Morality musings in Barcelona

Morality?

I have a family that I love in Morocco, but I can't bring myself to call them. Why? I don't really know, but I have a feeling it has to do with my house mother. Mama Malika saw a doctor while I was in Fez. He told her that in a month, she needs surgery for the inflammation in her stomach, or she might die. The surgery costs three to five thousand dollars, about forty thousand dirhams. If they pool all their assets, they maybe have two thousand dollars.

Except that I'm an asset, too.

They would never ask me for money. In fact, when I gave them some while I was in Morocco, they carefully explained that I am the same as any of their other children, and that they don't need money from me.

But I'm not the same.

Flattered as I am that they want to think of me that way (I wouldn't want it to be any different), I'm not the same because I have money and they don't. I'm American. They live in rural Morocco. I'm white, they're not. As much as I wish these things didn't matter, they do.

They matter because they all add up to the fact that I could afford to pay to save her life. And how can I not do it? It is a lot of money, for me, so it will seem exponentially more to them. I'm scared. I know that kind of gift changes things. It strongly tells them that I'm not part of their family, not really, no matter how much we pretend.

But what it comes down to, too, is whether I'm willing to put a thousand dollar price on someone I love. Would I ever be able to forgive myself if she dies while I do nothing? How could her life not be worth my money?

They already think of me as rich. Do I want to further separate myself from them, and further flaunt my wealth? I don't want them thanking me when I see them. I don't want gratitude. I don't want them thinking of me that way. I don't want to pick up the phone, and hear that she's died.

What is the right move? Am I asking 'whose place in the family do I care about more'?

And how do I pick up the phone?



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Location:Barcelona

Favorites Of Fez

My Top Three Favorite Things About Fez



Cafe Clock

Located in the heart of the medina, Cafe Clock appears a beacon of Western reason and customs in the surroundings realities of the bustling city of Fez. While their produce and flour is delivered by donkey, they cook sandwiches, burgers, and pancakes that will have any foreigner dying for a taste of home drooling.

Furthermore, the Cafe offers cooking classes, Moroccan cultural classes, yoga classes, and concerts, along with free wifi. Perhaps the best part are the mochas, which, instead of being over sweet like in the rest of Morocco, are unsweetened!





The Craft Capital

The second best thing about Fez is undoubtedly the fact that it is the craft capital of Morocco, and therefore has unbelievable ceramics, leather goods (and tanneries!), and wood carvings, along with weavings and metal ware. This is best expressed through pictures, honestly; there is just no way to convey the masses of handmade treasures!






Winding Mazes

My third favorite thing about Fez: the winding maze that operate as its streets. Sometimes while walking on the busy, winding paths, it would appear dark in the middle of the day because the buildings were so tall and the streets so narrow. Most buildings are very old, and look like they have been thrown up and stay up on prayers alone. If I managed to figure out where I was at any point, I was immediately again distracted by weaving people, negotiating shopkeepers, and yells of 'balak,' watch out, as men herding donkeys and mules rushed by and I slammed myself into high walls and attempted to become flat.










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Location:Fez

Lightning Games

Zhor and I discovered a new game while dancing. The heat had finally died down, and I smiled as rain drops began to fall on my shoulders. Having tea and sitting just outside the overhand of the roof of the house, I was the first to notice. But it didn't take them long.

Soon I was laughing beneath Baba's jacket as Mama covered her and a sleeping Huda with a scarf, and Hiba, upon our comment to her that it was raining (the wandering two year old had not noticed) covered herself haphazardly with the towel.




And so we went outside, and Zhor and I danced. She spun, I dipped, and we trotted around in slow circles between galls of laughter (Hiba had decided to place her towel on the ground, and sit alone in the rain).

And then... Lightning.

I saw it first.
I jumped up and down as I saw it again and willed Zhor to look. When the bolt crashed, she shrieked and jumped back and I roared with laughter.

And then the game was formed.

One.
Two.
Three.
Lightning.

She was better than I was, probably more attuned to timing of strikes. Yet every time the lightning struck on the three, we cheered. We laughed, screamed, shrieked with delight. We probably woke the whole damn village.

But the game was ours.

I've often wished that for a few minutes, my brain would just stop. Its always seemed like something out of my control, like spinning wheels or ever distancing horizons that you just can't grasp.

I've found few things in my life that put my mind at ease, that hit my analytical off switch.

Playing with Zhor is one of them. Whether we're cooking, dancing, dressing up, or just chatting, our laughter generally drowns out the dialogue of my mind. With her I find peace. With her, I make lightning games.






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Location:The village of Fariat

Henna

I was smothered in mud today. Okay, so not exactly smothered and not exactly mud, but I still had henna literally covering both my feet and both my hands. It is surprisingly immobilizing. It made me feel that I was smothered in mud.

In Marrakech, the woman who applied mediocre henna that burned my skin slightly told me that she would give us a good price: 400 dirhams, reduced from 500. I thought she had lost her mind. The small design atop my hand and forearm was nice, but nowhere near worth close to fifty dollars. I thought maybe it was worth fifty dirhams. I couldn't believe my ears.

Obviously, I didn't pay it.

My next henna experience was better. Surrounded by babies and women in leggings, dresses, and head scarves tied to have a braid, I was given two pillows in a concrete room and had my feet jerked over them.

And she started.

I was unsure at first, then distracted by the surrounding chaos. Children screamed and women chattered. Mothers indiscriminately popped out their breasts for a child to waddle over to and drink from. When I finally looked back down, it was beautiful.



