Pop Quiz Hotshot!

It's been almost two years since I moved to Morocco, and as my biological restlessness clock would have it, it is time to move on. Next stop--Mae Sot, Thailand. While I look forward to challenging work, a warm climate, and pomegranate iced-tea, I look back on the things I've learned during my time in Ifrane. Some things were expected, others, not so much. So, just what have I learned? Well, let's see if you can guess. True or false...and don't look at the answer key below.

1. How to make sushi
2. How to belly dance
3. That I'm happiest in water
4. How to milk a camel
5. Yoga
6. That I wouldn't mind being someone's second or third wife
7. That there are just some things about foreign cultures I refuse to tolerate . . . and I'm okay with that
8. That I'm okay living in a country that prohibits drinking beer outside
9. How to be incredibly accurate with a sling shot
10. Where to find brown sugar in Europe
11. My family is more liberal than they care to admit
12. Enough Darija to make me proud and enough French to make me ashamed
13. To master medium difficulty of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Road" on Guitar Hero
14. To salsa dance better than I ever could in Latin America

If you answered false to 2,4,6,8 and 10...then buy yourself a beer and give yourself a pat on the back. If you got some wrong...then well, I guess you overlooked Morocco's diverse culture of latin dancing and Japanese cuisine. Better luck next time in the Thailand test...you got two years to prepare.

It's my party and I'll . . .

...eat a live cow if I want to. Some like cake, others prefer live livestock, and no, there is no redundancy in that phrase. Yesterday was the the celebration of the Prophet Mohamed's birthday, known as Eid-al-Mawlid. And other than being a day off work, it's a rather important time for families to get together, eat special food, sing, dance, pray . . . and eat a living cow. Now, I wouldn't want you to get the wrong impression. This practice is not characteristic of Islam as practiced by most Moroccans, but rather a Sufi tradition that is honored in celebration of the Prophet's birthday. So each year (this year it fell on March 9th) Sufis gather in a particular city here in Morocco, Meknes, which lies particularly close to where I live, Ifrane, and therefor gave me a particularly good reason to travel to Meknes and check out the festivities. Now, I have to admit that my interests were beyond pure cultural intrigue. No, I was ready to see some action, blood, and all the calamity this celebration is notorious for. In fact, what sparked my interest, was the experience of a colleague of mine the previous year. Here's how his story goes:

• French colleague goes to Meknes with his Moroccan wife.
• Couple takes all cultural precautions by not wearing black, red, or green, the forbidden colors on this particular day.
• Couple goes to Sufi procession to witness their wild dance, self-torture, and of course, rhythmic drumming.
• Tranced, whirling Sufis mistake French colleague's navy blue jacket for black and pounce on him.
• About half a dozen Sufis tear off his clothes, exposing his chest, biting and scratching, eating his black wallet, and ripping the hair off his frantic wife's scull. Maybe they mistook him for the cow.
• Moroccan bystanders break up the fight while the police watch.
• Couple leaves Meknes immediately.
• French colleague shows war wounds to me at work on Monday.

So, you can see why I was interested. But in all fairness, and for PC disclaimer purposes, this experience cannot be applied to all sects of Sufism.

Anyway, so my friend and I went to this same celebration, witnessed the same trancing, dancing, and drumming, but to our dismay, no livestock feasting. What we did see, however, were groups of 30-40 Sufis, whirling around each other in a circle, when suddenly a fight breaks out between two women. One woman actually rips out a clump of hair and throws it into the riled crowd. Then, as if on cue, the entire group stops their drumming, halts their dancing, and makes a sprinting dash towards the mosque entrance. Even men older than my grandmother were running like gazelles towards the arched doors. Later on, we discovered the reason for this hurried procession. They were simply hungry. The live cow that was to be eaten was inside the mosque, and if anyone can empathize with the severity of hunger pangs, it's me. So, next time you're planning your birthday, try to think outside the conventional box of ice-cream cakes and candles, and consider a more carnivorous concoction.

