Day 3: Wednesday January 14, 2009. The Imminent Tears.

When we woke up this morning in the hotel, I definitely got the feeling that I was very close with my peers that are on this trip. It’s really surprising, especially since we have known each other for about four days, excluding the one time we all met together at BU for the Rabat orientation. We all seem to be very open with each other, as if we’ve been friends for a while. I think it’s because we all have gone through the struggle of jetlag, exhaustion, and ultimate change in culture together. From the hotel, we headed back to the CCCL so that some of us could start our very first class: Moroccan culture. While eight of them sat through the class, the other six of us continued to explore our CCCL environment, which included sun bathing on the terrace. Most of us were chilly due to the damp air that comes from the nearby ocean, so sunbathing was definitely necessary.

Eventually their class let out and the 14 of us were once again reunited, spending more time on the terrace. We laughed, talked about our experiences, waved to the locals that were standing on their terraces (sharing the friendly greetings of “Salam” and “Salam wah-lay-kuum”), and even danced around in the sunshine. We all felt so free and in this amazing country that was somewhere between a vacation and a dream. Everything around us was so beautiful that none of us could really imagine that we’d have to actually be studying here at some point; no way! I’m already thinking that I don’t want to return to America, no matter how tired I am.

While we basked in the afternoon sun and the beauty surrounding, one of our house cooks, Brahiim, came out to serve us some AMAZING mint tea. As I described of the tea they served in the café during breakfast, this was a small glass that was a little less than halfway full of tea. Only, this tea that was prepared by Brahiim was unlike anything I’ve ever tasted; it had been seeping for about a half hour and had so much sugar that it felt like I was drinking candy. But it wasn’t too sweet. Just then someone noticed a little turtle that was hanging out with us on the terrace! Of course we all circled around it, taking pictures of it while it cautiously hid within the protection of its shell. We even took pictures of each other, for no other reason than to express how fun it was to just be young, carefree, and in a foreign country. I really felt like they were my family.

After gallivanting around on the terrace of the CCCL, Fadoua again gathered us for our first class that included all 14 of us, which was aptly named “Morocco 101”; it was a basic overview of the culture of the country including major newspaper topics, politics, colonization, and history. It was really interesting to learn about and it helped me obtain a better perspective regarding the country that I will be living in for the next four months (which I am beyond excited about).

After that, we were chauffeured up to the dining room where we had a delicious meal that consisted of various vegetables, meat, and lots and lots of bread. As we ate, some of the staff members were eating with us and telling us a little more about Moroccan culture and how they eat. Just as Brahiim had showed us how to eat couscous with our hands, we also learned that Moroccans eat a lot of bread; they use small pieces of bread as makeshift spoons that scoop food into their mouth. Although I was eating with silverware at that time, I was really happy about the idea of eating a lot of bread; I am always dipping bread in my soup, vegetables, and even sometimes salad. I was thrilled that they would be doing the same!

Lunch ended and it was off to our first class of the aptly-named “Survival Arabic.” Here we learned the necessary sayings in the Moroccan Arabic dialect that we would need to communicate with our families and venders on the streets. The class was extremely fast-paced, seeing as how they didn't speak a word of English, but the teachers were really great at what they did; the two spoke to each other in a slow and very animated manner, using hand gestures that truly helped us to be better able to make guesses at what they were saying. That being said, it was still extremely difficult because there aren’t the same helpful cognates between Arabic and English as there are between English and other Romantic languages. Instead, it felt like I was learning how to speak all over again.

The beginning was fairly easy to discern what they were saying because it was just introductions and such, which included name, nationality, and profession. After that, however, it got much more difficult. Just as I figured out the basics, they were throwing more vocabulary at us. At one point, they had us go around the room in a circle, counting off from one to ten. This doesn't sound like it was that difficult, but it really was! I didn't know the numbers, so how was I to be expected to use them now?? Plus, there were four students and two teachers, which allowed more than one opportunity to voice a number. After that, we started counting up to twenty! Yikes! It was really difficult. The difficulties didn't really start to hit me, however, until we were expected to carry on conversations with each other using the words that we had just learned.

