Battle of the Belly-dance

Though some of you are familiar with this story, having stood by me through me moments of self-doubt vis-à-vis advice-seeking emails, I thought I would now share this ordeal with all of you. Perhaps you, too, can see some wisdom, some humor, and maybe even some overarching life lesson in all of this! The moral of the story- Life’s a dance! Don’t sit it out!

Thursday September 13, 2007
Tonight, I came face to face with one of my worst fears! I went to my first belly-dancing class, which was fun enough given that my hips can only really move about a quarter of an inch and even then they are not synchronized. That's not to mention my “butt”, if you can call it that, which has no jiggle to its name. Anyway, I thought it would be fun to go to class, stand closer to the back and maybe, just maybe, come December I would be a regular Shakira of Morocco. All was well (except of course for the aforementioned anatomical impediments) until at the end of the class all twenty or so girls in the class formed a large circle. Innocent group stretching? Oh no! Time for monkey in the middle. Show off your moves while everyone else's eyes are all on YOU! I panicked! At that moment I realized that what I am afraid in the entire world, more than sharks, lighting and shaky airplanes combined, is dancing in the middle of a circle. I don't know how I have avoided it throughout my twenty years of middle school dances, dorm room dance parties, and weddings, but I have. At that moment, I scrambled for the door but that omniscient little belly-dancing instructor caught me! As I was hastily putting on my socks she beckoned me to the floor. "Non, non," I mustered up with my best and bravest French. "La prochaine fois (the next time)." She relented and as I bolted from the studio of hips and wiggles I asked myself "will there be a next time?" Do I belly-dance in Morocco and risk complete embarrassment in front of girls whose hips and bellies were born for this? Do I dash out of class before the circle of shame? Skip the whole ordeal? I’ve certainly got a lot to ponder…this decision could change my life…or at least the life of my hips!

Tuesday, September 18
Oh the sweet taste of victory! I’m not one to spoil endings but I can’t wait until the end of this entry to say “I conquered the circle!” Well, maybe “conquer” is too strong a word, but in any case I got myself (hips, belly and booty included) into the middle of that dang circle and I danced! It took some clapping, some mighty “woos” of support from my fellow American belly-dancers-in-training (Abdits as I like to say), and a good dose of fearlessness, but I shook it “like a Polaroid picture”. (That was admittedly a slight exaggeration.) However, thanks to all the wise words of encouragement from across the Atlantic and some serious self-reflection, this girl let out her inner Shakira! Bet you didn’t know I had one of those did you? I certainly didn’t. All my 15 seconds of glory at least impressed one fellow Abdit (see above) who said to me after class, “I thought you said your hips didn’t move.” “Oh silly girl,” thought I. “Haven’t you ever heard of modesty?” (PS-I apologize for the abundance of hyperboles and/or white lies in this story.) What is even more exciting is that after class I was able to advise another circle-phobe like my (former) self. I told her about my experience last week, my plea for advice from overseas, my moment of awakening, and even my pre-class Dirty Dancing Havana Nights solo dance party in my room! In the end, it’s all about fun, right? And if I get in killer shape and teach my hips some moves in the process than what an amazing deal is that!?

Ramadan Mubarak Sayeed!
Ramadan is upon us- the month in which the Qur’an was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad. It is the most important month of the Islamic year. It is also the month in which American exchange students in Morocco furtively slip into the cafeteria for lunch or gulp sips of water behind closed doors. From sunrise to sundown, Muslims cannot eat, drink, smoke, or engage in various other sorts of activities (use your imagination). So, those of us who aren’t participating in sawm (fasting) have a difficult time finding food and an even harder time reconciling our consciences to the fact that we are chowing down while others among us are light-headed, cranky, and counting down the minutes until Ftoor (the breaking of the fast).
The non-Muslims of the international students fall into three camps;

