Café at the Crossroads

Voice and Veil

2010-08-08T09:23:00.000-07:00

Voice and Veil

"I do not write to be a poet.

I write to find out who I am."

-Tuqa (Age 22, Palestinian)

I’ve had a hundred names, a dozen families, met poets, writers, racists, inspired, liars, lovers of life, lovers of strife, faced sloth in my soul, seen the sincere and surreal, cursed beautiful sea breezes, cuddled scraggly dumpster cats, felt like algae scum and the rays of the sun, I’ve been a believer and atheist, prayed in mosques, churches, synagogues, houses, and trees. Meditated over mocha with genius, sipped strained tea alongside women with destiny, I’ve got bruises I can’t explain and gained an extra kilo in couscous. I made chocolate chip cookies in broken ovens in five countries, licked a cauldron of pine cone pudding clean. Sat on crashing seas at sunset and sunrise, trekked mountain peaks in the city and countryside.

I’ve got run-on sentences with incomplete thoughts, my words aren’t’ unique, just another inspection and expression of life’s constant contradiction. I’m a living cliché who find failure a mere fiction, who isn’t anxious with the unknown, seeks beauty in the evident.

I found home on benches, caves, couches of strangers, floor of new families, empty backrooms, and crowded buses. Good guys and bad guys don’t exist, honesty is subjective, justice sometimes objectionable, and a witness to unmasked beauty that cannot be undone or denied.

I’ve got olive oil in my veins, dirt in my skin, holes in my jeans, and a hunger in my heart. Craved cities, drank deserts, devoured forests, and still wanted a banana for dessert. Swallowed honey milk, poison, kindness, and the tap water. Saw weak wealth and powerful poverty, found wonder in waste bins and scorn for sky scrapers.

I’ve wept onto the shoulders of strangers, spit in the face of pests, been scarred, strengthened, and I feel like I just started. Was avoided, ignored, praised, and stalked. I’ve been met with prejudice and open minds; spy or scholar? Daydreamed on rooftops, got ripped off, harassed, robbed, admired, and found generosity without looking. I’ve spent a lot of time feeling spoiled, weak, strong and inspired. I’ve lied, touched truth, tasted tajine, and freedom. With homesickness and wanderlust in my heart that I can’t help, but cry out to convey….

The people and places that shaped me today:

Yasmeen, Nasreen, Khalood, Tamam, Ola, Ikram, Marade, Tuqa, Karima, Ms. Karam, Amal, Haythem, Afef, Rund, Hind, Bushra, Yaseen, Omar, Khadija, Haj, Hajja, Oumnia, Lina, Nadia, Emoi, , Nas, Hana, Khaled, Asad…

Optimism and cynicism. Passion and reserve. Liberal and conservative. Gregarious and timid. Proud and bashful. Rebellion and tradition. Socialist and Anarchist. Believer and atheist. Poised and awkward. Courageous and fearful. Compassionate and callous. Imaginative and ordinary. Faith and doubt. Altruistic and self-consumed. Rage for rights and sing softly for simply love.

We are a bundle of contradictions inextricably bound.

Our connections a kite string, bond beyond borders, sisterhood and sibling in soul, how ink can carry the heart. A search for our voice is a search for our self, identity discovered, discard the constructed. Pioneers on our paths of passion, deeper understanding in self-reflection and outward connections. We are our mirrors, we are our windows. For Poetry is the soul’s singing humanity to the singular and the whole. A connection of individual identity and universal understanding shared through words scribbled on scraps of napkin, whispered in loud cafes, proclaimed on street corners, and forwarded on facebook. Form fades, but the energy remains. We join in life’s grand cacophony of music. Write it, whisper it, sing it, shout it… to shed our veils, to find our voice.

Shukran,

Kelsey

Sing Me Spanish Techno

2010-06-16T12:27:00.001-07:00

Crack.

I held the limp screen in my lap, feebly clinging to the hinge on the keyboard. "Oh girlie, what have I done to you?"

With holes in my jeans and threadbare and sweat-stained shirts I see how rough I've lived this year. I've shed books, clothes, and life's accessories. I've accepted the loss of things that I once believed were necessities and gained a strange sense of empowerment from this fact. Yet, as my laptop lay pathetic in my arms, exposing weak wires, the sound of cracking plastic, and the soft, electric whimper of the device attempting to function. She broke, but not me.

I sat downtrodden, but not devastated in the port. I had just been on four buses in two hours. What I thought would be an easy skip, jump and a hop to Spain turned into a four hour wait at the port unsure if the bus I was supposed to take to Malaga would be in Algeciras when I arrived. Once on the ferry I sat slumped in a corner seat sweating. The women around me were gulping down water and complaining loudly while the men used hats, paper, and shirts as inadequate fans. In an attempt to swallow my worry I scanned the room observing the womens' hands lined with dark swirling henna. I stared down at my own stained hands and felt a connection that to explain would leave me sounding superficial. But the mere fact that we all were bonded by a long tradition of hennaed hands before travel left me feeling as if I was in the company of sisters.

When the ferry docked we clambered for the exit embracing the salty, cool air. After a jumbled line at the passport control I reached the street breathing an intense sigh of relief as the bus stood ready and waiting. I collapsed onto the curb, finally the spark of joy slipped into my thoughts.

I'm in Spain.

It may seem silly but this is a place I've only read about in poems. I had desired to see Spain, but it was always a distant idea that was confined to the "someday..." But what this year has shown me is that someday is the day you decide it to be. You can't wait for your dreams to present themselves to you. You can't be an observer in your life hoping that your life will be fulfilled by happenstance. It's your life. Own it, live it. Even if you never make it to Spain you will have learned, lived, and loved the moments it took to reach your conclusion even if the end is not what you had first imagined. But as I sleepily stared into the twinkling parking lot lights I knew that my somedays were in my pockets.

The bus bumped and I opened my eyes as the driver turned his head to me, "Malaga?" I nodded and before I could wipe the sleep from my eyes I was abandoned on the roadside at 2am in an unfamiliar city without a map or a clue how to get to m hostel. But as I strode, back saddled with my belongings I felt confident and awake. I turned down a side street to a large sign that proclaimed "sex shop" with the one after it declaring "churros!" This was going to be interesting city. After half an hour of wandering and speaking in Arabic when asking for directions to confused Spaniards I gave up and and paid the four euros to take a taxi to the hostel. A friendly Englishman tiredly greeted me as the clock neared 3am and soon I was wrapped in a sheet still wearing my clothes with a fitted sheet rolled up in a ball as a pillow.

I woke up late, missed breakfast, and attempted to obtain some conception of where I was. I hit the streets in search of a supermercado. Malaga is the home of Picasso, beautiful beaches, and amazing views. But I had heard there was good fruit in Southern Spain and gazing at the piles of peaches and crates of watermelons seemed more intriguing than the starriest starry night. Once back in the hostel munching on an apple I fell into conversation (as hostels goers are prone to do) with the other bedraggled looking bunch on the couch. After a few moments of conversation I was walking along the beach with a hungover Asian man in aviators and a pink headband, a solo adventuring German girl, and a man in floral baggy capris and bright blond hair from Denmark. Our mission: Crepes.

Conversation, crepes, and inspiration as the leader of of our expedition (dude with the amazing trousers) explained how he was on a self-propelled project traveling around the world discussing climate change. He had a job and in his time off and vacation would be spent persuing this side venture. When I questioned the logistics of this idea he explained, "you have to do what you believe in, make your own project, with or without support. You just can't wait for someone to come along and make things happen for you." After quickly consuming our food, my fingers sticky with honey, I walked down a small cobblestone street while my crepe compadres hopped into a taxi to head back to the hostel. I stopped in a large bookstore, gazing longingly at the rows of bright, crisp books. I flipped through the guides on Andalusia and wandered over to the English Language novels. Books are expensive, heavy and take up a lot of space. Buying a book means a time and space commitment. Stack sang and tempted like sirens. I should be focusing on other things. The unbent pages would have to be left that way. I walked out with my Andalusia guide book and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. I have gained a lot of self-control and discipline, but I broke. Besides, I count this as research for teaching Special education. Reading, joking, and half-heatedly glancing at the action movie blasting the night wound down and I headed to bed.

The next morning, missing breakfast again, I had a large glass of juice and consumed my book as I sunk into the couch while Bob Marley blasted and the cleaning lady threatened to mop my feet if I didn't pick them up. I had a plan to head to a small Islamic village but with a long bus ride and a shining sun I opted fora trip to the beach.

Skin. Everywhere there's skin. Men and women alike with bare chests, breasts, speedos, unashamed and unencumbered by clothing. I was feeling daring in my t-shirt, but a woman wearing a jeweled tube top, pant less and propped up in high wedged heels walked past unabashed and left me feeling prudish in her perfumed wake. I eventually dared to don my swimsuit into the black specked sand in a small beach town near Malaga. Book, music, and waves. A short trip turned into an all day affair as my beach bum buddy repeatedly begged another hour. I watched a group of Arab boys playing soccer near the water. I wanted to join them feeling more at home with Arabic in the air. Soon I realize it's near 6pm and sun dazed we grab our things. I felt a little burned, but didn't worry because I had been reapplying my SPF60 lotion regularly. We headed off to a tapas bar that was highly recommended, but as we walked I became increasingly unsteady. We crossed the street to the front door and my vision began to dance away. I stumbled into a chair, everything bright oranges and shadows. My head fell into my hands as I mumbled some apology. The waitress was soon at my side with a glass of sugary coke, pressing me to drink while she held an ice pack on my neck. Bread and more coke appeared at my side, but I felt too sick to eat. After a while the dizziness had not receded. My German hostel friend got me into a taxi and we drove back. I lay down a bit and scribbled a letter to her in thanks and shared some Morocco advice. Feeling rather sick and helpless I mused on the incident. It was one of the first times that I had let someone help me without protest. I had no other choice, but it was a lesson in humility. It was a lesson in learning how to take.

I remember standing in the restaurant kitchen in Chefchaoen with my Spanish friend when he loudly questioned, "Do you feel guilty?" We had not been speaking, but were waiting for our turn at the cutting board. The inquiry more than surprised me. I stumbled out the affirmative. "Si, I could tell. Just by the way you stand." Later as we sat on a hill sipping the setting sun in a field of tall grass he returned to the subject. He explained that a large component to my unearned feelings of guilt were that I could give easily, but I did not know how to take. Learning how to take means you see yourself worthy of receiving something, of needing others, and having others see that they are needed. It creates something very strong and connecting. It makes you human. It makes you better able to give.

The next morning when I had regain my balance I examined my skin. My abdomen (or belly as is more appropriate when describing my torso area) was the color of a boiled lobster. Soon welts formed and I would be forced to know areas of my skin that I had ignored and taken for granted. Not only had my day in the sun given me a lesson in accepting help from others, but I was educated in the necessity of respecting and taking care of your body. My body is something that I have spent the year abusing, ignoring and pushing without much sympathy or care, but as I winced attempting to apply aloe, biting my lip to refocus the pain I realized that even if I do not love my body as a temple or adorn, primp, and dote on it as others do I must respect it as an instrument. My body's been neglected, beaten, burned, and battered. My skin's been cut, covered, ignored, and dirtied without care. Though I usually reject my body as anything more than a vehicle that I must keep functioning, fed, and warm I shouldn't ignore it. To find the light in this scorched place it became an opportunity to take care of myself and see that the new self on the inside will be accompanied by a new skin on the outside.... after a very painful week and several bottles of lotion and packages of ibuprofen. But really the main lesson I am taking away from this is not just about learning how to take or respecting my body, but about how god was punishing me for wearing a bikini. Never going to happen again. I promise.

My Andalusia adventure itinerary: Malaga, Granada, Cordoba, Sevilla, and Madrid

I have so much to say, drunk on words, music, anecdotes and sangria. But it may take a bit to get to: Poco a poco, shwaya shwaya, little by little. Until I can tell you of all the wonderful foods, castles, gardens, and minarets turned bell towers here is a poem written in one of the most beautiful gardens I have ever been in. Granada's Al-Hambra is a glimpse of what paradise could look like.

Rose petals embrace sunlight, glow pinks, sparks of light despite shade

Cyprus tree towers sway in soft, cool, breezes

Jagged teeth to the wide-mouth sky of endless blue

Sunlight painted on ivy drips from stone

Vines like veins stretch from soil to soul

Water in your eyes is thawed mountaintop snow

Silence non-existent as the water trickle stream sings

Leafs a choir of soft shush and sway

Twang church bell echoes, background melody

Honeysuckles overspill falling onto our heads

Smells sweet, strong nostalgia

Fingertips brush boxed hedge bushes

A key to memory- grandmother's eyes, perfume, wrinkles

Magnolia thick trunks with milk white blossoms

I write her name upon a golden magnolia leaf

Let it drift onto an earthly heaven

Trees much older than her yet it seems as if

They were planted just for this moment

A reminder the universe conspired long ago, happy harmony

Planted seeds of purest love, simply for my second of sight

Hundreds of years from its conception a connection

Stretches finger tips to soils deep, earth, mud, and kinship blood

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Spain pics:

1. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038108&id=35501566&l=c9ad47d4a

2. http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2038158&id=35501566&l=292bbd1206

Henna's like Mulberry Stains

2010-05-30T13:29:00.001-07:00

(I decided I like henna because it reminds me of having mulberry stains when I was young)

Sip sweet tea, drip from the pot, slop onto the paper placemats

Black ink runs gray on my doodle drawl childish hieroglyphics

Bent toothpick stars, faded playing cards, black pepper magic

Rafa token toking Rif mountain kif pinched in a thin, wooden pipe

Tagine steam, cigarette smoke, Hindi movies on mute and fairy lights flash

Moroccan music jumbles call to prayer and call to mother Africa

Stones and scraps, blue and white checker board, night sinks in

Lean close, whose turn?, diagonal jump over hot harira

Olive pits in piles, bread crumb shadows dance by candlelight

Wit, wicks, and wax melt, develop diminutive in approach to dawn

I query simply asking for help suddenly peeling potatoes

Elbow deep washing dishes, boil tea water, serve and smile

Brika (lighter) flick flick-a spark the stove and head spin hot box

Back room kitchen bender, a week of restaurateur, realized dream

Communal wood fire oven hang out, sweets and marriage proposals doled

Crackle twigs, plastic crate throne, awaiting baking concoctions like a local

Hike through fields of fingery leaves, wild mint, ripening vegetable livelihood

Tea, almonds, peach jam and sunshine, swallows sing, greedily I embrace breezes

Seek peaks, stumble descents, scramble up trees, spin, swirl and tangled on swings

Market day with chef and crew, greasy fish and chips sandwiches on low plastic stools

Stories, lies, and truths mix, fade, and swell unsure of beginnings, lost to endings

Chefchaouen magic, expeditions flickering flame on my memory

(The Big Rock Candy Mountain)

Breath caught in chest, airport reunion, lost croissants, a day on the train

Past and present skins stretch, selves collide; oil and water or something soluble?

Conference of art, youth, international, poetic, site-specific, bourgeois pioneers

Return to the Big Rock Candy Mountain, a week from Market Day, what luck

Indian inspiration, a trio of bohemian boys, Spaniard, plus the Professor

Rooftop guitar, drums, hands clap, homemade hot air balloon drifts into the stars

Short term wonder at instant companions for food, music, magic, adventure

Prepared my perfect breakfast, watermelon drip, bread, oil, honey, fresh fruit fancy

Honey comb thick crystals in a Nescafe jar, dark verde oil coka cola bottle warmed in morning’s sun

Perilous journey along the Monkey Man’s path lost, but Professor’s a blazed trailblazer

(Last Night in Rabat)

Yeum al-couscou sayyid (happy day of couscous) a return to Rabat for last goodbye and full belly

Cake, tea, and henna swirls the room, my hands laced in design though crumble off orange for hours

Rabbati sunset, harira search discovers back alley cafeteria, embrace the triumph of the unplanned

Concrete circus swirls with smoke, grilled meat, garbage and sweet.

Bubbles float past, rainbow colors dance, pop

Train ride confusion, Bert and Ernie cookie, woman for nookie, uncomfortable touching

Woman shouts Spanish names, her true profession unveiled, chunky fake jewelry, ticket in cash

Shirt sprayed and soaked by prostitutish perfume, propositioned? Unsure, so sorry, so stumped!

Midnight in Fez, reservation gone, business ethics and propriety sold for instant cash

Family riad alternative, bed like bricks, breathe it in as line for later anecdote

Hot sun, hard goodbyes, eyes seek out ferry escape, Spain awaits

Moroccan magic mystifies my enchanted heart, inspired by reality and possibility

Understand the self can’t be undone, experience without ending only evolution

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- pictures http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2037607&id=35501566&l=9000264024

PPS-

For a belated/early mother's day/father's day gift I decided I would fill my bag with colored pencils, paper, candy, and pens and dole them out to the children of The Big Rock Candy Mountain. I only have this one picture of some of the kids who live on the mountain with their goods, but I made sure to attempt to explain that this was a gift to them from my parents. Al yeum al mama waa baba. They were too distracted by the paper to care. Happy Mother and Father's Day : )

Lies, Veils, and Country Songs

2010-05-19T09:17:00.000-07:00

Lies

I’m tired of telling you that your bread is the best I’ve tasted, that your coffee is sweeter and your people most generous. I’ve exhausted myself with the same phrases of praise when what I want to say is simply shukran. Each of your cities is a paradise; each of your cities has garbage and stray cats. I love them all just equally- none more than the others. Like asking which freckle on my forearm I prefer- each a part of me, ingrained into my skin, a mark of who I am; by birth and by sun. Each city’s spirit and smog a tattoo, enduring henna stains. But I’m just a soundless breath in your city’s air, a filled chair at your table, a phantom figure, sometimes fad, that fades in a month. Despite my abstraction, I love your cities and I’ll taste of home, but until my year is ended my legs end at the ankles, floating just above the street. Though my feet find firm ground on my chest and my permanent address just above my stomach I do feel a need for place more granite and concrete. Spray paint my nicknames on bricks down alleys and own a phone attached to the wall. But I know that even when the same pigeon returns to my windowsill for bread crumbs I may not feel fully home and at ease for every city I’ve seen holds a piece of me though they may not want or care. So as I wake in Marrakesh or Muscat, Cape Town or Cairo, Damascus or DC, I will be in love, but a love not zero sum. It is not a thing contained in the heart but seeds scattered in every spot I’ve daydreamed in that grow without my care or tending to reach beyond the bounds of my hearts comprehension.

