Miss Communication on Avoiding Moroccan Miscommunication
1. My good friend Sophia, the lovely girl who helped make my transition here in Morocco a memorable one, once told me to give out my cell phone number sparingly (good advice for anywhere in this world, I guess!). Morocco in particular revolves around a huge cell phone culture, to the point where many of my Moroccan friends own two phones - one from each of the major telephone companies - so that they can take advantage of both brands' promotions, and so that they can cheaply call their friends according to their phone alliances. Moroccans also have a tendency to call or SMS often. So I followed Sophia's counsel and thought twice before dishing out the digits. That is, until I had a conversation with my manicurist about her arranged marriage to an older Iraqi man who has a daughter her age. She finished up the tips of my French manicure with a "let's exchange numbers". I couldn't really object, especially given that she was in a very powerful position as she hovered over my hands with nail polish brush armed and ready to execute the final touches. BAD IDEA. Later that night I had already received 2 text messages from her and a few days later, she was having me passed around like a hot potato to everyone in her family. Akward. Next time, I'll keep my numbers to myself.
2. When walking around, avoid eye contact...unless you're hoping to leave Morocco with a husband as a souvenir.
3. However impressed you might be by the multi-lingual talent of passerby who can say "You're beautiful" or "Such pretty eyes" in 5 different languages, do not respond. Of course their observations are no word of a lie (ha!), but if you don't play deaf, you will risk being followed -- not quite what your mom wanted you to bring home from the market.
4. When greeting someone, you must follow the following steps (in the local Arabic dialect, of course): Ask how they are, ask how their family is, ask how their kids are, ask how their health is, and top it all off with a "Hamdillah" (thanks to God). Do not leave a step or a person out.
5. Greetings must also be accompanied by a kiss on both cheeks. Moroccans tend to add in a third kiss, but since you are a foreigner, they will assume that you will only kiss twice. There are exceptions, however, and this can lead to some awkward lips-hanging-in-the-air moments when you're about to throw in that extra smoocheroo and the other person has already backed away. My advice: YOU lead the puckering-up session by diving in for the third kiss as fast you can. A little extra love never hurt anyone, did it?
6. Learn 10 words in Dirija, the local Arabic dialect, and the Moroccans you meet with be highly impressed (...they might even assume you're fluent). Use the 10 words you know as frequently as you can. My current vocabulary successfully rests on the following words: nothing, a lot, a little, tired, hot, crazy, and of course- really crazy (refer to the next point for more details).
7. The best phrase to learn, I have discovered, is "You are crazy". In addition to scaring off predators by raising the topic of their legitimate insanity, it is also a great line to use jokingly with people - friends and strangers alike - to help break the ice. Wins over kids too, I have found. Last but not least, it's usually quite true: we're all a little crazy.. especially in Morocco.
8. When you see the word "ASS" on a billboard or a street sign, note that it does not refer to one's derrière. In fact, it is a shortened version of "Association", but it sure sounds funny to say that you are a member of a gym titled ASS CENTRAL (which, in my case, is actually true!).
9. English is idolized here, at least on T-shirts. One of the huge fashion fads right now is to wear shirts with English sayings on them, most of which make absolutely no sense whatsoever, as they are usually just a mix of random words and poor grammar. I'm often tempted to take my English lessons to the street by propping myself on a corner with a thick black marker in hand, so that I could re-write these pathetic attempts of T-shirts and put an end to the butchering of my language.
10. Last, but surely not the least: When in doubt, smile and nod (while acting blind and mute, of course). Then start twitching your head right to left, followed by some arm punches. Looking a little out of place?? You should.. that's Moroccan (Mis)Communication 101 for ya.
NOTE: There are, of course, exceptions to each of the aforementioned points. I am sure that not all manicurists are stalkers, nor are all signs with the word "ass" on it totally unrelated to that body part... regardless, this guide will prove to be highly accurate.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
no photo identification, no cry
When there’s a will, there’s gotta be a way, even if it means waking up at 4 in the morning to take a 6 hour train ride that stalls due to mechanical reasons, followed by a 3 hour cab ride through desert terrain squishing 7 people into a 5 person vehicle (…without air conditioning).
The Festivale musique de gnaoua à Essaouira was the driving force and it was well worth the trouble that it took to get there. Even the decrepit train toilet with the flaking seat and the broken flush seemed alright, knowing the most renowned music festival in Morocco awaited us. Every year, the festival draws in tens of thousands of people from across the country and from all over the world. It features fusion, folk, and world beats, scattered over 7 stages throughout a town that is known for little more than this one annual celebration of music.
