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Thursday, April 13th, 2006
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LJ was unavailable in Morocco for the longest time, so I am behind on posting, and so, so, so much has happened. This has been a season of exhilaration. Again and again I have been moved by people’s kindness, hilariously baffled by my odd life here and fucking amazed by what surprises arrive. A few of these funny times, when I have thought, “How did I get here?!”:
---Finding myself in a little room with a dozen women and girls of one family, being force-fed too many sweets aggressive hospitality-style while they plan my engagement to one of their light-skinned sons. They pointed out that his skin was light like mine. They called him up, the fashionable boy with crinkly chin length hair, and he greeted us and didn’t dare look me in the eye.
---Charming three Spanish guys—two young diplomats and an impeccably dapper man in the juice business—first over drinks and chocolate mousse at the Brazilian restaurant in front of Parliament. My game was on! Poise, soft-voice, bold gestures and funny conversation. The juice man knew just how to charm me, asking, “Do you write?” and then, “You look like someone who would write.” We searched futilely for a club that was open despite the holiday, the Prophet’s birthday, then settled for gin-tonics at the elegant apartment of one Spaniard, listening to The Pixies on the terrace, watching the moon and Cathedral.
---Walking in the medina, very late for lunch at a friend’s house, passing the good pirated CD shop, French hip-hop booming, and hesitating then spinning around to pick up the latest Sean Paul. (Have you heard “Temperature” and “Ever Blazin”?! So good!) I chatted about Moroccan hip-hop with the shopguy and left with two CDs—Bigg of Casablanca and H Kayne of Meknès—and a VCD of videos and documentary footage on break dancing etc. I had the shopguy play Bigg for me and in the beginning of one song he shouts “Atiini beat!” (Give me a beat!) in Arabic/English.
---Going to the hammam with my mom, instructing her scrub-lady not to scrub too hard, chillin’ together nearly naked (underwear) for the first time in at least ten years.
The thing now is What do I do re: V. of Spain, V. of mixed messages, of having an on/off Paris girlfriend of four years? We get along smashingly. Yesterday afternoon we sipped mineral water at a garden café, strolled through the medina, took an awesomely cliché beach walk, sat on a rock and watched an old man fish with a plastic bag on a string, and drank a bit of wine in his airy a-p-t. This all made me explain to my good friend Youssef the phrase “to get played.” A la “Me, You and Everyone We Know,” I’m writing FUCK in marker on the windshield.
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These are the roughest notes from the trip I giddily dubbed Business Travel for One. I spent two days in Tangier completely on my own, to attend a salon du livre, book fair with writers and roundtable discussions. Then I spent another two days in Fes, with my mentor, a Moroccan professor and novelist. It could be the best time I have had in my entire life.
Meredith and Megan’s two-week stay in Morocco. We laughed often, picked up stories and jokes like a snowball or tumbleweed. Meredith described the trip as so wonderful she didn’t want to talk about it afterwards, similarly to how she still can’t talk about the movie The Hours. Guard it.
giddy to eat my chicken shwarma, fries and mango drink in my small, high ceilinged hotel room in Tangier.
Alone in a crowd at the salon du livre, drinking a coffee before the start of a discussion
I coasted around Tangier gleefully thinking of Talib Kweli rapping “I’m like Magnum P.I.” I coasted around thinking “I’ve gotta bottle this stuff!” The sentences in my head, my recounting of my world.
shaking slightly with nervousness and elation
staying in an $8 hotel room. Each time we spoke, a friendly, sleepy looking employee who studied English was on the brink of laughter. I imagine he was amused that I was staying there.
MOVED
la fête du quarantième jour
When Touria introduced me to her brother-in-law he said “domage” (too bad!) about his wife and kids. Many women kissed me on the cheeks and called me habibti before we left.
befriending so many kind women on the trains
Just the phrase “lunch in the garden” pleases me. That is what Touria, her sons Mehdi and Amine and I had yesterday afternoon in the sun, near a tree they pointed out had just flowered pink. Almost spring. We ate from a dish of meat and quince. The boys asked me if I was used to eating with my hand. I replied pridefully, “Of course I am. I’ve been here six months.” Someone noticed I hadn’t eaten any meat so Touria plopped a huge chunk onto my plate, the only individual plate on the table. I cut it with my fork and knife and put half back in the communal dish. I began to eat the meat with my utensils and the boys asked, challengingly, why I didn’t do it with my hands. I said it was easier this way. “With meat,” I qualified. They egged me on to try then watched silently as I began. I wiggled the meat hilariously between my fingers and thumb, trying to tear off a bite, and they shouted with laughter, flying back in their seats.