Veils

(feel free to add your own, there are lots of opportunities for things that rhyme with veil, which to me is very exciting)

Painted red lips, black outlined eyes

Powder caked thick, suffocating skin

Perm-fried, dyed, electrified

Contact lenses, iris barricade

Glossy shine, French manicured nail

How we all do have our veil

Hair gel-drenched helmet

Leather jacket despite sunshine

Dark sunglasses reflect and mirror

Cologne catastrophe, fence offensive

Woman conquest, your holy grail

How we all do have our veil

Tie tightened, centered smartly

Trim, fitted, pinstripe, and blazer

Oak desk barricade, boss embossed

Being, business card convenience

Certificate banner, corner office jail

How we all do have our veil

Swim in neutrality, abandon color

Embrace routine, regular, redundant

Shun spotlights for shadows

Plastic smile, upbeat masquerade

Sweeten self, personality bake sale

How we all do have our veil

Books, brain, brag; keyboard clack

Wit niche, smartass kitsch

Straight A, armed with blunt charm

Shun sympathy, seek solitude

Sincerity spent, self gone stale

How we all do have our veil

Dish dash, swish swash, skull cap devotion

Beard trimmed, book and beads bludgeon

Memorized words, forgotten meanings

Closed mind, closed heart, open mouth

Judgment day is every day, warn and wail

How we all do have our veil

Flower child, hemp, henna, hash, incense smoke

Organic, fair-trade, farm-fresh, all-natural

Meditate, yoga, part-time Buddhist

Your pedestal, legs of desire, artificial

Money can’t buy enlightenment as tofu and kale

How we all do have our veil

Sunday pancake breakfast, maple syrup faith

Bibles stacked bricks blockade, fort of verse

Belief in Lord’s compassion, ends with the other

Darky, different, demons, disclaim true diversity

Forget forgiveness from hand pierced nail

How we all do have our veil

Bar-long friendship, shot, laugh, chaser

Illusion conversation, talk at, talk at, not with

Speak plastic sincerity, delve deep to dispel desires

Hone sellable humility, dim illumination

Revelations intoxication, cheap as ale

How we all do have our veil

Soft-spoken, supple spine, sinuous sinner

Excuses, apologies, ask pity, crave sympathy

Snub inner strength for victimhood’s fame

Energy, emotion, empathy succubus

Never seek the win, always crave to fail

How we all do have our veil

Got No Guitar or Rhythm:

I found that I have begun introducing myself as Kalthoum... or whatever name I happen to be called at the time. Sometimes when I meet new people and they ask me my name, I stumble confused. I think to myself, "Shouldn't you be giving me my name?" So in an attempt to reassert my identity before I return home here is a little country-ish diddy I wrote. At some point we'll see if I'm brave enough to actually sing it. I sang it to Ryane and his response was to try and yank the skin off my arm and scream... this doesn't bode well. This is very silly and needs some work, okay a lot of work.

(Looking for some help with this, who can write a good country song/play a stringed instrument?... anyone?)

Grew up in Virginia ran through my fields with bare feet

Lost my favorites cats on that damn old busy street

I’ll introduce myself to you if chance says we should meet

Not layla or Kalthoum, I’m Kelsey Austin Threatte

Can’t count the times I befriended a stray cat

Have so many families from Rabat to Muscat

My name’s a little tricky, should get it printed on a hat

New mommas rename me when we begin to chat

For many reasons my name changes, not seen as legit,

But before I forget what’s written on my birth certificate

Let me sing it loud and proud:

My name is Kelsey

Got lost on back streets in Africa and the Middle East

Captetown, Cairo, Casablanca, liked Dubai the least

Could live in Oregon just for a mountain cherry feast

Love sunsets, got no regrets

My name is Kelsey

Don’t like fancy jewelry, diamonds or a big ol’ ruby gem

Never drink much, don’t do drugs, but love Tylenol PM

Loved to play in the creek all day chewin on a wheat stem

Dream of flyin though I’m scared of tryin

My name is Kelsey

I love my family something fierce, more than I can say

Cherish the long long long conversations with my brother J

I’ve gone to Church, Mosque and Synagogue, prayed in every way

I’d choose mountains over the beach on any given day

My mom and dad gave it to me

Pretty good name I do agree

My name is Kelsey

Maybe an ordinary girl unworthy of this rhyme

But here’s my opportunity to sing it one more time

My hand’s extended to you, so happy we should meet

My name’s not Cici or Maburka, it’s Kelsey Austin Threatte

Not Kelsita, Kittie, or Kate. Not Aisha, Fairuz or Khadija

I’m the only me I know how to be, My name is Kelsey

An open letter to Chester:

The man whose hand grabbed me, the boy whose demand confused me, the “gentleman” whose assumption sickened me: it is not they who have won if I should crumble. They are fed nothing by the breaking of my spirit. The only one to gain is the gray haze of unconscious ignorance. It is indifferent to emotion, intellect, and humanity. It is a numbness of the place just behind the eyes. Like the spirit still sleeps and the angels have fled. The unconsciousness is mud that sucks you down forcing you to abandon your shoes if you wish to escape. I will not, cannot, shall not abandon the beauty of the wind rippling long golden grace like ocean waves or the white stork perched on the Donkey’s shoulder as he sleeps.

If the redness of the strawberries sold in the bus stop parking lot no longer connect me to the world or inspires in me childhood nostalgia of Virginia fields, I lose.

If I forget sympathy, empathy, compassion sucked deep inside the self or attached to the shell, I lose.

If I let these incidents weigh down my rucksack, fill the space between my toothbrush and torn jeans, I lose.

If I allow these emotions to spin on the reel, chained to a reliving of events, replayed like an old movie, I lose.

If anger and passion do not step to transcend to their deeper, pure form because my grip on them is too fierce for forgiveness, I lose.

I welcome tears, anger and curses. I embrace violation, pain, and regret. It is better to live them then swallow them. Better to experience than to carry. So come with your unconsciousness. Test my patience, naivety, trust and strength. Though I will fail to say the right thing, take the right action, display the right courage I fail only in mastering the situation, I do not fail myself. If my skin is thicker, but my heart softer, I win.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Spent a week with two amazing girls and a lovely adventure, then a week living out a dream of working in a restaurant at a place that I lovingly refer to as the Big Rock Candy Mountain. Now volunteering in Tangier, getting hustled, hassled, harassed, and learning more lessons than I would probably like to. Full explanations to come... insha'allah.

Queen Anne's Lace

2010-05-12T01:53:00.000-07:00

Silent trees stretch upward, tickle the sun

Gravel flies by, kick up dust as we run

Her smile and shout begins the footrace

Memories in a field of Queen Anne's lace

Bought my ticket home.

Shukran,

Kelsey

Alarm Clocks

2010-05-11T14:40:00.000-07:00

I do not know what I believe. I believe that beliefs are too definite and prefer good ideas and to float above fences. But one truth I hold, closer to me than my veins, as strong as the thumping in my chest: people are necessarily good. In any given situation and provided the correct circumstances all people will act with good intention. (Don’t roll your eyes, this is my blog and I can say what I want) Of course good intention and justice may not necessarily align and any other number of factors may be included to fumble good intention and keep us from the creation of a world or society anywhere near utopian. I don’t want utopia and I believe utopia should not be part of our collective aspiration. But what I believe deters us from acting in the name of right is our own unconsciousness.

A fully conscious person is aware of themselves, their surroundings, others, and the impact of their actions on the bigger picture, the world as a whole. A fully conscious person only fails to do what is right because of the factors of incomplete knowledge- though we must assume that complete knowledge is impossible and some degree of ignorance inevitable. Yet, it seems the downfall of consciousness is that it is easiest from a sitting position. To distance yourself from actions, interactions, and the buzzing of everyday life enables an easier grasp of consciousness. When we observe we safeguard ourselves from slipping into motions and being lulled to sleep by the unconsciousness of others. Consciousness requires immense energy, awareness, and effort, which are easiest to accomplish when distanced from the bustling world. But this arm chair surveillance is neither optimal nor preferable due to the beauty and chaos of life. We were meant to live and to avoid life in order to retain control of our own consciousness is undoubtedly a mistake. We must work towards a way that life, consciousness, and the good are pursued.

Though the following blog is rambling, nothing fits, rather confusing usually, and born from scribbled notes I’ve written in the back of books, on my hand, and on scraps of paper, it is different moments when I searched for an explanation to the shortcomings of humankind, including in myself. But based on my belief, I hope to have my wits about me enough to ensure that I didn’t mix up the am and pm switch again so that if I should slip back to sleep my alarm clock will sound, ring out: awake consciousness.

My big goal

I have a very hazy conception of where I’m going. As I wandered through the backstreets of Fez, aside ancient medina walls, weaved through crowded souks, and wandered through overgrown fields; I created a new motto for much of my life, wanderings, and ramblings “You can’t be lost if you don’t know where you’re going.” After wandering in the hot sun for hours with no conception of where I am, discovering train tracks and fields of wildflowers, dead ends, makeshift soccer pitches, and crowded school yards I would repeat my motto. “I can’t be lost,” suddenly I’m staring at a derelict factory and a singular man with an empty cart at an abandoned intersection, “if I don’t know where I’m going.”

It’s not necessarily a positive motto to have. Having an end goal, a big dream, a destination whatever it may be whether reachable or not, gives us both direction and drive. Usually this big dream is a job, but ever since I was young I never had a “dream job” nothing ever inspired me to push myself, be smarter, faster, or work towards a special skill. It’s very useful to have a talent when finding inspiration for your big life goal, but I lack special aptitude for anything in particular. Anything I have gained is because it’s unexpectedly fallen into my hands or I’ve worked tirelessly for it. So seeking my end goal in this way eludes me.

As I read more about how to be an effective teacher I discover the importance of making big, but measurable goals. Data that proves progress instead of grand ideals with no way to know how or if we have reached them. I have been curious as to how to connect all that I’ve done this year to what I will do next. Are they cop outs from the real world? From conventionality? Getting a job and setting myself on a foreseeable path to the future. I don’t know. I don’t care. But because I would rather not be lost too long in the sun I will set about to determine my personal big goal.

As I have grown I only knew one thing since I was small, I want to help people. This craving can be satisfied in numerous ways and therefore makes being directed down a specific path that much more difficult. I remember the instant I decided to pursue studying politics/International relations/philosophy, I heard that by studying this I could work for a non-profit. At the time I barely knew what a non-profit was, but just the sound “non-profit” and its grand implications intrigued me to the point that I spent 3.5 years and enough money to drive a mustang off a cliff in pursuing it. Now having spent a year traveling, studying, living and exploring I still have little conception of my “dream job” or “big life goal.” But as I prepare for Teach for America’s summer institute and for two years as a teacher in Philadelphia (if all goes as planned) my nerves and excitement are rattling my bones and I’m very satisfied with the potential prospects of what’s to come.

Truth be told, I never desired to be a teacher, never imagined myself along that path. What I do want is indistinct and insubstantial: I want to make a difference, to do good. Education and awakening the mind is the first step to freedom, self-respect, and demanding ones rights. I would be honored to aid young students, especially those overlooked, undervalued, underserved, and unrepresented, that they have control of their lives, their minds, their paths. So that’s where I’ll begin. I don’t know if my lack of skill, different background, and own unconsciousness will fate this grand goal to whither and fade, but I will not set aside my waxen wings before I’ve had the chance to test them. For failure is not failure with right intention and a desire to learn. Once you believe you’ve won, you’ve accomplished your goal- in this are the seeds of failure.

However, I don’t know where I want to go from here, but at least I know where I don’t want to be: locked behind a computer or desk. My internship with a refugee organization proved that I could be happy behind a computer if it meant pursuing a cause I felt worthy, but the idea of it still gives me the willies. Do you know that feeling where you are driving to work/school, a familiar route and you arrive at your destination with little memory or conception of how you got there? Forty-five minutes of your life spaced out, erased. Not necessarily an important event and its absence from our minds is insignificant. But what happens when your whole week is like that?-When Monday skips to Friday and the days run together, indistinct like oatmeal; bland mush (no offense to oatmeal). That’s what I don’t want.

I desire most to feel the weight of whatever I earn. What good does your high salary do for you when you spend most of your week feeling voiceless, trapped. If you work because you do it for your family, need the income then your work is not your life and your greater goal can ease the burden of each day. But if it’s for supposed added comfort to give your family what you think they deserve; bigger house, big TV, big refrigerator… then maybe you should reexamine your priorities. Suburbia will not make you and your family complete. Know that you will never be satisfied. You’ll never have the life you dreamed of, in the house you dreamed of with the family and dog you dreamed of. Now you can hold these images in your heart, but once you let go of their actualization you can start living. Really living. The radio’s buzzing the day’s weather, the light’s a subdued yellow, air conditioner whirs, now take this time to wake up. As long as whatever job I am in I am conscious and can recall the weight of my days- that is my big goal.

My journeys present and soon to come are blood in the same vein. They are a desire to seek, inspire, and awake (both in myself and others) consciousness. Aiding in any way I can (though I may lack the skill) through the advancement of education, an increased awareness of self-worth, and individuality in young students, especially those overlooked, undervalued, underserved, and unrepresented. What seems most vital to me is to make my students aware that they have control of their lives, their minds, their paths.

I realized I could take control of my education in the 7^th grade and though my consciousness and control has waxed and waned over the years, that first step of conscious control has undoubtedly changed my life. If I can help other in any way to realize their own worth and ability to direct their lives, especially at this young, critical age, then I will not regret. But for this to be more than just another lovely ideal I must establish some substantial measureable big goals (that will of course be altered as I learn more about logistics, realities, and gain experience). But for now my big goal is that I hope to remember and help to inspire in others to set their alarm clocks, ring out: awake consciousness.

Academics

Immortal Technique spits dark diatribe in my ears, Saadawi rebels on the page, and I turn over in my mind a new perspective on those who study the “third world” and become experts on an area, a civilization, which they very well had little previous contact with. A society, a culture, an entire people or segment of a community is reduced to an intellectual endeavor. People are not people, they’re pages. The same is true of our past. History and present don’t quite fit together, separated by ink, paper, and time. There is no overlap, no truth. I do not mean that these studies are not worthwhile, not important components of expanding and advancing our knowledge as humans. But it is when we fail to see the reality in its many meaningful intricacies and connections, we make our biggest mistake. By accepting this failure as normal, ordinary and by overlooking it in the academic world and in our day to day we are ensuring not our advancement as a people, but our disconnection with others and the world around us. It is true in academics and the everyday.

There is something about seeing the news on television or reading about an event in a book that separates that event from our reality. When a business bankrupts, a bomb explodes, or a president is elected; we watch and become informed, but it ends there. We may cry at disaster, rejoice at victory, but more likely than not those feelings will not inspire us to any action. That deep, internal string that ties us to one another is tugged, but the string is not attached to our mind or to our muscles. The string does not inspire movement, only emotion. Perhaps if we were more connected to our emotions with our minds and if our limbs could move more quickly at the mind’s urging we would be able to link the news, a scholarly report, a documentary, a photograph, our reality with our world,. A world that excludes most people and things. Perhaps the populous would demand the same awareness of their leaders and those in power would not be so quick to conflict and corruption. Academics would not declare “clash of civilizations” or judge another people, criticizing it as a parent does a misbehaving child. Scholars, leaders, those with white collars, blue collars, and no collars- Let every beautiful bird and bomb blast ring out: awake consciousness.

Talking

The conversations repeat, motions of sound, each brick in the same wall and the words flow like water after mountain snow has thawed. Is it small steps in circles to close in on a reality or just energy and breath lost in the space between mouth and ears? Our discussion’s meaning is muddled so I search for significance in the eyes of the conversers. Before we drone and drown in empty thoughts and the weightless words of sleepwalkers let our alarm clocks, ring out: awake consciousness.

College

We speak of education as gold and status above others, but I envy old mother sheep herder sitting on the hillside. We are filled by expectations, taught to us since childhood. Desires become as natural as breathing and encompass us as a second skin. What we need is so simple, but we crave the complex. Diluted, tainted, confused, distanced from its plain, pure, source. Four years in college will do you little good if you spend it asleep. Students of life at every age, set your alarms, ring out: awake consciousness.

Ego

What if we could teach the conscious to fight ego? Would the outer crumble when the false bones gilded in superiority are deconstructed through a true understanding and connection with reality? Ego’s an alcohol, a drug, it deludes and deceives. Ego is what we eat when we seek sustenance and find sweets easy and tempting. Ego’s a fence that distances us from our neighbors and inhibits conversation and connections. Ego’s a steamy mirror, we can only see ourselves, and even that self we observe is obscured. Remember your true bones, the internal cells, a strong structure beyond fleeting forms. You are more than the you that you perceive yourself to be. Once we realize this, we will have little fear to face ourselves and others without ego’s mask. Our weapon is simple, an alarm clock to ring out; awake consciousness.

Race

There is a lack of writing about what it means to be White, in particular (because it’s the only white I know) what it means to be white in America. Now you may say wait, we are constantly surrounded by what it means to be white. White history, White culture, White society, and White traditions. Turn on the TV, open a textbook, look at the advertisements on a billboard. It’s everywhere. I personally automatically correlate any of this type of discussion with groups like the KKK and wish to distance myself from being associated with my race or a discussion of it in comparison to other races. But perhaps it’s about time to set aside a fear that I will be associated with racist extremists because discussion is more productive and important than silence and a misinformed connection. White life is something that is ingrained into the everyday of white people so that we do not question it; it is status quo, neutral. To us it is considered the norm to such an extent that we (I am speaking as a very white person… very white to me means I am not going to pretend that I’m an eighth Native American or something) rarely take an academic or critical look at the communities of white America. Those of us who are white do not look to our whiteness as a source of identity.

Being white and the associated way of life and conventions are the X-axis, the base, a blank slate upon which all other achievements, knowledge, sources of distinction are based. I’m a woman, college graduate, Fellow, and soon to be teacher. I would never consider including “white” anywhere in there. Yet, for other races this would likely be a crucial factor in their identity. I do not mean that we should have a White-American major in schools or devote it any undue pride, start a movement, or anything even slightly related to that… in fact far very very far from it. I mean to begin this discussion in terms of its importance to understanding ourselves as individuals, our broader community with its rich diversity, and to better recognize the racism and stereotypes ingrained in part of our society, tradition, and every day. Racism that may not be malicious or conscious, but is undoubtedly a detrimental force in America.

White people need to see white as a part of their identity, a source of who they are, and how it plays a significant role in their life as a member of a majority. I do not intend to inspire guilt, but only a greater consciousness for something that I believe we overlook. Our failure to understand what it means to be white, that we have our own traditions, culture, version of history, and lifestyle (though it changes based on region, wealth, and various other factors) is highly unfavorable. After diversity readings for Teach for America, reading Saadawi (an Egyptian feminist), and gaining a taste of what it means to be a minority I bring this idea forward now though it may seem out of place.

There are two main reasons why I believe this discussion should not be ignored, laughed off, or uncomfortably set aside as taboo; most importantly, it brings to light much of the racism below the surface that we accept, perpetuate, and enable through our own obliviousness to its existence or the extent to which it has and can harm our diverse American society. Secondly, the extent to which young white people (from my perspective because it’s all I know) question their identity, who they are, and where they fit in the world may be lessened or aided if we saw ourselves in context. We are not the blank slate, our whiteness is not “normal” or “ordinary” and any deviation from whiteness something curious. But it seems the white privilege follows me even to distant lands where being white is a minority. As I walked to the small shop to purchase some lotion with Hajja I was taken aback and slightly embarrassed to see dozens of white faces staring at me from their high shelves, smiling to sell hair die, perfume, and crèmes. In a society dominated by beautiful women with Mediterranean olive-colored skin, bronze Berbers, and black Africans I am ashamed and saddened to see only (without exception) pale faces and skin lighteners surrounding me. But this maybe another thing altogether.

Sometimes I like to think about how white people think about other cultures, people, and civilizations. There is a distinct disconnection and condescension with others, as if by researching them, watching documentaries about them, reading about them in National Geographic makes them not quite human, not quite real. When you fail to recognize the humanity in others and seek out only the brightly colored clothes, spicy foods, unusual housing, and festivals then you are failing as a member of the human race.

I am speaking about race, but this is true of so many important factors in our individual lives; gender, sexual orientation, religion, and affluence just to name a few. But becoming more aware of who we are, how we relate to one another, and what factors that we consider the status quo are truly just an unearned advantage to certain groups. (One person who has been very successful in discussing this idea is Peggy McIntosh’s “White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack” if you wish to read more about the idea). Don’t feel guilty, that doesn’t do anyone any good. Be more informed, aware, understanding, compassionate. In sum, let our alarm clocks ring out; awake consciousness.

