To Spain and Back

Last weekend CIEE took us on a trip to northern Morocco. However, we wanted to see Tangier some for ourselves before all of the CIEE scheduling and program set in, so we set out a day early. We found a great hostel in the old medina and did some shopping around. We were able to explore some and then the next day got picked up by CIEE to see various cities in northern Morocco.

Our spectacular hostel

Hercule's Cave

One of our stops that weekend, interestingly enough, was Spain. As American citizens we didn't need to get a visa to come to Morocco. We automatically can come and stay for three months. However, our program is four months long. So, to get around this, we simply took a (very) short trip to Spain. No, we didn't cross the Strait. We stayed on the African continent.

You see, Ceuta is an interesting Spanish city.

We simply drove to the border, got out of the bus, handed over our passports, got them stamped, walked across and suddenly, we were in Spain. We hoped into taxis and I loved that I could communicated with ease. I tried to not to snicker at the unfamiliar accent. We walked around the downtown area and European architecture surrounded us.

We spent less than four hours in this Spanish city, yet we ate pork, spoke Spanish and felt like we were very much inside of Europe. They were even celebrating Carnaval while we were there, so we were able to enjoy a very festive city.

Group of Spaniards dressed as chickens

Part of the parade's procession

It was an odd sensation. We had just finished reading a book called Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits for one of our classes. It tells the story of four Moroccans who are desperate to cross the border into Spain. It is the promise of a better life-- a new life. Though we were able to simply walk into Spain, many Moroccans will never see the city of Ceuta. They can't get the visa necessary to reach Spain.

As we walked across the border, you could see armed guards stationed on the hills surrounding the city; they were definitely there to keep people out.

Yet our privilege, our blue passports, allowed us to walk into Spain and back... for three and a half hours. We spent the evening in Spain so that we wouldn't need to get visas, and so many can't ever visit because they can't get visas.

All in all, it was a cool experience. I enjoyed Ceuta. I loved speaking Spanish and I really enjoyed the city :)

Things I Miss About Speaking the Same Language

1. Initiating conversations comfortably
   I wish I could initiate conversations in any situation with any person without having to rehearse my first sentence over and over again.
2. Finishing my own sentencesMoroccans are super friendly and are so helpful when I'm struggling to communicate. However, once they catch the gist of what I'm trying to say, they finish my sentences for me. I'm excited to be able to finish my own sentences, sometimes.
   
3. Asking meaningful follow-up questionsSometimes, my host family explains something to me and I can understand the big picture. But I struggle immensely to ask meaningful followup questions in order to understand better or have them expand on certain topics.
4. Asking meaningful questions. Period.
   I miss being able to ask people questions that don't start with "Who," "How," "What," and "Where." I want to be able to get to know people's and their hearts not just all the "whats."
5. Feeling more adventurous in wandering around the city.
   I'd be much more willing to hop on a bus and figure out the public transportation if I was certain I knew how to ask for directions to where I wanted to be and I was confident I could understand their response.
6. Explaining games to children. I just want to play games with so many kids, but I can't think of enough games that I know can explain well.
   
7. Teasing people.There have been so many times I could tease my family, but I know that I don't have the necessary vocabulary to do so. So I end up laughing and trying to gesture out some sort of tease, but it never has the same effect. Never. 

While this list is in no way exhaustive, these are just a couple of things I miss about being able to proficiently communicate in the same language. 

On Celebrations

So I was surprised by several things today:

1. How much these Moroccan ladies can eat. Oh my goodness! "Viviana, just one banana!" No, I could not eat "just" one more banana after having eaten chicken and beef and (of course!) bread only three hours after I had eaten lunch. One more banana would make me pop. I was certain of it. 
2. How these Moroccan women can shake those hips!! Colombian women can certainly move their hips, flowing perfectly with the music. But Moroccan women? The quick drums and the ultra-fast rhythms made for some incredibly fast hip movements. I was simply amazed. When it was my turn to try, I wasn't even sure how to move in that way. What was I trying to move to? There was no way I could move to the speed of those drums.
3. There is always room for one more woman on the couch. Oh, yes there is. I'm not sure how many women fit on the divans, but there always seemed to be room to squeeze one more on. I  thought I'd feel less squished when one would stand up to dance, but alas, no, somehow, we were constantly squished on the couches. 
4. I was told I might be cold. I might be cold... so I should wear leggings and a tank top and two sweaters under my caftan in case I was cold in the house with dozens upon dozens of dancing women in it. Maybe. At one point I was wondering if I should brave the bathroom with the light that didn't work to try and take off one of the sweaters. 

So I went to a typical Moroccan subha today, celebrating the birth of a beautiful baby girl. Subha comes from the number seven; the celebration generally is held seven days after the baby's birth. We arrived around 3:30, though the celebration had been going on for at least an hour by then. At least 40 women were in the two living rooms; many sat on the divans lining the walls, a few danced in the open space. I was pulled into the "dance floor" a couple of times and the Moroccans loved seeing this white girl try to move her hips.

"Just move your HIPS," they'd tell me. Yes, I know what my hips are. I just don't have the same kind of control over mine like you do over yours. I can see their confusion, though. I'm positive my hips weren't moving when they told me to move them, so it made sense for them to conclude that I didn't know what my hips were.

