COMING SOON!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Hammam adventure
So, my wonderful house- sister, my roommate and I decided to get scrubbed down about two weeks ago. I really did not have a good idea of what public bathing entailed, but I had heard it was an unforgettable experience, so we went along with our overly enthusiastic sister. However, before heading out, she laid down a few 'rules' in her best English:
1." Do not open your mouths and utter a single word in English. I don't want to be paying extra for you guys." ( she's thoughtful)
2. "Wear this djellaba and scarf, pack a small bag of your favorite toiletries and remember to imitate what I do when we get there."
Djelleba-clad, with our baggies in tow, we headed out in this wonderfully painful July heat towards the Hammam. Our sister bartered with the lady in charge, she glanced us over, approved of our non-foreigner-looking faces and showed us to what is equivalent of a "locker room." Once inside, let me tell you...it was steamy and sauna-like. It didn't quite feel like a refuge from the outside but at least there was no sun beaming down on me in there! We opened up our baggies, left the clothes and heavier objects inside and left them with the locker-room attendee. I was now dressed only in a wife-beater and undies and I thought it'd be fine to enter the main Hammam area where the heat would intensify. I was wrong...Very, very wrong. My house-sister was standing naked as the day she was born and told us to do the same. I looked around and pretty much every single lady in the room was in her same state. "Yeah.....no," I told her. After debating the issue, we came to a compromise: goodbye, wife-beater! Then, we made our way inside to the main Hammam area. The heat wave that hit me literally stopped me from moving forward. I got to glance around in those seconds and saw huddled, naked bodies crouching over water buckets in scattered corners of the room. The thing that caught my eye however was just how freely the women were bathing themselves in front of each other and mostly everyone was minding their business without passing judgment. I was also stunned at the large amount of viejas strolling around naked with no complejos! Good for you, viejas! We finally found a suitable and empty corner of the Hammam and we unloaded our toiletries onto a large bath mat on the floor. Our Hammam 'attendee' brought about 10 buckets of water, each with a different degree of heat. It varied from the scorching water to the crisp and refreshing buckets of icy cold water :) Our sister instructed us on how to bathe:
We first crouched down and picked up a small tub-full of extremely hot water and poured it over us. Rinse and repeat! Then, she pulled out a small bag of sketchy green powder and mixed it with water in a tiny cup. It was magical! Once it had thickened in consistency she poured it over her hair and my hair. It sat in for the duration of our bathing ( almost 2 hours, I believe!) Once I rinsed it out, my hair felt like silk! It was better than any other salon-brand conditioner I had ever tried. Apparently, this green powder-earthy mixture was like mankind's first conditioner. I will definitely be bringing some of this back! In the meantime, our sister also had purchased sabon baladi, a natural soap that I scraped on first and let marinate. It felt like glycerine on my skin.I washed it off with the hot water because it was to prep/clean the skin for the next stage in our search for ultimate cleanliness. Our sister gave us each a "qiss" ...the equivalent of a very rough-pumice-like glove. We dipped it in the hot water and began to "scrape it" against our skin......this is the best part: layers and layers of dead skin began to fall off in front of my eyes. I was horrified, disgusted, amazed and proud all at the same time! I scraped as much as I could and then the Hammam attendee came in scrubbed my sister down properly. My house sister then signaled to the attendee that I was to be next and boy, did it feel like she was sending a lamb to the slaughter! I sat down on a tiny bench in front of this lady, handed her my qiss and she scraped the living life out of me. She put my scraping skills to shame, of course. I was mildly dying inside and my house sister was laughing silently in the corner at the faces of pain and wonderment I was making while this complete stranger bathed me! When I went back to my little corner, I saw the piles and piles and piles ( no exaggeration) of the dead skin that had accumulated from the scraping. I washed off with hot water, warm water, and then cold water. I soaped up again, brushed my fabulously silky, new hair and washed down one final time with scented water. I seriously felt like I had been reborn. I headed back to the locker room area and bathed again in lotion and wrapped myself up with my djellaba and a makeshift hijab. It's easy to get mildly sick from the fluctuations of the temperatures inside the hammam and then walking back home with the heat and wind so our sister wrapped us all up and we headed back home, triumphant in our new skin! It is very common for women to go to the Hammam several times a month and it's not only a social, leisurely activity, but it's an intense beauty ritual that I am very happy I participated in. I am also very fortunate that we went to a LOCAL Hammam, where everyday women go, and not a "bougey" Hammam where tourists and foreigners go and where they are usually ripped off and may not get to experience the original, communal feeling of bathing. I look forward to going once again before I head back to the States!
