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23 June, 2009

Tea and Coffee

Though tea is conceivably the most important and/or influential aspect of a Moroccans life, I was shocked to discover that this imported beverage was only beginning to be introduced to native Moroccans by the English and French in the early 1800’s. Since that time, it has dominated the Moroccan social calendar so that it is not uncommon to sit for tea 5-6 times a day.
Moroccans prefer their tea very hot and very sweet. As a result, there is a special sugar used for tea which is distinguished from regular granulated sugar as being sweeter. This special tea-sugar comes all in one piece like a sugar cube, but in the form of a tall skinny cone shape called a “kelb”, which is maybe 16” tall and 4-5”across at the base. Moroccans shatter these sugar-cones into large chunks using a rock or large metal rod. They then choose the appropriate size of sugar shard depending on the size of the teapot and amount of tea inside. Having witnessed the size choosing and inclusion of these diabetes rocks, I can safely estimate that Moroccan tea is consistently at least ¼ sugar. The tea is heated to boiling twice before serving, and again later if it starts to cool down. As if to underscore the piping temperature, tea is served in tiny shot glasses, which for the uninitiated, often scald the fingertips and lips.
While pouring tea, it customary to raise the teapot far above the glass, which should create a frothy “tarabush”(hat), proof that the tea is high quality. However, even high quality tea should be rinsed at least once or twice before brewing because it is not “clean” and will appear muddy when served. To preserve the flavor and caffeine(a chemical which is oddly unknown even to educated Moroccans), the process for rinsing the tea leaves is as follows. Pour in a full tea glass of boiling water into the tea leaves and after a very short time pour this out and save it for later. Now pour in enough water to cover the tea leaves and swish it around fervently in order to clean off the leaves. Pour this water out into a container of some kind (not into the sink because of some religious or mystical tradition which I can’t fully understand). Repeat this step until you think the tea is clean. Once the tea is clean, add the original saved cup-with the flavor and caffeine-back into the pot and fill the rest with boiling water to the desired amount of tea. Now you may add a large chunk of sugar and put the pot on the fire until it is boiling. Finally, pour out two tea cups and dump them back into the top of the teapot in order to mix the sugar. If you want, it is good manners to let somebody test it before serving.
For those that desire alternatives, coffee is also served in Morocco and in many families, tea and coffee are served together. Bigger cities have numerous coffee shops, all of which serve tea and espresso with various percentages of milk or water. Perhaps the most popular coffee order-and my favorite-is the “café ns ns“(½ and ½), which is half espresso and half steamed milk. The “bled”(countryside) of Morocco, does not have espresso machines, but rather is known for its own special style of coffee which is preferably brewed in whole milk instead of water, and spiced and sweetened so that it almost resembles Indian “chia” tea. When brewed in water, and depending on how it is spiced (families recipes include anything from mint to peppercorn), these coffee recipes can also, oddly enough, taste a bit like piping hot coca cola (Beverage side note: Coke and all other sodas are referred to as “leemonada”, and a “leemon“ is an orange; suggesting that the first soda to become popular among Berbers was probably an orange flavor like “Fanta”). While milk can be purchased at local t’Hanuts in boxes that do not require refrigeration, luck families, like my current host-family, get their milk for a cow. Recently, I stood amongst the hay and clucking chickens outside my house watching my host-mother milk her cow. When she had filled one small bucket, she gave it to me saying “Eammr L’qHwa”(make the coffee). Maybe fifteen minutes later, I was enjoying a sweet creamy beverage made from what must have been the freshest milk that has ever passed my lips. With such fascinating traditions and delicious beverage options, its hard to complain, although I do sometimes find myself daydreaming about ice, which to my chagrin does not exist in Morocco.