Barbie Dolls

Perfumed, plastic people, artificial eyes, mother can’t recognize

Curly black now blonde blown dry, beach-baked skin, brown eyes blue

Oh Barbie of the Bahr, sweet Tunisian teen, Abu Dhabi darling

Drowning in a magazine, mascara masked maiden, gloss and rouge

Care more for the color on your lips than the words on your tongue

Character an act, paper doll disposition

Feeble your frame, hopes of fame, foil of freedom

Self sold, reputation bought, price tag for your personality

Defend decisions, mouth mimes: “my choice”

Sounds static, voice dusty from disuse

Talk talk talk; dandelion petals, disappear with a draft

Defend decisions, mouth mimes: “my life”

Life’s synonym isn’t sparkle; souls sit deeper in being

Individuality’s an organ nestled behind the sternum

Skin can reflect, not embody

Clothes are allusion, not the story

Jeweled hijaab; veil not flesh, but self

Heirloom headscarf abandoned under the bed

Reject Paradise for plastic Prada pride, Gucci glory

Mother’s milk made you, now search for name brand bones

Oh baby girl, what happened to your mother’s child?

Come and go in such hurry, stranger to home

Left your original self on the shelf,

But while you’re at the mall, she will walk in,

whisper words of love like food to the abandoned child,

when you tire of your days drinking sugar substitute, true identity waits

I’ll call you fake, artificial, affected, but my skin’s syran wrap

how we all do struggle the same

Under differing traditions and other names

Wash away what we wish, accept who we are

Take back our dreams denied, burn the desires whispered in our ear

Plaster will crumble and plastic will melt

For the sake of our mothers, for the sake of ourselves

Patriarchy, hierarchy, against the isms, internal schisms

Tradition, modernity, popular, punk…

Boast so much beauty beyond body and form

Storm woman, stamp sisters, scream to remember your sound

Not effigy or trophy, no pedestal or prince, fight fad, find freedom

Drink full from the cup of self, and awake consciousness

Love

If in your love you find lust, set expectations, anticipate outcomes- truly it is not love.
If you’re disappointed by love, proud, or jealous- truly it is not love.

If your love demands apology, asks forgiveness, seeks justification- truly it is not love.

If you would give up yourself for love, demean your being, lie down as a rug- truly it is not love.

If you sing, write, dance in devotion to love, consumed by love, addicted to love- truly it is not love.

If love asks of you, takes from you, gives you more than a glimpse of one unending energy of human existence- truly it is not love.

Love is not enough. It is not the question or the answer. It is not a purpose or excuse.

Love is an action, a movement, to wait a façade, beyond the internal or physical. Potential versus kinetic energy.

Love never forgets itself though it may be misunderstood, misread and misnamed.

Love is the candle and the flame that needs us to strike the match against life’s blowing winds.

Love requires knowledge of self, a stronger person. Shallow knowing means shallow love.

Love is without conflict, it is we who create this in our yearning for problems, resolution, and fleeting fulfillment and satisfaction. We long for the crash, but love is devoid of desires.

Love is not synonymous with relationship. Relationship requires you to hold both hope and reality in your palm, which necessitates daily effort both physically and mentally.

Love is something so easy and so difficult for minds wired against the enjoyment of the simple and ever present. Those people, things, and places taken for granted are the most precious, yet undervalued, overlooked.

Love is a force so strong that to know it is to respect yourself for feeling it.

Love makes no claim or command, promises nothing, and can give you nothing.

Love is without preference and is beyond equality. It is in all places, people, and things at all times, but to feel it, glimpse it, breathe it, you must tear down your inner walls, break internal chains that restrict us from experiencing love’s ecstasy. You contain this love within you. What a tremendous privilege. What awesome power. What unspeakable responsibility. You who have knowledge of love must value yourself for being the urn of such an invaluable force in our world, minds, and souls. To give yourself up for the sake of your love, it is not for love, but fear, for the sake of ease, or a particular yearning. When we mar ourselves through a lessening of ambition, dampening of dreams, demeaning of self because we believe love asks it of us, it is not true love that demands this of us.

If love gives nothing, accepts nothing, resides in all things at all times, yet remains unattached to the physical, but seems unaccustomed to the mental: what is love?

When we think of love it is between two people, but this is not my opinion of love’s true definition. When you love another it is because they may act as the key that opens the door between heart and mind, individual and mankind, humanity and nature. He or she is the insight into a realm of communion and pure contentment. But that person or thing that inspires you to know love is a vessel only, not the source of love. Therefore to concentrate our efforts on these varying vessels instead of recognizing the beauty (that is love manifest) in all things, we misunderstand love’s truth. Love is beyond worship of the divine. Love is not an emotion. Love is our soul’s brief embrace to the universal consciousness. Let true love sing out: awake consciousness.

Shukran,
Kelsey

Freedom, Family, and Flour

2010-05-02T07:57:00.000-07:00

Sufi Festival French language domination

Curious academic takeover, ayna al-Arab?

Internally criticize Western control on Arab soil

Incomprehension impossible in mystic music

Cross-legged on thick carpet, shoeless under stars

God’s praise, hours pass in chants

Drums, pound, beat, beat, pound.

Sweet sunshine in rooftop escape

Books, bread, strawberry jam, and sanity

Converse with short term friends lacking names

Speak freely; a lifetime in an hour’s passing

Couple from Holland and German teacher

Birthday in sight, festival satisfied

Pilgrimage to Moulay Idriss, great grandson of the Prophet

Befriend bus boy for the day, or more oh no

Enough of the city, seek mountains and solitude

Early morning getaway on rickety bus

Five hours in rolling hills and peaks, perfect present

Chefchaouen’s Florence feel, a touristy serene

Berber, Arab, Spanish, and Reggae

Wake up to thunder, thumping raindrops, childlike joy

Soft blankets so sweet, smile good fortune

Wander early morning, sweet bread breakfast

Slowly savored on rooftop in rain, unprotected

Read in common room with Professor Pot

Lessons, anecdotes, and lectures prolific

What love and commitment to Miss Mary Jane

Lunch in small side store, sincere cook and splendid soup

Return everyday for conversation and soul food, Mecca on the TV screen

Purchase sweets and procure friends, sugar-made relationships

Converse, share, and sip tea as the rain restricts us

Nightlong black out, opportunity to explore

Cobble streets by candlelight, business as usual

Harry Potter references abound, laughter and penny candy

Mint tea and hours with artist in corner shop

Spanish hippie and I search for the Peanut Man

Despite drugged daze he declares, “I know the way!”

Down back streets, dark alleys, and the smell is our welcome

Nuts roasted, candied, free samples in handfuls

Adventure, rain, sugar crash, and sleep

Hike in mist and fog, small farms, new friends

Bedraggled, stray pup, no dinar necessary guide

Banana, dried fig and date breakfast with a view

Glimpse at crisp blue Mediterranean

Slippery descent into forward roll

Land bruised and blissful

More soup, more stories, more satisfaction

Visit the Hat Man, corner store cave

Single bare bulb dangles, wild patterned hate in piles

In the dark he smokes and weaves, a sight to see

“What’s your favorite color? Let’s find your magic.” He exclaims

Back to artist to teach weary white girls how to haggle

Surprised to see German teacher from Fez at the hostel door

Small world, so much for single serving friends

Private breakfast turns into an event

A dozen backpackers arrive for tales and honeydew

Hike to mountaintop mosque, sip slowly the sight

Purchase unusual outfit from hyper shopkeeper

“Oh look baggy baggy pants lady, beautiful!”

Meet The Magic Man Mohammad in his quiet restaurant

A lost game of backgammon and salty tagine with Professor Pot

One night turned to four, small town haven

Leave before the hostel is awake, a note and chocolate

Sincere promise to come again, Insha’Allah

Return to Rabat, weary, but reassured

Family excited, saw me on the news?

Observing Sufi Festival opening lecture

Ryane’s first reaction: Plop plop plop

Fish sound I taught him, “Ta Ta! Ta Ta!”

He shouts, smiles, bites and I slip into place

6 am Hajja’s wake up call for morning walk

Cleaning, criticism, comfort, and care

All the love, all the frustration, all the babysitting.

I wander through Margan, the wallmart sized supermart, a reverse culture shock of size and selection. A family outing, quite an event. Ride up and down the escalator with the young girls, no reason with no destination, “1, 2, 3 go!” Fearful of the electronic stairs. Hours spent wandering in every isle. We then arrive amongst birthday candles and party favors. “When’s your birthday?” Umm Oumnia asks. I blush and stare at the floor, “April 21^st?” I respond hesitantly. It takes her a second, but the realization and its complaint comes quickly. “Why didn’t you tell us!” But before I could answer the question changes,

Belated birthday dialogue or the tale of too much flour:

“Why didn’t you bake us a cake?” Bint Hajja (one of Hajja’s daughter… I will use this for all of them)

“Oh, should I? I mean, ok I can do that.”

“Cookies or cake? “ Bint Hajja

“I was thinking cookies…”

“Last time they had too much flour.”

“Hopefully they will be better this time.”

“Why don’t you make a birthday cake? Make something special.”

“I don’t usually make cakes except with the aid of Betty Crocker”

Bint Hajja stares.

“Umm… I mean, I might make a cookie cake.”

The giant supermarket doesn’t have brown sugar. I will never have all necessary ingredients, but I guess that’s a good life lesson in improvisation and being satisfied with less than ideal results.

I bake, happy in an empty kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Hajja

“Baking a cookie cake.”

“Oh… last time they had too much flour, did you add the flour yet?”

Shrug it off and continue, lick the wisk.

“Are you watching the cake? How long has it been in oven?” Bint Hajja

“Yes, I just put it in. I have a watch, don’t worry.”

“Maybe you should sit in the kitchen and wait.”

“Well, that’s not necessary….”

“We are leaving, can you use the oven alone?” Bint Hajja

I swallow, “I’m 23 years old! I can do dishes, sweep, walk to a café, and use an oven- miraculous!”

“Yes, I’ll be careful” I reply

Pull and cut cookie cake perfectly done, meaning it’s not burned, which is all I can ask for.

Family returns.

“You finished? Where is your birthday cake? Let me taste!”

I present the tray.

“Take some!” Hajja

“No thanks I’ve already had a lot.”

“Did you eat some before we got back? You can’t do that! You need candles this is your birthday cake. You can’t eat it before others.”

The cake more like strange cookie brownie is already in my stomach so I don’t know how to respond. I mean, I did just make a cake for them… in “celebration” of my birthday. Let’s be honest, I bake to get first dibs and so I can lick the bowl.

“Hmm… how much flour did you use?” Hajja

“Is this a cake?” Bint Hajja

“What are the ingredients?” Bint Hajja

“Oh! Great, well eggs, milk, sugar, flour…”

“But too much flour” Bint Hajja

“Take a picture! You need a picture of this.” Hajja

I see no reason to take a picture of my baked goods, they have already refuse to take pictures with me.

I offer one Bint Hajja a sweet I purchased which I served with my own.

“No yours is ok, oh well, I’ll just take yours.”

(I type this as they sit in the room)

Bint Hajja takes a bite.

“But flour bizef, sah?” (a lot of flour right?)

“Yeah, I’ve heard… there’s too much flour.”

I thought the chocolate chip cookie cake tasted great for having made up the recipe. Sincerely, not just my usually “I’ll eat anything” attitude. If my dad had been the taste tester as usual, he wouldn’t have complained.

Nearing 1am I head to bed, the family still chatting.

“Wait! It’s tradition in Morocco that after dinner at about this time that whoever’s birthday it is has a BBQ. Why don’t you make a BBQ?” Hajja

“You want me to BBQ?... Now?”

“It’s traidition.” Bint Hajja

Hajja smiles.

“You should make it tomorrow then” Bint Hajja

Hajja agrees.

“I really would, but I’m afraid it will have too much flour.”

No one gets it.

“Good night.” I grin.

It’s rather comical when I have it all written out here, but I swear this dialogue has barely been changed. Just stretch it over an afternoon and throw three of Hajja’s daughters and Hajja into the conversation as they come and go at different times. I did get a glittery, red heart-shaped candle and a hand-written card from Oumnia, Lina, and Rihab… having a family is so wonderful, but nagging seems to go hand in hand with kindness. I love it… usually. But with meetings over, reconnections made with my class, new friends, and lots of bite-marks it’s time for another mini-adventure.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- pics: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2036617&id=35501566&l=d08532cd93

Kul Shay Le Bes

2010-04-19T04:13:00.000-07:00

All Things No Bad

Dancing mama

It was 9pm and Haj had departed for a party that night, looking rather dashing in his worn tan suit. I had figured it would be a quiet night. Hajja had a family member over, an older woman, who forever seemed as if she was doing chores for everyone. She always made sure I had more than my fair share of food, and had a watchful eye focused in the kitchen to ensure the dishes were done and the fruit cocktail ready. The two women leaned back on the couch, feet kicked up and covered in thick blankets. They’ll be asleep by 9:30, I thought.

But only a few minutes after the door had clicked shut, Hajja and her sister commanded me to bring them the remote control. Before I knew quite what was going on, the volume had been raised to a surprising level and the room was filled with music, dancing, clapping, and my laughter. Hajja had with surprising force rolled the dining table out of the way, tied a scarf around her waist, and took the center floor. With the beat of the drums Hajja’s hips, elbows, hands, and shoulders bounced, shook, swayed and dipped with rhythm and skill. She had obviously done this before. No wonder Haj had fallen for her. For the next half hour we clapped, danced, and sang together in the small living room in front of the booming TV. It gave me a glimpse into Hajja as a young woman; an energy, an ability, and a passion that lay just under the surface of the wrinkled, hard working, no nonsense exterior.

Sit! Stay! Good Kelsey.

Another neighborhood, another family, another fit of laughter at my introduction as “kelsey”, and thus another name. Though some would say it beats being called “socks” here in Morocco the word that most resembles my name is gelsee. Gelsee means sit. Upon first meeting me and inviting me to stay with them the family laughed and proclaimed “Kelsey gelsee!” Not wanting to call me the command “sit” you may now say hello to Kalthoum.

Candy run… and hide

Hajja and the daughters immediately stood at my presence in the doorway. Suddenly my face was hot, what had I done? They gathered their belongings and approached me. “Would you babysit for a while, we want to shop.” I looked into the room; Oumnia, Lina, Rihab, and Ryane were sprawled across the couches watching Arabic dubbed cartoons and tickling one another. I smiled. This is the first time I was more than willing to be a babysitter. They were like little cousins, partners in crime, and friends… despite the fact that I was more than a decade senior to the eldest of them. We watched from the window as the mother and daughters piled into the car and drove away.

“Who wants candy?” was the first thing I said to the silent room. They looked at me with smiles and slight suspicion. “Candy? But we’re not allowed.” I was well aware that the children were restricted from having candy, but whenever Oumnia and I wandered the streets we made sure to buy something sweet, which we would consume rapidly behind a corner and out of eye shot of the family. I gave them the “come onnnnn” look like a playground drug dealer. Within seconds they were shouting their orders and

Lina and I were racing down the stairs and into the street to find our favorite snack shop. When we approached winded after having run down the block the shopkeeper (who by this time knew me and knew my title as candy-buyer and corrupter of the youth)- he smiled and spoke his funny mock fos’ha (modern standard Arabic). After excitedly pointing out the assortment of sweets we wanted he handed us the bright pink plastic bag to Lina’s shrill glee (ok my shrill glee too). We clopped back down the street in our flip flops and waited outside the door with Rihab and Oumnia leaning out the window in anticipation. After they tossed down the key we unlocked the door and hurried upstairs to dole out the goodies/contraband.

Soda, chips, chocolate, and a medley of sugary packaged things were displayed on the table. Even Ryane clapped as we fed him his strawberry yogurt drink (he is allowed to have this). But before all of the sweets could be consumed Oumnia screamed out, “They’re back!” And in a rush of panic we had the candy back in the plastic bag, Lina and Rihab at the door distracting the adults, and Oumnia in a back room hiding the booty. For the rest of the night Oumnia, Lina, and Rihab would whisper to one another than one or two would exit the room and come back with a sugary smile.

Before I left for Fez I purchased some more candy and put it in the bag along with a note. I just can’t help myself. I love it when kids get really excited about candy and the fact that I get almost equally excited makes our bond that much stronger. I know this year is about maturing, but when the shop down the street has Kinder chocolate (German amazingness) I can’t help but relish the thought of being the first person to present some adorable children with their first taste of really good candy.

Harrassilarity!

You know those times when you’re stuck behind a donkey carrying six crates of coca cola, there’s a steady stream of people coming in the opposite direction carrying bags of bread and oranges, and the tourists off to the right are standing on the path loudly discussing the menu at one of the many restaurants just near the main door of the old city with plastic chairs and tables sprawled everywhere, and you are unable to follow through on your preplanned trajectory? Then just as you are reestablishing your route a group of shabab (perhaps the equivalent of saying “bros” and for those of you who are unaware of that term it means a bunch of boys who think they’re the shit) come up right behind you. You’re trapped. The “hello baby”s have already begun and you can only pretend not to hear them with your headphones on (but the music turned off) for so long before you’re forced to confront them. Therefore to avoid this situation in the future you decide to:

A. Walk, sit, and always attempt to be near elderly, veiled women. Even positioning yourself close to a group of five large, niqab-wearing women while many empty places remain available in the public square. Young men hold their tongue and no one says a word. When some bold shabab approach to bother you, the women quickly shame them and shoe them away, thus leaving you free to get back to your reading and enjoying the evening air knowing that your unsuspecting guards were ever watchful on your behalf.

B. Run away for the day to a mountaintop overlooking the city where you can enjoy the bustle and beauty from a safe distance. A herd of goats surrounds you for a little bit and they steal your half eaten apple that you were looking forward to, but other than that you remain undisturbed except for a few tourists who would rather not interact with you anyway because you have your shoes off and you’re playing with rolly pollies. The only downside is that the exposed lower part of your legs are now stop sign red from their first long exposure to sunlight. You watch the city in silent awe and are captivated, mesmerized, and in love with the spectacular view.

C. Make an example out of the next person to harass you. A shopkeeper grabs you by the arm as you walk past asking you to come in his shop because “you are so beautiful!” when you explain that you truly have no interest in anything he is selling you he states in an almost comically awkward voice “well you could have some tea too. Just come back for some tea. I’ve been to London, I know what you girls are like. We could have tea then you know… some couscous.” To which you respond with a mixture of loud Arabic shouting SHAMEBEUPONYOU SHUMASHUMASHUMA YOURABADMAN! YOUTHINKTHISANDTALKTOMETHIS WAY? SHAMESHUMASHAME! By this time people in the street have stopped to gawk. You can’t tell if their laughing, but you assume that some are. You storm away in disgust as the shopkeeper backs away wide-eyed.

D. React harshly and abruptly to any male who tries to speak with you. Start asking “Shoe biduk?” (What do you want?) to anyone who approaches you. A group of rowdy little boys cross the street and start speaking to you, you respond with your practiced line, to which they look taken aback and offended. They walk away hurriedly calling you poor and you feel badly about how you handled that situation. Later when a group of similar boys begins to do the same thing you remove your headphones and give them a happy “Salam!” (peace, used as a greeting). They all then shake your hand and walk with you down the train track while you small talk about how there is no school today. You part with friendly smiles.

I answered E. All of the above. It was quite a time in Fez.

