Rules of the Road

On account of Eid, the University was shut down for a week, giving students the opportunity to flit off across Europe and Africa. I chose to stay in Morocco to discover a bit more about the country, and one of my best friends from the States came to explore with me.

Saturday, November 13, was my birthday. It started with some surprise gifts from my roommate, birthday wishes from the family, and then I was off on a train ride to Rabat. Well, actually Sale. Sale was an adventure in itself, so I'll leave that for another blog. I picked Lisa up from the airport without too much difficulty, and we found a budget hotel close to the train station in Rabat.

The next morning we were up at 4:30 to catch the 5:30 train to Marrakech. The train was not so prompt as we were. It was delayed by an hour, and we were sleep deprived and hungry. Marrakech was huge. Djemma al-Fna was all that I had heard it would be. Snake charmers, herbalists, musicians, comedians, monkeys, hedgehogs, and acrobats. We munched on some freshly roasted sheep and wandered the souks. I was horrified at the prices that were demanded for the goods-escalated 6 times that of what you would be given as a price in Meknes. We were able to barter a few things down to acceptable levels, and on the whole, the day was pretty fantastic! At night, Djemma al-Fna becomes even more enchanting, as portable restaurants fill the square with smoke. Eerie Eastern music fills the air, and the other attractions try one last time to entice customers.

The next day we rented a car in downtown Marrakech to begin the road trip portion of our adventure. Driving in Morocco, need I say more? We somehow made our way out of the city, picking up a map on the way. Soon, we found ourselves winding through the High Atlas. Our little golf cart (as we fondly nicknamed it) whined when forced to climb the steep hills, and she shook when she went too fast on the downhills.

In Morocco it isn't taboo to pass on curves or hills or curves on hills. In fact, I learned that for many, uphill curves provide the best opportunity to pass if your car has enough power. I think I would have been much more intimidated at the prospect of driving in Africa had I not lived here for a few months. I've had the opportunity to see how Moroccan's drive, so I knew the system or lack there of.

Having a car allowed us the freedom to make stops wherever we pleased. We pulled over and hiked to the the top of a mountain. The big stop for the day was in Ait Ben Haddou, a small kasbah that has been featured in many films-Star Wars, Lawrence of Arabia, and Gladiator, to name a few. It is one of the most picturesque cities I have ever seen. It looks like a giant sand castle on the side of a hill. The residents of the village are just beginning to learn how to take advantage of their historic town, but it is still off the beaten track enough so as to still have an almost untouched feel.

We spent that night in Ouarzazate-the Hollywood of Morocco. It reminded us of a ghost town. It isn't tourist season, and I don't think any major productions were in town. We ate at a restaurant with about 50 tables, and we were the only ones there.

The next day we drove across flat southern Morocco and stopped for a hike in the Todra Gorge, which awed us with its size and changing colors. As the daylight waned, we drove toward the desert where we let the golfcart rest for a while and opted for a more traditional form of transportation. After our Eid experience, we climbed aboard our trusty steeds (by steeds I mean gallumphy camels) and headed into the Sahara Desert for a picturesque sunset and camping under the stars.

On Thursday we drove back up to Fez, through the High Atlas where we saw snow capped mountains, throu the Middle Atlas where we saw pine trees and rivers. We drove through landscapes that looked like Arizona and through landscapes that looked like Ireland. It was absolutely gorgeous.

There are only two rules of the road in Morocco-yield to the right (an old French rule for roundabouts), and each man for himself. As we pulled into the parking lot of the Sheraton to return the car, I realized that I had adapted much too quickly to these rules-America, watch out!

You Can Call Me Klum

A couple of weeks ago, while sitting in the cafe at school, one of the Moroccan students, Sukina, approached me and asked if I would be a model in her fashion show for the forum. I was flattered, and seeing as I'm studying abroad, and what happens in Morocco stays in Morocco, I told her I'd be happy to. After all, what's so hard about walking across a stage in a dress?

