A few days ago as I walked by goats heads, flopping chickens, and piles of dates and figs galore, I promised myself that I would not allow my mind and body to fall into a regular routine here. For a long time I have connected falling into a regular routine (like the routine I have at home) with missing out on all of the special things around me. Granted, decapitated goat's heads might take a longer time than new fruits, for example, to adjust to. But it is the everyday things-- like the way my host mother laughs at me when I fail miserably at pronouncing the difference between ¨to study¨and ¨bottle, or the smells of her harira that heartily welcome me when I arrive home at night, or the beautiful view of the hills beyond Fez that reveals itself when my taxi driver takes a certain left from the ville nouvelle to head down to Bab Ziat-- that I am afraid I will begin to take for granted.
I have been thinking a lot about this promise to myself. And I have decided that it is time for me to finally learn a lesson that you probably haven't needed to come to Morocco to learn. I came here to live life. Part of living life is inherently adapting to a schedule, whether you are a nomad or a homebody. If I didn't fall into a rythm here i would be avoiding the essence of what I came here to do: to live like a local to whatever extent possible. The trick is to be able to allow myself to fall into a routine and still appreciate the little things (of course I have always told myself this, but I have never actually lived by it). It may sound naive, but it's at least a little less so than my promise to myself. Whether it be harira in my host mother's kitchen in Fez, Morocco or matzoh ball soup a la Chudi kitchen in Brookline, MA, I think I have finally learned to relax, observe, participate, and enjoy.
The world is here around me. And it is my job to reach out and grab it. I had a dream the other night: I was chilling in a swivel chair in the middle of an infinite library and I could turn in any direction and pull sights, sounds, smells, feelings, textures, tastes, people, places, etc off of enormous cedar shelves (probably cedar because it is the most populous tree in Morocco). I pulled off everything that I wanted, and often got things that I could never have imagined. Then the dream ended. And here I am. I happen to be sitting in a swivel chair in a small internet cafe with impossible French keyboards in Africa. Coincidence?
bislama (with peace),
lauren
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
Asilah
We are currently on our first weekend excursion in Asilah. A city that has had a sporadic Spanish influence beginning during the years of the Roman empire when Asilah-ans were exported to Spain and Iberians moved here in their place, and most recently during the Spanish colonization of Asilah in the early 1900s (during which most of the current architecture was designed, leaving the city with a motley group of Spanish and Mediteranean complex's), the city is a beach hot-spot during the summersm though looked more like a beautiful but uninhabited ghost town when we arrived this morning. As I wandered around the medina though, I discovered an incredible hospitality that I have not encountered anywhere else.
Morocco is a country where family life and simple greetings can take forever with complete strangers, out of a respect that is infused within every individual. This afternoon I was alone walking down a desolate narrow alley when I made eye contact with an old woman (maybe 60 years old, although hard to tell given that people age quite differently here). She was wearing a loose maroon jilaba, hood on, revealing only a long, dark thin face, woody fingers, and black leather sandals. When we made eye contact, she smiled a great smile. So, naturally, I said, äsalaam aliekum. Her eyes brightened as she stopped in front of me and replied gently, ¨wa aliekum salaam¨. She reached out for my hand and kissed both of my cheeks. We proceeded to exchange Moroccan ¨how are you¨s back and forth seven times. She asked me how my family was, and I asked about hers. Then, she invited me to her home for f'tor (break fast). I wished that I did not have group obligations. I explained that I could not make it tonight. She pointed to her home to my right and and told me to knock on the door if I changed my mind or ever needed somewhere to sit down and have a cup of mint tea. With that, she kissed me again and disappeared inside.
