a Couple Emails from Recent Times to Update on My Status:
December 6th.
i left fes two days ago. strange because i closed the intensive arabic and family-life chapter of my moroccan journey and have begun my slow, weaving trip back home-- up through the rif mountains along the mediterranean coast, next week to see the arab influence in spain, and finally, in 10 days, back over the pond to ill go. [I no longer feel like i am in morocco, at least not the morocco as morocco has come to mean to me (family, arabic, etc)]
but what does it all mean, and what is life, thought, complexity, or simplicity. why do i think in dualities and why cant i control my mind or my typing or anything for that matter? time rolls, time chills, and i let it ebb and flow. while the moon pulls the oceans, something pulls my clock. probably the mechanical insides, some would say, but isnt that just a human scientific explanantion for the much greater existence of one of the most baffling ideas that dominate our existence: time.
i am in chefchaouen right now. the city of blue. check it out. online or something maybe. it literally is all blue. painted that way by jews in the mid 1900s although before that it had always been green (islam). but this place was where jews and muslims together fleed from spain in the 1400s, and yet, christians were not allowed, ever, until very very recently. why? what is religion? what am i doing in this place?
life is beautiful.
thats what it all really comes down to.
sunsets here are simply incredible. i cannot get over it. cannot snap out of it.
December 10th
brief check in from algerciras in spain. arrived an hour or two ago after sailing (or rathering motoring) swiftly (or not) across the straits of gibralter, in a mere few hours. and yes, its only about 20 km from tangier to here but our ferry was massive, completely empty (probably about 4, perhaps 5 passengers other than us), and departed from the maghreb no less that 2 hours late. exited the ferry station here and were not harassed to jump into greatly overpriced taxis(coughmoroccocough). but our ferry ran so late we missed the train and all other transport to cordoba for the day, and will therefore stay in Hotel Marrakesh, run by an arabic speaking joker from tangier, for the night. departing early morning for cordoba, and will pack in what we can over the next two days, Mezquita and all.
there is so much to say and simply no time, and clearly thats nothing new... but i am picking up a few useful spanish phrases and finding the romance languages (french, too) fascinating despite all prior neglect of them as such... monsieur cody´s few additions to my scattered brain left years ago upon arrival in xian and i focused so much on darija in morocco that only today did i come to my senses and begin memorizing a few phrases in all sorts of languages. i was nervous about leaving morocco and still have not processed that i have indeed left, as i am still speaking arabic in this portside neighborhood on the mediterranean. soon enough, it will hit me im sure, and then i will revert back to memory and film, esp that of tangier fading away as we pulled out of port. meanwhile the excitement of the andalus has taken light and i am anxiously awaiting or journey northwards into the history of millenial (? by this i mean the time around the turn of the first century ad) morocco!
though tania aebi (sailed round the world a few years back) warned me about the threats of steamer channels across these straits, the death bowl of wind that is the atlantic, and some good old mediterranean pollution, i have my mind set on sailing back through these straits someday, hopefully in a 26 footer (or something of the likes), sail flying high.
Now.
Someone really did not want us to get to Cordoba. Yesterday´s early morning train ride was delightful and comfortable and beautiful, and then we missed the stop at Cordoba so went all the way to Madrid. And then all the way back. After missing a whole day of precious time, we are finally here. Spain is incredible, excuse the bad adjective.
The mezquita mosque was built at the height of Muslim rule in the Andalus in the 900s ad and is indescribable. In 1600 a church was built plop in the middle of the thing, so Mass was going on as I explored this most fabled and exotic Islamic masterwork. Cannot move on without mentioning the hundreds of red and white striped arches, though I have not yet been able to quite understand the likeness of them to date palms (Lonely Planet told me that hallucinogens would to the trick, but I think I'm alright, thanks). Eventually rose from sickness this morning (when i pondered some bedsprings), and caught a marvelous sunset from across the river tonight after checking out a statue of Maimonides--who is from Cordoba and then lived in Fes-- and the best preserved synagogue in all of Spain this afternoon.
