Where I Find Out I am an American After All

I'm going to start this one out with a story: My friend Nick, who went to high school in Alaska had a German foreign exchange student come to his high school for a year. This guy, Max, was sitting in math class one day when a fellow American student of Nick's, Janice, turned around to ask him for some Chapstick. Max looked up with a quizzical look on his face and said, "pardon?"
Janice repeated slightly slower, "Chapstick."
Once again, Max looked at her funnily and said, "I don't know what that is."
Janice, once again, this time louder, said "Chapstick!"
However, she didn't stop there, she managed to further enunciate and slow down the word, repeating it three more times, so it became "CHAP STICK!" At this point, she was almost yelling.
Annoyed, Nick turned over to Janice and said, "maybe they don't have Chapstick in Germany, Janice?"
Turns out, Chaptick in Germany, or lip balm, as you will, is called by their local brand name, Labello.

Basically, Americans have a tendency to do two things with languages. The first is the aforementioned "slower and louder" concept, where they merely repeat the word slowly and loudly, impervious to the idea that people don't know that specific word.

The second tendency involves making fun of other languages. Now, this was something I've always thought I've done a reasonably good job of avoiding. There have been certain instances such as the "Sexisme" (sexism in french) poster in middle school french class that was turned into "Sex is me," and maybe once or twice I've chuckled at the perceived ridiculousness of pronouncing certain languages, but I thought I was pretty much ok on that front.
That all changed about three days ago, soon after Natalie came. I went into the bathroom, and lo and behold, in front of me, was a tube of something titled "ROT WEISS." After laughing and showing it to the other members of the apartment, I was informed that rot weiss actually means "red white," by a slightly perturbed German. The sheer ridiculousness of naming a toothpaste Rot Weiss overshadowed my cultural sensitivity. This soon extended to other facets of the German language, as Nick and I attempted, much to Natalie's delight, to read the German language. Soon after that, given how imperious-sounding German sounds, we were asking her to say all sorts of crazy things in German, such as "I will break you," or "how many sausages can you fit in your mouth?"
Anyways, now that I kind of recognize it, and have admitted my American-ness, I'm still going to continue thinking Rot Weiss is the most ridiculous name for any sort of hygienic product. ever.

Le Mega Mall

Yesterday I was invited by one of the local hottie Moroccan AIESECers, Tima, to go ice skating (yep, ice skating in Morocco) today. So, today when I got off work around 4:30 I gave her a call to meet up. She instructed me to tell the petit taxi driver to take me to "le mega mall." After getting in the taxi and rolling on over to le mega mall, I was surprised to see a modern suburban mall set back from the street in a clearly affluent neighborhood.
I called Tima, and she came from her English-language University across the street so we could check out the mall... First off, before even entering, the most conspicuous sight was the lack of adults and the sheer number of teens and pre-teens everywhere, in some sort of pseudo-American alter-universe. These kids really do go to the mall to hang out. Tima explained to me that since school was out for the summer, the parents would drop them off for a few hours as a sort of de facto day care.
We walked past the security guards and into the mall, full of western-style stores and the obligatory food court and glass-walled elevator. Tima insisted we do the full circuit before going to check out the ice skating (they also offer bowling, it's like some sort of weird midwestern transplant). Stores such as Diesel, Geox, along with many European chains dotted the mall, there was even a, get this, Domino's Pizza. Packs of conspicuous-consumption Moroccan teenagers roamed the mall, from the age of 12 and up, resplendent in Diesel and Tommy Hilfiger (which is also very popular here).
Unfortunately, the ice-skating didn't work out (Tima had forgotten her socks), so we just ended up getting coffee and watching the hormonal feeding frenzy that is the mall food court.

Music Saves Me

Probably the smartest thing I brought to Morocco has been my iPod. Although Apple charges a ridiculous amuont for their world adapter kit, I'd be lost without some way to listen to music. Besides listening to the entire Pulp Fiction soundtrack way too much, these are my favorite songs here right now.

