Archive: Posts about Morocco
February 25th, 2008, 3 Comments »
This is some sad news from my host country:
A Moroccan computer engineer has been sentenced to three years in jail for setting up a Facebook profile in the name of a member of the royal family.
Fouad Mourtada was arrested on 5 February on suspicion of stealing the identity of Prince Moulay Rachid, younger brother of King Mohammed VI.
Yowza. That’s hardcore. It’s a tragedy that all nations can’t offer the freedoms that we enjoy in Canada.
3 Comments »
February 25th, 2008, 4 Comments »
Morocco is, among other things, renowned for its leather products. There are shops throughout the medina selling all sorts jackets, ottomans, shoes and every size and shape of bag. I’m in the market for a new weekend bag and a valise, so I’ve been shopping around. This is the one I chose (clicky-clicky for bigger version):
It’s handmade from camel skin. Pretty cool, eh? I talked the guy down a bit (I’m no great bargainer) to just over CAN $100. It smells a bit odd, but I assume that’s just the camel. We’ll find out in a few days, when we go to the desert.
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February 21st, 2008, 5 Comments »
What do I miss most from Vancouver? One thing is the super high-speed, reliable web access.
Here in Morocco, the Internet access has been dependable, but desperately slow. I’m surfing like it’s 1997 over here.
Three times over the past week, I’ve been unable to access sections of the web. This morning, for example, I could get to Shaw.ca and UVic.ca, but not to my own site or Jen’s. When I did a search on Flickr, only about half the photos loaded. I assume this is because their data centers are spread across the country (or world).
I’ve seen this before, but it was extremely rare in Canada. I assume it has to do with some temporary router (or whatever) failure in the network.
5 Comments »
February 18th, 2008, 7 Comments »
For the past few weeks in Morocco, I’ve been jogging on the beach, first thing in the morning. As with most forms of exercise, I loathe jogging. However, we’re eating out a lot here in Morocco, and I must stave off the fat somehow.
I run barefoot. Not because of my last name, or because I’ve become some kind of hippie. I just thought I’d give it a try. Plus, I could avoid the difficult process of buying (potentially dodgy) Moroccan sneakers.
It’s actually fairly pleasant, as jogging goes. I run just at the waterline. The sand is both fine and firm, and there’s very little debris. I have yet to step on a crab or a broken bottle. I’m a habitual ground-watcher, truth be told, so I’m not worried about stabbing myself.
I walk down to the beach in my flip-flops, take them off, and, well, take off. Flip-flops in one hand, iPod in the other. I’m an inelegant runner at the best of times, and I must look mighty goofy.
Anyhow, I like to listen to long podcasts while running, so I don’t have to mess with the music (I find the notion of a motivating ‘power song’ kind of silly–see also my thoughts on music at the gym).
As I mentioned, I only recently discovered This American Life. The most recent episode revolves around the subject of long marriages. The first piece features Richard Bausch reading his short story “Letter to the Lady of the House”. It is a beautifully written and read story, and feels very, well, American. I highly recommend it.
Between the second and third ‘acts’ of the episode, there’s a gorgeous version of “Someone to Watch Over Me”. On the This American Life website, it’s credited to Sting. He has a version of the song (I thought it was from this album, but it’s actually this one) but it’s not this one (nor is it nearly as good). I browsed through iTunes and eMusic, but couldn’t find anything promising. I tried a few Google searches, but unfortunately there’s another episode of TAL named “Someone to Watch Over Me”. In fact, there seems to be some weirdness, because that episode (#269) includes the same ’second act’ as the current episode. Weird.
If anybody happens to listen to it (it’s at about 45:30), let me know if you recognize the singer. I also asked MetaFilter, in case anybody there knew.
7 Comments »
February 17th, 2008, 6 Comments »
Morocco’s first and official language is classical Arabic. Nearly everybody between the ages of five and sixty also seems to speak French. As Wikipedia indicates, French is “taught universally and still serves as Morocco’s primary language of commerce and economics”.
The situation reminds me a bit of things back home, though obviously most Canadian anglophones (while spell-checking that, I learned a new word: Anglophobia. I’m anglophobic about British tourists.) don’t use their French very often. One similarity is how often the two languages–Arabic and French–appear on packaging. Canadians will be familiar with this two-sides-of-the-cereal box phenomenon.
I particularly admired how gracefully Oulmès mineral water deals with this issue. They integrate the two languages into one logo:
The Arabic is interwoven into the French. Isn’t that clever? Admittedly, it makes both a little difficult to read, but I think people will recognize the word mark and brand more than actually read the words.
6 Comments »
February 13th, 2008, 12 Comments »
Feeling adventurous, Julie bought these at the vegetable souk today. We have no idea what they are. Do you (click for bigger legume action)?
I’ve included the iPod for scale.
UPDATE: Julie provides these additional notes: they have a hard, thick skin and a beet-red juice.
UPDATE #2: I stand corrected. Julie assured me that they weren’t prickly or ‘cactus pears’, but she cut one open and tasted it. Indeed, they’re very small cactus pears with very intensely-coloured juice.
12 Comments »
February 13th, 2008, 6 Comments »
I interrupt your Wednesday with this insane cuteness. Yes, that’s a big box of kittens (super-size the cuteness)
Taken near our house in Essaouira. There’s another photo here, and a little more context for where the kittens live.
There are cats everywhere in Essaouira. I see at least a dozen every time I walk 100 yards from our riad. Moroccans seem to love them much more than dogs. We can probably chalk this up to their cherished role in Islam.
