So...I'm Married

I've pretended I was married before, but not for real. This past Saturday, however, my friend Erica and I had to feign connubial bliss in front of an entire Moroccan family.
Our friend Abdulrahim, who invited us to his parent's house where he and much of his extended family lives, told us this fabrication was necessary for his parents would not accept or understand an unmarried couple. Opposite gender friendship is something of an anomaly here.
So, we went on with the rouse and decided that what had been married a little over a year ago on July 7 of 2005. Erica moved one of her wrings to her left wring finger, and I was prepared to say I had temporarily misplaced mine.
My lack of a wring was the first of many holes in our story. For instance after dinner, I was busy telling Abdulrahim's sister-in-law about the places I had travel over the past month with my wife, while Erica was on the other side of the room telling Abdulrahim's cousin that she had arrived in Morocco last week.
As there were other incongruities in our story that even a prepubescent Sherlock Holmes could have spotted from a kilometer away, I suspect we only needed to say we were married so our hosts could hear it. For, if they suspected anything, it did not prevent them from showing us the utmost hospitality.
Upon entering, we were greeted by Abdulrahim’s young son Walid who demanded a kiss on each cheek. After meeting the rest of the family which included his parents, his brother, his sister-in-law, and a host of other people of uncertain relational status, we were given male (plain white) and female (colorful and patterned) jalabas to wear. Abdulrahim and I played cards for a little, while Erica chatted with his cousin Fatima. Then we sat down to couscous dinner and tea with Abdulrahim, his wife Aisha, Fatima, and Walid. This was followed by an assortment of grapes and watermelon, which I find I like much more here in Morocco than in the states.
The whole time we ate, the TV was playing Arab music videos with audio blasting on surround sound speakers. This made for an easy transition to post dinner dancing in Abdulrahim’s small flat within the larger family house. Soon we moved the speakers and the dancing to the roof, where the family gathered and joined hands in a circle while we took turns dancing in the middle. I taught Walid a little butt shaking move which he enjoyed thoroughly and continued to integrate into his repertoire for the rest of the hour on the roof.
I was quite sure that after dancing we would go to bed, as Abdulrahim, Erica, and I had walked around Rabat for 4 hours earlier in the day. However, when we returned to the living room where Erica and I would later sleep, four or five family members where waiting with a bowl filled with the concoction used for drawing henna tattoos.
As Aisha gave Erica the full body treatment (hands and feet), I chatted with Abdulrahim's sister-in-law about my travels (oops!) and religion. I told her I was a Christian, and she said she understood this choice as it was one of the three religions (the other two being Judaism and Islam). I assured her that there were a few others.
After Aisha finished with Erica, I asked her for some Henna on my hand. Abdulrahim, smiling, informed me men don't get henna on their hands. In my best Arabic I informed the room that, "I do." This elicited a chuckle.
The henna seemed to be the last knell for everyone that evening, and I Erica and I were left to our falsely earned nuptial chamber. However, we were unable to enjoy much sleep as the room was filled with music from a real wedding happening at a neighboring house.