Touria’s wonderful family, chillin’ on the roof with one of her son’s as he smoked a discreet cigarette. I asked for a story about living in France during his studies and he told me about when les flics, the police, broke up his twentieth birthday party. I asked if his parents knew and he
Fell asleep thinking sleepily, undramatically, “I am so happy I should die now.”
Waking up to pop music in Arabic from a stereo in the kitchen, everyone laughing and yelling, fresh cornmeal cakes on the table. Breakfast in pajamas.
Reading Abdellah Taïa’s Le rouge de tarbouche, a book of stories from the life of its young author, traveling from Salé, Morocco, the city next to Rabat just across the Bou Regreg River, to Paris. gay. Met him at the salon du livre in Tangier and had him sign my book. He scrawled my name and a short note, signed it, then hesitated and added a sunshine sketch at the top of the page. I found him so delightful I didn’t know what I wanted from him—to be his best friend, girlfriend, mother, lover? When it was his turn to speak at a round table discussion of young Moroccan writers, he spoke slowly, faintly smiling and said insightful things. I craved his lack of pushiness, his steady lucidity. Reading his book on the train home to Rabat last night I shivered, the skin on my back and scalp suddenly chilly. I put the book away and looked out the window at the low green hills. A pink-cheeked young woman in hijab, across from me in the compartment, watched me with warm eyes. I think she saw how happy I was and we shared it between us.
Like, I’m gonna barf with happiness.
I described it to Touria yesterday morning in one of her salons: many unexpected and wonderful things happen to me here. She told me again it was a pleasure to have me and that she was so happy to meet me. I admire her and find her mysterious, shrewd, emotional, commanding. We chatted for a few minutes then said nothing. She got up to attend to something in the kitchen and I curled up in the big leather chair and read my book.
I have had thoughts and feelings that have thrown me. Things I cannot record. Certain grooves, fleeting flashes of understanding. Revelations. I have thought many times in these past weeks, “Yes, this is the feeling you need to guard.”
I threw a surprise birthday party for my friend Laila today, and when she read the card I gave her her eyes welled up and she told everyone she would always remember this day. Adrianna gave me a “10” for food presentation. I arranged a fruit salad—plum slices surrounding an apple-slice-well filled with oranges and strawberries, with hidden bananas on the bottom—an herb and cheese spread on crisp “toast” crackers garnished with tomato slices; and mini crêpe rolls with Nutella, arranged in a small pink bowl. Chris and Alex brought a mocha cake with one crisp layer from our favorite bakery, Majestic. The 12 or so of us grazed on all of the food and chattered happily in the salon, kitchen and terrace, enjoying the sun.
What I gather is Arab sentimentalism, romance, love talk. Touria’s daughter Ghita copy-and-pasting a lovey song in English to a male friend. I asked her twice if he was “un ami, simple” and she said of course he was. Just a close friend.
I’m finding everything I can to keep from working on my Fulbright presentation: making a poor man’s mocha, crunching on wheat crackers, remembering a deliriously happy time this summer: at Clara’s parents house with Stacie and her. We watched some bad reality TV (The Bachelorette?), read The New Yorker, and drank in the living room because her parents were away. Clara was cooking some elaborate pork roast. Then, we spread out upstairs on the floor and on Clara’s little bed, laughing insanely then looking at her old books and CDs. We climbed out a window and stood on the roof.
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Written just a few days ago:
I just returned to Rabat from a two-day trip that seemed much longer. Arriving from little towns in the Middle Atlas Mountains, Rabat sounds deafening and from my balcony view the rooftops sprawl forever.
One of my Arabic teachers, Bouazza, took three American friends and me on this trip in order to record an audio CD to accompany the English textbook that he and his wife Raja, my other teacher, are writing. Alex, Laura, Rizzi and I piled in Bouazza’s old Benz to go to Midelt, Bouazza’s home town, we thought. We knew little about what we were doing or where we would go and were happily surprised to get a whole multi-stop tour of the center of the country.
At some point I have cultivated a soft-voice said to be suitable for radio. And so my voice is the star of the CD. We recorded crazy low-tech style, with a video camera though the CD will only be audio. We cracked up a few times, unstoppable giggles bazef, faking Canadian and Australian accents.