1." Do not open your mouths and utter a single word in English. I don't want to be paying extra for you guys." ( she's thoughtful)
2. "Wear this djellaba and scarf, pack a small bag of your favorite toiletries and remember to imitate what I do when we get there."
Djelleba-clad, with our baggies in tow, we headed out in this wonderfully painful July heat towards the Hammam. Our sister bartered with the lady in charge, she glanced us over, approved of our non-foreigner-looking faces and showed us to what is equivalent of a "locker room." Once inside, let me tell you...it was steamy and sauna-like. It didn't quite feel like a refuge from the outside but at least there was no sun beaming down on me in there! We opened up our baggies, left the clothes and heavier objects inside and left them with the locker-room attendee. I was now dressed only in a wife-beater and undies and I thought it'd be fine to enter the main Hammam area where the heat would intensify. I was wrong...Very, very wrong. My house-sister was standing naked as the day she was born and told us to do the same. I looked around and pretty much every single lady in the room was in her same state. "Yeah.....no," I told her. After debating the issue, we came to a compromise: goodbye, wife-beater! Then, we made our way inside to the main Hammam area. The heat wave that hit me literally stopped me from moving forward. I got to glance around in those seconds and saw huddled, naked bodies crouching over water buckets in scattered corners of the room. The thing that caught my eye however was just how freely the women were bathing themselves in front of each other and mostly everyone was minding their business without passing judgment. I was also stunned at the large amount of viejas strolling around naked with no complejos! Good for you, viejas! We finally found a suitable and empty corner of the Hammam and we unloaded our toiletries onto a large bath mat on the floor. Our Hammam 'attendee' brought about 10 buckets of water, each with a different degree of heat. It varied from the scorching water to the crisp and refreshing buckets of icy cold water :) Our sister instructed us on how to bathe:
We first crouched down and picked up a small tub-full of extremely hot water and poured it over us. Rinse and repeat! Then, she pulled out a small bag of sketchy green powder and mixed it with water in a tiny cup. It was magical! Once it had thickened in consistency she poured it over her hair and my hair. It sat in for the duration of our bathing ( almost 2 hours, I believe!) Once I rinsed it out, my hair felt like silk! It was better than any other salon-brand conditioner I had ever tried. Apparently, this green powder-earthy mixture was like mankind's first conditioner. I will definitely be bringing some of this back! In the meantime, our sister also had purchased sabon baladi, a natural soap that I scraped on first and let marinate. It felt like glycerine on my skin.I washed it off with the hot water because it was to prep/clean the skin for the next stage in our search for ultimate cleanliness. Our sister gave us each a "qiss" ...the equivalent of a very rough-pumice-like glove. We dipped it in the hot water and began to "scrape it" against our skin......this is the best part: layers and layers of dead skin began to fall off in front of my eyes. I was horrified, disgusted, amazed and proud all at the same time! I scraped as much as I could and then the Hammam attendee came in scrubbed my sister down properly. My house sister then signaled to the attendee that I was to be next and boy, did it feel like she was sending a lamb to the slaughter! I sat down on a tiny bench in front of this lady, handed her my qiss and she scraped the living life out of me. She put my scraping skills to shame, of course. I was mildly dying inside and my house sister was laughing silently in the corner at the faces of pain and wonderment I was making while this complete stranger bathed me! When I went back to my little corner, I saw the piles and piles and piles ( no exaggeration) of the dead skin that had accumulated from the scraping. I washed off with hot water, warm water, and then cold water. I soaped up again, brushed my fabulously silky, new hair and washed down one final time with scented water. I seriously felt like I had been reborn. I headed back to the locker room area and bathed again in lotion and wrapped myself up with my djellaba and a makeshift hijab. It's easy to get mildly sick from the fluctuations of the temperatures inside the hammam and then walking back home with the heat and wind so our sister wrapped us all up and we headed back home, triumphant in our new skin! It is very common for women to go to the Hammam several times a month and it's not only a social, leisurely activity, but it's an intense beauty ritual that I am very happy I participated in. I am also very fortunate that we went to a LOCAL Hammam, where everyday women go, and not a "bougey" Hammam where tourists and foreigners go and where they are usually ripped off and may not get to experience the original, communal feeling of bathing. I look forward to going once again before I head back to the States!