It seemed like my peers had really gotten it down to a T while I was struggling to remember how to say, “What is your name?” I continuously had to flip through the pages of my notebook, which really was a bunch of English letters in my attempts to sound out the words that I was supposed to say. I thought to myself, “It wasn’t so difficult when the teachers were talking to each other, using gestures and body language that really helped me understand what they were saying; why am I having so much difficulty now?” I guess comprehension is one line of thought in your brain, while expression is something totally and completely different. I found great difficulty in holding even the most simple of conversations and I started to get really overwhelmed. I felt my face heat up and my brain shut down, not allowing anything else in. After our makeshift conversations, they tried to push a few more vocabulary words into our brains, at which point I had already shut down; there was no way I was going to learn anything else. Finally, after what-felt-like-an-eternity passed by, the teacher called for a break.

I immediately rose from my chair and headed for the door to the classroom. I felt the color drain from my face as I walked down the hall, trying to find the nearest bathroom or any other enclosed space where I could be alone for a few minutes. Alas, I found a bathroom right across the hall, closed the door behind myself, and broke down into a crying sob (for which it was difficult to hold back sounds that would give me away to my peers).

A little while later (I actually lost track of time while I was in there), I calmed myself down, splashed my face with some cold water, and decided to make a break for the door. Conveniently, I had chosen the bathroom that was central to all the other classrooms in the CCCL that were being used by my other peers learning the same Moroccan dialect. So, when I opened the door, all my peers were waiting right outside to use the bathroom. Overwhelming! I must have had a really upset look on my face because several of them asked if I was okay. I forced a smile and kept walking in the direction of my classroom, where my teacher was smiling and gesturing for me to hurry back. I took a deep breath, and a seat, and sat through the other half of the class.

Why was something that usually comes fairly easy for me so difficult now? I can usually pick up languages quickly, but for some reason I just kept getting really overwhelmed. Maybe I was wasting too much time writing everything down, so much that it was preventing me from really learning the words. Whatever the reason, it was a really difficult experience for me, and was probably one of the most overwhelming aspects of my time here so far.

After that class, it was off to another about harassment where I learned that in Morocco, it is very common for men to call at women on the streets or in public, saying flattering comments (or attempts at such) that are a testosterone-driven means to copulate. It sounds really trashy, and something that is worthy of a court case in the States, but it’s actually part of the culture; in fact, men do this because it wasn’t until fairly recently that women were allowed to even show themselves in the streets. The house was the woman’s “space” because it was her job to rear children, maintain the house, and feed the family while it was the father’s job to provide income, buy food, and otherwise interact with the outside world. I initially thought that this idea was highly oppressive to women, but there is certainly a rationale to it; if it were the woman’s job to do housework and provide income for the family, she would be overworked and not be able to accomplish anything. Therefore, the fact that the men provide income and purchase food for the family is a separation of jobs so that the family unit can benefit as a whole.

Due to this tradition of “spaces”, which holds that women stay in the house and men leave for obtaining money and food, it is understandable that when a woman leaves the house it is shocking since the streets are not her “place”. In Moroccan history, if a woman was seen walking the streets it meant that the man in her life is not strong enough to provide for her (whether that means a brother or a husband). It is actually a sign of a woman’s elitism if she is able to never leave the house. That being said, if a woman is seen walking the streets, she is considered poor and/or out of place, which means she will receive public humiliation in the form of harassment. Although Moroccan women frequently walk the streets today, the mentality of “spaces” still exists in even the most liberal of minds. Therefore, verbal sexual harassment has become a social norm.

It’s really interesting because men in the streets do it to me too, albeit differently because I’m a foreigner. They stare me down with intense eyes and say things like “you’re fine” or “Oh my god, what a model!” in broken English. Sometimes they even say things to me in French, which is most entertaining of all; just because I have white skin they automatically think that I am French. Perhaps that is the general mentality here since France once colonized Morocco. Regardless, they say funny things to me, which makes me wonder what they say to the native women—it must be so descriptive and vulgar. I guess in some ways I am glad that I don’t know Arabic.

