Ishqqa welakin iHla yak? (Difficult but good right?)

The daily greeting, which are so important to socialization in Morocco, have changed a bit during Ramadan. This makes sense in this holy month, given that the Koran contains numerous passages referring to the suitable greeting to and from good Muslims. For example, while in general it is sufficient to utter the truncated "Slm" or "sbah" (translates to "mornin'"), many people are now inclined to carefully administer the entire "salaam u walaikum", and will expect the proper "walaikum asalaam" in return. This is usually followed with the typical obligatory quarries about family and health; but now, included in the questionnaire, is the deceptively intrusive question, "Is tazzumt" (Are you fasting)? If you are fasting, the result is a second, much more fervent, handshake. It has been explained to me that if two people are fasting, then their handshake will come directly from their hearts, where as it is otherwise derived from their pinky fingers. This is then followed up with the inquiry "iHla Ramadan nghd oho?" (Is Ramadan good or not), to which the proper response is, "iHla, welakin ishqqa" (It is good, but its difficult). Some will play cavalier and tell you "Oho, ishqqa walo" (No, there's nothing hard about it), but there is a sense of community that comes from collectively sharing the weakness and discomfort of fasting on long summer days, and most people are more than willing to admit these discomforts. Do not however, mistake these descriptions of Ramadan as complaining. People here would not complain about such a holy experience, and in fact, will usual punctuate any descriptions of difficulty with the appreciative, "humduilla" (thanks be to god)! For example, "Ramadan is hard. It's very hot and I'm so thirst. The days are very long in the summer...Thanks be to god! Ramadan is good". Many will also expound on the healthful virtues of fasting. The more believable of these arguments include; that it is good for your body to have a break from constantly digesting, and that people actually gain weight during Ramadan (which is very possible despite the fact that they are eating less, because they have slowed their metabolism to a screeching halt, but still bombard their stomachs with massive daily doses of food each night before bed). I fasted completely for four days. The headaches, constipation, and extreme exhaustion I experienced didn't feel like my body getting healthier. It did get easier as the days stretched on, but I didn't start noticing health benefits until I reintroduced fluids into my diet. After that, I continued to fast from food for two more weeks, and with a little water in my system, this practice actually felt pretty good. I felt light and energized, and I had a surprising sense of clarity. Still, I was not able to exercise beyond getting to and from town, and after two weeks I began to notice a significant deterioration of muscle strength. Aware of my muscle atrophy, and facing five days alone in my house while Amber went away for a training, I decided the time had come to reunite with my old friend gastronomy.

The problem with eating during Ramadan is that you begin to feel like a social outcast; like a villain, secretive and mischievous. Even if you admit to people that you are not fasting, it is highly impolite to eat or drink under the public eye. As a result, I found myself reclusive. More than that though, when I did leave the house, I felt tinges of guilt. Occasionally I would visit friends for the delicious breaking of the fast in the evening, with warm breads and cakes, tea and coffee, huge bowls of fresh figs and peaches, mnsinmin (flaky flat bread), sfenj (sugarless fried donuts), bghrirt (half way between a crumpet and a crepe), shbekia (glistening honey and saffron infused mini-funnel cakes), slilu (a flavorful mixture of spices, flour, oil, and every available seed and nut, all pulverized and mixed into a powder and eaten with a spoon), and much more; but I felt like an imposture sharing their LiFdoer (breakfast). As if I was dulling the significance of the important meal for the fasters among me. Soon I began to look forward to that dark moonless night (Islamic time is lunar so that Ramadan is one full cycle of the moon, from one moonless night to the next). Last night, that night arrived. Today is "l-Eid l-fdr", a holiday marking the end of Ramadan. In practice, it resembles Christmas morning. Families all over the Muslim world will gather together today and enjoy extravagant meals. Their houses will have been cleaned up and perhaps decorated for the occasion. Everybody will wear elegant new clothes, and children will be given small sums of money. While they celebrate their successful completion of Ramadan, I am reflecting on the experiences of the last month with affection. I, of course, will miss the amazing evening meals and the spruced up calls to prayer; but most of all, I will miss the solidarity that came with the holy month. Morocco is already a highly communal society (especially compared to the individuality of American society), but this is never more true than in the month of Ramadan. As everybody fasts, they all suddenly have something in common which is so basic and so important that they seem to understand and interact with each other on a more fundamental level. Peoples differences wane when matched against the unmistakable similarities they all share. A bit like living in an ant farm, but heartwarming none-the-less. Goodbye Ramadan. A fond farewell until next year. You will be missed.