Having Friends at Souq

The souq is a lifeline here in the bled(rural villages/countryside) of Morocco. T’Hanuts in these villages carry some of the basic daily house necessities, ie. soap, oil, rice, milk, butane, etc.; but it would be difficult to survive here without the goods and services provided by the weekly souq market. The souq is so important in fact, that even professionals adjust their work schedule and sometimes don’t work on souq day in order to get their shopping done. In the TashlHite language, there is even a verb specifically for the act of going to the souq (“Swwuqagh idgam” = “I shopped at souq yesterday”). The most important items at souq, of course, are food staples like fruits and vegetables, fresh and powdered herbs and spices, coffee beans, and teas. Also very important, however, are the many incidentals for daily life like dishes, ovens, buckets(which are used constantly in a Moroccan household), yarn for weavers, tools for workmen, used clothes, farm animals, livestock feed, blacksmith and cobbler services, locks, brushes, tires, notebooks, rugs, the list goes on and on. Access to these goods are essential to life in places where the next best way to buy them is often a bus that you can’t afford. Access to these goods is also especially important if you happen to be moving into your own home after relocating to a foreign country with only the limited items that can fit on an airplane. Being in that situation, Amber and I began our “souqing” last Monday in the next town over(see previous post for more on that adventure), and continued our search for household necessities this Thursday in our own town.
Nearing the souq entrance on Thursday morning, we noticed some nice used pots and pans lying on an outstretched sheet bordered on one side by used televisions and on the other by used shoes. Not seeing the vendor, we took note and moved on. Somewhere around this time, we were joined by a boy of perhaps 10 years who followed us for the rest of the morning, staying right at my side with a shy smile. Often times, if we showed interest in something, our new friend would lean in and whisper the name of the object in TashlHite. Occasionally, I would pick up an unknown object and ask “Matskirt ee wad?“(What do you do with this?), to which he would shrug with innocence or meekly reply. Although he did ask for money a couple times, and once asked me to buy him a pen, I could tell that these were not his motives for following us. He had genuine interest in us and appreciated our company. Having been shamelessly asked for pens and money by the neighborhood kids countless times, I now know that it is an innocent and natural response to seeing foreigners which does not derive from greed or exploitation, but rather from a communal value to sharing ones wealth and good fortune with those less fortunate. I know this because I have witnessed Moroccans, who are by no means well of, giving what they can to the beggars and paupers among them. Still, to give my new young friend anything of mine, even something as small as a pen, would have set a bad precedent and fed the stereotype of the rich foreigner that I am trying hard to overcome. Instead, I offered him my free sample piece of melon, which he accepted and ate amidst low-slung tarps and the shaded fragrant produce that fill the back section of the souq.
After circling the aisles of the souq numerous times, we settled on the items we wanted; among them, a pack of simple tea glasses, a plastic juicer, a butane stove, a foam mattress, and a giant bucket in which to do laundry. Moderately concerned about getting these large objects back to our house which was a 30 minute walk down the road, I was relieved to run into our host-father who suggested that we leave our goods with a vendor friend of his offering to have them sent to our house in a transit bus later that day. Pleased with the charity of our friends and relieved of all burdens, we walked on, returning to the vendor with the used pots and pans we had seen earlier. The items still there, Amber began negotiations with the vendor’s starting price of 125Dhs for two matching pots and a pan. Finding that price too high, Amber made a counter offer which initiated a true scene of haggling. In the midst of their escalating negotiations, which were now drawing a small curious crowd, we were joined by a friend of ours who happens to be an Imam in a nearby “duwar”. Although our friend was careful not to show obvious inclinations for either side of the argument, it certainly may have helped that the respected religious figure was there greeting us, and in the end, the price was dropped to an even 100dhs. “Humduillah!”(Thanks be to god!) Souq, it seems, in addition to being an important lifeline, is also a place where friendships are made, celebrated, and improved.

