Labas? Ca va? Que tal?

One of my main concerns before we moved to Morocco was figuring out which language I would speak. Darija, a dialect of Arabic that is specific to Morocco is the main, spoken language here, Modern Standard Arabic is the main written language and French is the second language, a holdover from colonialism that is still taught in schools. But then there’s also the many dialects of Tamazight, the original language of Morocco. A few years ago the king declared Tamazight an official language of Morocco, and for a while it was taught in schools, too. Most people seem to think this is a really good thing. However, it’s not that simple. It’s a difficult language to teach and, as a friend pointed out to me, with so many different dialects stemming from so many different tribes, how do you choose just one?

One challenge of Darija is that it’s not a written language. People do write it, when sending emails or text messages, but it’s not written or learned in schools and books written only in Darija don’t seem to exist. So students in Moroccan schools learn Arabic and French and, when they’re older, have the choice of learning English.

Being multi-lingual means you can write desk graffiti in multiple ways.

All of this makes it easier to see why, when we asked people which language would be most useful for us to learn before coming to Tangier the answers were so confusing and varied. Some people said Spanish would work, others said English would probably be okay. The guidebooks all said French would be spoken everywhere, but in Tangier people (especially young people) seem to prefer Spanish, citing the fact that French is “old-fashioned” and too closely linked with the colonialism. With all these language choices we weren’t really sure what to do to prepare. Elliot speaks French, so we figured we wouldn’t be totally clueless. I did my part by downloading a fairly rudimentary Darija app onto my phone (one of the only resources which seems to exist) and panicking. 

Languages are a little bit of a sore spot for me. I’ve always wondered at the fact that the American education system doesn’t seem to give languages the weight of other subjects in school. It seems like we have a bad habit of assuming everyone not only speaks English but wants to speak English with us. A certain, particularly distasteful bumper sticker that I once saw comes to mind: “If you don’t speak English, get out of America.” It’s an ego-centric but also sort of bizarre sentiment that I think reflects the worst parts of American society.  

Moroccans are understandably proud of the fact that they speak so many languages, and seem somewhat baffled as to why we don’t do the same. As one friend put it recently, “We understand everyone’s language, but nobody understands ours.”

The Cervantes Institute of Tangier 

This was made somewhat painfully clear in my Spanish class a couple of weeks ago. The class is through the Cervantes Institute, a Spanish organization and one of the many language centers available in Tangier. I was somewhat conflicted about taking a Spanish class here, but Darija classes are hard to come by and even Moroccans say it’s hardly worth trying if you are only in the country for a few months. Plus, I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish (even if my weak high school attempts indicate otherwise) and this seemed like the perfect time to do it. It has been amazing, a definite highlight of being here, but it’s humbling, too. My teacher doesn’t speak any English so it’s sink or swim, and confusions abound. Just last week I told my class that family is not important to Americans. Meanwhile, Elliot was across town, announcing to his French class he was profoundly insane.

I’ve learned more Spanish in the last few months than I did in a year of high school (I guess I don’t spend so much time doodling and passing secret notes) and have really enjoyed getting to know some of my classmates. One of the questions we recently learned to ask was: “What languages do you speak,” a question which, in and of itself, is very Moroccan. The teacher prefaced the lesson by saying that Moroccans are particularly gifted in languages, that they speak more languages than, say the Spaniards, who only speak Spanish, The French who only speak French, and the AMERICANS, who ONLY speak English. I was trying to come up with the words to explain that while yes, we might not speak as many languages as people do in Morocco, there are many languages spoken in the US. Then she turned to me:

“Kate. Que lenguas hablas?”

When I answered, in bad Spanish, that I spoke English and Swedish, she crossed her arms, momentarily horrified.

“TU? Tu, hablar SUECA?” she said in disbelief.

But my triumphant moment was shortlived, and her point was proven when she turned to my friend Hafssa, a polyglot who speaks Ingles, Francais, Arabe dialect, Arabe, and Turko.  

Point proven, Senora. 

I learned to write my name from a 13-year old who speaks four languages.