I am thriving on my last few days on this side of the Atlantic. What else will I catch, see, think, do? Who knows. How wonderful!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Fly
My mind is going to explode. How do i get this all down on paper? How can i write feelings, record, emotions. My fingers try to fly, and in so doing stumble over themselves, pinky over thumb, half the speed of normal in all their angst. The angst of my mind. Life is beautiful, oh so beautiful! I want to scream it from mountains, from valleys and rivers and oceans and medinas and kasbahs and life! Life from life from, oh, my life! God? Who God, he God, she God, transcience, but its all so clear! I am flying flying flying flyingd lfinyinh flginye, fsdlkgjtsoifgjoir
Dig it! Dig this life, kid, dig! I can think. Can I think? How can i think? How can my mind process this. What is this? Who knows, who cares? How do i exist? Check it out, check out life. Dig dig dig man dig. Dig woman dig. Where did I come from? How were humans created? When did we begin to be able to speak? When write? How does this key board work? Look! When I hit a ´b´, a b shows up. Always. What is that process. Dig dig dig. A fever has got me and I cannot shake it. Where ever I am, whenever I am, I can still dig. When I run out of my energy, you ask? Well, I lie in bed, and dig the bedsprings. What metal are they made of? How are they shaped to maximum effiency? What is it like to sleep on a bed of straw? Why and when and where and what and and and
If I were dropped in the middle of empty space and time, say a jungle at the beginning of human existence, what would I know about how to make the world like it is now? Nothing! Metals and alloys, copper ages, technology? Automobiles? Teach me, learn, me, ask! Curiousity killed the cat, but no no no curiousity can´t kill me!
Dig it! Dig this life, kid, dig! I can think. Can I think? How can i think? How can my mind process this. What is this? Who knows, who cares? How do i exist? Check it out, check out life. Dig dig dig man dig. Dig woman dig. Where did I come from? How were humans created? When did we begin to be able to speak? When write? How does this key board work? Look! When I hit a ´b´, a b shows up. Always. What is that process. Dig dig dig. A fever has got me and I cannot shake it. Where ever I am, whenever I am, I can still dig. When I run out of my energy, you ask? Well, I lie in bed, and dig the bedsprings. What metal are they made of? How are they shaped to maximum effiency? What is it like to sleep on a bed of straw? Why and when and where and what and and and
If I were dropped in the middle of empty space and time, say a jungle at the beginning of human existence, what would I know about how to make the world like it is now? Nothing! Metals and alloys, copper ages, technology? Automobiles? Teach me, learn, me, ask! Curiousity killed the cat, but no no no curiousity can´t kill me!
A Month in Blog-Form
"Well, you know you make me wanna' (Shout) Kick my heels up and (Shout) Throw my hands up and (Shout) Throw my head back and (Shout) Come on now..." The soft rise and roll of the Middle Atlas blessed my eyes for miles on end. Brown and green hills spotted with shephards and sheep; autumn New England leaves in Switzerl-- Ifrane, that is: reds and yellows and pure bliss; forlorn tourist stands off-road attented by withering sun-swept men, jellaba-cloaked and tired. Nothing 'dramatic'. No sunset, no palmeries, no camels, no gorges, snake-charmers, or snow-capped peaks. No green mediterranean water, no "Rick's cafe", no awe-some kasbahs. Around a bend, and the first glimpse of white, sandstone, mud-straw buildings. SHOUT. The music pulsed and I pulsed with it. Alive, eyes drawn, heart pounding. Over a month ago, and yet my heart pulses again with mere recollection as I type. Return to Fes.
***
My Morocco is not a mystery, an exotic dream, Africa, an illusion. My Morocco is dusty. My Morocco is religious, medina streets (which may or may not be trash-spotted), traditional, boys in streets, cafes, talking to me while I pass by and pretend to be deaf. My Morocco is mint tea (the "unique" national drink that was, in fact, introduced by the British not so long ago) and fresh-squeezed orange juice, harira and tagines and coucous (ksk-ksu) fridays and shibekia. My Morocco is not flawless. My Morocco is the ElAamouri family, Bab Ziat, where prayer rugs come out five times daily as I ponder religion in my life and theirs. My Morocco is people fighting to survive, people surviving quite nicely, thank you, and the vast spectrum in between. My Morocco is darija and, to be frank, not french.
***
Nighttime, and I lie sprawled out in the saloon, blanket half over my legs, half over Ahmed's. Stuffed from fries, lemon chicken, and peach-lemon smoothie. Darija homework in my lap, English homework in his. Al Jazeera blabbers away.
--"She are going...?"
--"No, she is going."
--"Why?"
Words, "THE CORPORATION", flash on the screen in bold red letters, arabic underneath, and the american flag waves ominously in the backround.