There are some things that make being a woman here a difficult (esp an American woman) because it can be dangerous to wander alone and I have problems with being couped up. But then there are times like this that I could not be more grateful to be female.
lauren
Morocco is a country where family life and simple greetings can take forever with complete strangers, out of a respect that is infused within every individual. This afternoon I was alone walking down a desolate narrow alley when I made eye contact with an old woman (maybe 60 years old, although hard to tell given that people age quite differently here). She was wearing a loose maroon jilaba, hood on, revealing only a long, dark thin face, woody fingers, and black leather sandals. When we made eye contact, she smiled a great smile. So, naturally, I said, äsalaam aliekum. Her eyes brightened as she stopped in front of me and replied gently, ¨wa aliekum salaam¨. She reached out for my hand and kissed both of my cheeks. We proceeded to exchange Moroccan ¨how are you¨s back and forth seven times. She asked me how my family was, and I asked about hers. Then, she invited me to her home for f'tor (break fast). I wished that I did not have group obligations. I explained that I could not make it tonight. She pointed to her home to my right and and told me to knock on the door if I changed my mind or ever needed somewhere to sit down and have a cup of mint tea. With that, she kissed me again and disappeared inside.
There are some things that make being a woman here a difficult (esp an American woman) because it can be dangerous to wander alone and I have problems with being couped up. But then there are times like this that I could not be more grateful to be female.
lauren
Fez in all it's glory
As for a Fassian update:
Our darija classes are continuing sporadically enough and act as a good enforcement to the development of my [poor] accent and the basics of Moroccan greetings. As for the real heart of my development in this language, my home-stay continues to provide a fabulous learning environment.
Yesterday we had our first morning of medina restoration, which turned out to be a great few hours. For a brief explanation: there are approx. 14,000 houses in Fes's old medina and there has been an epidemic over the past few decades (although I'm sure it is longer lasting than that) of house collapses. In 1981 Fez was labeled a UNESCO World Heritage Site and subsequently a few initiatives were started to strengthen the foundations and structures of weaker buildingsm but a major turning point in this effort was the collapse of a house in 2003 (the last collapse to date, according to one of the workers we talked to) that caught government attention. This collapse drew funding for a detailed survey of every building in the medina sorting them into categories by degree of danger. 2,000 houses were recognized for their life-threatening structural problems, and now all of these homes are in the process of being either reinforced or rebuilt. We are working on two such homes built sometime within the psat 1,000 years (check out global-lab.org for pictures).
I spent the morning laying bricks and sawing cedar ceiling panels. I also expereicend one of the weirdest moments of my trip so far--when one of the workers pulled me away from brick laying and, with few other workers, tried to convince me to climb a palm tree using a makeshift piece of twine in order to cut off some of its leaves that were hanging through an upstairs window of the building we were working on. We stood there beneath the shade of the palm for twenty minutes before I finally convinced the group of men that although I might try climbing a palm in the States where my doctor is located, it would be too much of a problem if I fell, God forbid, and broke my skull here, because my doc is not in Africa right now.
Our darija classes are continuing sporadically enough and act as a good enforcement to the development of my [poor] accent and the basics of Moroccan greetings. As for the real heart of my development in this language, my home-stay continues to provide a fabulous learning environment.
Yesterday we had our first morning of medina restoration, which turned out to be a great few hours. For a brief explanation: there are approx. 14,000 houses in Fes's old medina and there has been an epidemic over the past few decades (although I'm sure it is longer lasting than that) of house collapses. In 1981 Fez was labeled a UNESCO World Heritage Site and subsequently a few initiatives were started to strengthen the foundations and structures of weaker buildingsm but a major turning point in this effort was the collapse of a house in 2003 (the last collapse to date, according to one of the workers we talked to) that caught government attention. This collapse drew funding for a detailed survey of every building in the medina sorting them into categories by degree of danger. 2,000 houses were recognized for their life-threatening structural problems, and now all of these homes are in the process of being either reinforced or rebuilt. We are working on two such homes built sometime within the psat 1,000 years (check out global-lab.org for pictures).
I spent the morning laying bricks and sawing cedar ceiling panels. I also expereicend one of the weirdest moments of my trip so far--when one of the workers pulled me away from brick laying and, with few other workers, tried to convince me to climb a palm tree using a makeshift piece of twine in order to cut off some of its leaves that were hanging through an upstairs window of the building we were working on. We stood there beneath the shade of the palm for twenty minutes before I finally convinced the group of men that although I might try climbing a palm in the States where my doctor is located, it would be too much of a problem if I fell, God forbid, and broke my skull here, because my doc is not in Africa right now.
