the hammam

There are few things that I am willing to say are cultural universals, few things that I would say are shared by all human cultures all the time, be they values, practices, or even objects.  That said, there is one constant I am willing to wager.  Whenever you want a taxi, they are nowhere to be found.

To explain, tonight Joe, Matt and I decided to brave the hammam of Morocco.  The public bath-house.  We knew which one we wanted to go to, but, not knowing exactly where it was, wanted to take a cab there.  After vainly trying to flag one down for the three of us for about half and hour, we decided to split up and share taxis with others in an effort to get there at some point.  So, Joe and Matt get in the first cab I hail, and I wait for a second to take.  This takes a few more minutes of me looking like a crazy white man in the street, which I suppose is exactly what I was, but that's beside the point.  Eventually, I get to the bath-house, which is somewhat in the middle of nowhere in the suburbs of Tangier, with Matt and Joe nowhere in sight.  I walk inside, which is clearly not a very foreigner-visited locale, where the attendant starts talking to me.  Now, I knew that this question would either get me the precise information I wanted, or make him think I was insane depending on the answer.  "Have you seen my friends?"  Naturally, he had not, so, I was stuck trying to explain that I was looking for two white people who resemble myself.  No such luck.  After waiting outside for them for another few minutes, I give up and decide to wait inside.  The building was clean, but shabby, and smelt slightly of the gallons of sweat that must be released there everyday.  Hammams are gendered, so inside there was a group of Moroccan men in bathing suits looking quizzically at me.  I must have obviously been failing at whatever one is supposed to do in the lobby of a hammam, because pretty quickly I was in possession of a cabinet of advisors and amused onlookers trying to explain to me where to put my shoes and how to fill a bucket properly.  I needed all the help too.  Behind the first room of the hammam, there was a large, metal door, behind which one enters a series of humid, scalding halls with low, rounded, tiled ceilings that connect to each other until in the final, hottest room one wall holds a fountain of the boiling water.  At this point, I was starting to consider the implications of going through my hammam experience alone, before going back into the main room just to see if Matt and Joe were somehow there.  They came ten minutes or so after I had gotten there.  We entered the steam rooms.

Before going to the hammam, we had run to the market quickly to buy the necessary supplies: soap and scrubbers.  The scrubbers are little, rough glove-like cloths, but the soap is another thing entirely.  It is sold in spice stalls, and comes in a huge, plastic bin.  It is dark amber-brown, and smells strongly of musk.  If I didn't know better, I would assume it was whale-fat.  These were the key ingredients to the hammam ablution.

So in we go, soap and scrubbers in hand, as I fill my bucket with the spout indicated by one of my bemused onlookers.  The water is scaldingly hot, and the room like a bikram yoga room, but hotter, wetter, and with a more pungent odor.  The general idea of the hammam is that using the soap, water, and scrubber, you slowly remove all of your skin in an OCD-esque fashion, often with a group of friends assisting each other in rubbing off each others' epidermis.  When in Rome...

Back in the compound now, while still slightly dizzy (drinking lots of water, I promise), I am feel pretty great.  Enough so to possible even brave another cab ride before I go back stateside.

living russian literature in north africa

So, lots to tell in this post, and not a ton of time to do so (I have my Qur'anic memorization in half an hour).

1) In an ongoing attempt to satisfy Aunt Joy's curiosity, there are some new photos up of the Tangier sights (smells, sounds perhaps as well).  Link forthcoming.

2) For those of you looking for reading material, Disorienting Encounters, the Travels of Muhammad as-Safar was very good.  I would highly recommend it.  It is Muhammad as-Safar, the secretary of the ambassador of Morocco to France in the 1800s.  He describes his trip to Paris.  Highlights: cultural differences between Morocco and France, the description of the toilets of France, and why it is important to talk to French people's wives.

3) This weekend, I had another trip to Asilah, the seaside art town, which is currently getting ready for its festival.  After a little tour, we were set free (got some people presents on the State Department's dime), then I spent the night with two other people in Asilah in order to go to the beach.  However, as my planned roommate (and Tangier roommate- Matt) decided to be sick (well, maybe not decided, but it's harder to hold an unreasonable grudge without him having made the conscious decision to be sick) I had to get a room to myself.  My immediate reaction to seeing the room that I was going to be spending the night in was that it was the room in which Raskolnikov plotted his murders.  A small bed, blue chair, sink, and shelf with a bar under it with a lone coat-hanger as a closet, all in about 5 feet by 8 feet space.  It was clean, but shabby.  I did not plan any murders to become extraordinary in it however.  Maybe other murders, but not ones for greatness in any case.