Morocco prepares for the Winter Olympics

SNOW DIVING

The enemy has taken the bridge

The Charlie was everywhere and me and my squad mates were still about 300 meters from safety and provisions. We huddled close together as we scrambled through the maze of exploding landmines. Sergeant Ansmann was in the lead followed by myself and Captain Ana. As Ansmann blazed the trail, a landmine exploded just next to her left leg. She jumped out of the way only to be barely nicked by a passing enemy tank. There were so many explosions and so much confusion that you couldn't tell who was who anymore. Everything just became a sea of screams and colorful bursts. We were about half way over the bridge when I saw a little boy igniting yet another missile from the middle of the street. Those inhumane bastards! Using child labor to set off their weapons. What kind of war was this? I almost ran over the little tyke as he was heading for cover. He looked at me right in the eye and yelled something in a foreign tongue, "Prosit Neujahr," or something of the sort. We finally found our base camp along with the other soldiers in our platoon. Pheew! Safety at last. I drank some of the bubbly liquid my platoon commander handed me. I suppose it was the only drink we could find in these foreign lands. Suddenly, everyone started counting backwards in that same foreign tongue, "FUNF! VIER! DREI! SWEI! EINS! PROSIT NEUJAHR!!!" More bombs were exploding now and my commander was passing around the bottle of bubbly to everyone, even the Charlie! "Happy New Year!" Srgt. Ansmann said to me as she gave me a big hug. Happy New Year? But what about the war? What about the child soldier on the bridge? Have I gone crazy or have I just drunken too much champagne? I think it must be the latter.

A Christmas Tree Makeover

Materials
scrap paper
scissors
colored lights
imagination
and lots of time and patience

Procedure

1. After explaining some general Christmas traditions to your Moroccan friend, convince him that it is also tradition for the guest (him) to decorate the tree as the others judge his character based on the creativity and beauty of his decorative skills. Be sure to emphasize that it's good luck to cover the tree in mustard once finished decorating.

2. Stop being a jerk and messing with a person's innocent cultural curiosities.

3. Using the scissors and scrap paper, make all kinds of paper snowflakes giving eah other creative inspiration by suggesting themed flakes such as "Transylvanian snow", "Christmas in Miami", and "breakfast for dinner" (not sure where that one came from).

4. Wait for your friend to recall his Japanese exchange student friend who taught him to make origami balls in the third grade. Once he remembers, and you have finished two bottles of mulled wine, have him painstakingly teach you.

5. Cover as many of the colored light bulbs with these paper balls until your tree looks like crystallized multi-colored marshmallows have taken over the world and are hovering among the branches.

6. Admire your tree by turning off all the lights, putting it up agaisnt the window, and faring the cold weather to view your pride and joy from outside, noting that you have the best looking Christmas tree in your neighborhood.

7. Hit the guy who reminds you that it is the ONLY Christmas tree in your neighborhood.

8. Make up over a hot mug of buttered rum.

A Lesson in Darija

Darija is the Moroccan dialect of Arabic. It's a combination of standard Arabic, French, Spanish, and some random English borrowings ("nta printk" - you print). Most other Arabic speakers can't understand Moroccans when they speak Darija, but most Moroccans can understand other Arabic speakers.

Shwiya bshwiya (little by little), I have been learning this spoken language in my highly interactive classroom, the local market (pictured above). I have found that the words and phrases that 'stick' fall into one of four categories: extremely useful, humorous associations, untranslatable, or just plain fun to say.

Extremely Useful
skut = shut up
ana mzuwja = I'm married
shuma halik = shame on you
insha'ala = God willing, or "yeah, I don't really want to do that, so I'll blame it on God if it doesn't get done.