Our day began with a meltdown on Kellye’s part over fears that her unceasing cough might evolve into a nasty, rotting death on a train cabin in Middle of Nowhere Morocco. Not even my expired First Aid certification (which, FYI, took me 3 tries until I eventually passed) could ease her concerns. Luckily, she toughed it out and we eventually arrived to Marrakech safe and sound, lungs and excitement in tact.
From there, we organized a group of fellow festival-goers and bargained for a cheap ride to take us to Essaouira. Little did we know, however, that we had been swept up into some shady unlicensed taxi service – which explains why we were able to bargain for such a cheap price. Before we could get the wheels-a-rollin’, a mob of police officers and (very angry, licensed) taxi divers surrounded our van, telling us that we had to use one of their legitimate cab services, which translates to Moroccan as having to pay more only to ride in a cramped car with no AC for 3 hours.
Needless to say, by the time we arrived in Essaouira, we were not in any mood to crash on the floor of our friend’s flat as was originally planned. Tired, sweaty, etc. (no need to give details), we opted to invest in a hotel for the night. In order to do so, however, we both needed to have photo ID on hand. Being the genius that I am (really), I had left all forms of photo ID in Rabat, thinking that if anyone dared to steal my purse, they wouldn’t get their scheming hands on my unflattering passport photo. Brilliant, right? Not when you are dying to get rid of your bags and aching to rest on a real bed, not when you desperately need to take a shower in order to wash off the smelly Moroccan sweat (yours and the other dozen people you’ve rubbed elbows with) that has accumulated on your skin over the past 12 hours. Only the amenities of a hotel could lift me up out of the grubby state I was in.
I figured that since this country has its fair share of corruption, the hotel manager would have to budge and let me stay in her hotel. After all, she’d be making a profit off of my business! But for some odd reason - maybe I had found one of the few law-abiding citizens of Morocco - there was no way she would let us stay there unless I presented her my photo ID.
So off we went to the nearest cyber café, where I frantically searched my Gmail archives, sent emails, and even checked Facebook for a scanned piece of ID that I may have, in sensible days gone by, scanned and uploaded for situations such as this one. But alas, I couldn’t find anything…
...EXCEPT for an idea, one of the most brilliant ones I’ve ever had…
One thing that Morocco is not is technologically backward. Using Adobe Photoshop, a Google search engine, a Facebook photo, and lots of cropping & copying & pasting, I became Stephanie Brown with a Columbia University Student ID that was supposedly faxed from home.
(NOTE: This is the moment when I would like to thank my mom for passing on to me her awesome graphic design skills). After weaving in and out of the crowds in the medina all day, after having dinner with the Brits and the Bostonians we met en route to Essaouira, and after listening to one of Bob Marley’s (accounted for) sons perform his father’s classic hits, that hotel bed that took so long and so much work to get to was heaven served on a pillow.
The Festivale musique de gnaoua à Essaouira was the driving force and it was well worth the trouble that it took to get there. Even the decrepit train toilet with the flaking seat and the broken flush seemed alright, knowing the most renowned music festival in Morocco awaited us. Every year, the festival draws in tens of thousands of people from across the country and from all over the world. It features fusion, folk, and world beats, scattered over 7 stages throughout a town that is known for little more than this one annual celebration of music.
Our day began with a meltdown on Kellye’s part over fears that her unceasing cough might evolve into a nasty, rotting death on a train cabin in Middle of Nowhere Morocco. Not even my expired First Aid certification (which, FYI, took me 3 tries until I eventually passed) could ease her concerns. Luckily, she toughed it out and we eventually arrived to Marrakech safe and sound, lungs and excitement in tact.
From there, we organized a group of fellow festival-goers and bargained for a cheap ride to take us to Essaouira. Little did we know, however, that we had been swept up into some shady unlicensed taxi service – which explains why we were able to bargain for such a cheap price. Before we could get the wheels-a-rollin’, a mob of police officers and (very angry, licensed) taxi divers surrounded our van, telling us that we had to use one of their legitimate cab services, which translates to Moroccan as having to pay more only to ride in a cramped car with no AC for 3 hours.
