Halftime

     Winter break started for us in mid-December, and those last few weeks of class (coupled with Eid Al-Kabir and cold weather) made us crave a break pretty bad.  Even the most dedicated of us began to check out a couple days early, just because we were tired. 

     So I went to France.  My trip was planned for quite a while and I was pretty excited about it.  I have a couple French friends who were students at OSU for a quarter back in 2007, and they were nice enough to let me stay with them while here.  What's more, they're really a lot of fun to hang out with and my friend Sebastien took me to his parents house with him to celebrate Christmas.  

     It's been a very relaxing time.  Warm, real showers and central heating have been quite the luxury.  Plus, there is never really a time I've had to be anywhere or do anything except for Christmas, so I've had the freedom to do whatever I want with no one to answer to.  

     It's 9:34 a.m. right now on January 5, and I am somewhat excited to go back to Fez.  As you know, I've been studying Modern Standard Arabic, which is formal Arabic and somewhat useless around Fez.  It also is the more academic form of Arabic, and what I was studying at Ohio State.  In my last few weeks in Fez, I was starting to become frustrated with how little practice of the language I was getting outside of class, because it really would have helped me with my work in class.

     However, now I will be studying the dialect.  This is good for a number of reasons.  First, it will be useful, both now and for the rest of my stay in Morocco.  Second, I won't be studying out of Al-Kitaab (the MSA book we use here and at OSU), which means I get a break from our standard pace of learning.

     This break has kind of felt like halftime during a big game.  It's been a nice chance to catch my breath, take a step back, and re-evaluate how to approach what I've been doing.  The game's about to begin, so I've gotta get in there.  Four months down, five to go.

So we ate a couple sheep...

     So the end of that story is a little delayed, and I apologize for that.  The next day was the great gettin'-up-mornin' for the sheep.  Half an hour after I get out of bed, the family carries sheep number 1 upstairs, past my bedroom door, and out onto the terrace just outside my window.  

     Warning, graphic content ahead.

     In Fez, division of labor is taken to pretty much the extreme.  I'd be surprised if there wasn't a guy somewhere whose job it was to tie other people's shoes.  Anyway, there are guys whose job it is to carry a knife around town and slaughter your sheep for you.  These guys came, Hajj Mohamed (the host dad) made the inital neck cut, and the "professional" slaughter guys went to work slicing open the rest of the sheep's throat.

     Sheep Number 1 was not done well.  The second sheep was slaughtered much more efficiently, though probably no more satisfactorily from the sheep's point of view.  By the way, I've made a mental list of those who've been complaining about me not updating my blog, and I'm going to make you watch the sheep video when I get home.

     So once the sheep is slaughtered, the break off a couple limbs, hang it upside down, and peel the pelt down off of it.  They remove the internal parts (putting those on a platter, to be eaten, of course) and in doing so pull the intestines out.  The intestines are by far the worst part, because they pull out yards and yards of it, and it smells like poop.  Outside my bedroom window. 

     So now it's all over but the cooking and the eating.  

     Some stuff you eat on a kebab, other stuff you eat in a tajine.  The kebab meat is a little dry, and the tajine smelled like a foot.  I almost got sick eating the tajine, because it smelled so bad.  Only at one point did I really ask which part of the sheep I was eating.  It had the consistency of smoked fish, had no real odor and no real flavor.  I asked and Khaled leans over and tells me he'll tell me after dinner.  Turns out to be sheep testicle, which, surprisingly, doesn't taste terrible.  

     So that's the end of day one.  Meanwhile, you still have to live in this house and there is a de-pelted sheep hanging from the bathroom door.  Small blood spots on the bathroom floor where it has dripped a few.  And, of course, it smells like sheep still. 

     The second day of Eid rolled around, and it is tradition to eat the head for lunch.  So they cook the head in its entirety, place it on a platter, and then put that on the table.  Fur and all.  You peel back the fur, which reveals some of the most tender meat ever.  The cheek is extremely good.  The ears were the worst part that I ate, because they're stretchy.  I didn't try the eyes--just couldn't bring myself to do it.

The Sheep in the Closet

     So I came home yesterday and there was a sheep in the closet.  Today, there's a second one in there.

     Tomorrow is Eid el-Kabir, the day Muslims around the world celebrate the fact that Abraham was willing to sacrifice his son for God, who received a last minute pardon and thus was spared the knife.  That's more than can be said for the goat that was sacrificed in his place.

     That's where these sheep come in, because tomorrow I'm getting out of bed at a brisk 8:30 a.m., and will get to watch (and maybe help) my host family, you know, shepherd these sheep onto the dinner table.

     I had named the first sheep Lucy, but today I noticed he has horns, so I'm pretty sure he wouldn't like being named Lucy.  Of course, he probably doesn't like being in that closet, either.

     Did I mention the whole house smells like sheep now?

Thanksgiven

     If I weren't laying in my bed right now, with the lights out and getting ready to go to bed, I would be able to see my breath.  As you might not be aware (as I was not), almost no homes in Fez have central heating.  As you might not be aware (although I was), it does actually get cold here in the winter, and my computer claims it's a tropical 48 degrees Fahrenheit.  Yeah, right.

     But in the spirit of Thankgiving, I'm taking comfort in knowing that I have two of the thickest blankets man has ever made, that my host family actually has a house to speak of, and that my house in the States has heating.  Those three things alone are more than some people in this world can say.

     That's not all there is to be thankful for.  

     For the past two months I've been trying to fulfill all of the requirements for getting a carte de sejour (residency card), so that I can stay here in Morocco past my 90-day visitor visa.  Among the things necessary are $2000 in a Moroccan bank, bank statements that attest to that amount, statements from my school declaring how long I will be studying here, notarized and non-notarized copies of my passport and the page with my date-of-entry stamp, notarized copies of a sheet providing my address of residence, 9 smaller-than-passport-sized photos (which are conveniently sold in sets of 8), and three copies of a basic personal information form.  