~"shnu hadak brnammaj?" (what is that [tv] program?)
~"ma n3rf, shi haja 3la l'mirikan w Bush" (i don't know, something about america and bush)
~"iyea m3loum, welakin shnu akhor," (yea, of course, but what else)
From commercials back to the interview of an American Jewish lawyer defending the rights of Arabs in the States who have suffered in the wake of 9/11. My host mother and father pull me away from my books for half an hour to talk about jewish-muslim relations world wide and how many jews work side-by-side with arabs in america, morocco, globally. A similar conversation to the one I have nearly every night with them, each with a new dilemma or situation to contemplate. Israel/Palestine? Kosher/Hallal? Armies. Prayer. People.
***
I wander along remote and wind swept dirt roads lined by construction men and sparks, leaving early morning class at SACAL Fes. Across a large street, a beach is being built, apparently. There is no ocean or lake or body-of-water-suitable-for-a-beach in (very very inland)Fes. Strange? The sheep herd that lives on the first floor of the building next to SACAL grazes lazily amongst high-class complexes (moroccan suberbs, kind-of) that rise from the dust around me. I exchange "labas"s with the nike-suited shepherd, my friend. My mind wanders like my feet-- "helent?", no "helemt?" --as I stumble over new vocabulary and get confused with the word "I dreamed". After ten minutes, I arrive at the bus stop, where Moroccans stare at me like I arrived out of a space ship. Every day, the eyes. Foriegners don't take the bus.
***
Back from early morning class exhausted and hungry. Doorbell. "Shkun?" (Who?). Lauren. Wait a few moments. Door swings open suspiciously, revealing an empty hallway. Ahmed, I know you're there! But he isn't there, I realize after a few seconds of waiting stupidly on the doorstep for him to jump out. So I proceed towards the stairs and... "AH!" He jumps out, of course. Every single day. But I still scream, honestly surprised. Upstairs, food is cooking. I greet Fatima and ask permission to wash my clothes. "Only if I can help" she tells me, knowing that I will insist on doing it myself, but wishing to help my incompetant in-her-eyes self so that my clothes will actually end up cleaner than they already are. We run water. I scrub and scrub and then she tries to be sly in re-scrubbing everything that I finish with. Waste of time, you think? Not at all. Soap fights with Fatima and learning new vocabulary about sports-- this is her sport, and she is victorious, always. I stretch afterwards when my back aches while she laughs at me.
Up to the terrace to hang clothes. Other women are always on the terrace, it seems, hanging clothes and chatting. Today, a new woman is there, whom I greet despite her suspicious eyes (first time I encounter anything similar). She edges away from me and soon disappears indoors. She lives on the top, third, floor of our building. I find out that her husband "has a beard", Fatima says, "religious extremist", she says, "despises Americans", she enlightens me. "Has a problem in the head" Fatima tells me later. Interesting. Someone like me does not normally encouter someone like my upstairs neighbor. They do well at avoiding us. I wonder what a further encounter with her would be like? (only other attempts at such were with her husband who ignored me twice when greeted him with an "asalaam aleikum" when our paths crossed on the steps outside the building).
***
Zoom hours forward to nightime, sun has set and call to prayers have sounded. I sit reading homework in the saloon after having spent the afternoon with Fatima; we took a nap in the saloon (you have probably noticed that most of my time is spent here), I helped her begin dinner preparations, we drank tea (with her mint fresh from the north--none of the withered Fes stuff is allowed in the ElAamouri household), she told me a story about corrupt cops and her aunt, and now we relax with blankets around us. She watches the Moroccan cooking channel, I practice my vegetables.
Abderrahim arrives home from medrasa (school) around 6:30 where he teaches biology to high school students six to eight hours a day. Ahmed comes running upstairs soon after, throws his bags down and runs back out to play in the street. A high-ranked high school freshman, he has school 8-12 and 2-6 daily, with rotating subjects, from Quran to English, Science and Mathematics, Art, etc. Othman arrives home from vocational high school around 8pm where he spends his days learning tailor-ship and various handiman skills (his partial deafness is a problem in a country where the handicapped are rarely able to overcome anything other than unnoticeable dissabilities). We eat at 9.
***
I half-run after Fatima as we make our way uphill towards Bou Jeloud. Noone harasses me when I walk in her shadow. She struts proudly, head held high, shoes shined, no-bullshit expression stretched tightly across her face, eyes narrowed head on. If she walked into a brick wall, I´m pretty sure it would crumble to her sides. She would not be caught missing a step. And no, nothing special has happened, this is Fatima outside the home.