Movin' on Over: Adventures in Nesting

After nearly four months of playing house guests with two radically different, but equally wonderful Moroccan families, Amber and I are finally seeing the end of the tunnel. We have signed the rental agreement on our own house, which we move into in the beginning of July! A short jaunt across the street and up the hill from our current resting place, the house stands in an open foothill surrounded by sparsely planted adolescent fruit trees. Neighboring houses are a comfortable distance away, the closest belonging to our studious tutor, Samira and the rest of her quiet and lovable family. The one-story, adobe house is laid out in a square shape surrounding a large, open courtyard shaded by two mature olive trees and trellised grapevines hanging from bamboo latticework. In addition to a modest kitchen, bathroom, and two long skinny rooms (for living-room and bedroom), there are also three smaller nondescript rooms and a traditional “rocket-ship” hammam for bathing. Unaccustomed to having so much space, we are hoping to use one of our free rooms for housing a modest band of chickens, which we have been advised should not be kept outside because of the feral dogs. We would also like to get a cat, but assuming the cat doesn’t need his/her own room, we are still stuck with deciding what to do with the other two empty rooms. Inspired by the Moroccan style of furniture use, we are largely planning to own portable furniture which can be picked up, modified, and relocated to fit the activity, weather, and number of people of any situation. For example, depending on the time of day and the weather, I have eaten meals in at least 6 different locations in my host families house. Most people in Morocco do not even have a designated bedroom, choosing instead to sleep wherever it is most comfortable, which in the summer is often outside in the courtyard or on the roof (Oh and by the way, there is a stairway up to the roof in case we decide to sleep under the moon on hot summer nights). As a result, it is likely that we will buy enough furniture to comfortably furnish one room and then just move that stuff around with us as needed. Of course, that isn’t as easy as driving down to the nearest IKEA. We have been doing all our shopping in the excitement and bustle of the weekly souq.
Upon seeing the beautiful rental house, we quickly realized that we would have to repaint many of the walls, which had been uniquely decorated by the previous tenant. We also wanted to start pricing things to see what was available and what we could afford. This meant a trip to the next slightly larger town for its Monday souq. After a two-hour tutoring session in the morning on the following Monday, we walked out of class just in time to catch a taxi headed in the right direction. “Are you going to the next town?”, I asked in TashlHite. “Yella”(come on then), the driver replied with a smile and an intonation that seemed to say “where have you been, I‘ve been waiting?”. We joined the rest of the passengers for the dusty trip that crisscrosses the river down the valley. As we neared the center of the next town, there was no mistaking that it was souq day, traffic slowing to a crawl behind donkeys, and vegetable-laden handcarts. This slow, taxi creep through a souq town is what I call “Moroccan window shopping”. While most of the souq exists within the walls of a large designated plaza, venders spill out onto the main streets showing off there goods to the passersby. Finally at the taxi stand, we got out, paid our fare, and found a friend, who lives nearby and offered to help us shop. Darting into the souq plaza, she introduced us to some her family that work in the souq selling carpets, blankets and pillows. From there we wondered the souq inquiring about the prices of everything from mattresses to stoves, dutifully writing down prices for later comparison. The price we were quoted on a pair of short wooden tables was just too good to pass up (talked down to 180DH for both), and soon we found ourselves hauling tables through the congested souq arteries. Satisfied with our price finding and table purchases, we snaked our way out of souq and headed to the hardware t’Hanut(store) in order to buy some paint.
Painting in Morocco, as it turns out, is nothing like painting in America. This is because in Morocco, the only color of house paint that you can buy is white. Instead of buying the color of paint that you want, you buy white paint and mix it with small bottles of tint which are available in a few expected colors. Although it is possible to use multiple tints and get creative with your mixing, the major quirk with this approach is that everything ends up pastel. I mean think about it; it doesn’t matter how many tubes of red you mix with white paint, your just going to end up with a brighter shade of pink! Originally planning to paint out salon (living room) a deep red color, after seeing the pepto-bizmal color that another volunteer created while attempting to make red, we relegated ourselves to colors of lighter saturation. With the knowledge of this new cruel reality, I suddenly saw Morocco with new eyes. Everywhere I looked, I saw pastels; walls, doors, signs; it was everywhere. Darker colors can be acquired in small quantities, but they are expensive and are used only for detailing to offset the excessive use of pastel. In fact all paint in Morocco is expensive. As a result, it is common practice for painters to dilute their paint with water in order to stretch its coverage, the result of which (partially translucent coats of paint) can be witnessed all over Morocco. It is particularly common to see one wall, in a room of four, with a much thinner grade of paint. This, you can be sure, was the last wall to be painted. Wanting to avoid this visual effect and not knowing how much surface the paint would cover, we apprehensively asked the hardware store attendant for a 30 kilo (about 65lbs) can of white paint. Then we went to work trying to order the right 5 colors of tint without any language (they speak Darija Arabic instead of TashlHite in this town) by leaning over the counter and pointing to things that were roughly the color we wanted. Meanwhile 6ft away, out of cover of the awning above us, the dirt on the ground began to sputter and darken with heavy rain drops. By the time we paid the exorbitant fee for our paint, sheets of rain were pouring from the clouds and muddy pools had formed in the streets and dips all over town. With Amber carrying the two tables and me carrying the 30kilo paint bucket and other painting accoutrements, we stumbled through the heavy rain and splashing mud to the taxi stand. Leaving Amber and the paint under a nearby awning, I ran, soaking wet, to find a taxi heading back home. I quickly found one with two seats available and rushed back for Amber. Under pouring rain, the driver strapped the tables to the roof of the cab and made room in the trunk for the paint. From there we maneuvered our way through the busy streets to a nearby Bufrron (bread bakery) where one of the passengers-a talkative and excitable middle aged women sitting in middle of the cab-needed to pick up fresh bread for her family. The driver, who wore a pink towel on his head hanging off his shoulders like a cape, got out of his seat, retrieved the bread and spent a few minutes under the hood of the taxi before wiping off the windshield one last time with his sleeves and getting back in. His wiping didn’t help for long, and with no working windshield wipers and the rain getting worse, visibility was poor. His resulting caution, however, made for an unusually relaxing ride and soon the women in the center seat was tearing off fresh steaming pieces of bread and passing them around to the soggy passengers, who in turn commenced jovial conversation and mutual appreciation all around. Though we had set out that morning to begin building a home for ourselves with paint and furniture, on this unusual and saturated day, we had found ourselves feeling at home in the warmth and comfort of a sodden taxi cab, in the company of loving strangers.