Que pena!!!!!
Before I begin discussing what has unfolded in the last two weeks, I want to apologize for not dedicating the necessary time to updating this blog with every thought and observation of mine. I am a student first and a tourist second! So, a great part of my time has been dedicated to studying intensely! With that being said, let me tell you about going to a local Hammam....
Friday, June 10, 2011
Catching up on how school is...
What can I say? What a difference 7 days can make! Upon arriving here in Fes I was in a state of wonder and disbelief that I was actually here. I was initially shocked by the amount of poverty, the crowdedness, the smells, the noise and the heat but quickly after my focus turned on the beautiful architecture, the rich, green landscape and the warm people. Classes began promptly last Monday and right away we jumped into the sometimes confusing and intricate rules of third-year Arabic grammar. That same day we received our schedules for the first half of the semester and later that night we were to be paired up and meet our new Moroccan families! I honestly felt a little overwhelmed by the rapid pace and compounded set of events that fell upon me! All of this in the course of little more than a day! My first class of the day is Arabic (of course) with a fantastic professor ( Zahrawui) from 10am to Noon. After that, we have a lunch break that lasts until our next set of classes begin at 4pm, and which end at 6pm. My afternoon Arabic Professor ( Hamid) is just absolutely amazing. He does not allow himself or any of us to speak in English ( only for an emergency explanation of something!) and his knowledge of American and just Global Cultures in general is astounding! He tries and succeeds to explain everything and anything in Arabic solely, even if he as to pantomime, role-play etc. At the same time, he introduces new concepts, vocabulary, etc. by referencing American culture, history, pop culture...you name it, I swear he knows it! When the subject of Spanish Literature came up somehow, he knew about Carlos Fuentes, Julio Cortázar, Jorge Luis Borges, Garcia Márquez etc.! When I asked him how to say "magical realism" in Arabic, he didn't hesitate for a second to translate it or discuss it.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have an Arabic Culture through film class that starts at 2 until 4 and which definitely cuts into a significant chunk of the day. Do I love the schedule? Not completely; I am a morning person and really wish that I had consecutive classes rather than have the day broken into two big chunks, but lunch time is sacred here in morocco. From noon to about 330pm, almost all the stores close and students and workers return home to spend time with the family, rest and of course, EAT! This reminds me of the siesta taken in Latin American countries. I remember quite well in Cartagena when I would run errands with my aunt not to show up at a doctor's office (for example) an hour or half an hour in advance ( as typically done in America) because everyone would be eating or the doctor would go home and I would have to sit outside the office because on occasion the receptionist wouldn't want to even up the door and share her sacred time with customers!
On the first day of classes, when my partner-in-crime and roommate, Nora and I met our new family, we were extremely nervous. In a large garden at the ALIF institute ( my school here) the families stood on one side and the feeble and exhausted students waiting to be paired stood on the other. It was just like being back in elementary school waiting to be picked for a dodgeball team. When we were called, we walked over and greeted our beautiful new "sister." She was to take us back with her to her mother's house where we would live for the next 9 weeks.She speaks French and is the only person in our new family that understands and speaks a little bit of English! She has been married for a year now, she is my age (20) and she is happily pregnant. She comes to visit us/sleep over about 2 times a week. We are fortunate to live in a spacious, clean and impeccably decorated home in the Old Medina. The Old Medina ( medina qadima) is the traditional quarters of the medieval city. Our room alone is the size of a typical American living room with high ceilings, Moorish tiles on the floor and part of the walls, traditional couches and the doors to our room look like the doors of a palace! They reach the ceiling and are made of sturdy dark wood with delicate designs layed on the frame- just gorgeous. Because our house is in the old city, we ran the risk of not having a home with a modern toilet, but we lucked out when we saw that our family had renovated the bathroom to include a toilet. In our shower area, we still have the trace of where the Old "Turkish squat toilet" was present. I can't imagine being able to place your feet on a slab of marble and do what mother nature intended you to over a tiny hole in the ground. I just don't have the lower body strength to do that, especially considering that I had knee surgery less than a year ago. I'll be sure though, to check out some of my friends' calves in a couple of weeks to see if they're getting a workout from the daily squatting :) All in all, my home is wonderful. Communicating with my family has been another adventure, however. When my new "sister" isn't home, I have reverted back to exaggerated facial expressions, miming, role-playing and working on tone and delivery of simple phrases to convey larger meaning. I think I should be cast in a Mexican soap-opera after my stint here in Fes. ( speaking of Mexican soap operas: they have them here! a