Gender Relations in Morocco

Sex has been on my mind for a while. This is out of purely academic interest, of course, because I've been noticing more and more the particularities of gender relations here in Morocco and some of the problems they cause.
Now, before I level my criticisms, I must say a portion--at least from what I see---the educated upper/upper middle class is more open minded about gender relations. It is common to see groups of guys and girls hanging out, working, and partying together. There are many cafes and restaurants where you find men and women eating side by side. You really wouldn't be able to tell the difference between your average Moroccan club and your average American club, including the music.
This, however, is not the dominant cultural attitude towards gender interactions. There are many cafes whose clientele seems to be exclusively male. Women who attempt to sit at some of these places are made to feel uncomfortable by jeers and looks. When, I was at a concert in Chefchouan two weeks ago, I noticed that I was in the middle of the stadium floor surrounded by 10,000 men with perhaps 100 brave girls mixed in. The rest of the woman, about five or six thousand sat off to the side on the bleachers.
And I saw this male preference for exclusivity rear its head again this weekend at the Akon concert in Casablanca, which by the way was far more integrated as far as the floor crowd goes (perhaps because there was no room for division?). The concert itself was out of control, in a bad way. There were about 100,000 people trying to fit into a space that could comfortably contain about 70,000. This led people to try and jump barricades and climb the stage scaffolding to get a better view of the show. Things on the ground were claustrophobic at best as I was forced to ebb and flow with every jump, every sway, even every eye blink of the smallest person in the crowd. Now for those of you who don't know--I didn't before this weekend--Akon is a Senegalese rapper who moved to the states when he was 7. And while he is for all intents and purposes and African-American rapper, I thought he might possess some exclusively African cultural sensibilities. This was not the case.
About thirty minutes into his tried and true routine, which has no doubt brought audiences across the world to their feet, he, in defiance or ignorance or the Moroccan male penchant for exclusivity, decided to invite "honeys" up on stage to shake their asses.
At first, I didn't think much about this American rock and roll hallmark, but the crowd registered severe reservations. According to one of the Moroccans I was with the crowd began yelling "slut" and "bitch" at the girls and then in unison, what seemed to be at least 20,000 people, began to cheer "the black man is gay." This chant was somewhat perplexing as typically in American culture a man who surrounds himself with women is a pimp.
After a pause for the pandemonium created by the invitation to the stage, the concert resumed with men throwing bottles and jumping on stage to get into the limelight. Some even started climbing the high scaffolding on both sides of the stage with one man even reaching the top and dangling 30 feet above all the chaos.

Chefchaoun

Much of the allure surrounding Chefchouan centers around the fields of cannabis that grow on the slopes of the Reef Mountains above the old Arab fort city. I had imagined this allure might be a visible cloud of smoke; however, finding its source required a little more effort.
On Sunday, Nick and I made the trek up the mountains past the ruins of an old Spanish mosque, along a path with dilapidated gates guarding untended fields. While walking, we met a three fingered man who offered to guide us to the fields and to a spring where we could find some relief from the sweltering semi-desert heat. All this had the feel of some Arabian Nights adventure (albeit during the day time), so I was a little hesitant.
The man, whose name I forget, spoke English quite well. And a little Spanish. And French and Arabic as well. He asked where I was from and told me his father had moved to Florida eight years ago. I thought this was somewhat curious--one of those "Small World" moments (though I know that neither the Small World ride at Disney World nor the Morocco kiosk at Epcot Center feature three fingered hash-field guides). As we made our way towards the spring near the top, our guide began to point out keef (hash) patches to us. I considered doing keef angels, but I thought better of the idea since the farmers in the area obviously depend on the crop for their livelihood and wouldn't appreciate a somewhat inconsiderate American flapping in their fields. Soon the patches evolved into full fledged plots of land which extended around us on all sides. I had expected the smell to be more potent, and while I caught a few hints of the plants' sweet odor, I had to get very close to get a concentrated whiff.
When we reached the spring we sat and enjoyed the cool water and the brilliant view, then our guide led us back down the mountain where we gave him a few dirhams and went on our way.
Check Out My Chefchoan Photos

Job Description: Inquire Within

For quite some time before I left for Morocco, I had been telling people I was working for the US Agency for International Development helping to promote transparency and reform in the Moroccan governmnet. I was often pressed on what this actually entailed, and I, of course, had no clue. In fact, I still had no clue until about two days ago.
But, at long last, I have a roadmap for my responsabilites, which include gaging interest among different organizations for a youth journalism podcasting program. As the program is not yet existent, I essentially get to design it.
But wait, Matt, you say. You're not qualified to do this. True, but I've discovered there is a wealth of information on--of all places--the internet. Yes, I know, how ironic.
My initial research has led me to a host of interesting sites about podcasting, blogging, and more personalzed media (Check out squidoo.com). To this end, I intend to make my blog avalible as an RSS (real simple syndication) feed, and I have already created a flickr account. I can feel myself becoming one with the Matrix. If you care to, please check out my flickr pics at http://www.flickr.com/photos/mattmawhinney/

Scuffle en Le Autobus

Days become eventful in the most unexpected ways. Yesterday, mine started off modestly with my first Moroccan Arabic (dareeja) lesson before work. We covered a few basic greetings and verbs like "want" and "know" and a few phrases like "Do you have coffee?" The lesson remained the highpoint of my average office day for about 8 and a half hours.