     No one gets their carte de sejour in fewer than three trips to the local police station, which is where you have to submit this stuff.  And when I say that there is a visa bureau in this police station, please don't assume it's actually a bureau of any sort.  It's a guy behind a desk (who is quite grumpy), and behind him is an 8'' x 11'' sign that looks like it was laminated back in the 1970s, and the last time it was cleaned was before Windex was invented.  So this is where I'm supposed to become official here.

     Two-month-long story short, I made 5 trips, needed more copies of more things ALIF didn't tell me about, and was told I could pick up the receipt for it on none other than November 27, otherwise known as my birthday and Thanksgiving.  I'm not superstitious, but when you go through as much as I did to get this residency card, you don't want to test your luck by writing a blog and saying you're getting your residency card until you do. 

     I did get it, and as they say here:  al-hamdu lil'lah (praise be to God).  

     

     

Mysterious brown powder

     When I talk about Morocco being a little boring at times, I never mean that it has managed to lose its unexpectedness.  Of course, the little red taxis zipping around town are now a normality, and referring to yogurt as Danoon (instead of the brandname Dannon) is nothing new.

     But you can't always keep your guard up against crazy things happening.  Yesterday I was sitting on the couch, half-spaced-out after eating two dinners (yeah, that happens sometimes).  We were at the sister's house, there was soccer on TV, and I was almost ready to fall asleep.

     In usual fashion, somewhat large and older Moroccan women in the extended family shouted out a conversation around the table in the living room, and I was in the middle of the ruckus, sitting rather obliviously to what they were talking about.  There is never an "inside voice."  They are either shouting at each other, or almost completely quiet.  I think the volume is part of the accent.

     Anyway, the conversation got quiet and I got the feeling someone was looking at me.  I glanced to my left and not only is there a large Moroccan woman, wrapped from almost head to toe in a light shade of blue cloth, glaring at me, but she is also holding a lightly gripped fist out to me, almost as if she wants to do the Obama fist bump. 

     Surprised as I was to see this, I still managed to glance down at her hand to see why she was holding it out.  I had trouble seeing what it was she wanted to show me on her hand--at first it looked like a small brown moth or a leaf. 

     But then as I got a closer look, I saw it was a very tiny pile of brown powder, almost like the chocolate powder used to make chocolate milk.  And then she slightly flicked her hand up as if I should smell it, so I could figure out what it was.

     Now this is where, in normal human interaction, I would usually say something.  Maybe a "what the hell are you doing?" or even a simple, "what is that?" would suffice.  But no.  Because no matter how prepared you are for a new culture, why would you expect to be put into this situation?  Every word you've learned in class flees you.

     And now not only are you in this awkward position, but you can't say anything about it.  So what do you do?  Well, there's really only one thing to do.  I leaned over and smelled the powder.

     I couldn't smell anything.  But I'd bought myself a couple seconds, and managed to cobble together enough Arabic words to ask what it was.  Then these women just giggled at me, looked at each other, and then the one to my left lifted her hand to her nose, and snorted half of this powder into each nostril.

     And if I'd thought I was at a loss for words before, then I really had nothing.  How do you deal with something like this?  Did this woman just snort chocolate cocaine?  Did I just honestly watch a 60-year-old woman do a line right there in the living room?  Moreover, did she just proposition me to do the same?  And, of course, they look at you to see your reaction afterward.  If I couldn't tell them in Arabic I thought they were crazy, I'm not sure I was able to keep the look off my face. 

Go Vote

     There is an election tomorrow, and I've already cast my ballot by mail.  If you haven't, then you should go vote tomorrow.  

     And speaking of the election, if there has been one topic I've been actually able to follow on Al-Jazeera with any sort of success, it has been the election.  Baby steps.

     Anyway, go vote. 

     And go Obama.

Cold, rainy days

     Generally speaking, the past few weeks since my trip to the Sahara have been pretty bland.

     Get up in the morning.  Go to class. Use the internet.  Go to class again.  Hang out at the ALIF Villa.  Go home to the family's house.  Eat dinner.  Do homework.  Go to bed.  Repeat.

     Our second six-week block of classes just started last week.  The last block ended really well and I've made pretty big strides with the Arabic, but not nearly as much as I'd like to know.  That's what this six-weeks is for.  During the break between the two, I studied quite a bit and have gotten off to a pretty good start.  One of our teachers last quarter is teaching us once again, and he was somewhat impressed with how much I'd practiced in the five-day break.  

     Even so, the weather has gotten cold and rainy here, so going to the medina can be a wet, miserable experience.  I've been staying in Ville Nouvelle, trying to find out where I can buy packs of regular athletic socks, since I seem to have a less than sufficient number of them, considering how long it can take to do laundry.  From most of the stores in Ville Nouvelle, one would think people only wore dress socks, but there is a rumor that regular socks can be found in the medina.  

     This routine is accentuated by some of the broader difficulties a couple of us are having.  We're trying to apply for residency cards (required for anyone staying longer than 90 days), and there are quite a few administrative obstacles to overcome.  We also have a lot of classwork, and between that, the weather, and some peoples' living arrangements (not mine), it can be difficult to break out and feel like you're really experiencing Moroccan culture.  

     I have a hunch, though, that a hint of the boredom I'm feeling with Moroccan culture is not so much because I'm not experiencing it, but more because I'm getting used to experiencing it.  Meals will occasionally catch me off guard, but fewer and fewer things seem foreign, and really only a complicated Moroccan dialect of Arabic stands between me and really getting to know this place for sure.  And that is just going to take time and patience.