Manger!

On Meals:

I will be lucky if I have not gained at least forty pounds by the time I leave this country. The cuisine is delicious. Moroccans incorporate a variety of spices I am not always familiar with, although I can always detect the cumin and am growing accustomed to the turmeric which is also a staple ingredient.

The two dishes I have encountered most frequently have been Tagine and Couscous. I don't believe there is a restaurant in the entire country which cannot offer you at least one form of Tagine which is named for the heavy clay dish it is prepared and served in. When ordered in a restaurant, or served at home, the Tagine arrives to the table steaming and sizzling in this thick dish and the person who makes the mistake of trying to touch the plate will quickly learn to enjoy their meal with caution. Tagine is made with either beef, chicken or fish and of course a variety of vegetables. My favorite by far was made with beef and plums which gave a wonderful tangy-sweet perfume to the sauce, which I can only describe as succulent. Tagine in general I would equate to a stew although the meat tends to be left on the bone in the center of the plate and covered in vegetables; a tiny mountain of food which those seated at the table collectively demolish.

Most meals at home are served this way. There is a large plate in the middle of the table and each person is allotted what seems like an entire loaf of bread with which to scoop up mouthfuls of food. Utensils are rarely used and Emilie and I are the only two at the table who are given napkins. This was made clear the first evening when we ate fried fish, which is meant to be eaten by picking the meat carefully off of the bones with your fingers. Half way through, Emilie and I sat staring helplessly at each other, greasy fingers held aloft. We were soon given napkins and that seemed to set the precedent because we receive them at every meal now while everyone else is able to maintain clean fingers despite the fact that they are also eating without utensils. The trick is to learn how to use the bread as a spoon and also a guard between your fingers and your meal; a trick which I have yet to master.

Couscous is also eaten out of a large communal plate although because the couscous is so tiny we are given spoons. As Emilie and I discovered when trying to clear the table, it is extremely difficult to clean up individual grains of couscous. I also can't imagine eating couscous with bread (however it is always set at the table) because it is so heavy to begin with. The small grains are so filling that by the end of the meal everyone is sleepy and immobilized, somewhat like the effects of a large turkey dinner. We have couscous every Friday, usually with what seems like half the people on the block. Couscous is also prepared with beef or chicken and vegetables but the vegetables are arranged in a very aesthetically pleasing tower over the meat. I think I could write a book on the architecture of Moroccan cuisine.

Every meal includes several loaves of bread. It is baked fresh every day and is delicious but when I stop to think about just how much of it I'm consuming, I start to worry about the grain supply in Morocco. If everyone is eating as much as I am, and I believe they are, where on earth is there enough flour to make this much bread?

<...preparing couscous...>

Like wise the amount of couscous served every Friday, if gathered together from the entire year, could easily fill my house to the rafters and have some left over to feed the rest of the block.

This is not to say that the food goes to waste, because it certainly doesn't. Actually, I'm not sure where it goes, but I know it is not being thrown away. When walking through the streets of Rabat I have seen many baskets filled with the crusts of bread that hasn't been eaten, left there for whoever really needs it. There are many people who are not as fortunate as we are to have such an abundance of food, and the Moroccans recognize this and really do look out for one another.

Needless to say I am very well fed. This past weekend as we ate Sunday lunch, I sat back for a moment to allow the three slices of bread soaked in tagine juice I had just consumed to settle. After about forty five seconds of peace my host sister, who is twelve years old, turned to me and said,

“Manger Maral!”

She was demanding that I eat more in a tone that suggested if I didn't she would be personally offended. I jumped and immediately grabbed the closest piece of bread.

Observations

I am taking a much deserved break from my Arabic homework to write more for you, reader, and now I'm having trouble coming up with the words I want in any language, even English. I have realized it is pointless to try and record what happens every day here on my blog. I am therefore attempting to write mainly the observations I make that I believe are most pertinent and interesting for you.

