Thursday, July 29, 2010
What Did I Do Last Summer?
Whose Feet Are Those?
A five-week trip with strangers is a screenplay waiting to be written. We were winding down and on week four the ladies were invited over our Arabic professor’s home for traditional Friday Couscous. Four ladies packed into one cab and the rest rode with our professor. He just got his driver’s license a few months ago and driving in Morocco is a precarious situation. Place his new driving skills on to the traffic mayhem; just say we were happy to get to the house.
As usual, his wife and family members were more than hospitable and welcomed us like family. They enjoy meeting over food and there was a lot of food to eat and get lazy. I was very tired from the night before. I went to a henna ceremony and did not get in until very late. So, I asked if I could lie down for a few to regain my strength. I was offered the bed of my professor and his wife. Back home in the States that does not happen. Your friends come visit; they sleep in the guest room not in your bed. As I went to the room Q and Kim decided to join me for a quick nap. Q and I laid on the bed and Kim on a make shift bed on the floor. As we talked and laughed at the situation I started to get a whiff of something. I eventually yelled out, “whose feet are those? I hope they are not mine.” See a few days ago Louis came to my room to use the computer and told me that my shoes were funked-da-fied! All the sweating and heat have made our feet rough and not so refreshing. My feet look like I have been kicking rocks. After my question, we all started to smell our feet and then Kim realized that it was here feet. We could not stop laughing. I was just happy they were not mine. Of course Kim said she was going to through out the shoes, but she didn’t. She wore them the next day.
A five-week trip will make you mighty comfortable with the folks you once thought of as strangers. We have become close and accepting of each other in every sense of the word. We should all be this accepting.
Friday, July 23, 2010
I love monkeys?
After two weeks of traveling around the country in a bus, I had reached the point of too much togetherness. I was ready for a break from the group, but our guides were worried about letting us split up and go off alone. Youness expressed concern that I “wanted to have an adventure,” and he more or less made me promise to fight my natural instinct to wander off.
One morning in Marrakesh, five of us decided to go to the main square to explore. We were greeted by rows of carts selling freshly-squeezed orange juice and salesmen who will pour you a tall glass as soon as you make eye contact. We stopped for a drink, purchased mixed nuts from the next set of carts, and then proceeded into the medina.
It was crowded, and we knew it wouldn’t be easy to stay together. I turned to Paulette and said off-hand that no one should worry about me if I got separated from the others. Since I’d lived abroad before and I speak French, I would be fine. In a classic case of Be Careful What You Wish For, mere moments had passed before I looked up to realize my friends were nowhere in sight.
I knew they couldn’t have gone far, but with so many shops to look in, I couldn’t find them. They told me later on that they looked for me, but it must have been like a scene from a bad comedy – they stepped out of one shop as I walked into another and we crisscrossed each other’s paths. I imagine that the movie version would include an overhead, fast-motion shot of us darting back and forth and just missing each other by seconds.
Over the course of my travels, I’ve done a wide variety of things that were probably not so wise but seemed like good ideas at the time. In the interest of not giving my mom a heart attack, I won’t list them here. At any rate, I was mostly concerned that the other teachers might be worried about me.
It seemed like they might have gone back to the main square, so I retraced our steps. While I didn’t locate my friends, there was a whirlwind of activity to explore. I knew enough to keep my distance from the snake charmers, but I made the mistake of wandering too close to the monkey handlers.
Now, I have to say here that I think monkeys are awesome. In fact, my interest in them may qualify as an obsession. The only thing cooler than a monkey is a boatload of pirates. Needless to say, the day I went to the Hallmark store and found greeting cards featuring monkey pirates will go down in history. One of my friends even joked that I should bring back a monkey for him at the end of the trip.
Still, nothing prepared me for the moment when one of the men dumped a cat-sized monkey onto my arm. He dug into my shirt with his little claws and stared at me with his beady eyes. The handler wanted to sell me a photo of myself with the little beast, so he was having none of my protests. His mantra was “Il n’est pas mechant.” (“He’s not mean.”) You can’t just drop a monkey, so I backed away. I was holding the critter as far away as I could, considering he was sitting on me. In retrospect, I should have gotten the photo, but my brain wasn’t working so well in the 115-degree weather.