We are coming from making jellabas together. I see a camel head hanging from a post and almost step on a man´s chicken. Fatima pulls me to the right just in time. A man leans over his cart stirring a large vat of popping popcorn. I am warped back in time to a street around the corner from Xin Xin Jia Yuan in Xian where I bought near-daily bags of sweatened popcorn from my hunched over chinese popcorn seller three years ago. I am pulled out of nostalgia by the melody of Winds of Change, a song that I learned four years ago at Seeds of Peace, blasting from a little hanut. I have never, ever, heard that song anywhere else and have been futily searching for a copy of it for four years. Memories...
***
I stumble and fall over trying to put my enormous black backpack on and Fatima laughs at me while a tear drops down her face. Once back on my feet, I give her a few last hugs and kisses. She shoves a bucketful of her famous shibekia into my hands, for my mom in Boston, she says. Eight in the morning, Othman and Ahmed have left for school after Othman danced for me one last time, and Ahmed showed me a majic trick revealing a scarf that the family gave me as a going away present. The Fassian air is clear and crisp, the house smells of fresh hubs in the oven, and Abderrahim makes me promise I will be back. I strap my other back over my shoulder and waddle out the door and down the stairs with Fatima. She is crying a little harder now. I cannot remember the last time I cried. Tears drip down my face. As I walk away from the building, Fatima stands in the doorway waving; I am in a storybook. It all feels unreal. Three months. Morocco.
***
My Morocco is not a mystery, an exotic dream, Africa, an illusion. My Morocco is dusty. My Morocco is religious, medina streets (which may or may not be trash-spotted), traditional, boys in streets, cafes, talking to me while I pass by and pretend to be deaf. My Morocco is mint tea (the "unique" national drink that was, in fact, introduced by the British not so long ago) and fresh-squeezed orange juice, harira and tagines and coucous (ksk-ksu) fridays and shibekia. My Morocco is not flawless. My Morocco is the ElAamouri family, Bab Ziat, where prayer rugs come out five times daily as I ponder religion in my life and theirs. My Morocco is people fighting to survive, people surviving quite nicely, thank you, and the vast spectrum in between. My Morocco is darija and, to be frank, not french.
***
Nighttime, and I lie sprawled out in the saloon, blanket half over my legs, half over Ahmed's. Stuffed from fries, lemon chicken, and peach-lemon smoothie. Darija homework in my lap, English homework in his. Al Jazeera blabbers away.
--"She are going...?"
--"No, she is going."
--"Why?"
Words, "THE CORPORATION", flash on the screen in bold red letters, arabic underneath, and the american flag waves ominously in the backround.
~"shnu hadak brnammaj?" (what is that [tv] program?)
~"ma n3rf, shi haja 3la l'mirikan w Bush" (i don't know, something about america and bush)
~"iyea m3loum, welakin shnu akhor," (yea, of course, but what else)
From commercials back to the interview of an American Jewish lawyer defending the rights of Arabs in the States who have suffered in the wake of 9/11. My host mother and father pull me away from my books for half an hour to talk about jewish-muslim relations world wide and how many jews work side-by-side with arabs in america, morocco, globally. A similar conversation to the one I have nearly every night with them, each with a new dilemma or situation to contemplate. Israel/Palestine? Kosher/Hallal? Armies. Prayer. People.
***
I wander along remote and wind swept dirt roads lined by construction men and sparks, leaving early morning class at SACAL Fes. Across a large street, a beach is being built, apparently. There is no ocean or lake or body-of-water-suitable-for-a-beach in (very very inland)Fes. Strange? The sheep herd that lives on the first floor of the building next to SACAL grazes lazily amongst high-class complexes (moroccan suberbs, kind-of) that rise from the dust around me. I exchange "labas"s with the nike-suited shepherd, my friend. My mind wanders like my feet-- "helent?", no "helemt?" --as I stumble over new vocabulary and get confused with the word "I dreamed". After ten minutes, I arrive at the bus stop, where Moroccans stare at me like I arrived out of a space ship. Every day, the eyes. Foriegners don't take the bus.
