Username:

Password:

Fargot Password? / Help

Tag: French

22

Morocco Lost in Translation

Last week a close Moroccan friend and I met for our weekly cup of tea at our usual café.

‘You know how much I like you foreigners,’ said my friend, ‘but you people confuse me, and other Moroccans as well.’

Smiling, I asked what he meant.

My friend went on to tell me of how he had been received at an American family’s home in Casablanca the week before. Following that visit, he invited the American family to his own home. A series of lost in translation moments had punctuated both visits.

As someone with one foot in the East and the other in the West, I could see the difficulties and, for this reason, I wanted to present a list of do’s and don’ts for Westerners living in Morocco.

Here it is:

When visiting a Moroccan home:

  • Take a gift, however small. Not to do so when arriving for a social visit is almost unthinkable. If there are children there, take something for them, or something straight-forward such a platter of pastries. Better to take more than less.
  • Don’t expect a tour of the house, or ask for one. Bedrooms and anything but the formal salon, will be probably off-limits, unless you know the family well.
  • Don’t be surprised if the television is left on all through the visit. TV is regarded as background noise in Morocco.
  • Don’t worry if people come in and out endlessly, while you feel awkwardly rooted to one formal chair. You’re a guest and, as a guest, you’re expected to be seated while everyone honours you. At prayer time members of the host family might slip out, pray, and then return.
  • And, as a respected guest, an abundance of food will be provided. Don’t gorge yourself on starters, as there will probably be large platters of cooked meat to follow.
  • The choicest pieces of meat may well be picked out and served to you. Don’t worry if you have to leave a little, because that’s fine in Morocco – just as eating every crumb is a sign that you are still hungry.
  • Do not help yourself to drinks, but wait for your hosts to serve you.
  • If eating from a communal dish of couscous or a tagine, keep to the triangle of the dish in front of you.
  • Don’t praise an individual object in the home too much, because it may well be presented to you as a gift.
  • Don’t take wine or an alcoholic drink unless you are very certain that the hosts drink.
  • Do make polite conversation, declaring how you adore Morocco, and Moroccan culture. Don’t launch into politics or religious matters.
  • Irrespective of whether you are the guest or the host, your children will be kissed by all. And, if it’s a conservative household, men either kiss each other’s cheeks (if already close friends), and women kiss women’s cheeks. Men shouldn’t kiss women and vice versa, unless you know the family well or if you know them to be less conservative. A handshake is always a good bet unless a cheek is offered.

 

When Receiving Moroccan Guests

  • On no account serve any dish containing pork or pork products.
  • Don’t necessarily ask your guests what they would like to drink. It’s better to just serve tea, or whatever, or to pour various cold drinks and present them on a tray. Don’t offer wine or beer unless you’re pretty sure your guests drink alcohol.
  • Never eat or drink anything until you are sure that your guests have all been taken care of. And never on any account help yourself to a second helping until all guests have taken what they need. If there’s a little food left at the end of the meal, never dive in and finish it if you are hosting the meal.
  • Remember that when receiving people in your home, they are traditionally guaranteed security beneath your roof. This means that you are obliged to treat them with respect, and so it’s not the right time to launch into severe arguments.
  • In Morocco, receiving a guest is regarded as an honour for the host, and so there should be an abundance of food. Don’t worry if you have many times what will be eaten, as you will be honoring your guests. Quantity, quantity, quantity.
  • Don’t offer a tour of your home, unless the guests are close friends. Moroccans are always confused about the idea of the house tour. It’s largely regarded as absurd.
  • Don’t stress if your guests sit in silence. In Morocco, as in much of the Arab world, silence is seen as a virtue and a medium through which people get to know each other.
  • Don’t be offended if your Moroccan friends don’t send a message of thanks. It’s not something required in the culture. But, you are likely to receive a return invitation instead.
2
June 11, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel

My friend Wednesday

There’s something magical about Wednesdays. I really mean it. It means you’re in the middle of the week, a little like a traffic island in the centre of the road — protected between oncoming lanes of traffic by a thin sliver of concrete.

So here we are, perched on the traffic island with a clear view forward and a clear view back. I won’t rant on today. You must have better stuff to be doing than reading this, and I have broken through the procrastination barriers, dozens of them, and am, finally, cranking out some of the work that’s been heavy on my desk for days.

I’m actually still reeling from last week. Spent most of it in Paris, doing publicity for the French edition for The Caliph’s House (La maison du caliphe). The best thing was hanging out at Editions de Fallois, my absolutely amazing and old-fashioned French publisher… and the very very worst thing was being obliged to speak French endlessly on the radio. But then, as I always say, a life without steep learning curves is no life at all.
The middle of the week’s a weird little time, one of those days when you can take solace in strange thoughts, dreams that one might more normally expunge from a well-tuned mind. On Wednesdays I like to think about the village of Llactapampa in the Madre de Dios jungle, where I left Eduardo and his family. And I like, too, to think about a torture cell in Peshawar where I once spent time, and about waffles covered in homemade vanilla ice cream, because it’s one of those things I never quite allow myself to enjoy.
Sometimes on Wednesday I go for a long walk down the beach and watch the gulls swoop and dive over Sidi Abdur Rahman, the glorious enchanted shrine near our home, where seheras cure the needy and the good. In winter the sky is inky and full of dark possibility and, in summer, it’s indigo and pure. From time to time I mount the steps at low tide and walk up to the shrine itself and through until I’m on the apron of land at the back where the chickens are being sacrificed. I like it where because of the smell. It smells of hope, as if a thousand, or a hundred thousand people have pinned their lives to the clefts in the rocks. It’s a place of wishes, a fragment of calm destiny.
Once in a while I pass a Wednesday morning down at Casablanca’s port. I like to watch the fishing boats heaving up to the quay, low in the water, their precious hauls of fish ready for beds of crushed ice. There are cats in abundance and more gulls, and rubber boots moving fast over the stone slabs, and the cries of the fishermen boasting of their skill.
And, sometimes on a Wednesday, when the first days of summer are so near you can taste them, feel them on your skin, I climb up onto the top terrace, and look down. You can see the ocean from up there, and Casablanca’s great mosque in the distance, and the lighthouse at El Hank that’s protected ships for century or more. And you can see the bustle and real life of the shantytown all around: children running to the communal bakeries with loaves of flat bread on great unwieldy trays, women walking out to the hammam with plastic buckets and stools, the school teacher flexing her length of orange plastic hose, shepherding a flock of children into class.
And then, as always, poised on my sliver of concrete in the middle of the week, I say a little prayer, thankful for it all.
TS