Ye Olde Itinerary

Well, since I have a full docket for the next week or so (ie: finally doing some serious traveling), I thought I'd let everyone know what's up.

Tomorrow morning (saturday), we're taking the train to the airport to pick up my mom's lost luggavge, then we're going straight to Marrakech to stay through monday. From there, we're coming back up to Rabat, then over to Meknes, Volubilis (old Roman ruins outside of Meknes), and possibly Fes. Then, back to Rabat for the last two days to say goodbyes, buy final touristy items, and drink plenty of Moroccan mint tea... Time's been flying by lately, and I'm going to be really sad to leave. Here's to hoping we get a hotel room for saturday night in Marrakech (everything is full... in theory).

The Mother Cometh

Today started abruptly with me slapping the alarm clock at 3:15am, groggily wondering for a few seconds as to why the hell I was awake. As I became more lucid, I remembered I had a 4:00am train to catch to Mohammed V airport to pick up my mother, who was coming in from Montreal this morning. After somehow managing to drub up enough motor skills to put a t-shirt over my head, I quickly brushed my teeth and started the 15-min trek to the Rabat-Ville train station.

What struck me first about the walk to the station was the eerie calm of the morning - there was barely anyone on the street, and Rabat for once seemed calm, a rare feat in a bustling third-world metropolis. About ten minutes into my walk, the silence was punctuated by the almost unearthly sound of the Muezzins' call to prayer throughout the city, broadcast live from the towers of various mosques. For those of you who haven't heard the sound, it can be somewhat disconcerting at 3:35 in the morning, since it assumes a supernatural quality in its rhythm.

After finding out that the time of the train had mysteriously been altered twenty minutes forward, to 3:40am, I hurriedly grabbed a petit taxi to the next station, where I managed to literally jump onto the last car of the departing train (this one was literally the "Marrakech Express"). I finally made it into Mohammed V Airport, picked up my mother, had a rather heated conversation with the lost baggage guy from Royal Air Maroc (seriously buddy, don't talk to my mother that way), and we went on our way back to Rabat, hoping that the luggage situation would resolve itself before we leave for Marrakech on saturday.

Back at the apartment, Tima came over and spent the next several hours lovingly preparing a chicken tajine - a great intro to Moroccan cooking for my mom. The highlight of that was that we needed some dirt to put under the charcoals to elevate them so they could cook the tajine properly. So, I went on a quest in the Nouveau Ville with a plastic bag and one of our plastic kitchen cups. Soon enough, I happened upon a dirt pile right off of the main road by our apartment. Swallowing my remaining pride as a dirt scavenger, I got down on my knees and began shoveling the dirt via the plastic cup into my plastic bag. In doing so, I can safely qualify that I officially received the weirdest looks I have ever received in my life from the passing Moroccans, a family of four stared open-mouthed at me the entire time (the idea of a Westerner scooping dirt in the street into a plastic bag clearly didn't compute). Anyways, with the dirt collected, the tajine went off without a hitch.

The rest of the say consisted of more mint tea, a trip to the casbah, and a quick jaunt through the medina. For the coup de grace of the evening, I showed my mom the best street food combination in Rabat - 2.50DH fresh-squeezed orange juice (aptly referred to by the mother as the best she's ever had) and 1DH warm coconut macaroons.

One of the most surprising parts of the day has been how regular everything still seems here. I'm really looking forward to showing her more around Rabat and the rest of Morocco, and for the chance to finally be a bona-fide Western tourist for a bit (albeit, one who hopefully has decent haggling skills by now).

Reflections on ESL

One of the biggest parts of my experience here on the Salaam Program was the two english classes that I taught everyday. Comprising a revolving list of characters, from 13 year-old girls to 33 year-old former soccer players, it was one of the most rewarding and exhausting parts of being here.

The most difficult part about teaching ESL is that it throws everything you've taken for granted about your language into disarray. All of a sudden, you find yourself analyzing the way you talk, your grammar, verb forms, etc. I've probably made more mistakes with English here now that I've started to think about what I say - instead of throwing a switch in my brain between present and past tense, I've become more conscious of the difference between all the different tenses and such. Often, students will ask me a question, and my mind will race, trying to formulate some sort of grammatical rule out of the nonsense that is a language taken for granted.

On the more positive side, there's been a fair share of interesting and downright funny experiences; I've had to do three closed-door sessions with my older classes where I explained in great detail how important the words cook, sheet, and beach were to pronounce correctly (I'm pretty sure the mis-pronunciations speak for themselves)... The worst part was that as I've already mentioned, I work right by the Akkari "Beach," so consequently, it's a frequent topic of conversation. Hearing about "beautiful beaches" from my students reduced me to tears of laughter more than once. Also, thanks to some of the grammatical irregularities you're bound to encounter in beginning english speakers, the word "cook" caused a few problems. While discussing hobbies, I had three girls in a row express their love for cooking by saying "I like cook." Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one to catch on, as some of the 16 year-old 50 Cent fans figured out why I was trying to stifle my laughter.

Another interesting angle on ESL has been the textbooks and workbooks we've managed to scrounge up. A lot of times, these books contain interesting lessons or grammatical errors. My favorite is a reading excerpt from the "Move Up" series of workbooks comparing my home state of Minnesota with New York City:

After New York, Minnesota didn't seem American at all. People walked slowly and purposefully, wearing yesterday's clothing, They sat for hours in cafes drinking lemonade and eating mountains of popcorn. They didn't argue about unimportant things. They arrived at church early on Sunday morning. They didn't have meetings. They didn't worry about investments. They didn't talk on car phones. They drove slowly, mostly in Chevrolets and old pick-up trucks and they parked carefully. The women all looked like someone's mother or daughter. It was like long ago. But this was America. And I wanted the noisy street life, crowds hurrying, people shouting noisily, taxis honking their horns...