I don’t usually like to touch on this subject because of the lasting image that I fear it will instill in others. When reading about another culture, especially one that has already been so deeply tainted by the media, we tend to focus or only remember the unfavorable aspects. But I’ll keep this brief with a few of the funnier stories and ask that you keep perspective. If you think this is just an issue in the countries that I have traveled to then you should remind yourself that no one’s slipped me a roofy in my mint tea. I think the Fraternity of the ignorant, lewd, and base is universal. And though I believe in looking for the similarities in every culture, making connections, building bridges (and all that lovey dovey hippie stuff), this is one of those times where finding a parallel in other cultures just makes me sad.

But I must admit that sometimes when I am approached or greeted with shouts inspired by the fact that I am a very foreign looking lady on her own, I can’t help myself but laugh out loud. Cracking up in the street despite myself. Here are two examples:

I am walking on the empty street that attaches one souk to another in the old city. An unknown voice behind me shouts, in perfect accent, “Hellooooooo nurse!” (For those of you who don’t get this reference it is from a Warner Brothers cartoon that included Yacko, Wacko, and Dot. I got this reference immediately because let’s admit I’m five years old inside and was surprised that someone halfway across the world would know it. Thank god for globalization!)

On the way for a seaside stroll in Rabat a voice off to the right shouts, “Hello! Hi! Hey! How are you? You fine? Good? Good. Thanks. Bye!” I found it incredibly hilarious that I didn’t even need to take part in that conversation. If only it was always so easy.

Rabatti Reflections

Perhaps it’s the pattern- swirled vines, poesies

Old photographs, curled edges, teethy smiles, posing

Particular smell- powder and perfume

Pastels now pallid, sunray worn rooms

Might I hear the echo?

Tuckerman lane laughter

Steeped in Rabatti walls

Like bitter-sweet green tea

Mixed with stale American coffee

Years of brew stain cups, stain teeth, stain memories

I do not see your face in hers

Yet a love reminiscent does brim

Burst, and blush on a child’s cheeks

Energetic youth embrace

Swirl and sentiment; your gift a memory

Crumpled, worn slippers side by side- just so

The gentle glisten in his eyes

Glimmer of giving, stern kindness, charity

Soft spoken spectator, I remember

Now even his wrinkles reflect

Cracked ceramic bursts

Display dusty fake flowers

Appalled by the years

Overlooked in the vase

Necessary, so essential

Creak and stick of a dozen cabinet doors

Rooms of yellowed lace and white lies

The feel a house of daughters paints

White walls never held so much life

Love transcendent, mirrors to adore

Moroccan kids poem

Kul shay le bes?

Le bes le bes

Ti ti with Ta Ta

Shrub shy bi- na na

Mi mi! Mi mi! Ma’!

Ma fish mish mish

Kul kulu Cous cous

Bess bess with ‘bez

Ma ma slurp Ma’

Do do m’a Ba ba

Bi bi boos, boos big

Crash! Thump! Cry

Bulli bulli bulli…

All things no bad? (typical greeting)

No bad, no bad. (I love it when greeting and response are the same)

Sit with Aunty

Drink tea with mint

I’m hungry! I’m hungry! Water!

No more apricots

Eat all the couscous

Leek with bread

Mom slurps water

Nap with dad

Baby; kiss, kiss big

Bulli = sounds we make when Ryane has done something wrong

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Escape to candy mountain, a pilgrimage, and birthday antics and pictures coming soon

Zombies and Zion

2010-04-14T07:24:00.000-07:00

Zombie Baby

I may have been infected.

Though the teeth didn’t break the skin, bite shaped bruises on my legs and forearms leave me less than reassured. It’s just not something that was supposed to happen to me. I had imagined that when the time came that I would be attacked by a zombie or multiple members of Satan’s forces of living dead rejected from hell (for it undoubtedly would have happened eventually) that I would have my wits about me enough to stave off the attack. But I wasn’t prepared; the tiny assailant was so unlike what I had imagined a zombie to look like that I had not prepared myself for the confrontation. Ryane seemed perfectly usual last Tuesday when it happened, when I discovered the truth. While waiting for lunch to be served Haj and I relaxed on the couches that lined the walls of the room, doubling as beds. Ryane wobbled in with his big smile and unsure balance. Everything seemed fine.

“Bring me Malika!” Haj commanded with adorable grandfatherly fake sternness. Malika was a doll that had been passed down through all of Hajja’s daughters then through the girl grandchildren now finding her home in the Hajj household to be enjoyed by all. It is a Spanish made pale baby doll in a real child’s white dress (i.e. creepy). Malika has moveable parts and is supposed to look real, but the thirty plus years are obvious on Malika’s dirtied face and scuffed eyes. Ryane knows exactly who Malika is and happily followed orders after the command had finally been comprehended by the one and some year old. He returned victorious, Malika cradled in his arms.

“Kiss Malika!” Hajj commanded, to which Ryane quickly complied. “Kiss again, a BIG kiss!” Hajj smiled. Ryane began making kissing sounds and brought the doll back and forth from his lips. But soon the boy’s laughter and smiling turned into something more sinister. Ryane began to chew on the baby Malika’s hairless plastic scalp, but as his tiny teeth proved unable to break through the doll’s skull his eyes focused and I could see that his childish smile was replaced by a resolute grimace. He began to chew more and more, but with little success. Haj didn’t seem to notice, but I looked on with fascinated horror. Ryane, our sweet little Ryane, was a zombie baby. What would his mother think? I could hear the plates clank in the kitchen, which meant lunch was just about ready, but I knew that Ryane would not be satisfied by Hajja’s chicken, fool, potato and leek stew… he was hungry for brains.

Malika lay on the floor, abandoned by her would-be consumer, her head was slick and shiny with spit, her bright blue eyes were half rolled back into her head, dress unkempt, and stiff plastic arms reaching upward as if calling for help. But Ryane was nowhere to be seen. A battle cry then a bite to by thigh. Ryane had found a suitable lunch that would not be considered cannibalism against the family, which is an almost justifiable cannibalism. I yelped and waved my hands in the air unsure of whether to rip the child away afraid I might hurt him (like I could damage the undead- ha). When his teeth unclenched I jumped to the couch and he followed with surprising speed despite his struggle to lift himself upward. Soon I was on my back in a fight for my life. The child thrashing in my arms above my head, his jaws wildly clamping at the air. His short, chubby arms reached my face and his tiny fingernails dug into my cheek and chin. A line of slimy drool dripped from his open mouth onto my face. At this point my fear and my laughter were at their peak. I could not call for the help that I so desperately needed because my laughter had become uncontrollable and I found it difficult to breathe less express properly the situation of imminent doom that I had found myself in.

After facing the tiny beast in the struggle for what seemed like ages in epic battle, his mother and Hajja finally entered and asked that I stop playing around. But before I could get the tiny child turned brain greedy brute to the ground he managed to sink his teeth into my arms a few times. Before his mother had taken him home for the evening he managed a few sneak attacks to bite my legs. I breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone, but the bruises remain. I had never faced a zombie before, nonetheless a zombie baby, which I had very recently come to think of as family. Would I change too? Had I become infected and join the army of the flesh eaters? I placated myself reassured by the fact I still felt the same, but for some reason I had a craving for cauliflower.

Soccer and Sha’r

After another long morning of rehashing how America had begun the world financial crisis with its corresponding conspiracy theories, I was tired and fighting a headache at the end of the two hour class. I love to listen and provoke discussion and debate in the morning class, but being the resident American/ whipping boy is slightly wearing. But that day I was unusually excited for class to end because it was our scheduled soccer match. I ran to change into my shorts and met the rest of the class on the front lawn. As I jogged up to the group I was greeted by a loud, long winded “MarHabaaaa!” (Hellloooooo!) I think they were referring to my extremely pale legs. This is the first time my legs have seen sunshine… in a long long time. Despite slight embarrassment, it felt great.

Our motley crew of five Moroccans, one Swede, and I headed towards the field. We juggled the ball around for a bit waiting for a large group of kids to vacate the gravel pitch. I felt bad for shooing the small children from their game, but I’m taller and therefore right. I have wanted to play soccer for nine months, but have been unable to for several reasons most revolving around the fact that I am an out of shape girl. We played for almost two hours five versus five with an ending score of a five-five tie. I scored exactly zero of those goals, but I would like to say I held my own. But for the time we were running around in the springtime sun we were in perfect understanding with one another. The same people that butted heads in class, some who praised Kadafi and Saddam Hussein, extolled the evils of globalization (an American conspiracy), the drinkers versus the straight-edge believers, the patriots and those who wished to escape; everyone was equal on the field. Everyone was passed the ball, everyone showed off, shot, and smiled. Soccer is a powerful thing.

In Morocco even the well educated young men and women in class have difficulty finding a job. These are people who speak at least three languages, know about the economy in the Netherlands, and how many presidents came from Virginia. After having their previous teacher focus on political and economic discussion I was greeted with a class well-versed, capable and willing to use such poly sci terms as state of nature and common law- easily better than some of the discussions I had in my politics classes. The inability of these highly qualified people to find a job worthy of their skills save for call center workers, which leaves many of them with hearing problems, further proves to me why non-governmental organizations who start social gatherings like soccer clubs or even informal games find so much success. These are not lazy people. They are driven, talented, and looking for an outlet for their energy.

After reading a research paper on HAMAS (shukran Domino) it explains how HAMAS has won a lot of favor through the simple civil service of organizing a soccer team. It seems so straightforward, but when you consider that a wide range of people with differing ideas and levels of education will come together with such incredible vivacity- there is a lot of potential energy there. Though I am sure it already is in existence, it seems to me that there should be a non-governmental organization to take over the task to promote positive ideals or simply promote freedom of thought and self-expression without pressure to conform to that organization’s predetermined beliefs through an outlet such as soccer or writing. If this organizations exists and allowed members to exchange ideas and meet in a safe environment without being tainted by aligning with a political ideal or strain of thought that might not otherwise side with them we could allow the building of stronger people. Stronger people means having people who respect themselves, respect their team members, and even respect the opposing team. This is essential to making positive changes in any society. If you don’t value yourself, your beliefs as an individual, and have your own opinions you will defer to others easily, be influenced by those who appear well-informed or have status, and be manipulated- in this case by shame.

As an example one thing I have noticed in class is that for the first two weeks our discussions were very open-minded, free, and debates were had without fear of offense. People were strong willed, but dispassionate. Recently a new student joined and his presence has completely altered our debates. Everyone has become very reserved, conservative, and careful with their words. Every conversation seems to round back to the Jewish people as one of the causes of all the world’s woes* and the perfection of Islam. These are people that we previously spent hours with discussing the drinking and smoking culture of Morocco. Now suddenly everyone’s tongues were tied and I was evil incarnate (not to imply that they were at all mean to me, but suddenly I was put in the decision of defending actions and ideas that I knew little about or didn’t support in the first place). One young man with a strong belief was able to shame the rest of the class into falling into line, his line. If we are able to separate in people’s minds conservatism, conspiracy, and belief to show that having your own opinion that is not religiously conformist does not mean that you are necessarily opposing your religion perhaps we would have a more secure or just world (Do not be mistaken into thinking I am referring only to Islam… this is a malady of all religions without my known exception).

If there was an organization that both supported team sports, freedom of expression, and sharing ideas (what better way to do the latter two than through soccer and poetry?) this would strengthen the individual in important ways that are otherwise open to be influenced by the outside or are left to atrophy. But this is all just lovely ideas; success and implementation are a whole other world.

To return to my soccer match, when it ended we were already planning another pick-up game. I was sweaty, sun-burned, and everything ached: I haven’t felt that good in a while. I miss my muscles, but the couscous that’s replaced them is worth it.

*I cannot express adequately how incredibly sick I am of hearing this same argument. Some people I have met say “the Jewish Lobby” or “Hollywood Jews” with the same expression as if eating an entire pickled lemon. The Jewish conspiracy has been a main topic of conversation (or more accurately, long winded diatribes directed towards me, but with no want or desire to discuss anything related to “facts” or being objective to which I keep my mouth shut in order to continue our previous conversation about falafel or whatever it is we were saying) in every country I have been in. No matter how great and powerful this big, bad, Jewish community may be (though it seems the equivalent of our past’s reliance on a witch hunt, an Arab equivalent of the concept of terrorist to the US) this religious community is not to blame for the failure of development. Progress in Arabic countries is not determined by the will of outside forces alone and the belief that “Jewish people” (sometimes, but usually not separated from Zionists, which I believe to be a critical distinction) are the ones who are retarding potential positive growth is completely ridiculous. There are many outside factors that previous colonies can lob against the world and be very well justified, but blaming Steven Spielberg and anyone who has been to a bar mitzvah is an asinine and unhelpful line of thought. I only ramble here because these are things that I haven’t quite been able to express to my class. Recently after a long-winded extolling of the crimes of the Jewish people and a comment that nearly supported Hitler I could not hold my tongue, but was spared the wave of loud wordless roar in opposition by the librarian coming in to tell us they were locking the room for lunch. I do not ask anyone to accept the ideas, religion, or goals of another, I do not even ask anyone to like any other group; everyone is free to accept, reject, like, and dislike whomever they see fit. But there are times for finding someone to blame and for taking responsibility. It’s time to respect yourself more by abandoning childish pretexts. I cannot pretend to know the truth, but I do know that one religious/ethnic group is not the source of evil. Evil is an idea that we have created to spare ourselves responsibility for being in control of our lives and destinies. Evil is the concept we have created so that we can give our life meaning and find excuse for our failure. Evil is a pejorative word that truly refers to nothing that this world can hold. Plus Jews can’t be the source of evil, if you’ve ever had hala bread you would know that. It’s delicious.

Falling for Victor

With Lina on my lap Oumnia, two sisters, Hajja, and I headed to a nearby souk. While Umm Oumnia ring shopped, Lina and I pretended to adorn one another in the sparkling items in the display cases then play the “run around the pole” game, which is as about as complicated as it sounds. After expending most of our imaginative energies as possible while standing outside a jewelry shop we headed towards a cart with a large steaming pot, herbs, oil, and delicious smells hugging the air around it. From the silver cauldron we were poured several small bowls or swirled shells. I had not quite figured out what they were until I stepped closer to our bowl and watched one of the daughters pluck one of the small creatures from its former home now coffin. Snails. Immediately I was transported back to elementary school when I was proud president (and only member) of the bug club. Doll furniture became the plaything of snails and rolley pollies of all sizes. Now I was face to face with my childhood friends only this time they were drenched in oil, butter, and spices and one was staring at me in the face while Hajja’s daughter waited for me to unclench my jaw. Well, here goes. After popping one, two, a few… of the slimy little buggers into my mouth we finished with drinking the spicy, steaming, soup. Not so bad, not bad at all.

As we headed deeper into the souk away from the shiny objects and boiled creatures we passed a large box of baby chicks. I have not had many opportunities to interact with baby chicks since my elementary school class where we hatched some in an incubator. If you have not seen one up close and personal in a while like me they are especially delightful. They are some of the cutest animals on the planet. They look exactly like Easter peeps, except fluffy and I don’t want to rip open their package to let them get a little stale before I eat them. Oumnia and Lina were equally in love with you cuties to which Hajja promptly responded by purchasing one. Suddenly and before I could accurately assess the situation I was holding a small peeping chick in my hands, dodging and weaving through the busy souk. I must have appeared incredibly strange, but with that fluffy yellow ball in my hand I didn’t care. Once in the car I asked Oumnia what she would like to name him to which she quickly responded “Victor!” Victor? Not very Arab or appropriate, but ok. For the rest of the ride I held Victor in my hands as he chirped loudly, so happy to have the cute puff ball in my hands, able to enjoy him for the time being and know that I wouldn’t have to clean up his poop later on. This is why I believe I would like to be an aunt or go straight to grandfather (let’s be honest grandfathers are usually more fun therefore that is who I would prefer to be) because I don’t want to have to deal with the everyday work of raising anything. So, I love you Victor… as long as the car ride lasts (and until you get big and edible).

Shukran,

Kelsey

(I have not read this over I just kind of typed it up and am posting it- not unusual, but just please forgive it's mixed up ideas and thoughts. Rambling is what I do. I will fix it later- mumkin... insha'allah)

PS- The Watson Fellowship is the only time in a Fellow's life where they will say to themselves, "I've very comfortable here... I should probably go." Therefore that's what I am doing. I love my new Rabat family, but the world awaits and being comfortable, though a nice change of pace is not what this year is about. Onto Fez for the Sufi Culture Festival where the theme is Magic and Poetry (al-hamdulillah! how wonderful!) for a few weeks then returning for a few quick meetings then another grand adventure.

PPS- Lots more stories, pics, and poems coming soon!

Oom-Pa!

2010-04-02T16:12:00.001-07:00

(View from my Rabat roof at sunset)

Oumnia sat next to me in her matching pink sweat suit. She had pleaded to come with me to my English lesson though I had attempted to explain that it was less like a lesson and more like conversational practice for out of work Moroccans. As two of the students and I waited for the rest of the class, we began by discussing the importance of practicing a language and how brave you have to be. As the rest of the class joined us, including the American teacher (a boy a few years my junior taking a year off to live outside of college) our conversation flowed from weddings, traditions, food, chocolate chip cookies, to having premarital sex and illegitimate children. I am not exactly sure how American baked goods could spark such an awkward and controversial topic, but it did and I’ll blame the Food Network for that (Giada is just too pretty). I choked back my giggling barely able to look at my new American friend for fear that the awkward laugh would become uncontrollable. The conversation only ended when an employee of the Foundation came to tell us they were closing the building for lunch.

The organization that I am now volunteering at (but let’s be honest, it’s mostly just me showing up more than volunteering for… no one even knows my full name) mostly works with African refugees and holds language classes for Moroccans. The sound of African a cappella songs echo through the small compound. The lawn in front is covered in overgrown grass, dandelions, sprawled people, stray dogs, and the remnants of last night’s picnics. Having visited half a dozen women’s organizations and NGOs in my first week and a half and having little hope for any well-received follow-up visits, the fact that this rather lively organization was actually willing to suffer my multiple visits in search of information and opportunities was a good sign. I am now a part time volunteer “teacher.” The morning group I converse with does not really require any preparation; they simply want someone to talk to. I see this as a great opportunity to learn about women in society, more about what really what morocco is like, American TV series that they know more about than me, and football. As per our rather in-depth banter on their views on marriage I see that I will not be disappointed.

At night I teach another class, this one is actually just three men; two who work at the Foundation and one brother of someone who works at the Foundation. My night class is going to be especially challenging because, and let’s be honest; I don’t know how to teach English, I can barely spell. Just don’t tell the Teach for America people that. For our first day I had no idea what to expect I was just told when to show up with no concept of the age or class size. Luckily, this Watson year has provided me with mastery BS skills which I used in full force to fill our class time. But what was more of a surprise to me than the willingness of these three full-grown men to sit down with paper and pen to learn from a girl with knots in her hair and crumbs on her jacket was how proud I was of myself. That feels inappropriate to say. But I just showed up with no lesson plan, talked for a very long time, and didn’t freak out. Well, that’s new. But if anyone has any English Lesson suggestions please let me know because I don’t know how much I can take of attempting to have French-speaker pronounce “rural.” (The r in French is very different, just as unpronounceable to me as our r is to them).

Needless to say after all this my first week was an instant immersion into another world. I had the fortune of inspiring just the right mix of pity and kindness that I was almost immediately adopted by a Moroccan family. After tearing myself away from Italy with mixed emotions; wishing to stay there longer, explore Morocco, and end my journey early and go home; I lacked my usual limitless enthusiasm. As the plan bumped and skidded onto the tarmac in Casablanca my heart wasn’t racing. I was in Casablanca, “here’s looking at you kid” Casablanca. That’s freaking awesome. But only half-heartedly gazed at the rolling mountains from the air and waited for my train with muted interest. For me that is very telling because I love riding trains.