I left the USAID office around 5:30 and made my way to the bus stop a few blocks away. I thought I'd wait for about 10 or 15 minutes, so I was somewhat annoyed when the bus did not show up until around 6:05. It's not that I had anything particularly important to do but I could have used the extra time to sit and laze.

When my chariot to lounging about the apartment arrived, I became immediately aware of some argument between two women in full dress including head scarves and one of the ticket agents. Money collection and ticketing on buses in Rabat is handled by agents who walk up and down the aisle trading small stubs of thin paper for dirhams and change from their leather postman-style satchels.

I imagined the dispute was over their bus fare as I had seen a young boy expelled from the bus in Salle for trying to bum I ride. My first instinct was to give the woman who seemed to be doing most of the arguing for the two 5 dirhams (60 cents) and get on with the ride. I decided against this course of action though as I could tell the argument was becoming more heated, and no one around me, all of whom had a slightly finer appreciation for the details of the situation, was offering up any money.

Two people did, however, come forward to offer the women some verbal assistance. The collections agent did not take too kindly to these good Samaritans, and the some what tame argument blew up into a full scale shouting match. Soon the disgruntled agent, who happened to be wearing an old, postman-style navy blue cap with a black brim (think 1970's), and one of the Samaritans were face to face yelling in words I could not understand but tones that were perfectly intelligible.

This whole time, which was about five minutes, the bus did not move from the stop. I turned to the man next to me and remembering the previous high point of my day managed to mumble "Kantaklam Injleezi?" (Do you speak English?) He said he did not. So I tired again. "Bag...uh...bgheet naarf...." (I want to know) "Ma fahimtch..." (I don't understand). I think he probably just wished I'd shut up so he could remember the details to tell his friends at the cafe, but he mentioned something in Arabic about a ticket.

The bus started to move as the argument continued. Things got quite hot for me as the Samaritan and the agent were hovering just above my head. Then the Samaritan pushed the agent in his face. Some people made a move to separate the two. The other Samaritan managed to drag his friend to the back of the bus as the agent yelled things which included a comment about the Samaritan's mother.

Things seemed to cool for a moment, and the ticket collector moved towards the back to resume his job along with the two other satchel carrying aisle walkers. By this time I had become vaguely aware that the snafu was not directly about money but about tickets. As I had the money to buy a ticket I wasn't terribly concerned, but I was made nervous by the presence of some kind of list in the irritable agent's possession. I though perhaps it might be some kind of predrafted passenger list. This did not make sense, as it was a public bus and I had ridden the bus the previous two days with little incident. As the agent sidled up to me I turned towards him and produced a 10 dirham coin. His reaction which included a look of indignation and a somewhat angry question told me I had now messed up too. Luckily, the man next to me and two other in the front of the back persuaded the agent to move on saying, "He doesn't know, he doesn't know."

And I didn't know. All I knew at that point was that I didn't know, and thankfully this was a valid excuse. My time in the hot seat was over, but the agent was not done. It seemed he wanted to go at it with anyone who could utter a word of Arabic.

The bus ride ended back in Hassan about 20 minutes later with a man restraining the agent against the front windshield of the bus. By this time he had lost his postman's cap and was spitting foam as he yelled.

When I exited the bus, I asked a few people if they spoke English. I settled for a man who said he spoke French, and I asked him (in Arabic) what the problem was. Speaking quite slowly he informed me that the agent had forgot to mark the tickets of the two scarved women and, thinking they hadn't paid, wanted to throw them off. The man and I walked and talked some more with much of what was said lost in the vast gulf of translation. However, drawing on our mutual communicative skills, we agreed that the irritable ticket agent was in fact indexfingerpointedatyourrighttempleandrotatecounterclockwiseesque.