Here's to Ramadan
As I flipped through the Frommer's Guide to Morocco in a bookstore before my departure from the States, I found some excellent summaries of Idrissid rule and suggestions for quality budget hotels. Then I saw the following bolded comment (and I paraphrase): DO NOT TRAVEL IN MOROCCO DURING RAMADAN. I put down Frommer's and bought the Lonely Planet (which is great by the way). We are so lucky to be here during Ramadan. Frommer's lost my business because it is written for an audience planning a short Moroccan vacation. Its cautionary comment makes sense for those coming for a brief stay: resteraunts are closed (and beware if you eat on the streets-- you will be eyed by unhappy, hungry Moroccans, or worse)m operating hours of every business are significantly decreased and often subject to change by people who are too tired to workm some Moroccans are more on edge from the fast, etc.
But what an unbelievably incredible experience for those of us who get to witness one of the five pillars of Islam from near beginning to end-- and in a Muslim host family no less. From 4am s'hor, to witnessing mass exodus's to local mosques, to delicious speciualty foods, to learning more about Islam as a whole, Ramadan brings with it a totally unique perspective into the world of a religion that guides the lives of 99 percent of this country's population. The preparations for f'tor (break-fast at 6:30ish pm) occupy a woman's entire existence. I sat in my kitchen for six hours the other day with my host mother making shibekia- a carmelized Moroccan sweet special for Ramadan- a true bonding experience. Speaking of which, this this the first time after growing up in a liberal American home that I have felt completely comfortable, even happy, hanging around the kitchen with a group of women. I enjoy the chattering company and humor that accompanies such an experience here. I much prefer this to the wallowing hunger that consumes the men as they lie around bored all day.
To Alex (for those of you who read only my blog, check out a cool article on Ramadan in Morocco at http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/09/ramadan_reflections.html#more): cheers to setting me up for Ramadan in Morocco. Surely the nature of Ramadan interferes with the daily schedule of the rest of the year, and often creates scheduling problems. But in the most laid back and wonderful sort of way. Thank you.
lauren
But what an unbelievably incredible experience for those of us who get to witness one of the five pillars of Islam from near beginning to end-- and in a Muslim host family no less. From 4am s'hor, to witnessing mass exodus's to local mosques, to delicious speciualty foods, to learning more about Islam as a whole, Ramadan brings with it a totally unique perspective into the world of a religion that guides the lives of 99 percent of this country's population. The preparations for f'tor (break-fast at 6:30ish pm) occupy a woman's entire existence. I sat in my kitchen for six hours the other day with my host mother making shibekia- a carmelized Moroccan sweet special for Ramadan- a true bonding experience. Speaking of which, this this the first time after growing up in a liberal American home that I have felt completely comfortable, even happy, hanging around the kitchen with a group of women. I enjoy the chattering company and humor that accompanies such an experience here. I much prefer this to the wallowing hunger that consumes the men as they lie around bored all day.
To Alex (for those of you who read only my blog, check out a cool article on Ramadan in Morocco at http://www.global-lab.org/mt/MoroccoFall2007/2007/09/ramadan_reflections.html#more): cheers to setting me up for Ramadan in Morocco. Surely the nature of Ramadan interferes with the daily schedule of the rest of the year, and often creates scheduling problems. But in the most laid back and wonderful sort of way. Thank you.
lauren
Monday, September 24, 2007
Never have I been more anxious to hear the words ¨allah hu akbar¨ (God is great). On Satyrday night, the sunset call to prayer signified that I could eat with my Muslim host family. I broke the Yom Kippur fast. They broke the Ramadan fast.
I am confronting the eternal struggle between the photographer and the subject: the moments that I most want to capture are often the most inappropriate moments. The smells that dominate this country- musky, fruity, pungent, fragrant, sour, smoky, salty, spicy, putrid, burning, delicious, divine- are impossible to transport. I have no problem opting to record with my memory and live in the present rather than hide behind my camera. But surely it will not be so simple when I begin to edit my film in the future. Without the most beatiful and meaningful moments on tape, how will I convey my experience to you?
