Taxis, the Grubster, & God

 I've had some relatively profound thoughts in the past couple of days (nothing drastic, you know, just a drop of scotch in my Fanta-filled brain bucket). Before I bestow upon you my keen insights, however, here are some more casual observations about Morocco.

I don't need you or your brand-new Benz.

1. Taxis 

If you take enough Taxis in just about any country, you're bound to have some adventures. Back in Boston there are no shortage of interesting cab drivers (one guy offered me a Fireball to cure my sinus infection, another gave me a mid-ride cigarette). I have a complicated relationship with taxis because my mother is deathly afraid of them, and conditioned me to be afraid of them as a child, until I grew up and went to college in Boston and realized that taking the Orange line (or, god forbid, waiting for the Green line) is scarier than any cab ride. But I digress.

Here in Marrakech, Jess v. 2 and I take cabs a couple times per day. There is no other public transportation as far as I can tell (although some donkey-hauled fruit carts seem to be willing to pick up passengers). The cabs are dirt cheap here (starting fare is 1.50 durhams, which is, like 20 cents). Some of the cab drivers are really nice; they let me practice my perversely bad Arabic on them. Some of the cab drivers are friendly with subtle undertones of creep ("Are you sisters?" one guy asked us. No. "Are you married?" Why, yes we are!). Some of the cab drivers are jerks. They see that you're foreign and refuse to turn on the meter, and ask for some ridiculously high price. Fortunately, if the latter happens to you, you can practice your toss-bust-split: Toss some (reasonable) amount of money into the front seat, bust open the door, and split. Your chances of getting hit by another vehicle as you sprint away from the cab are only about 15%. Aforementioned asshole cab driver is probably not willing to take that risk himself by chasing you; so he will drive off, looking for his next group of hapless tourists to try to screw.

The toss-bust-split is the most important trifold maneuver I have ever learned; far more important than stop-drop-and-roll (which, incidentally, will be useless when I am burning in hell for writing all these terrible things).

The other day, a kindly old woman in the front seat of a cab (they will often take 2 groups of passengers if they are going in the same general direction) offered me a piece of fresh-baked bread out of her handbag. I should have taken it.

2. Greatest Kid Ever.

Fierce.

First of all, let it be known that as I was writing the first paragraph of this entry, Ouidjienne ("WEEd-jen") crept up behind me and literally startled the shit out of me. It's like she knew I was going to write about her. Maybe ESP is one of her many talents, which include (but are not limited to): belly dancing, singing, meat-chomping, bullying her younger cousins, drawing epic masterpieces, playing dress up, ignoring the existence of language barriers, running around in circles, and (when necessary) pouting. Remember Angelica from the Rugrats? Ouidjienne is her x1,000,000. She's that outrageous. Unlike Angelica, though, Ouidjienne has a soul. So much soul.

I have 2 new great passions in life: watching her dance, and watching her eat. First of all, she is seriously one of the best belly dancers I have ever seen. The kid has mad rhythm; I'm serious. She does things I've only seen before in Shakira videos. Her hips wriggle, she shimmies her shoulders, flicks her wrists, weaves her head to the beat. Pure gold.

Me, Layane, Ouidjienne, Jess v. 2, Inez

Secondly, she feasts like a starved Caveman returning from a month-long Caribou chase. Here's a metaphor for you: When normal people eat, it's like they are dipping their toes into the pool. Ouidjienne does so with a running-start bellyflop. Food coats her arms up to her triceps, her fingers ooze, couscous settles in gracefully above her eyelids, leftovers live in her hair, and the knees of her pants are stained with tomato sauce. Tonight we had meatballs, and each one of her fingers were like little mini skewers. Awesome. 

When her plate is removed from the table, a perfect halo of food debris remains. Gnawed bread, chicken bones, vegetable outcasts and sauce droplings are testament to some great battle that has occurred. It is the Chernobyl of cuisine, and 

I love it.

