Ask someone living in a foreign country what he or she misses about home, and the most common answer you're likely to get is, "the food." A certain computer-animated rat excepted, we humans are (as far as I know) unique in our relationship to food. It doesn't just nourish us; it is an integral component of cultural, and personal, identity.
If you move to a foreign country, then, food is not going to be the least of the things you must adjust to.
27 March 2012
24 March 2012
Done it all
Yesterday, T and I took the new tram in Rabat. I think this means that we have now used every mode of public transportation available in the country of Morocco (with the exception of intra-country flight, which seems like a fairly rare way of getting around within Morocco, and in any case we have used flight to go to and from the country). We have used petits taxis, grands taxis, the bus, the train, and the tram. Many times, these modes of transportation must be used in combinations that can be exhausting. (Yesterday, for example, we used everything but bus to get to, around, and back home from Rabat.)
If you are from or have lived in a big city like New York or Tokyo or Hong Kong, you're probably wondering why this is worth noting on my blog. You have to understand that I grew up in rural Nebraska and didn't even ride a city bus, subway or taxi until after I was out of college. Until these last couple of years in Morocco, public transportation remained a novelty – and a bit of a mystery – to me.
Many people have told us we might be happier if we had a car here. It's true that, as "nature lovers" more than "city people," T and I sometimes find it challenging to get to the places that would be most interesting to us because they are off the beaten path. Nevertheless, I am glad, for many reasons, that we have chosen not to try to get a car while here. Not only has it been cheaper, but it has been a wonderful learning experience (for me, especially) to figure out how to get around the country without a personal vehicle. (And in the times when we have really needed a car, we have been lucky enough to have wonderful friends who have lent us theirs.)
If you are from or have lived in a big city like New York or Tokyo or Hong Kong, you're probably wondering why this is worth noting on my blog. You have to understand that I grew up in rural Nebraska and didn't even ride a city bus, subway or taxi until after I was out of college. Until these last couple of years in Morocco, public transportation remained a novelty – and a bit of a mystery – to me.
Many people have told us we might be happier if we had a car here. It's true that, as "nature lovers" more than "city people," T and I sometimes find it challenging to get to the places that would be most interesting to us because they are off the beaten path. Nevertheless, I am glad, for many reasons, that we have chosen not to try to get a car while here. Not only has it been cheaper, but it has been a wonderful learning experience (for me, especially) to figure out how to get around the country without a personal vehicle. (And in the times when we have really needed a car, we have been lucky enough to have wonderful friends who have lent us theirs.)
20 March 2012
How I came to be walking down the streets of Meknes with a woman holding a plastic jar with pieces of my stomach in it
This blog entry contains some personal medical information. Although I am providing this information for the purpose of illustrating what I think are interesting cultural differences, if this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, you can skip reading it. Rest assured that, despite the provocative title, nothing dangerous happened to me today, and my health is relatively stable.
I have hinted in previous posts that my health has not been at its best since coming to Morocco. I haven't written much about it because…well…I didn't think it was really that interesting.
But in some ways, I guess it is, and maybe writing about it is relevant to the purpose of this blog. Definitions of and attitudes toward health and sickness are culturally bound. (An example with which many Americans might be familiar is the changing stance of the American Psychological Association on homosexuality.) The procedures used for identifying and treating illness – from how one makes a doctor's appointment to options for laboratory work – also change from culture to culture. The theoretical frameworks from which doctors approach diagnosis and treatment may be different, and the social roles of doctors and "patients" are also culturally defined.
I am someone who has always found medical systems difficult to understand and navigate, even with parents who are nurses, even in my own culture, even communicating with people who speak the same native language I do. As I wrote about previously, all of those things that cause difficulty for me in the U.S. cause more difficulty here.
I have hinted in previous posts that my health has not been at its best since coming to Morocco. I haven't written much about it because…well…I didn't think it was really that interesting.
But in some ways, I guess it is, and maybe writing about it is relevant to the purpose of this blog. Definitions of and attitudes toward health and sickness are culturally bound. (An example with which many Americans might be familiar is the changing stance of the American Psychological Association on homosexuality.) The procedures used for identifying and treating illness – from how one makes a doctor's appointment to options for laboratory work – also change from culture to culture. The theoretical frameworks from which doctors approach diagnosis and treatment may be different, and the social roles of doctors and "patients" are also culturally defined.
I am someone who has always found medical systems difficult to understand and navigate, even with parents who are nurses, even in my own culture, even communicating with people who speak the same native language I do. As I wrote about previously, all of those things that cause difficulty for me in the U.S. cause more difficulty here.
13 March 2012
Souk boutique
Ifrane's souk is the place to go for the best prices on the greatest variety of fruits and vegetables. I don't go there every week, but I try to go at least once a month to stock up on produce.
A lot of people I know go there to get clothes, too. For at least the first year that I lived in Morocco, I was utterly overwhelmed by the prospect of trying to buy clothing at the souk. Imagine the piles of clothes at the biggest garage sale you've ever attended, and then multiply that by, say, 10. Spending hours digging through huge piles of (sometimes smelly) largely uncategorized clothing items never appealed to me. But lately, my friends Sarah and Sara have helped me to enjoy this simple and cheap weekend entertainment. On a nice, sunny day, it can be fun to stand across from a friend, going from one end of a table to the other, excavating and discussing an interesting array of clothing. Some of the clothing items are very worn, others are bizarre, but every once in a while, we find something nice or interesting enough to take home. The clothes are cheap enough that you don't have to worry about trying them on before purchasing them. If something doesn't fit, you can pass it on to someone else, use it for a craft project, or even just use it for rags.
