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!
Thursday, November 26, 2009
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….
Excursion, Days 2 & 3: Deep in the Dunes
Our second day of traveling was fairly uneventful. We all boarded the bus again at 7:30 AM and went for a windy drive through the mountains. After 4 hours of twisting and turning – when we had all nearly reached the point of nausea – we took a quick bread for a picnic lunch at a rest stop in the High Atlas Mountains. Fadoua had packed bread for sandwiches, along with tuna, Laughing Cow cheese, PB&J, and a substance called “Happy Crispy” which was basically a melted Nestle Crunch bar in a jar. So wrong, and sooo right. Balanced out with some Sprite and paprika chips, we finished up and climbed back on the bus.
On our way into the desert, we passed the Moroccan Hollywood, a movie studio and growing town where many Moroccan films are filmed, which has also served as a shooting location for some American movies like “Gladiator” and “Alexander.”
Around 4:00, we arrived at our hotel in Zagora, where we wasted no time changing to jump into the ice-cold outdoor pool for a quick round of Marco Polo (which we had to explain to Fadoua – nothing makes you realize how weird your own games and traditions are like explaining them to someone else…).
After this, we all went shopping for turbans in preparation for tomorrow’s desert trek and learned to tie them properly. We ate a chicken tajine dinner in giant carpet tents which were set up outside the hotel. After lounging outside, staring at the full moon and stars – followed by a quick turban photo shoot – we went up to bed.
The following morning, we drove out and picked up our desert guide, Ibrahim. Our first stop was a small village where we wandered the ancient Kasbah, toured the abandoned synagogue, and watched an old jeweler create silver amulets out of silver melted down in a fire and poured into clay molds.
In a second village, we visited a library of old Qurans, history books, and astrology texts, and then we went on to a little (expensive!) pottery shop.
From here, we transferred from our van to a pair of jeeps and headed into the desert. We ate lunch at the house of a Berber chief who fed us veggies, rice, beans, lentils, fruit, and peanuts. Then, over some tea (Berber whiskey, as they like to call it), he answered our questions about his tribe, his 3,000 year old position, and living a semi-nomadic life. You know, everyday sort of stuff.
At one final stop at the desert’s edge, in a village that was being slowly abandoned and moved westward as the desert’s boundaries pushed inwards, a group of children found us and began commenting on my soccer jersey, telling me about how Real Madrid was better. With my limited Darija skills, I tried to argue back and failed horribly.
And so, we took off and drove for a half hour or so through the dunes of the Sahara Desert – a crazy, rather bumpy ride – until we arrived at our desert camp for the night. Essentially, we had a ring of canvas tents outfitted with carpets, cots, and blankets, and dominated by one larger, central tent where all of our meals took place. Off to the side there was another tent with some Western-ish toilets, which you still needed a bucket to flush. I’m still not quite sure how our toilets in the desert were more Western than the one in my new homestay….
After getting acquainted with the place and having some more tea, we organized a soccer game along with our guide and the Berbers taking care of us. Aside from being dominated by our new Berber friends and getting pegged in the face by a direct kick from Anthony, the game was really fun!
And then came the moment which we had all been anticipating: CAMEL RIDE!! We all loaded on to our camels – staying on while the camels stood up was an adventure in itself – and then rode out for a half hour to one of the higher dunes in the area, where we got down and sat to watch the sun set over the Sahara.
Right when we arrived back at camp, we were treated to a traditional musical performance by a group of Berber singers. After watching for a bit, they pulled us in (literally) and we all danced together until it was time for dinner (veggies, lamb tajine, lots of fruit). After dinner, we had another mini performance and dance party, then went back outside to sit by the campfire. One of the Berber men demonstrated a method of cooking bread which basically involves burying the dough in sand and ashes next to the fire for 15 minutes. It came out perfectly done and delicious; magically, it had none of the awkward sandy crunch that you would expect from bread that’s been buried in the sand.
Not yet ready to settle into bed, we decided to go duning for an hour or so, and set out a little bit beyond the light of the camp and the fire to lie in the sand and look up at the stars. The sand in the Sahara has this really nice, fine texture to it – almost like you’re lying in velvet. Only, it’s velvet that gets all over you and into your clothes. Especially when you’ve been making sand angels…. So we just relaxed for a bit, watched the shooting stars, and one of the Berber guides tried to convince Laura that Berbers exchange massages when they are tired. I can’t say how true that is, but it sounded like a good enough suggestion to us. Eventually, we emerged out from the dunes and settled in for a restful sleep in the cool desert night.
On our way into the desert, we passed the Moroccan Hollywood, a movie studio and growing town where many Moroccan films are filmed, which has also served as a shooting location for some American movies like “Gladiator” and “Alexander.”