lot of families watch them at night! how amazing!) I speak to them in Classical Arabic ( "Fus-Ha") and they most of the time will understand, but largely, the locals and my family speak the moroccan dialect of arabic "darija" that is basically very different from what I speak. There's a difference between the classical Arabic and each Arab country's dialect..but its far worse than the differences in Spanish dialects in Latin American countries and Spain. I know that I can chat with a Mexican, Argentinean and a Cuban and we'll all be able to carry on a conversation pretty much clearly and perfectly on all sides. Classical Arabic is relegated to the media, press and school..it's not the language of "the streets." So I am learning two different Arabic(s)! When I can't understand the family's dialect, French is always a safety. Who knew taking four years of french in high school would pay off?! I really wish I could speak to someone in Spanish, but I just haven't been able to find my spanish-speakers yet! I'm waiting for the day one taxi driver will know a little bit! That's another story, when I get in the taxis many times they ask if I'm from Syria, Lebanon or Jordan, and I surprise them when I say Colombia. They, in turn, surprise me when they say " ahhhhh Colombia? Like Shakira?" HAHAHAHA. *sigh* Yes sir, like Shakira.
However, I digress! Finally, I'll talk a little about now about bus culture here since I am attempting to keep this post confined to a discussion of early life and school and since the bus is an integral part of my life here. My family suggested to us the evening we met them that we get to school by taking the local buses. Our school is in the New City and we live in the Old City and taking taxis back and forth could prove a hassle and pain. ( and boy, did it!) On Tuesday morning, our new "father" walked us down to the bus stop next to our house and we paid 3dirhams for a ticket. It was a precious moment! Like the first day of school where your mom or dad wants to make sure they meet the bus driver and make sure you're on the bus safely and that you remember your stop. I was excited! But at the same time, I had heard buses where the hotspots where you could be harrased, pick-pocketed etc., so I had my reservations about relying on the service. After 10 minutes of waiting, the bus came around the corner. Sweet Baby Jesus....it was survival of the fittest at its finest! Hoards of people that weren't at the stop earlier appeared from thin air and were now crowding the stop and spilling over into the street as well. The Bus driver honked angrily for the people to move out the streets but he still kept his slow pace until he reached a spot he found to his liking- all the while the people were running/walking with the bus. Suddenly, the gates of heaven opened. Everyone began to push, nudge,elbow, step on you and do all kinds of contortions with their bodies to make sure they got on that bus! I was beyond shocked...but I was also mesmerized. I made it my business to learn exactly how people were behaving and do the same next time around. The front of the bus has seats that seem to be the women's area and after that is a wide and long space where the suckers that couldn't fight with a grandma for a chair, stand up for the whole ride. ( that's most of us!)The back of the bus seems seedy and grimy and its where the people that didn't previously purchase tickets can buy them at the same time. I was not fortunate enough that first day to sit down and I had to stand in the middle section nervously clutching by backpack and simultaneously putting on an air of confidence. We got lost that morning. Apparently we made it onto the wrong bus and in our best Arabic we went up to a young girl and the driver to explain that we had no idea where we were, that it was our first day and we needed help! I thought, 'great, now our vulnerability has been displayed!' But sure enough, a whole crowd of youths began deciding on the best route for us and telling the driver where to drop us off and then from where to walk to get to school. I was so thankful! The next couple of days we learned to master the morning bus rides. I shed my fear of having to nudge strangers in odd places, of slightly pushing elderly women and of clutching my backpack like a foreigner. I started carrying a side-swept bag, walking up to the ticket counter with confidence, exchanging Salams with the ticket-seller and of making sure I was on the right bus. When the bus reached the corner, I set out from the ticket counter, past the stop and into the street just like the rest of people. When the doors opened, I pushed and nudged and put my foot in the bus and hoisted myself in with intent! One morning I pushed someone out of the way and the woman behind me patted me on the back! I decided against sitting in the women's section because it seemed like mothers with children and the elderly relied on that area so I would stand right behind them, clutching the metal bars that run alongside the bus and I began blending in. Over the course of the next couple of days I made 'friends' with several young girls who were also on their way to classes and they made sure I stood next to their 'area of safety' on the bus. One one woman I had spoken to before getting on the bus actually saved me a seat when I got on after her. Men that have tried to sit in the women's area and allowed elderly grandmothers to stand have been insulted, hit and yelled at until they get up in shame! I never thought I'd be praised for/ proud of pushing and being determined...but there's a first time for everything...all I can say is that Bus Culture is incredibly unique!