In a cherry blossom-filled valley in the village of Ain Leuh my sweet friends and I ran between the trees and chattered in French with toothy children, holding their hands. I told Rizzi to take a picture of me with my face behind the branches of flowers. “Take a picture of me looking this happy!”
At the Parliamentarian’s house where we stayed, off a road in Boulaajoul, my friends and I ran around giddily in the dark backyard. I wanted to roller-skate in the huge, tiled rooms of the house but settled for ballet steps in sneakers—clumsy pas de bourrés and a few low tour jetés. Bouazza told us in the car the next day that one thing we had for dinner that night, which I had assumed with kefta, herbed ground meat, was actually camel! We had mentioned never having eaten it, so he arranged for it to be served to us. Tasty! I slept heavily but apparently talked in my sleep, as usual. In the morning we all put on the same clothes, stretched in the backyard and shared breakfast with the guard before heading to another town.
We drove a crazy tangle, driving through towns Bouazza used to live in, passing schools he used to attend, waiting for him as he ran errands and had quick appointments. I scoped out the fake Dolce and Gabbana tee shirts in the villages and drank qahwa ns ns, café au lait, in the men’s cafés with my friends. We met a zillion mayors and local council members, touring ensembles artisinales and women’s weaving cooperatives.
At lunch at a small town mayor’s house in Aghbalou we ate with a dozen men who watched every move of Alex, Laura and I. Conversation with in Tamazight, so we sat and watched, as we’ve gotten so used to doing. The food was presented to us on giant silver platters the size of something to use as a sled. After an elaborate salad we were served a whole roasted lamb, then a kind of cous cous with yogurty milk. I am un-fond of this kind of dairy product. Milk—okay. Yogurt—okay. But nothing in between. Big oranges followed, and then we took a short walking tour of the village despite the dust storm.
Bouazza sped 110 kilometers an hour—whatever that is in miles—around the hills and mountains, and I marveled at the scene, washed with—I swear to God—desire. Through the sheep herds and dust, land of all purples and greens, I thought of exhilarating songs I listened to two springs ago; sex; the Spanish boy I met who looked at me with a quiet face as my eyes flashed and darted; all of the essays I’ve had in mind writing lately; taking a roadtrip to California with my father one summer and leaving my copy of Radical Feminism on the dashboard the whole trip, bleaching the cover. I thought of reading a line by Sharon Olds or Adrienne Rich on another car trip—a line about a baby violent with hunger. I dreamed a life for myself, of cathartic writing, dancing and fashion! Of wildness and drinking everything in, from the rolls of the quiet land of quiet countries to urban blare, to throwing a switched swagger to walking humbly. Possibility! So much unexpected and alarmingly, disarmingly pleasurable!
On our way back west through Azzrou this afternoon we drove down a dirt and rock road in a forest to find monkeys. We all called out “Monkeys!” like children and assigned different people to look in different places—trees, ground, left, right. We finally spotted them and piled out of the old Benz. We fed the monkeys little cups of water and watched them leap from branch to branch, taking pictures and noting their awful, exposed butts.
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And to give you some evidence that I do some work here, here's most of an email I sent to family and friends following the mid-March, mid-term Fulbright conference. I've cut out the particularly catty parts and left in detailed descriptions of my clothing. If you're interested in reading my actual paper, let me know and I'll send it to you.
The three-day, 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., marathon mid-term Fulbright conference ended yesterday. All of the 25 or so grantees of different types (recent graduates, people writing their dissertations, professors) presented their work thus far. Thing was so long! I feel like I survived something, and so at noon today I was in bed with my computer, recovering from the conference and from last night's celebrations.
I felt nervous and clammy about the conf from the beginning. We had all been told, basically, that this is the one of the only things we are accountable for all year, so don't mess it up. The conference was at La Tour Hassan Hotel. I walk past it all the time and had no idea of the hidden fanciness within. Dang. The swankiness and formality added to the tension. Everyone was all gussied up professional style. My Day One fashion jam involved brown pants and a black button up shirt. Many important people and local elites were there, including prominent academics, NGO leaders, and representatives from the Embassy. We were taped for one of the national TV channels too. I had an urgent feeling, engaged, on-edge, and like I could fight someone! There was a large diversity of talk topics and styles, from
an English teacher discussing village life, to the most boring paper in the world on something very specific in 15th century Moroccan history, to a report on the women's health implications of the changes to the Moroccan family code, to a half-creative half-analytical
multimedia talk on urban planning in the Fes medina. The discussants' responses to Fulbrighter work varied in style too. (The experts we had each invited to talk about our work each had 15 minutes to present, after our 20) Some, like a charming/arrogant writer I've interviewed and hung out with, just chatted, half about the Fulbrighter's project and half about the topics at hand more generally. Other discussants had their own PowerPoint presentations. Most were in English but a few preferred to speak in French. A lot of
PowerPoint was used, for better and for worse. I got the cards of several academics who have something to do with women's writing. Good contacts. Tasty, extravagant buffet lunches all three days and dinner the last night. At the end I stumbled sleepily to Laura and Alex's
and ate a dinner they made. Finished my talk, stayed up too late.