10 June, 2009

I'm So Proud of My President!

So here I am in Morocco, a country who shares with America perhaps the strongest international relationship of any Muslim country in the world despite our current post-Bush, post-9/11, post-Iraq, scenario; which I have to say, has left a bad taste in the mouths of many Moroccans who are suprisingly well informed (probably because of the abudance of satallites) and politically astute (Morocco's ancient desultory political history has developed a healthy interest among its inhabitance). As a result, I have witnessed many conversations (in which I do not participate) regarding the insane actions of the absolved Bush administration and the difficult situation in Israel, particularly the unfortunate treatment of the Palestinians. Luckily these dialogues usually end with a nod to the positive potential of our future now that America has made the decisive choice to turn a political corner. This makes me happy! Especially since I am not able to bend the ears of the people here regarding my personal beliefs. What also makes me happy is Obama's recent address to the Arab world in Cairo. It got a lot of play here (he did, after all, briefly make mention of Morocco) and the people I have talked to about it have unanimously said, "Mzyan" (great)! While I really apprecciated Obama dispelling some of the common myths about Americans, what I loved the most about this speech, as with many other Obama speeches, was his focus on the potential, the power, and the responsibility of people as apposed to government. He is saying to the world what he has been saying domestically for some time, "Yes we can"! And on the eve of a number of imortant international elections including an unprecidented forward-moving, national election here in Morocco this friday, I am proud to have a president who is willing to believe in and be an unabashed cheerleader for the future and success of the world beyond the borders of our country. I can only hope that we the people of the world can have an equal faith in ourselves, so to that end, listed below are some of Obama's affirmations that I found the most inspirational.