Fes is an astonishing city. The old medina where i live is mostly the same as it was when it was built in the 800s BC. It stands in dire contrast to the ville nouvelle (new french city) where I study darija. Still, mules occupy the streets of the ville nouvelle and advanced nikon cameras can be purchased on every other corner of the old medina.
If you enter the old medina at Bab Ziat and walk along thedirt and stone road, past a small hanut sellling everything from Tide to khubs, take your second right, walk down the hill past a small local mosque, smell spices and delicious tajines emanating from every door and window, and turn to your left after the big pile of manuer on your right, you will find the home of Fatima, Abderrahim, Otman(17), and Ahmed (14) Elaamouri in the second floor apartment of the sandstone building in front of you. Nothing on the facade stands out. Rather, it blends in with similar tan and white colors that surround you from every direction. Walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I dare you. Most likely, a speaker to your right will ring out in a high, raspy voice, ¨skun?¨ (who?). Say your name. Within 30 seconds, the door in front of you will swing open to reveal an empty hallway. Step inside... ¨Rarrrrrr!!!¨, Ahmed will jump out as he roars. You will undoubtedly scream. You have given him a good laugh. Once his joke is done, he will smile, grab your hand, and drag you upstairs with a huge smile on his face. One of the most hospitable families in the world will greet you on the second floor. Abderrahim will immediately begin to train you in the sounds of darija, and will stick with you no matter how incapable you are: ka, ke, ko, ku, qa, qe, qo, qu, 3a, 3e; 3o, 3u, etc, while Fatima lays out a feast before you and Otman smiles from his perch in front of the TV. Welcome to my host family.
***
I am confronting the eternal struggle between the photographer and the subject: the moments that I most want to capture are often the most inappropriate moments. The smells that dominate this country- musky, fruity, pungent, fragrant, sour, smoky, salty, spicy, putrid, burning, delicious, divine- are impossible to transport. I have no problem opting to record with my memory and live in the present rather than hide behind my camera. But surely it will not be so simple when I begin to edit my film in the future. Without the most beatiful and meaningful moments on tape, how will I convey my experience to you?
***
Fes is an astonishing city. The old medina where i live is mostly the same as it was when it was built in the 800s BC. It stands in dire contrast to the ville nouvelle (new french city) where I study darija. Still, mules occupy the streets of the ville nouvelle and advanced nikon cameras can be purchased on every other corner of the old medina.
***
If you enter the old medina at Bab Ziat and walk along thedirt and stone road, past a small hanut sellling everything from Tide to khubs, take your second right, walk down the hill past a small local mosque, smell spices and delicious tajines emanating from every door and window, and turn to your left after the big pile of manuer on your right, you will find the home of Fatima, Abderrahim, Otman(17), and Ahmed (14) Elaamouri in the second floor apartment of the sandstone building in front of you. Nothing on the facade stands out. Rather, it blends in with similar tan and white colors that surround you from every direction. Walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. I dare you. Most likely, a speaker to your right will ring out in a high, raspy voice, ¨skun?¨ (who?). Say your name. Within 30 seconds, the door in front of you will swing open to reveal an empty hallway. Step inside... ¨Rarrrrrr!!!¨, Ahmed will jump out as he roars. You will undoubtedly scream. You have given him a good laugh. Once his joke is done, he will smile, grab your hand, and drag you upstairs with a huge smile on his face. One of the most hospitable families in the world will greet you on the second floor. Abderrahim will immediately begin to train you in the sounds of darija, and will stick with you no matter how incapable you are: ka, ke, ko, ku, qa, qe, qo, qu, 3a, 3e; 3o, 3u, etc, while Fatima lays out a feast before you and Otman smiles from his perch in front of the TV. Welcome to my host family.