The Sounds of Morocco

Well before I left the comfort of the USA, there was a request that I record some of my songs for people to listen to while I was gone. In the tidal stress of preparing for departure however, I neglected these requests, and in an attempt to remedy this, I am now forced to broadcast my voice around the world for all those interested to hear. This, it turns out, also requires that I open a myspace account (but be forewarned that I do not intend to use this in the typical social fashion). So without further ado (much ado to follow), the website for listening to recordings is http://www.myspace.com/moroccansean . Enjoy.

Further ado: First, I would like to point out that the primary purpose of these recordings is for friends and family who miss me to have a way to hear my voice and thus stay connected on that important level, particularly since I have not been talking to people on the phone. As a result, I tried to give it that "sittin' right there in the room" feel by only recording each song once. In effect, it was a live concert with all the errors you would expect for such a venue. For those of you interested, the careful identification and repeated playing of these mistakes should bring much satisfaction and happiness (my second motive for the live concert style). Also, it should be stated that I am by no means a practiced guitar player or singer and therefore any attempt to record without mistakes would have been difficult if not maddening. My personal favorite hiccup is about 45 seconds in on "Always Remember". Its actually Amber's drum solo because she sent me a text and my phone was sitting next to the recorder. This created some sort of strange electronic field; a surprising and fresh percussion technique!

While I felt obliged to accommodate the request for my songs, I have also been hoping to post the more traditional and culturally significant sounds of daily life in Morocco. En Shallah, in the near future I will add these sounds. Look forward to them!

The Bountiful and the Hungry (Ramadan Begins)