"We (America) are shaped by every culture, drawn from every end of the Earth, and dedicated to a simple concept: E pluribus unum: "Out of many, one.""

"For centuries, black people in America suffered the lash of the whip as slaves and the humiliation of segregation. But it was not violence that won full and equal rights. It was a peaceful and determined insistence upon the ideals at the center of America's founding. This same story can be told by people from South Africa to South Asia; from Eastern Europe to Indonesia. It's a story with a simple truth: that violence is a dead end. It is a sign of neither courage nor power to shoot rockets at sleeping children, or to blow up old women on a bus. That is not how moral authority is claimed; that is how it is surrendered."

"But we have a responsibility to join together on behalf of the world we seek – a world where extremists no longer threaten our people, and American troops have come home; a world where Israelis and Palestinians are each secure in a state of their own, and nuclear energy is used for peaceful purposes; a world where governments serve their citizens, and the rights of all God's children are respected. Those are mutual interests. That is the world we seek. But we can only achieve it together."

"All of us share this world for but a brief moment in time. The question is whether we spend that time focused on what pushes us apart, or whether we commit ourselves to an effort – a sustained effort – to find common ground, to focus on the future we seek for our children, and to respect the dignity of all human beings."

08 June, 2009

There is a Haunted Castle in Our Village!

I have been remiss to have gone so long without mentioning that our town comes straight out of a 6-year old boys wildest dreams. In addition to having a 700-year old haunted castle (actually a kasbah) which is inhabited by an unknown hovering light, we are also blessed with a gangling, white ghost, and a dinosaur! The dinosaur was discovered in the foothills of the mountains near our village a few years ago, the ghost lives very near the house we will be moving into at the end of this month, and the haunted kasbah peaks its ruins out from between the trees of the village fields, which follow the river down the valley. Check out Amber's account of our recent visit to the kasbah with our language tutor Samira, here: http://moroccanamber.blogspot.com/2009/06/there-is-haunted-castle-in-our-town.html

Discomfort and Education

“Bonjour”. This is the soundtrack of my life. It usually starts with the first person that I see when I leave my house and follows me up the 3 kilometer dirt road to the center of our village like a curious bird chirping at a safe but ever more intrepid distance. Along the way, this bird and I pass through 3 neighborhoods (called duwars) until finally entering the central duwar, which we call “souq” or “lxhmees“. The dual name derives from the fact that this is the location of the weekly souq market occurring every Thursday. In the local Berber language, we call Thursday, “lxhmees”, which comes from the Arabic word for 5 (xhmsa), because Thursday is the fifth day when counting from Sunday (which apparently, the Arabic world does). There are certain times and places along the road where the chirping turns into a chorus of French, which in rare cases borders on taunting. Sometimes, the Berber language is used in lieu of French for these events, but there is no expectation of reciprocation, and these outbursts are often punctuated by chortling. Though I make this same journey back and forth at least once everyday, I am no less a spectacle now than the day I first arrived. At least three days a week, I “work” at the sbitar (health clinic) where hundreds of townspeople have witnessed me talking with and assisting the doctor and nurses; I go to souq every week; I live with a host family who has introduced my to many relatives and friends; I walk around the fields and stop to help the workers; I work with two separate language tutors at least 3 times a week; I go to the post office twice a week to check my mail box; I sit in the outside patio of the cafés like the rest of the town men; I have been to numerous random houses for tea, I am teaching the doctor how to play the guitar; I have visited the schools; and I regularly go to the cyber (internet cafe);but STILL, I am no local. Grown men still sometimes stare at me as I pass with their jaw dropped ignoring my salutations. Not even in middle school did I feel so out of place. I am simultaneously celebrated and ignored; an invisible spectacle. And perhaps because I have never been one to draw attention to myself, this is a particularly trying scenario for me. I constantly find myself in the spotlight being forced to perform with little or no warning; like the other day when I accepted an invitation to the nightly adult Arabic literacy class only to find myself attempting to read Arabic words scribbled on the chalkboard aloud to the class even though I don’t speak Arabic and can’t read script. Or the time that I visited the local middle school and was spontaneously whisked into a classroom of approximately 40 students and 5 or 6 teachers and asked to introduce myself and explain my purpose for being in Morocco using the local language despite the unfortunate fact that I haven’t figured out my purpose for being here in my own language yet (This event was, of course, followed by cake, soda, and a large photo session because all the children wanted to have their pictures taken with the foreigners).

