It's been three days since our group of five arrived for Community-Based Training in this small Moroccan town. I'm not supposed to reveal the name of our location on a public forum such as this, so henceforth I will refer to it as Pantsville. Our purpose here is to experience life with everyday Moroccan families, undergo intense language training, locate and interview local artisans, and prepare a sample Community Action Plan-- preparing us for the real deal in late November.
Pantsville feels like a reclaimed ghost town; its dusty streets and chipped buildings turned golden under the midday sun, the distant plateaus and hazy mountains like mirages spanning across the skyline. Children kick worn soccer balls down alleyways and play with bits of wire or rocks left in the road. People shuffle here and there, in and out of doorways opening to the sidewalk, perhaps down to the nearest teleboutique or hanut.
When walking in public I feel as though I'm wearing a glowing purple lobster costume that blares circus music. At least you'd think I was, judging by the stares I receive. As I pass by, people giggle or whisper to each other; kids sometimes follow from a distance, occasionally offering a bonjour or an awkward hel-lo. Turning around and speaking Darija catches them completely off guard, as most "foreign-looking" people are assumed to speak French.
I live with a big family in a small house, through an unassuming blue metal door, one of many lining a little side street building. I have three host brothers whom for right now I'll call Karl, Frank, and Gary, as well as two host sisters I'll name Latifah and Pam. I have a host mother but no father. I've decided not to ask about him just yet. Also belonging to the family is a little guy, a toddler named Jamiroquai. From where or whom he came I'm not sure.
Karl's profession is something I've dubbed "freelance taxi driving". He owns a car-- something very rare around here-- and charges people for rides throughout the day. He's an enthusiastic guy and proud of his car, taking me for short rides to the end of the street and back. Latifah is about sixteen and has become my closest friend. After eight hours of language I come home in the evening to have l-ftar, or the Ramadan break-fast, and afterwards Latifah and I study for another hour or so, trading words in English and Darija. She takes an English class in school, so I'm able to communicate better with her than anyone else.
L-ftar is the big occasion of the day; the whole family gathers to eat around a table. No silverware or napkins, lots of olives, dates, bread, and hot tea. The main dish is referred to as a tajine, which is actually the vessel used in the cooking. The matriarch utters "Bismillah", the tajine's lid is lifted, and everyone digs in, using chunks of bread to scoop out portions. My host mother insists "kif kif" (eat! eat!) long after I've become full, and I usually lie back on the cushions in a daze as the table is cleared.
It seems natural that I should follow with a description of the bathroom. I'm not even sure it qualifies as a janitor's closet-- its actual location is the area underneath a staircase-- a grimy concrete room with no sink, faucet or shower-- just a pair of cement footsteps, a hole in the ground, and a tub of water for "flushing". Oh yeah, water only flows from the tap from 1-4 in the afternoon, so families are seen filling buckets from hoses in the alleyways during this time. I have devised a (clean) method for brushing my teeth, but I have yet to figure out how to bathe.
My family does not seem to sleep. They eat l-ftar, have dinner around 11-12 PM (by which point I've gone to bed), and have another meal before sunrise between 3 and 4 AM, the time for which is signified by people banging drums in the street, often directly outside of my window. The first time that happened I thought I was dying. Anyway, they are already up at 7:30 when I get up to prepare for the day's sessions.
So the other night after l-ftar we're lounging around being full, when I casually pull my chapstick out of my pocket and apply a bit to my lips. As I'm putting it away I look up to see the entire family gawking at me, half amused and half aghast. The moment passes awkwardly and I eventually head to my room for the night. The next day after the morning language session, I do the same thing and my LCF gives me a look:
In America, do you do this a lot?
Yeah, it's pretty common.
Do not do this in front of your family. It will make it look like you are wanting to be a woman.
I'm blending right in.
Pantsville feels like a reclaimed ghost town; its dusty streets and chipped buildings turned golden under the midday sun, the distant plateaus and hazy mountains like mirages spanning across the skyline. Children kick worn soccer balls down alleyways and play with bits of wire or rocks left in the road. People shuffle here and there, in and out of doorways opening to the sidewalk, perhaps down to the nearest teleboutique or hanut.
