In which we discover that “Turkish” toilets really aren’t so bad

Saturday was my first day with my homestay. The grandmother and father speak only Moroccan Arabic, which at this point means I can’t communicate with them to save my life. On Sunday morning I had a MAJOR victory and was able to understand that the grandmother wanted me to put the dog out (I caught one word in the entire sentence). The three brothers, who range in age between 25 and 29, speak varying amounts of English and have been very patient and good-humored about teaching me Arabic. I’d always referred to Moroccan Arabic as a dialect, but when counting up the languages they speak, they count Moroccan and formal Arabic as two separate ones.  Since I relive Babel every day, I’m inclined to agree. The brothers may seem old to be living at home, but in Morocco men live with their families until they get married, and sometimes until they have children. The sister, Oumaima, who is twelve, doesn’t speak English, but she speaks French, which the two of us use, but even now we’re transitioning into more Arabic. If all goes according to plan, I’m going to be a trilingual when I return to the states!

Oumaima tells me that her grandmother has been married four times, beginning when her grandmother was ten years old. In addition to that notable cultural difference, the women do all the housework. Were I made to do this while Madison lounged around, I would be pretty resentful; in Morocco, however, it’s been this way since time immemorial, and it’s clear no one counts it unfair (at least in this house). As a guest, I’m excluded from housework duty, but I do force my way into the kitchen to help prepare food when I can. Another privilege I enjoy is eating first, which is frankly a little awkward. I doubt that’ll last past the week, but I will always eat with the women, around a different table than the men. Since this doesn’t translate into discrepancies in individual worth, it strikes me as different, but not offensive. I also have my own room, which I tried to argue about, but in the summer Moroccans apparently sleep on the floor of the sitting rooms, where it’s cooler. There is also a “Turkish”, or squat, toilet. This has been less of an adjustment than I anticipated; like all of the other differences between American and Moroccan culture, it’s a matter of rolling with the punches until it becomes normal.

Last night Oumaima and I took the dog up onto the roof, a normal hang-out for Moroccan women, and it’s a great view. The dog is named Ariz, after a god of war, which doesn’t quite fit: Ariz is a wacky two month old pitbull mix whose head and feet are twice the size of the rest of his body. He’s hilarious. Anyway, on the roof you can hear the calls to prayer particularly well. I thought the calls to prayer in the Ville Nouvelle were loud, but every few hours in the medina (I haven’t learned specific times except for the infamous four AM call to prayer… man, that’s a blast) it positively rings with “Allahu akbar”s. To use a very American term, the awesome-ness of this has not yet worn off in the slightest. It is SO. COOL. 

Classes begin today, and thus the rhythm of the next few weeks is about to be set. I look forward to it.