This week we all gathered at Sukina's apartment to try on our Takshitas. Her mother designs and perhaps makes dresses, so there was a plethora to choose from. As I looked around the room I saw all sorts of jewel-tones and gorgeous black takshitas with splashes of color. I leaned over to a friend and whispered that I'd be happy with any of the dresses, except perhaps that light pink and white one. I don't do too well in pastels. Sukina then announced that we could all choose the takshita we would like. As I sprung to my feet, torn between a brown and orange dress or a black lace and green dress, Sukina grabbed my arm.

"I want you to wear this one," she said as she pointed at the frilly, light pink dress.

I won't lie, my heart sunk a little. As luck would have it (or skin tone or short fellow models), I was told to switch dresses with a girl who was tripping over a dress that was far too long for her. I happily put on the brown and cream satin takshita and looked at myself in the mirror that Sukina's mother held in front of me.

"My mother says she would like you to wear her green takshita," Sukina said, and I gathered from the way that she said it that this was a fairly big deal. However, I'd be left wondering what this dress would look like until about a half hour before the show.

Today was a jumble of meetings that were postponed and meetings that were just a jumble themselves. One thing I have grown to appreciate is the organization in America. A person organizes a meeting, and the others show up on time. The leader speaks, and the others listen. In Morocco, one's head spins as 15 girls try to talk at once, and no one pays attention to what is going on.

The show time seemed to arrive quickly, and all of the girls looked fabulous in their attire. The men looked handsome in their jalabas as well! We strutted our stuff on the stage, and it was quite a rush to hear the audience yell and clap (and even shout my name) as I posed awkwardly at the front of the stage. I have a newfound respect for models for several reasons. The first being that it takes a lot of time and stress to get a show prepared. The second reason being that it is a lot harder to pose than one would think--you become so much more aware of your body, and it doesn't seem to work the same way when you're out on a stage with no other purpose than to show yourself off. The third reason is that I thought it was perfectly acceptable to reward myself after the show with a pistachio ice cream bar-something a professional model would surely never condone. So I guess what I'm saying is, you can call me Klum tonight, but tomorrow I'll be perfectly happy to go back to being me!

Dear John

Dear Moroccan Man,


It has now been two months, but I fear my feelings have not changed. Yes, when you immitated a dying cow that one time, it did make me laugh, and thank you for telling me daily how beautiful I am in English, French, Spanish, and even German occasionally. That is very kind of you to say.


The truth of the matter is that I fear your efforts are fruitless. It is creepy when you follow me, and when you stare at me for so long. I try my hardest not to get annoyed when you sit down next to me in cafes and refuse to let me sip my coffee and do my French homework, or when I walk past you in the street and you call me "baby" or "sweetie." Kissing noises are never an attractive sound, and thus, they will not be a good way to capture my attention, and they certainly are not the best way to start a conversation with me (neither is hissing). Frankly, I like my relationships to start in a little less stalker-esque fashion.


So, just so you know, I'm not lost when you see me, and I don't need directions. I did not come to Morocco looking for a husband, and telling you I'm barren is more fun than admitting that I'm just not that into you. And finally, I'm not actually married, but I do appreciate how quickly it makes you walk/run away--like I'm stricken with the plague, and I appreciate how you don't even need the proof of a ring.


Sincerely,

That American Girl You Harrass

P.S. Keep your hands to yourself, if you value them.

REAL Morocco

Last night was the start of the Forum. The Forum was started a few years ago by an ISA group in Meknes to promote intercultural understanding on important world issues. It has steadily grown in size, and this year we have students from Spain, Morocco, China, Belgium, and perhaps a few other European countries. The topic for this fall is Ecology (or the Environment). I was shocked how last minute the preperations seemed to be, and unfortunately, ISA involvement seems to have been mostly replaced by Moulay Ismail faculty.