When I had first planned my journey this year I thought that Morocco would be one of the most rich, rewarding, and interesting countries of my journey and was happy to save it for my last stop. As the months have rolled on walking around on my tiptoes, never staying in one place for more than a month, attempting to face family woes, and feeling fairly worn after my months in Tunisia, I was ready to throw in the towel. Luckily, I am not the type to overlook simple beauties and willingly embrace most opportunities to become inspired. So as I boarded the train and entered the small compartment with six strangers and no leg room, I watched small towns roll by and colorful clothes drying on the line the smile began to return. The rest of my enthusiasm and optimism were close behind as I arrived in the Rabat train station to two small adorable girls holding up a large pink sign to greet me.

A Moroccan professor at my College, who was the only reason for my ever entering the math department at school, helped me when preparing for my Watson and we met at many of the Muslim Student Association events. At the last minute we had planned for his sister (he has three) to pick me up at the train station and let me spend the night with them. Despite this assurance, I was still a bit weary unsure if anyone would actually show up and what they would think of the girl sent to them by their brother in America. But as soon as I saw the kids, I was hooked. I love this family.

(Friday is Couscous day!)

Layna’s got dora the explorer slippers, baby cheeks, and big brown eyes. She’s only just learned how to spell her name and offers to do so at any opportunity. Unearned cheek kisses great me sporadically and she will call out my name just to have me look at her and smile. Oumnia is a little older a string bean with smart eyes and a strong willed nature. She is my guide and friend, despite the fact that I am more than twice her age. She talks with her hands and in Fos’ha (Modern Standard Arabic and not the Moroccan dialect) in an attempt to aid my understanding. There is also Ryane, their cousin, a one and a half year old with a giant personality and the best laugh I have ever heard. I believe he was one of the reasons that the family invited me to stay. I spent a solid hour playing “kelsey ate the remote” complete with yummy sounds to Ryane’s obvious amusement. Soon after Ryane’s mom sat down and explained that she was going to look for a place for me to live, but thought that was unnecessary because I should just live with her parents or move around with the three sisters. After many familial experiences in Tunisia I thought I would be through living with families and their limited freedom, guilt, restrictions, and off limits kitchens. Yet, if I have learned anything this year it is that the best way to experience the true culture is to live with a family. There would be plenty of opportunities for solitariness in the future, for now it seems that adopting all new mothers, sisters, nieces and nephews was just irresistible. Based on my first week complete with delicious food, sickness, Mexican soap operas, souk shopping, and a wedding I wasn’t wrong to accept and be incredibly grateful.

Did I say wedding? Oh yes I did. But first…

I feel that my project has mostly become about two things; watching bad soap operas dubbed into Arabic and hanging out with middle aged women with relationship issues or children who think that I am a lot cooler than I actually am. So far I’ve avoided the second of those things her in Morocco, but this is just the beginning. As for the first, it is rather strange, but I feel that a lot of what I have been doing has been more in the spirit of my project than what I had originally intended. Hanging out with women, cooking, watching strange shows on television, and going to the super market (sometimes three or four times in a day… I miss you Coco) has been an incredibly sincere insight into women’s place in society.

But if I may return to more on how much I enjoy this family: This is one of the most “normal” families I have been with. There is a lot of shouting, cooking, crying, laughing, and love. They look out for one another and care for each other in such a deep and connected way. They are always visiting, preparing large meals, and have children running around; it’s like every day is Thanksgiving with all its wonderful and unfavorable aspects. Stuffed until you’re sick, kids laugh then cry then laugh within a five minute span, the kitchen is always busy, five no six or more mothers, grandmothers, aunts cuddle and reprimand rugrats, and everyone is happy, critical, and together… until the food is gone and then they go home.

(Haj's Pigeons)

The man of the house (Haj) is an adorable grandfather figure who loves to explain again what’s going on in the news to me, dote on Ryane as the first boy grandson, and tend to his three or more dozen pigeons and canaries on the roof. I think that he likes that I refer to his son as Ustath (Professor); you can see how proud he is of his family, though his wife (Hajja) steals the stage and limelight. She’s a powerhouse with bad knees, but you should see her dance. Out of this world. From the beginning to the end of the day she is in control of her house and the people and things in it. A few times I tried to make my own food or help out in the kitchen, but she stood like a sentinel in the doorway proclaiming very clearly and with no room for questioning her authority “the kitchen is mine.” This is especially hard for me to accept for the mere fact that the kitchen is, though it may be obvious, my favorite room in the house. I’ve begun sneaking in to do the dishes and at first I was accosted by her and her daughters on several occasions, “Do you know how to do that?” You mean, wash the dishes? Umm, well I thought I did. But after giving the plates, pots, and utensils a once over they soon accepted me in a position in front of the sink… one step closer to the oven, but baby steps, I’ll try and see if I can take a peek in the refrigerator first.

Good smells constantly fill the house from the fresh baked bread in the morning to midday roast chicken, boiling sugar water mint tea on coals in the afternoon, sweets and sugar milk at night. Before I got a rather fun traveler’s sickness, soon combined with the flu, which I am currently attempting to pretend doesn’t exist, for breakfast the family eats a milky, oatmealy, soup-like, grain-filled, warm something or other that they flavor with salt, olive oil, and more milk. At first it was difficult to eat, I was really craving some maple syrup and reminiscing on oatmeal at my aunt terry’s home, but eventually (like most things I eat) I forced myself to like it. Bring on the lebneh.

But more awkward than that breakfast is this next image:

Imagine a twenty-two year old gangly, awkward girl, travel worn, threadbare clothes, unkempt hair, cracked fingernails, and lacking that very stereotypically feminine disposition towards make-up and blow-dryers. Now put her in a bright teal, silver embroidered, shapeless dress/bag (this is called a jubbah), add black eye liner, blue eye shadow, glitter, heels, and matching annoying blue clutch (handbag). Not enough? Next put her in a lime green formless bag-dress, green make-up, and accessories. If I had any self-respect before it was now lost, given as a gift to the new bride to be for whose benefit this torturous exercise in unnecessary and uncomplimentary adornment was underwent. As I was trying on one of the jubbahs that Hajja had picked out for me amongst her daughters’ outgrown gowns, one of the sisters came up to me as I inspected myself in the mirror. “You’re number one!” Thanks? Was my unsure reply. “No, no” she explained further, “you’re number one… you look like a number one.” Oh… great. I was then told that I would not be given one of the traditional belts that most wear because their purpose is to enhance one’s curves, “not necessary, you’re number one.”

(Day of the Henna)

My first weekend was spent in Sale, a city just across the river from Rabat, at a two-day long wedding, which is apparently normal. The first day is more like a bachelorette party, except instead of a police intrusion that ends in dollar bills everywhere, this was called the Day of Henna. The bride would sit with her hands and feet exposed on a high, ornamented chair, while women decorated her with henna. The bride wore an olive green dress, bedazzled with gold, and had a yellow and gold veil covering her face. Around her were gathered her elite squad of women separated by their similarly colored jubbahs and a group of women with different sized drums. Intense and loud singing, drumming, and chanting would take place followed by a prolonged silence until the drumming/chanting began again. Some women would chat, but where I sat it seemed that most just stared, everyone sitting in their finest jubbahs, layered with equally decorated abayya (which I was also lacking), jewelry, and matching hijaabs. Later a parade of the gifts was made, we ate a large amount of a delicious couscous helmeted with intensely caramelized onions, raisins, and almonds, roast chicken that fell off the bone in the center and a lukewarm glass of orange soda. Promptly departing once the plates had been removed.

(Our table at the all night wedding bananza, please overlook my outfit)

The next day was in a formal hall, complete with band, big screen TVs, and another new outfit. The party began at 9pm, the five course meal began at 1:30 am, and the dancing and sweets eating went until dawn. As we sat at our round table, waiting for food, I was mesmerized by the amazing outfits. Incredibly colorful, intricate designs, bedazzled, and embellished to unfathomable extents. At one point the camera man, who seemed incredibly bored, began aiming the camera at everyone in the room, going face by face from table to table. Mr. Camera man was having a lot of fun with the zoom, pulsing back and forth with the beat of the music, which was rather rapid making it difficult to watch. It seemed that everyone’s goal when it was their turn for five seconds of fame strived to display an impartial, uninterested, and incredibly pouty face. After a dozen tables in which everyone looked like they had just been pulled over for a ticket, they got to my table. Slowly, slowly as the camera neared me my face turned a bright stop sign red and I began to laugh uncontrollably. Everyone around me was greatly disturbed and confused as to my reaction. I thought it was hilarious although my laughter only seemed to prolong my face (or more accurately my hair and hands covering my face) blasted on the big screen.

(The couples first dance)

After round after round of unusual wondrous food items, including something called pastille that tasted like someone dropped shredded chicken into their baklava (which means genius) and all other flavorful dishes, which we all happily ate from a shared bowl at the center of the table, ribbing large round pieces of bread that seemed at endless supply. At around 3 in the morning Rihab, one of Hajja’s granddaughters who is thirteen (awesome kid), and I sleepily stumbled to the car in the parking lot and fell asleep in the kicked backed chairs in the front seat. Before I had time to wonder at how curious a situation I was in sleeping in the parking lot of a grand Moroccan wedding, we were beckoned back inside to see the fourth of the bride’s dresses (she changed a total of five times… I believe, but I lost count).

At 5:30 am the bride appeared in her final dress, this time white, the wedding cake was cut and I sleepily consumed some triangle shaped fried somethings drenched in honey. I wasn’t hungry and could barely understand what I was eating, but running on autopilot necessitated the consumption of the sweets. I already knew I was going to feel sick at the beginning of the night so the rest of my two day wedding experience/ eating marathon/ fashion show was not met with any regret, just smiles and stomach aches.

(Our dessert tray... loverly)

Barely having had time to recover from the wedding a few days passed and I was informed that Hajja’s family would be coming over to have a party. Holy helwa. Days were spent in the kitchen preparing and I was beckoned to return swiftly from class to help prepare; sweep, tidy, and rip delicious fried bread into little pieces for hours while watching more soap operas and listening to elderly women talk loudly with their hands (Much of the fried bread was consumed before it made it into the post ripping bag… I didn’t mind the aching hands and back, it was delicious). After taking a quick excursion to the souk with Oumnia my little Darija (Moroccan dialect) translator and Layna in hand I bought all my chocolate chip cookie fixings and giant blue gumballs. The gumballs were consumed while hiding behind a wall near the entrance to Hajja’s home… needless to say I am a bad influence. While two of the sisters prepared their own cookies I set to work (despite major obstacles against me) to make my cookies, which (although lacking ingredients) turned out looking perfect and tasting like cookies missing important components. No one seemed to notice, but me.

(Random Party, real good eats)

After the long parade to one of the daughter’s houses, I was put in charge of a large clay pot and Ryane, before the party officially began I was sent back to Hajja’s house (about a ten minute walk) to retrieve a silver serving tray. Hajja had insisted that I again don the teal sack from the wedding, but the family wouldn’t let me walk in public wearing it. So to save me the embarrassment of bright blue, I was put in a long lilac robe complete with purple tassels. Therefore, awesome. Oumnia came with me and we took the long route and stopped for chips and lollipops. Neither of us were hungry, but it just seemed like a good idea (yes, I have the maturity level of a nine year old). I spent most of the party running back and forth from helping prep in the kitchen and playing with the children. At one point one of the sisters found me sitting in the kitchen returning uneaten sweets to their proper containers with two older ladies. “We have a word for people like you..” I was weary, please don’t say number one again. “Hadga.” I waited for the blow of translation. “It means the person who is always trying to be helpful, the one who would rather be in the kitchen with the old people or in the back room with the children running around, cleaning, and serving rather than sitting and enjoying the party.” So… is that good? “Yes! It is very good.” Yay!

Another long day of party, eating, eating, and cleaning up, back to Hajja’s place with a rowdy bunch of sugared up old ladies who stayed up until 2 am yakking and gossiping. This was the time I reached for my ipod ready to treat myself to some well deserved music me time.

Shit.

My ipod was gone and I went to sleep placating myself with the thought that it was just out of fingertip reach. Unfortunately in the morning I was proved wrong and my dear friend was gone. I do not allow myself many safety blankets, but my music is definitely one of them. It has been one of the most useful parts of my journey and now it ran away from home. After fighting off sadness from family troubles, nightmares, sickness, and being unsure of the rest of my time in Morocco- I wanted to cry. I wanted to give up right then. As I sat on the couch, waiting to head to class, Oumnia and Layna were dropped off by their mom. It was still early and both were tired. They both snuggled up next to me on the couch, Layna leaning her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. Happy tears welled up in my eyes. Ok… I guess I’m going to be just fine. Besides, I assured myself, Morocco is full of music.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- As to the title, I won over half a dozen of the grandchildren by playing the Oom-Pa game. This consists of them running up to me with their hands raised, me lifting them into the air and declaring “Oom-Pa!” That is the most work out I’ve had in a long time. They are lucky they are so cute.

PPS-

This is Chellah... it is my new favorite place in Rabat. It may be one of my favorite places I have seen on my entire trip. It is overgrown roman ruins covered in wildflowers, fruit trees, and is a stork sanctuary with lots of baby storks running around. I could live there.

PPPS- Last Tunisia Pics with link that works... insha'allah

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2036093&id=35501566&l=1bcb5239b9

Italy pics: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2036131&id=35501566&l=95d90af11d

Px4S- Happy dad?

Haram-a-licious

2010-03-26T02:34:00.000-07:00

I sipped the dry white wine setting it aside to take another bite of the salted bread and paper-thin sliced prosciutto. The sun had set and the small café was lit by candlelight and surrounded by curving cobblestone streets. Soft spoken conversations in Italian filled the room like incense. Everything was right, but for a brief moment it all felt so wrong. Pork? Wine? Out at night? What had my world come to? I resisted at first, believing that the meat and drink would seep into my pores and give away my awful secret. How disappointed my newly made family and friends would be in me if they saw me in such a state. But as I relaxed further back into my chair breathing an entrancing ease nothing else really seemed to matter. Italy for me was my first real experience of completely accepting and embracing the role of tourist. I have never been anywhere as a tourist. I named myself traveler, short-term resident, accepted new nationalities, names, and ways of life. In Italy I abandoned all hope of “going local” and decided instead to not attempt to learn any Italian, stay in nice hostels, and stroll leisurely.

I spent four days in Florence and three in Rome. I had debated whether to make a grand tour of Italy and trek to Pisa, Venice, Bologna and other tasty sounding names, but decided against it. If there is one thing I have learned in my travels it is that you will never see everything so don’t try. Enjoy your time and really experience the place you are instead of checking off cities on a list. I don’t know if this is true for everyone, but for me the things I remember most are not statues, frescos, and ruins. My memory is based on feeling so if I feel rushed, stressed, exhausted and am planning my entire adventure down to the minute then none of the beautiful things I see will matter. With this in mind, I walked slow, ate slow, thought slow, and breathed slow. Every country I have been to I adopt a “don’t mess with me” speed because let’s be honest despite the fact that I feel like I retain my childlike wonder if I let it control my visible actions I would likely have been robbed of my bag or my identification with the people. Locals don’t saunter. The eyes down, dodge and weave, swiftness greatly decreases the buy a pashmina and seedy gentleman interaction. But the price becomes noticing little beautiful things about the place and people around me. Now that I had accepted the fact that I was not going to belong, didn’t need to fit, could be me and not worry about appearing extremely foreign, I felt like I could really breathe again. The literal and figurative change of pace was quite a treat making it especially hard to leave after my week was up.

Despite the fact that my Italian week of adventure was absolutely lovely from its first moment to the last, the disconnection with place is not sustainable. At least, it’s not preferable. Being a tourist means experiencing most things in a very superficial way. Focusing on the consumable aspects of a country and culture and avoiding all the back alleys and ordinary life. It’s postcard love. A few beautiful images that sell and are sweet, but nothing more substantial than a scarf or a keychain. You don’t get too attached because you know you won’t be there very long. But when you look back on some of the most memorable moments of visiting a place it will be those special little interactions and sights you saw while not being a tourist. A conversation with Kareem, the shopkeeper’s assistant, while your husband and daughter are haggling for a silly hat. Having couscous at a family’s home then being kidnapped afterwards to have a glass of tea you didn’t want, but taking you down back streets you never thought you’d see. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being a tourist- that’s what vacations are all about. It is just not something I am used to. Yet as sat on the street curb elbow deep in a warm waffle covered in vanilla gelato and drizzled with chocolate syrup I didn’t much care that I didn’t belong and wasn’t trying to fit in.

I saw a lot, savored long walks amongst priceless art, rooms steeped in history, shuffling through the Pope’s house, gazing in wonder at images I’ve only seen in books since I was small, heard the names of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles come to life, sat in more pews in one week than I have in the last four years combined, and ate and ate and drank and ate.

For the first time in a long time I was able to walk down the streets without my guard completely up. I heard no whispering and felt no long, uncomfortable stares. No men bothered me with mumbles, no women disapproved with clicks. No one noticed me. I was invisible. Invisible to all except the gypsies, but even they didn’t seem to take too much notice probably judging by my state of dress that was so similar to their own that I wasn’t worth their time. I do not mean to imply that I am only harassed on the streets of the countries I have been or that it is a burden to walk out my door. No, that’s not it. I would go into a list of reasons defending the people on the street from the countries I’ve been to, but I don’t feel that defense is necessary. For now know that this is just a difference of city, culture, and observation not a judgment or even necessarily exact. But as I walked by the street vendors outside the Central Market in Florence and no one attempted to chase me down or cat call me in order to inspire me to purchase a t-shirt with Ciao Bella on it I was almost giddy with happiness.

House White: I don’t usually drink. That much if ever. But in Italy I decided to continue with my embrace of culture and traditions without reservation and have a glass of wine… just to taste. Wow. That was good. I could actually drink it without making a face. Ok, maybe two glasses of wine while I’m here. And with that I had a refreshing glass of wine every day. I felt very sophisticated, except for the fact that when I would try and do the swirl and sniff thing like they do in the movies I would just end up spilling it. When I finished my last glass on my last day in Italy I sighed to myself knowing this chance to relax with a beverage of this nature would be far off. I am undoubtedly excited about Morocco, but I just don’t know if Casablanca can compare to the Bianca di la casa.

Aperitivo = pre-dinner mini-buffet = I am very happy: The Italians know meals. Though breakfast and lunch seem to be usually consumed standing and at a fast-pace, meals at the end of the day are wonderfully rich and slow. One of my professors from school had invited me out to have aperitivo with him. Having very little clue what aperitivo was or even how to pronounce it, I readily accepted. What I discovered was glorious. For the price of a glass of wine (or whatever drink you wish, but the house wine was usually cheaper than a soda so… I just had to suffer through that- haha) a mini-buffet is at presented to you. The best part about mini-buffets are the small plates and how guilt free I feel after. At regular buffets I am usually overwhelmed and eat a regrettable amount, shoving rolls and fruit into my bag to ensure I get my money’s worth despite the fact that I have already had four helpings and several rounds at the dessert table. But at an aperitivo I didn’t pay more than I would on a drink and still have a wondrous array of munchies for me to consume. I feel like there should be a point to this section, perhaps the wonderful conversation and reuniting with a favorite professor, or being able to speak to him more like an equal and not as a scared student. All of this was wonderful and I greatly enjoyed the opportunity and experience. But all I can think to really conclude this section with is to remind myself why I love Italy. It’s delicious. I think this is something that needs to be implemented in America… that may be the only way to get me excited about going to a bar.

