It is not for a lack of interesting expereinces that I have not posted in a while.
Perhaps it is because of its opposite, too many experiences to sift through and translate and make sense of.
It is officially HOT here in Fes and all of Morocco - one day the meteoroligist said that all of Morocco was between 30-35 degrees Celcius. Google that to find out the Farenheit equivalent if you forgot your grammar school lessons.
One interesting thing I can share quickly is my discovery of a new fruit. It is called muzaah, and it is delicious. I had mistaken if for an apricot but once i peeled off its light skin and tasted it - i was pleasantly suprised, one doesn't often feel like anything new AND good will come into ones life these days. Muzaah tastes like a candified version of an apple mixed with a peach. I have no idea if there is an equivalent in North America and I have absoutely no idea what it would be called in English. If you know, please post a comment.
I had the fruit one day at a friend's house who, in encouraging me to eat the meal before me, said Moroccans have an expression that goes " Eat the Breakfast of a King, the Lunch of a Prince, and the Dinner of a Pauper."
She told me this at breakfast where we had sfinge, which are fresh fried Moroccan donuts, gren tea with mint, french bread with fresh Morocan butter, AND a bowl of lamb, tomatoe and chickpea soup, called Harira. It was one of those moments where i just decided to " go with the flow" and not resist and not turn down what was offered me. Except for when a glass of warm milk was offered, and i jokingly reponded that the King doesnt drink milk with his breakfast.
Enough of food... I've got some for real traveling to do...this time to Amman, Jordan. Oh the pain of leaving North Africa and its orange blossom trees. It will be interesting to be in the REAL Deal "Mid East" though, hugh? I am already trying to transition my Arabic to something comprehensible for the Jordanians.
Keep Hope Alive People
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
A wedding and...the debt that all men pay
I am spending most of my days in constant awe of the lushness of Morocco at this time. It is April and every thing is green and full and little flowers are budding everywhere. I see now why so many weddings are planned for this season.
And speaking of weddings, I was not able to attend a good friends wedding that took place last week. As soon as I got back to town I went to visit her and she spent the afternoon rehashing the entire event for me, from her morning jitters in which she went into her room and began reciting the Quran for hours to the songs the group sang at the wedding. We looked through her photo album and I got comments and explanations on every person in the pictures.
Somehow during our conversation it came up that the father of one of our friends had died two days before. She is a girl we both feel dear affection for, although we are not real close to her. I asked her if she knew where the girl lived, neither of us had ever been to her house, but she told me that she thought it would be easy to find because we knew the neighborhood and because her father had been the prayer leader (imam)at the neighborhood mosque, so everyone would know their house.
So we set out on a little adventure to find her house and pay our respects. After getting directions from three different people, we found the mosque and knew that their house must be close. We stopped at the local grocer and asked if the imam of this mosque had died, he answered in the affirmative. We asked where the actual house was and he pointed to it. We then proceeded to buy 6 large cones of sugar to take with us to their house. It is a Moroccan custom to take sugar as a gift at times of death, marriage, and other important times.
We find the house , and it is full of people standing and sitting outside. My friend and I begin a walk of kisses and condolences into the entrance of the house where we find the widow, our friends mother dressed all in white out of mourning. She will dress all in white everyday for the next four months.
Our friend is not at home, she is out running errands. We talk with her sister in the living room, that is also filled with people drinking coffee and eating pastries. The sister rehashes for us her father's last day. How slowly he lost his bodily functions, how he sat reciting large parts of the Quran from memory at night when he could not sleep, to his final doctors visit and then the moment when they stood before him in his room waiting to say goodbye.
She told us this all without crying, although her hands were shaking. She said the family would be moving soon because the house belongs to the government. As a prayer leader and then as the caller to prayer, which her father served as until a day or two before his death, he was a government worker. It is a lot to deal with in the span of a few days.
As sunset approaches, we take our leave of the family and walk towards home. We end up walking past my friend's sister's house and she talks me into going in to look at the DVD of her wedding. We drink tea and I look at the pictures I saw earlier in the photo album now come to life with singing, and processions of guests and shots of the food.
It is night now, and we have only sat through one of the two DVDs. We will save it for another day God willing. "Death wedged between a wedding" that is how I sum up the day in my head during my cab ride home. And i think about how some people call the day you die your real wedding day, and then I think about how some people call it, the debt that all men must pay.
And speaking of weddings, I was not able to attend a good friends wedding that took place last week. As soon as I got back to town I went to visit her and she spent the afternoon rehashing the entire event for me, from her morning jitters in which she went into her room and began reciting the Quran for hours to the songs the group sang at the wedding. We looked through her photo album and I got comments and explanations on every person in the pictures.
Somehow during our conversation it came up that the father of one of our friends had died two days before. She is a girl we both feel dear affection for, although we are not real close to her. I asked her if she knew where the girl lived, neither of us had ever been to her house, but she told me that she thought it would be easy to find because we knew the neighborhood and because her father had been the prayer leader (imam)at the neighborhood mosque, so everyone would know their house.
So we set out on a little adventure to find her house and pay our respects. After getting directions from three different people, we found the mosque and knew that their house must be close. We stopped at the local grocer and asked if the imam of this mosque had died, he answered in the affirmative. We asked where the actual house was and he pointed to it. We then proceeded to buy 6 large cones of sugar to take with us to their house. It is a Moroccan custom to take sugar as a gift at times of death, marriage, and other important times.
We find the house , and it is full of people standing and sitting outside. My friend and I begin a walk of kisses and condolences into the entrance of the house where we find the widow, our friends mother dressed all in white out of mourning. She will dress all in white everyday for the next four months.
Our friend is not at home, she is out running errands. We talk with her sister in the living room, that is also filled with people drinking coffee and eating pastries. The sister rehashes for us her father's last day. How slowly he lost his bodily functions, how he sat reciting large parts of the Quran from memory at night when he could not sleep, to his final doctors visit and then the moment when they stood before him in his room waiting to say goodbye.
She told us this all without crying, although her hands were shaking. She said the family would be moving soon because the house belongs to the government. As a prayer leader and then as the caller to prayer, which her father served as until a day or two before his death, he was a government worker. It is a lot to deal with in the span of a few days.
As sunset approaches, we take our leave of the family and walk towards home. We end up walking past my friend's sister's house and she talks me into going in to look at the DVD of her wedding. We drink tea and I look at the pictures I saw earlier in the photo album now come to life with singing, and processions of guests and shots of the food.
It is night now, and we have only sat through one of the two DVDs. We will save it for another day God willing. "Death wedged between a wedding" that is how I sum up the day in my head during my cab ride home. And i think about how some people call the day you die your real wedding day, and then I think about how some people call it, the debt that all men must pay.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Pig Farming in Morocco, another inconsistent reality of Tourism
I am not big on the Moroccan government's plan to support the Moroccan economy with money from foreign tourists. The article that is linked right here shows just how many consequences there are to basing your life-bread on tourism.
And just as an aside,I mean really, if you come all the way to Morocco to "experience something different" couldnt you go without bacon for a week or so? Or is pork-free just too exotic?
And just as an aside,I mean really, if you come all the way to Morocco to "experience something different" couldnt you go without bacon for a week or so? Or is pork-free just too exotic?
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