An Imperial Sunset

            

            If Rabat is a sleepy little administrative city, then Fez is a demanding and exhausting tour de force that pries its way inside of you and tries to force you into submission.  But then at the same time, Fez is a city trapped in its past, unable to adapt to its lost status as Morocco’s political center, which has steadily been shifting to Rabat since the start of the French protectorate.  Now the city relies almost exclusively on tourism for its livelihood, which has the benefit of preserving one of the most incredible medieval cities in the world, but at the cost of restricting the ability of Fessis to adapt to a changing world.  Don’t get me wrong, Fez is still beautiful and stimulating city, both up close and personal when walking through the narrow streets of the old medina and a distance when watching the sun set over the city from a rampart on one of the hills overlooking the city.  To clarify what I mean, here is a brief summary of my encounter with Fez.

            After getting off the bus with the rest of my study abroad group and walking to the gate of the old medina, I quickly found myself about to enter a very different time, where the widest streets are just wide enough for two fully loaded camels to pass by and donkeys are still the most common mode of transportation within the medina’s maze of narrow streets and alleyways.  After just a few steps into the medina, merchants seemed to flock around us and began to call out in French, English, and Spanish (i.e. the languages of foreigners and tourists), trying to entice us to come into their shops to buy their products.  There is some harassment in Rabat, but it is nothing compared to Fez, where merchants will do anything and everything to get a response from tourists passing by to lure them into their shops to buy something.  While waiting for some friends to barter over a leather bag, I was trying to get some idea about the starting price for a leather briefcase from a leather merchant.  After asking him the price of a bag, the merchant quickly pressured me to make an offer of how much I would pay for the bag.  I had no intention of buying the bag, so I didn’t name a price (one should only name a price when serious about buying something) and tried to tell him no thank you and walk away, but he kept harassing me to name a price.  I would still be in that shop right now if it weren’t one of my friends who literally had to pull me out of the shop to get me away from the merchant.  As we were walking away, another Moroccan standing nearby called out, “If you don’t have any money, don’t come here.”  This one sentence encapsulates Fez’s grim future, which is dependent on Western tourists coming to the old medina and spending money – without the income flowing in from tourists, Fez would slowly crumble into ruin after surviving more than 1000 years as one of Morocco’s Imperial cities.  

            But at the same time, Fez is a city full of life, which I experienced firsthand when five friends and I took a taxi to Borj Nord, which was a fortress on the northern hill surrounding Fez and is now an arms museum, to watch the sun set over the city trapped in time from a crumbling rampart.  While walking back into the old medina we somehow got lost (Maybe I shouldn’t have relied so much on my hand-drawn map of Fez for directions), but eventually found our way to Café Clock in the old medina.  It happened to be someone’s birthday, so our waiter led us in singing “Happy Birthday” in four languages (English, French, Arabic, and Spanish) and at the end of our meal surprised us by bringing out a chocolate cake and leading us in singing “Happy Birthday” another few times.  The great food (the best I’ve had in a restaurant since coming to Morocco), the great service, and the great outdoor terrace, all combined to create the most enjoyable and relaxing evening I’ve had in the past 3 weeks.  And for the first time, I actually felt comfortable in Morocco. 

            Fez was a great city to visit, but after spending just 3 days in the former Imperial city, I have to say that I’m glad I’m living in sleepy little Rabat, which is quickly feeling like a home away from home.

Adventure in the Ordinary

I’ve been in Morocco a little over two weeks now, and I’ve noticed that everything’s not as different as you might expect.  Of course there some differences in everyday living, like what food is eaten, when it’s eaten, how it’s eaten, who it’s eaten with, but then there are also common themes of life that seem to cut across cultural differences.  Here are just a few that I noticed this last Saturday when my host sister Omnia, her two kids (1 and 6), and her husband came over for a lunch (which started promptly at 2:30) of kefta tajine and several different salads.

1)       Kids can be handfuls and act mischievously anywhere around the world.  Take subject 1, Yassine (age 1).  While we were sitting in the salon before lunch watching a show like Amazing Race called Fez-Dakar Express, Yassine was grabbing everything he could get his hands on while one of the adults would shout out “la” (no) about every other minute.  Then there is Subject 2, Hussein (age 6).  After lunch a big group of the family piled into a tiny car (myself included) to go shopping for some new clothes Omnia, who is a French teacher at an elementary school nearby, could wear to school (I didn’t realize that we were going shopping for women’s cloths when I agreed to go into the city with them, but as you will see, it all turned out for the better in the end).  While we were waiting for Omnia to try on her new clothes, Hussein was busy collecting as many tags from the blouses and dresses on the racks as he could.  Latter, when Hussein, his dad, and I proceeded to have coffee at a café, he dumped his booty into a flower pot on the café’s terrace and then poured someone’s leftover coffee all over the tags.  I thought that this would cause a huge uproar with Hussein’s dad and the café staff, but it seemed like no one except me even noticed what Hussein was doing.