Eventually, I offloaded my furry friend. Other monkey men called out to me and gestured to their animals, so I hightailed it out of there before I had any more close encounters of the simian kind. My cell phone was out of minutes, so there was no way to contact anyone in my group. Armed with nothing but a dead phone and a bag of mixed nuts, I plunged back into the bustling warren of shops as I tried to wipe off the monkey dust. Based on the spots of my sleeve, I’m guessing the monkey wasn’t a big fan of showers.
The day was just what I needed. I dodged donkey carts, browsed through dozens of shops, and had time to reflect. Even better, I was able to indulge in my new-found addiction: “gazelle horn” cookies. One of the little boys at my school had been telling me for months about how great the sweets would be here, and he had even brought in some to share with the class. When I asked him what they were called, he showed me the package. Conveniently enough, it had been labeled “Moroccan Cookies.” While they were okay, the ones here are even better. Not quite as awesome as a monkey, but close. Plus, they’re much less likely to leave mysterious spots on your sleeve.
Time passed, and I located a shop where two boys who looked all of about 12 years old loaded new minutes onto my phone. Brilliantly, I then realized I hadn’t written down the numbers of any of the people who were with me that day.
Continuing alone, I wandered into the depths of the marketplace until I reached a place where people repeatedly told me to turn around and go back to the main square. After about the third time, I decided I should probably take their advice. I wove my way through the maze and stepped into plaza again. It was so hot that my eyes hurt – I hadn’t known that your eyes could feel heat like that, but apparently they can.
This time, I veered to the side to steer clear of the Monkey Zone. As I looked up, what to my eyes should appear like a mirage but my four colleagues. Paulette’s bright orange scarf stood out like a beacon and guided me back to them.
As I looked back on the day, I realized the lessons were clear: 1) wandering alone is good for the soul, and 2) if you see a monkey headed your way, dodge him while you have the chance.
My Moroccan Tea Mania
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The limits of mere words
Self-indulgent moaning aside, I need to talk about how much I miss being on the road and the frequent "10-minute" bathroom breaks. A bathroom break on the road for us never meant just time to queue up and pee. Cigarettes had to be smoked, tea had to be poured and slowly consumed. These are the times when we all sat around tiny towns tucked in gorges and perched on mountain ridges. We sat in cafes with espresso machines spitting and tagines steaming. We sat for long, delicious minutes talking, wondering where we were going - where we were REALLY going, and trying to see everything around us without staring too much. We were tired from staying up too late every night talking, talking, talking, we slept cautiously - well some of us were unabashed in falling deeply asleep - trying to not drool since being photographed while sleeping was inevitable. I miss that.
A Special Moment in Fes
A Special Moment in Fes
I had the most incredible evening! My teacher mentor, Nezha, whom I met at the middle school in the Medina came to the hotel to visit with Sherri and they both insisted that I accompanied them on her errands. I did not really want to go because I was so tired and my feet and ankles were swollen and aching from visiting the Medina two days in a row. However, after stating that she walks everywhere and walks quickly, and then observing the look on my face, she quickly suggested that we could take a taxi to get to the business center. I didn’t want her to spend extra money so I relented and said I would accompany them if she walked. So, I ran how to my room and took an ibuprofen to help with the swelling and the aching. We walked and chatted on our way to the business center. It was like I was with a childhood friend. I quickly forgot about my aching and swollen feet. We talked about how women can be prejudice against other women who are voluptuous like me. She said I was light on my feet after witnessing me dancing to the music and singing of the Ganoa musician at the Medina.(I guess the idiom” light on your feet” transcends countries, languages, and cultures.) She said her older brother had a girlfriend who was from Senegal and how conscious the girlfriend felt because people always stared at her because of her size. She said her brother was quite passionate about her and she loved her also because she had a pure heart. Her brother’s girlfriend returned to Senegal after completing her studies because she could no longer stay in the country. I told her I considered my robustness as a rite of passage, my journey through life and living of menarche, motherhood, and menopause. We both agreed that we like women who are comfortable in their own skin and who think for themselves. But, I wondered if Moroccan women are adopting Western style of thinking when it comes to body size because their women used to be robust, with wide girths, if the women’s clothings in the museum are any indication.
While Nezha conducted her business, Sherri and I relaxed in the air condition and I took some pictures of two anti smoking ads. One ad depicted a man being hung by a smoke made noose, the other showed the burned lungs of a smoker imprinted on a white T shirt. I wondered how people could smoke after seeing those ads.They are so graphic. These pictures will go to Miss Terri Young, the health coordinator at Crescent Heights.