However, in this hotel, we also met Lena, an NYU grad working in New York vacationing solo in Morocco for two weeks who then accompanied us around the city that night, where, as part of the upcoming festival, we witnessed the white-washing of the murals I had so enjoyed in Asilah the first time so they can be repainted this year.  I am sure there is some profound statement in this about the transience of human work and art.

The next morning, we went back to the Ramilat beach, this time though, because there was no cab that would take us for a reasonable price, we went by horse cart.  Keep in mind that Morocco is an incredibly car-filled country, and they almost hit me all the time outside the school, but no, we missed them all and took a horse cart.  We took an hour long horse cart ride to the beach, driven by a man named Jamal (which means Beauty) who kept talking to me about the difference between hash and weed in Darija (apparently it is very clear to others that I know nothing about this subject, and they feel the need to enlighten me often on it).  Quite the experience.

4) Photos.

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2092985&l=f6999&id=1013451

Corrections

That last post probably should have ended with the words "sipping fresh orange juice" and not sitting it.  Although the later is possible more (magnetic) poetic, it was not exactly the meaning I was after.  Amazing what writing while sick can do.

you haven't really lived in a place until...

... You are horribly sick in it.  I have now lived in Morocco.  Actually, by horribly sick, I don't mean malaria or anything; I just feel nauseous and my muscles ache.  Basically, I have a cold.  That said, it has given me some perspective on the limits to my sense of wanderlust, i.e. once I feel sick, I really just want to be sitting on the couch in Denver.  Nevertheless, I do have some updated information on Morocco and what I've been up to, now that I'm done ranting about feeling ill.

1) On Friday, went out to dinner with the program's Moroccan coordinator, who is a fascinating anthropology PhD candidate from Utah, who has been working in Morocco for ages now.  It's not too often that during dinner someone can reply to someone's concern about where their Arabic studies will take them, "Please, I'm a Mormon girl from Utah who married a Muslim."  Yeah, Becky's pretty great.

2) As a result of this dinner, we got back too late for the gate to be open.  After surveying the compound, unable to find a guard, we tried to jump the fence.  Naturally, right when I reached the top of the gate (I went first), a guard found us.  I was politely informed to get down while he opened the gate.  Luckily, I have abandoned my embarrassment in America.  It's on a vacation of its own.

3) In Tetouan on Saturday, we met one of the 14 remaining Jews of the city accidently in a bazaar.  After being told how small and marginal the Jewish population had become, it seems rather ironic that three of us should stumbled into one of the 14.

4) Reading at a sea-side café at sunset while sitting fresh orange juice is exactly as great as it sounds.

listening comprehension: or what i understood from the last 15 minutes of a mexican telenovella dubbed into arabic

(scene 1, a man and a woman, both in their 40s, sitting in a living room)

woman:  I hate ––––.  I really hate him/it.  Sometimes I want to –––– him.  (I notice that she is holding what is either a knife or letter opener in her hand).

man:  I ––– ––– –––– ––––––– ––––––.

(doorbell rings)

man:  I'll go.

woman:  Yes, go, you always go!  (angry) –––– –––– you –––– –––– ––––!

(scene changes, see a man slinking around in the shadows of a palatial home while dramatic music cues.  we see the man from the previous scene in the lit area open a door.  man with glasses enters.)

glasses:  Hello.

man:  Hello.

glasses:  Hello lady of the house.

woman:  (Angry yelling)

(scene 2.  two young women in a large room that looks like the study in clue.  one is flustered and attractive.  the other has frizzy hair, is pudgy, and clearly sassy.)

attractive:  Where is he?  Do hear what I am telling you?

sassy:  Yeah I hear.  I just ––– –––– ––––!  (probably very sassy)

attractive:  That's it!  I'm, I'm going to call him!  (instead of getting out, say, a phone, instead walks over to the window.  we see a close-up of what appears to be a private residence imitating the white house lit entirely in bluish-purple, where a man and a woman are conveniently getting out of a car and going up the stairs to the front door.)

attractive:  I can't believe my eyes!  I can't believe –––– –––– he –––– –––– –––– me! (random man walks in)

random man: Hello!

attractive:  I can't believe –––– –––– –––––!  She saw everything too!  (points to sassy, who has somehow in the last two seconds nuzzled under random man's arm.  she looks up at him knowingly).