2)      In general, women take forever to shop and get ready no matter where they are from, even in a more conservative Muslim society like Morocco.  Before arriving I thought that because Moroccan society tends to be more modest than in the US (e.g. most men wear pants, most women never wear anything above their knees, and both men and women rarely wear clothes that reveal their shoulders) that women wouldn’t care so much about their how they look.  How wrong I was.  Even thought my host mom, mama Nezha, always wears a hijab when she leaves the house, she usually takes 5-10 minutes to pick out what she’s going to wear, decide which hijab she’s going to put on, and apply lotion and other beauty products to her face. 

3)      The cars of newlyweds also get decorated in Morocco.  I discovered this insight into Moroccan culture by watching a florist stand and an army of male employees decorate cars with ribbons and bouquets of flowers to the cars of newlyweds.  Normally, I probably wouldn’t have noticed what the florists were doing, but because I had nothing else to do while waiting for Omnia to buy here clothes, watching the florists at work across the street from the clothing store was the best way I could think of to pass the time (besides trying to make sure that Hussein didn’t get into too much trouble).

4)      Finally, the day ended by learning that just like in the US, there are people in Morocco who think that President Obama is a Muslim.  When I returned home from the café with Hussein and his dad, I was surprised to see (although by now I shouldn’t be surprised anymore, because it happens all the time) a random Moroccan man with a huge mustache sitting in the salon drinking coffee and eating these incredible mini chicken and almond pastilla (I hope to learn the recipe so that I can make them when I get back to the states).  When I sat down, the news was just starting and there was a story talking about Obama, which sparked a very intense political monologue by the mysterious – and very loud – Moroccan man, which was occasionally punctuated by comments from mama Nezha and Omnia.  I couldn’t really follow what he was saying because it was in rapid Darija, but from the few words I did pick up, he mentioned how good Obama is, something about the political economy of oil, and what was going on in Libya.  Towards the end of the discussion, mama Nezha asked me to make sure that Obama is a Muslim, because his first name is Barak, which I think means “blessed” in Arabic.  I then proceeded to explain that President Obama is not a Muslim, but his grandfather was, which ended in a disbelieving look from mama Nezha.  I’m not sure how widespread this misconception is, but it could be one of the reasons that President Obama is so popular in the Middle East and North Africa – there is a perception that he is a fellow Muslim brother.

I hope this blog entry was at least a little bit interesting; sometimes the most exciting adventures can happen in the most ordinary situations, if you just pay attention to them and appreciate what’s going on.  At least that’s how things feel in Morocco right now.  Just coming home and finding strange people having tea in the salon or going to the grocery store to buy some cheese and be a real adventure.  Maybe after the trip to Fez this weekend this will change, but I don’t think so.  No matter where I am, I’ve always found that everyday life can hold as much wonder as the most epic adventure. 

Rue Liban, L’Oceon, Rabat

The big day has come and gone; I am now moved in with my host family for the semester.  I am only staying with two people – mama Nezha and Amine (her 30 something year old son) – but there is a huge extended family that I’m only beginning to discover.  When I first arrived at the apartment, grandma (mama Nezha’s mom) was sprawled out on the couch in the salon watching Moroccan soap operas.  At first I thought she was also staying at the apartment, because she stayed and had lunch with us, which was an amazing kefta tajine with salad and boiled potatoes and carrots, and was still there after I had gone to bed.

            Before going any further, it’s important to know a little about Moroccan meal times.  Lunch is the biggest and most important meal of the day, which is eaten at about 2 or 3 in the afternoon.  Then between about 5 and 7 they usually have tea and cookies and use it as an excuse to get together, socialize, and catch up with each other.  Because of the late lunch, dinner usually is not eaten until 10 or 11 at night, and is usually something light like a soup or a salad.  With this in mind, this next part should make a little more sense, or at least not seem so bizarre.

            Just a few hours after lunch, mama Nezha’s brother and his wife came over for tea (from this point onwards, whenever I mention tea, assume it is Moroccan mint tea unless I say otherwise) and stayed for one or two hours, just to talk.  During the visit, I think I found out that mama Nezha’s late husband was the Moroccan ambassador to France and that my host uncle has a pool; I say “I think” because no one in the room, except for Amine who left early on during the visit, spoke English, only French or Darija (Moroccan Arabic).  Shortly after my host aunt and uncle left, one of Nezha’s sisters came over and seemed to have some sort of break down/girl talk with Nezha and grandma (I knew it was about something bad because grandma frequently made the Moroccan hand gesture for shame, which is called shuma).  I was sitting in the salon right next to these three women while all this was going on, trying not to intrude on what I thought was a private conversation by diverting my attention to the TV which was showing Numbers with Arabic subtitles. 