Little Triggers - Elvis Costello
E-Pro - Beck
Pro Defunctus - Chet Baker
Galang - MIA
New Partner - Palace Music
Holy Names - Pretty Girls Make Graves
Cram, Cockle, Crab, Cowrie - Joanna Newsom
Don't This Look Like the Dark (live) - Magnolia Electric Co.
Melissa - Allman Brothers
Fast Cars - Aesop Rock
Stay With Me - The Faces
I Luv the Valley OH! - Xiu Xiu
Muddy Hymnal (live @ KCRW) - Iron and Wine
and finally... Long Distance Call - Muddy Waters

If I mention the iPod here, I get mostly blank looks, but pretty much everybody knows what an MP3 player is. After my first experience on the train with the security guard who only spoke Arabic, I've kind of figured out that music is always a great way to relate to people. It's too bad that what I term the American Cultural Filter has only allowed crap like 50 Cent (by the way, I've done a little grammar lesson in all of my classes on how it should be "fifty cents," as a way to introduce plurals), Linkin Park, and slag such as that to be popular over here for the kiddos.
This has led me to do little music lessons in all of my classes where we go over genres and learn to talk about what we like, etc. Today, one of my students who's in his thirties professed his unabashed love for Phil Collins and easy listening music...

Not Quite the Tower of Babel...

The official language of Morocco is Arabic - namely Moroccan Arabic, or Dirija. Dirija has the dubious distinction of being radically different from Modern Standard or Classical Arabic. The Americans with me who spoke some Classical before have found themselves up a creek without a paddle, since Dirija is basically a different language, although it uses the same script. Every Moroccans' first language is Dirija. They speak it at home and among themselves, and it's very common to find only Arabic-language signs and ads in the less affluent urban areas.
French is the de-facto second language of Morocco, and is the sole reason I can function here. Most people in urban areas speak french, since it's the first language that's taught in school, and by the end of their high school, or Bac, they can pretty much speak fluent french. Most other people speak functional french, or at the very least know a few phrases and numbers. It's been difficult for me, because I'm always conscious that French is not the people's first language - it's essentially the language of the ex-colonial French, with a North African accent. In a sense, I've felt that I'm forcing French on people because I can't speak Dirija.
With that in mind, I've tried picking up some Arabic, but have been stuck at some basic numbers, "praise god," "god wills it (my favorite, because it's basically "it'll happen if it's supposed to" - a hallmark of Moroccan time)," and a smattering of useful curse words...
However, the languages sure as hell don't stop there. Complimenting Arabic is Berber - 3 dialects to be exact - that is the native language of the native (and predominant) ethnic group in Morocco (Moroccans are not entirely Arab). However, it's found more in rural areas, although people in the cities often know a few words.
Further complicating that is the addition of Nathalie, the German AIESEC trainee who works with me here at reseau - ostensibly to teach German, although classes have yet to start. Nathalie speaks German, Romanian, Norwegian, Mongolian, Russian, English, and some French. The thing is, for reasons involving study abroad, German is somewhat popular here, we've met two people here at the office who speak German quite well... which leads to situations like what happened yesterday, where Nathalie and I were in the room with two students and a reseau volunteer working on some difficult english grammar. I was talking to the students in french and Nathalie in English. Nathalie was speaking German with the volunteer, and the volunteer and the students were speaking Dirija among themselves... basically it turns into this huge jumble of languages.
Further complicating that is the addition of Spanish. Since Morocco is so close to Spain, Spanish, especially in the Meditteranean part, is more popular than French. And of course, we have two Americans with us who speak fluent Spanish (I'm not even going to get into the one that speaks Japanese fluently, or Ryan, who speaks Thai and Swahili), so sometimes we run into Moroccans in Rabat who speak Spanish...
Anyways, that's what it's like to be here... definitely makes me wish I spoke more than I do.