This has been an incredibly long post...but it's not over!....The next post deserves a space of its own: my adventures in a traditional women's bathhouse ( Hammam)
On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have an Arabic Culture through film class that starts at 2 until 4 and which definitely cuts into a significant chunk of the day. Do I love the schedule? Not completely; I am a morning person and really wish that I had consecutive classes rather than have the day broken into two big chunks, but lunch time is sacred here in morocco. From noon to about 330pm, almost all the stores close and students and workers return home to spend time with the family, rest and of course, EAT! This reminds me of the siesta taken in Latin American countries. I remember quite well in Cartagena when I would run errands with my aunt not to show up at a doctor's office (for example) an hour or half an hour in advance ( as typically done in America) because everyone would be eating or the doctor would go home and I would have to sit outside the office because on occasion the receptionist wouldn't want to even up the door and share her sacred time with customers!
On the first day of classes, when my partner-in-crime and roommate, Nora and I met our new family, we were extremely nervous. In a large garden at the ALIF institute ( my school here) the families stood on one side and the feeble and exhausted students waiting to be paired stood on the other. It was just like being back in elementary school waiting to be picked for a dodgeball team. When we were called, we walked over and greeted our beautiful new "sister." She was to take us back with her to her mother's house where we would live for the next 9 weeks.She speaks French and is the only person in our new family that understands and speaks a little bit of English! She has been married for a year now, she is my age (20) and she is happily pregnant. She comes to visit us/sleep over about 2 times a week. We are fortunate to live in a spacious, clean and impeccably decorated home in the Old Medina. The Old Medina ( medina qadima) is the traditional quarters of the medieval city. Our room alone is the size of a typical American living room with high ceilings, Moorish tiles on the floor and part of the walls, traditional couches and the doors to our room look like the doors of a palace! They reach the ceiling and are made of sturdy dark wood with delicate designs layed on the frame- just gorgeous. Because our house is in the old city, we ran the risk of not having a home with a modern toilet, but we lucked out when we saw that our family had renovated the bathroom to include a toilet. In our shower area, we still have the trace of where the Old "Turkish squat toilet" was present. I can't imagine being able to place your feet on a slab of marble and do what mother nature intended you to over a tiny hole in the ground. I just don't have the lower body strength to do that, especially considering that I had knee surgery less than a year ago. I'll be sure though, to check out some of my friends' calves in a couple of weeks to see if they're getting a workout from the daily squatting :) All in all, my home is wonderful. Communicating with my family has been another adventure, however. When my new "sister" isn't home, I have reverted back to exaggerated facial expressions, miming, role-playing and working on tone and delivery of simple phrases to convey larger meaning. I think I should be cast in a Mexican soap-opera after my stint here in Fes. ( speaking of Mexican soap operas: they have them here! a lot of families watch them at night! how amazing!) I speak to them in Classical Arabic ( "Fus-Ha") and they most of the time will understand, but largely, the locals and my family speak the moroccan dialect of arabic "darija" that is basically very different from what I speak. There's a difference between the classical Arabic and each Arab country's dialect..but its far worse than the differences in Spanish dialects in Latin American countries and Spain. I know that I can chat with a Mexican, Argentinean and a Cuban and we'll all be able to carry on a conversation pretty much clearly and perfectly on all sides. Classical Arabic is relegated to the media, press and school..it's not the language of "the streets." So I am learning two different Arabic(s)! When I can't understand the family's dialect, French is always a safety. Who knew taking four years of french in high school would pay off?! I really wish I could speak to someone in Spanish, but I just haven't been able to find my spanish-speakers yet! I'm waiting for the day one taxi driver will know a little bit! That's another story, when I get in the taxis many times they ask if I'm from Syria, Lebanon or Jordan, and I surprise them when I say Colombia. They, in turn, surprise me when they say " ahhhhh Colombia? Like Shakira?" HAHAHAHA. *sigh* Yes sir, like Shakira.