The Desert Sahara

It is somewhat daunting to describe something as vast and timeless as the Sahara. Sandy comes to mind. Well, sandy and hard to reach.
The other AIESECers and I left Rabat at 9pm on Friday evening. After a 9 hour bus ride and another sweaty hour in a grand taxi (5-6 passengers), we reached the town of Arfud. Temperature wise Arfud was quite pleasant for a town on the fringes of the Sahara. I was later told by my friend Suzanne, who did not come on the trip, that the temperature in Arfud that day was a balmy 41 degrees Celsius. For those of you who don't habla Espanola, 41 degrees Celsius is Spanish for 105 degrees Fahrenheit.
In Arfud, we were greeted by a former marathon runner named Hassan. In subsequent retellings of my weekend exploits, I've discovered Hassan is quite well known in Morocco and is using his post athletic career celebrity to promote tourism in the southern part of the country.
Perhaps because of a low core temperature made possible by his mechanically efficient heart, Hassan does not like to avail himself of basic temperature regulating technologies (eg opening the windows), so we were quite unpleasantly surprised upon first entering the sauna he tried to pass off as a house. If he truly hopes to promote tourism, he might think about embracing some cooling agents.
We spent most of the morning and afternoon in Arfud sweating and eating at Hassan's hamam and lazing around the pool of a nearby hotel. In mature world traveler fashion, we decided it was necessary to play a few games of Marco Polo and squared off for some grueling chicken fights.
Around three, we piled into Landrovers and headed off road across a wasteland towards the town of Merzooga. Lynn, Evret, Erik, Brett, and I all piled into one testosterone filled four-by-four which we affectionately dubbed the man van. Our masculine exploits included belting a heart felt rendition of "Build Me Up, Butter Cup."
After an hour of oozing machismo , we reached Merzooga, which is about 20 km from the Algerian border, and we boarded camels and headed for the dunes.
turban clad and camel mounted, our caravan set off on the "arduous" 4km march in the blistering early evening sun. It was what I like to call Lawrence of Arabia Lite. The only unpleasant part of the hour and a half trek to our "oasis" camp site was actually riding the camel. I had to dismount after about half and hour to return circulation to the lower half of my body.
By the time I dismounted to walk on the soft cool sand, all traces of civilization, save our own ipods, cell phones, blue tooths, DVD's, lazy boys, Forman Grill etc, had been left behind. There was, as I have said, only sand, and a deep and calming silence. It felt like a dead spot in the middle of the sonic universe. Sound from all directions was muted on the endless sands.
At the camp site we ate rabbit stew and fell asleep under the stars guarded from the monster tarantulas I was most certain wanted to devour me in the night by a family of guard cats.
In the morning,we bid farewell to our oasis with little ceremony, and returned to Arfud for more sweat and swimming, which was interrupted by a sand storm. Around 6 we took buses to Rashidia, boarded the bus at 9pm, and arrived back in Rabat at 5:30 am. And lucky me, I got to start my first day of work at USAID at 8:30 am.
Amidst my tiredness that day, I could not help but think of the calming silence of the Sahara.

Circus in Salle

I seem to be spending an awful lot of time on the other side of Bou Regreg river in Salle. Yesterday I returned believing I would be helping with some festive activities for the kids at the Amal Salle (Hope of Salle) center.
The center is in one of the poorer neighborhoods of Salle on a rocky patch of ground carved into a V by the surrounding roads. There is an office with a computer and fax machine, some classrooms, and a large concrete slab flanked on one side by bleachers that serves as an all purpose soccer, basketball, assembly area.
The girls there, who range from 8 to 20, are bright and eager to learn as are some of the older guys. The younger guys seem more interested in sports.
Despite the fact that the neighborhood is poor, its people--especially the people at the center--do not seem depressed. However, yesterday the neighborhood was transformed into a hub of fun and joy that most neighborhoods poor or rich rarely become.
Evret (pronounced but not spelled Avret) I arrived around 10 thinking we would meet with some of the volunteers from the center and head to another sight. We were somewhat discouraged when we had to sit around for about 45 minutes with little to no activity. To pass the time he, and Yousif, and I left the center to grab a cup of coffee and wait for what I thought was just going to be a meeting about the festival to start.
When we returned, we were greeted by sheer spectacle. The bleachers, which only half an hour before had been empty, were filled with people young and old, and the drab multipurpose slab had been taken over by an army of floats, musicians, and performers.
We arrived just as one of the acrobats was embarking upon a superhuman feat of balancing wizardry holding himself upside down and completely erect by grasping two straight posts. This was followed by a team of jugglers including one woman who could do six balls while descending into a split. Then the musicians came down from their floats and paraded around the slab as which was now ringed by the children. On top of all this there were stilt walkers, a beautiful, Marilyn Monroe styled women in a red dress accompanied by two fezed men on each arm, a woman playing guitar while being held upside down a much more. It was quite exciting to say the least.