After a while they took us downstairs to eat. Oumaima told me to get ready to eat a lot of food. I breathed in sharply; lunch couldn't have been more than four hours ago. I still had plenty of tajine and bread in my stomach. But more bread was brought out and then a huge silver platter of chicken was served. I ate sparingly, but still found myself quite full. She leaned over and told me that more food was coming. The chicken was cleared and a silver platter of beef was brought out. I ate a bit, but didn't think I should out of fear of the food coma. But then an entire platter of fruits was brought out. I was urged to eat more. I had two small slices of pineapple, then scolded for not eating more fruit. I found a small strawberry and ate that. Oumaima's aunt asked my why I didn't eat just one more banana. Ma'am, one more banana would be the death of me.

We returned upstairs for more dancing, more food (yes, cookies and tea, of course) and more laughing.

Wowza. What a way to celebrate new life!

Enjoy some pictures:

Culture Shock

I had my first "culture-shock" moment yesterday.

No, not the kind of culture shock that makes me want to leave Morocco. Not even the kind of culture shock that makes me miss home intensely. It was the kind of situation where no matter how long I was in it, I couldn't quite get used to it. It was that kind of culture shock.

I went to a hammam with a sweet Moroccan friend, Oumaima. A hammam, is a public bathhouse. I knew that they were very popular here in Morocco and that it was imperative that I visit one while I was here. But I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

I guess it doesn't matter. I don't think any amount of information would have totally prepared me for the nakedness and the beautiful lack of shame displayed in the hammam. Women bathed without any thought of covering themselves, and I kept thinking I'd get used to it, until my eyes shifted from the ceiling or a wall to a person. And then I realized I still wasn't used to it.

Oumaima was wonderful and talked me through the elaborate bathing steps.

I was shocked by all of the dead skin that came off of me. Spaghetti, she called it. She curiously asked me, "What do you do with your dead skin in America?" Honestly? "I don't do anything with it," I replied. Her mouth dropped and I just laughed.

I couldn't imagine how soft my skin would be if I went to the hammam every week, as was customary for many Moroccan women.

Afterwards, Oumaima made sure I was fully wrapped up and warm so that the change of temperatures wouldn't mess with me (I guess Colombians would get along just fine here). We headed back to her house, napped on the divans (like couches) a bit and then had a wonderful cous cous lunch.

After all, it was Cous Cous Friday.

On Language

It's the last day of derija classes. I guess it's about time I delve into the specifics of the Arab language... it might help explain the language barrier some and hopefully proves to be interesting at the very least :) 

I've been asked a couple of times why I'm taking Moroccan Colloquial Arabic if I took Arabic in school... wouldn't I just pick it up by living there?

Well, yes, I suppose I could eventually just "pick it up," but Moroccan Colloquial Arabic (also known as derija) is a language in and of itself. Yes, it is a form of Arabic, but it is different enough that some native Arabic speakers from other regions (the Gulf, for example) may not understand derija. Derija is a dialect blending French, Arabic and some Spanish. I was told Spanish was part of the blend, but I haven't been fond of how few Spanish words I see.

I've been taking Modern Standard Arabic (MSA) for the last five semesters. Problem is, no one speaks MSA to each other in the Arab world. You can't learn MSA, or fusha, through immersion. Each country or region has its on colloquial dialect. The news is presented in MSA and some other official programs such as National Geographic is also in MSA. MSA is taught in school, so little kids don't understand it and because it isn't used on a daily basis, many aren't comfortably speaking it back and forth. However, most people could understand it if need be.

Though it isn't a perfect analogy, imagine someone walked up to you and spoke Shakespearean English to you. You'd probably understand it. However, you probably wouldn't be as comfortable reproducing it and speaking it back to them. I think a similar thing happens with MSA and many Arabic speakers. Some, however, are really good at MSA and enjoy it, though most of those with whom I've interacted, aren't shy in expressing their distaste for MSA.

Derija feels like a language of quickness. Short vowels found in MSA are often replaced with sukuuns, essentially smashing three or four consonant sounds together. For example the verb "to write" in MSA is "ka-ta-ba," but in derija it becomes "k-t-b." Nope, I'm not kidding. Negating verbs is done by adding an "m" to the beginning and an "shh" to the end. This becomes tricky when stringing together many, many, many consonants.

I have loved taking the intensive crash course, but I must say that I am relieved to no longer have five hours a day of this language. It is exhausting.

I have stumbled through conversations, laughed my way through situations and managed to make do so far. Hopefully, derija becomes a bit easier after a while :)

Birthday in Morocco

I celebrated my 21st birthday in Morocco this past week.

To be honest, I wasn't oober excited. If I could pick to be anywhere, with anyone, it'd be with my friends and family from back home (any home, really). I would have loved to spend the day with Lucas and enjoying time with loved ones.

But clearly, I was an ocean away and five time zones apart. Not quite an easy feat.

So, I was bracing myself for an "okay" kind of day.

But it was fabulous :)

My friends in the CIEE program were great, wishing me happy birthday as soon as they saw me. I wasn't allowed to pay for lunch and I was constantly asked what I wanted to do. I was sung "happy birthday" in derija class and our teacher gave me a cute little key chain. After class ended, I was surprised with a birthday cake and really felt appreciated :) They sang "happy birthday" in English, Arabic, French and Spanish (just for me =P )!

Afterwards I headed home and was looking forward to Skyping my dad (with whom I share a birthday) and hopefully getting to talk to Lucas as well. My sweet host family surprised me with a birthday cake, candles and a beautiful gift. I was so overwhelmed I was almost brought to tears. My family sang me happy birthday in Arabic, Amazigh, English (soooo cute) and Korean!! So yes, it was a day of many languages :D

Nope, I didn't spend the day giggling with Lucas or reminiscing with friends from home, but I definitely had a good day, enjoying exactly where I am.