The multi-language situation can be, inevitably, difficult. We never really know what to say to people. We try Darija, but it is almost always the case that whoever we are speaking to speaks a language we speak better than we speak Darija.  And they don’t know what to make of us, either. People address us in a variety of languages: French, Spanish, Italian, German and English, sometimes in the same day. But they never seem to be grumpy about doing so. In fact, when we hobble through Darija people get really excited, throwing out new words and helping us along. People here seem to genuinely enjoy learning and speaking new languages. When I have coffee with Hafssa and her friends they often speak four different languages: Darija, French, English and Spanish, sometimes within a single sentence, just because they think it’s fun.

You don't have to speak the language to know what's going on here. 

We’ve received multiple offers from people who say that if we left Cecily with them for just a month they’d teach her Arabic. Obviously, we are planning on taking them up on this offer while we are maxin’ and relaxin’ at the beach. But recently it crossed my mind that they might actually be concerned for Cecily’s monolingual future. A friend recently asked us if we would encourage Cecily to speak another language. Obviously, we said we would. We mentioned the dual immersion programs and the fact that we felt it was crucial for the next generation to speak Spanish. But in American society the odds that she will become fluent in a second language are actually against her. It’s too bad. Moroccans seem to have figured out what we haven’t—that each new language offers new opportunities for both professional and personal growth. But more importantly, it seems to me that the fact that people here seem so welcoming and tolerant of foreigners has to do with the fact that they are able to communicate with people who come from so many different places. Maybe it’s harder to pass judgment on someone when you can understand what they’re saying. During this time of border patrolling and immigrant reforming and general miscommunication, it seems like something we should learn from.

Marrakech

For as long as we’ve been planning to come to Morocco, we’ve known that we wanted to visit the southern part of the country. Even Moroccans in Tangier call the south “real” Morocco. There’s the Atlas mountains, the desert and the Berber villages. And there’s Marrakech, the place people seem to picture when they talk about Morocco, with its famed snake charmers, storytellers and souks. Marrakech is even the subject of at least a few songs so if you prefer your blog reading to be accompanied by music (doesn’t everyone?). Click here for a song which you probably know and here for a song which you almost definitely don’t.

So when the schools went on break and my parents decided that they would be coming to Morocco and wanted to visit Marrakech, we decided to hop on their bandwagon and meet them there. Luckily they were prepared, because some of us (Cecily) hadn’t done our research. The planning for our voyage went something like this:

Me: We want to go to the Sahara and take a picture of the baby riding a camel. So we’ll probably take a three- or four-hour bus ride from Marrakech, hop on some camels and check it off the old bucket list.

My dad: GREAT, we want to visit the Sahara, too! So glad you brought this up. But we looked at a map and noticed it’s a little farther than you mentioned. About 11-12 hours of driving with a few overnight stops including a stay in a desert camp.

He was right, of course. Maps are interesting in that way. But by then we were committed and nobody wanted to be the one to shut down the adventure. So we signed-on for a four day excursion, complete with camel trekking and an overnight stay in the desert.

“Think of it like an expedition, “ Elliot said. “It will be Type 2 fun.” Type 1 fun is fun. Type 2 fun is fun to think about after you're all finished. Living with Elliot has shown me that this is a key distinction.

And so, with those words of encouragement to spur us on we began our “expedition.” Step one was the night train from Tangier to Marrakech. We’d been both dreading and looking forward to that part of the journey for some time. On one hand, sleeping on a train and waking up in an entirely different place seems really romantic and multi-tasky. Until you remember the fact that you have an infant. The beds are tiny and we assumed the albatross that is our travel crib would not fit in our sleeping compartment.

But then we saw the latest James Bond movie, Spectre, in which James and the lovely Dr. Madeleine Swann take train from Tangier to Marrakech and realized we had nothing to worry about. 

Don't we look good? Thanks. It's the climate.

The train really was comfortable and Cecily slept soundly all night long in a crib that was VERY SAFELY balanced on the two bottom bunks in a way which I’m certain nobody on baby related internet sites would object to. 

Sleep TRAINing, harhar. 

Anyhow, we made it and we were feeling pretty smug when we rolled into Marrakech. We’d gotten through the night. The sun was up, we were in the desert and a friendly train employee had rolled by with a cart of coffee. We were relatively well-rested. We didn't even have a hangover like James probably did. And that’s when the chaos began.