1. The serious fasters- These people are the hard-core “When in Romers.” They wake up at 4am to eat. They swear off water and chewing gum. You can tell who they are by the exhausted looks on their faces around 4pm and then, two hours later, the overjoyed looks on their faces when the voice from the mosque’s loudspeaker announces that the sun is finally down! These international fasters may not subscribe to the religiosity of the month, but they are certainly committed to the cultural experience.
2. The fair-weather fasters- This group, to which I belong, is willing to give this whole fasting thing a try but is a little daunted by the prospect of one month of night-owl noshing. I, for one, lasted the first two days. My roommate and I woke up at 4:30am to eat an oatmeal-like meal and then I didn’t eat again until the 6:30pm Ftoor. We fair-weather fasters have different reasons for our fickleness. For me, it was the fact that on an empty stomach my attention span dropped to about thirty seconds and my energy level while working out rivaled a slug’s. Some may call it cheating, but I plan to fast for at least two days again right before the end of Ramadan and the big feast holiday Eid ul-Fitr. I want to feel like I at least kind of earned the celebration!
3. The No-Way-in Heck Contingent- This group did not try fasting and did not want to try fasting. “This is not my religion/culture/country” is a common argument. While still respectful of the fasters, Muslim and non-Muslim alike, members of this group prefer to stick to their three meals a DAY routine.

Whatever, one’s persuasion, it is hard to deny that we are in the midst of an incredible phenomenon. Fasting is meant to make one empathize with the hungry and poor and also get closer to God. What is more, Ramadan is the quintessential communal event. Families and friends join together every single night to break the fast with mint tea, hard-boiled eggs, chick-pea soup called harira, sugary fried pastries called shubekea, dates, and tons of delicious breads. It is a “carbo-load” as one of my friends remarked, but it is absolutely delicious. My roommate and her friends cook Ftoor together in the dorm kitchen. Groups of students picnic together outside with the “Ftoor to go” that the cafeteria serves. The extremes of lethargy and brain-lapses during the day are wiped away by the sense of community and celebration at night.

Adjusting to Ramadan is certainly not easy, whether one is a serious faster or an adamant eater. Hours of operation change everywhere from the campus store to the gym to restaurants. Eating during the day has a tendency to make one feel illicit or at least indulgent. However, for all its quirks, Ramadan is an amazing experience. It is a month of spirituality, self-control community, and celebration. And I can appreciate that on a full or empty stomach!


Free expression?
I am taking a course called International Communication. Recently, a reoccurring topic of conversation in class has been censorship and media for the purpose of national development. In a rather heated exchange in which our professor was arguing that blogs in Morocco could represent a form of counter-regime, self-published media, one out-spoken classmate of mine replied, “Have you ever tried writing a blog against the King?” Silence. Uncomfortable laughter. Change of topic.

Take from this account what you will. Honestly, I am not quite sure what to make of it myself. The current king is markedly more progressive than his predecessors. Apparently, though, Moroccan media is not quite a free speech forum. However, since this is a blog and I am in Morocco I think I’ll stop here and leave you to draw your own conclusions.

FES

With a backpack of clothes, a guidebook, and four other students, I left campus on Friday geared up for my first real weekend adventure in Morocco. We were headed to Fez, Morocco’s third largest city. Fez is also one of the four imperial cities of Morocco, which have at one time or another served as the capital. I was naïve to my own naiveté about travel, counting on my guidebook (which has admittedly become somewhat of an appendage) and the companionship of three other female students to navigate me through the weekend. Thus, I didn’t realize at the time what a fortune twist of events it was when Anass, a Moroccan student we’d met, flagged us down as we were leaving campus. He too was headed for Fès and offered to share a cab. In the end, Anass proved an indispensable part of the weekend, from finding restaurants and cabs to warding off false tour guides and ensuring our safety.

As the taxi wound down the rugged mountain side to Fez, I saw parts of Morocco that the isolated and well-kempt campus of AUI did not exhibit. Children herded sheep alongside the road. Women wearing long jellabas guided donkeys saddled with goods. Every hundred yards we’d pass by someone sitting in the little shade available alongside the road, selling jars of olive oil or honey. Looking backwards, the earthen houses built into the mountainside popped up like a sand-colored landscape in a children’s pop-up picture book.

One hour and a few heart-attacks later (thanks to the driver’s persistent passing of “slow” cars along hair-pin turns), we arrived in Fez. Because we were first-timers, we opted to stay in a chain hotel in New Fez, or Fez El-Jdid, rather than venture to Fez El-Bali (Old Fez), which offered potentially cheaper, more authentic, and frequently more Spartan accommodations (aka- cold showers and questionable pluming). New Fez is actually somewhat of a misnomer. It was built in the 13th century, and though it is young compared to Fez El-Bali, built in 808, New Fes is equally rich in history.