            After almost an hour of just sitting there quietly, I finally mustered the courage to get up and go to my room to study the Darija phrases I had learned earlier that day.  It may not seem like it should have been a big deal to just get up and walk out of the room, but it was, at least at the time.  The Moroccan people are very hospitable, but this hospitality comes at a price: you have to make sure that you don’t offend them.  Doing anything from not eating enough to not asking how someone is doing is enough to incur the wrath of shuma (shame).  So sitting in that room I felt like I was paralyzed because I didn’t know the right thing to say or do to excuse myself; but as it turned out, I guess it was okay for me to just leave the room because I am a foreigner and don’t yet know the proper etiquette. 

            Finally, I ended this exhausting day by eating dinner what I thought was a late dinner at 8:30 (this was before I found out just how late Moroccans eat dinner) all by myself while the women were still talking away in the salon and Amine was off doing his own thing.  This may not seem very hospitable, but for my family it was, because they were just trying to accommodate my preferences and habits.  There are a lot of things that I’m going to have to get used to in Morocco; the late eating times may be one of the hardest.     

Au Maroc

The journey to Morocco - and more specifically the journey to my hotel in Rabat - has truly been an occasion where fact is stranger than fiction.  The Morocco I read about has not prepared for the Morocco that I have found.  The country's grand themes of European and Middle Eastern fusion, Islam, transition to democracy, etc. may be and probably are an important framework for Moroccan society, but they say nothing about the day-to-day operations that keep the country alive and make possible these grand themes.  Here then, is a summary of my observations of the living-breathing Morocco based on the first 24 hours I've been here.

As strange as it may seem, my first impression of Morocco when I first glimpsed it from my plane window as it passed by the Straits of Gibraltar was a sense of inexplicable peace; not nervousness, anxiety, or even excitement, but tranquility.  Even after being confronted with a customs form from the TAP (a Portuguese airline) stewardesses that was only in French and Arabic; even as I saw the baggage carousel stop, with my 38 pound duffel bag no where to be seen, even as I spent an hour trying to find the lost baggage claims office in the Casablanca airport using my passable French, and especially as I sat in the lost baggage office looking at the picture of King Mohammed VI in the filing cabinet while I waited for my claim form to be entered into the computer, the calm stayed with me.  I still don't have my duffel yet, but I've heard that I should get it back tomorrow, so all I can do is hope and push it from my mind as I begin adjusting to life in Rabat.

Once I finally got out of the airport, more than 2 hours after the flight had landed, I and 3 other students (who all happened to be from AU) from the program were greeted by huge crowd of Moroccans.  At first we thought it was just for us, but then we realized that no, they were waiting for their friends and family who were getting back from the Hajj (which would explain why there were so many Moroccans wearing the white dishdashas at the baggage claim).  Then, as Conor and I were riding in the taxi out of the airport, watching goats, cows, and sheep grazing literally right next to the freeway, I suddenly found myself thinking back to images of western Texas that I had seen when I visited my grandparents one winter during grade school.  If you don't look too closely, the countryside we drove past could almost be mistaken for Texas, if Texas was Muslim, had tajines, and was right next to the Atlantic Ocean.  For the Midwesterners, it also felt a lot like southern Minnesota or the rest of the Great Plains, if they were a bit drier, had a orangish-red hue to everything, and had walled-in farmsteads and orange and olive orchards.  The land's resemblance to home was so striking that as the plane was landing it almost looked like I was landing at MSP in August during a drought, complete with farm fields of grains (wheat more than corn) divided into rectangles with wide-open roads running between them.

But once I turned my attention back to the road in the taxi, the similarity all but ceased.  Driving down the center of the center of the white dividing lines at 120 km (about 75 mph), honking the horn for seemingly no reason, and pulling up onto the sidewalk for parking is as common as jello salad at a Minnesota Lutheran potluck.  I was fine with it, but I knew that if there were a few members of my family that I will not name in the taxi with me, s/he would..., well let's just say that s/he wouldn't have had a great and pleasant experience.

Before ending this post, I want to step back and look at the big picture; the broad themes of a society may not always dictate the day-to-day operations, but they do give meaning and purpose to any group of people, which I would argue is one of the most important things to have in life and is a huge motivation for how people act.  In Morocco, the family and relations with people are incredibly important.  Without having met my host family yet (which I will do later this week) I can already see the importance of maintaining bonds with each other from the way children stand guard at the entrance to their parent's little convenience shop to the way old friends stop and hug each other in the street.  I'm not part of that connection yet and am excited about plugging into it; but, I'm sure that in a few weeks or even days I'll be asking myself why I ever wanted to leave the comforts of Western individualism and come to a place where private property really just means communal property.  Anyway, I'll just have to wait and see what happens next.