Marrakech is a hopping place: sprawling, and compact, modern and ancient, African and European. It's also pretty touristy and we definitely looked the part. As soon as we entered the Medina, Elliot got hit by a bike. I almost fell into a hole with a distraught donkey and then all three of us got yelled at by someone trying to scam us into giving them fifty dollars because he was the “boss of the medina” (?) and we were his “students.” Turns out Marrakech isn’t for the faint of heart. Once we recovered from our un-graceful entrance, though, we were able to explore the incredible square, complete with snakes and the Jardin Majorelle which includes a really great Amazighrt museum.

The next day we headed into the Atlas mountains, where we visited Oukaimeden, Africa's highest ski resort which, unfortunately, didn't have any snow.

First tracks?

They offered to take us up on donkeys but we passed, deciding to hold off for the camels.

Back in Marrakech we were relieved to see that Cecily’s grandparents had come to the rescue so that we could take a nap, I mean share the joys of our adopted country with our visitors.

But actually, there was some napping involved.

The next day, after Elliot completed the Marrakech half-marathon we took a guided tour of Marrakech which included a visit to the 16th-century Koranic school. 

Greetings from one of the tiny cells where the students lived

We also had a really interesting look inside the back of the Hammam (like the Turkish bath) where there is a man who tends the fire all day to heat the water AND cooks huge clay pots for locals on the side.

This guy takes multitasking to the extreme.

The next morning we met our fabulous guide, Miloud and so the expedition began.

Cecily breaks in the new captain, Miloud.

On day one we drove from Marrakech to Tinghir, where we stayed in a Kasbah and let Cecily work on her crawling skills in style.

Cecily examines the stitching of the wares.

We drove for a few more hours, with the goal of getting to the Sahara right before sunset. And then, at long last, it was time to meet our noble steeds.

Camels are gross.

To be honest, we’ve sort of been wondering where the line was in terms of traveling with a baby. Full disclosure: we might have found that line. It was a lot of car time. And riding a camel with a baby strapped on your chest is a little unnerving even for someone who spent most of her on the back of large, hoofed beasts. And the desert is really cold at night.

One parent was more comfortable on the camel than the other. It's not the one that you would think. #Camelselfie

But of course it was all worth it. The Sahara is one of the only places I’ve seen that is, actually, just like the best pictures you see of it. Obviously, it’s better and more dramatic in person but the colors, the shape of the dunes, it’s totally other-worldy and pretty incredible. It literally seems to come out of nowhere. You drive forever, first on the highways and then through this bumpy desert and all of a sudden the dunes just appear, and then go on, seemingly forever. And riding through those dunes while the sun rose and people laid out carpets to pray on the sand was something we won’t soon forget.

A weed grows in the Sahara

We were, of course, really lucky. We had a pair of adventurous grandparents on hand, an amazing guide and a really tolerant baby. We couldn’t have had this experience without those things.  It was an unforgettable adventure which we’re really fortunate to have been able to have.

The center of a Venn diagram: entitled absurdity, adventure, beauty 

People told us the south would feel much different than the north and that was really true. Morocco is roughly the size of Oregon but the landscape is incredibly diverse. One thing that was not different, however, was the kindness of the people we met. From the guides to the people in cafés who, as usual, passed Cecily around from table to table we found Southern Moroccans (with the exception of the medina boss) as much of a joy to be around as Northern Moroccans.

Meeting friends and influencing people. 

Still, while I'm happy to report that it was not ALL Type 2 Fun, we were glad to head home. Moroccans have a tendency to be extra loyal to their hometowns, to the point where we're constantly being warned that the next place we visit is filled with rascals. There, after many acts of kindness, they will warn us in turn about the next town we're visiting. We’ve always found this funny, and sort of thought people were just being hyperbolic. It couldn’t really be THAT different could it? But of course it could and it is. One of Morocco’s charms is its diversity—both in terms of the people and landscape. And after leaving Tangier for a while we could see why people grow so loyal to their home towns. Along the way we found ourselves missing our city and feeling grateful that we landed where we did. So perhaps, while we’re still making social gaffes on the regular and limping through Darija we’re becoming a bit more Moroccan after all.  

Last stop at Ait Ben Haddou.

