Bargaining, the "drop off" and a crash course in Arabic

2/1/2015 2 Comments

Bargaining, the "drop off" and a crash course in Arabic

On the rooftop of my new home with fellow MOJ'er, Paris.

It's been exactly one week since 60+ students and I moved into Hotel Darna, but I swear to you it feels like it's been one month. With a few exceptions, the majority of every day has had some sort of activity planned to prepare us for our semester in Rabat, both in terms of academics and culture. In other words, orientation for American college students in Morocco meant learning to bargain, navigating through the streets of Rabat and taking a crash course in Arabic. It also meant a brief potty training lesson, as many homes that students would be staying in might not be equipped with the western style toilet they are accustomed to.

If my head full of blond hair wasn't enough to instantly identify me as a foreigner here, my inability to bargain would be the next tell tale sign. I'm terrible at it, but it's a skill I will need for as long as I live in the medina as a college student on a budget. For this reason exactly, Badrdine Boulaid, our program assistant, introduced us to the bargaining exercise. He gave each student 20 MDh (the equivalent of about $2), and sent us into the medina in search of something we could negotiate the price of. It didn't matter if we came back with anything, so long as we gave bargaining a shot. He provided a few necessary phrases in Arabic (how much is it, this is too expensive, lower, etc.) and emphasized the fact that we must become actors when we shop. In other words, if it meant faking tears to earn a little sympathy; it meant faking tears. That last tip might have been a joke, but with Badrdine, you can't really ever be sure.

After a short lesson, we divided into groups and found ourselves in the heart of the medina, stopping in a handful of shops to feign interest in certain items before walking away, just as we were told to do. The idea, Badrdine explained, is to make the shopkeeper desperate enough to call you back and accept the price you offered him. I suppose it works in theory, but it didn't work fo us that day. I communicated as much as I could with the limited Moroccan dialect that I knew from our lesson that morning, but the conversation always transitioned into a sloppy combination of French and English. Life in the medina moves fast; there's no time for confusion where business is involved. Business deals require quick thinking and confidence... just like is needed for weaving in between the crowded, narrow roads of the medina's shops. The shopkeepers want to make a deal, and the sooner they can do so, the better.

My first honest attempt at bargaining resulted in me cornered at the back of a narrow shop the size of a large walk-in closet, insisting to the owner that I didn't want the black belt that hung between us. La shukran. Non merci. He insisted over and over again that the belt was made of real leather and the price he offered was a good deal, one I simply could not pass up. "I believe you," I said. "But I don't have 60 dirham on me right now." Of course, it really didn't matter how much I had on me because I didn't want the belt regardless of the price. But insistent on striking a deal with me, he wouldn't let up. I distinctly remember thinking, "fake tears? Some real ones are going to be here real soon." Fortunately, the arrival of my friends outside the shop made for an excuse to get away. "My friends are waiting and I have to go," I told him in French. Reluctantly, he moved aside and let me exit the shop, but not without asking one last time, "What's your final price?" Welcome to the medina, Mary. Welcome.

I don't know if I would trust myself to find my way back to Loyola's campus if someone dropped me off on my own in the middle of Chicago, but that didn't stop the CCCL staff from doing just that... in Rabat, a city I had barely spent two full days in. It had been listed on the schedule as "Drop off," but the CCCL staff refused to explain to us exactly what that meant. As it turned out, it meant exactly what we feared it might mean: getting dropped off in the city and told to find our way back. Fortunately, I was dropped in a place by the ice cream shop a group of us found the night before, so I had no trouble returning to the school. I can't say for sure what might have happened if I was left somewhere I hadn't already visited. For the sake of all parties involved, it's probably best we never find out.

On our last night at the hotel, the entire SIT Morocco program ate one final dinner together at the CCCL to celebrate the end of the orientation and the beginning of the semester. The chef served us bastilla, a wide arrangement of vegetables, strawberries and bananas. Mary Stucky, our program director and a veteran journalist, explained to us that bastilla, a sweet chicken pie and one of Morocco’s traditional dishes, is only served on special occasions in Morocco, such as weddings. Served on a large platter at the center of the table, a delicate pastry heavily sprinkled with powdered sugar and cinnamon encased the chicken, creating the perfect combination of sweet and salty.

Welcome dinner at the CCCL with everyone in the SIT Morocco program. Bastilla, veggies and fruits.