I returned from my extended visit to Azrou with an arm load of expensive cereal and spices, and a new appreciation for the simple things I took for granted in the States. But when we arrived home, the scenery had changed a bit. The beautiful fields that run bright green through the duwars of our community have always been an important source of food and funds. When we left, people were hard at work picking and processing barley. Before that, they gathered wheat. When we returned, the grains were gone. Instead, people were emerging from the verdant foliage with buckets of sweet delicious tazart (fresh figs). At our house, the same fruit, round and ripe, burdened the adolescent tazart trees just outside our front door. Inside in the courtyard, perfect bunches of grapes hung heavy, gleaming in the morning sun. The basil seeds I had planted were flourishing. Back in the fields, quince, apricots, plums, and corn were nearing completion as well. We discovered, to our surprise, that we were now living in cornucopian oasis delimited by arid desert and mountains as far as the eye can see. Though I continued to enjoy my "Kellogg’s" creations, these facts gave me pause as I pondered the even simpler things there are to appreciate. I mean what could be more minimal than this? We walk through the fields with our neighbors until we reach a fig tree (there are many trees, but each tree is shared by certain groups in the community, so you can't pick from just any tree). We carefully handpick only the perfectly ripe specimens, easily filling a deep plate. Then we go to the nearby aqueducts (underground run-off from the mountains above) we rinse the fruits, and eat them right there, throwing the peeled skins back into the rich soil from where they came. Usually there are leftovers to be taken home for later, and if we see some ripe lemons, plums, or sprig of herbs, we are free to take a little of that home with us too. The last time we visited our host family for lunch, as we were leaving Ahmed reached into a huge sack and transplanted multiple scoops of freshly picked pre-shelled luz (almonds) into another bag for us to take home. It’s delightful! And it emboldened me to experiment with the other local ingredients that I had on hand to make things from scratch. First I made ricotta cheese; easy and quick, but a wonderful treat in a world of "laughing cow". With one success under my belt, I went a little crazy. I threw together some pickles in a jar and put them in the sun for 6 days (delicious); I made a large jar of creamy plain yogurt ready to eat after about a day on top of the fridge; and I perfected hand crushed peanut butter using a heavy metal mortar and pestle from souq. Also at souq I gathered up the courage (and maybe the language skills) to find the souq flour mill and find out how to get whole wheat flour. (I've tried buying it everywhere, but none of the buhanuts carry it). With large grain sacks all over the ground making it hard to walk and a thick cloud of flour dust rolling in the air, I asked the mill worker if I could buy some fresh ground flour. He told me, "I don't sell flour; I just grinds what people give me". Even better! From there I went to a nearby stall outside the souq walls where piles of grain were resting in the sun. After a short discussion about where the salesman lived and how I speak TashlHite (this usually helps with getting the none-tourist price), I asked for 2 kilos of irdan (wheat). I returned to the mill, but he remembered me and asked "did you sort this yet"? In my haste, I had forgotten that all grain in Morocco comes free with small rocks and other unknown objects. It is after all, hand picked from the fields. With that, I agreed to come back next week with sorted grain and encha' llah, return home with fresh local whole wheat flour; which should go great with the pizza dough and banana bread recipes I've perfected. (Thanks to Karen for the oven thermometer! I guess not everything is local). But the crown and jewel of my recent gastronomic endeavors is soda! And not just any soda; watermelon ginger soda with lots of fizz. Honestly I worry about the possible jealousy and greed that the introduction of this magnificent beverage may create... but it’s worth it. I tried making ginger ale first, but I put too much ginger, too much yeast, and not enough sugar. On my second attempt I was making some watermelon juice and I decided to give it a whirl. I added just a little yeast, a bit of sugar, and some crushed ginger. I put it in an old plastic coke bottle and I let it sit on top of the fridge over night. In the morning the plastic was taut so that I knew that the soda was done. After a few hours in the fridge, and a patience few minutes opening it so it wouldn't fizz everywhere, I took my first wonderful taste. Sadly, while I have another larger bottle of the same amazing nectar waiting for me at home next to the thyme/onion flavored homemade pickles and the fig flavored homemade yogurt, I will find myself both hungry and thirsty for the foreseeable future. Why? Because last night as we prepared for bed we heard a knock on the door. Our neighbors had stopped by to let us know the news they had just seen on TV. Ramadan will begin in the morning. Before bed I set the alarm for 5am so that we could get up before the sun, eat our last meal, and drink our last glass of water until the sun goes down again around 8pm. Its 12:30pm here on my first day of fasting. I've had a couple of passing hunger pangs and I'm beginning to get thirst, but nothing I can't handle yet. The hardest part of Ramadan is that people are expected to maintain there same workload even when they fast. After eating before the sun, I went back to bed for a couple hours, but then I had to bike to a nearby duwar and look at the drinking water systems with the man who controls them. Tomorrow, we have an hour long bike ride to visit a hospital with no nurse or doctor. If we slept all day, it would be seen as cheating. I'm not sure how the rest of this day will go, but with all the amazing food growing up around us it’s hard to fathom fasting. I can only assume that as the sun sets, my appreciation for these amazing earthy gifts will continue to intensify. Humdullah!

Fez

I awoke on the roof of Hotel Cascade in the old medina of Fez to the sound of birds squawking above. They dove and glided, celebrating the new day's sunlight peaking over the horizon. Perhaps two hours prior, the long and beautiful call to prayer from the nearby mosque had jostled my slumber. A few hours before that, I had been singing along to American folk song favorites with a large group of PCV's armed with a couple guitars and a desperate desire to create a home away from home.

I sat up from my sleeping pad. The sun glistened from the mud and stone edges of the cramped medina structures stretching on into the distance as far as I could see. Tired Americans and adventurous backpackers lay strewn about the hotel roof like dirty clothes on the floor of a bedroom. Rooms at the "Cascade" are affordable despite the hotels perfect location, but if you don't mind multi-national mingling until the wee hours of the morning, the roof makes a far superior place to sleep; especially on hot summer nights like these. Our taxi driver told us that it was 130 degrees the day we arrived. I didn't take him for his word, but I've experienced 115 before and Fez was hotter than that. At 7:30am, I was already beginning to sweat, so I took one more glance at the chaotic skyline of the medina and went downstairs into the hotel. I washed my face and brushed my teeth at the shared sinks in the hotel foyer, and then made my way to the third story patio. There I found the unusual, but gracious hotel host seating people for breakfast. Multi-lingual and eerily comfortable with his surroundings; like a Moroccan version of "the Dude" from "The Big Lebowski"; the "Moroccan Dude" wanders the hotel vestibules, sliding his flip-flops along the tile floors, making small talk with all the guests and always reminding them "MarHaba" (you are welcome here).