Holey Moley Gelatos and Canolli: I have nothing more to say here than that I am a big fan of gelato. I still don’t quite understand the difference between gelato and ice-cream… just seems like a fancier version, but that’s ok it’s scrumptious. Also at one point after breaking down and spending an indecent amount on some canollis the quite hefty treats were purchased from a chocolate boutique where I was rung up by a short and chubby, hard of hearing old Italian woman who was just adorable. They were wrapped up like a present, tied with a red ribbon. I sat on a fountain and was in a whole other world while consuming the delectable. They were mind boggling. Incredibly rich and I was so giddy with sugar and cream filling that for the rest of the day I wore the red ribbon in my hair. People laughed. I was happy.

The Last Restaurant on Earth: When I’m bored I often ask (out loud or to myself depending on if I have any company) what I would want my last meal to be or what restaurant I would choose to go to if I could only go to one for the rest of my life or what’s the difference between Italian and French bread and if I only could eat one which I would choose… and questions of this sort. Yes, I know… my mom calls it being special. Anyways… I have discovered, or rather, was shown the answer to some of those deep, burning questions I ask myself concerning improbable food futures. But let me say this, there must be a God and he has established so many of his houses in Italy for very good reason. Italy is rich cultural, artistically, and historically, but more than all of these things combined it is rich sandwichly. I had the best sandwiches of my life. The kind of sandwiches that make you ever wonder why you would waste your time and money at a sit down restaurant. The kind of sandwiches that you plan your entire day around just so you can eat more of them (which I did). The kind of sandwiches that make you certain to your very core that if the devil should present you with a curse that you must only ever consume one type of food from one place for the rest of your life the answer would come with ease. There was one hole in the wall, literally, in Florence, and one only slightly bigger than a whole in the wall in Rome. Both had soft, chewy bread, fresh ingredients, and friendly adorably Italian staff. Does one need any more out of their sandwich… or out of their life?

There is so much more to say I am sure, but seeing as I have the chance to have internet now I figured I would get this out of the way. More tales to come of family, food, and adventures.

Shukran,

Kelsey

Last pictures from Tunisia: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2036093&id=35501566&l=1bcb5239b

Eid Milad Momma

2010-03-13T01:17:00.000-08:00

To give you some idea of what I have been up to: Moved out of Sousse, back in Tunis living with another family, I have been adventuring, conversing, and had my parents come for a week to visit. Now more poems that are impossible to fully comprehend...

Cooking with Coco

(Coco is the "grandmother" though she is not related to the family, but she is a cook/cleaner but has grandmother-like status... but overall she's just wonderful and fiesty!)

Morning slow, but not tainted with need to fill, rush to find place or activity.

Drink warm milk and honey, eat orange that drips, hands sticky at the table.

Eyes wide, wobbly shake, Coco stands before me daunting, but for my knowing

Hand in hand, thin, I feel her bones through lean leathery skin and love

Stroll so slow, meditate through the garden, olive tree, lemon tree, garlic and herbs

Point out the hot red filfil, baby fireballs, harrissa before it’s learned to dance

Invokes god’s name with every step; a mixture of love and pain, respect and annoyance

Greet me with Tunisian fiteer, fried bread soaked honey, kulee kulu!*, my veins ache with oil

Beckons me with nod of the head, accompany Coco to the general store to carry milk and bread

Stroll through the aisles, watch as she examines the refrigerator on sale, plastic bucket, milk cartons

Cross the street holding my hand, habibitee, habibtee, take care take care.

SUV passes, a group of teen boys laugh, the bright blue gate sticks shut; god forgive me!

Orders my hair into a ponytail before the lesson begins, smiles at my compliance

Chop, slice, fry, and stir tempting smells swell from pots and pans, despite Coco’s shaky hands

Close on the couch we sit, pat the seat next to her, offer ear bud like candy

Connected by a headphone that stretches from my ear to hers; Tunisian drums and song

Before I adventure, I cannot part without her day’s masterpiece, tin foil wrapped so carefully

Tagine grease drips in my bag, leaves a shiny residue on my moleskin.

Teach me tradition Coco, who slaps my hand when I wear my shlekas* outside

Stir aseeda zgougou on the Eid*, pine cone crushed, pudding-like, fresh cream, pistachio dust

Begin after breakfast, finish far past noon, arms ache, swirl gray slop in cauldron

Demands that I lick the pan, my favorite post-cooking exercise, though my stomachs aches

By Coco’s command I feel a Christmas tree’s worth in my stomach and veins, worth her smile

Twice a day to and from the store to buy hot bread, holds my hand, whispers to herself

Cuts in line, jokes with all the workers, the grocery store is her stage, she is Hajja, Queen Coco

Bintee bintee bintee, pay attention, I don’t understand, nod and agree, French and dialect lost to me

Coco and I seek each other every morning and night for the double cheek kiss and hug

Adventure and poetry my passion, but cooking with Coco my day’s greatest delight.

*Kulee kulu: Eat it all!

*Shlekas = flip flops or slippers

*Celebrated the Birthday of the Prophet Muhammad with my new family by making the traditional aseeda eaten every year. Aseeda zgougou is made out of crushed pine cones… don't be fooled it is surprisingly delicious.

Parental Visitation:

I would like my parents to give their own take on what their adventure here was like, but until I request from them a short briefing of their experience here is a taste of when Poppa and Momma Virginia travel to Africa/the Arab world/a Mediterranean land/ the melting pot of wonder and street sandwiches that is Tunisia. I may also at some point actually write out all the things we did, but I’ve been a bit busy (Italy, Morocco, reports, new family, new places) so I’ll get to it eventually… Insha’Allah. Also facebook has confounded me with a new picture uploader that won’t seem to work so I’ve got months worth of pictures waiting to be uploaded. Hopefully I’ll figure that out. Darn you ever-changing technology.

That airport scene from the movie played out in real life, hug like clamp, tears like breath

Don’t try and scam me Mr. Taxi man, tsk tsk in Arabic, demand a meter, part time parental hero

Talk in stumbled phrases to the driver, so kind, understanding, declines tip with a smile

Hot room, no view, sewage smell wafts up from the inner courtyard, but the bathroom is big

Walk the streets in wonder, young boys whistle, dad confused, mom complimented

To Carthage and Sidi Bou Said, or is that Sadie Sue Blue? Skibby Lou Bayyid? (Mom, you’ll get it right one day)

Grand meal with view of setting sun over mountains and Mediterranean in the land of blue, white, and green.

Proprietor proclaims “we taught the Romans how to make wine” and recites jahilaya poetry

Sip sweet white wine, savor seafood, couscous, spaghetti, Tunisian cuisine introductions abound

Bardo museum, souk Sunday lunch, traditional family, traditional foods, mothers and children together

Umm Hajja force food upon my father with bare hands, remove and reorder my mother’s rings

Parents’ present gifts to Omar and Yaseen, peanut butter, what’s that? Tonka trucks and gummy worms

Walk back streets, meet friends, drink tea, drink more tea, sleep early

Slow morning caffeine café direct, café Americano, honey, sugar, chocolate crepes, harrissa crepe a mistake

Fresh juice, Thomson oranges a market must buy, back alley souks, and baking breads

Seascapes, mountains, streets, cities, small towns by train and louage they fly past, stare at sheep herds

Sousse, Kairouan, and Al-Jem; Roman ruins, ancient cities, touch walls older than America

Buy a carpet, buy a bag, wonderful silver, handmade, special price! Direct me to the Berber Princess

Father-Daughter Haggle Team, back and forth banter, mom nervous, just wait outside for a minute

Watch Star Wars and Monk in French, Dad dubs the words, silly and happy on the couch

Get hassled, ripped off, strong armed, misled, but see open hearts, open doors, open ears; oh Tunisia

Bump in the road, dusty back streets, stray cats, back alley restaurants, creaky, hard beds- It’s authentic! I proclaim.

Mom’s nails dig into my leg as the louage faces off a truck in the oncoming lane

Dad gets leg pinched by insistent little girl, la la la, bye byes don’t work like dinars

Though we saw only a small sample, never tasted leblebay, missed majestic views

No scene could compare, no food can add up to besting the time that I spent here with you

Thanks mom and dad.

Oh,Tunisia

I’ve seen a place where cacti, pine trees, and date palms sleep in the same field

Where mountains and sea sing together, embrace one another

Sat on a crumbled Roman wall, ruins overlooking a field of old olive trees and new wildflowers

Chased a matchbook picture to a distant Kelibian fortress

Stood on ancient walls gazing at a new city, sewn so seamlessly together

Strolled through ports filled with brightly colored boats; traditional Bizerte, tourist Kantaoui

Rode on a dozen buses just to watch towns and mountains rush past, a taste of life old and new

Sipped green tea from North to South, East to West bitter and sweet tastes

I’ve yelled haram and shouted words of love, cursed raindrops, adored storms

Puddle splash, louage dash, taxi fight, chapatti friends, and the sweet swirl of sheesha smoke

Got Tunisia in my skin, sometimes yearning to escape, but I never can leave her

Harrissa in my veins, olive oil in my eyes, a hundred Tunisian hearts I’ve felt

It’s muddled I know, unclear and obscure, but taste the ojja, keftejih, and anise bread

Mix of people, places, smells and sounds that swirl and echo such light and weight

Drank deep of Tunisia’s kindness, raged at her ignorance, and smile at it all as I part

There’s so much more to say, but… what a people, what a land, oh Tunisia

One last adventure up Jugurtha's Table then to the airport where I head to Italy for a week of Florence and Rome. Really never thought I would have the guts to go to Europe, but how the gelato does call me! Sorry about lack of pictures, I always count on them to make the very obscure poems I share more complete, so hopefully those will come soon. For now, enjoy the end of winter, Spring is just around the corner.

Happy Birthday Ummee!

Shukran,

Kelsey

Declaration of Sentiments

2010-02-23T07:48:00.000-08:00

Tabarka was my Seneca Falls.

After traveling a bit by myself and getting to reflect I wrote these poems. In case anyone was worried or wondering about what condition I'm in let me state this briefly to make everyone clear once and for all: I'm traveling around the Middle East and North Africa, living with Arab families, interacting with a large spectrum of differing people, walking down unfamiliar roads, smelling and tasting unusual foods, reading to my fill the words of amateurs and professionals, writing to my heart's content, and getting to meditate on what it means to be me, to be human, to be alive... and if after all this you still think that you need to worry about me in any way, you're crazy.

I love this!

Declaration of Self

Never saw myself as a being to want,

individual deserving of desires,

dreams with physical possibilities.

Able to reach realities of scope- choked.

Misled by the inner self I chained with guilt,

identity stinted by shame unearned

ascetic in my own development

Just desserts were not mine, deemed I for deserts.

As if my rights were worth less than others.

Walk with back bent, downcast eyes

Wish I was shorter to avoid attention

I’m a poor man’s soup, watered down personality

Easy going, easy talk, easy listen, easy forget

No fault to him, no mistake to her, no blame to dish

Served my state by myself, swallowed at my choice

Conviction only in fear of rejection, no taste to disappoint

Accept criticism as penny candy, though it rots me

How can you cease to dole when I smile so?

Fog future, unwilling to commit, safety in low expectations

What consequence to want? What folly to aspire?

Overly internal, reflective, but it’s reflexive

Habituated to spin reel, repeat, reiterate, recap, retell

Introspection of shallow stipulations, seeds on sand.

Silent not astute, pensive not perceptive

On a journey that tosses me on rough seas

I am a stone dropped, thud by thud chipped

With aching head, heart, hands; I begin to see

The me that I had tucked under the pillow,

The diary never written, the box in the attic

Formed kinship with whitewash and ambiguity

Doubt praise, reject compliment, unworthy I

Foolish I, Clumsy I, Inept I- oh what a bumble

Ask forgiveness for existence, please and thank you

Schizophrenia, scarred by your bites of censure.

Yet, did I not demand it?

I give you the leash to call me dog

My blush your validation for names of naïve

Prohibition of protest, internal dictator stifles rebellion

Not for sake to take higher ground, but forsaking self.

Easy to deny self, difficult to face you; coward not conviction

Clandestine chameleon- no, but field mouse in the brush

Befriending snakes, ask for pity from the farmer’s cat.

Destined I to drown and dwell, ever muddled grey

Never taste heaven for fear I will find hell

Give me fire, find my flames, for if on this path my self remains

I will be better, I must proclaim, a declaration of self

If I shout it loud maybe my own ears may hear:

Declaration of Dreams and Desires:

I want to plant basil and mint in my flower boxes,

Cook imaginative soup like my mom

Make comforting hot chocolate on cold days for friends

I want my TV stand to have a fish tank and books

Windows open in the summer breeze

Know the name of the produce vendor

Wear wool socks on wood floors,

Bake on Saturday mornings

Eat breakfast slow

Read at my own pace

Wash my dishes by hand.

I want to be good, do good, know people good

Find good, spread good, give good, love good.

Live a life as rich, sweet, and simple as olive oil and honey.

I want to smell lilacs,

Have a spice rack,

A change jar.

I want big dreams with no way to reach them.

I want a cutting board with history,

A bed with mismatched sheets,

Sit on mats on the floor.

Music in the morning.

I will dream and I will want and I will wish and I will know-

It is all so impossible, yet all so close.

Time though always around us is never in hand.

But I want all these things and I want more…

I want to build a school in a refugee camp that won’t be torn down

Plant olive trees in Palestine and get blisters

Help a single-mother entrepreneur

Volunteer at an orphanage in Africa

Drink thick Arabic coffee in Damascus

Climb Table Mountain and Kilimanjaro

Work on an organic farm in India

Hike in Nepal

Ride from Greece to Turkey on a ferry

Eat street food in Thailand

Hitchhike in Italy

Take my brother to Japan and eat fresh fuji apples

Walk in the rain in Ireland.

I name specifics, but no food or drink by name can quench.

No place or action specifically can satisfy,

the spirit of the idea, of the want, of my need.

Realization of dreams is not what I desire,

but knowing that I may desire them at all.

Mutanabee Inspired

(I don't mean to sound like I have a big head in this poem, but I've been reading a lot of Mutanabee and it's fun sometimes to try writing in someone else's style. Not that I in anyway can compare, but hopefully you get the idea)

I have no battlefront to roar upon, no sword at side to clench and display fulsome steal.

War in my chest finds no armies to fight, lack of a field to fume, no horse to mount or alight.

But I will rage in words, my daily skirmishes of self, and shout just to hear my own voice

Give me this moment of pride, I do not ask often or much, but I shall steal this brief page

Let the sea swallow up my names, call me simpleton, raw, but I’ll never own your regrets.

I’ll break before I bend if you tell me to be anything other than the self that I have earned.

Call me crazy, call me failure, call me all the names I am, all the names I am not.

How I’ll sit and smile or cower and frown, but never change for you.

Your sweets I sip happy or bitter so fleeting won’t crack the bones my mother made.

All that shines won’t turn my sight for I have my father’s eyes, a hazel not so weak.

Call me child, naïve, tell me I need to grow a spine, feel not of my fire, smell not of passion’s blossoms,

Know not of my thoughts, hear not my heart’s songs, drink deep from my cup of charity and patience,

Eat your fill of my compassion’s bread, find shelter in my open ears with your troubles and stories.

Your woes, worries, your joys, and success are pomegranate seeds each sweet gem in your life

Though you may forget me, though you may not see me, I’ll swallow your criticism and guilt as milk.

Stronger self to emerge not by your hand, not by your help, not by your hurt, not by your words

I am me by choice, a self not simple stumbled upon; I am me embrace faults, I am me, I dare you to defy

The self forged from twenty-two years of life, twenty-two years of experience, years long and short.

Years that pass between footfalls, crash and disperse faster than waterfalls, but thick as molasses

Crown me with your judgments, laden me with the image your mind has created of me.

I cast it aside, strip away the costumes and mask, soak my skin in paint thinner.

Scream must I? Shout shall I? My call is not heard, yet I feel its vibrations.

Not your pet or project; save your stories for pop songs, write your lessons on gum wrappers.

You’ve lived no doubt, you can teach, but you are no more than a suggestion, not my submission.

With an air of condescension, your actions, attitude will not inspire in me hate or anger- no

You do not merit the energy, I am above expending my force in such a way, and for you!- never.

Foundations not in the earth you dug and the bricks you molded, but in condemning your neighbor’s house.

I find for your endless pity, my mercy is yours before you ask of it, such a state as you have.

Forgiveness is the gift of a greater force; I do not claim a seat above you when I dole such compassion

I will revel in my mistakes, kiss the ground on my shortcomings, and in this is my strength.

A power without purpose and a compass that point’s ever-inward to a heart trustworthy beyond compare

I may not find myself a vigilant friend or ever a source of affection, but I accept and know myself

Though incomplete, imperfect, riddled with fault, I am no actor in my life and live without regret.

So when you doubt me, disparage me, demean me; do not be surprised by my smile,

The battle is already won.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Pics and light-hearted posts about food and cute old ladies coming soon : )

Great Expectations

2010-02-14T15:29:00.000-08:00

I have been reading Great Expectations and the story seemed to fit with my adventure so please allow the minor allusion and copyright infringement.

A month in Sousse come and gone. My belief that this would be one of the more happy and productive parts of my journey-study-exploration was relatively accurate; having attended poetry club meetings, met with students, artists, professors, and having lived with a strong, driven, writer (who I will refer to as Ms. Kantaoui). Indeed it was a superb experience insofar as what I learned especially through my daily conversations with my new housemate. But as I readied my small rucksack to head to Tunis to spend some time with my friends there before I was to be joined by an American girl I had met while in Muscat, I felt an incredible sense of relief that confused me for I was not aware of its origins. When I had arrived in Tunis as dusk was settling into night, I waited in front of the station awaiting my friends who had insisted that I not move until they arrived, despite the fact that I knew Tunis and could easily get around. As they appeared under the street lights they welcomed me with such warm and open embraces that my heart seemed to exhale after a long while of holding its breath. Amal, Hasna and I parted ways with Heythem and headed towards Amal’s house where we would be met with another girl for a weekend slumber party. We ate Amal’s famous baked tuna and pasta, nothing like the gourmet meals that Ms. Kantaoui’s mother had prepared, but in my mind it tasted exponentially superior. Why I couldn’t quite say. We drank orange juice while huddled together under large soft blankets watching an Egyptian sketch comedy on Amal’s laptop perched atop a plastic stool.

We slept in late, the Sunday completely ours to waste. As I sat at the small round table while Hasna prepared besbesa and Amal showered, I held the warm Nescafe and milk in my hand I searched myself for the source of my inner uncertainty. Why did I suddenly feel so free? In Sousse I had my own room, wifi, hot water, delicious meals, intellectual conversations, and the liberty to go where I desired when I wanted. So, then why did I feel suffocated? I turned to Amal when the others had left to purchase some more ingredients. “Amal,” I began, “I’m not happy,” It was only as I spoke the words that I realized their truth. I wasn’t happy in Sousse. Everything was in its place, on the surface I could not have asked for anything better, yet, there was now no denying it, I wasn’t happy. Amal stopped drying her wet black, bouncy curls, turned to me and looking into my eyes with a stern sort of compassion stated, “I know.”

How had Amal known how I felt, when I hadn’t been able to pinpoint the sentiment until that moment? Her face revealed a knowing much stronger than mine, as if she had already read this chapter of my book and I was only just getting around to it. I would say this disturbed me, but having her acknowledgement made me feel legit in my discontent. I took another sip, content as it warmed my stomach and untwisted my knots. I contemplated my position and smiled as I discovered the answer both simple and within my grasp, “I’m not going back.” Amal smiled and nodded her support. Hasna and her friend soon returned laden with groceries. We ate our besbesa, bread, olive oil, and honey with laughter and light-hearted conversation. As soon as the plates had been cleared they began preparing a lunch of chicken and vegetable couscous. I left to pick up some ingredients they had forgotten and took the opportunity to unburden my mind. As I walked in the brisk, sunny air I found myself enlightened to a fact that I had never really before acknowledged:

I have the right to be unhappy.