3. God

On a more sobering note:

It's impossible not to think about God here, if only because of the language. Every saying-- hello, thank you, you're welcome, bon appetite, hopefully, thankfully, etc.-- invokes the name of Allah: God. Some of the things about religion here are really beautiful. I like hearing the call to prayer (deep, rhythmic, sustained) 5x per day. I like the mosaics on the church walls (in Islam, any depiction of a living thing or object in a mosque is considered idolatry: the decorations are all geometric patterns and calligraphy). And even though I feel like a fraud saying them, I like all these expressions with "God" or "Prayer" in them. Kul shee bekher, al hamdulAllah Everything is good, thanks to God. So peaceful, so passive. 

Also, the other day this really lovely Muslim woman talked to us at school. She told us that everything in life has 5 layers of meaning, the first being the most obvious, and the last being known only to God. I really like that.

BUT

We also had a "dialogue" with a group of Moroccan students about our age (3 of them, 3 of us, 1 moderator). The topic this time was religion. We were supposed to come up with questions to ask the other group. And you know what? Team America came to the table 10x more informed, and with more thoughtful questions, than did the Muslims. Those kids were brainwashed. Not one of them had anything insightful or meaningful to say about their beloved religion. You know, their wonderful guide to life, that makes their women wrap their heads in 100 degree heat, that grants twice as much inheritance money to sons as to daughters, that tells men that they can have 4 wives and can marry a foreigner (but a woman legally cannot marry a non-Muslim man). If you are a Muslim and all this is okay to you, you'd better have some pretty damn compelling reasons to compensate for it. None of them did. 

"I know Islam is the perfect religion," one girl said.

Guess what? That's not good enough. 

Of course, this was just a tiny (and skewed) sample of a much, much larger Moroccan Muslim population. I'm positive that other people have more informed, thoughtful, meticulous reasons for being Muslim-- I've met people like that. But it's sad and kind of scary that these kids (and I'm sure there are many more like them), who sit through 2 hours of Islamic studies per day in public school, who pray five times per day, who renounce partying and tattoos and sausage, are so unspiritual and so mechanical about their religion. When they spoke about it, I heard recited lines. Not faith. 

Icecream, Cat Stevens, and Kisses for Grandma

Sometimes, it's really fun to pretend that you're 7 years old. That's what I did yesterday.

In the morning, we did a tour of some 1000-year-old ruins (the Saadi palace and Saadi tombs, in case you're interested-- Anyone? Anyone?). But, hello, listening to a lecture outside is 100x better than listening to a lecture inside because there is more to look at than just your professor's sunburnt face and his illegible scribbles on the whiteboard. For instance, at the Saadi palace there were about a zillion storks, with their nests built up on the surrounding walls. So, while the Prof lectured, I half listened, and with the other half of my brain I watched the storks, and looked at the palace ruins, and tried to imagine it in its full glory with myself living there as princess.
Or something.

I don't think so.

The rest of the afternoon was eventful; Jess v. 2 and I got lost in the somewhat shadier parts of the old Medina. There were no tourists there. We got some unfriendly looks, but the worst thing that actually happened was a guy tried to charge me 10 durham for a Coke. C'mon, buddy.

Then things got really crazy. We went back to school for a Gnawa music performance. Gnawa is a type of dance/music/song that originated in Ghana and was brought up to Northern Africa by slaves. It was more or less the coolest thing ever. These guys in long, traditional robes sat and played these cool instruments, and then one by one they did this very groovy dance that was somewhere between barefoot tapdancing and Justin Timberlake circa 2004, and it was even more entertaining because most of them looked like a Moroccan version of Snoop Dogg. Also, this old guy was playing a very old-looking sitar. Turns out he recorded a song with Led Zeppelin in the '70s-- no biggie. I got his CD after. Incidentally, this was not the last time that classic rock would come up that night. Stay tuned.

After the concert, we went out to dinner at Haagen Dasz. The 21-year-old part of my brain, the one who knows what adult-onset diabetes is, and who is also aware of the possibility of having to wear a bikini eventually, was suggesting, "Don't eat ice-cream for dinner." But my inner 7-year-old thought it was a swell idea.