The openning ceremony took place at the big theater in town, and we saw a mix of Moroccan and Spanish music. The final band-Berber drummers-got the whole audience to rise to their feet and dance for 45 minutes straight. After the concert we headed to a hotel for dinner. I sat at a table with some ISA friends, two Belgians, and a Berber man, Aheem.

Aheem is in his 30's and very willing to talk about anything Berber related. During the dance, he had showed us how the Berber's dance to the music, and when he sat at our table, he invited all of us to dinner at his house. His house is 12 hours by bus away, but it's the thought that counts, right? I'm not sure how our conversation started, but he began telling me about himself and the Berber people:

"I am a poet. I have written 2 novels, but I cannot get them published. It is hard to get books published in Morocco. You need money, and you need permission from the Library. I cannot get permission because my books are political."

Naturally, I asked him what his books were about.

"My book is political. It is about the Berber people and how Morocco is not their country. It is about how Berber is not a language in Morocco. If I speak Berber, they tell me, 'No, you must speak Arabic.' But, I love my language; it is my mother language. It is part of my culture. The Berbers have a verbal culture. They cannot read and write. If people ask you about Morocco-real Morocco, tell them: The people write with their mouths, and they read with their ears."

At my request, he delved deeper into Berber culture. Always starting with a quiz for me.

"Do you know why the Berbers dance like they do?" I shake my head. He continues, "In the desert, where I am from, the people dance in two lines. One line is men. The other line is for the women. They face each other, and they move very slowly, because it is very hot in the desert. Where I come from it is very hot, so the people dance slowly.

"In the mountains it is cold. The people dance in a circle-man, woman, man, woman. They move very fast, because it is cold in the mountains. You see? That is why the Berber people dance."

"You know about the rainbow?" He asks me. A simple shake of the head is all that is needed before he continues. "In Berber we call the rainbow the wife of the rain. A long time ago, when the people needed water, the women would go to the water source and dance for the god to give them water. Then, they would sacrifice a girl." I naturally stopped him at this point to see if I had heard that last line correctly. I had.

"After the rainbow appears after the rain, the Berber people say that is when the girl is meeting the god of the rain. When the romans came, they taught the Berber's there is only one god, so now we have other traditions."

That prompted me to ask about religion.

"The majority is Muslim. Then there are Christians. There are Jews too, but only in one or two villages. Some people believe in other gods. It is like the United States. Morocco is like the United States. There are many groups of people. Your ancestors are European, no? You know how I know?"

I responded, "My blue eyes."

"Yes. In the United States you have Europeans, and the African Americans, and the original people of the west, cowboys."

I corrected him on this little American history mix up, telling him the original people of North America are called Native Americans or Indians.

He then asked, "so these people really do exist?" I assured him that they did.

"Do you know about tattoos?" He asked, changing the subject. When I told him I did not, he told me. "When the Berber woman has tattoo," and he drew a line with his finger down his chin, "it means that she is ready for marriage. She cannot get that tattoo until she is ready for a husband. When she has a tattoo like this," he said as he traced a line down the middle of his forhead, "it means that she is married. Then if she is divorced, she put a circle here," he said as he traced a small circle on his left hand.

"When I was young," my new friend told me, "I asked my mother one night to tell me a story. She told me, 'We are a story. The Berber people are a story.' I did not believe her then. Now I believe her."

Going to the Chapel... wait, not quite....

This weekend, the long awaited marriage arrived, not that I actually knew the people getting married or anything, but who wouldn't want to see a traditional Moroccan/Berber wedding?


We started our day with a round of henna. We had been told that our maid does henna, and for the wedding, we thought it would be fun to try. Henna is a natural dye that stains a person's skin and can last for weeks. It comes in all different sorts of colors, but in Morocoo it is usually an orange color. It is applied with a seringe and a steady hand. Professionals make elaborate designs with fine detail. Our henna was not so intricate, but it was a fun experience.