Needless to say, by the time we arrived in Essaouira, we were not in any mood to crash on the floor of our friend’s flat as was originally planned. Tired, sweaty, etc. (no need to give details), we opted to invest in a hotel for the night. In order to do so, however, we both needed to have photo ID on hand. Being the genius that I am (really), I had left all forms of photo ID in Rabat, thinking that if anyone dared to steal my purse, they wouldn’t get their scheming hands on my unflattering passport photo. Brilliant, right? Not when you are dying to get rid of your bags and aching to rest on a real bed, not when you desperately need to take a shower in order to wash off the smelly Moroccan sweat (yours and the other dozen people you’ve rubbed elbows with) that has accumulated on your skin over the past 12 hours. Only the amenities of a hotel could lift me up out of the grubby state I was in.
I figured that since this country has its fair share of corruption, the hotel manager would have to budge and let me stay in her hotel. After all, she’d be making a profit off of my business! But for some odd reason - maybe I had found one of the few law-abiding citizens of Morocco - there was no way she would let us stay there unless I presented her my photo ID.
So off we went to the nearest cyber café, where I frantically searched my Gmail archives, sent emails, and even checked Facebook for a scanned piece of ID that I may have, in sensible days gone by, scanned and uploaded for situations such as this one. But alas, I couldn’t find anything…
...EXCEPT for an idea, one of the most brilliant ones I’ve ever had…
One thing that Morocco is not is technologically backward. Using Adobe Photoshop, a Google search engine, a Facebook photo, and lots of cropping & copying & pasting, I became Stephanie Brown with a Columbia University Student ID that was supposedly faxed from home.
(NOTE: This is the moment when I would like to thank my mom for passing on to me her awesome graphic design skills). After weaving in and out of the crowds in the medina all day, after having dinner with the Brits and the Bostonians we met en route to Essaouira, and after listening to one of Bob Marley’s (accounted for) sons perform his father’s classic hits, that hotel bed that took so long and so much work to get to was heaven served on a pillow.
Monday, June 30, 2008
It Never Hurt to Ask
If curiosity killed the cat, then I might need my letters re-routed to the nearest penitentiary.
I was showing Kellye, the other Wellesley intern, the route that I take every morning to get to the CCCL (the Center for Cross Cultural Learning, where we are interning). It was her first full day in Morocco, while I had already been here for a full week. As we were walking along one of the side streets, we came across some African music drifting from behind a wall. Raising eyebrows as we passed, an afterthought crossed my mind (the moment when my curiosity pinned down one of Rabat’s million stray cats to the tiled floor of the medina, forever changing my criminal record!): why not ask one of the red costumed women sitting in front of the door what was going on?
So, of course, we did. And not only were we told that a wedding celebration was taking place in the courtyard behind the wall, but we were invited – practically forced- in to see it.
I figured that we would pop in, grab a peek of the ceremonies, and then just as quickly pop straight back out. I soon found out, however, that an invitation goes a long way here in Morocco. As soon as we entered the courtyard of beautifully dressed veiled women (it was a traditional wedding, meaning it was like Wellesley: No Men Around), there was no turning back. All eyes turned towards us, two young, underdressed Western women who clearly had no association to the bride or her family.
After being ushered in and given front row seats, we gawked in awe as the bride was lifted into the air while a parade of women danced around her. At one point, Kellye and I were even invited to join the dancing. Two hours - and 3 bridal dresses (Moroccan women change dresses multiple times on their wedding day) later, we figured it was about time we leave the wedding we had so successfully, and randomly, crashed.
It was impressive that this traditional Moroccan family was so welcoming of two foreign strangers into a celebration that we in North America typically consider a private - even exclusive - event. Yet these women never once questioned or objected to our being there (note: the women in red who originally invited us in weren’t even family members… they turned out to be the hired dancers for the event…!).
So now some married Moroccan woman has a wedding video featuring two random girls in jeans and flip flops looking just a tad out of place.
- Priceless.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Welcome to Morocco!
Madarba al Magreb, Welcome to Morocco!! Saalam, Saalam, Saalam...
As many of you may or may not know, I was accepted to partake in one of Wellesley's all-expenses paid summer internships in Rabat, Morocco to work for the Center for Cross Cultural Learning (CCCL) which operates alongside student exchange programs to arrange lectures, seminars, language classes, and excursions that deal with Moroccan history, culture, and religion. Exactly along the same lines as my majors (International Relations-History, French), this internship was a perfect match for my interests ---- not to mention the fact that I would be PAID to live and work in Morocco -- as I like to say: as if, as if, as if !!