Unhappiness is something I have always fought within myself. I believed it had no place, it wasn’t allowed. But I do not need to suffer based on principle. I am aware that there are thousands of reasons to be happy, to be grateful, to keep my feelings in perspective to the large picture of both my life and the scales of suffering in the world. And considering all this it does not negate the feeling or make the feeling any less real. Throughout my entire life within memory negative feelings were compounded by my own internal struggle against them. Thus not easing me from whatever pain, but increasing it for a sense of guilt for the feeling itself and the energy spent fighting it. I never allowed myself the very human right to feel whatever it was I was feeling. Reason, shame, ought to’s have interfered with my perception into myself. Perhaps it was also fear, if I allowed myself to be unhappy wouldn’t this open the floodgates of more negative sentiments? If I permit unhappiness its space isn’t that so very wrong of me when I have been given so much while others have so little? And the answer as far as my short sightedness can see is No.

The reasons for why I believed myself to be unhappy at this instance are not important. What is essential is my discovery of the sentiment, acknowledgement of it, acceptance that it is legit in itself regardless of outside appearances. If it is real enough for me to feel it then it needs no other evidence for me to act upon it and change my circumstances. The fact that I could simply decide to move out may seem simple to an outsider, but to me the mere recognition of this as an option is out of my norm. I did not need to remain where I was not comfortable, it does not matter if they presented me with gems every morning and ice cream every night- I was not content, I was under no obligation, but my own to stay. So I decided to move. Done. Well, almost, but the specifics, I knew could be managed later.

I returned to Amal’s house with Fairouz playing on the speakers and the smell of garlic and simmering sauces. Perfect Sunday.

Here is the Beginning of Kelsey’s Great Expectations

I had anticipated the arrival of my friend Faiza with great excitement. Though our previous time together had been short, but consisted almost entirely of eating good food, enjoying warm beaches, having engaging conversations, and stumbling on unusual fun. She had been my partner in crime across the Omani desert, started soccer games, rode in a Ferrari… and I had hoped that this would be telling of our times together again. The thought of having someone visit me in Tunisia, someone I, for all purposes did not know that long or that well, despite our affable relationship was rather daunting. But our correspondences had assured me that she had come on her own accord and that she expected nothing in the way of me having any sort of plan for our adventure. Despite my determination not to worry, I was unable to sleep the entire night before her arrival. When Amal stirred and arose, I jumped up with great relief. The entire day I spent reading and rereading her flight details and my guidebook. Some pages I had read and re-read so frequently I had practically memorized them, but continued to glance at them as if the locations themselves were dependent upon my thinking about them.

Faiza’s plane was not due to arrive until midnight that night, so as the day drew closer to an end I had become quite a mousey ball of nerves. Amal, her roommate, and I watched South Park dubbed in French and they fell asleep while I held my phone clasped in my hands checking every few minutes for the time or for the possibility of a missed call. After one the phone finally rang, filling me with a strange mixture of relief and further anxiety. I met her down at her cab, ushered her into Amal’s apartment, introductions aside, readied ourselves for sleep, and we eased back into our former familiarity, chatting late into the night until we both fell asleep. As I welcomed rest at last, I breathed a little easier with Faiza finally at my side. She was the same person I remember. Now, we just needed to come up with a travel plan and enjoy the next two weeks. Tunisia waited with open arms, she was ours to discover, and with no schedule or demands; I smiled hugging close my great expectations.

(Faiza at the first mosque in Toezer)

Here Ends the First Stage of Kelsey’s Grand Expectations

It would do me no good to do a day by day of our two week long misadventure, which I name so with the utmost kindness seeing as there are probably stronger words that may be more appropriate. I do not intend to be overly dramatic (ok, well perhaps just a little) but the fact that in retrospect it was not as painful as I may paint it does not deny the feeling of slow torment and disappointment that stuck me like an IV in my arm throughout our journey. To save myself the long rehashing I will present a few incidences, shared sentiments, many morals and places through pictures. Nothing quite matches or flows except the order of the pictures… sorry.

We moved like bouncing balls, never staying in one place more that a night except under unusual circumstance. Just in Tunis we moved three times from Amal’s tiny apartment, cold and welcoming; to a hostel, which possible doubled for a one night stand for those of ill-repute, which could be gathered from the booming, immature voices of men and cackling laughter and clacking heels of women; finally at the home of a new “friend” who proposed our use of his empty and unused apartment just for ourselves. Indeed it seemed all too natural that at the end of the night his friend and he believed that we would be so grateful for their help that we would smilingly submit to their licentious expectations. Unfortunately for the two naïve boys they chose the wrong women. Both trained in self-defense, one a top fighter at her gym, the other not opposed to spear tackling and spitting, and the two with little tolerance for boys being stupid and shallow (sometimes you have to just say it has you see it, being articulate doesn’t do it justice).

The moral of this last place of residence in Tunisia is simple: don’t put up with shit, be firm and uncompromising, you don’t owe anyone anything even when they try and make you feel guilty, know your rights and maintain a correct perspective to keep yourself out of trouble. The other moral of the story concerning our second place of residence in Tunis is: don’t trust Lonely Planet’s hostel descriptions- clean and family friendly my butt!

(View of the Mountains at Carthage)

Needless to say we deemed ourselves in need of a change of scenery. Several friends had offered us weekend plans with them, but we were unwilling to create a schedule around someone else’s demands, especially because most of these plans involved us spending more time in Tunis, which is a place we desired to escape rather than enjoy a moment longer. With this in mind we set ourselves off to escape south. We rode the train to Sousse then quickly jumped on a bus to the small, conservative town of Msaken where my artist friend’s family had welcomed us with open arms and the promise that we could stay for as long as we wanted. Finally, a warm and loving group that could become an interesting perspective into a traditional Tunisian family for Faiza and we could feel safe and comfortable. We planned dinners and day trips, the real adventure could begin.

(Old City Walls in Sousse)

Here Ends the Second Stage of Kelsey’s Great Expectations

We spent the first day waiting for my friend’s family to prepare lunch at their insistence with the promise that after they would take us on a trip around Sousse. Hours passed and lunch became the leftovers already on the stove, delicious, but eaten luke warm. The sunlight started to fade and Faiza and I decided to head to Sousse on our own. After a few hours exploring the old city we headed back worried that we would not find another bus or get lost in the dark. As we found our way using hazy remembrances of landmarks we arrived at the Msaken house where I had anticipated tea, desserts, and a movie. The desserts I had presented them with were accepted with a hearty smile and consumed quickly, tea was served, but Faiza soon locked herself away in the computer room with my laptop, which became a regular occurrence throughout our trip. In fact, if we were stationary and there was a wifi signal at all within the vicinity, I would not see her for hours. Not as a complaint… just an observation. I enjoyed watching the Algeria versus Egypt soccer game with the mother and father, while my artist friend watched a movie and facebooked on her laptop, off in her own world. When both my internet bound friends had become reconnected with reality we agreed that the next day we would get up early, go explore neighboring cities, ending our day in Sousse and enjoying some tea at the café displaying her artwork.

(Outside the door of our troglodyte hostel room in Matmata. To explain the lollipop, we had seen a girl at the beginning of our journey eating one and decided to make it a regular occurence. I don't think I have ever consumed so many giant lollipops in my life. But it was a lot of fun being in these historical places with bright red tongues... we are very mature and respectful)

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice… assuring us every half hour or so that we would be leaving soon, then to discover that the day is almost ended and you are also kicking us out of your house without warning, shame on me. That is my roundabout way of saying we had wasted another day waiting for my friend to live up to her promises and that she sprung upon us that we were no longer allowed to stay at her house and must leave immediately. The reason for this, we were explained, was that it was illegal to have foreigners in your house and the police had come to talk with her father. We had seen no police or seen any disruption that day, but will not deny the possibility of this being the truth… maybe.

Here is the first time in a long time that I felt truly frustrated, or at least that I felt so perturbed that I was forced to acknowledge the sentiment. I am not one to give into negative feelings, but my annoyance made my muscles ache and I grew gloomy and despondent. As I looked deeper into the frustration I knew that it was caused not by the artist and her family or anyone one else, though I truly would have liked to, but I was to blame. I had not taken action when I should have, I felt Faiza’s happiness was in my hands and I was ruining her adventure, wasting her time, annoying her, and being a poor host and friend. Though seeing my frustration from this angle helped me later to learn, it was not at the time at all satisfying and left me only more anxious of repeating the same mistakes.

After the discovery of our lack of residence I called Ms. Kantaoui to ask if we might spend the night there, despite the fact that she had already made it clear that Faiza and I could not stay, she (to my great relief) acquiesced. My friend’s father who I had thought reminded me so much of my father, offered to drive us. But again I was disappointed seeing nothing of my father’s caring or generosity in him as he yelled at us to pack the car, never attempted to help us with our bags, made us sit in the car for almost half an hour waiting for him, then refused to drop us off at the house but across a busy road and several blocks away. Dad, despite your faults (because you have so many- haha just kidding) I have never appreciated you so much as seeing you in contrast.

(Matmata is known for being part of the scenery and inspiration for Star Wars. There is a bunch of Star Wars facts and I thought that this newspaper clipping encapsulated something Faiza probably said to me)

Once at Ms. Kantaoui’s house we were greeted with a warm, understanding welcome, and a last minute five course meal of traditional Tunisian food prepared just for our arrival. Suddenly we were consuming large amounts of couscous, bric, chicken, lamb, vegetables, spicy soup, maglouba, scrumptious breads, and fresh fruit. I thought of how those I had expected the most from had disappointed me and the one I had discounted proved to be the most helpful. Stuffed with all wonders of delicious things Faiza and I laid down, talking late into the night, planning the next leg of our journey. “Matmata, let’s go there. It has Troglodyte caves. Everyone recommends it. I swear it will be worth it,” I promised.

(Matmata nearing sunset)

Here Ends Kelsey’s Having Grand Expectations,

or any Expectations at all… of anything positive to occur

After a long bus ride from Sousse to Gabes, changed buses to Matmata, we passed a landscape as flat and desolate as the sea, arriving to a town with two restaurants, one bus stop, and whose entire population we had been able to meet within an hour walk. I found the tiny town to be quite lovely and the long bus ride to be an added bonus to the trip and not a reason for frustration. I love long bus/train/louage rides. In fact, sometimes they are the best part of the trip. Your mind gets to wander, there are new sights, smells, sounds as if you are watching a movie except at the end you arrive in a different world all for the ticket price. Unfortunately, Faiza does not enjoy public transport nearly as much and to arrive to a desolate town consisting of two dozen people and whose main attraction was Troglodyte cave dwellings and Star Wars sets... she was not amused.

We had tea with a man who had given up trying to sell us a tour we asked him if he knew a place where we could make dinner, unsatisfied with our two restaurant choices. He responded quite unexpectedly, "Just come to my house. We can have a fire and make couscous." Both taken aback and not fishing for such an invitation we made a wishy-washy confirmation and exchanged phone numbers.

That night I had just decided to call him up and cancel the dinner date, Faiza's lack of enthusiasm and our general suspicion of all men, especially ones that seem nice, made me think the venture not worth the energy. Just as I was about to dial, the phone rang. He was in the lobby. Now I had to face him. I attempted an excuse, mumbling something about being tired when he stopped and said, "oh no, my mother will be sad to hear that... she's preparing dinner for you. I hope you don't mind, I know you all wanted to cook yourself." Homemade food from a Berber mother in her troglodyte cave? Yes, please. Suddenly I didn't feel so tired any more and I beckoned Faiza from her long shower to get dressed. We had dinner plans!

A quick walk in the cold night air and we arrived at his mother's house. As we sat in the living room, our new friend put on Bob Marley, and we chatted and relaxed. Soon his mother joined us with steaming plates of various kinds. Everything was delicious, warm, spicy, and had that loving taste that only homecooking can impart. Dessert was sweet clementines and a cup of tea with pine nuts. After talking a bit more we headed back to our own troglodyte dwelling, curling up in the blankets against the cold, listened to our respective ipods and fell asleep. Not so bad.

(Sunset at Toezer from what our guide book recommends as a beautiful spot. It was one of the tackiest places I have ever seen)

The next morning after our complimentary breakfast of nescafe and white bread we agreed that we had seen enough of Matmata and decided to head across the expansive salt lake to Toezer, which boasted palm tree oases, history, and berber tradition. Back to Gabes by bus then louage (shared taxi van) to Toezer. We arrived to a quiet town, but as we saw people conversing in the streets we rejoiced in its comparative liveliness. "The number of people in that cafe was equal to the population of Matmata, I think" and we joked light-heartedly.

We dropped our bags off at the hostel and wandered in search of the sights of Toezer thus meeting some interesting people including the one mentioned in the previous blog (MTV English). Another man we met called himself Ben Kibeer (Big Ben) and after we refused his tour advice he took it upon himself to walk us around the palmerie (palm forest). He guided us past all sorts of beautiful and strange looking plants, we had tea with some old men relaxing in a thicket, and we listened to Big Ben's stories of life in Toezer. When the sun began to set we headed for Belvadier Rocks, which we had heard was a beautiful site to watch the sunset.

We arrived at a place more akin to a children's theme park then a place with any sort of nature. It had large awkward looking sculptures that seemed out of place and I am almost certain much of belvedier's rock was made out of plaster with two giant faces glued to the sides. We watched the sunset over the mottled golf resort and searched in vain for our promised beautiful views. A man who seemed nice (here we go again) began a conversation with us and promised to walk us to one of the best restaurants in town. As we descended the rocks Big Ben, seeing us with the stranger, began to scream at him in Arabic. Suddenly Faiza and I were in the middle of an all-out tour-guide skirmish. We attempted to escape, but the small size of the town ensured us that we met each of them on separate occasions half a dozen more times by the end getting rather fed up with saying "we will not rent a car, we do not want to ride a camel, we do not need any services you have to offer, but thanks."

(Butcher shop in the Old City market in Toezer... and yes, that's a camel's head)
We headed to bed early, fearful we might be asked to take a carriage ride... for the 235th time. The next morning we explored the old city and had a delightful stroll around the shops, markets, and little alleyway souks. As we headed back to the hostel we discussed our next stop. Another day in Toezer or chase good weather (or so I had heard) in Jerba? At this point Faiza had refused to make a decision or give her opinion unless it began with "you know what we should have done..." therefore with the responsibility in my hands and with the high hopes of finding a place pleasing to my guest in Tunisia we headed for Jerba.

(Out and About on the streets of Toezer)

(Chott el Jerid/ Salt Lake we drove over to get to Toezer. Much prettier than this picture makes it out to be. It looks like the glitter on a christmas decoration)

On the bus again for a seven hour ride. But on the map Jerba had looked so close! We arrived at dark. Confused about directions and having an inadequate map of the area, we had two young and friendly boys walk us to our hostel. The hostel was the best we stayed in. Unique and charming; it was a renovated old house with open courtyard. To top it off there were extra blankets with zebra print... very classy, but they were soft and warm so we didn't complain.

The next morning I went off on my own for a bit when Faiza refused to leave the comfort of her jungle themed bed. But I was more than happy to give her some space and myself a breath. When I returned I dragged her to a juice shop, where I ordered her favorite juice (orange and carrot) in the hopes that this would revive her spirits. It did, until the bill came. This was definitely an island directed towards tourists. The rest of the day was spent wandering about, searching for monuments, strolling through the marina, taking pictures of saint's tombs and mosques, and realizing that we had indeed not chased better weather as I had hoped. Well, I guess I could have guessed that would happen.

(Berber Pizza at Djerba/Houmt Souq. We felt compelled to order it and joked that it would just be harissa, canned tuna, and olives because those three things are in everything. We were wrong to laugh... ugh, so much canned tuna. What the heck is it doing on a pizza I'll never know)

(On Jerba/ H.S. I read that there was a monument called the tower of skulls to commemorate a massacre that occurred in 1560 when the Turkish Dragut overtook the island's fort. They then killed the 6000 Spanish occupants stacking their skulls across the shoreline as a warning. Now when I read this it became my first priority to see it's monument. This is what I found. The above picture. It was surrounded by trash and not even taken care of. There was a small inscription in French otherwise I would have had no clue what it was. Rather disapointing after my imagination had the best of me. I feel like the monument of skulls is a symbol for the trip)

(We sat on a cold beach covered in trash, apparently they don't clean off season, forcing ourselves to enjoy the sun. We then moved after it became too cold and sun bathed with a large group of elderly german tourists in speedos. After attempting to find our way out we stumbled upon a step aerobics class playing old American pop songs. Faiza and I stood and stared at a loss for words for some minutes. We both then turned to one another and with our eyes asked the question that neither of us knew the answer to "where are we?")

At Faiza's request I called Ms. Kantaoui and asked if we could again spend the night at her places to which she excitedly accepted. With another destination in mind we purchased our tickets for the night bus to Sousse. We arrived in Sousse either early in the morning or late in the night... it's hard to tell. Our bed/mats on the floor were ready with an abundance of blankets and despite our exhaustion Faiza and I conversed as usual, laughing, sharing stories both personal and entertaining for a few hours until exhaustion finally took us.Though I had liked each place we went to and while Faiza had found them disapointing at night we usually forgot all of this and simply enjoyed each other's company. The next day we went for a trip to Kairouan, the fourth holiest city in Islam. Beautiful, old, and romantic we enjoyed our stroll through ancient streets, tasting several chapatis and every sweet imaginable, returning to Sousse for our final night.

(Grand Mosque in Kairouan... one of the most sincere mosques I have ever seen and Faiza's favorite part of the trip)

(Most of our trip was spent eating sweets every time we passed an unusual food stall. It was highly entertaining and a really enjoyable component of our adventure... though it left us with many a stomach ache. Sometimes you can only soak your sweets in so much rose water and honey before it becomes too much to bear)

(Bardo Museum. We were both a little hesitant about going because a museum's a museum, but it was absolutely wonderful. I am a big fan of rooms full of old junk... i mean priceless mosaics and statues)

Back in Tunis, Faiza had messaged a Couch Surfer willing to host us for a few nights before Faiza headed to Egypt. The girls we met were perhaps the best thing to happen to me on the trip. Friendly, open-minded, kind, talkative, and respectful they have now become in only a short time like sisters to me... though this was only after Faiza's parting. For our first night back in Tunis we went to a karaoke bar where we sang, to much my displeasure and blushed face, "like a virgin" and danced where there was no room to dance. Despite the embarrassment, it was a wonderful night. Soon the entire room was dancing and to see the girls having such free spirited fun gave me incredible joy.

Faiza and I spent her last few days exploring the Bardo Museum, sipping tea in Sidi Bou Said, meeting new people, wandering around the fish museum (not aquarium... fish museum), and making chocolate crepes. All in all, I would have to say an enjoyable time save the fact that at one point her plane was cancelled and we had to make several trips to the Airport, which also furthered my friend's unhappiness. But I would like to think the chocolate crepes and fish museum made up for that. Soon she was gone, leaving me with a bit of relief, sadness, and confusion. All I kept saying to myself for the next few days was, what the heck happened?