Getting ready strarted with a trip to the hairdresser. Majda got her hair done first. Anne and I both sat transfixed as we watched the ladies curl her hair using nothing but a circular brush and a blow dryer. Then they would roll up her hair and pin it. When they unpinned Majda's hair to actually put it up, her hair fell onto her shoulders in loose curls. Anne was next and her hair was prepared in much the same way, but when the ladies went to put up her hair, they needed more poof, so they reached for a bag of hair clippings that they stuffed under a layer of Anne's hair. I feared my hair would suffer the same fate, but luckily, with crazy teasing, I learned how thick my hair actually was.


We came home and did make up and nails. I was the resident make up artist. Majda distributed jewelry-gold, pearls, and stones. Amina helped us all climb into our takshiitas. We had just enough time to pose in the living room and at the grand piano for some pictures, and then we three ladies headed for the marriage! We arrived at about 9:30 pm.


The wedding was at a big new hotel over in the same neighborhood as the school. There were carpets leading up the path to the door, and traditional drummers lined the carpet. An espresso stand was right outside the door too, to start prepping the guests for the long night that was ahead of them.


The reception hall was a very large circular room with 50 foot ceilings. About 25 tables filled the room, all with 10 chairs around them. The tables were covered with white table cloths and the chairs had white coverings as well. We sat at a table near the door, and unhappily, near the traditional Moroccan band. Not that the music wasn't good, it is just that it was incredibly loud. The guests sat mute while the songs were played, and then in the two minute breaks in between, we could yell pleasantries at one another over the noise of our ringing ears.


Waiters in the traditional penguin suits brought around bite-size cakes and freshly squeezed juices on shiny silver platters.



The bride's entrance was completely spectacular. She was carried in a carriage on four men's shoulders. They danced her into the reception hall, and she smiled down at her guests wearing a beautiful white and silver dress. Her make up was much lighter than her skin tone, revealing the culture's belief that lighter skin is more beautiful. When the song was completed, she was dropped off at the stage that held a couch and crystal chandeliers. Her groom met her there. They sat on the couch together and people crowded around, taking turns to climb the stairs, sit on the couch, and have their picture taken with the couple.



For the majority of the night, I took pleasure in people watching. The women's dresses were fantastically ornate. Some dresses didn't even cover the ladies' shoulders and others had slits up the side that would rival Hollywood's red carpet style. The fabrics ranged from silk to satin to velvet. Every color was represented, and every style could be seen. The bride and groom continued to take pictures with their guests, and I watched as they somewhat awkwardly exchanged rigid conversation. Majda assured us that it was an arranged marriage, and I wondered what the first few months of their marriage would be like, quite different from the first few months of marriage that most of my friends are now enjoying ;)



When the traditional Moroccan band finished its first set, a traditional Berber band across the room started playing. Their sound system was equally as loud, but their instruments were much more exotic! Then traditional Berber dancers took the floor, and Anne and I joined a group of young people and we joined hands and did a simple dance as the Berber dancers did their traditional almost belly dancing-like dance.




Dinner started at 1 am. The bride and groom had disappeared for a while, but when they reappeared, the bride had changed out of her white and silver takshiita and into a green takshiita. There were 4 courses for dinner-pastilla, bread with olives and peppers, sheep with potatoes and carrots, and fruit for dessert. It was absolutely phenomenal. Waiters floated around the tables, bringing out silver platter after silver platter, refilling one's coke, or pouring mint tea. We left shortly after dinner (2am) with our dresses fitting a little tighter.


Majda supplemented our experience by explaining what would be going on for the next 6 hours of the wedding that we would be missing. The bride would be changing takshiitas 3 or 4 more times, each takshiita for a different purpose. For example, there is a special takshiita for actually signing the marriage papers. The bands would continue to play, and people would continue to dance. "If you've been to one Moroccan wedding, you've been to them all," Majda joked.