The Third World Stomach

One of the phrases we've been tossing around the most at the Real World Rabat house is the term "third world stomach." Basically, eating and drinking here in Morocco requires a certain amount of gastronomical fortitude. You have to get used to local Moroccan water, with its little specks of who knows what, local yogurt, and numerous other types of food.
One of the worst we've encountered was a type of Moroccan milk. The first time couscous was served in the apartment by the Moroccan AIESECers, it was accompanied by a milk that the described as "skimmmed." After a sip or two of the interesting-smelling milk, I inquired a little bit more fully - it tasted like a mix of yogurt and milk. Turns out, I wasn't quite right, it had previously been milk - milk that had been left out for a few days at normal temperatures.
Another part of Moroccan cuisine involves the level of cleanliness that goes into some preparations. Last week, my stomach was feeling kind of off - as it does all the time - so I decided it'd be a good idea to just get a basic pain rond with some cheese and meat, no fixins. Kamal took me to a local street vendor that sold fresh bread etc, and I picked out some meat and some cheese, expecting to put it together myself. To my surprise, the glove-less (and moderately greasy) street seller took the bread in his hands, broke it in half, ripped out all the bread in the middle, and then proceeded to roughly stuff my cheese and meat into the center. Giving me a smile that was a few teeth too little, I smiled back and quickly grabbed my sandwich.
Relatively speaking, I've probably had less stomach problems than some of the other members, nothing that a little Imodium and Tums couldn't help with. As a side note, I've been popping Tums EX like it's my job. However, there has yet to be a time that my stomach hasn't been... kind of off. Several of the Americans have gotten really sick to their stomach, and at least one has had food poisoning.
We've learned to avoid anything actively made on the street (except for Jus d'Orange), such as the chicken stir-fried on what could be called hibachis in the middle of the medina. Also, "fresh" yogurt that isn't factory-sealed is definitely off-limits.
Part of the problem has come from this kind of macho complex us American guys have picked up here. It almost becomes a battle over who can/will eat what. That first night that the sour milk was served, Ryan took it upon himself to take down 4 glasses, shot-style, of the aged liquid. This has even extended to meat, with the size of your cojones being based on what you'll eat( pigeon anyone?) and which parts of the animal you'll eat. The butcher's shops are a sight in and of themselves, with whole carcasses hanging out in the sun, and every animal from cow to sheep to rabbit being actively on display. With whole sheeps' heads being common here, we shall see what happens next...

A Moroccan Fish Fry

As I was finishing up my lesson around noon today, I looked outside and saw Kamal, one of the guys who volunteers at Reseau Maillage, starting up some charcoal in a low clay pot. I didn't really think much of it until after class, when one of the older gentlemen who worked there informed me that there would be no need to go out for lunch - he'd be making it. He took me into their makeshift kitchen and proudly held up a black bag and unwrapped its contents. The beady eyes of forty six-inch long "sardines" stared at me, fresh from the market.
First off, a little background. Anybody who has spent any time with me is aware of two contradictory facts about my eating habits. First off, I love food. I go out to eat a lot, love checking out new places, and I'm slowly starting to cook for myself. Secondly, I can be a ridiculously picky and squeamish eater. You won't catch me eating fish or many veggies, and sure as hell not peeling shrimp or cracking lobster. Any meat that looks like where it came from is off-limits in my book.
That being said, as I stared at fish, I managed to make make the biggest, toothiest smiles I possibly could, telling the man in French how much I was looking forward to this amazing-looking fish... there was really no other option, he was being incredibly hospitable. The second thing out of my mouth was "je vais acheter un boisson froid pour le dejeuner" - I'm going to go and buy a cold drink... ostensibly. My alterior motive was stuffing myself with bread at a local food shop so that I wouldn't go hungry after doing my best to get through some fish.
Fast-forward ten minutes later, as I'm standing in the middle of Akkari, attracting my fair share of stares, scarfing down a petit pain rond, when Simo, another reseau volunteer, happens upon me. We get to talking, and as often happens in Morocco, he has enough time to walk me back to the office, all the while I'm frantically finishing up my bread and making sure my t-shirt is crumbless.
They had been cooking the fish in these hand-held grills that you'd put the fish in the middle of. Cautiously hoping they'd removed the eyes, or something along those lines to make the fish... less alive, I waited. Unfortunately, the fish arrived, eyes and all on a big clay plate right in front of me. Soon after, one of the guys picked one of the fish and dropped it at my place, skin and all. I gingerly scraped off the metallic skin with my fingers, dipped a piece in some salt they'd sprinkled on my section of paper, and took a little bite. Surprisingly, not bad. The fish was really mild and very fresh, didn't have that nasty fishy taste. After innumerable fish bones in my teeth later, I stared at a rather messy pile of dessicated fish in front of me. Coupled with the spicy olives, it was quite a meal.
The only long-lasting downside was the fish smell, which after four hand-washings and copious amounts of Purell, is finally subsiding. Here's one to adventurous eating...

