Okay, for the record, this will be posted slightly post-facto, as my hotel in Marrakech does not have free internet.
However, the time spent in Marrakech has been pretty great. After driving down from Casablanca (Kaza in Darija, the dialect of Morocco) yesterday, we very quickly went to the Ben Youssef Madrasa, a former training school for judges in a dynasty long past, with facilities that I must admit make anything that Ivy League Brown can offer me look tacky and ill-adequate. For the record, electricity has been retrofitted into this beautiful building, and although the rooms are certainly not air-conditioned, nor would they receive wireless internet, let’s be honest; I didn’t get those at Brown either.
Enough griping about not being able to go to a school because it closed centuries ago. The building itself from the outside is, while nice, unimpressive. It’s a two-storied, white painted abode building with very small windows with elaborate iron grating in them (although they’re few and far between) with a green tile roof. However, once inside, everything is beautiful. The floors and about five feet up on every wall are all complex zellij (Moroccan geometric tiles in blue, black, white, red, and yellow), followed by about two rows of loose floral patterned tiles that, on closer inspection, are all Qu’ranic calligraphy. Then, the entire ceiling is ornately carved cedar. Keep in mind that all of this is then set-up in traditional Moroccan style of having an open courtyard with a fountain in it (that still has all of these features), then two stories of rooms set up around it with similar features in them, but each is still unique). Yeah, this school is incredible.
We were then lead on a tour of the aswaq (pl. of souq, or market. Good Scrabble word by the by.) of Marrakech, which, while informative, was a little weird as it was in essence a gaggle of white people traveling through the souq speaking English. A little more touristy than I normally care for. However, on the other end of the aswaq is the Jama’ el-Fna (the Assembly of the Dead in Darija), which is the stereotypical vision of Morocco that most people have (snake charmers, acrobats, hakawatis [storytellers], monkeys placed on your shoulder, roasted sheep’s heads, and lots of food sellers).
Thankfully, last night we were also set loose for really the first time, and so with six other people I went back to the Jama’ el-Fna (and a little into the aswaq) to try out our Arabic a little. Keep in mind that all I’ve studied is formal Arabic, not Darija, which is what I really want to learn while here. I’d gathered a few choice words, and decided that my goal for yesterday was to conduct a successful commercial interaction. So, while everyone else was looking at dates, I went to the orange juice cart and mustered up my Darija as he was finishing helping a very whiny French woman (she was busy accusing him of having short-changed her. He didn’t.). So, when I came up, I was greeted with a somewhat weary bonjour, to which I very enthusiastically replied salaam-u-‘alykum! To which I received Qu’est-ce vous voulez?” Un-phased, I continued with shnoo hada (What’s this?, in very colloquial Darija). Jus d’orange. Okay, getting a little saddened that my Darija is only getting French in return. Bghit wahid (I’ll take one, again, very Darija). [Big laugh] Oh, you speak Darija! Why do you know Arabic? All of the sudden, he fully switched over to Darija and was incredibly amused to be speaking in Darija with a white person. I’ve since realized this is because Moroccans code-switch between Arabic and French to such an amazing degree that subsequent conversations with people, as well as observing conversations between just Moroccans, have shown me that neither party really necessarily knows what language is being used until the third or fourth exchange. However, in this particular case, once he got that I was trying Darija, he lit up, and, even though I kept making blunders (e.g. I asked again what I was drinking, and got the answer in Darija, but then almost stole his glassware), he still chatted with me while I was drinking it, talked about why I was in Morocco and how it was nice that I was trying to learn Arabic, then, as I was leaving, he turned and told me to come back (I assumed I was accidentally stealing again) but was instead pleasantly surprised when he told me to take another cup for free. The man in the stall behind him looked at him oddly (I think retrospectively that they were coworkers), and told him not to do that, at which point he answered, “No, it’s okay. He’s Moroccan.”
This may have been the nicest compliment I’ll ever receive.
One of the things that has struck me about this since (I spent today in the aswaq again, which was a lot of fun. There were only four of us, and we spent most of the time just trying to learn the names of things. Sanuj = eucalyptus, yagiya = hat, qaqulla = cardamom, khurfa = cinnamon… The spice stores had the least intimidating sales staff…) is that to a Moroccan, me speaking in Darija probably bears no resemblance to say, me speaking French in France or Russian in Russia. One, my accent is unquestionably better in those languages, but two, I don’t look like I should be speaking it. What I mean to say by this is that even those foreigners who do know Arabic are probably doing the highly formal Modern Standard Arabic. While that alone is probably unfortunately uncommon for white people (hey, that’s why I’m here, right?), it might be nearly impossible to find a non-Moroccan learning Darija. The closest analogy that I’ve been able to come up with is that it is probably similar to me code-switching to Ebonics in the States. As a white person, it is a language that I am expected to neither speak nor value. I think this is why I’ve gotten so many double-takes for even trying, followed by very, very, very (I can’t stress that enough) kind and sincere conversations with people despite my blatant language inadequacies. Sadly enough, I think that with the huge amount of tourism in Morocco, they still see very little interest in their living culture, but only people looking for the “authentic” Morocco of Jama’ el-Fna. Snake charmers, exotic foods, and a quick taxi back to their French-speaking hotel.
While I get ready to leave Marrakech bright and early tomorrow morning for an eight hour bus ride to Fes, I’m trying to leave behind that “authentic” Jama’ el-Fna experience of the country as well. Whether or not it’s possible, the Morocco I really want to see here isn’t exotic while accessible. What I really want is to be the “Moroccan” of my juice-selling friend’s compliment – painfully foreign and obviously awkward, but sincere and earnest.
In sha’ Allah (If God wills it).