After leaving the business center we strolled into a clothing, accessories store and looked at the purses, bags, necklaces and sandals. I realized that Moroccans like slippers / sandals and like to shop just like their American sisters. They are very fashion forward and have great taste in clothing. I saw large and small colorful dangling earrings, purses, bags, belts of various lengths and width, scarves in every size, shape and color. I felt like I was in a store in Los Angeles. The only difference were the many languages I heard being spoken simultaneously. I am completely taken by the Moroccans’ language dexterity. They switch from language to language with such fluidity. The store clerk was conducting business in French, Spanish, English and Arabic. It makes me envious. I thought about my children and my students and how they are growing up in a monolingual society. I feel like the world is passing them by. I told my oldest that he needs to learn to speak another language not because he will be studying business in University but because he needs to learn to communicate with his brothers and sisters around the globe, especially his brothers and sisters who look like him.
After walking out of the store, Nezha said that store was one of her favorites because they sell beautiful things and the prices were very affordable. She said she never impulse shopped. Whenever she sees something she likes she mulls it over for a few days before making the purchase. I told her that I was the same and often missed out on items that had stayed on my mind for weeks especially if the items were on sale. Well, we did not buy anything.
As we ambled to the doctor’s office- Nezha’s mom just returned home from the hospital- I looked at and admired every scarf that the women were wearing. Some scarves were simple and others were beautifully embellished and draped over their heads and necks. I notice the scarves were tied in many different styles and how sensual it made some of the women looked. Their eyes and faces were meticuously made up. I saw many women wearing bright colored lipsticks. I wondered what is the undertone? I am so enamored by the scarves. I will buy a few and learn how to tie them. I looked at the clothing and noticed that some of the women’s loose clothing showed the curves of their bodies. I wondered if all this clothing is not more tantalizing to the men. They have got be wondering “What it is like to hold that woman?” “What are her eyes saying?”
I also notice that the cafes were filled with men socializing as they drank tea and other beverages. The men greeted each other by kissing each cheek and held hands as they walked. Some even hugged as they walk down the streets.This is a beautiful sight, indeed. Men being free to hold each other. Can you imagine if we all adopted this behavior and display it to everyone outside our cultural, ethnical, and racial boundaries? There would be no prejudice, no genocide, no war because we would be too busy acknowledging our brothers and sisters. Witnessing these behaviors brought back to mind what my grandmother use to say- God did not give his only begotten son for people to be miserable and hurtful. On the other hand, I thought about the gays and lesbian population in a place where the men interact so closely with each other. How do you know when boundaries are being crossed? What is the social consequence? I also though about our African American boys in the United States and how their comraderie is shown through the intricate handshakes. I wonder also if the slaves who were brought to the Americas also held hands and if they did when did ithe behavior stop.
Yes, my afternoon wandering in Fes caused me to wonder a lot. Isn’t this the whole idea of spending time in Morocco? As I am writing this I realized that the thought had not occurred to me to take out my camera or video to record the sensations, sights and sounds. I was so totally immerse in the moment, culture and the experience. I felt at home. Thanks, Nezha Youssefi!
Old McDonald’s Had a Factory (eeyi eeyi oooh): Learning that time and money do not always have to be the focus... but for where I live they are.
As has been the case during this entire journey, I continuously find myself comparing various aspects of my home culture of the States to that of Morocco. Generally speaking, I have found a few experiences here to be less favorable than that of our Western society, and these times tend to be more comfort driven. Bathrooms would be a prime example. But more often than not I seem to gravitate towards a higher appreciation for some of the social structures I have experienced here in Morocco. That is not to say I find Morocco’s examples to be better. Rather, in this comparative mode of mine, I have looked to Morocco for a modeling of social constructs that I can utilize back in the States.
Yesterday my colleagues and I were led through the comprehensive maze of the medina (old town) here in Fez. After repeating ‘La, la, la’ (No, no, no) to the local children begging for a few durhams (money), our tour guide navigated us through a few of the 9,000 plus walkways that make up this specifically expansive medina, passing by literally a hundred shops, reminiscent of a swapmeet in Los Angeles, to which we arrived at what we found out is the biggest leather tannery in North Africa. This was not obvious at first, however. The very unassuming entrance we were lead to by our entertaining tour guide (whose name escapes me) was at the dead end of a walkway we eventually reached. Having sent a young man standing outside to prepare mint (I originally thought for tea), we walked in and were immediately greeted by a different young man who declared we follow him. He then lead us up what I imagined was a good 5 flights or so, to which the need for the mints was made glaringly clear. The stench of drying animal skin protruded the entire place and good whifs of the scented leaves did as good a job as any to offset that.