Cue "It's a Small World"

Down in Essaouira over the weekend I was having breakfast with all of the AIESECers at this surf joint-type place on the beach. As I was finishing up my cafe au lait, Nick poked me and said "check out the alcoholics over there." Looking over, I saw two American-looking men finishing up their second round of beer at around ten in the morning. Soon, one of the guys got up and walked by us. About five minutes later, he walked back by, stopped, turned around and said, "Hey, are you from Minnesota?" Turns out, I'd been wearing my Twins cap, and this guy was originally from Northfield and had even went to St. Olaf. I forgot his name, but he was with an American friend who was working in Rabat - the Minnesotan was actually working in Ghana. They had just driven all the way up from Ghana, across the desert to Essaouira on their way to Rabat.

Second one: This one is really fucking classic. First off, I know there's probably no way that anybody from my AP European history class with Dr. Jacobson, sophomore year of Breck is reading this. That being said, I should probably facebook message all of you. Anyways, as I've mentioned before, there's a rather interesting girl staying with us named Laura, who goes to Yale. I don't really talk to her all that much, but I knew her dad was a professor there. Turns out her name is Laura Merriman, and her dad is none other than John Merriman, the guy who not only wrote our AP Euro textbook, but was a mentor extraordinaire to the esteemed Dr. Andrew Jacobson. This is really one of those more inside jokes, but Dr. J was a really bizarre guy, and he'd talk about John Merriman, and how they played squash together, etc all the time. We'd always speculate on the mysterious Merriman, I guess we have our answer now...

Satellite Rides

I was lucky enough last night to have dinner with Naoufel, the head of AIESEC Morocco. He spends a lot of time over at the apartment, and even accompanied us to Essaouira, but this was one of the first times that I was able to get a Moroccan alone, over dinner and of course, tea.
The conversation shifted pretty quickly to the weekend, I told him some of my reservations about how some of my traveling companions were being treated, etc. He managed to put it this way:
Basically, everything in Morocco is pirated - CDs, Music, Clothing, Software, and especially satellite television. One of the most curious sights in Morocco is seeing these absolutely dirt poor slums with satellites sticking out all over the place. If you took a panorama of Casablanca, the landscape would be filled with them. These are not your average Direct TV satellites, they're frankly rather junky-looking, with no discernible markings on them.
These satellites are all hacked. Basically, you buy a box for around 1500 Dirhams, and then you have to buy a card with codes on it. Then, you connect the Satellite to all of this, etc, and you literally get thousands of channels from all over the world. Every language, from HBO to ESPN to Egyptian Soap Operas. You can sit in front of your tv all day and just consume this ridiculous amount of media, especially western/american media.
Anyways, with that out of the way, there is an amazingly high consumption of American media, Naoufel asked me if I knew of American Pie, American Beauty, etc. Part of what's disseminated through these satellites, besides an often incredibly overblown view of drugs, sleazy politicians, violence and such in America is the liberated and free American woman. This is a woman who makes her own choices. For Moroccan men, and many non-western men, this perception fuses with sexual freedom - what results is basically a view of Western women as promiscuous and slutty, by virtue of their liberated nature. Based on that, there is this idea that if you talk to a western woman, and spend enough time with her (keeping in mind that they have little clue as to how to interact with these western women appropriately), then you'll be able to sleep with her.
It was good to hear this from Naoufel, because even as I mentioned in my last post, I'd previously had enough experience with Meditteranean, especially Italian, men to know how sleazy and overt they can be about declaring affection. While I hope this post doesn't in anyway imply some sort of tacit or stated acceptance of Moroccans' behavior towards Western women, at least hearing it from Naoufel helped clarify why.

Road Trippin'

