If You Question Your Barber, You’re a Braver Man Than I

 

I’ve always been of the opinion that barbers are not to be trifled with. For one thing, they’ve got you confined to a chair wearing a cape that makes you look like you’re one outburst from a stint in the looney bin, so you’re already disadvantaged before you even open your mouth. For another, they’re operating an arsenal of sharp objects very close to a lot of useful apparatuses like, I don’t know, ears—just to name one. And all this while they hold the power to completely butcher your visual appearance with a bad haircut should you offend them. I have another opinion that I hadn’t formed until just this week, but it is one that I am now firmly encamped in: at no point should fire ever be used in a barbershop. Yes, this week in Morocco, I got a haircut, and if I never had to go back again, it would still be too soon. 

In my optimism, I thought going to a barber would be a good way to get some language practice. In truth, it might have been, except for the fact that the man wielding the hair clippers was determined to speak to me in French no matter how many times I tried to use Arabic. In Rabat, most people typically assume Caucasians are French until proven otherwise, but either no one had told this guy that or he just didn’t care. He also had a severe phobia of scissors, or at least that’s how it seemed to me, since when I asked him to use those instead of the trimmer, he seemed vehemently opposed. I guess I should give him a little credit; I say “asked,” but I actually forgot the word for scissors right as I sat down in the chair, even though I’d looked it up only five minutes prior, so I had to resort to Paleolithic grunting and miming in order to communicate. I thought about pushing back, but then I remembered all those things I mentioned in the above paragraph and just resigned myself to my fate. In truth, it wasn’t so much that I was afraid to question him, but more that I just don’t have the capability to do so in my target language. It is amazing how easy it is to order something from a restaurant, but doing something that has much more complexity, even if it’s just getting a haircut, is markedly harder. It has caused me to reflect just how vast languages are. Anyway, after he had finished with the haircut, he whipped out the straight razor to clean up my hairline. Apparently lacking barbicide, he unveiled a cigarette lighter to sterilize the razor before he got busy. I’m all for hygiene, but the open flame in close proximity to his cans of hairspray was making me feel like a cat on a hot tin roof. Thankfully, no one was incinerated, and after paying the equivalent of $3, I left. It is a hope of mine that I am never drafted into the Marine Corps, but if I ever am, at least I’ll be prepared for the haircut. I guess I can’t complain too much—I got what I paid for. 

Lest you think that getting a trim was the only thing I did this week in Rabat, think again—I just thought it was kind of a funny experience and wanted to share it. Still, this week was probably more of what my time here in Morocco will be like, which is spending most of my days attending classes and doing language homework. One big thing that happened is that I finally met my host dad! His name is Hassan, and it’s been nice getting to know him. He seems like a good guy, although he is more intense than his wife, so sometimes it’s hard to tell what he’s actually thinking. One great thing about his return is that meals are a lot longer now. Hassan likes to ask questions and have conversations about deeper topics like culture and politics, both in Morocco and abroad. This is a great opportunity to use what we are learning in class, though last night’s meal was an hour and a half long, which is a little much when you don’t start eating until 9pm every night. My roommates and I also had a fun experience with Hassan on Friday night. Malika had gone to a neighboring city to visit her sister, so we were on our own for food. Hassan took us to an interesting operation at a local butcher shop, in which you pick out your meat from the shop before taking it next door to a community grill where it is cooked for you. While our protein was cooking, we went to the adjacent souq and bought olives, bread, and some peaches for dessert before going back to the grill to get our protein. Obviously, this is something that Hassan has done many times because he knew exactly what to order at the butcher’s, and he perfectly timed the rest of our route with the time it took to prepare the food. The one unfortunate thing is that Hassan has high blood pressure, and the cooks put too much salt on the meat, so he had to go and order some more and wait for it to cook. Still, this meant that there was more for me and my roommates—I think I ate more protein that night than I’ve had in the entire month I’ve been here. 

As I mentioned in my last blog, we also have the opportunity to go on cultural activities once a week, which are arranged by Amideast. We’ve done three of these activities, and they’ve all been good for different reasons. The first was a trip to Chellah, a medieval fortress in Rabat. Chellah is the site of an ancient Muslim necropolis and was also a Roman colony. It was fascinating to stand amongst the ruins of something so old and ponder the types of lives that the inhabitants might have had. The second trip was to the old medina in the adjacent city of Sale (where the title photo was taken). Sale is on the other side of the Bou Regreg river from Rabat, and it is where most of our speaking partners live. Our tour of the old medina was exceptional and one of my favorite things I’ve done so far. The guide was extremely animated and passionate about what he was showing us, which rubbed off on us and made the whole tour so much more compelling. He was also an anthropologist who has been studying the area for years, which meant he had access to some private areas that even people who have lived in Sale their whole lives haven’t ever seen. And I can’t neglect to mention the giant tray of pastries we were served halfway through! Finally, this week’s activity was to the training facility of Morocco’s national circus. At the facility, we had the chance to be instructed in, and try our hands at, some of the circus events. I balanced on one of those giant balls that are normally reserved for elephants, walked a tightrope, did some tumbling (that wasn’t fun because I’m no longer twelve years old and somersaults just make me feel sick), and played around in an aerial circus hoop (I’m way, way too tall for one of those). I honestly didn’t love this activity, but it was interesting to see the facility they practice at—if for no other reason than to get an appreciation of how fortunate I am to live in a developed country like the United States. Seriously, I think the gymnastics facility my brother trained at as a kid was nicer than the one for Morocco’s national team. It really made me feel more grateful for what I have. Overall, these cultural experiences are always a highlight of my week, and the homework is lighter on those days too! 

With that, I guess it’s time to close out another chapter in this installment of “Ramsey Wonders How He Ended Up in Africa.” I’m not sure what lies in store for me next week—hopefully something moderately entertaining so I have material to write about. There is an Arab candy bar that my professor has been trying to find here to no avail, and I also still need to try that swordfish, so maybe next week’s blog will be food-themed if I’m successful in those side quests. Regardless, I hope you all are well and enjoying the promise of autumn. I am sad to be missing my favorite season, but thankfully it is getting cooler here. Until next week! بسلامة

-Ramsey