Around 4:00, we arrived at our hotel in Zagora, where we wasted no time changing to jump into the ice-cold outdoor pool for a quick round of Marco Polo (which we had to explain to Fadoua – nothing makes you realize how weird your own games and traditions are like explaining them to someone else…).
After this, we all went shopping for turbans in preparation for tomorrow’s desert trek and learned to tie them properly. We ate a chicken tajine dinner in giant carpet tents which were set up outside the hotel. After lounging outside, staring at the full moon and stars – followed by a quick turban photo shoot – we went up to bed.
The following morning, we drove out and picked up our desert guide, Ibrahim. Our first stop was a small village where we wandered the ancient Kasbah, toured the abandoned synagogue, and watched an old jeweler create silver amulets out of silver melted down in a fire and poured into clay molds.
In a second village, we visited a library of old Qurans, history books, and astrology texts, and then we went on to a little (expensive!) pottery shop.
From here, we transferred from our van to a pair of jeeps and headed into the desert. We ate lunch at the house of a Berber chief who fed us veggies, rice, beans, lentils, fruit, and peanuts. Then, over some tea (Berber whiskey, as they like to call it), he answered our questions about his tribe, his 3,000 year old position, and living a semi-nomadic life. You know, everyday sort of stuff.
At one final stop at the desert’s edge, in a village that was being slowly abandoned and moved westward as the desert’s boundaries pushed inwards, a group of children found us and began commenting on my soccer jersey, telling me about how Real Madrid was better. With my limited Darija skills, I tried to argue back and failed horribly.
And so, we took off and drove for a half hour or so through the dunes of the Sahara Desert – a crazy, rather bumpy ride – until we arrived at our desert camp for the night. Essentially, we had a ring of canvas tents outfitted with carpets, cots, and blankets, and dominated by one larger, central tent where all of our meals took place. Off to the side there was another tent with some Western-ish toilets, which you still needed a bucket to flush. I’m still not quite sure how our toilets in the desert were more Western than the one in my new homestay….
After getting acquainted with the place and having some more tea, we organized a soccer game along with our guide and the Berbers taking care of us. Aside from being dominated by our new Berber friends and getting pegged in the face by a direct kick from Anthony, the game was really fun!
And then came the moment which we had all been anticipating: CAMEL RIDE!! We all loaded on to our camels – staying on while the camels stood up was an adventure in itself – and then rode out for a half hour to one of the higher dunes in the area, where we got down and sat to watch the sun set over the Sahara.
Right when we arrived back at camp, we were treated to a traditional musical performance by a group of Berber singers. After watching for a bit, they pulled us in (literally) and we all danced together until it was time for dinner (veggies, lamb tajine, lots of fruit). After dinner, we had another mini performance and dance party, then went back outside to sit by the campfire. One of the Berber men demonstrated a method of cooking bread which basically involves burying the dough in sand and ashes next to the fire for 15 minutes. It came out perfectly done and delicious; magically, it had none of the awkward sandy crunch that you would expect from bread that’s been buried in the sand.
Not yet ready to settle into bed, we decided to go duning for an hour or so, and set out a little bit beyond the light of the camp and the fire to lie in the sand and look up at the stars. The sand in the Sahara has this really nice, fine texture to it – almost like you’re lying in velvet. Only, it’s velvet that gets all over you and into your clothes. Especially when you’ve been making sand angels…. So we just relaxed for a bit, watched the shooting stars, and one of the Berber guides tried to convince Laura that Berbers exchange massages when they are tired. I can’t say how true that is, but it sounded like a good enough suggestion to us. Eventually, we emerged out from the dunes and settled in for a restful sleep in the cool desert night.
Excursion, Day 1: Seeing Red
Hello, blog.
Wow, it’s been some time since I last saw you.
How are you?
Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I… I just got so busy and forgot to write! I mean, with midterms and traveling and –
What’s that, blog?
Yeah, you’re right. I have no excuse. But I’ve got so much to tell you!
Well here, maybe this will make you feel better….
Once upon a time, in early October 2009, the 7 members of the BU Rabat Program, along with their program coordinator Fadoua and their trusty driver Muhammad, boarded a van for points unknown. They took with them only a few bags and bottles of Sidi Ali (water), and took away only memories.
Well, memories along with a few souvenirs.
After packing up the van, we headed out, leaving the city for only the second time (after Casablanca). In the first of many long drives through the kingdom of Morocco, we passed through some of the agricultural areas of the country and glimpsed the mountain chains in the distance. After about 5 hours of driving, we pulled into the thriving city of Marrakesh.
The Red City is actually quite beautiful. The stone around the area has a reddish iron tint to it, so all of the original buildings also took on this reddish hue; nowadays, it’s actually a law that any building within the medina has to be painted this shade of faded red. Which makes the city alluring, but also makes it very easy to get lost….
