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