(scene 3, a opulently dressed woman lounges on a bed.  she is around 40.  another woman stand by.)

opulent:  Where is he?  Where is Carlo?  Where did he go?

woman:  –––– –––– okay.  (probably consoling)

(door opens, man and young woman walk in)

man:  Mother, this is my special female friend I want you to make acquaintance with.

young:  Hello ma'am.  (walks over and kisses opulent on the cheek.  opulent glares.)

young:  Haven't we met before?  (dramatic music queues as opulent's expression becomes fiercer.)

(show ends with credits as a woman dances in the rain with happy music)

fact checking

Never wanting the journalistic quality of my student travel blog to be questioned, I offer the following corrections:

1) The Roman Graveyard did indeed contain a series of Punic rock tombs.

2) As Melodee (who has become one of my few regular readers of the programmers) has informed me, Morocco (de facto Chefchaouen as well) does not trade in weed as its major export; it is in fact hash (the difference being between what part of the marijuana plant is being consumed – the leaves versus the resin from the buds).  I am assured that Melodee has an entire scholarly work to her name on this topic.  I'm taking her word for it.

the مقهى

photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2091358&l=0edf3&id=1013451

the best place to play parcheesi in the world...

... Is Cafe (مقهى) Hafa in Tangier.  Because that is where I learned how to play tonight.  With two Moroccans, two Americans, bean-pea soup, and sweet tea with mint and wormwood.  At sunset.  Overlooking Gibraltar.  With the breeze from the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.  Oh, and I learned what Portugal looked like, because you can apparently see it from Tangier as well.

To flesh out this story a little better, one of the most famous cafes in Tangier is مقهى حافة (Cafe Hafa), where Paul Bowles (and friends!) wrote many of their works.  Turns out, as I learned on Sunday when I went there the first time (of what will hopefully be many), that this is because it is located in the beautiful rich neighborhood of Tangier, and located entirely on outdoor terraces on a cliff overlooking the ocean, the sea, Spain, and yes, even Portugal.  And on the way there, when we stopped out what turns out is called the مقبرة رومية (the Roman graveyard), which is a rocky outcropping looking out on the same view and where I feel that at some point some dead Romans were probably found in order to explain the name (confirmation of this theory pending).  Anyhow, while eating popcorn purchases from an old man for 1/7 of a dollar, one of the Moroccans who works with us at the school just happened to come by, and, long story short, Khalil and his friend, 'Adl, invited us to the cafe for Parcheesi.  For the record, Parcheesi is a baffling game that makes no sense, and is kind of like Sorry, which, the one and only time I played it (also this year), I was also really bad at.  That said, somehow, the context made it really fun.  See above for details.

chefchaouen (is that not the greatest place name on earth?)

Okay, so this week I have indeed been up to interesting things; I've just been bad about relaying them.  That means this post might be a little epic.  So take a minute and think, "Do I really have time to read this rant right now?  Am I caffeinated?  How much do I care?"  Then begin:

1)  On Thursday, we had a scheduled lecture with Vanessa Paloma, a Fulbright scholar currently in Morocco studying the Northern Moroccan/Andalusian Jewish folk music at the Tangier American Legation Museum.  A couple of cool details on her lecture:

-Judaism in Morocco is actually pretty unique worldwide, with a syncretic practice that in many ways reflect the mystic Sufi traditions of Morocco (including more animist practices like shrine pilgrimages).

-A Brief History of Jewish Morocco:  According to Paloma, the first records of a Jewish population in Morocco are from over 2,000 years ago, meaning that there easily could have been a Jewish population before that.  However, during the Islamic conquests, additional Jewish groups immigrated as fighters within the Islamic armies (all that nonsense about Islam not tolerating other religions has some historical accuracy flaws).  These two groups by and large did not mix, and are still separate today.  Then, after 1492, the Andalusian Jews and Muslims were expelled from Spain, and many traveled to Morocco.