"SbaH lkhir" (good morning), I said. The "Dude" said something to me in French, to which I replied, "yeah, I'll take what their having", pointing to a couple of Europeans eating breakfast at the end of the table. A minute or two later, I was presented with a traditional Moroccan breakfast of sweat mint tea, fresh squeezed orange juice, a croissant, a slice of bread, a yogurt, a triangle of laughing cow cheese, and mnsinmn (a flat fried tortilla) rolled up and drizzled with honey. Just down at the street, I could have bought all these treats by the kilo, but Fez can be a daunting place, and having just woken up, I wasn't quite ready for the full experience. Besides, I was tired.

It had taken us two long days to get to Fez from our home. The first day we left around 9am, but our bus was delayed 4hours and got us to the halfway point much later than we had hoped. That night we stayed with a group of volunteers near the town of Rich. We stayed up until 3am making pizza and talking about our experiences. The next morning we all piled in taxis and headed into Rich, where we met up with more PCVs and doubled our group. Three sweaty taxi trips later, at around 4pm, we were finally pulling into Fez. We took city cabs to the old medina, checked in to the hotel and dropped off our baggage. There we were; we had passed through the famous L'Bab Oujoud (great entrance to the medina) and for the first time, set our feet inside one of the most historic sites in all of Morocco; one of the great cities in the world; the single largest metropolis inaccessible by automobile; riddled with history and culture. So what did we do? McDonalds!

Some of you might be grimacing as you read this, but don't judge us. We all came here to experience and embrace new cultures, and like it or not, that is exactly what we have been doing everyday, all day, for the past five months! And we haven't been just seeing historic sites from the comfort of a hotel room. We are living in the bled of Morocco. We are in fact so steeped in Moroccan culture that we must at times endure the prejudices of city dwelling Moroccans who look down on us for being too Berber! Even from the perspective of many Moroccans, we are living in a culture of the past. So if the ancient walls of Fez have stood as long as they say, surely they can wait until after we get our McFlurries!

The McDonalds in Fez was refreshingly similar to those found in the States. The major exception, besides the special "McRabia Tagine Flavored Burger", was that the employees were outstanding. They were sharply dressed, spoke Arabic and French if not English, and were all smiling and happy to be working there (I later heard that in order to work at an American fast food restaurant in Morocco, you must have a college degree). Because of the heat, I was not in the mood for cooked food, so I passed on the burger and fries and ordered a soft-serve ice cream cone and a medium coke. I was pleased to find ice in the coke, but I asked for more so I could really savor it.

With McD's in our system, now we were ready to return to the medina and appreciate it for all its historic beauty. For the next day and a half we wandered the thin, winding, stone corridors of Fez. Loud with music, boisterous discussion, and flamboyant sales attempts from the local shop owners, the streets bustled with a sea of people broken in sections by the occasional passing cart or donkey load of goods. Beautiful decorative shawls, carpets, leather slippers, and jewelry hung from the walls and outstretched awnings. The red geometric Fez hats lined some store entrances. Each inset room had new gorgeous offerings or unexpected craft. Just down from the hotel, in a wide spot in the alley, men stood meticulously carving Arabic text out of marble slates. I passed one small room maybe 8ft across by 4ft deep, by 4ft high, that was oddly offset about 5ft up from the road. To small for a man to stand up, inside the compartment was a woodworker sitting on the floor against one wall, carving away at a long strip of wood. Behind him, were layers of partially finished wooden works of art, material scraps, and tools.