After checking in to our hotel, we found a random restaurant and ordered up some Moroccan food – I got chicken kebabs with veggies (and some very traditional French fries), and then had my first taste of bastiyya by stealing some of Anthony’s dish. Oh. My. God. So delicious! It’s a recipe traditionally from Fes which essentially takes chicken, egg, raisins and almonds and wraps it all in luscious fried dough with cinnamon-sugar (like at the good ol’ Terryville Fair!). There’s also a very common recipe that uses pigeon meat instead… I prefer to believe that we ate the chicken variety. I personally enjoyed the cats which roamed freely throughout the restaurant, but my travelling companions seemed none too pleased and forbid me from trying to slip them any food. Pity.
For the afternoon, we had free time to visit the city as we pleased (with reimbursements for any museums or gardens!). So, we split up – one group went off to the Sa’dian Tombs while my group headed toward the Majorelle Gardens. Unfortunately, this meant braving the city’s horribly corrupt taxi system. As there were 5 of us, we had to split into 2 of the little golden cars. I was in the second cab, and our driver told us that we’d merely go off the meter of the leading taxi, which would have posed no problem – had the other driver chosen to actually use his meter. Instead, he insisted that it was broken so that he could trick us into giving him far more money than the ride was worth. Despite the fact that the girls in the first taxi told him repeatedly to turn on the meter and even had him pull over so they could get out and find another, he fell through on his promises to use the legally-mandated taxi meter. So, we paid the drivers about half of the ludicrous 30 dirhams they demanded and went on our way.
The gardens themselves were a bit smaller than I had expected, but were gorgeous. Picture lots of trees and cacti with fountains and ponds and tourists. All very peaceful. Yves St. Laurent (who was born in Algeria – go figure!) actually owned the gardens until his recent death, and there is a monument to him set up in one hedge-lined corner.
From there we went back into the medina toward the Medrasa, though Katherine and I decided to walk in order to see some of the city life and avoid another taxi fiasco. Instead, we were approached twice by men who offered to lead us and to whom we explained that we were students and could not afford to pay them for their services. The first then left us alone, but the second insisted on showing us the way to our destination, only to curse us loudly when, upon arrival, we repeated that we had no money to give him.
The inside of the Medrasa was gorgeous with its intricate tiling and woodwork and a small fountain in the central courtyard. Inside they set up a few of the rooms to look as they would have when the Quranic scholars had resided and studied there. Believe it or not, they were even smaller than a modern college dorm. Next, we spent a little bit of time in the Marrakesh Museum, which contained mostly modern artwork and a few examples of traditional costumes and weaponry. Finally, we looked at the Qoubia, a squat 2-story tower that is one of the last surviving examples of Almoravid architecture (dating from around the 12th Century, I think).
Before dinner, we spend a little bit of time wandering through the souk – so much larger than the few market streets to which we have become accustomed in Rabat, the market here is massive and maze-like, filled with goods and people and a little bit claustrophobic. Eventually, we ended up in the city’s famous Djemaa al Fnaa, which can be translated either as “Square of Death” or “Square of Nothing” – competing stories claim that the square was where the severed heads of dead enemies used to be displayed or that there had been plans to build a massive mosque in the square, but that these plans had come to nothing. Either way, it is now a huge open arena where musicians, storytellers, snake charmers, and performers of all other type gather to entertain the tourists and locals alike. I was amazed at how crowded the huge square became as the sun went down, and the energy throughout the place was amazing. We bought some fresh-squeezed orange juice from one of the vendors, along with some apricots and delicious candied peanuts that seemed to be covered in sugar and sesame seeds.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant / juice bar called Dallas and I had some chicken pizza (made “Moroccan” by the addition of a few olives on top) along with a cocktail of orange, banana, and peach juice. Over dinner, we decided that, since we were now living outside of America, we needed to become fans of football (soccer). So Fadoua took us out on a jersey search and we picked teams… mostly by who had the nicest-looking jersey and best reputation. I am now officially a fan of Inter-Milano! Granted, we just suffered a few crushing defeats, but whatever – I’ll stand by my newly adopted team through thick and thin!
Since everyone was exhausted after our first day of travel, we took a calm night and headed to sleep at the hotel. Anthony stuck me with the smaller of the two beds….
Wow, it’s been some time since I last saw you.
How are you?
Yeah, I know. I’m sorry I… I just got so busy and forgot to write! I mean, with midterms and traveling and –
What’s that, blog?
Yeah, you’re right. I have no excuse. But I’ve got so much to tell you!
Well here, maybe this will make you feel better….
Once upon a time, in early October 2009, the 7 members of the BU Rabat Program, along with their program coordinator Fadoua and their trusty driver Muhammad, boarded a van for points unknown. They took with them only a few bags and bottles of Sidi Ali (water), and took away only memories.
Well, memories along with a few souvenirs.