Early on, I stopped trying to explain to people that I don’t speak French because they continue to speak French regardless of what I say. At first this was a perplexing verity, however a few weeks ago, I gained some perspective on the matter. I was walking on the same road I take every day, when a big white SUV came to an abrupt stop beside me. A French tourist sitting in the passenger seat rolled down her window, leaned out, and asked me something in French. My immediate response was “samHiyee, urfHmug Fransawee” which in TashelHite, means “Forgive me, I don’t understand French”. Now why did I respond to a French tourist in a fancy white SUV with my limited mountain Berber language, when it is very possible we both speak English? Because I am accustomed to pulling out TashelHite when I am talking to somebody who doesn’t speak my native tongue. Likewise, the people of Morocco, invariably rely on their French to communicate with people that don’t speak there native tongue. And to be fair, the children here, who are responsible for the majority of the French outbursts that I endure, are probably excited for the opportunity to practice the language that they are so vigorously studying in school. Just last week, the final-year high school students in morocco took an exam to see if they will be given government money to go to college. Education in Morocco is technically free all the way through college, but in order to get free admission to Moroccan college, you must first pass this test (called the Boch), which is continually being made more difficult, one; because sending people through college is expensive, and two; because a growing number of Moroccan college graduates can‘t find work. The odds are against these students. None of the test sections are in there native language. Many of the sections are in Arabic, some in French, and at least one in English. Of course, these are the luck ones who were able, because of intelligence, geographic location and socio-economic situation, to attend school up until this point. My town for example, will not have a high school until 2012 which means students who want to go to high school will have to live in boarding schools in the next town 26 kilometers away. Then there are many children who stop school because their family situation demands that they work in the fields or stay at home and cook. Others, on the other hand, simply aren’t capable of learning in the difficult multi-lingual educational environment that relies heavily on rote memory. Sitting in the small wooden desk at the madrassa (elementary school) trying to learn how to read Arabic script, I was struck by how difficult it was to learn just because of the bad acoustics of the echoing cement-walled building, even in a class of adults with modest attendance, not to mention a large class of boisterous children. So with reverence to these facts, I try hard not to blow my top the fiftieth time I hear “bonjour” each day. Instead I stroll on by, respond warmly in TashelHite, put myself in ridiculous and uncomfortable situations, and try to act like I live here (which by the way I do)!

01 June, 2009

Beauty Mark

She stares at me with eyes that belie her age, content to let the rest of her body fall how the world around her sees fit. She lives in these eyes and the world she sees is all that matters. I stare back forgetting for a moment, the vast desert and whipping, purple velvet window curtains. A sudden noise draws my attention briefly, but my eyes soon return to their previous resting place, where a beauty mark has revealed itself. Breathtaking! I envy her. I have had many attempted beauty marks; thousands of candidates. They are common here; a dirham a dozen. They offer themselves to me, and each time my instinct is to brush away the opportunity. I, apparently, am not really to bear the burden. Hers is worn with grace and ease. It has changed locations now. It belonged, for a time, to her soft round cheek, but now has found comfort in the slow predictable breezes just below her nose. It rotates, surveying and ringing it arms in speculative thought. These traits are not beautiful. A person, however, capable of accepting these common worldly traits without the slightest change in mood or life trajectory; this is a beautiful person worthy of a distinguishing mark.