Interspersed with the crafts stores, were cafes, butchers, delis, and pastry shops. Giant stacks of golden pastries glistening with honey competed for our attention with the smell of grilling meats, piles of delicious olives soaking in brine, stalls overfilling with mysterious herbs and spices, and gooey stacks of dried dates and figs. Occasionally, we would walk by a mosque with an open door and catch a glimpse of their cavernous insides meticulously crafted and adorned with plush red carpets and gold trim; rich and elegant, and yet somehow not ostentatious. The sight of such massive open space was particularly breathtaking juxtaposed with the ever thinning stone avenues of the medina, which make you forget open space all together.

Smaller alleys leading into the darkness, shot off from the more heavily traveled thoroughfares. One such alley weaves a short distance between tall adobe walls before a door appears on the left. This door is the entrance to "Cafe Clock", the brainchild of a particularly merry British expatriate. We had heard of the "Clock" as the place to go for a delicious camel burger, so we went one evening to celebrate Amber's birthday and try some camel. At first, it seemed like nothing more than a trendy cafe/restaurant, but when we took the time to wind up the steep four levels of stairs, we began to see how special the "clock" really was. Housed in what was once a large adobe house, each floor is a unique space of its own, and because the central area is kept open, you can see all the way down through to the bottom floor from each floor above. At the top, the largest seating area in the cafe, is a stunning multi-level patio section with funky, eclectic furniture, green foliage, and a view looking out over the medina, across from the detailed tile work of a historic mosque. The night we went, we happened to sit next to a man named Anise Hbiba. Shortly after our food arrived, the cafe owner came up to see how we were doing and introduced Anise to the entire room as one of Morocco's best and most famous contemporary singers. He then urged Anise to sing a few songs which Anise obliged. The next thing we new we were being serenaded. Between songs, while cafe staff asked for autographs and gave requests, we enjoyed our camel burgers and our date-almond smoothies. Afterwards we retired to the hotel roof for another late night of singing and some cake for the birthday girl. A more perfect night could not have been had.

Before leaving Fez we were able to walk through much of the medina, see the famous leather tanneries, look out over the whole of the medina from ancient tomb ruins atop a nearby hill, and spend quality time singing and chatting with fellow volunteers. But there was one thing I didn't mention, which was also a major highlight (If you didn't like the McDonalds story you might want to stop reading now.) Fez, like some select other major cities in Morocco, has a store called "Marjon". "Marjon" is like one of those super-Wal-Mart's in America. Its got cloths, house wares, office supplies, electronics, and groceries; more importantly though, it has imported groceries. When we arrived in the air-conditioned store, we wanted to make the experience last, so we decided to walk up and down each aisle, one by one. It occurred to me around aisle 3 how much I missed the experience of shopping in a store. In the bled of Morocco, everything is bought in the intense haggle-laden environment of the souq, or standing at the counter of a hanut asking the owner what he has. At "Marjon" we could take our time and pick up and look at items for as long as we wanted. We knew that we would have to travel a long distance home with whatever we bought, so we tried to limit ourselves to only the necessities. Still, we left with two big bags of groceries including, three boxes of cereal, rosemary, oregano, basil, thyme, curry powder, lots of herbal teas, quality chocolate bars, and balsamic vinegar. Because of a lack of a place to keep them, we ignored the exceptional selection of cheeses and meats. As we walked out into the blistering Fez heat, we were smiling from ear to ear. It's hard to go without the things you love, but it's wonderful to discover those little things that make you happy; for me its cereal and spices.

