Adventures in Morocco, Pt. I
If you asked me what I expected of Morocco before arriving in this country, I would have told you I didn’t know, and yet, somehow, after being in this lovely foreign place for a full week I can wholeheartedly tell you it’s not what I expected at all.
Rabat is Morocco’s capital city with a population of just under 578,000 located on the northernmost coast of the country and only a bit south of the Spanish border. Being the nation’s capital, we are surrounded by skyscrapers, cafes, and any other indication of metropolitan life one can imagine, and being so close to the water — combined with the latitude — makes the weather almost identical to Santa Clara (in fact, the two are separated by just three latitudinal degrees). We are also in one of the wealthiest parts of the country, meaning that Keala and I have not gone without any of the luxuries we are accustomed to in the US, even if we are experiencing them now in different ways.
After traveling to Marrakesh, I saw the side of Morocco I had envisioned upon my arrival and was not disappointed by the narrow, dusty streets and rusty-hued architecture. There, we met two women, artisans and partners of Asila, who invited us into their homes.
The first, a woman named Saida, offered us the traditional mint tea and bread — an absolute staple featured with every meal and, oftentimes, as its own stand alone dish. It is here I learned from Houcine, another intern with Asila who was born and raised in Morocco, that one must never drink the first cup of tea poured; the first cup is meant to remove the less steeped liquid and is actually poured back into the pot to “mix” the tea after being swirled around in its glass for a few seconds. The bread also brought with it a lesson in culture as our boss, a spirited woman named Manal, urged us to dip our own loaves in the displayed bowls of olive oil and honey. The conversation with Saida, a fast-paced dance between French and Arabic, was a blur and, admittedly, I understood very little, but I hope I always remember the beauty of her naturally-lit riad with birdsong streaming down from its rafters.
The second visit took us to Rquia, Asila’s premiere leatherworker. This conversation was no more comprehensible than the first but even I was able to interpret when she offered us food. Rquia would not take no for an answer and, without a second thought, gave us the tagine she had been cooking her family for lunch. Touched by her generosity, and more than a little curious about Morocco’s most well-known food, I gleefully devoured the delightful combination of chicken, olives, and potatoes while Rquia patiently answered my questions about how it was made (via Manal’s translation, of course). As it turns out, I have much to learn about what can be accomplished with simple combination of spices and about bread’s secondary use as a form of utensil.
It’s not hard to fall in love with the food culture here in Morocco. A meal is used to connect people as much as it is to eat; even the handyman who came (with his very pregnant wife and friend) to fix the water heater in our apartment, a man who didn’t speak a word of English and whose name I still do not know, invited us to his house to eat couscous with he and his family. I will probably always wonder what would have happened if we had taken him up on that offer, part of me wishes we had (while the other is screaming about safety).
We did manage to have couscous, however. That same night, Manal invited us over to her house for family dinner and we were able to meet her parents, sister/brother-in-law, and nieces. To date, that meal is the best I’ve had since stepping foot in this surprising land. We all sat round two impressively large plates piled high with couscous, chicken, chickpeas, and caramelized onions and raisins. As all meals here seem to go, we began eating with forks and spoons before giving into the more intuitive desire to eat with our hands. Manal poured the table a round of buttermilk (drank from a bowl) and the night unfolded into one of light and laughter.
The El Attir family were all educated in the US and so conversation flowed from Arabic to French to English and back as each joked amongst themselves before doing their best to translate for Keala and I. It was a beautiful exchange of language that I have never seen before, with words flowing cross-linguistically as each pulled from their extensive vocabulary to communicate with one another; it was anyone’s guess whether the next word out of someone’s mouth would be in English, Arabic, French, or even Berber, at any given time.
All of this and more in just one week. That doesn’t include our venture to a lounge on the river with Houcine and some of his friends or our long-winded battle with our apartment’s shower. Hardly any of this even has to do with the work we are doing because quite honestly, that’s not what I expected either.
If I am being completely candid, I don’t really know what we’re doing here and I am doubtful about what we will be able to do in the time that we have. There is so much work to be done for Asila, work I am excited about and that I would love doing, but there are other side projects we must finish first. There is next to no structure and I am left constantly reeling as to how I can put my best foot forward in this position.
But I am hopeful. We still have 3 weeks left in this program and I intend to use them well.