Humorous Associations
matar = airplane, but "to kill" in Spanish (isn't it ironic?)
lice = actually French, but means highshcool. It comes from the Latin root "lycos", meaning "a gathering of dogs". I couldn't agree more.
baraka = same consonant as found in my first name (brk) and meaning "gift from god". Coincidence? I think not.
yo mama = dove

Untranslatable
tybtili tqlbi = you're baking my heart, not to be confused with you're breaking my heart.
Rbit ele kbda = You say this when you really love someone and you can't live without them. Direct translation = My liver is for you.
atak'ala mra xaiba = May God make your wife ugly

Fun to say
meshi mushkil = no problem!
yyyyella = Let's go!
xox = peach (the phoneme /x/ is a glotteral stop, or in non-linguistic terms, like hocking a loogie)

As I continue to learn this language, my conversations become richer. However, with this small lesson, I can successfully offend someone, discuss love and marriage, and get from the airport to the school on a dove, eating a peach with no problems.

The mystery of the solo shoes

I apologize if I haven't written in a while. You see, I've been trying to crack a case. A case where there is ample evidence, yet no viable explanation. Wandering around Morocco, and I mean anywhere in Morocco, the market, fields covered in grazing sheep, an international airport, or just in the middle of the road, there seems to be an abnormal amount of single shoes. Yes, one shoe with no pair in sight. And I'm not talking just every now and then do I come across these pairless peddlers. They are everywhere. Once I counted 36 pairs of solo soles within a 50 meter radius. Can anyone explain this phenomenon? Well, these are the theories me and my crew of outstanding detectives have come up with (and by "crew", I mean anyone willing to give me their two cents on the issue).

Theory 1
In Moroccan culture, it is impolite to eat with your left hand. And, upon entering a Sufi center of prayer, you need to step over the thresh hold with your right foot first. Well, maybe all this discrimination towards lefties, has carried over into "it is looked down upon to do anything with your left anything". So, no kicking a soccer ball with your left (or it is preferred with your right), no kicking your sheep with your left foot, no kicking wild dogs with your left foot. I apologize for all this violent talk, but those are the main things I see my left foot being used for here in Morocco. Anyway, what this translates to is that your right shoe is bound to get more worn down than your left, so there comes a time when you just have to give it up and find a new one to match your left shoe still in fairly good condition. Now, upon closer examination of this theory, and by viewing the evidence above, you'll notice that not all abandoned shoes are right footed. So, back to the drawing board.

Theory 2
Upon entering any mosque and most Moroccan households, it is custom to remove your shoes. I mean they decorate these places with the most beautiful hand-woven rugs, so any right minded person wouldn't want your sheep dung covered soles stepping foot on these colorful carpets. So, when everyone leaves their shoes at the door, and is distracted by prayer or tasty tagine, the shoe "shfar" (thief in Arabic) comes and takes one of each pair. Not to use for himself of course because what would he do with mismatching shoes of different styles and sizes, but just to make a statement. It reminds me of my time in Costa Rica where they was a man in my town by the name of Juan Tanga ("tanga" being the Spanish word for "thong"). Juan Tanga was notorious for stealing women's underwear off the line at night. He even got a hold of mine a few times. Who knows what he did with it once he got a hold of it. Who wants to know. But he made a name for himself in that small town and will be remembered for many years to come. So, maybe this was "shoe shfars" MO. But, one major detail stifles this theory. It is clearly forbidden in the Koran to steal and would be highly looked down upon in this culture, even if it was just to be infamous. So, that one goes out the window as well. Onto our last hypothesis, and the strongest yet.

Theory 3
There is a secret society composed of one-legged men and women living in the caves under Ifrane (Ifrane is "cave" in Berber). This society contains people of international importance, as well as humble locals. They leave their shoes all around the country, in city alleys, beside rural rivers, outside foreign embassies, as their form of communicating with other members of the one-legged society residing in other regions in Morocco.

Now, because this theory is so air tight, it has yet to be broken down. And that being the case, we have an even bigger puzzle to solve. What is this secret society's code of communication? Is it the direction the shoes are facing? The size of the shoe? How far apart they are? How expensive the shoe was when it was newly bought? How potent the odor is? Any ideas? My crew and I just can't seem to put our foot on it.