-The Jewish population of Morocco is once more on the move, with the number of Jews in Tangier currently at about 100, most of whom are over 60.  Where to?  Contrary to what many might assert, most of the population is not going to Israel, but rather to Venezuela.

-Jewish folk music in Morocco is mainly in Spanish, or a hybrid language that consists of Arabic root words being conjugated in Spanish and written in Hebrew characters.  This music draws from both Spain and Morocco, as well as Talmudic chants.  One can only hope that it will continue to grow in Venezuela.

-King Muhammad the Sixth of Morocco (currently ruling) is very pro-Jewish, like many of his predecessors.  The famous quote dealing with modern Jewish history and Morocco was uttered by then-Sultan King Muhammad the Fifth when Morocco was occupied during World War II.  When asked for a list of the Jewish residences of Morocco, he replied, "I have no Jews, only Moroccans."  Many Moroccans therefore lament the modern exodus, as they fear a loss of what was once such a vital part of their culture.  I understand this concern, but also feel that efforts to "preserve" (e.g. museum-ify) the Jewish population are also unreasonable.  If people want to leave, they should have the right to "vote with their feet" and leave.  That said, I hope current efforts to keep emigrants involved with Morocco will succeed so that the Muslim population left behind can keep in touch with the Jewish aspects of their culture.

2) Friday was the 4th (Happy America day everyone!), and we did indeed celebrate in the compound.  Despite my initial skepticism, Kory's planned party was quite a hit (and thank you Joe for cooking our food in a delicious and safe manner.  Yes, I was slightly worried about food poisoning going into this.).  We had a great dinner with watermelon, meat on hamburger buns ("hamburger" is probably a misnomer for what they were though), and even some cake.  Then Mohammad attempted to give us fireworks by throwing some rubbing alcohol on the embers of the grill.  While impressive to all, a fireball flaring up on foreign soil is a kind of weird symbol for American independence.

I do have pictures of it though.

3)  Today, we headed out to Tetouan and Chefchaouen, two of the neighboring cities of Tangier (the later being 2.5 hours away).  

-For Tetouan, we had a very nice guided tour by the second-class's teacher Radouan through the Medina.  However, the notable part was the Tetouan traditional art school.  To preface, I am dropping out of Brown and forsaking my Ivy League education and diploma to come to this school for 7 years and learn how to carve wood.  It was amazing.  The building is beautiful in and of itself, and the school itself specializes in the 5 traditional crafts of Tetouan, zellij tile work, wood carving, mother-of-pearl inlay, brass work, and weaving.  I want to come here and learn to make awesome wooden things.  However, as soon as I realize the impossibility of myself fulfilling this plan, I would like to point out that there is a picture of a desk made at this school that would make a very nice graduation present to me when I finish Brown by any interested parties.  Please?

-Chefchaouen was (literally) a horse of a different color.  The city is blue.  Like, whitewashed but bluewashed instead which is a million times more impressively beautiful and in the mountains and kind of like the Moroccan version of Santa Fe.  Except there are more Europeans who come there for marijuana.  It turns out Chefchaouen is actually Morocco's largest exporter of weed as well (which, in turn, is Morocco's largest export in general).  For us, that really just meant the hilarity of walking into this really famous hole-in-the-wall hat store that's been in this one family for years where all they do is knit things called "The Hat Man."  While this life might seem horribly boring to the sober among us, while I was talking to the delightful owner while the three people I was with were outside, he (already clearly altered) took out his kif (marijuana) pipe, and starting smoking more.  Then exclaimed as a cat walked in, "!الحيوان هو رمز السلام" (The animal is a sign of peace!) and started laughing and welcoming us profusely to his store/town/country again.  Needless to say, this man was a fascinating glimpse into how Moroccan small town life is different than American small town mountain village life.  So, while none of us were about to join in the town's substance-festivities, we thoroughly enjoyed watching them from afar.  And buying some hats from this man.  Someone will have a souvenir.  

Wandering around the rest of the city was also incredibly relaxing, even when removed from the smoky interior of the shops for the soft blue glow that radiates down all the small streets.  Should anyone ever go to Morocco, I would sincerely recommend this almost ethereal city (which I am sure many of the inhabitants perceive as incredibly otherworldly).

