A Moroccan Wedding... Mine

Yesterday was capped by a party out in Akkari with the guys from Reseau Maillage (the boyz). After giving a presentation on Politics, Economics, and Consumer Culture to the local english-language university and attending two yawn-inducing information sessions, I was ready to cut loose.

Unfortunately, my ability to cut loose was curtailed as soon as I showed up at the office for the party. I was quickly shuffled into a back room, where I was instructed to remove my shirt. Before I knew it, I was decked out in the traditional male ceremonial robes - something you might see around Fez. After being transported to yet another room, where I found my teaching partner, Elizabeth, resplendent in the traditional female dress, I was informed of our impending nuptials. Following male instinct, I tried to escape the ceremony, only to find out there was no way out. My exits were blocked and I felt like I was witnessing the end of my ahem, illustrious, bachelorhood.

Soon, the door was thrown open to reveal thirty clapping and loudly laughing Moroccans. After my embarassment/surprise was thoroughly entered into the photographic record, I watched as a speech was given, and refreshments were served. Resisting the urge to get bombed at my wedding (not to mention the lack of alcohol), I made the acquaintance of one of the local men who worked as a clown. After spending thirty minutes in a conversation with him composed exclusively of pantomiming and weird clown pantomimes, I extricated myself so I could put back on some less oppressing clothing (don't get me wrong, the robes were comfortable, but definitely toasty. Couldn't imagine going through a whole real ceremony in them). Back into my "could you point me towards Connecticut?" outfit of seersucker shorts and a polo, I finished up the party, figuring out ways to avoid my new bride to be to limit any more compromising photo ops.

Anyways, after another day of conferences and heavy eating, I'm sitting in my buddy Youssef's apartment (yet another one), watching "Hit Music Black" on the telly. Tomorrow I have a humanitarian medicine caravan thing at 9am, and so goes another weekend. Next weekend is going to be the Sahara though, so always stuff to look forward to...

Shit Happens

The beach near Akkari, where I work, is to say the least, treacherous. Lacking any sort of sand, it's more a collection of cliffs, small pools, and craggy rocks, beset by a rather nasty Atlantic Ocean that frequently whips waves at the shore. Given that, I was somewhat surprised to find out that it was also a popular local swimming destination for primarily the male residents of Akkari.

Local activities include wave dodging on the craggy rocks, taking dips in the low pools, and balls-out swimming in the roiling ocean. Admittedly, they don't throw people unprepared into the sea, but no matter how you swing it, it's one dangerous pasttime. Last time I was down there with some buddies, I managed to scratch up my leg dodging a ridiculously large wave, while Badre received a nasty cut all the way down his right forearm that'll leave a serious scar.

Given all of this, and other behavior I've seen here that one might file under Culture Shock, I've been reevaluting what's important. After seeing how people cross streets/highways, drive, eat medina food, and regard life, I've hopefully come away with a modicum of perspective on the subject.

Americans are undoubtedly concerned with personal security - one might even argue to such an extent that it can actually inhibit enjoying life. I've already talked about my toning down of my squeamishness quotient - to what extent can one enjoy life without regard for the possibility of negative consequences. Should I jump off that cliff into the ocean, should I climb onto the back of Ahmed's rickety Peugeot moped without a helmet, should I try running across the street before the bus gets there? These types of questions have come to permeate every day here, and the longer I stay, the more I've been apt to err on the dangerous side (don't worry Mom).

I guess there's a way to do things safely, there's a way to do things without regard for consequences, and there's a middle road where sometimes shit can happen. Now I just have to figure out how to walk the line.

Gettin' Friendly

Lately, I've been reading An Army At Dawn by Rick Atkinson. It's an exceptionally well-written account (even won the Pulitzer) of the US Army in North Africa. One of the things that Atkinson touches on is cultural preparation for American GIs in North Africa - ie: what to expect, and how to deal with it. One of the most prominent parts of the training is this: if you see two guys walking down the street, holding hands, they are not, I repeat, are not, gay. They're merely friends showing friendship.

Coming from America, where I've always felt we're way too uptight about physical touching - especially between male friends - this has been a not-too-difficult adjustment for me. Just now, as Youssef (a different one than Youssef 1/2) was showing me some new english software he got for the internet cafe here in the office, he put his arm on my back. It wasn't creepy, sexual, or anything with suspicious intent, it was merely a way to show that we're friends and that we're close. When I cross the street to go to lunch, it's not uncommon for Kamal to grab my hand, and even back at the apartment we've managed to tone down some of the squeamishness if somebody puts their arm around you.

This even extends to the French practice of kissing on the cheek - which is very common here in Morocco, even among men. You don't normally (of course, there are always exceptions) plant a big wet sloppy kiss on somebody's cheek, it's more of either an air-kiss or a little peck. Obviously, this contrasts strongly with the American high-five, or distant handshake (maybe a hand on the shoulder if you've known the guy ten years...).