In an "I-have-no-clue-what-I'm-getting-myself-into" fashion, amplified by the many family festivities and final essays I had lined up right up to the day of my departure, I said my goodbyes (for a year) and found myself for the now zillienth time filing through airport security lines and metal detectors. A few terminal changes, crusty plane meals, and passport stamps later, I found myself stepping into the (humid) Moroccan air.
Besides the time and weather difference, not a lot had changed: ... I still had no clue what I was getting myself into. As our good friend Shakes once said, Life is a stage. In this new technological era that we live in, I would beg to differ that life is more like a glam and glitzed Hollywood movie. That's at least how it felt when I came down the tarmac to find a chauffeur with a STEPHANIE BROWN sign, waiting to take me to the hotel that I would be staying in for the entire summer: It's been a little over 2 weeks that I've been here, and already I feel pretty adjusted to my surroundings and to my work. I was here just one day when 1 of the 2 brothers who man the front desk on a rotating schedule knocked on my door to tell me that I had a phone call on the line. Already having resigned myself to a lonely night of watching one of the 3 channels on my dinky television set, and having no idea who on this Moroccan earth could already have my number, I was by no means ready to go down to the reception to take the call. I asked Front Desk Brother #1 to ask whoever it was to call back in 5 minutes. Sitting there, a little disoriented to say the least, I was shocked when who walks into the front door but Sophia, a girl I had met only once on one of my visits to see my best friend Hillary at Smith College. Thanks once again to the power of technology - Facebook in this instance - Sophia had found out that I was coming to Rabat and knew which hotel I was staying in, and decided to spread some love from one All Womens College student to another by whisking me off into the life that took her 9 months to establish. Off we went to Le Pietri, a fancy jazz lounge where I was seated directly across from the Romanian star singer of the night... drastic change of events, to say the very least, that's for sure!
In the past 2 weeks I have been to more dinner dates, get-togethers, and discos than I ever would have imagined. It helped that this was Sophia's last week in Morocco so she kindly passed on her wisdom and advice (and cell phone!), as well as including me in her jam-packed and ridiculously awesome social schedule. I've met a TON of people through her, mainly European expats who are here in Morocco's capital working for the UN, UNICEF, schools, architecture firms, or for their country's embassies. It's a tight-knit community that is full of some super interesting characters; my closest friends here thus far include a Dutch boy who is on a quest for the perfect soil so that he can start an organic farm and export the produce back to Europe; an incredibly fun gay Polish guy who mysteriously manages to find romance in this supposedly conservative 'closed' society; a spunky 36-yr old Yemenese woman who is dating an American 10 years her junior, neither of whom share a language in common; a dashing French man who pulls off tophats and bright yellow petticoats and has a pet dog named Mochitto; a suave Moroccan guy who by age 20 already owned his own discothèque; and an eccentric American-born, Moroccan-raised, French-inhabited woman who brings a tote bag full of custome jewellery and clothes for the themed parties we have.
It’s an interesting crowd, to say the very least. Communicating in a mix of English, French and the local dialect of Arabic, we don’t always understand each other but the one thing that we can all relate to is being a foreigner in Morocco, and all the good and all the bad that that entails. It’s the common thread that pulls us together and we appreciate each other for simply being in (not to mention putting up with the oddities of) this country.
Morocco itself is a puzzle with pieces that continuously contradict each other. You’ve got 98 percent of the population that are Muslims, alongside a prostitution rate that is one of the highest in the world. You’ve got veiled women walking alongside women who really ought to have their horrendously chintzy and revealing fashion taste veiled. You’ve got a newly enacted Family Code that protects the rights of women, those of whom still face the torrents of street harassment (via cat calls) every corner they turn.
What I most love about this place is the rhythm of life: the streets and markets are bustling yet there is no real rush to get anywhere. People sit in cafés ALL day long. The word for 'yes' in Moroccan Arabic sounds like a sigh, long and relaxed -- just like the living. The other day, I walked past a group of rastifarian Moroccan teens who were drumming on a side street, and with perfect timing, they paused their beat to yell out "Welcome to Morocco". You're not supposed to respond to such street calls, but with this one, I couldn't help but smile
As many of you may or may not know, I was accepted to partake in one of Wellesley's all-expenses paid summer internships in Rabat, Morocco to work for the Center for Cross Cultural Learning (CCCL) which operates alongside student exchange programs to arrange lectures, seminars, language classes, and excursions that deal with Moroccan history, culture, and religion. Exactly along the same lines as my majors (International Relations-History, French), this internship was a perfect match for my interests ---- not to mention the fact that I would be PAID to live and work in Morocco -- as I like to say: as if, as if, as if !!
