Category Archives: Morocco

Hungry Hungry Hippo.

Fun, Language, Morocco

I have the hiccups. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking in H’s.

By the way, who says Haich and who says Aitch? I say Haich normally. But this is a tangent, and though tangents are often fun and interesting, I must now return to my point.

I am not a hungry hippo. I do like my food, but just not quite to a Moroccan extent. Today I had practically a chicken to myself for lunch, plus chickpea soup stuff, grilled peppers, cucumber slices and then a lot of fruit for dessert.

And I tried to thank Mounia, but I’ve realised something. She doesn’t speak proper Dareeja. She speaks a mix of Dareeja and Berber. This is where the problem lies for me, because what with the trouble she has with my accent anyway, it’s no wonder she has no clue what I’m saying.

Never mind. Hippo out.

Invisible Woman

Fun, Life, Morocco

Well, I’ll admit it, I’m sadly not in Leeds being invisible tonight, although I wish I was. However, I am a superhero. Because I have a BODY OF STEEL (or possibly something even stronger like adamantium. That would be cool)

Basically, you know how I was really ill earlier? It felt like a tiny granny was knitting my intestines into a scarf and then poking me with her needles in various other parts of my body. Well, she has been beaten! Touch wood. But yeah, I feel much better since lunchtime.

This is my room.

Meltdown

Life, Morocco

At 5.23 this morning, my whole body went into meltdown.

So far, I’m not enjoying it. I spent the remainder of the morning dizzy, throwing up, and having crippling stomach cramps. But I had a test. If you know me, you’ll know that a test overrules any illness I might be faced with. I refuse to lose marks simply because I can’t see very well or stand up.

Thankfully, by 10am when my test started I was feeling significantly better. I made it through the test, only running out once to nearly throw up (I didn’t though so s’all good). I finished the lesson and by the time it was midday, I was well enough to go find some street-mint-tea with my new friends.

I think it was good for me. I really hope it was.

Mounia and Zaim

Language, Life, Morocco

Two people who will never, no matter how hard I try, be content with a one-word answer.

For example, I might ask Zaim something like

Me: Si Zaim, (everyone laughs when I say this. I’m only being polite guys, try it some time) in this list, is it only with this verb that you add an alif?
Zaim: So, so I cannot explain this fully right now, so this is to say so we have some verbs so they are like bread and they want always cheese, so, so it is important to give them cheese but some verbs they do not need this so I can’t explain this, I can’t because it is not to mix salad with couscous, we will come to this so, for now we just memorise, so now so this verb it takes the alif.
Me: So it is just this verb and not the others in the list
Zaim: So, so, so…etc…

CONCLUSION – the answer to my original question is yes. It is only with this verb.

With Mounia it’s a bit different. Today I decided to show her what I had learnt in class for the first time. I walked into the kitchen and said nice and clearly,

‘Mounia, the time is five and fivetimesfiveminutes (no, there is no real literal translation for the word).’ 

She looked at me like I was crazy so I explained

‘Today in the class, I learnt the clock.’

Rather than a well done or anything, this launched her into full Mounia-Mode. I still haven’t worked out what she is trying to say to me when she does this, but it normally ends with her looking at me, giggling, telling me I don’t understand (she is always right, I don’t) and then giving me lots of kisses.

Ah well. Better luck next time.

Lunch Date

Food, Life, Morocco

The Americans from the University of Minnesota have a lunch date. I’m sitting watching. It’s pretty fun, because I can understand what they’re saying but I’m not being made to take part.

Got my new timetable as well. 8am start every day except Wednesdays. Good times. No more late nights for me then. In other news, Zaim definitely thinks we’re a bunch of complete idiots and I’m not sure I can blame him. I won’t have a whinge, because that is boring.

I have worked out that through cunning, I don’t need a camera to show you what it’s like here. I have a webcam and a print-screen button. As such

Green schoolery. In the rain.

AND

And here is the café. And then lunching Americans.
More pictures another day (when my laptop might not get rained on)

Big Yellow Taxi

Life, Morocco

Actually, they are all small and red. I suppose I just quite like the song, and it makes a good title.