I had experienced some of this harassment prior to taking the harassment class at the CCCL and I suppose it bothered me a little bit, but I was never really upset by it. For some reason, however, talking about it during this class really disturbed me. They made it seem like it was something that was really dangerous, and they taught us ways to deal with it (which included ignoring of course). I guess because they made it seem like such a big deal, I thought about what would happen if some guy actually DID start to follow me. For some reason, I was really worried that I might forget that these men are not like the ones in America; merely talking to them was an invitation for something more than my intentions. In America, it’s okay to be nice to boys on the streets and talk to them, but in Morocco, such a gesture is an invitation for a one-night stand. Okay, so maybe my exhaustion (and womanly time of the month) was getting to my head a little too much, but I was still scared about the rest of my semester here. Regardless, the class was really helpful and informative in terms of the things that I would be encountering in the streets on a daily basis.

After the harassment course, we were allotted some free time to relax and further explore the CCCL building. They even organized a little reception for the 14 of us, which was designed to meet our professors. It was a nice and relaxing way to get to know them because of the tea and light snacks that were served, but I was already overwhelmed and exhausted from everything I had done for the day. Let’s just say I was at my maximum capacity for new experiences. Besides, I would meet them on the first day of class, right? So, I spent a fair amount of my time hiding out in the bathroom, where neither my peers nor the staff members would talk to me. Okay, it sounds a little harsh, I know. Overwhelmed is simply not a powerful enough word to describe how I felt…

Later that night, the 14 of us decided we would go out and explore the city a little bit for a nice restaurant or bar to relax at. We ended up eating at the same place that a few of the staff members from the CCCL went to: a classy place not too far from our hotel with live music, couches, and expensive everything. It was nice to spend time with all of them in an environment that was not all work, but I was still tired. We finished up, said goodbye to the staff members that we had run into, and headed back to the hotel to catch some zzz’s.

Before bed, however, my roommate and I decided that it would be a good idea to cut my hair; it was getting shaggy and to the point at which I didn't like it anymore and I didn't want my new family to see me like that. Our idea didn't turn out to be such a good one after all since we didn't have scissors, a comb, or a hairdryer. Alas, the man at the reception desk of the hotel laughed at me when I gestured with my forefinger and middle finger that I would be cutting my hair and needed some scissors. Several snips and a slew of laughter later, and I was downstairs in the lobby again asking for a broom to clean the floor of our hotel room. Great idea, girls…


Day 4: Thursday January 15, 2009

This morning we had to wake up earlier than ever: 7am. We decided to carry our heaviest piece of luggage to the CCCL early in the morning so that our transition to our host family would be easier. So, I stuffed all the clothing and junk as possible into my giant backpack, which is meant for a several day vacation in the backwoods of anywhere, and looked like a fool as I walked down the crowded streets of the medina.

For some reason the CCCL was getting further and further away after each step with that 50lb bag. When we eventually arrived, there was a pool of sweat between my back and my bag. Pleasant. Then, of course, we were expected to attend a class directly after our early-morning work out. Today was my second day of survival Arabic, which wasn’t nearly as traumatizing as the first day. Although I was anxious throughout the class, I still felt much more comfortable than I did the day before; I was more accustomed to the teachers as well as the language, and I could even recall some words from the day before. There were still some words (a lot, actually) that I completely forgot. Such is learning, I suppose.

In the evening, we were served a Moroccan delicacy for dinner that is only served at expensive, special occasions. It is called “Bastilla” and it is probably the most delicious concoction of food that I’ve ever tasted; between flaky layers of thin dough lies a mixture of pigeon meat, various fruits and vegetables, and powdered sugar. It was like eating all the courses of a full dinner in one bite, with each bite. I’ve never tasted anything like it! It sounds really strange, and like it wouldn’t taste very good at all, but all of us loved it! One day I would love to be able to make it, but I have heard that it is among the most difficult meals to prepare because it is so-much based upon balance. One fine day, one fine day, I will succeed!