My roommate, Hannah, and I were extremely late to our first day of programs at Amideast due to our alarm clock that receded in time. Something went wrong with our transformer or we were following Moroccan standard time, which is actually an hour and a half behind the supposed local time. But they forgave us for fitting in with the culture.
Our first day consisted of a Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, class and I learned little expressions such as how are you and words for food to use with my host family, the shopkeepers and taxi drivers. They’ve certainly come in handy and having such knowledge is sure to boost one’s confidence from all the attention and praise it attracts. Darija draws expressions and words from Arabic, Berber languages, and the languages of the colonial occupiers like French and Spanish.
In the evening, we shuffled on to a tour bus and drove around the city until we reached Chellah, the ancient ruins of the Roman town known as Sala Colonia. In the mid-14th century, a Merinid sultan, Abu l-Hasan, built numerous monuments and the large red gate surrounding Chellah. The Merinids also built a mosque, a zawiya, and royal tombs, including that of Abu l-Hasan. Later, the site was converted into a garden for tourists. Here was the first physical evidence of Morocco’s complex history of occupation and cultural landscape that I encountered. I marveled at the triumphal arcs and Arabic calligraphy on the walls.
The local wild animal is not actually a squirrel or a deer. It is a felis catus, or a common household cat. Actually there are more kittens than cats because most die before they reach adulthood. I bring this up because almost everywhere you look, you will find a cluster of cuddling cats. At Chellah, they gathered around the murky waters of bassin aux anguilles, a holy site for women who believe that feeding boiled eggs to the eels will bring easy childbirth and fertility.
Next we went on a tour of Oulja, visited a carpet souq, and learned how to make pottery the old fashioned way. The man that worked there used his feet to turn the wheel and molded masterpiece after masterpiece with his rough hands. He made the craft look so simple that several girls decided to try it themselves, some who already knew how to make pottery and others who did not. Each girl took off their shoes, climbed up to the platform, and struggled to form a pot in their hands. The factory was quaint and blue with tagines lining the walls and the kiln was surrounded by trash and sleeping kittens.
That evening we all went to a local family’s home for ftour (the time to break fast) where we consumed dates, harira (a tomato-based soup with chickpeas, pasta, and cilantro), fruits, yogurt, milawi (grilled flatbread), shebekia (honey-covered pastries), and Moroccan crepes dripping with syrup and butter. The customary ftour also includes various juices, smoothies, and mint tea. After breaking our fast, my friend and I borrowed some djellabas (Moroccan robes) and prayed in a back room near the bathroom.
Once we finished our meals, we took turns sitting with the henna artist and watched her quickly decorate our hands with a syringe. The whole time I discussed similarities between South Asian and Moroccan culture. The likeness is very apparent, even in the chaotic way people drive here.
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