Anyway, I now have a love-hate relationship with the rain
HATE wet feet
LOVE being out in the not-boiling-hot
HATE there being no taxis
LOVE being helped find a taxi by gorgeous Moroccan men

I know, I’ve always been of the opinion that there is not much that is attractive about north African men (sorry) but this guy has changed all that. He was tall, handsome, gorgeous brown eyes and flawless English. Also, a perfect gentleman he politely asked me if I needed a taxi, and then flagged one down for me. He asked where I was going and made sure the taxi would take me there. He didn’t get in with me, ask for my name or number, or even try to charge me for the help (yes, that does happen).

It was wonderful.

The rain in Fes falls mainly on my head

Life, Morocco, Rant

When I named this blog ‘It’s Raining Here in Fes’, I really wasn’t lying.

As a Brit, I should be naturally able to forgive the rain. I mean, without rain, we’d have no subject of conversation most of the time. The skies would be an alarming shade of anything-but-grey, and the world as we know it would probably cease to exist.

Yet for some reason, the second it rains here, I feel remarkably hard-done-by. It’s such an unfair reaction, because after all, it’s still just the same water doing the same natural thing, but it makes me angry if it chooses to do it here. And it keep raining, alarmingly often, and alarmingly hard. I have a horrible feeling that after class this afternoon I will get drenched finding a taxi. Call it intuition.

Incidentally, I discovered earlier that many of my classmates feel the same as I do (see here) about certain members of our class. I’m going to re-iterate, I don’t dislike these people, they just annoy me, but it’s refreshing to know I’m not the only one who feels this way about them.

The Language Limbo

Fun, Language, Morocco

Firstly, come on guys, where’s the love for the cool post-it thing? Also, to those of you who e-mailed, it cheered me up no end, and to those of you who didn’t, I know, I know, you’re here for the witty banter, not the depressive me.

WORRY NOT! She’s gone, having been chased away by the crazy French women and their interest in talking to me about hair removal. As a gift for an 80th birthday. No, I am not in any way kidding.

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being a linguist is always interesting, and quite often fun. But for me, the ‘Language Barrier’ is like the limbo.

Here is a pictorial representation of that, firstly because I like my blog having pictures, and secondly because I like paint. I don’t know why I am wearing a red skirt. I barely wear skirts, and even if I did they wouldn’t be red. Maybe it’s not me. But whatever, I digress.
The language barrier is like a limbo, because I find that most of the time, with a bit of flexibility and certain practiced tricks, getting past it is no problem at all. You just wiggle yourself into a comfortable position and keep moving forward until you’ve got right under it at which point people cheer for you, and congratulate you on being so talented.
Every now and then, you twist yourself into totally ridiculous positions, and still manage to smack yourself round the head with the thing. This is why I ended up talking to some guests of my hosts about how appreciated a hair-removal appointment was as an 80th birthday present. I never intended the conversation to veer that way, but veer it did, and I was swept along until finally I had to admit defeat, smile like a simpleton, yawn and make it look like I really needed to go to bed.
Maybe it’s wimping out, but that is just not a comfortable conversation to have with someone who could be your grandmother. I just don’t want to hear how much it hurts to have your ‘maillot’ waxed.

I feel.

Life, Morocco

News to a lot of people right now I think. I actually am human, and feel.

Like I feel lonely because I have no-one my own age to talk to when I get home.
And I feel left out because everyone is going away this weekend and if I’d known, maybe I’d have tried to go too.
And I feel bad for winning the stupid game earlier, because everyone was being competitive except me.
And I feel stupid for telling anyone I felt bad, because that constitutes taking it all too seriously.
And I feel annoyed. Not saying why.

Mostly I feel lonely right now. I need a hug.

By the way, serious question (by which I mean, seriously, email me the answer to this)
– What makes me a good friend? Why are you my friend? I need to start doing this more.
– What is annoying about me or makes you sometimes not want to be my friend? I need to avoid this because clearly I do it a lot around here.

Also I’m now going to Rabat. You will hear from me again on Sunday = ) x

EDIT: Just re-read that last bit. Don’t flatter me, don’t be nice, I don’t even care about the answer to the first bit. Of course, do say nice things if they’re true, but to be honest I’d just like to work out what it is I do that means you guys are my friends, and the guys over here…kinda aren’t in the same way. I want the friendship that I have with you to carry over to them.