The other half of the weekend was the crazy road trip down to Essaouira, which took us across the agricultural belt of Morocco. We ( 9 Americans, 1 German, 2 Moroccans) made this trip in two, count 'em, two Fiat Palios of a circa-twentieth century vintage. In case you're wondering what a Fiat Palio is like - sounds exotic after all, right? - wipe away images of burl wood dashes and leather-appointed interiors, for this is not that kind of car. In fact, if you want to do word association, think of the crippling disease Polio.
Even getting the cars out of Rabat was an ordeal. First off, we had one Palio and one other, slightly larger Fiat. Unfortunately, that Fiat broke on the way from the renter's lot to the apartment. Worried about liability, we brought back the slightly larger Fiat slightly sheepishly, hoping that it wouldn't turn into a big issue, etc. When we told the man at the auto rental, he simply crossed off that car on his sheet and made a small notation - in retrospect, he was incredibly casual about it. Soon, we had another Fiat Palio which had a cute little flaw- the gas tank was punctured, but, only at the top. So, as long as we didn't put in more than half a tank at a time, it shouldn't be a problem. Despite the fact that both shifter knobs came off the cars by the time they were at the apartment, we remained cautiously optimistic.
Soon, another problem reared its head. As we prepared to leave, two more cute flaws were discovered. Firstly, one of the Fiat's hoods wouldn't close. Secondly, the back right door on the other fiat had some... spacing, and you could see the road in between the door frame. So, on our way out of Rabat, we stopped by a "Mechanic." By Mechanic, I mean that this guy expertly wielded two tools: a small sledgehammer and a brick. Within twenty minutes' hammering on the poor Palio's hood, he had the hood latched.
By this point, we were understandably itching to be out of the starting gate and begin what turned into an 8-hour journey. As I previously mentioned, there were 6 people in each Fiat. Four people do not fit in the backseat of a Fiat Palio... or do they? Well, suffice to say, it was a jumble of limbs back there, circulation was lost, words were said that weren't meant, etc. I just want to clarify at this point that these were two old, dumpy Fiat hatchbacks- no wagon model for us.
This trip was my first real initiation with the Moroccan highway system. I'd experienced the white knuckle "holy shit!" city driving enough to be apprehensive about higher speeds and less witnesses. After getting out of Casa, an hour or so down the coast from Rabat, we transitioned to a more bucolic setting, replete with thousands of donkey carts (they even have their own crossing signs) and a landscape most closely identifiable with rural Mexico (admittedly my only frame of reference is the movie Y Tu Mama Tambien, but I was assured by other Americans that it was pretty spot-on). Pastoral settings transitioned into charming hills, as the lanes narrowed to one and half through the winding roads up and through the hills. There were several close calls with big trucks coming around corners towards us. Unfortunately, or thrillingly - depending on your life outlook - guard rails were not abundant.
There was a respite as we found this quasi-river oasis in the hills. We stopped to swim, posed for pictures, etc. Another six or so hours later, we made it into Essaouira for the night's festivities.
Another hitch was that A: there were no hotels, and B: there was no shelter, ie: tents to rent. So, we roughed it for the weekend, sleeping in the Palios and on the beach, which got down to the forties (fahrenheit) at night. Luckily, we all made it through in one piece.

The Essaouira Music Festival

Just got back from what turned out to be an insane weekend down in Essaouira in southern Morocco (ie: 13-hr round trip).
Essaouira itself was amazing - it's become popular within the last few years as a tourist destination for good reason. Situated basically within an old Portuguese fort on the Atlantic, the town has a great Meditteranean feeling and is totally walkable. The old town doesn't even allow cars, and is painted in bright moroccan colors. What really makes Essaouira tick is the beach outside the town, where you can swim, play soccer on the beach, go kite-surfing or wind-surfing, or dig sand trenches (such as I did) to escape the ridiculously fast wind off the Atlantic. There were a fair amount of tourists there - one of the first times I've really seen concentrated groups of Westerners - and plenty of local people in town for the Gnaoua music festival. Despite the goddamn Euro-Hippies and their german techno, I pretty much co-existed peacefully with all the tourists.
The Moroccans, on the other hand, were a mixed bag. I'm not sure if this is a Meditteranean thing or not, but we were traveling with a few Western women (who dressed respectfully, etc)who kept on being put in very unfortunate situations by Moroccan men. Often, it was as little as a man being overly friendly, talking to one of them, etc, before things got out of hand. The men there were insistent with personal questions, and often figured that introducing themself - or sometimes not - to a woman, allowed him to touch the woman. Others would just follow closely, or invite themselves to smoke hookah with us. In another situation, we caught one guy with his hand inside Nathalie's - the new German trainee - bag. Luckily, he didn't make off with anything, but that, coupled with being offered spray paint to huff, etc, amounted to enough to keep me jaded all weekend.
That last part is really unfortunate, because besides some incidents, the music festival was amazing. All the music that I heard was from Africa or Spain, and ran the gamut, from aging Spanish hippies to these Algerians who played ridiculously good celtic music. There were three stages, and there was always something going on until early in the morning.
I also had some amazing food, some of the best Tajines I've had here, great coffee, and a mixed bag on the street food, from chewing-gum textured chicken in these Chawarmas we had, to some killer spicy sausage "Moroccan" sandwiches.
All in all, it was definitely an experience. Sometimes, with up and down ones like this, I remind myself that at the very least I'll grow from them, and at least come out with some stories...