***
Back from early morning class exhausted and hungry. Doorbell. "Shkun?" (Who?). Lauren. Wait a few moments. Door swings open suspiciously, revealing an empty hallway. Ahmed, I know you're there! But he isn't there, I realize after a few seconds of waiting stupidly on the doorstep for him to jump out. So I proceed towards the stairs and... "AH!" He jumps out, of course. Every single day. But I still scream, honestly surprised. Upstairs, food is cooking. I greet Fatima and ask permission to wash my clothes. "Only if I can help" she tells me, knowing that I will insist on doing it myself, but wishing to help my incompetant in-her-eyes self so that my clothes will actually end up cleaner than they already are. We run water. I scrub and scrub and then she tries to be sly in re-scrubbing everything that I finish with. Waste of time, you think? Not at all. Soap fights with Fatima and learning new vocabulary about sports-- this is her sport, and she is victorious, always. I stretch afterwards when my back aches while she laughs at me.
Up to the terrace to hang clothes. Other women are always on the terrace, it seems, hanging clothes and chatting. Today, a new woman is there, whom I greet despite her suspicious eyes (first time I encounter anything similar). She edges away from me and soon disappears indoors. She lives on the top, third, floor of our building. I find out that her husband "has a beard", Fatima says, "religious extremist", she says, "despises Americans", she enlightens me. "Has a problem in the head" Fatima tells me later. Interesting. Someone like me does not normally encouter someone like my upstairs neighbor. They do well at avoiding us. I wonder what a further encounter with her would be like? (only other attempts at such were with her husband who ignored me twice when greeted him with an "asalaam aleikum" when our paths crossed on the steps outside the building).
***
Zoom hours forward to nightime, sun has set and call to prayers have sounded. I sit reading homework in the saloon after having spent the afternoon with Fatima; we took a nap in the saloon (you have probably noticed that most of my time is spent here), I helped her begin dinner preparations, we drank tea (with her mint fresh from the north--none of the withered Fes stuff is allowed in the ElAamouri household), she told me a story about corrupt cops and her aunt, and now we relax with blankets around us. She watches the Moroccan cooking channel, I practice my vegetables.
Abderrahim arrives home from medrasa (school) around 6:30 where he teaches biology to high school students six to eight hours a day. Ahmed comes running upstairs soon after, throws his bags down and runs back out to play in the street. A high-ranked high school freshman, he has school 8-12 and 2-6 daily, with rotating subjects, from Quran to English, Science and Mathematics, Art, etc. Othman arrives home from vocational high school around 8pm where he spends his days learning tailor-ship and various handiman skills (his partial deafness is a problem in a country where the handicapped are rarely able to overcome anything other than unnoticeable dissabilities). We eat at 9.
***
I half-run after Fatima as we make our way uphill towards Bou Jeloud. Noone harasses me when I walk in her shadow. She struts proudly, head held high, shoes shined, no-bullshit expression stretched tightly across her face, eyes narrowed head on. If she walked into a brick wall, I´m pretty sure it would crumble to her sides. She would not be caught missing a step. And no, nothing special has happened, this is Fatima outside the home.
We are coming from making jellabas together. I see a camel head hanging from a post and almost step on a man´s chicken. Fatima pulls me to the right just in time. A man leans over his cart stirring a large vat of popping popcorn. I am warped back in time to a street around the corner from Xin Xin Jia Yuan in Xian where I bought near-daily bags of sweatened popcorn from my hunched over chinese popcorn seller three years ago. I am pulled out of nostalgia by the melody of Winds of Change, a song that I learned four years ago at Seeds of Peace, blasting from a little hanut. I have never, ever, heard that song anywhere else and have been futily searching for a copy of it for four years. Memories...
***
I stumble and fall over trying to put my enormous black backpack on and Fatima laughs at me while a tear drops down her face. Once back on my feet, I give her a few last hugs and kisses. She shoves a bucketful of her famous shibekia into my hands, for my mom in Boston, she says. Eight in the morning, Othman and Ahmed have left for school after Othman danced for me one last time, and Ahmed showed me a majic trick revealing a scarf that the family gave me as a going away present. The Fassian air is clear and crisp, the house smells of fresh hubs in the oven, and Abderrahim makes me promise I will be back. I strap my other back over my shoulder and waddle out the door and down the stairs with Fatima. She is crying a little harder now. I cannot remember the last time I cried. Tears drip down my face. As I walk away from the building, Fatima stands in the doorway waving; I am in a storybook. It all feels unreal. Three months. Morocco.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)