Morocco

I temporary fell off the blog radar. I got lost somewhere between Bergamo, Italia and Fes, Morocco. I hear that the Bermuda triangle is always moving, so maybe that was the force that pulled me away from writing. However, I am more positive that it is the things I saw that metaphysically kept me from recounting my experience. I vacationed in a parallel universe to my usual one. Being in Morocco was as if I walked back in time and then took a step sideways [as Dr. Webb put it]. Nothing about my experience was normal, or “giusto” as the Italians would say. It was compelling, yet had an adverse effect of homesickness. Being in Morocco revealed dark parts of my heart and showed me that my experience is not the only truth of this world. I found myself questioning ideas which I have been reared to believe as concrete. Even now, 6 days later, I find myself trying to process it all. I have avoided Microsoft Word like an ex-boyfriend. I know that as I begin to recount these events I will have to deal with it somewhere within myself. For this reason I think it is best to share some journal entries I wrote while in Morocco. I will not alter anything, except for a few grammatical errors, in these accounts. This is Nicole uncut, from Morocco!
28-10-09
It is as if I have stepped into era, another dimension. Everything is different. The weather, the fashion, the flora (yes, Dr. Swab would be proud), the traffic pattern, and especially the language are foreign to me. I am no longer in Europe. Indeed, I am in Africa! I arrived at the Fes airport forty minutes ago and I am now sweltering in 90 degree weather at the “gare” (train station in French) as I wait for Ethan. However, I am not complaining because I am in great need of a little vitamin d. I was beginning to look a little too Northern European, on account of my exuberantly white skin. This, along with my clothing, gives away my identity as a foreigner. I am neither dressed correctly nor speak the right language. I would not make a good spy here in Fes. It is also humbling and frustrating that I have worked for one year to understand another culture and language, only now to arrive in yet a completely different culture. I can speak English and Italian. Some days I think I speak better Italian, especially when I examine my English grammar. Anyway, I digress. Knowledge of English and Italian does not benefit me here in Morocco. I have already realized that nothing in my education will serve me here. I am going to have to be imaginative. Morocco has two official languages (as well as a multitude of Berber languages): French and Arabic. I am officially adding learning French to my academic to-do list, because Arabic already seems impossible. However, I have just learned that because I speak a second language, I can pretend to be who I want. It is a naughty game, and a confusing one at that. With one slip of a word, the truth will be revealed! In forty minutes time I have already tested this game. At the airport, I spoke to a woman in Italian and she responded in French. So I had to resort to pen and paper in which I wrote “16” and drew a picture of a bus. Elementary methods will have to do. This gesture found me the bus where I paid for my ticket speaking Italian. When I did not know where my stop was, I asked for “il stazione”. Almost everyone got off the bus at the Medina and I was the only woman left on the bus. For a moment, I was nervous. Then the bus driver spoke to me. “Do you speak English?” “Yes. And Italian”, I proudly proclaim. “At the station it is finished.” “Grazie”, I replied! This was a conglomerate of languages. I knew I had confused the driver when he then asked “Italiana”? No, I responded, “Americana”. The bus stopped and I jumped off. “Grazie!” Thus I chose my identity: an American woman who speaks Italian in a French and Arabic speaking country. Boy, this is going to be fun!
After hopping off the bus I realized I must cross a very busy street with an unknown number of intersecting roads. There appeared to be no set traffic pattern or pedestrian-driver relationship. I figure my best bet was to cross with a man who looked as if he knew what he was doing. My man was tall, appearing to be around 65, wearing a traditional Arabic jellaba, and sporting a long white beard. He was the sort of fellow that John Rose would call a “good looking” one. His looked clean, which probably does not reflect the amount of times he bathed this week. I only had about a minute with this man but I am so thankful for his presence because otherwise I might have been a pancake in the Fes intersection. It is interesting the encounters one has with foreigners. You may at any moment count on someone you previously disregarded because of difference or prejudice.
29-10-2009
Morning -
I am living in a daze. Time and people move around me but I am caught in my own thoughts. This is not the western world, but I am not completely removed from its influences. I am discovering slowly another definition of modesty. I feel naked in 90 degree weather with only my wrist showing. And heaven forbid my sweater not cover my whole bottom. However, I believe there is something to be said about adhering to another culture’s standard of modesty. I remember reading an article about Muslim women who cover their hair and thinking how awfully persecuted they must feel. Now that I have witnessed it first hand, I have decided that this is not the case. Covering the head in the Arabic world is more about being modest than traditional. Ethan has an American friend in Fes who covers her hair for this reason. Although she is not Muslim, she covers her hair as a symbol of respect and awareness of sensuality. She conforms because as a modest Christian woman, she purses modesty in her own culture and thus must do the same in Morocco. I am not sure if I agree with this.
Evening-
I cannot seem to find another word besides “interesting” to describe all the new things I am seeing. Every time Ethan informs me about a new piece of Moroccan culture, all I can seem to respond with is, “interesting”. I am completely muted due to pure culture shock.
Last night we walked through the Medina (the older part of Fes). Ethan tromped through the winding city as if he was guided by an internal GPS system. Without him I would have surely been lost in the maze, as was its original intent. Similar to Venice, except without water, the Medina makes you feel like you could get lost and never be found. The roads darken to winding staircases and then round out to roads that seem to climb uphill forever. According to Ethan the Medina has two major parallel roads. For obvious reasons they are nicknamed “the big climb” and “the little climb” (translated from Arabic).
The smells are intense in the Medina. In fact, everything in Morocco has a smell. Some smells are more pungent than others. I decided the combination comes together to smell something like cilantro, mint soap, and burnt rubber.
The sounds are equally as intriguing. As we were walking through the Medina we heard drums and the roar of a crowd coming from a dark alleyway. Our curiosity caused a two hour detour from the plan. Before I knew it, I was being pulled onto the dance floor in a pre-wedding celebration. Next, I was being served mint tea containing a half cup of sugar while I talked to the bride-to-be. Apparently a wedding in Morocco starts on Thursday and does not end until Saturday. Thursday is a henna party for the women, Friday a formal dinner, and finally the wedding is on Saturday. Traditionally, the marriages are arranged. However, this couple met on the internet. I told you I wasn’t completely removed from western culture.
30-10-2009
I have just learned what “couch-surfing” is. Allow me to inform you. It is a formal online group of very serious travelers who network around the world for a place to stay and a cultural experience. Now let me inform you what it is not. According to my very serious couch surfing friends, it is not a free place to spend the night. You are expected to interact with the community, attend meetings in your area, and host people who have hosted you. It sounds more like a cult to me. But, I am withholding my opinion for this experience.
According to Ethan we will be “couch-surfing” this weekend with a Berber family in a village in the Middle Atlas. He has stayed multiple times with this family and made friends with the son, Rashid. We will be catching a ride with two other “couch-surfers” who are renting a car in Fes. Other than that he did not say much. I am too dazed to ask about details.
And now, I find myself in the most unlikely of situations. I am sitting in the back seat of a car, riding through the Moroccan mountains with an Italian, a Spaniard, and another American. Between the four of us we speak English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Arabic. Besides that, three of us are not living in our country of origin. This is the kind of thing I will brag about to my kids one day. I will use only the vaguest of descriptions in order to intrigue them about the world.