So after three days of Orientation, my program has us all
take one day of what they’re calling “survival Darija” and has us move in with
families. Even for those who came with
prior Arabic experience don’t/can’t understand the majority of the words spoken
in the Rabati streets. So, for someone
with absolutely no knowledge whatsoever of the language (I chuckle every time
someone says “inshallah”), this should be easy.
My host brother Youssef picks me up from the center, and I’m surprised and relieved when he introduces himself to me in English, which he speaks fluently. We switch between French and English on the way to his home, an apartment with five other family members just off Mohammad 5 Avenue near the eastern entrance to the Medina. The medina is laid out as I would imagine any twelfth century city is, devoid of any logic at all. We take a left, the street wraps around to the right, where we turn down a street barely wide enough for a motorcycle (of which there are far too many found in streets like these). Another left and right and I start to think we’re going in a giant circle and it’s just a cruel joke the Rabatis are playing on me. Eventually, we arrive near the Restaurant de la Liberation, one of the few landmarks with which I’m familiar in the medina. A couple more turns and we arrive at what will be my home for the better part of the next three months.
We walk upstairs to the front door of the apartment. The first level is very small and closed,
with a bathroom and two smaller rooms, those of my host sisters and host
parents. Youssef gives me a pair of
sandals with which to walk around the house.
As I have come to know, every house in Morocco is covered ceiling to
floor in tile, with the occasional white wall section. I have since found out that this makes for a
very beautiful mainroom, but in houses that lack central heating, also makes
them incredibly cold, and I have been sleeping in two sweaters, under two large
blankets, in my ski jacket, with pants, and wool socks. One night it was even so cold I wore my hat.
The room at the top of the stairs is laid out in a very
stereotypical Moroccan fashion with low couches with pillows for backs. This room, seldom used, is drenched in aqua
and white, and the walls are covered in red-and-brown tiles. The rest of the upstairs is divided into three
other rooms, the kitchen, the guest room, and the family room. I’ve been sleeping in the guest room, which
is as visually stunning as it is oppressive.
The bright screaming-monkey red of the couches reflects off the
beautiful chandelier overhead. It is
obviously reserved for guests and special occasions, as there is a table in the
center perpetually set with dozens of napkins arranged in a circle. Downstairs in the bathroom there is a Turkish
toilet set up to the right of the shower.
Thankfully, there is a Western toilet upstairs, so I won’t have to be
pooping in a hole all semester!
The main family room is set up similarly, except couches
line the walls and in one corner is the 7th member of the family,
the television. It is always on and it
doesn’t matter what is on. For example,
as I write this, we have just finished dinner and we’re watching the most
annoying sing-song children’s cartoon, with little 3D cylindrical creatures
that have mouths that move like those of Canadians in South Park. They also watch TV in a very interesting
manner. Rather than watching a movie or
a program all the way through, they change the channel every two or three
minutes, and every time a commercial comes on.
Only they never switch back. I
can’t get emotionally involved in a show, because I will never know what will
happen in the end. C’est la vie.
My first night here, on the way to a café to watch an African Cup match, my host brother Youssef takes me to a mall, where he has to buy casing for a phone. During the time in the underground shopping center, the call to prayer rings overhead. Youssef looks at me and brings me to a spot in a corner, tells me to stay there and wait for him while he goes into a nearby mosque to pray. I’m standing there, the only white guy for miles around, as Moroccan men and women pass by staring at me. Then, just as I’m feeling most uncomfortable, a man walks by me carrying with no hands a giant cookie sheet of freshly baked pastries on top of his Patagonia-flat head. Right when the guy approaches me to buy sweets, Youssef returns from the mosque to tell him “la la la” (no, no, no). As we leave, flat head accosts me for not speaking Arabic. Thanks bro, I’m working on it.
My first night here, on the way to a café to watch an African Cup match, my host brother Youssef takes me to a mall, where he has to buy casing for a phone. During the time in the underground shopping center, the call to prayer rings overhead. Youssef looks at me and brings me to a spot in a corner, tells me to stay there and wait for him while he goes into a nearby mosque to pray. I’m standing there, the only white guy for miles around, as Moroccan men and women pass by staring at me. Then, just as I’m feeling most uncomfortable, a man walks by me carrying with no hands a giant cookie sheet of freshly baked pastries on top of his Patagonia-flat head. Right when the guy approaches me to buy sweets, Youssef returns from the mosque to tell him “la la la” (no, no, no). As we leave, flat head accosts me for not speaking Arabic. Thanks bro, I’m working on it.
For those that don’t know, Moroccan Darija is a
combination language. As Zahira put it,
its 50% Arabic, 25% French, 10% Spanish, and the rest is an enigma. When I’m at their house, my host family
enjoys making fun of my inability to say the myriad h’s and k’s that exist in
Arabic. There are at least three h
sounds in the alphabet and in order to say all of them you have to use
different parts of your mouth and/or throat.
Baba hajj has made it a habit of making walking motions with his fingers
and saying “baby steps” then laughing at me when I can’t say something. Last night my host brother was trying to tell
me how to say a word and he kept pointing at his Adam’s apple while he made a
choking h noise. They are very helpful,
however, and all of my host siblings speak fluent French and three of the four
speak fluent English. Zahira, my host
sister, confidently reassured me that students who have stayed with them in the
past (I’m their twelfth) always get high marks in Arabic, so at least I have
that going for me.
All said and done, Rabat is a beautiful city full of
wonderful people who would give you the shirt off their back. Its poor, but as always, there is more to
wealth than being wealthy; a fact the by which the people live and lovingly
embrace.
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