While I understand and remain very sensitive of inappropriateness - especially in regards to male/female goings-on - this has honestly been a breath of fresh air. It's not that I've discovered a heretofore unknown side of myself, ahem, but more that things are just more comfortable this way. You have friends, you have warm relationships with them, and there is touching or kissing on the cheek, but there's nothing about it that's sexual or inappropriate.

That Time When I Fished for Comments

Since I'm over here and all, if anybody has any questions about Morocco, or anything they want to hear about in regards to culture, religion, how good the hashish is (kidding) drop me a line in a comment or send me an email.

Football

I thought I'd get away from the geology metaphors after the last post and talk about the most popular activity in Morocco. Football is, without a doubt, the national pastime of Morocco. People don't "play" football, they do football. It's incorporated into everything to such an extent that I have yet to hang out with "the boys" without seeing a football around (by the way, for us Americans, fotball = soccer). You walk down the street juggling a ball, you practice goalkeeping on the beach (and then get yelled at by mounted police) and just plain do whatever you can with a football whenever it's available.

For kids, it's a way of life. One of the surest sights every day when I walk around Akkari in the morning is kids playing football. They'll play with whatever's available - tennis balls, little bouncy balls, or, if they're lucky enough to have one, a real ball. Kids form up quick teams, designate goalkeepers, and play in side streets all day.

Part of the reason for this, I've found, is how freaking simple it is to organize soccer, compared to any other sport. All you need is a ball, any ball, and you've got a rudimentary game going. No field? Use a street. No football? Use a tennis ball.

One of my heretofore private shames here in Morocco has been my lack of skill with the ol' kicking bag. In layman's terms, I can't play soccer worth shit. The few years of rec soccer as a young one haven't been as helpful as I've hoped, and normally I've relegated myself to the sidelines with the pathetic declaration, "pardon! je joue le tennis." Never before have I been so conscious of how damn bourgeois playing tennis is. Watching these kids play the game with such ebullience definitely gives me that whole "if I had to do it again" feeling.

Plate Tectonics

Morocco, as does any culture/society, has certain parts of its culture which I've termed the groundwork, or bedrock of society (and without attempting to become Tom Friedman, I'll try to go into it now).

For example, if you were to go up to an American and tell him/her that freedom of religion, or freedom of speech were not inalienable rights, and that you didn't agree with them - you'd encounter a rather hostile or confused person. Just as we regard certain parts of our society as so integral that changing them would amount to a tectonic shift, the same is true of Moroccans.

Islam, heterosexuality, the King Mohammed VI, and several other ideas form the bedrock of Moroccan society here. Religion is not part of the culture, religion is the culture - even explaining the concept of Atheism (depending on what day you ask me, I might classify myself as one) is so bizarre and foreign that most people that I've even talked to about it literally don't understand it. For example, my friend Badre believes that if I read the Koran, I will become Muslim because it will move me so much.

As far as sexual identity is concerned, you ARE heterosexual. Outside of some liberal enclaves like Marrakech, homosexuality just is not even on the table, not an option, not even to be spoken about. My cabbie on the way home last night, after inquiring if Elizabeth and I were married (sorry bud, we're just teaching partners), told us this story about a lesbian couple that got into his cab, getting quite animated in the process. It was literally something incomprehensible to this cabbie.

For Moroccans also, the king is the state and the state is the king. This guy is a descendant of Mohammed himself - you don't talk bad about descendants of Mohammed unless you want to get a tajine smashed over your head.

What's made this so interesting for me, is that, coming from a place where there is such free discourse, I've essentially had to reign myself in (don't worry, no big blunders yet). Moroccans are an incredibly warm people, but it can be difficult having certain subjects off the table. Luckily, some of them are so common-sense (israel and palestine, anyone?) that the margin for error is pretty small.

Octupi Please

I was making an exit from work today when I was stopped by some of "the Boys," including the two Youssefs, Taoufik, and Khalid. We BS'ed for a few minutes before one of the Youssefs handed me something wrapped in tinfoil. Looking at the strange and bulging package, I inquired as to what was in it. Youssef happily grabbed it back to me, and unrolled the aluminum foil to reveal two dead squid, both about half the length of my forearm. Smiling from ear to ear (quite like my first fish fry experience), I thanked him and the others profusely before asking about what exactly I was supposed to do with it (they got a good laugh out of my asking where I could buy a fish bowl). Turns out, that Octupi can be eaten raw, but it was captured yesterday so ostensibly it wasn't fresh enough - a theory I am not willing to test. So, the best way to cook these squid is just in a skillet with "jus natural" as they informed me.

I did get a big kick out of bringing the squids home and sticking them in the fridge with the aluminum foil on, only to inform various residents of the apartment that we got this "absolutely amazing" food from work today that they have to come and take a look at. Melissa didn't take the *reveal* moment so well, there was shrieking and cursing.

I guess the moral of this whole deal is that I'm becoming less and less squeamish - the only way that's been happening is by being repeatedly put in uncomfortable situations... c'est la vie.

A Ten Dirham Sandwich and a Street Brawl

Last night, Ryan, Melissa, Tima and I went down to the medina on a quest for our new favorite ten dirham sandwich. You must understand, this thing is ridiculously finger-licking good, full of turkey w/ spices, potatoes, rice, mayo, spicy sauce, and olives, all crammed into half of a pain rond.