6 Comments »
February 12th, 2008, 3 Comments »
Here in Morocco, we hear the adhan or call to prayer five times a day. For me, they are to Morocco what the church bells were to Malta. That is, a clockwork reminder of religion, shared by an entire community.
You’ve probably heard the call to prayer on television or in a movie (wasn’t it in The English Patient?). You’ve certainly heard it if you’ve visited a Muslim country. You can listen to some samples of the adhan here. The local ones have a droning, haunting quality that sounds, well, really foreign to my Western ears.
What is the muezzin–the chosen person who leads the call to prayer–actually saying? We’ve got a book on Islam, and here are the phrases that comprise the adhan:
- God is great.
- I witness that there is no god but God.
- I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.
- Rise up for prayer.
- Rise up for salvation.
- God is great.
- There is no god but God.
These are repeated a number of different times. There are also some differences between the Sunni and Shia versions, which you can read about on Wikipedia.
3 Comments »
February 8th, 2008, 4 Comments »
Ages 0 to 5: I have no idea.
Ages 6 to 12: Barber that my father went to in Park Royal mall. He’s still there, apparently.
Ages 12 to 17: John at a now-defunct hair salon in Royal Centre mall. My Mom went to him, and he was also a commercial fisherman, if I recall correctly.
Ages 18 to 23: A Greek woman at a salon kitty-corner to Hillside Mall in Victoria.
Ages 24 to 26: Alice Jasmine at Axis Hair Salon, just off Broadway. She was lovely.
Ages 27 to 29: Sundry stylists at Toni & Guy in Dublin
Ages 29 to 32: Karen at Sweetpea Hair on Richards St. (highly recommended).
Ages 32 to 33: A different Karen in Malta, and some dude at the end of the lane here in Morocco.
From an early age, I guessed that good haircuts and nice shoes were ways I could differentiate myself from the regular smelly boy horde. I remember that my first two girlfriends remarked, unprompted, on my footwear. Score.
On the hair front, I’ve mostly gone to salons, which, while rather effeminate, generally offer higher quality cuts. A good haircut also lasts longer, which means I have to go less often. As for the salons, you just have to embrace the scalp massages, peculiar temporary garments and Sarah McLachlan on the stereo.
How Much Have I Paid For Haircuts
Earlier this week I got a haircut from one of the many coiffures on our street. His little shop was empty–his buddy had to call him to come down and coupe mon cheveux.
It occurred to me that I’ve now gotten my hair cut in at least six countries. That might become a thing–getting a haircut in every foreign country I visit.
So how much do haircuts of the world cost? Good question. Here’s what I paid, in Canadian dollars:
Canada: $45
United States: $110
Ireland: $45
Malta: $15
Hungary: $30
Morocco: $5
That US figure is ridiculously high, and the most I’ve ever paid for a haircut. I was staying at a fancy hotel in San Francisco for a conference, and had the concierge book me it for me without specifying a price range. It was a bit of a shocker.
4 Comments »
February 4th, 2008, 2 Comments »
In Moroccan medinas, there’s a store every ten feet. I’m not exaggerating. They’re packed in like stalls at Playland or like the average North American mall, if each store had one-fifth of the frontage.
Most of these shops aren’t ’shops’ in the way we think of them in North America. They’re stalls, with most or all of the inventory behind the counter.
Malta taught me a valuable lesson in shopping outside of North America and mainland Europe: what you need probably isn’t in plain view.
That shift took me a while to make. You just need to hazard a guess at the right shop (few have signs) and ask the proprietor. This week I guessed correctly while seeking un marteau et des clous (”a hammer and some nails”–be careful to use ‘clous’ and not ‘ongles’, for the latter refers to fingernails).
Last week I visited an electronics store to ask about une rallonge (a power bar). They directed me across the street to what I can only describe as “the wire and cable shop”. He hooked me up.
The Shop Comes to You
In our small village on Gozo, the shop came to you. Each morning you’d hear a horn tooting regularly as the vegetable man drove into town. He’d park his truck in the town square, and sell vegetables to the local women (and us). There was likewise a fish man who had a different horn, and also yelled a lot in Maltese. On Tuesdays, the gas man would come through to replace propane tanks. In bigger towns, you’d also see other trucks–hardware, dried goods and so forth.
Like, I don’t know, the language of whales, we’d come to recognize the distinct honks of each mobile seller.
There’s a similar kind of culture of announcement here in Morocco. The gas man says something in Arabic (probably “gas”) as he pushes his laden handcart through the narrow alleys of the medina. Likewise the garbage men call out as they come by to collect the refuse twice daily.
No Queues
Julie just spent ten days back in Vancouver, and we were discussing the radically different retail models. She pointed out that whenever you bought anything in downtown Vancouver–clothing, coffee, groceries–you stand in line. She’s right–I’ll bet there was a queue for 80% of my purchases when we lived in Yaletown.
The opposite is true here. I almost never stand in line when shopping. In fact, ’shopping’ is a bit of a misnomer. You’re pretty much always shopping–as in browsing–when you walk down any street. The wares–particularly for the tourists–are bursting forth from every shop. I should say that “I never stand in line when I’m buying.”
Why are there no queues? Nearly every transaction is cash, and, despite the medina’s dense population, there seem to be more shops per buyer. There’s also far less customization–nobody orders “a half double decaffeinated half-caf, with a twist of lemon”.
If I were busier, I’d probably crave the order and sterility of a Canadian mall or grocery store. We do have a ton of work right now, but few other commitments. Leisurely walks to the fruit and vegetable souk are a nice break from the day job.
I’m not sure what the big finish to the blog post is. This year abroad has really reinforced my ascetic tendencies. I’ll never look at shopping, buying and consuming the same way.
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