Running

(OR: How I Came to Discover Tangier as the Ultimate Running City)

When arrived in Tangier, I had just completed the Seattle Marathon, my first. I didn't plan on doing any running here (or, perhaps, anywhere, ever), because I thought that it would be too crowded, too busy, and too incongruous. In Tangier, I had rarely seen anyone exercising outside of the gym. In fact, I think that I've never even seen a Moroccan man wearing shorts!

So, for the first month in Morocco, I didn't do any running (OK, actually no exercise at all). We signed up for a gym membership (the infamous CLUB OMNI-SPORT), and Kate faithfully went. Each day, I invented new and elaborate excuses to stay home. Finally, by the time mid-January rolled around, I knew that I needed to do something. My baguette consumption had reached near-epic proportions, and I was also just getting a little stir-crazy. That's when I realized that the Marrakech Marathon would coincide with our visit to the south of Morocco. I signed up for the half-marathon three weeks ahead of time and this finally pushed me out the door, running shoes laced up. I was counting on a short burst of training, along with a lot of stored miles from the marathon, to see me through.

My first run was basically what I feared--lots of cars, crowded streets, and strange looks from pedestrians. I've been taking inordinate pride in beginning to blend in a little more; Knowing where I'm going in the city, disguised behind a Moroccan mustache, and dressed up a bit more than usual, I sometimes don't get noticed as anything more than another Tanjawi headed somewhere. Running blew my cover, big time.

However, I stuck with it (the thought of exploding in a half-marathon helped spur me on), and I quickly discovered some tweaks that made running in Tangier more agreeable. The first one was strictly geographical. About a mile from our house, the Route de la Plage Mercala winds along the water, providing stunning views, as well as a far less crowded venue for running. Many days, lots of folks are out on this stretch of road, walking or running.

Not a bad place to go for a jog.

Similarly, I realized that, at least on the long runs, one gets out of the city amazingly quickly. In just five miles of running, you can go from crowded streets, full cafes and bustling market stalls to wide, streets and forested hillsides.

Yes, that is a sign warning to watch out for wild pigs!

The other tweak that helped me realize that Tangier is an amazing running city has just been a mental shift--to accept a little incongruity. After all, one of the main draws to Tangier for the authors that I'm studying has been the city's acceptance of eccentricity. Who cares if I put on short-shorts and jog through a food market every once in a while? Most of the Moroccan seem to shrug it off. The funniest reaction is from the guys at the churro stand near my house. Each morning as they're setting up their food stall, they notice me jog by, the picture of virtuousness. Then, three hours later, I buy a huge quantity of their incredibly delicious, unhealthy churros. Two steps forward, one step back.

These guys have some hard questions about the overall health plan.

Rediscovering running has also led to lots of positive interactions with people. Because I'm already exercising, bystanders are incredibly willing to enlist me in physical tasks. I've helped put a couch on top of a grand taxi for transport, and pushed an overloaded cart up a hill, just like a warm weather version of the training montage in Rocky IV.

All of this training culminated in the Marrakech Marathon at the end of January. I was shocked by how many runners participated--there were 6000 runners in the half-marathon alone! At the start line, I seemed to be the only one without a smart phone, selfie stick, and hydration pack. A moving moment passed before the gun went off, when a giant Moroccan flag was unfurled, and a huge cheer rose from the crowd.

In the courtyard of the riad in Marrakech.

The half-marathon followed a beautiful route into the heart of the new city, through two gardens, and then along the ramparts of the old city back to the finish line. The mix of languages during the race was amazing--cries of "Bon Courage!" and "Saha!" were heard in equal number. At one point, a Moroccan runner turned around, raised his hands in the universal "raise the roof" motion, and, with a hearty "Allahu Akbar!" encouraged those following behind.

What will remain for me, though, is a moment towards the end of the race. It had gotten hot, and I was in pain. I stopped at the last aid station, 5 kilometers before the finish. At aid stations, rather than dispensing unpalatable Gu Energy Gels, they simply offered tangerines, which you peeled and enjoyed as you ran. I grabbed two, eating them at a fast walk. I looked around at my fellow runners, and at the spectators who lined the course, the colors vibrant in the sunlight. Just then, I moved--blessedly--from sun to shade, and happened to look down. The ground was completely covered in crushed, fragrant orange peels discarded by faster runners, like a magic carpet that would carry me to the finish.