Little did I know....


When we got back to the house at 11 p.m., it was time for Layane's family birthday party (as I mentioned, her 16th birthday was a few days ago). Her extended family- aunts, uncles, cousins, & more- occupy the other floors in the apartment building, so we all congregated on the 2nd floor for cake. Note to my fellow mammals: If you're going to have a pile of ice cream for dinner, you'd best not have frosted coffee cake for dessert. I almost pooped my pants.

But more importantly, how do these people stay up so late??? The family birthday party, which went until 12:30 or so, included little 4-year-old cousins, who were running around like someone had slipped an adderall in their Juicy Juice.

Aside from the narrowly eluded pants beshitting, two very entertaining situations arose at the party.

1. Kisses for Grandma

So we were all hanging out in the living room: mom, dad, Layane, me and Jess v. 2, aunts, cousins, and their extremely elderly & frail (but sweet) Grandma. Ouidjienne, Layane's totally outrageous 8-year-old sister, was upstairs putting on her fluffy white party dress and makeup (??).  When Ouidjienne came down, she was so busy twirling about and kissing her aunts hello-- they do cheek kisses just like in Europe-- that she forgot to kiss her poor Grandma hello. Grandma was just sitting there on the couch all lonesome. So I beckoned to Ouidjienne, and I whispered to her (in Arabic, because she doesn't speak any English at all), "Your Grandma," and then I did a little pecking motion. Sorry I don't know how to say, "You forgot to kiss your grandma, quick, go kiss her hello." I thought it was pretty clear.

What Ouidjienne does is, she goes over to Grandma, who is sitting (at most) 10 feet away from me, kisses her, and goes, "This is from Elena."

Grandma looks confused (why is this American girl using her granddaughter as a kiss sherpa?), and says something in Arabic.

Then Ouidjienne scuttles back over, and says to me, "Grandma says thank you."

.... Good job.

2. Cat Stevens


Towards the end of the night, the whole family is sitting around in the living room, finishing their cake (them) / trying not to fall asleep (me and Jess v. 2) / trying not to spew torrentially all over their couch (just me). Everyone was talking in fast Arabic dialect, so I couldn't understand shit, but I started hearing, "Cat Stevens" over and over. ex:

aunt: wala lala zhubki kbuba Cat Stevens shmushmush.

cousin: zibi Cat Stevens khuna khuba jubs.

mom: wa, yik shtran lizkhaard Cat Stevens, mumshin yumju Cat Stevens?

I got excited, because as it turns out, I quite like Cat Stevens. I thought maybe the family was secretly a clan of classic-rock afficionados. We would have so much to talk about. So when there was a lull in the conversation, I asked Layane all excitedly, "What are you guys saying about Cat Stevens??"

"His children are converting to Islam," she tells me.

Oh.

A Whole New World

Everything since we got off the plane in Marrakech has been kind of surreal. So much has happened in the past 6 days that I can't possibly condense it into a linear narrative, so instead I'll just share some of my initial observations about Morocco.

1. Sensory Overload

Everything here is louder, more colorful, smushed together, hotter, older, and smellier. We are staying in Gueliz which is a nice part of Marrakech, and was built by the French when they occupied Morocco (up until 1956). It's a modern city... kind of. Sometimes there are sidewalks; sometimes there are gigantic dirt holes. The traffic is a swarm of demented bees. You are as likely to get run over by a donkey as to get hit by a car, and even more likely to get hit by a moped with 3 people and a baby on it.

Hashak.

It is dusty, dry, and hot here (for the most part, it did rain one day). Somehow, every smell (good or bad) is stronger. They get together, hatch a plan, form an extremist coalition. Your nostrils are assaulted. Sometimes you smell cumin and jasmine and mint. Other times you smell putrid hot donkey poop and diesel (equally disgusting). When you walk by the markets where they sell fish and meat, you might pass out if you don't hold your breath.