It took a long time. One foot was a masterpiece unto itself, but after that she did the other, and both hands. Before I knew it, I looked like a Moroccan bride.

The most unpleasant part of getting henna is the removal, which unfortunately does not involve water. To help the henna stay longer, instead of satisfyingly washing it way, it is chipped off with a knife, which apart from being mildly terrifying, left me feeling dirty and muddy for hours.

However, when it was off, I was left with a beautiful maze of flowers, petals, and zig zags that would tell every Moroccan who saw me the same thing: either I paid a lot, or somebody loves me.






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Location:The village of Fariat

Moroccan Couscous

COUSCOUS!


Cooking Time: One and a half Hours

Ingredients
One box of couscous
Half a chicken or three chicken breasts
Half a cup of milk
Four onions
Three tomatoes
One eggplant
Four zucchini
Four potatoes
Half bunch parsley
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tsp salt
1 tsp saffron
1/2 tsp powdered ginger
1/2 tsp pepper



Cooking Instructions

Begin by placing the chicken and spices in a medium sized pot. Cut the onion in fourths, and rough chop one quarter bunch of parsley. Tie the rest of the parsley into a bunch and place in pot.




Peel the tomato and quarter it. Put it in the pot and place on stove
on high. Pour water over the ingredients until they are just barely covered. Cook for twenty minutes. Then, add quartered zucchini and eggplant to the pot, along with a teaspoon of vegetable oil. All the vegetables should be chunky and large. Allow to cook for approximately an hour and a half.



For the couscous:

Spread the dry couscous on a large platter and sprinkle one and a half teaspoons of oil and about a half a cup of water. Make sure to sprinkle it slowly and to rub it between the hands periodically to avoid clumping. Place the couscous in a metal colander or sifter over the pot containing the cooking meat and vegetables so that the couscous steams.



The water will hold together the couscous so that it does not fall into the cooking vegetables. This is the Moroccan way of cooking couscous. Alternatively, you may boil it as suggested by the box, but cooking it this way is authentically Moroccan and the flavor and texture will justify the effort!
After approximately fifteen minutes (once the couscous has absorbed e water and puffed up) remove it from the pot and dump it onto the platter. Again, using about a cup of water, rub it between your hands to work out the clumps so that the morsels of couscous are all separated. When the couscous has cooled slightly and is no longer clumpy, put it back in the colander and steam it. Repeat this process two more times, and then dump it back in the pot (it might be necessary to add more water to the pot for steaming). Then, add half a cup of milk to the pot of vegetables, chicken, and broth, and pour over the couscous.



Note: Cooking couscous is not a precise science. Any vegetables can be used, along with any amount of couscous. This is the perfect recipe for experimentation!
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Location:The village of Fariat

What color of nothing would you like?

Marrakech

The random man on the street summed up the majority of my experience in Marrakech. He asked, insightfully so, "What color of nothing would you like?" Through the shockingly vibrant, winding souks of the medina of Marrakech, I found the most stunningly beautiful, fascinating things in what i guess to be the entire world.



But I also found what any tourist in Marrakech will tell you is the biggest annoyance: constant badgering, harassment, and abrasive behavior.

It came to the point where Rebecca and I became shocked when for even a moment, in her words, there wasn't someone who wanted to take our money. There is nothing quite like walking around as either a sexual object or a dollar sign. Despite my new appearance, I found that Marrakech was just as enticing as I remembered it. Perhaps the best part was the food stalls, constructed with full tables and fuller stands up uncooked food every night.




They sell delicious, cheap, authentic Moroccan food. I will never forget gulping large quantities of Harira (Moroccan soup) with the giant wooden spoon, or the woman who enticed us into the place, and must've spoken at least five languages. Not to mention her amazing ability to spot which tourist spoke which language.



When it came down to it, though the streets were exhausting, there was nothing like going to a spa-hammam and being soaped up, scrubbed, and slathered in clay by a Moroccan woman to heighten my spirits and reboot me for the adventure ahead.





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Location:Marrakech

Family and Wandering

Rabat

After several kinds of transportation, including two planes, a van, and two trains, not to mention our feet, Rebecca and I finally arrived in Rabat. A shower and nap later, we took the winding road to my host family's tiny rooftop home, where I found my host Mother sitting in the salon. The reunion was lovely; my entire family was as thrilled to see me as I them. Little Aya had cut off all her hair, leaving beautiful curls on top of the little person I had long before affectionately deemed "jeja sagira deelie," or "my little chicken". Six year old Rabie had managed to grow even more, so that he now was even larger than his sister, and seemed to be exercising a good deal of independence, if his late night bike rides were any indication. Fedua had gotten married, and was now living in Sale with her new husband. That night, we were served lentils, fried fish, and a uniquely Moroccan salad of rice, tuna fish, corn, and mayonnaise. Not to mention delicious Moroccan mint tea, steaming hot, and small, elegant pastries covered in sesame seeds and honey.






Later, I was reminded how there is nothing quite like the experience of walking down the bustling streets of the medina during rush hour. It is pure sensory overload. Shopkeepers and merchants yell the bargain of their produce and knick knacks, while motorcycles zoom past, carts creek by with yells of 'balak' ('move!'), and women in djellabas and head scarfs put their heads down and push. The smells of mint, fried fish, garbage, and fresh baked cookies waft through the streets in puffs of smoke and people dance constantly as they weave gracefully and treacherously around one another.
It is chaos.
It is crazy.
It is real.





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