When walking in public I feel as though I'm wearing a glowing purple lobster costume that blares circus music. At least you'd think I was, judging by the stares I receive. As I pass by, people giggle or whisper to each other; kids sometimes follow from a distance, occasionally offering a bonjour or an awkward hel-lo. Turning around and speaking Darija catches them completely off guard, as most "foreign-looking" people are assumed to speak French.
I live with a big family in a small house, through an unassuming blue metal door, one of many lining a little side street building. I have three host brothers whom for right now I'll call Karl, Frank, and Gary, as well as two host sisters I'll name Latifah and Pam. I have a host mother but no father. I've decided not to ask about him just yet. Also belonging to the family is a little guy, a toddler named Jamiroquai. From where or whom he came I'm not sure.
Karl's profession is something I've dubbed "freelance taxi driving". He owns a car-- something very rare around here-- and charges people for rides throughout the day. He's an enthusiastic guy and proud of his car, taking me for short rides to the end of the street and back. Latifah is about sixteen and has become my closest friend. After eight hours of language I come home in the evening to have l-ftar, or the Ramadan break-fast, and afterwards Latifah and I study for another hour or so, trading words in English and Darija. She takes an English class in school, so I'm able to communicate better with her than anyone else.
L-ftar is the big occasion of the day; the whole family gathers to eat around a table. No silverware or napkins, lots of olives, dates, bread, and hot tea. The main dish is referred to as a tajine, which is actually the vessel used in the cooking. The matriarch utters "Bismillah", the tajine's lid is lifted, and everyone digs in, using chunks of bread to scoop out portions. My host mother insists "kif kif" (eat! eat!) long after I've become full, and I usually lie back on the cushions in a daze as the table is cleared.
It seems natural that I should follow with a description of the bathroom. I'm not even sure it qualifies as a janitor's closet-- its actual location is the area underneath a staircase-- a grimy concrete room with no sink, faucet or shower-- just a pair of cement footsteps, a hole in the ground, and a tub of water for "flushing". Oh yeah, water only flows from the tap from 1-4 in the afternoon, so families are seen filling buckets from hoses in the alleyways during this time. I have devised a (clean) method for brushing my teeth, but I have yet to figure out how to bathe.
My family does not seem to sleep. They eat l-ftar, have dinner around 11-12 PM (by which point I've gone to bed), and have another meal before sunrise between 3 and 4 AM, the time for which is signified by people banging drums in the street, often directly outside of my window. The first time that happened I thought I was dying. Anyway, they are already up at 7:30 when I get up to prepare for the day's sessions.
So the other night after l-ftar we're lounging around being full, when I casually pull my chapstick out of my pocket and apply a bit to my lips. As I'm putting it away I look up to see the entire family gawking at me, half amused and half aghast. The moment passes awkwardly and I eventually head to my room for the night. The next day after the morning language session, I do the same thing and my LCF gives me a look:
In America, do you do this a lot?
Yeah, it's pretty common.
Do not do this in front of your family. It will make it look like you are wanting to be a woman.
I'm blending right in.
6 comments:
haha they really said that to you? You always apply lip balm!
you made me laugh out loud 3 times! good job. it's good that you've already come out to your family as a pretty lady. also: can you get text messages on your cell phone? international text messages are amazing.
Very well written, Nathaniel. I think the full meaning of the word "foreign" is becoming apparent; never more so than when you have to go potty. Please post pictures of the lobster costume.
You're Alive!!!!!!
Miss you, thinking of you
E&K
Perhaps you should just buy some lipstick, and WORK IT! Perhaps making some extra dinar on the side...ya know. Wink Wink.
Hey man, we all miss you, but DAMN that sounds like an adventure! Thinkin about you, my brutha.
PS B. (and J., even tho she is in bed now, she would like me to say hi)wish you very well. Hopefully catch you on the gmail thingy soon.
love,
Brian
You would make a fine lady. I hear its very becoming on women to have a beard.
Post a Comment