As we entered the medina, we were confronted with the traditional sights and sounds of this crazy gathering place. Shops angled out onto the streets, vendors had rolled out blankets with pottery, kitchen supplies, and everything else one can imagine. In addition, there was the street food - some of which I've already talked about: fresh-squeezed jus d'orange (made with these amazingly sweet local oranges), grilled meats, tajines, sandwiches, fresh fish, and anything else that somebody has been enterprising enough to sell.

On our way to what we now term "the sandwich place," we ran into a mob of people, from the middle we heard some angry yelling in Dirija. All of a sudden, three men burst through the side of the mob towards us, yelling, pushing, and partaking in the obligatory removal of shirts. Soon, things got more physical, as they started fighting right in the middle of the street, much to the consternation/curiousity of onlookers (I just want to state that this is not some sort of common occurence). We had to push through the other side of the mob to evade the brawl, which took a few minutes because of how tightly packed everyone was. As we were on our way, I looked back and saw one of the guy's heads hit the ground hard, hopefully he wasn't concussed. Just as that happened, the police showed up and broke up the whole thing - I assume the guys were hauled off to jail.

London

Sorry for the tardiness on this post, but I thought I'd talk a little bit about the London terrorist attacks in terms of what I've experienced here in Morocco, a Muslim country. Firstly, thanks to the wonders of the internet, information here was pretty easy to find - by cobbling together AP Reports, stuff from Al-Jazeera, Google News, etc, I was able to get a decent picture of what was going on.

When I first heard about what happened, I got goosebumps and immediately started checking information on the internet. Of course, all I heard from my friend Badre was "did you hear about the bombings in London?" Reactions from my friends here were incredibly uniform - contrary to a misinformed public perception, people were greatly saddened and angered by it. Nobody that I've talked to in any way expressed anything but that to me.

Furthermore, the people here are greatly angered by the misuse of their religion, their life, as a tool for violence. One of the most commonly equated terms for terrorists here have been the "Mafia," or criminals. These terrorists are not regarded as brothers in arms, but people who sully the name of a beautiful and many-layered religion that I am only beginning to understand.

I really do extend my greatest sympathies to London and to the UK, as do all of my friends here in Morocco, who share in my outrage and sadness for these abhorrent attacks on humanity.

Masculine Cultural Anthropology... Otherwise Known as a Day with the Boys

Yesterday, I got to hang out with Youssef 1, Youssef 2, Taoufik, Khalid, and Simo, all guys from Akkari who are either in one of my english classes, or are somehow involved with administration here. I've tentatively (for lack of a better name) termed us "The Boys," or if you will, "Da Boyz."
These guys are all in their late twenties and thirties, and a total blast to hang out with. We started off the day by buying a ridiculous amount of viande hache (ground "meat," not, mind you, ground "beef") from a local vendor. We paid some local guys to fry it up on their grill in the center of Akkari while we pulled up some chairs, BS'ed with some local residents, etc. Then, we ate some kefta - think small seasoned hamburger patties you eat with onions, olives, and pieces of bread.
After that, it was off to the beach, where I broke out my Xtreme Water Sportz camera. After posing for a ridiculous amount of pictures - including pseudo-Hawaiian Leis we fashioned out of kelp - we hit the water, where I tried their favorite thing, surfing without a board. Since the waves were coming in rather hard, you could kind of ride the crest of a wave all the way into the beach from rather far out, definitely a fun time. We then chilled on the beach, played some soccer, were informed we could not play soccer on the beach by mounted policemen, and engaged in other types of male bonding.

It's been nice here to establish relationships with some of the local people, will definitely be the most rewarding part of being here. Anyways, I'm late for class, so I gotta roll. Cheers.

Where the Last Type of Transportation System Fails

Well, since I've already talked about my problems with planes, buses, and cars, I guess it was only a matter of time before I had a problem with the Moroccan rail system. Namely, on the way back from Casa yesterday, 1km outside of the Rabat-Agdal train station, our train... stopped. Of course, this wasn't some sort of casual, "ok folks, we've got another five minutes because the train in front of us is behind schedule," kind of stop. Instead, it was a rail-screeching, lights going out, things falling out of the overhead bins kind of stop.

After the confusion died down, a moderate chaos settled in, as some people ran for the exits, while I just sat there dumbfounded. Soon, from the windows we could see a slow and steady exodus of passengers from other cars making their way to the upcoming train station (shining like some sort of electrified Oasis, 1km away). So, we all got off the train and began the march to the station. Of course, the tracks and area were littered with sharp rocks, glass, etc, so it was kind of like being in a minefield of sharp pointy things. In the dark.

Anyways, we eventually reached the train station, a bedraggled and much more humble crowd than when we started our return to Casa. Luckily there was some Tajine waiting at the apartment, so we got to eat, etc.

PS- I'll try to get some pictures online at some point. I don't have a digital camera, but some other people around do, so at some point I'll get them online and hosted on Flickr so I can make them viewable on the blog. Cheers.