, it’s extremely close to techno or electronic music – with their thumping bass lines and repetitive though entrancing synthesized melodies – but with a lot more talking. Not singing. Just talking. Where electronic will have no voices at all and techno will tend to have some sung vocals, house just sort of speaks to you. And, more often than not, repeats to you. All in all, it’s not bad. It’s actually kind of catchy and almost forces you to dance along. Especially when it’s dictating that you must dance. Because when house speaks, you listen. Provided you understand the language in which it is speaking….

And then the roller coaster ride began. I must say, Yassine did things that I didn’t think were possible with a motor vehicle. (And let me say, after driving later on with his brother Mourad, I have a new-found respect for Yassine’s level of proficiency with the stick shift….)

We started out backing straight out of Zankat Jamaa Moreno, on which we live. This sounds simple, but trust me – it’s a good 50 foot stretch of narrow roadway filled with human and inanimate obstacles. And he did it speedily, with complete confidence. When I moved to reach for my seat belt, he assured me that it would not be necessary. Hesitatingly, I chose to believe him.

We then pulled around through the narrow maze-like streets, at one point encountering a large truck trying to come through in the other direction. After a little maneuvering from both parties, we managed to get past, but with a slight scratch on our side from his rear-view mirror. My driver seemed less than concerned.

I noticed that many of our human obstacles seemed to recognize us (well, Yassine) and would wave or shout out some phrase I didn’t understand. Rarely did they make any conscious effort to move out of our way, however.

Upon reaching the medina walls, we came across a slight traffic jam – someone not quite as skilled or experienced at Moroccan driving seemed to have gotten pinned in between a few lanes of traffic and couldn’t back up enough to swing his turn. Horns erupted everywhere. Rather flustered, the offending car eventually managed to get out of the way and we pulled out into the city’s regular streets. From here driving got slightly easier – the streets were wider and some even had multiple lanes! Of course, that doesn’t mean that you have to obey the lines separating them. Yassine wove in and out of traffic, speeding up to 70 km/h and then hitting the brakes, passing wherever possible, and so on. There was never a dull moment.

We finally managed to pull up to his apartment, and after fiddling with the television for a bit and then calling up the landlord to fix it, our mission seemed to be accomplished. I got a short tour of the apartment, which was quite gorgeous – spacious for one or two people, with bright colors everywhere. Out on the terrace, you got a beautiful view down the couple of blocks to the ocean.

The ride back was more of the same, our most exciting moment occurring when we came across a group of men praying on mats in the street outside of a mosque. We held still for a minute, and then they all finished, stood up and allowed us to pass.

We made it back in one piece, I rolled the windows shut, and thanked God that I was back standing on solid ground.

[Note: Mom, it’s safe to start reading again!]

But my favorite moment of the ride by far: Yassine playing the Black Eyed Peas’ “Boom Boom Pow.” Later on we listened to a techno-fied version of “I Gotta Feeling.” How I love cultural melding!

After we got home, we still had a good half hour before futur (the traditional meal breaking the Ramadan fast, once the sun sets). So, I sat down to work on a crossword puzzle. But before long, a young girl walked up to me. She couldn’t have been older than 6 with her bright brown eyes, brimming with bouncy energy and even bouncier dark curls pulled back in two separate ponytails. She pointed at my book and said a word in Darija (Moroccan Arabic) that I couldn’t quite understand.

I decided to try out some of my recent (and very limited) Darija vocabulary. “Smeetee Sean. Shnoo shmeetek?” I asked, trying not to sound ridiculous. “Smeetee Maha,” my new host-niece replied in an adorable squeaky voice. And yes, fellow Al-Kitab sufferers – I have now officially met a real, live Maha. And loved every minute of it.

Following introductions, our conversation took an awkward turn. Essentially, she would try to tell me something, and I would stare at her blankly and either shrug cluelessly or smile and nod enthusiastically as if I understood her. She saw through me pretty quickly and seemed to pick up on the fact that I did not speak any of her language. Or was simply in desperate need of some quick tutelage. So, for the next half-hour until dinner, she took me by the hand, led me around the house, and became my teacher. We played a little game where I would point to something and ask “Shnoo hatha?” to which she would tell me the object’s name. Usually I would try to repeat whatever she said, fail horribly, and we would play call-and-repeat until my part was satisfactory. And little Maha was a tough judge. I only wish I could remember any of the words she taught me – I am a horrible student.

We concluded our little game by playing with my digital camera for a little while. She seemed really intrigued by the device (and I think she liked some of my pictures), and she especially loved removing and replacing the batteries. Even though I was terrified that she might drop it, she was extremely gentle and no harm was done.

All of this completed, we gathered around the table and sofas in the living room and waited for the muezzin to call out “Allah akhbar,” which would announce the evening prayer time, the setting of the sun, and – most importantly – the signal that it was alright to break our fasting (and by “our,” I don’t actually include myself – the CCCL has kept us non-Muslims well-fed). The meal was delicious, and the experience itself was something completely new to me. Everyone around (all of my new host brothers, sisters, and my host mom) was speaking in a tongue that I could barely understand, while Yassine to my right spoke to me in English, Mourad to my left conversed with me in Spanish, and I meekly tried out my feeble Arabic or French with everyone else. It was an incredible, yet somewhat overwhelming, blend of foreign tastes and foreign tongues. As we shared our communal plates of delicious treats, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder, sitting at once within and outside the moment. It all promised an interesting and intense semester to come.