This antebellum dystopian vision of Minnesota (which made me choke on my popcorn and lemonade) was followed up by a few questions, such as "Write down 4 things that people do in Minnesota. 1) They walk slowly and purposefully..." It also includes the same question on NYC, with response #1 already filled in as "They have meetings."

Overall, the best part of the ESL Classes were the students. They functioned as an amazing gateway to meeting people in Morocco I wouldn't have otherwise had any way of meeting. Out of those classes, I've met some of my best friends here, and have established contacts that hopefully one day, when I take my kids to Morocco, they'll be able to meet too.

Obscure Message # 782 (ie: it's just a song)

Iron & Wine : A Passing Afternoon

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from the piles of fallen leaves

There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children til she lets them go at last
And she's chosen where to be, though she's lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds

There are things we can't recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling around the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I'd never learned

There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she'll sit and think of me
But she'll mend his tattered clothes and they'll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone

cheers

An Ever-Growing List (Subject to Heavy Updating)

What I'm most looking forward to about America:

1. Going up to my place on Lake Superior
2. Pork...
3. An Oreo Milkshake
4. Chinese food
5. My Car
6. Functional Sidewalks
7. My own bedroom (I've been living with 10-14 people since I've been here)
8. A big fat juicy American Hamburger
9. Putting new songs on my iPod (who ever thought 3150 songs could get old?)
10. A Johnny Walker Black on the rocks

Identity

Every now and then, I'm lucky enough to go hang out at my buddy Youssef's apartment in Agdal, which is the ritziest quarter in Rabat(ie: most Western, since the bourgeoisie here is completely Westernized). While I'm there, besides enjoying enjoying the seemingly futuristic un-potholed sidewalks as I check out all of he cafes and western stores - everything from Diesel to McDonalds represents - I always take some time to engage in some cultural anth by watching "Hit Music Black" on Youssef's pirated satellite. Hit Music Black is beamed out of France, so in addition to all of the damn Akon, 50 Cent, and Destiny's Child, there's a fair amount of what I've termed "really angry French music."

This music, largely hip-hop, including everything from Kool Shen to MC Solaar to Wallen (right sp?) has become a really interesting parallel to my experience here in Morocco. It's pretty common for Youssef or one of the other Moroccan AIESECers to point out that the next clip up is from a Moroccan living in Paris.

These songs deal with intense issues, with some complaining about the lack of employment, such as the laid-back but serious "donne-moi un SMIC" (give me a job, SMIC = french term for minimum wage), while others, such as the French native Kool Shen, with his North African rapper compadres literally rap about throwing over the French Government, with deliberately incisive and violent scenes in their video for "sortez dans les rues" portraying the overthrow of a police raiding force (there are literally areas of Paris where the police do not go because it's too dangerous).

A lot of these problems involving Moroccans and other North Africans extend from the lack of ability (or attempt) of European Governments' assimilation models. These immigrants are thrown into housing in the outskirts of cities such as Paris, given no jobs (or shit jobs), no opportunity, and are separated from their mother country, often splintering their own perceived national identity. For example, if you're a Moroccan who lives in Paris, you're not living in your "home" country, the French don't really want you there, so what recourse do you have? Often, it's anger. These people are no longer North African, not quite European, and are left with this black hole of personal identity.

These suburbs have given rise to this new, angry, economically deprived group of immigrants. Through my time here in Morocco, I've been lucky enough to meet 7 or 8 Moroccans here who were born and live in Paris, but are back in Rabat on summer vacation. The consensus has been pretty much unanimous - they're not too thrilled with their situation in France, resent the French assimilation model, but have trouble reconciling that with the tangible benefits of a European wage, especially when almost every Moroccan I've met her has some family in Europe.

Another case comes from somebody I've met here who I've become very close with, an ethnic Moroccan who was born in Copenhagen, Denmark. She speaks Dirija at home with her family, Danish with her friends, and speaks impeccable American English thanks to the massive influx of American media into Europe (she even gets every one of our stupid expressions - one recent text message from her said: "where you at?"). However, the question of national identity is a slightly more sticky one - she doesn't really term herself Danish, even though she was born and grew up in Copenhagen. Instead, she might classify herself as a Moroccan living in Denmark, but that's not wholly accurate - her accent makes it clear that she's not Moroccan when she speaks Dirija to people. In truth, searching for a national identity in a situation such as hers can be difficult - what do you define as home?

I'm bringing this all up because before coming to North Africa, I'd had a few less-than-savory experiences with North Africans in Paris, and had experienced the French viewpoint on them - which is alarmingly negative even among the educated and more liberal people that I've met. For example, when my buddy Andrew was beaten up after a soccer game in Paris, and I mentioned that to one of my French friends while I was over there at the same time, his first question was "were they Arabs?"

This all has been weighing on me because I intend to study in France Spring 2006, possibly in Paris. Even just keeping into account recent situations, such as Oprah Winfrey being blocked from the Hermes store in Paris because they were recently "having problems with North Africans," I've tried to fit together as many pieces of the puzzle as I can here. What I've emerged with has been nothing sort of labyrinthine and incomplete jigsaw puzzle, with many pieces still missing. One thing I do know is that when I'm in Paris next spring, I'll have to seek out some Moroccans just to say "salaam aleykoom", or even to toss in an "insh'allah." I consider myself incredibly lucky that I've been able to glean something out of this experience that will hopefully help me in the future - now here's hoping for more dialogue...