***
For the past two days, I have woken up with my family for s'hor at 4 am (dinner before the call to prayer at 4:35ishthat begins the day's fast). We all grogily pile into the kitchen, lazily smiling, and I have to try harder than ever to pay attention when I am spoken to. My darija isn't so good at 4am. Luckily for me, neither is anyone else's, and they have for the most part resorted to short commands like ¨kuli kuli¨-eat, eat (for Xi'aners, I still have not escaped the good old ¨chi le, chi le!¨, and here too they try to convince me that I need to fatten up). Once we have eaten our fill we line up at the sink and each down three cups of water as my host mom watches over our shoulders to make sure we don't skimp out on our full helpings. Once done, I return to my beautifully tiled room and lie in bed awake until I hear ällah hu akbar¨. Then I fall back into a deep and wonderful sleep.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Casa, city of dreams
We arrived safely to Casablanca yesterday morning. I am in an internet cafe that supposedly closed one minute ago, so in the interest of saving thinking-time, I will quickly copy an entry from my journal last night:
"Ecstatic. The kind of ecstatic of finally living a dream, so anticipated and exotic that it filled my imagination for months on end. We are here. Casablanca is our first of many peepholes into Moroccan life. Soon after pulling away from the airport, impressions and gut reactions--those so important but often overlooked or washed out--soaked into me. Smells, sights, sounds. Solid.
Ramadan rests like a heavy winter quilt over the outskirts of Casablanca as we drive northeast from the airport towards the Moroccan commercial capital. The muggy air engulfs me boldly, nailing me to my seat in the back of the minibus (which on the outsight reads in cute yellow writing, "We love Morocco"). Eyes peeled wide, looking and listening and absorbing the firsts: the first [used-to-be] white stucco building (for which the city was named: Casa Branca by the Portuguese in the 1500s and later changed to Casablanca by the Spaniards) in slighly desolate condition; the first whif of roadside construction, burning rubber and hot hot African heat; the first sounds of fluent darija, a rythmic dialect highlighted by the occasional staccato 3yn; the first old woman, dark-skinned with deepset eyes, hijab revealing only a few straggling gray hairs and a long cloth dress that strikes me as hot. Very hot. The excited chatter of my American crew provides a background as I sit behind an automobile window looking outwards from my tiny perch.
As we approach the city, the deserted atmosphere of the outskirts is replaced with the bustling about of errands to be run and preparations to be made for the night's feast. Broken down stucco homes are replaced by delicately tiled high rises, and despite the occasional watermelon-toting donkey cart, small farms are replaced by corporate buildings and silence is filled with honking horns, putting cars, and busy people.
I understand from some readng the context for my observations. Built as it stands now within the past century (in dire contrast to the rest of Morocco), and mostly by the French at that, Casablanca represents the hopes and dreams of capitalism Moroccan-style. Who will come here and make it big? Who wlil be able to flaunt newfound riches for the metropolis to see? And who, much more often, will find themselves left dirham-less: living in vast and sprawling city slums, unemployed, unfed, unsanitary, and without any chance at an even sup-par future. And who might even turn to fundamentalist Islam as their only hope--this is where it all begins, for Moroccan extremists at least (for more, google Casa bombings).
But now, here I am in the city centre, watching the tides of traditional Morocco colide with Westernization at its peak. And I could not be happier to be here, where I am now. No other place or moment would so suffice my desires. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. Ecstatic."
Apparently I still have a few more minutes even though the cafe now supposedly closed 26 minutes ago, so a quick update on my first full day in Morocco: This morning we went to see the Hassan II mosque. Finished in 1993 after only six years of construction from start to finish, the mosaue now stands as the third largest in the world, and one of the only mosques in Morocco that is open to non-Muslims. I will try to upload pictures later, but needless to say, it was absolutely fantastic. Dad, you may be interested to know that in the hamman (bathing room) in the basement of the mosque, I learned that although the pillars are made to look like they are made of marble, they are actually a composite of limestone, clay, and eggyolk, a substance believed to absorb moisture from the room and preserve the true color of the brass chandeliers. I think that you should look into it. Wouldn't it be cool to use eggyolk in the walls of Client X's home?
