Frankenstein

There are some classic works of literature I can wholly endorse. Crime and Punishment, for instance, is a thrilling tale of a killer’s descent into madness at the hands of his own culpability. Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird examines prejudice, innocence, and courage. As I Lay Dying, by Faulker, is one of my favorites—despite all its oddities. However, there’s one classic I’ve never really gotten all the hype about: Frankenstein. Maybe it’s because I had the displeasure of reading it for a college-level humanities class (if you know, you know), or maybe it’s because my simple-minded idea of good science fiction is Sigourney Weaver using a grenade launcher to raze some Xenomorphs in Aliens (at this point, I’ve realized I’ve made a reference to a film in every one of these blog entries so far, so I guess this is a theme I’m going to continue to run with). So why, you’re probably (not) wondering, is this blog titled Frankenstein? I’ll tell you. My week was, in a word, boring. Each day I woke up, ate breakfast, took a taxi to Amideast, went to tutoring, went to class, did some homework, talked to my speaking partner, took a taxi home, did more homework, ate dinner while chatting with my host family, and went to bed. Even our cultural activity for this week can’t bail me out because it was just a two-hour lecture on Morocco’s political history. As I’ve said before, not every week in Rabat will have an exciting adventure, and this week was one of those. In short, I’ve struggled to come up with something good to write about for this entry, so I’m going to Frankenstein together a bunch of little things that’ve happened recently in an effort to paint a picture of what a low-key week in Rabat looks like. So, get in—we’re on an express elevator to hell, going down. 

A couple of blog posts back I wrote about my impressions of the layout and design of Rabat, but now that I’ve been here for over a month I want to provide some detail that’s a little more intimate. One of my favorite things to do when I have a little spare time is to walk over to the closest souq and explore. For context, a souq is an open air market where people in the neighborhood shop. It’s essentially a farmer’s market except instead of being a limited time pop-up event, they’re just how people in the local area shop. There are more traditional grocery stores too, but these are much less common, though you probably have a lower chance of contracting a communicable disease or finding cigarette ashes in your food. Still, a souq is infinitely more entertaining than shopping in a classic supermarket, and I like getting the local experience. Yesterday, I went out on a quest to find a rare Saudi-made candy bar our professor loves. I was unsuccessful in that endeavor, but I did spend a good amount of time knocking around the souq. I took a number of photos and posted them to the album, so if haven’t seen them I’d go take a look. As you know, a picture is worth a thousand words, but since my eye for photography is on par with Ray Charles’ I thought I should write about it too. Also, there are some things a photo just can’t capture, so I’ll focus on those. The first thing you notice about a souq are its aromas. Since souqs predominately sell food, there’s always the smell of cooking meat and smoke from the grill. Every souq has a least one bakery, and many have multiple, so the scent of freshly-baked loaves are ubiquitous. Still, there are some odors that aren’t so pleasant. For one, Rabat is a capital city with a sizeable population and a sanitation system that probably could use an overhaul, so there’s plenty of sewer smells to go around. For another, people here smoke like chimneys, which means the scent of tobacco is pervasive. And, being a coastal country, Moroccan dishes rely heavily on seafood. I’m a big fan of seafood, more than some other people I’ve traveled here with, but it stinks. A lot. There are other smells too—feces from the live rabbits and chickens being sold for an extremely farm-to-table dining experience, exhaust fumes from the motorcycles that go ripping down the streets, and the sweetness of a variety of spices and flavorings, which float on the air and gently kiss your olfactory nerve before they’re caught on another current and hurried away.  

Another inescapable part of the souqs that can’t be easily shown on camera are the sounds. In my opinion, a souq captures the urban orchestra of Rabat better than anywhere else I’ve been in the city. The overwhelming sound is people communicating with each other in Darija, the local Arabic dialect. People call greetings to neighbors and friends, order food, ask questions, shill their products, or just shoot the breeze as they wander between the shops and stalls. At intermittent stations, meat sizzles on the grill while cats fight with each other over scraps, and egrets and other birds sing from the rooftops. Occasionally, a motorcycle’s throaty engine will rumble down the street, and if people don’t get out of the way fast enough, the rider will announce their impatience with their horn, which resonates loudly between the clay buildings. Less common are the sounds of chickens clucking as they unknowingly await their demise or the haunting ululation of one of the five daily calls to prayer. However, if you step off the street into one of the arcades that connect two adjacent streets, all the sounds of the souq fade, and you’re left with just the hum of pedal-operated sewing machines in the tailor’s shop and the clicks of people’s heels on the weathered paving stones. To me, the souq’s sights are the most vibrant, and its smells the most powerful, but if you really want to understand it, all you have to do is listen. 

Now that I’ve reached this point in the blog, I’ve realized that I’ve said a lot more about the souq than I probably needed to and not left enough time for the other things I wanted to talk about. So, I’ll mention them briefly—there’s really not much to them anyway. The first is that this week I officially reached one month in the country and am 1/3 of the way done with the Arabic portion of the program. To celebrate, our professor and his family threw us a little party with treats and games, which was very nice. Some of you might be a little confused about the timeline, since you know I’ll be away from Utah until just before Christmas, and it’s not even October yet, so I’ll just explain briefly. Our time learning Arabic in Rabat only goes until the first week of December, after which we wrap up our intensive language study before heading out to three other countries in the Middle East, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, and Turkey, to do a “field study.” I’m not actually sure if I wrote about this in another blog, but I’m too lazy to go check, so apologies if I’m repeating myself. It’s a little strange to think that I’m already this far along in my journey and that in just a couple more weeks I’ll be halfway done, but at the same time I also feel like I’ve been in Rabat forever. I have learned a lot so far, not just Arabic, but a lot of other lessons too. In fact, I think the most important things I’m learning have nothing to do with the language at all, but I’ll save that for a later post. Another thing I wanted to write about is Hassan. Now that I’ve spent a couple weeks with him, I have a better understanding of what he’s like. On the surface, he seems a little austere—maybe slightly like a dad who’s perpetually disappointed in his kids. However, under that shroud there’s a guy who likes to have fun and doesn’t take himself too seriously. On Friday, during dinner, the five of us got talking about music. After the meal was over, Hassan invited us to sit on the couch and share some music with him. We listened to a disturbing combination of The Beatles, Queen, The Killers, and Taylor Swift (I requested one of those; it’s up to you to decide which one). Not only did Hassan love jamming to our music, but he also got up and started dancing—before pointing at each of us and telling us to get up and join him, which we did. Never did I think I would be dancing with a Moroccan man to Mr. Brightside while my roommate sang the lyrics, but now I can say I have. 

I guess this brings me to the conclusion of another post and another chapter in my Morocco story. The weather here is starting to change incrementally. It’s not really autumn like you’d get in more northern places, but I do sleep at night without sweating now, and the other day I had that feeling that creeps in when the leaves start changing and the air turns crisp. I don’t really know how to articulate it, but I think most of you probably know what I mean. I guess I’m trying to say that life here is still just life, and it bears us along in its hands with seasons of good and bad winding through its fingers. I’m definitely feeling both extremes here, but hey, at least a liter of coke is only a dollar. See you next week. 

- رمزي