4) Lastly,

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2090912&l=900ed&id=1013451

Alas, I don't have a shot of the hat man.  I'll see if anyone else got one.

gum in the medina

I guess this is, above all else, a self-validation for myself, for me to continue to do what I am currently doing, but I may as well share it with all of you anyhow.  Maybe it's interesting for someone other than my own inflated ego.

This afternoon, I went out with three other people to go down to the aswaq around the Medina, as well as just to get out of the compound.  It's kind of amazing how much cabin fever I get on a daily basis here, even though I'm on a fairly large campus with 28 other people with whom I can talk whenever I please.  Despite this fact, I have found I have the compulsion to leave here at least once a day for a significant amount of time, most of which ends up being spent in the Medina, as it is my favorite part of Tangier.  Anyhow, today, I went out with three people who haven't really been in the Medina much.  This, in an odd sort of way, became a kind of pop quiz for me within the city: can I really navigate from the Petit Socco with its wafting marijuana smoke of old men to the tip of the Qasbah facing Gibraltar?  Would any of the stores I visit periodically remember me?

Sometimes when learning a new language or studying somewhere far away, there are moments when you realize how far you still need to come, moments in which the progress that you've made is revealed to be as trivial as it actually is.  There are moments when you realize learning one word won't really help you go too much farther than you could go before.  I am happy to report that tonight was not one of those moments.  Tonight was one of the brash and triumphant moments when you feel like you've conquered some unknown foe (perhaps a Phantom Tollbooth-styled demon of ignorance) and passed through some imposing gate into the land of milk and honey.  Needless to say, tonight I feel inordinately proud.  And while I know that such a feeling will pass, and in time I will realize once more how out-of-place I am here, I am trying to actually indulge my vanity and bask within this feeling.  A little confidence one day goes a long way towards pushing through the more challenging ones.  Hence the ego tonight.

Getting into the Medina, I realized how comfortable I've actually become in this city.  Not only can I now twist through the alleys of the Medina and roughly know where they'll come out, but I actually know what's in each one.  I'm no longer navigating by cardinal directions and the location of distant traffic noises; I'm walking past that store selling pastries, and this cage full of yellow parakeets.  Most impressively, as we began to chat up two guys in a store, I realized that, despite all I don't know, I can hold a conversation.  I can hold a conversation without saying, "I didn't get that."  It doesn't even need to be a conversation taken straight from the book.  We began talking about Tangier, and why I was here, what I thought of Morocco, whether or not I'd die of the heat, is Arabic hard?, had I seen this film from about 6 years ago where these kids are stuck in this haunted house and can leave the ghosts until they read this book and it's in a bunch of languages and Arabic's the last one but luckily one of them can read it and they all escape, no? well it's a good film, and where are you from by the way?

Which is were I've been going with this whole entry I suppose.  Prior to today, I was answering this sort of thing with a "Where do you think I'm from?" trying to catch people off-guard for the Arabic-speaking American.  Now I've learned a better word though.  I am a مسكة (miska), which, in the bazaar-parlance of encoded sales drops, is how one signals an American customer.  Literally, the gum-chewer.

As I said before, sometimes there are days when one extra word doesn't seem to make a difference, but today was not one of those days.  Today, I liked not needing to apologetically explain I'm American, but rather jokingly own the stereotype, gesturing to my mouth and saying, I'm a gum-chewer.  And for tonight at least, I feel like that one little word was opening some doors.

hafiz and courtesy of

Just a few updates, though none quite as photogenic as my trip to Asilah (if you haven't seen the photos, I strongly recommend them, as do others.  More on that later).

1) So, one of my teachers, Bouchra (the teacher of small children) has started a Qur'anic memorization class (or حفظ ) for a few of us that meets twice a week.  It's by far my favorite activity here, and so far we have memorized two Sura (albeit of the shortest Surat).  They are Sura-t-al-'Asr (سورة العصر ) or the Sura of the Age/Evening (those are interestingly enough the same word in Arabic) and Sura-t-al-Kaffiyin (Sura of the non-Believers).  While I'm a long way from becoming a حافظ, Hafiz, a memorizer of the Qur'an, it's a start.  When I get back, you should ask me to recite.  I'm hoping to remember these for a while.

2) A lot of people here have been complimenting me on my photos.  Apparently I take a good photo.  Maybe I'm just feeling sentimental, but I would like to thank Bill Z. of D'blick studios for that one.