Saturday morning we headed into the medina, the old-walled city and must-see attraction for Fez tourists. Fez El Bali is considered the largest contiguous car-free urban area in the world. It is also on of UNESCO’s World Heritage Sites.

We entered the medina through the main gate called Bab Bou Jeloud. Immediately my senses were flooded with competing sights, smells, and sounds as I tried to discern which path led through the chaos to the first guide-book attraction. After only a couple minutes into the medina, Anass motioned for us to turn around and follow him back out Bab Bou Jeloud. Anass, a Moroccan male accompanying four American girls, was mistaken for a “faux guide.” Other would-be faux guides were trying to snatch his business! Fez police have recently cracked down on illegal guides but inevitably, if you enter the medina with a guide-book, a camera, or a confused look on your face, you will be accosted by a handful of people more than willing to take you around the medina for the right price.

We reentered the medina, this time with our police-approved official guide Hamido. Hamido grew up within the walls of Fez El-Bali and new the winding labyrinth like the back of his hand. As we wove through the crowded stone alleys we quickly caught on to key Arabic phrases- “balak” (look out) and “andak” (move). The oblivious tourist was likely to get rammed by a donkey, a wheelbarrow, or a man shouldering a heavy load. Though I let my eyes wander from the dangling camel heads to the colorful cloths to the fish for sale to the Nikes hanging on display, I quickly learned to jump aside at a second’s notice.

According to Hamido, 250,000 people live within the walls of the medina. I wondered as we ducked through short door frames and twisted up and down uneven alleys, how many of those 250,000 people had gotten lost on their way home?! Hamido showed us the common ovens where families bring their own dough to cook over the wood. We then stopped by Madrasa Bou Inania, a remarkable theological school built in the 1350’s. Hamido pointed out the feats of Islamic architecture and the elaborate carvings and writing around the madrasa.

We entered the carpenter’s market where engaged couple come to pick out there elaborate decorated thrones for their wedding receptions. Weddings here are a serious business lasting some 10 hours and entailing at least four outfit changes for the newlyweds. The groom’s family must buy the bride a gold belt to wear for the ceremony thus, as Hamido says, the skinnier the bride the better!

Next, we visited the tannery where animal skins are dyed for purses, clothing, and belts. As we entered the tannery we were each handed a bundle of fresh mint to hold to our noses to block the pungent odor of animal skins in the process of drying and dyeing. We climbed to the roof of the tannery which overlooked enormous vats of natural dyes and leather drying in the air.

For lunch, Hamido led us to, quite literally, a hole in the wall. Inside the doorway, I stepped into a gorgeous tiled Moroccan salon. Couches surrounded the tables and we indulged in a three course meal of salads followed by couscous, tajines (meats cooked in clay pots), and pastilla (a delicious pastry sprinkled with cinnamon sugar and stuffed with chicken and raisins) and finally fresh fruit.

Our bellies full and our hearts content, we continued to our next stop- a Berber weaving shop. Here, we were treated to mint tea, a loom demonstration, and an elaborate showing of at least twenty hand-made rugs and blankets. “Go ahead. Take you sandals off and walk on it! It is like a massage for the feet!” encouraged the shop owner. Each woven piece was unique with symbol of the Berber tribe in the middle and the family’s symbol adorning the outer pattern. All the vibrant blues, pinks and yellows come from natural dyes of like saphron and indigo, etc. After the ceremonial display, we each got a reduced “sister price” for the Berber blankets we purchased. It has proved a welcome addition to my beige and barren dorm room!

Then, Hamido led us through a tiny passage and, remarkably, we emerged into a high-ceilinged cloth shop where the men were hard at work on their giant looms as well. We each donned one of the four-styles of turbans for a picture and continued on through the maze.

After an action-packed, noisy and exhilarating six hours in the medina, Hamido led us outside of the medina walls where the environment immediately shifted from chaos to calm. I was no longer in imminent danger of a being run over by a donkey or mistakenly walking into a hanging camel head at the butchers! I felt as though I had just stepped out of another world- labyrinth of history and culture, a self-contained walled community where traditions and modernity blend seamlessly together.