After packing up the van, we headed out, leaving the city for only the second time (after Casablanca). In the first of many long drives through the kingdom of Morocco, we passed through some of the agricultural areas of the country and glimpsed the mountain chains in the distance. After about 5 hours of driving, we pulled into the thriving city of Marrakesh.
The Red City is actually quite beautiful. The stone around the area has a reddish iron tint to it, so all of the original buildings also took on this reddish hue; nowadays, it’s actually a law that any building within the medina has to be painted this shade of faded red. Which makes the city alluring, but also makes it very easy to get lost….
After checking in to our hotel, we found a random restaurant and ordered up some Moroccan food – I got chicken kebabs with veggies (and some very traditional French fries), and then had my first taste of bastiyya by stealing some of Anthony’s dish. Oh. My. God. So delicious! It’s a recipe traditionally from Fes which essentially takes chicken, egg, raisins and almonds and wraps it all in luscious fried dough with cinnamon-sugar (like at the good ol’ Terryville Fair!). There’s also a very common recipe that uses pigeon meat instead… I prefer to believe that we ate the chicken variety. I personally enjoyed the cats which roamed freely throughout the restaurant, but my travelling companions seemed none too pleased and forbid me from trying to slip them any food. Pity.
For the afternoon, we had free time to visit the city as we pleased (with reimbursements for any museums or gardens!). So, we split up – one group went off to the Sa’dian Tombs while my group headed toward the Majorelle Gardens. Unfortunately, this meant braving the city’s horribly corrupt taxi system. As there were 5 of us, we had to split into 2 of the little golden cars. I was in the second cab, and our driver told us that we’d merely go off the meter of the leading taxi, which would have posed no problem – had the other driver chosen to actually use his meter. Instead, he insisted that it was broken so that he could trick us into giving him far more money than the ride was worth. Despite the fact that the girls in the first taxi told him repeatedly to turn on the meter and even had him pull over so they could get out and find another, he fell through on his promises to use the legally-mandated taxi meter. So, we paid the drivers about half of the ludicrous 30 dirhams they demanded and went on our way.
The gardens themselves were a bit smaller than I had expected, but were gorgeous. Picture lots of trees and cacti with fountains and ponds and tourists. All very peaceful. Yves St. Laurent (who was born in Algeria – go figure!) actually owned the gardens until his recent death, and there is a monument to him set up in one hedge-lined corner.
From there we went back into the medina toward the Medrasa, though Katherine and I decided to walk in order to see some of the city life and avoid another taxi fiasco. Instead, we were approached twice by men who offered to lead us and to whom we explained that we were students and could not afford to pay them for their services. The first then left us alone, but the second insisted on showing us the way to our destination, only to curse us loudly when, upon arrival, we repeated that we had no money to give him.
The inside of the Medrasa was gorgeous with its intricate tiling and woodwork and a small fountain in the central courtyard. Inside they set up a few of the rooms to look as they would have when the Quranic scholars had resided and studied there. Believe it or not, they were even smaller than a modern college dorm. Next, we spent a little bit of time in the Marrakesh Museum, which contained mostly modern artwork and a few examples of traditional costumes and weaponry. Finally, we looked at the Qoubia, a squat 2-story tower that is one of the last surviving examples of Almoravid architecture (dating from around the 12th Century, I think).
Before dinner, we spend a little bit of time wandering through the souk – so much larger than the few market streets to which we have become accustomed in Rabat, the market here is massive and maze-like, filled with goods and people and a little bit claustrophobic. Eventually, we ended up in the city’s famous Djemaa al Fnaa, which can be translated either as “Square of Death” or “Square of Nothing” – competing stories claim that the square was where the severed heads of dead enemies used to be displayed or that there had been plans to build a massive mosque in the square, but that these plans had come to nothing. Either way, it is now a huge open arena where musicians, storytellers, snake charmers, and performers of all other type gather to entertain the tourists and locals alike. I was amazed at how crowded the huge square became as the sun went down, and the energy throughout the place was amazing. We bought some fresh-squeezed orange juice from one of the vendors, along with some apricots and delicious candied peanuts that seemed to be covered in sugar and sesame seeds.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant / juice bar called Dallas and I had some chicken pizza (made “Moroccan” by the addition of a few olives on top) along with a cocktail of orange, banana, and peach juice. Over dinner, we decided that, since we were now living outside of America, we needed to become fans of football (soccer). So Fadoua took us out on a jersey search and we picked teams… mostly by who had the nicest-looking jersey and best reputation. I am now officially a fan of Inter-Milano! Granted, we just suffered a few crushing defeats, but whatever – I’ll stand by my newly adopted team through thick and thin!
Since everyone was exhausted after our first day of travel, we took a calm night and headed to sleep at the hotel. Anthony stuck me with the smaller of the two beds….
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