As I sit here on the terrace, I'm facing the comfortably furnished T.V. room. I can see one of the kittens blissfully asleep in the shade under the table and would like nothing better than to follow his example and take a nap through the hottest hours of the day. However, I am committed to you, reader; I hope you're appreciating the effort I am putting into this.

On Life Around The House:

I find I spend most of my time on the terrace, largely because of the magnificent view but also because it seems to be the center of the household. We eat all of our meals here seated around this green plastic table. Occasionally we have tea at the table the kitten has claimed in the T.V. room, although I have the feeling this is mainly used when there are guests, specifically important guests who are elderly.

The terrace is by far my favorite spot in the house. It's hard to worry about much when you're facing the ocean, listening to the ebb and flow of the waves below and the sizzling of some meal being prepared in the kitchen (one of two) which is situated off to the side of the terrace. There is a second kitchen downstairs, the main kitchen, which is next to our bedroom. There is also a bathroom downstairs and one up here.

I suppose the house could be separated into two homes because they both have all things necessary for a family. There is enough couch space alone to seat at least thirty people, I'm sure. But cumulatively, in terms of space, it is just big enough for the family, myself and Emilie. If I have not explained already, Emilie is studying here in Morocco through CIEE as well and we share a room here in dar Baoudi (the Baoudi family house). I don't know if that's the proper way to say it in Arabic, but my romance language training inclines me to believe that it's at least somewhat correct.

Naturally, the culture is completely different than back home, but there are certain things that seem to be universal within the family life. For instance, while I'm doing my homework in my bedroom, I'll receive a Facebook message from my host-sister saying “hello”. Although she's still learning English so it came through as “heho”. It's fantastic because it reminds me that although I am somewhere I'm not used to, I can always rely on kids to be kids and families to look out for one another. I am very comfortable here. Aside from the fact that I'm still not entirely certain where the trash can is located (not as simple as you might think). Or the fact that I need assistance turning the hot water on to shower. But these things will come with time.

The one thing I am embarrassed about is that I really don't understand their familial relationships. There are constantly family members and neighbors coming and going, and sometimes it's hard to tell how they are all related to one another and where they live. It is clear, however, that this house in the Kasbah is the preferred meeting ground as opposed to other homes. This is due to it's prime location and I expect the fact that the atmosphere around here is always light-hearted and fun. At least that is how I feel. I've stopped trying to figure out their relationships and just think of them all as my extended aunts, uncles and cousins. It's working for me.

Back to School

It has only been four days since my last post and already I feel that I've seen and done too much to be able to properly relay all of it here. But I will try.

On classes:

I left off writing that once classes began I would no longer be a tourist, and I was partially correct. Four hours of intensive Arabic (Darija) class a day is more than enough to make me feel like I am not on vacation. I am in beginner's Arabic because I have not once studied any form of Arabic ever. Ever. I could never have anticipated this type of crash course. It is so fast paced I start to feel dizzy if I don't maintain focus every second and cling to my Professor's every word, which I suppose is how it should be. I am certainly working much harder in class here than I usually do at home with the exception, perhaps, of my language courses at University of Hartford (pour vous Professeur Ealy:).

Our teacher speaks a fair amount of English and French. To explain our lessons she uses a combination of the two to translate. So there are consistently three languages whizzing around my brain and by the end of class I am physically and mentally exhausted. Physically exhausted because I am hunched over my note book gripping my pen in anxiety at the possibility of missing something and mentally exhausted from trying to not let my thoughts stray for a second, which is difficult to do when I look out the window and see the bright Moroccan sun beating down on the top of a solitary palm tree.

On life in the Kasbah:

I continue to be astounded by the beauty of this country. Every morning I wake up from a combination of the heat and the cool ocean breeze coming in through the window and am reminded again of how lucky I am to be living in the Kasbah. At the risk of sounding dramatic, I must say it truly is magical here in the Kasbah. I feel much more attuned to the people and the culture here than I expect I would living somewhere else. My host mother fondly says that we are “ vraie Marocains”, true, real Moroccans. She and the rest of our family has made us feel so incredibly welcome and comfortable. Already the Kasbah truly is a home away from home.