I'm pretty sure they eat muskrats here. Either that or cats. There are so many cats everywhere. Mangy, scrawny scavenger cats. Most of them look like they might have a distant cousin who is a hyena.

We are in Africa, after all.

The sky is too blue here. I suspect government involvement. Morocco relies heavily on the tourist industry. As a result, people are constantly trying to sell you things. Some of the things you want to buy, like these really good counterfeit Rayban Wayfarers (equiv. price: $7).
Other things you definitely don't want to buy, like the "traditional" Moroccan garment with Miley Cyrus' face superimposed on it.
Or do you?

2. The People

So far, all the Moroccans I've met have either been super nice, or rude but harmless. I was resigned to getting hassled a lot by strangers in the street. But the worst thing that has happened have been a few catcalls, which honestly are kind of funny, given that I was expecting much worse. No one has ever approached me, and most of what they say is in Arabic or French so I can't understand it anyways. One very enterprising young lad declared, as our group walked by him in the historic Medina this morning, "Teeteeeez." Way to cross the language barrier, my friend.

But by and large, the people here have been incredibly friendly. Our host family is amazing. The dad is so cute and nice and fatherly. Not at all what you would expect from the stereotypical strict, patriarchal society. He speaks pretty good English, and offers up lots of interesting tidbits and advice about Morocco. The mom is lovely and sweet, but she speaks no English (we use lots of hand gestures; turns out my Arabic sucks pretty bad). Neither she nor the girls wear the hijab (head scarf). Layanne is newly 16- her birthday was 2 days ago! Two of her best friends are also hosting girls from our trip, and last night we surprised Layane at her friend Sara's father's restaurant. The restaurant was gorgeous, and the food was delicious (apparently the chef used to work for the royal family- that's the royal family of Morocco, not Kate&Wills). We had so much fun. It was in this beautiful courtyard that opened right up into the night sky. The only thing between us and the moon was some orange trees.

The family's 8-year-old, Ouidjienne, is absolutely insane and will get her own post soon, because she cannot be described by a brief phrase or two.

3. The Food

I am going to be plump as a dumpling by the time I leave here. They eat lots and lots of carbs. Some mornings, our host mother makes us these thick fried crepe-type things that you spread fig jelly on, roll up, and eat with your hands. Otherwise we have this yummy homemade whole-grain bread. They give us yogurt after every meal (if you want to reject the offer of more food, you say, "Baraka," and hold your hands up in surrender. Sometimes this is an effective dodge tactic; other times it isn't.)

There are 2 important foods here. One is tajin. They are this funny-shaped clay pots that you put meat, veggies, and sauce in, and then cook it on the stove throughout the whole day. Everything comes out savory and smushy and delicious. We have it almost every day. Usually the meat in it is lamb ("lehem"). I might be done with meat for a while after this trip.

The other important food is couscous. This is the drill on Friday afternoons: Everyone goes to mosque and prays, and then everyone goes home and stuffs themselves full of delicious couscous. Like the tajin, there is usually lamb and veggies and sauce involved. Yesterday our host mom made it with chicken, squash, eggplant, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, and lima beans. Delicious. It did however induce a level-7 carb coma.

I lied: there is one other very important food here. It is the pastries. I first tried them with tea (they drink this mint tea all the time here- it is suuuuper caffeinated and they put about a cup of sugar in each glass). There are all these different cookie-ish pastries, made with almond paste and honey and pistachios and cinnamon. SO ADDICTIVE.

Nom nom nom.

The other day was our host sister Layane's birthday so Jess v. 2 and I wanted to get her some pastries as a present (Jess v. 2 = Jess version 2, the other NU girl staying with my family, different from my roommate Jess back home). We met this really nice woman Aisha at the language center, and she very kindly offered to take us to a traditional Moroccan bakery. She drove us there, insisted on paying for our cookies, and then drove us home. We got a kilo and gave them to Layane. Then after dinner Layane and her family each had 1 or 2 cookies, and Jess v.2 and I took down about half the box.

Happy birthday!