After the mosque we ate a quick lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches in privacy at the hotel (it's not too appropriate to eat in front of fasters and no resteraunts are open), and then headed out to the Jewish Museum in Oasis, one upper class Casablancan suburb. The only museum of any kind in the city and the only Jewish museum in the Muslim world, the small building was home to a wonderful picture gallery and many artifacts from Jewish communities throughout Morocco. Particularly interesting was a "Megillah Hitler" which looked like it replaced Haman's name with Hitlers and although I couldn't see the rest, must of been a story of Jewish escape and survival. Although my French isn't wonderful, the French captions seemed to say that the writer was soon after exectued and somehow the work ended up in the hands of a Casablancan Jew.
We left the museum about two hours ago and wandered through a fish market on the oceanfront, stepping over shark heads and fish guts. Men preparing for the night's break-fast shopped around and we wandered through taking in the strong smells. And sights.
My darija is beginning to establish itself in my mind, and I can't wait to begin language classes later this week. Hopefully I will get some exsposure to fusa'a (Modern Standard Arabic) too, but I'm happy with whatever I take in. Will leave Casa for Fez tomorrow. So excited to meet my home-stay family.
if there are any spelling/grammatical errors here i apologize, now the cafe is waiting for me to leave to close
lauren
"Ecstatic. The kind of ecstatic of finally living a dream, so anticipated and exotic that it filled my imagination for months on end. We are here. Casablanca is our first of many peepholes into Moroccan life. Soon after pulling away from the airport, impressions and gut reactions--those so important but often overlooked or washed out--soaked into me. Smells, sights, sounds. Solid.
Ramadan rests like a heavy winter quilt over the outskirts of Casablanca as we drive northeast from the airport towards the Moroccan commercial capital. The muggy air engulfs me boldly, nailing me to my seat in the back of the minibus (which on the outsight reads in cute yellow writing, "We love Morocco"). Eyes peeled wide, looking and listening and absorbing the firsts: the first [used-to-be] white stucco building (for which the city was named: Casa Branca by the Portuguese in the 1500s and later changed to Casablanca by the Spaniards) in slighly desolate condition; the first whif of roadside construction, burning rubber and hot hot African heat; the first sounds of fluent darija, a rythmic dialect highlighted by the occasional staccato 3yn; the first old woman, dark-skinned with deepset eyes, hijab revealing only a few straggling gray hairs and a long cloth dress that strikes me as hot. Very hot. The excited chatter of my American crew provides a background as I sit behind an automobile window looking outwards from my tiny perch.
As we approach the city, the deserted atmosphere of the outskirts is replaced with the bustling about of errands to be run and preparations to be made for the night's feast. Broken down stucco homes are replaced by delicately tiled high rises, and despite the occasional watermelon-toting donkey cart, small farms are replaced by corporate buildings and silence is filled with honking horns, putting cars, and busy people.
I understand from some readng the context for my observations. Built as it stands now within the past century (in dire contrast to the rest of Morocco), and mostly by the French at that, Casablanca represents the hopes and dreams of capitalism Moroccan-style. Who will come here and make it big? Who wlil be able to flaunt newfound riches for the metropolis to see? And who, much more often, will find themselves left dirham-less: living in vast and sprawling city slums, unemployed, unfed, unsanitary, and without any chance at an even sup-par future. And who might even turn to fundamentalist Islam as their only hope--this is where it all begins, for Moroccan extremists at least (for more, google Casa bombings).
But now, here I am in the city centre, watching the tides of traditional Morocco colide with Westernization at its peak. And I could not be happier to be here, where I am now. No other place or moment would so suffice my desires. What a wonderful thing to be able to say. Ecstatic."