However, I digress! Finally, I'll talk a little about now about bus culture here since I am attempting to keep this post confined to a discussion of early life and school and since the bus is an integral part of my life here. My family suggested to us the evening we met them that we get to school by taking the local buses. Our school is in the New City and we live in the Old City and taking taxis back and forth could prove a hassle and pain. ( and boy, did it!) On Tuesday morning, our new "father" walked us down to the bus stop next to our house and we paid 3dirhams for a ticket. It was a precious moment! Like the first day of school where your mom or dad wants to make sure they meet the bus driver and make sure you're on the bus safely and that you remember your stop. I was excited! But at the same time, I had heard buses where the hotspots where you could be harrased, pick-pocketed etc., so I had my reservations about relying on the service. After 10 minutes of waiting, the bus came around the corner. Sweet Baby Jesus....it was survival of the fittest at its finest! Hoards of people that weren't at the stop earlier appeared from thin air and were now crowding the stop and spilling over into the street as well. The Bus driver honked angrily for the people to move out the streets but he still kept his slow pace until he reached a spot he found to his liking- all the while the people were running/walking with the bus. Suddenly, the gates of heaven opened. Everyone began to push, nudge,elbow, step on you and do all kinds of contortions with their bodies to make sure they got on that bus! I was beyond shocked...but I was also mesmerized. I made it my business to learn exactly how people were behaving and do the same next time around. The front of the bus has seats that seem to be the women's area and after that is a wide and long space where the suckers that couldn't fight with a grandma for a chair, stand up for the whole ride. ( that's most of us!)The back of the bus seems seedy and grimy and its where the people that didn't previously purchase tickets can buy them at the same time. I was not fortunate enough that first day to sit down and I had to stand in the middle section nervously clutching by backpack and simultaneously putting on an air of confidence. We got lost that morning. Apparently we made it onto the wrong bus and in our best Arabic we went up to a young girl and the driver to explain that we had no idea where we were, that it was our first day and we needed help! I thought, 'great, now our vulnerability has been displayed!' But sure enough, a whole crowd of youths began deciding on the best route for us and telling the driver where to drop us off and then from where to walk to get to school. I was so thankful! The next couple of days we learned to master the morning bus rides. I shed my fear of having to nudge strangers in odd places, of slightly pushing elderly women and of clutching my backpack like a foreigner. I started carrying a side-swept bag, walking up to the ticket counter with confidence, exchanging Salams with the ticket-seller and of making sure I was on the right bus. When the bus reached the corner, I set out from the ticket counter, past the stop and into the street just like the rest of people. When the doors opened, I pushed and nudged and put my foot in the bus and hoisted myself in with intent! One morning I pushed someone out of the way and the woman behind me patted me on the back! I decided against sitting in the women's section because it seemed like mothers with children and the elderly relied on that area so I would stand right behind them, clutching the metal bars that run alongside the bus and I began blending in. Over the course of the next couple of days I made 'friends' with several young girls who were also on their way to classes and they made sure I stood next to their 'area of safety' on the bus. One one woman I had spoken to before getting on the bus actually saved me a seat when I got on after her. Men that have tried to sit in the women's area and allowed elderly grandmothers to stand have been insulted, hit and yelled at until they get up in shame! I never thought I'd be praised for/ proud of pushing and being determined...but there's a first time for everything...all I can say is that Bus Culture is incredibly unique!
This has been an incredibly long post...but it's not over!....The next post deserves a space of its own: my adventures in a traditional women's bathhouse ( Hammam)
Monday, June 6, 2011
I finally have internet!
Before I begin my lengthy post to catch up with everything I've done for the past week, I just wanted to let my followers know that I didn't have internet for a week, but now I will hopefully be able to update it regularly!
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