Day Three: Rockin' The Kasbah

Literally, my host family lives in the Kasbah. Yesterday I wrote how I would become lost so easily but I already feel that I have a better grasp of the crooked alleyways. At the top of the house is an open terrace which looks out onto the city and the inlets from the Atlantic ocean. Half of the terrace is used for meals and the other half is set up as a T.V. room with ornately covered couches wrapped all around. I'm sitting here now, listening to the Moroccan music floating across the water and staring out at the city lit up against the night sky.
Today has been hazy and it still is, but it doesn't take away from the beauty of the city. I can see the Tour du Hassan that I mentioned yesterday and it looks even more majestic from afar because it is so much larger than all the buildings surrounding it. I can picture how thousands of years ago a man, miniscule at this distance or probably invisible, stood at the top of this building calling the Muslims to prayer. When the call to prayer comes now it is projected through loudspeakers which echo across the water giving the impression of an army of people all calling to one another from around the city. It is simultaneously overwhelming and moving.
Tomorrow classes begin and I will have to accept that I'm not simply a tourist and there's actual work to be done.

Day Two: Touring Rabat

Today was spent touring the city of Rabat with our guide, Fatima, an energetic Moroccan woman who we twenty-something year-old students had difficulty keeping up with. She spoke with passion and simultaneously a great sense of humor about her country.
We began with the Ruins of Chellah which contained Roman ruins as well as artifacts predating the twelfth century. Hugging the walls of the ruin was a botanical garden as well as a corner featuring a pool of water which was home to several fresh water eels. It is custom to feed the eels eggs the idea being that if the eel eats your egg you are a "good" person and if not...you may be going to Hell (this is not how Fatima worded it, I'm just elaborating).
From Chellah we visited the Tour du Hassan, a famous minaret built by Yacoub El Mansour and the King's Palace. The palace, as you might imagine, was an impressive building-large but elegant where the King works but no longer lives. Fatima described, with much enthusiasm, the King's wife Lalla Salma. She explained that Princess (her given title, though she is married to the king) Salma is a model for Moroccan women. An example in terms of fashion as well as etiquette.
The Kasbah was quaint with it's white and blue painted walls and small wooden doors yet overwhelming in size. Without Fatima I would surely have been lost within minutes. We followed her, by now exhausted by all the walking but eager as always to see more, to where the Kasbah faced the ocean and watched as locals swam in the water below us.
It is now almost 1am and time for bed. Tomorrow I will meet my host family.

Day 1: Arrival

I arrived in Rabat-Salé Airport today in a sleep-deprived jet-lagged stupor and was immediately struck by how bright the sun is. The weather is hot, around 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and dry. I squinted my way through customs and baggage claim feeling completely disoriented and alone, but also filled with an overwhelming sense of possibility. No one knows me here. If I so chose, I can adopt an entirely different persona: Maral in Morocco.

Of course I am still me, but I am excited at the prospect of living the next four months in a manner completely at odds with what I have become accustomed to. Hopefully my entries here will reflect my growth and development so that everyone at home, and anyone else choosing to follow my blog, can virtually share some of my experiences with me.

Today my peers and I studying at Ecole Superieure de Direction et de Gestion, Université of Mohammed V, and Institut Hassan II will be relaxing and getting accustomed to the city before orientation begins tomorrow. I will meet my host family on Wednesday and am confident that they will be as friendly and welcoming as the other Moroccans I have encountered in the few hours I have been here. Everyone has a smile and is more than willing to accommodate to my weak and broken French. One of my goals while here is to improve my French at least to the point where I can have a conversation without having to prompt the person listening to try and guess at what I'm attempting to tell them. I already feel it coming back, though slowly.

This is a meager beginning to my blog, but there will be much more to come once I have actually set off to explore the city. And on that note I will be on my way.