Upon reaching the top flight and walking past the vast amount of hand crafted leather products, was what can be described in my Western World lingo as a leather making factory. The problem with labeling it a factory, actually, is the fact that it is the exact antithesis to what we have come to know factories to be. The site was intense (which was obvious with the numerous 'Wows!' heard from my colleagues). Several flights below us were an endless amount of five-person-jacuzzi sized vats. I can only guess the total number of vats to be anywhere between 75 and 100. One half of the vats were a dark brown color with similarly colored liquid found within. The other, somehow a bright white container with a bluish-white tint to the liquid.
Our host, who was the second gentleman that welcomed us into the shop, began detailing the makeup of the tannery and the process that goes into manufacturing the leather products. He began to enlighten us on how the skin is cut and how the hair is removed from the skin using limestone by hand, I believe. He then explained that the leather was placed in the brown liquid tanks for several hours while the men found in them manipulated them to the needs of the process. The skin is treated once again to remove anything originally missed. It is then taken to the white vats, which are filled with naturally produced ammonia as well as other natural elements, where it sits for several more hours. They then use a product they extract from an animal (I do not recall which animal and what it is) that naturally removes the ammonia from the leather, which keeps it from irritating human skin. Our expert goes on further explaining how much more work goes into producing the amazing bags, shoes, wallets and the like that we found surrounding us. This didn’t include the artisans who hand craft the eventually treated hide.
All of this work by hand immediately struck me. The amount of patience one must have in order for this to be their manufacturing technique, and, moreover, what that reflects about the society itself was quite astonishing. The title of this blog refers to the McDonaldization, as it has been aptly named, of America and the individuals in it. It is clear that we live in a society where time, material, and money dictate the rhythm of the social structure. If the driving force here were strictly time and money, this process would have been obsolete long ago. Instead, it is the same process that has been used for centuries...CENTURIES. What does this mean in regards to the general fabric of this society versus ours?
My associate Ben gave a great demonstration of this argument today. When dining in the States, most of us are used to having our waiters in restaurants ready at a moment’s notice (to some degree). If they are not, we, in general, are quick to be frustrated about our service, even tipping them less as a consequence. Is that fair? Our waiters here in Morocco have been much less timely than we are used to in the States. Is that bad service? I don’t believe there is a black and white answer to that. Maybe it is. Or maybe here in Morocco, where time is not as much a factor, there is no need for hurrying. Maybe the patrons here are more into enjoying the moment and less into getting in and out. Though the business wants to make money (make no mistake, money has its importance here), maybe the business is not in a rush to get you out and the next paying customer in. In essence, what I have grown accustomed to in the States is NOT actually the only way, and that has been proven dramatically in my stay in Morocco, and even more so at the tannery here in Fez.
If asked, I would say I definitely wish we were much less time and money focused. I believe our acute attention on them single handedly attributes to much of the imbalance I see in our country, and the world. Our lack of focus on the human factor, and our exceedingly intense obsession with accruing as much as possible has done our people, and our planet, a disservice, to say the very least. With all of the goods we have accumulated, with all the technology we have developed, and with all of the resources and connections we maintain, it is blaringly clear that if you cannot produce some financial reason for why one should help you, a majority of the time you will not be helped. A general statement (as some of my commentary is), but no less actual.
Truthfully, though, it can be argued that it is our country's fierce (and often cruel) attention to time and money that has brought us to this position of having goods, technology, resources and comfort in abundance. How can one use the wind and the currents of the ocean to sail home, then get mad at those same forces if they destroy that home. It is not that simple, I know. But I am living in America, supporting its system, and, it can be reasoned, thriving in it, and thus, for me, the correlation fits. Again, I do not agree with our methods by no means, but my lifestyle is supporting it. Our Director Azeb reminds me that I am doing so in the periphery. Regardless, in my eyes, I am doing so.
One thing is evident, I have given myself/been given the opportunity to see life through a different lens. I am not exactly sure how I will respond to this, both ideologically and in a realistically applicative way. I am glad, though, that I have found something in life worth responding to.
P.S. I ended up giving a few durhams to one of the kids when we were leaving. It is hard not to.