We had our first session of survival Arabic session Thursday, maybe not so coincidentally the same day we met our homestay families. To my surprise, I had a lot to learn. The Moroccan dialect, called darja, is different from the Fus'ha (formal) that I learned at Loyola. When most Moroccans speak darja and not all are versed in Fus'ha, the year and a half I took of Arabic classes leading up to this trip only seems to be beneficial only for catching words here and there in everyday conversation. Otherwise, I'm just as at a loss conversing with locals as those who have no prior instruction in Arabic. Even the introductory phrases we learned differed considerably from the ones I was familiar with.

Info session after info session went by, until the time finally came for us to meet the families. Undoubtedly the part of the week we anticipated most. At 4:30, we gathered on the first floor of the CCCL: Host families on one side, students on the other. Our families knew what we looked like and a variety of details we supplied on paperwork we completed several months ago, but we were kept in the dark until just before the families arrived. Badr stood in the middle of the room and began the uncomfortable process of initiating introductions between students and families. For every meeting, he called a student's name and asked him or her to step forward. Those of us not called anxiously sat and watched, hoping our name would be the next one that Badrdine asked for.

Student after student, the number of people in the room slowly dwindled down. I was one of the last students to “step forward,” but from where I sat, I could see a woman holding a sheet with my picture on it. A tall boy with long curly hair stood behind her. The mystery disappeared but the nerves remained. Badrdine finally called my name and I stepped forward to meet my host mother, Naima, and her son, Oussama. We greeted each other in the traditional style (kisses on each cheek) and introduced one another. I responded with the phrase I knew for “nice to meet you” and not the one we learned earlier that morning, which prompted Badrdine to look at me and say, “you speak Arabic!” What a gross overstatement, I thought; if only he knew. But in the moment, the nerves subsided and tensions between parties eased.

The first night was long and relatively quiet. I say relatively, because there's almost no such thing as "quiet" in this home. Like the medina, it's always bustling with noise and activity. But I was exhausted and the family clearly was exhausted too, so our first night together drifted by with minimal talk and lots of eating. Within minutes of my arrival, the eating began. Naima filled my stomach with khubz (bread), sweet jam and mint tea, all items I've accepted will become staples in my diet this semester. The breads she served me were some of the best I've ever tasted.… and that includes Bertuccis rolls, fresh out of the oven. I know, I’m surprised, too. But it really is that good.

I’ve been welcomed into a home bigger than I could have imagined. From the outside, every home looks the same, only distinguished by the elaborate door to its interior. From the outdoors, it's impossible to tell what you might find inside. Like is true of most Moroccan homes, each room in the home doubles or even triples as something else. On the first floor, for example, the children’s bedroom also acts as the family room, similar to the den in my American home. On my first night here, we even ate our dinner of chicken and vegetables there. Sometimes we eat our meals in the kitchen downstairs, and other times we eat in the large room at the center of the home. It's anyone's guess. Despite this, I have been given an entire room to myself. The center of the home – where one must walk through to get to any of the first floor rooms – is where I’ve spent most of my time so far. It seems to be where the most action occurs and the best place to observe familial interactions and meet the strangers that pass by at virtually all times of the day, sometimes as late as 11 p.m. It doesn't hurt that with the long, beautiful curtains that hang from the doorways on each wall, it's one of the most beautiful rooms in the home.

Paris and I with my two host sisters, Issra wa Chama.

A brief introduction to my host family: I have three younger sisters (the youngest of which is just four months old), and a younger brother. The girls are 6 and 7 years old, and the boy, Oussama, turns 17 in February. The parents and girls only speak Arabic and a small bit of French, but the brother, Oussama, speaks English and French well. In fact, it's usually a shining moment for me when we find a word that I can teach him in English, as it's always a case of me learning Arabic from him. Paris, pictured above below and to the right, lives just a few doors down, so she spends a lot of time with my family. The girls have really enjoyed having her around.

Paris showing Chama her laptop.

Selfies on the rooftop.

The room that I sleep in. I imagine that when it's not where my makeshift bed is, the family uses it as another living room.

The girls warmed up to me almost immediately. They're full of energy and keep me on my toes. Since they recognize the significant age different between us, they are especially amused by how little Arabic I know compared to them. They love to go around the house, point at things and dictate to me the darja word for them. They giggle at my mispronunciation and then do their best to correct me, but I'm certain there are times even after their corrections I butcher it again. Oussama is just like any other boisterous 16-year-old boy I know, and he has a pretty extensive knowledge of American rap music and American pop culture. He's already shown me around much of the medina, helped me sort out my phone, and introduced me to as many people as he can. I'm incredibly lucky to have a family member to mediate the more difficult conversations between myself and other family members. Altogether, I’ve been very lucky with how things turned out.