In an "I-have-no-clue-what-I'm-getting-myself-into" fashion, amplified by the many family festivities and final essays I had lined up right up to the day of my departure, I said my goodbyes (for a year) and found myself for the now zillienth time filing through airport security lines and metal detectors. A few terminal changes, crusty plane meals, and passport stamps later, I found myself stepping into the (humid) Moroccan air.
Besides the time and weather difference, not a lot had changed: ... I still had no clue what I was getting myself into. As our good friend Shakes once said, Life is a stage. In this new technological era that we live in, I would beg to differ that life is more like a glam and glitzed Hollywood movie. That's at least how it felt when I came down the tarmac to find a chauffeur with a STEPHANIE BROWN sign, waiting to take me to the hotel that I would be staying in for the entire summer: It's been a little over 2 weeks that I've been here, and already I feel pretty adjusted to my surroundings and to my work. I was here just one day when 1 of the 2 brothers who man the front desk on a rotating schedule knocked on my door to tell me that I had a phone call on the line. Already having resigned myself to a lonely night of watching one of the 3 channels on my dinky television set, and having no idea who on this Moroccan earth could already have my number, I was by no means ready to go down to the reception to take the call. I asked Front Desk Brother #1 to ask whoever it was to call back in 5 minutes. Sitting there, a little disoriented to say the least, I was shocked when who walks into the front door but Sophia, a girl I had met only once on one of my visits to see my best friend Hillary at Smith College. Thanks once again to the power of technology - Facebook in this instance - Sophia had found out that I was coming to Rabat and knew which hotel I was staying in, and decided to spread some love from one All Womens College student to another by whisking me off into the life that took her 9 months to establish. Off we went to Le Pietri, a fancy jazz lounge where I was seated directly across from the Romanian star singer of the night... drastic change of events, to say the very least, that's for sure!
In the past 2 weeks I have been to more dinner dates, get-togethers, and discos than I ever would have imagined. It helped that this was Sophia's last week in Morocco so she kindly passed on her wisdom and advice (and cell phone!), as well as including me in her jam-packed and ridiculously awesome social schedule. I've met a TON of people through her, mainly European expats who are here in Morocco's capital working for the UN, UNICEF, schools, architecture firms, or for their country's embassies. It's a tight-knit community that is full of some super interesting characters; my closest friends here thus far include a Dutch boy who is on a quest for the perfect soil so that he can start an organic farm and export the produce back to Europe; an incredibly fun gay Polish guy who mysteriously manages to find romance in this supposedly conservative 'closed' society; a spunky 36-yr old Yemenese woman who is dating an American 10 years her junior, neither of whom share a language in common; a dashing French man who pulls off tophats and bright yellow petticoats and has a pet dog named Mochitto; a suave Moroccan guy who by age 20 already owned his own discothèque; and an eccentric American-born, Moroccan-raised, French-inhabited woman who brings a tote bag full of custome jewellery and clothes for the themed parties we have.
It’s an interesting crowd, to say the very least. Communicating in a mix of English, French and the local dialect of Arabic, we don’t always understand each other but the one thing that we can all relate to is being a foreigner in Morocco, and all the good and all the bad that that entails. It’s the common thread that pulls us together and we appreciate each other for simply being in (not to mention putting up with the oddities of) this country.
Morocco itself is a puzzle with pieces that continuously contradict each other. You’ve got 98 percent of the population that are Muslims, alongside a prostitution rate that is one of the highest in the world. You’ve got veiled women walking alongside women who really ought to have their horrendously chintzy and revealing fashion taste veiled. You’ve got a newly enacted Family Code that protects the rights of women, those of whom still face the torrents of street harassment (via cat calls) every corner they turn.
What I most love about this place is the rhythm of life: the streets and markets are bustling yet there is no real rush to get anywhere. People sit in cafés ALL day long. The word for 'yes' in Moroccan Arabic sounds like a sigh, long and relaxed -- just like the living. The other day, I walked past a group of rastifarian Moroccan teens who were drumming on a side street, and with perfect timing, they paused their beat to yell out "Welcome to Morocco". You're not supposed to respond to such street calls, but with this one, I couldn't help but smile
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