Like I said, cheap and simple. That's my kind of fun.
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| Weird shirt with cranes on it + bad ass denim jacket = app. $4 |
Like I said, cheap and simple. That's my kind of fun.
10 March 2012
What the birds know
At lower altitudes, blooming cherry trees and bright green fields are obvious signs that spring has arrived. In Ifrane, temperatures haven't noticeably changed since February, and the ground and trees remain an expectant brown.
But the birds know that spring has come. In the last week or so, their songs have changed to something more boisterous. The storks--some of whom chose to remain in Ifrane for the comparatively long, cold winter, standing stoically on windy rooftops--are busy repairing and expanding their nests. They spend a remarkable amount of time selecting the right sticks, presenting them to their mates, and positioning them just so in their nests.
The egrets have returned, and in the evenings they huddle, carefully spaced apart from each other, in the leafless trees by the little lake in the center of town. The lesser kestrels have arrived after a winter away, too, and their unexpectedly doll-like peeping calls can be heard throughout town. Starlings flit about in groups, singing in a way that I can't help but think of as playful.
And even though I know it's anthropomorphizing, I also read hopefulness into all of it. This, the birds remind me, is the time of opening, of awakening, of tender growth and fast change. On a cool morning when the bright sun shines warm on my face, and I see the patient storks putting their lives back together slowly, one thin stick at a time, my heart feels full with possibility. Like their nests, my home, my life, is repeatedly undone. But what can I do? That is the nature of life. I can only, after a winter of undoing, awaken in the spring, pick up a stick, and place it carefully. Then do it again. And again. Admire the work, but don't get attached. Keep building. This must be what the storks do. This is what I will try to do. This is what we all must do.
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| a patient stork |
The egrets have returned, and in the evenings they huddle, carefully spaced apart from each other, in the leafless trees by the little lake in the center of town. The lesser kestrels have arrived after a winter away, too, and their unexpectedly doll-like peeping calls can be heard throughout town. Starlings flit about in groups, singing in a way that I can't help but think of as playful.
And even though I know it's anthropomorphizing, I also read hopefulness into all of it. This, the birds remind me, is the time of opening, of awakening, of tender growth and fast change. On a cool morning when the bright sun shines warm on my face, and I see the patient storks putting their lives back together slowly, one thin stick at a time, my heart feels full with possibility. Like their nests, my home, my life, is repeatedly undone. But what can I do? That is the nature of life. I can only, after a winter of undoing, awaken in the spring, pick up a stick, and place it carefully. Then do it again. And again. Admire the work, but don't get attached. Keep building. This must be what the storks do. This is what I will try to do. This is what we all must do.
08 March 2012
Morocco and me
Lately, the absence of my friend LW, my chronic "unwellness," the difficulty of completing a U.S.-centered graduate program while living overseas, and the uncertainty about where I'll be in five months have all gotten me thinking again, rather intensely and frequently, about the idea of loving a country. The cold weather and my health have prevented me from spending much time outdoors, and I find that, without interesting trips and time spent sitting at cafés in the sun drinking mint tea with friends, I like Morocco a lot less.
I've been wondering, too, how many people love or like or are even content with the place where they live. It may not be apparent from my blog, but in my adult life, I have tried to approach each place I've lived with a general attitude of openness and appreciation. I have tried to make each place my home, even when I knew I wouldn't be spending much time there. But if I am completely honest, I must say: I have utterly failed to make Morocco my home.
I haven't explored enough of the country. I haven't taken advantage of its proximity to Europe. I haven't learned the language, and as much as I like to declare that this is evidence of my general dimwitted-ness, it's really evidence of my failure to integrate, to settle down. I haven't made Moroccan friends. I haven't learned enough about Islam. I haven't even asked the University imam to give me a tour of the mosque on campus, and it's the only mosque in the country that I, as a non-Muslim, can visit.
Where do I go from here? I'm not sure. I know that lots of people live in places where they don't feel at home. What do they do? I want to turn from bitterness and get up each morning with the intention of trying to live here. I will renew that intention every day, to the extent possible. That's all I can think of to do.
I've been wondering, too, how many people love or like or are even content with the place where they live. It may not be apparent from my blog, but in my adult life, I have tried to approach each place I've lived with a general attitude of openness and appreciation. I have tried to make each place my home, even when I knew I wouldn't be spending much time there. But if I am completely honest, I must say: I have utterly failed to make Morocco my home.
I haven't explored enough of the country. I haven't taken advantage of its proximity to Europe. I haven't learned the language, and as much as I like to declare that this is evidence of my general dimwitted-ness, it's really evidence of my failure to integrate, to settle down. I haven't made Moroccan friends. I haven't learned enough about Islam. I haven't even asked the University imam to give me a tour of the mosque on campus, and it's the only mosque in the country that I, as a non-Muslim, can visit.
Where do I go from here? I'm not sure. I know that lots of people live in places where they don't feel at home. What do they do? I want to turn from bitterness and get up each morning with the intention of trying to live here. I will renew that intention every day, to the extent possible. That's all I can think of to do.
01 March 2012
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