Sean the Teacher

You know that saying “Stick to what you know”? Well, generally, I disregard this expression. I try to keep one foot squarely planted in unfamiliar territory, and I avoid sticking to anything except my loved ones and my convictions. That said, I will admit that my recent African adventure has me uncomfortably submerged in the unknown with a short snorkel and few opportunities to surface. So when I was approached by the town pharmacist regarding the possibilities of me teaching an English class, I seized the opportunity, and slathered on the proverbial glue. A few days later, I brought him a schedule of times in the week when I was available, and we came up with a tentative schedule. "I've only found two or three others who are interested so far", he warned, "So it might be a small class". "Mashi Mushkil" (No problem) I said. The fewer the people, the easier this will be, I thought.
The plan was to meet at the local association building the following Tuesday evening. Luckily, I had already read a book on teaching English as a second language, so I went home and diligently looked over the notes I had taken. Besides the pharmacist, I didn't know who my students were, so first I would have to assess the student's current skills and expectations for the course. But, people would be disappointed if that’s all we did, so I prepare a short lesson in addition. I struggled for some time with the logistics of teaching unknown students and varied skill sets, but finally, I settled on an exercise called "The False Story". In this exercise, the teacher reads a story to the class, and within the story there are some statements that are not true. The students must identify these falsehoods and correct them. In case we still had time left over after that, I also brought along Bananagram (a spelling game with tiles like Scrabble).
That Tuesday, I arrived at the center of town near the classroom about half an hour early and watched for students. At 7:25pm, just five minutes before class, nobody had arrived and I began to prepare for a one on one session with the pharmacist. As the clock struck 7:30pm, however, people mysteriously emerged, collecting outside the classroom door. In all, I had five students ranging in skill level from total beginner, to one gentleman, who has a B.A. in English. I introduced myself and asked for everyone to introduce themselves as best they could in English. Then I asked them some basic questions. Why do you want to learn English? How do you use English now? How do you want to use English? Etc. But these were odd questions to be asking. Morocco is a country whose education system regularly forces foreign language upon its pupils without thought to what the pupil wants or needs. The teacher is supposed to know best. My student's answers reflected this cultural phenomenon plainly. "We just want to learn everything about English". "We want to know it all; as much as we can; as soon as we can". They looked confused and a little concerned. My apprehension was palpable. Everyone in the room, myself included, was wondering the same thing; "Does Sean know how to teach"? Ironically, in my haste to "stick to what I knew", I had neglected to ask myself this question. But it was too late to turn back. So with a manufactured smile, I steadied myself, handed each person an empty notebook, spun on my toes, grabbed a piece of chalk, and began my lesson.
On the blackboard I wrote, speaking, listening, reading, writing, and grammar. Above that I wrote beginner, intermediate, and advanced with the number one over beginner, connected by a line to the number five over advanced. "These are the five elements of language" I said. After translating all the words I had written into TashlHite, I continued, "In the notebooks that I have given you, rate yourself from 1-5 for each element." My ability to answer the students’ questions in their own language was confidence building. My students were now the ones out of their element, and as I moved on to "The False Story", my poise improved.
"There is a souq here every Friday" I announced, writing the words on the board as I spoke. Smiles cracked among the classroom and a couple of the students yelled out, "No, souq is on Thursday". "Good" I said crossing out Friday and replacing it with Thursday on the board. "So when do we have souq"? Answers rang out freely. As the story continued, it occurred to me that the classroom dynamic had shifted again. Now we were all having fun, and the students were engaged and learning. When the story was complete, I assigned everyone a bit of homework, and announced that we had arrived at the end of our class. With a sigh of relief, I accompanied my new students out into the dim twilight of the desert.
The next class came the following Friday, which was enough time for me to start doubting my success in the previous class. I prepared for the class as if the same people would attend, but worried that nobody would show up because they didn't like the last class. First, of course, I prepared a short review of the previous week’s lesson. Second, I decided to try a new exercise called "What am I Describing". In this exercise, the teacher describes something with simple sentences and adjectives, until the class can guess what they are talking about. Also, I prepared a short exercise, similar to the "Telephone Game", where each person must tell one other person an English phrase, and it is passed along until everyone has heard it. Then you compare what the last person heard to what the sentence was in the beginning. If anybody showed up, I thought, it would be a good lesson.
Very curious about the attendance, I biked into town that Friday a little before class to see if anyone had arrived. Before I could assess the situation, the pharmacist invited me back into his office for a quick snack of cake and apple. Finally at exactly 7:30pm, we exited the pharmacy to go to class. As he locked the pharmacy doors, I looked over to the classroom across the road. Waiting for the doors to open were ten or more people. By the end of class that night I had fifteen students of all ages and skill levels. Standing in front of a class that had tripled in size, my nerves briefly got the better of me. Like last time though, I worked through it, and like last time, the class was a success! So successful in fact, that I may have to begin another class to accommodate all the people. That's what happens when you stick to what you know (or when you offer free language classes to Moroccans).