On the morning of my talk, Day Two, my outfit and my blow-dried hair looked better than ever before! I wore "the best pants I have ever owned," blue denim-ish trousers from the Spanish store Zara, and a white, fitted, button-up shirt with faint pale blue shimmery stripes. So far so good. The day dragged, though most talks were good. An hour before mine, I declared myself "KARATE READY." One of the professors came over and told me in a fatherly way to "have fun up there." It washed over me, and for a second I was elated, giddy, gleeful to give my talk. I thought of all the people who had wished me well, from my parents to my Fulbright pals to my cleaning lady to the guy at the cybercafe who printed my paper. I looked around and saw Moroccan friends from our Moroccan American Student Association (MASA) who had come to hear me. My Arabic teachers, Raja and Bouazza, and their daughter Naziha were there too. My discussant, professor and novelist Touria Ouleheri, had arrived and she sat in the back revising her notes. And! Right before I started a good 10 people walked in! Including two prominent linguists, which made me a little nervous. Though they were probably there to see Touria anyway. I was mostly confident about my talk, but concerned about its delivery and curious to see what Touria would say about it.
It went well! Though I know I faintly trembled the whole time and squirmed in my chair, reliable reports said that I was poised and slow-speaking. That remains one of the mysteries of the universe—that you can feel terrified when public speaking but look and sound fine. I noticed as it went along that more friends from MASA had arrived. My talk was concise, as it was the last one on Day Two and that seemed wise. I was a tiny bit embarrassed that I stumbled through a quote in French, and I later called it "the worst French in the world," though people assured me it was definitely not. Touria praised my work, called me "Mademoiselle Andrea S_____" several times (gave her comments in French), said she was very happy to meet me, and talked about the status of Moroccan women's writing and its reception more generally. Several people asked questions and had comments at the end. I faltered a bit, deferred more than one to Touria, translated a question she hadn't heard, but felt comfortable. Success and relief! Went out for din at the restaurant of the Goethe Institute, a chic, always crowded pizza, salad, pasta affair, with Touria, adults, Adriana and Morgan. I often didn't quite know what I was supposed to do with Touria. Keep her company and chat? Let her mingle with her fellow Moroccan elites? Though I like her a lot, thankfully, she did a lot of the latter and I could chill with my friends.
Day Three: still tired. Had to come up with one more nice outfit. It was "the best pants I have ever owned," brown boat neck shirt and pale sea foam green V-neck cardigan, plus those little black heels with yellow detail. (How's that for detail!) Most of the Fulbrighters my
age had their talks this day. I was impressed with my friends' work, particularly Laura's and Kristen's. I felt like, "That's my girl!" At lunch I ate what seemed like the tasty kind of cheese that's in Indian food. Not true! I reached for another piece and the political
historian who had been exiled in Senegal for 12 years (!!) said, "You know that's brain, right?" I paled. The conference dragged on and on, I took a stroll with two friends, bought gummies and lounged on the couches in the courtyard, then attended the closing dinner. Us
kids were all eager to leave and start the evening. We were too sleepy to go dancing so we had a noisy party at Kristen and Adriana's apartment in the medina. Mazian! (Good)
Today I lounged for a while, made myself a scrambled egg and onion, fried potato, coffee and juice brunch, showered, and strolled downtown to have sodas with Kristen at a garden cafe before she caught a train. I got there and found three other friends and sat with them. We
chilled, exchanged conference gossip, the three left, Kristen and I chatted, then strolled to the train station, each with a hand on the handle of her rolly suitcase. Everything was sunny and windy.
Here's a vague article about the conf:
http://www.moroccotimes.com/paper/article.asp?idr=11&id=13551
love you, miss you, thank you,
Andrea
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If you'll read any of these, go for "From the H-E-A-R-T, dude." It's hot off the press.
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