Apparently I still have a few more minutes even though the cafe now supposedly closed 26 minutes ago, so a quick update on my first full day in Morocco: This morning we went to see the Hassan II mosque. Finished in 1993 after only six years of construction from start to finish, the mosaue now stands as the third largest in the world, and one of the only mosques in Morocco that is open to non-Muslims. I will try to upload pictures later, but needless to say, it was absolutely fantastic. Dad, you may be interested to know that in the hamman (bathing room) in the basement of the mosque, I learned that although the pillars are made to look like they are made of marble, they are actually a composite of limestone, clay, and eggyolk, a substance believed to absorb moisture from the room and preserve the true color of the brass chandeliers. I think that you should look into it. Wouldn't it be cool to use eggyolk in the walls of Client X's home?
After the mosque we ate a quick lunch of bread and cheese sandwiches in privacy at the hotel (it's not too appropriate to eat in front of fasters and no resteraunts are open), and then headed out to the Jewish Museum in Oasis, one upper class Casablancan suburb. The only museum of any kind in the city and the only Jewish museum in the Muslim world, the small building was home to a wonderful picture gallery and many artifacts from Jewish communities throughout Morocco. Particularly interesting was a "Megillah Hitler" which looked like it replaced Haman's name with Hitlers and although I couldn't see the rest, must of been a story of Jewish escape and survival. Although my French isn't wonderful, the French captions seemed to say that the writer was soon after exectued and somehow the work ended up in the hands of a Casablancan Jew.
We left the museum about two hours ago and wandered through a fish market on the oceanfront, stepping over shark heads and fish guts. Men preparing for the night's break-fast shopped around and we wandered through taking in the strong smells. And sights.
My darija is beginning to establish itself in my mind, and I can't wait to begin language classes later this week. Hopefully I will get some exsposure to fusa'a (Modern Standard Arabic) too, but I'm happy with whatever I take in. Will leave Casa for Fez tomorrow. So excited to meet my home-stay family.
if there are any spelling/grammatical errors here i apologize, now the cafe is waiting for me to leave to close
lauren
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Explanation of Intent
"The camel driver has his plans and the camel has his."--Anonymous, Moroccan Proverb
I am shipping off tomorrow for a semester of life in Morocco. I will travel through an organization called Global LAB (see global-lab.org). My original idea was to take some time to gather my thoughts and relax my body after a wonderful but long journey through Brookline High School, and in the process, pick up some Arabic. The consequece of that idea is quickly developing into an unpredictable and unforseeable venture into the smells, sights, and sounds of a country impacted by fascinating contradictions, not the least of which is the fusion of African, Middle Eastern, and European influences. Who knows if I will actually pick up any Arabic, or even darija (moroccan arabic)... after all, as the Moroccans themselves apparently say, the camel is in charge of the plans. I'm just the driver.
I will attempt to keep some small record of the coming semester on this weblog. My originally ingenious (though now possibly less practical, due to unknown computer access) plan of updating this blog with video clips of my journey in the spirit of David Wang, co-China traveler, may or may not come to fruition. Mom and Dad, you can check this url. Everyone else, if you're willing to deal with my long windedness, feel free to do the same.
Time to go pack up my 2 pairs of pants, 5 pairs of underwear, and whatever else my challengingly short packing list requires of me.
lauren
I am shipping off tomorrow for a semester of life in Morocco. I will travel through an organization called Global LAB (see global-lab.org). My original idea was to take some time to gather my thoughts and relax my body after a wonderful but long journey through Brookline High School, and in the process, pick up some Arabic. The consequece of that idea is quickly developing into an unpredictable and unforseeable venture into the smells, sights, and sounds of a country impacted by fascinating contradictions, not the least of which is the fusion of African, Middle Eastern, and European influences. Who knows if I will actually pick up any Arabic, or even darija (moroccan arabic)... after all, as the Moroccans themselves apparently say, the camel is in charge of the plans. I'm just the driver.
I will attempt to keep some small record of the coming semester on this weblog. My originally ingenious (though now possibly less practical, due to unknown computer access) plan of updating this blog with video clips of my journey in the spirit of David Wang, co-China traveler, may or may not come to fruition. Mom and Dad, you can check this url. Everyone else, if you're willing to deal with my long windedness, feel free to do the same.
Time to go pack up my 2 pairs of pants, 5 pairs of underwear, and whatever else my challengingly short packing list requires of me.
lauren
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