Independance Day

So we’ve moved into our new place, complete with mattress, butane oven, “agurteel” (plastic woven floor mats) and refrigerator (it makes ice!!). Aside from getting used to a healthy population of co-inhabiting insects and reptiles, things have been wonderful. We love and miss our two gracious host-families, and cherish the valuable time we shared with them, but we also miss our privacy, our freedom, and our cuisine. So for our first Moroccan July 4th, this was the independence that we celebrated.
I began by perfecting my favorite drink; the iced-Americano. The key was replicating ½ and ½ with chilled, densely mixed powdered milk. Next, it was time to re-introduce peanut butter into my diet. After toasting peanuts in a pan, and carefully removing the skins, I managed to produce extremely chunky but acceptable peanut butter with our “mskeen” (sad/pathetic), underpowered blender. Peanut butter and coffee checked off, next it was time to christen the oven with some good old-fashioned chocolate-chip cookies. Ovens in morocco are not the ovens you are used to in the States. Ovens here come in three sizes; very small, kinda small, and medium. Made from bent steel sheeting by local welders, these ovens attach to large tanks of butane, piping gas into multiple flame holes running along the underside of a thin middle shelf. When turned on, the result is a very hot little metal chest. We keep our metal chest, which we call “the Bunsen burner”, tucked under a cement kitchen counter. Our stovetop sits on the counter just above and shares the same gas tank, so therefore cannot be used simultaneously. With no measuring cups and no way to know the temperature of the oven, baking cookies proved to be a difficult task. By the fourth batch, though, the cookies were approaching edibility and I was only mildly embarrassed to present them to our host-family later that night. “We’re not used to the oven yet, but they’ll be better next time”, I promised in broken TashlHite, as thin brittle cookies crackled in the mouths of my friends during “caskerroot” (afternoon tea). I could hear their thoughts, “Didn’t you say you used to be a baker”?
The next day, perhaps out of sympathy, I received a call from my host-father inviting us for the couscous meal traditionally served after midday prayer on the holy Friday. Though we had 4th of July travel plans for that afternoon, and though I received the invitation just as my own delicious lentil salad was nearing completion on the stove, I accepted the offer and carefully packaged up my meal for later. We arrived at our host-family’s house at 2pm as requested, and proceeded to wait on the doorstep of the empty house while the whole family prayed at the nearby Mosque (Random cultural side note: Although some women pray in Mosques daily, it is not required by their religion. Many women- our host-mother included -make a point of praying in the Mosques only for the midday Friday service. Mosques often have a special room for women for this purpose). After waiting 30 minutes, our growling stomachs were pleased to see people trickling out of the Mosque. Passersby must have been intrigued by the sight of two hungry Americans sweltering in the midday sun on a Moroccan doorstep, but some gracious “Salaam’s” and an occasional double-take were their only response until two unusually large Moroccans walked by. After almost passing us by, one of the men turned and said with a perfect east-coast accent, “Where you guys from? Are you lost or something?” I was speechless. I was thinking “What do you mean where are we from? Who the hell are you and where did you come from?” Instead I stammered, “d..d…the united…uh…ameri..um..New Mexi…I..I mean the southwest“. Then his friend chimed in, “What are you doing here?” By then I had regained my bearings. Though they wore “jalabas” and looked Moroccan, I could tell from their accents that they both lived in America. “We work with the Peace Corps. What are you doing here?” I spouted. As it turns out, the first man was born here and was visiting his remaining family. His friend was originally from Casa Blanca. They both currently live the D.C. area. When our host-mother Katuma returned from prayer this improbable English discussion switched to a mixture of Arabic and TashlHite and ended hurriedly. We did after all have couscous to enjoy. As is tradition, the couscous was delicious and served later than expected. Luckily, it is also tradition for guests to leave abruptly after a meal, so we didn’t feel too bad rushing to the taxi stand with the food still fresh on our tongues. Ensha’ allah, we were going to spend the 4th of July with other Americans!
Our 4th of July plans formed organically out of necessity. Our house had all the basic furnishings, and even some extra frills, but it lacked an important Moroccan element: carpets. Moroccan carpet weaving has an immense history and is still an important industry for Moroccan economy- especially for rural Moroccans. Tapestries from Morocco are shipped and sold all over the world, and are one of the major goods purchased by tourists. As a result, the industry is adapting. Middle-men sprout up everywhere trying to pocket the hefty difference between what foreigners are willing to pay and what local Berber artisans are willing to charge. These middle-men, who set up shop in all the major tourist locations, make access to these rugs effortless. Unfortunately, they also force the artisans to work for unfair rates. To combat this, some Peace Corps volunteers work with local women’s associations called “neddi”s to encourage a business model that brings the buyer and the artisan back together. Our goal was to meet up with some of these volunteers, buy some rugs, support some local artisans, and enjoy our independence day weekend as a group. And as it happens, the “neddi”s we planned to visit are located in the beautiful “Dades Gorges”, so we also planned to do some sight-seeing.
After our couscous meal, we traveled to Kelaa Maguna (about 80k away), where we cooked dinner, compared experiences, and spent the evening with a couple volunteers from the area. The next morning we slowly made our way to the Gorges with three sweaty taxi trips. We finally arrived around 2pm and met up with the two volunteers that live in the site and some more friends visiting for the weekend. After making some lunch and chatting, we took a Moroccan up on his offer to drive us through the scenic Dades Gorges canyon. The canyon is marked by its impressive transition from a river valley, to a deep and narrow canyon with chiseled rock walls. At a spot near the river where the walls begin to open away from each other, we stopped to take pictures and observed a man with a rifle shooting pigeons perched on the rocks far above. The gunshots echoed down the canyon walls, followed by the sound of flapping as wild pigeons temporarily flew to attention before resettling on the cliffs. The gunman, having hit his target once already, walked along the mountain road looking for his next opportunity with his rifle in one hand and a dead pigeon in the other . Each time he took a shot, he would carefully put the bleeding bird down on the pavement and pick it up again post-shot. The pigeon, of course, would become a tajine dinner.
When we returned to the town, we headed to the house of a local acquaintance of one of the volunteers, whose family had offered to serve us dinner if we brought them the materials. We brought over some bags of vegetables, and sat with the men of the house having tea as the food was prepared. Dinner came very late, but we were pleased to see that they had prepared grilled chicken-date tajine topped with golden fries (this is a very common meal to serve to special guests and absolutely one of my favorites)! More impressive than the food though, was the generosity of the hosts. Not only had they offered to host, serve, and cook for a large group of American strangers, they had also swapped our bags of cheap vegetables with dates, almonds, two full chickens, and even a variety of beverages. The most unusual of the beverages was type of moonshine made from the locally grown “tazart” (figs). Generally, alcohol in Morocco is a big “hshuma” (shameful) because it is forbidden by Muslim faith. In fact, until that night, I hadn’t met a Moroccan who would even admit to drinking. Nevertheless, here we were, sitting in a Moroccan salon watching Moroccans pass around shot after shot like just another glass of tea. Meanwhile, the American guests, who had grown accustomed to the negative cultural innuendoes of drinking, were timid and mostly abstained from the potent concoction as if fearing its bite. “What a strange juxtaposition” I thought to myself. But this is the allure of Morocco. With a rich and mystifying culture that reaches out to the modernized west, while simultaneously supplementing itself with other cultures and religions, and reaching as far back as it can into the ancient history of the Moroccan mountains, there is always an element of surprise. Each day in Morocco unfolds in unexpected ways, lending significance to the Moroccan tendency to preface any discussion about the future with the term “En sha’allah”, which means “if god wills it”. As a Moroccan dweller, you learn to expect the unexpected, to enjoy the inconsistencies, and to embrace your inability to control those aspects of your life that cannot be controlled.
Late in the night, on the roof of the house where we had dinner, I pondered these ideas. I looked out on the sleepy village and up into the bright stars, squinting my eyes to replicate fireworks. I thought about my friends and family back home watching fireworks and having barbeques to celebrate the birth of America. A sense of profound gratitude washed over me. It took being far away from my country to truly appreciate it, but on this 4th of July, I was earnestly willing to celebrate America; a country that has offered me the opportunity to experience, understand, and “en sha’allah” help another beautiful culture.

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.