(Outside the museum, Faiza and I enjoy some rather unusual looking trees)

(The last image we saw before I went with Faiza to the airport. It just seems like an appropriate ending)

I do not hope I sounded too negative, now I find it all rather comical. But at the time I was greatly disturbed by what a disappointment I and our journey must have been to Faiza. It distressed me incredibly. But after I took a few days to let the events sink in and I acquired a better perspective I found that I had learned an incredibly lot about myself. These two weeks opened me eyes to the me I had become while in Tunisia. The me that Faiza described as “hunkered down” and drastically different from the girl she met in Oman. The me that took a month to realize her own unhappiness. The me that swallowed blame and guilt for places, feelings, events, out of her control. The me that hadn’t realized until Faiza had come I had not had a real conversation about anything personal in two months. On one of our last nights together after we had spent several hours chatting into the dark, conversations that never seemed to come to us when we were out and about during the day, I realized and divulged to her “this is the most I’ve spoken in Tunisia.” With my friends in Tunis, I felt like a prop. Conversations in other languages, few questions to provoke my opinion, constantly feeling demeaned, unwilling to decide or speak for fear of the blow of criticism that would inevitably come whether I spoke or not. I was no longer me, but a being on a vigilant watch not to disturb those around her, tip toeing through every day, constantly worried to offend or appear dim. That’s not living.

There's more to say I'm sure, but I feel like this is enough to chew on for the time being. But I believe one of the ending morals should be: it is not in the having of great expectations that we find fault, but in our reaction once the outcome is had. Can you find contentment in reality when dreams fall short or will you remain disgruntled and jaded? Will you be so affected by the feelings of another's failed great expectations that you allow them to alter your mood, your disposition, your ability to enjoy life?

Also, the moral is: Be more like Herbert than Pip; and Estella sucks.

Shukran,
Kelsey

Rabbit Tongue

2010-02-12T13:35:00.000-08:00

Since my last blog I have done quite a bit, but can't seem to get my thoughts in order. I've gone on a long adventure, learned a lot about myself and others (in good and bad), and I don't know where to begin. So, here is a bit of what I've seen/done. Pictures and a more accurate idea of what I've been up to is soon to come. Until then, here is my attempt at gathering my thoughts, which is more like hearding stray cats. My poems need some work, but I figured it best to get the idea out there and besides, when does my writing not need some work?

Tunisian Profiles:

A Literary Man: There’s a man in the park with a long, red flannel scarf wrapped unevenly around his neck. His tall, gangly thinness and oversized coat make him akin to a hat stand. He dons a beard that’s long enough to say, I’m a frazzled intellectual, but short enough that he doesn’t yet look bin ladenish. Atop his wiry-haired head is a black French beret tipped neatly to the side. He approaches me and my defenses fall away as I stand flabbergasted in front of him, his demeanor snatching from me my wall. “I’m a literary man,” he says with an articulate and noble air. He has walked from a fiction. I would normally keep my eyes downcast and sneakily shirk away, but I was glued to the spot and could not help but become fully engaged in whatever nonsense he was telling me. “I must inquire if you would have a few pence so that I may acquire some lunch, first for my cats, but I too am a bit famished.” He repeats, “You see, I’m a literary man” and proceeds to list great philosophers; Greek, French, and Arab, “but,” he sighs, “I am lost in my own country.” He extols how his father and family are deeply rooted Tunisians connected to those of the best stock, but after having studied in France he has returned to unrecognizable streets. I make no signs of disinterest and he excitedly continued in his steady, dignified manner of speech quickly adding, “Now talking has become more pleasing than money!” After a few minutes that pass me as if I have just read it in a book and not experienced it he inquires, “Shall we leave our next meeting up to the fates?” We shall.

Prime Minister of Tunisia: Cheekbones jut from his face, one eye squinted, the other yellow and lively wheeling about. He smiles, asking if I need help. Most of his teeth are missing and the remaining ones are butterscotch and brown colored. I smile, thank him the offer, and dismiss myself walking down the street. After a block he catches up with me attempting to continue to chat. A frail old man, whose rattling voice, and hesitant English inspire nothing but compassion I make little attempt to stave off his company. I walk by a group of police officers on the corner and he suddenly disappears. I sit outside the grocery store waiting for my friend to arrive when I turn to see him sitting next to me, smiling his patchwork smile. “I’m not disturbing you? I don’t wish to disturb you,” he says in such a way that I am bound to my seat and his attention. He talks a little bit then we sit in silence only broken by the declaration: “I am destined to be the prime minister of Tunisia.” He begs me to take coffee with him, but a few previous comments about “my beauty” have made me weary and I clench my phone waiting for my friend to arrive. Most of the cashiers and employees at the grocery store have noticed my interaction with the Aged and look either disturbed or are laughing. A few make gestures to see if I am ok and then beckon me inside. I take the opportunity and position myself in the corner near the face wash and juice. Happy to be rid of the increasingly awkward conversation I thank the employee who called me in. He immediately begins to say “oh he’s crazy, this is so normal, what a strange old man, what is your phone number?” And suddenly the safety of the “sane” men and women of the Magasin General doesn’t seem necessarily so sensible and I regret leaving the company of the old man. But perhaps most of all I regret not buying him a sandwich. Perhaps I will have the chance again.

MTV English: Rounded face, painted-on eyebrows, and high heeled boots on a dusty road. She’s a Toezer girl named Lamea. She turns to Faiza (American friend I met in Oman) and I as we were attempting to get lost in a Palmerie (aka palm forest) when she inquired if we needed help. We walked along the path further down the road with her, as she decided to take us to the first Mosque in Toezer. As we part she declares, “You are the first Americans I have ever seen, I have always wanted to meet an American.” We are slightly astounded and she reveals that the entirety of her English was learned from watching MTV. She is so nervous to speak with us she shakes. We exchange phone numbers, and the double cheek kiss goodbye. The next day as Faiza and I are returning from a jaunt into the old city munching on stale Berber bread sprinkled with anise seeds, Lemea approaches us with such haste, out of breath, two purple bags in her hands. She explains her journey from our hotel, searching around town for us (apparently the only two American girls are easy to spot and remember), she hands us the bags, voice shy, yet excited; “Gifts to remember me.” Astounded and surprised we thank her and she departs. Later we open our bags to discover traditional-touristy-tacky-Tunisian summer wear, hot pink with swirling gold trim. She calls from time to time just to say hi, now in Bizerte for a few weeks… perhaps I will search for her there.

The Last Gentleman: Young with clean casual clothes, he signs to his friend as they sit just across the aisle on the bus back to Sousse from Gabes. The men in the row behind us speak loudly, rude, tug on my hair. Faiza and I discuss the death of the gentleman. There must be no man left in this world, no real man, the kind that is respectable, never base, who treats a woman like a lady, not like a prostitute, who speaks with right intention, not for laughs or out of lewdness. Two old women board the bus, it’s been oversold and no seats remain. The men in the back slouch further down, make no motion to stand. The deaf boy and his friend immediately offer their places and steady themselves for the seven hour stand on the bouncy night bus bound north. At a police checkpoint the deaf boy motions to us to see if our bags are being searched, later he taps my shoulder to ask if I want food from the rest stop, I sign no but he brings Faiza and I two cold bananas and begs us to eat. The line of men in the back mock him and steal his bottle of water when we’re not looking. He remains restrained, brushes off their immature actions. Most of the bus has departed as we bump closer to Sousse. He and I are the only ones awake and he offers a seat in the back so Faiza can stretch out. I take it, leaving one seat between us, he never moves closer, offers me the window as a pillow and we excitedly converse for an hour despite the darkness and mismatched languages. We part with a strong hand shake, he never asks for my number, and leaves with his hand on his heart and a smile. “Ok,” we admit, “there’s one last gentleman.”

Every Hearts a Hypocrite

Boy with fire in his belly, writes of homeland, olive oil in his veins, honey tears

Boy with words that steal from us our breath, your rhythm our heartbeat

Boy but after the speech is made, wait on the cold corner, light the last cigarette

Boy you drop the carton in the street, no regret, without retrieval (even when I take notice)

Boy your words weren’t lies, passionate truths, but action forgets your grand sentiment

Boy now it seems I must admit, every hearts a hypocrite.

Girl with hope the stretches like a highway and expectations wide as the Mediterranean

Girl works her day to day, fingers from morning coffee to house key to car key to dinner tea

Girl worn by the grind, hairdresser visits, family expectations, mom’s on the phone again

Girl converse dreams of documentary, author, social change, cult classic fame, Ms. Che Guevara

Girl your words weren’t lies, passionate truths, but everyday dulls your grand sentiment

Girl now it seems I must admit, every hearts a hypocrite

Man renowned, poet of slight fame, published and proud, people know you by name

Man who speaks of grand cultural exchange, hopes to build bridges of understanding

Man who lives simply, seaside home, sees the world in metaphor and allusion, inspired

Man but everyone knows your game, womanizer, seek physical satisfaction, rose prostitution

Man your words weren’t lies, passionate truths, but hunger misleads your grand sentiment

Man now it seems I must admit, every hearts a hypocrite.

Woman sure of self, writes proud, pages spilling off shelves, articulate tongue

Woman believes in individuality, feminism, poetry, reinterpretation of old truth

Woman scholar, abandon husband to assert her rights, knows her path, strides strong upon it

Woman in the glow of the computer screen, daughter’s acting out, mother’s scrubbing dishes

Woman your words weren’t lies, passionate truths, but lack of affection tempers your grand sentiment

Woman now it seems I must admit, every hearts a hypocrite.

Forgive me Bugs

Eat spaghetti lunch with new family, an artist who speaks so shy and slow

Spicy noodles, colorful bowl, served a chunk of meat, what kind I don’t know

Best macaroni I’ve tasted, spicy harrissa with carrots, side of soft bread

Brother triumphant, claims the best share of for himself, holds up the head

Tiny, eyes cooked white, he breaks in, consumes and smiles, ‘tastes like chicken’

It’s rabbit I’m told, brother yanks of a piece, hands it to me, and I suddenly sicken

Images of childhood pets, swear I never would, but my time has come, the fat lady’s sung

Protest useless, closed my eyes, caught a breath, took a bite, and chewed on the tongue.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Hearty thanks to Maria for inspiring me to write.

The Atrash in the Zaffa

2010-01-21T03:02:00.000-08:00

(The Atrash in the Zaffa is a Tunisian phrase, it means the deaf man at the wedding or party. He can’t hear the music or understand exactly what’s going on. That’s me a lot of the time. So whenever everyone starts laughing at a witty joke that someone’s shared in Arabic or French that completely misses me, we smile and say I’m the atrash in the zaffa)

Leblebay Christmas:
I have a friend whose opinion I value highly and I have been told that my blog is looking a little drab with its lack of pictures. So instead of giving you a long drawn out narrative of what I did for my first Christmas away from my family, I’ll show you. Just beware after this section I go right back into the long drawn out narratives.

Sunrise Christmas Morning (on my way to 5 hours of Arabic class)

Long day of class completed with coffee and cake at Baba Club, eating sweets is the best part of Christmas anyways. It's not traditional, but it was delicious and I'm a-ok with that.

Playing "Noel" on children's Xylophone, just kidding... no christmas songs this year, it was absoltuely wonderful.

Real Christmas dinner was had the next day with a motely crew of friends at this resturant/fast food vendor. No muss, no fuss, cheap, easy, and awesome.

Christmas meal: Leblebay... it's like if you dumped everything that was about to expire in your fridge into a bowl then mixed it together with hotsauce. In other words fantastic. Stale bread, chick peas, harrissa, tuna, capers, egg, and the hope that you'll survive the bowl. It was really delicious and very reminiscent of Christmas dinner because afterwards you feel like you got hit by a train and all you want to do is sleep.

Cashing in Dharma

If karma is something you earn, like dropping a quarter in a jar every time you do a good deed then when something lucky happens you remove a quarter; I must have jacked someone’s dharma-piggy bank, there must be some inter-cosmic malfunction diverting the flow of other people good karma vibes towards me, or I was George Washington Carver in a past life. I know there are a few people out there who are praying for me and they might like to take credit for all my good luck, but I would prefer to go with me as the former G.W.C. (As I write this I am typing with one hand and knocking on any wood I can find with the other). I say all that because undoubtedly I have been extremely fortunate in my adventures and vagabonding up to this point, but Tunisia has really “taken the cake” as the cliché goes. In fact, I would argue that Tunisia has provided me a bakery (no, I’m not referring to the man in Oman).

To begin with, I immediately fell into friendships with a group of artistic, creative, intelligent, articulate, young Tunisian hipsters. They wear beat up All Stars, drink cappuccinos, extol the greatness of Bob Marley and Fairouz, criticize the government and certain elements within society, recite beautiful poetry, write powerful prose, seek out independent films, and crave artistic expression. In other words, exactly what I had imagined for my project in its infantile stage playing in my imagination. One of the first women I met immediately invited me to a night of 24 hours of poetry in Sousse, I later discovered she is a poetess herself (though she may not readily admit it), and she has a large network of poetic-artistic-warm-hearted friends who have all gladly accepted me, but who knows why.

I feel that I should describe the 24 hour poetry event in some poetic, image-driven style. Also considering the fact that the lack of sleep left me in a distorted haze, so these groupings of small moments are all I can piece together.

Sip sweet hot tea, mint leaves clog the cup

Small auditorium, speaker extols poetic presentation

Our small table, crowded, a personal performance

Young man’s voice booms bass, captivates

Silence surrounds, his words a spell

Interruptions hushed, breaths slow

Darwish reborn within the length of my arm

Move to wooden chairs, observe poetry panel

Men, women, Tunisian, Saudi, Algerian…

Words sizzle, words dance, sparks on tongues

Special invitation for dinner with poets

Stand on chairs in empty restaurant

Recite and embody Mutanabee and Qabanni

March down the street, a spectacle, sing and shout

The road ours, linked arm in arm

Procession of proud kings without cause

Drunk on words, high on passion

Hotel basement, crowded icy cold room

Hours pass in applause and poetic pulsation

45 minute poem leaves heart sitting in mouth
Voice’s vibration, a religious awakening

Sneak away with Sufi poet called “The Groom”

Rainy night, drink pale Tunisian beer in dark cafe

Smokey, haunting woman gravel tone melody

Return to hear oud, complementing verse

4 am exhaust steals consciousness

Awake an hour later to ovation

Plastic chair bed, navy blazer blanket

A blur of poetic battles, imaginative scenes

Holding my breath, uncomprehending

Cold coffee and stale croissant breakfast

Spinning head, dizzy with sound

Café escape with future Tamim Bargouthi

Hear history, beliefs, open babs to bayts*

Discussion deep, sip espresso, sit close, and smile

A day that I must have dreamed

If this weren’t enough I have recently moved to Sousse to live with a professor’s assistant. Our connection’s a kite string, tangled and long. I knew nothing about her except her phone number scribbled on a slip of paper from Oman, she has a daughter, and a room for rent. Though where I live in Sousse so touristic leaves my mouth with a lemon peel taste, I soon discover my hostess is a published author on poetry (concentrating on linguistics and pragmatics), has several radio shows on literary topics and women’s issues, an advocate of women’s rights, ex-husband’s a published poet, has connections in the Tunisian poetic/literary/intellectual community, and if these weren’t enough, if the running hot water, working plumbing, delicious food prepared by her mother still left me unsatisfied, she is also a poet.

But if there is one thing I have learned since the start of my adventure it’s the necessity of balance (BalaunS). Now I am just waiting for this to all bite me in the butt.

*bab = door, bayt literally means house, but it is also used to refer to stanzas in Arabic poetry (other words for house are menzil and dar). Both bab and bayt have been pluralized English fashion because I obviously have no respect for the Arabic language.

Menzil in Maharas

I met Amal* for a late lunch after Arabic class at her favorite restaurant near her work. We tear the baguette in the center of the table, dipping it into oil and harrissa, rich yellow and bright red swirling together. “You know I’ve been thinking, you are far from your family and I think it’s a good idea for you to just come to my house for New Years. You will be at home in five minutes, I promise.” Smiling at the unexpected proposition I immediately agreed having had no New Years plans save perhaps watching an Egyptian comedy then falling asleep before midnight. I immediately agreed. Soon we were on a train headed to Maharas, near Sfax, a four hour train ride from Tunis. We have coffee and chocolate croissants with our friends as we wait for our train to depart Wednesday night. They walk us to the station, hugging goodbye as if we are leaving for four months not just four days. But we have established the habit of meeting almost every night for coffee and conversation at Baba Club and the break in tradition is not something that the group easily accepts. Truly a loving, tight group of friends though they’ve known each other only a short while.

The long ride is spent listening to a mix of different traditional Arabic singers on Amal’s laptop sharing her ear buds, then attempting to fall asleep. The man in front of us is singing to himself (a comical falsetto), the man to our left, a rumbling snore. Three women near the snorer begin to giggle uncontrollably. Amal and I burst, knocking into one another doing the same and attempting to stifle our laughter. We arrive after 1am; her father is waiting to pick us up. We enter exhausted and disoriented to Amal’s home, her mother is in her pastel pink robe waiting to greet us. She sits us at the kitchen counter, gives us small cakes, tells us to eat and hurries off to bed. We sleepily agree to the late night sweets and immediately look for our own beds to collapse onto. Amal’s sister, Rima, is already asleep in the bed, Amal pushes her aside and I sleep on the bed near them against the wall. The blankets are soft and warm, the air biting cold. I snuggle in and fall asleep. Tired, content, sugar still on my lips.

The next morning the house slowly comes to life. We gather ourselves leisurely and sleepily, wandering towards the kitchen after Amal’s mother knocks quietly on the door and whispers her call to the breakfast table. Hot milk, coffee, olive oil, honey, warm bread, homemade jam, scrambled eggs, and suddenly we are chatting excitedly, forgetting we were just cursing the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen table. Rima and I look at family photos from dusty maroon box; Amal departs to find a wifi signal for work. I am walked through her younger brother’s toddler photos (which he loudly protests), birthdays, weddings, including family anecdotes, and beautiful small details (she makes the best salad, I love his laugh) of particular family members that appear captured in time on the yellows scraps of paper. We head to the kitchen to prepare the food for that nights pre-2010 feast. Around eight family members were scheduled to join, but Amal’s mother, in typical motherly fashion, was concerned that there just wouldn’t be enough food so instead of preparing for ten we set on the task of feeding a small army. Rima explained, “my mom is worried that we won’t have enough food, or that the food won’t be done on time, or that the house isn’t clean enough. She becomes very stressed. But it’s just family coming over and she knows her sisters are going to help and that everything is going to get done. That’s the way it always works.” And I remember Amal’s words “you’ll be at home in five minutes” which I had deeply doubted, now seem so true. I am filled with an inexpressibly feeling of comfort, the familiarity of Rima’s words, the character of the family, close, loving and kind… like home.

It’s something about the shape of the rooms that makes me feel so at ease. Leaning on the counter, just so, my hip pressed against the tile. Comfort in the closeness and distance between us as we move about the kitchen. Each with their space, but near enough to someone else that you don’t feel alone. There’s a mood of calm and warmth like lemon tea on a rainy Sunday morning, dad reading the newspaper at the kitchen counter, the smell of lilacs drifting in from the door. Here in this cold tiled, warm-aired kitchen in Maharas, atmosphere simple, pleasant, loving. Feels like home.

Sink water spits to life, rinses the colander of deep purple plums. The son, Mohammad, slices potatoes into strips, knife drags along the wooden cutting board. Glug, glug of oil into the pan and sizzle sound. Casual conversations that warm the room like the smell of coffee brewing. I step into the dinner preparation motions with the family; cutting bread, setting the table, hugged by, but not comprehending all their words as they converse. A mother commands the room, children protest or confirm. Clank, clatter pots. Tink, clink dishes. Schik-a schik-a, slippers on tile. Sounds like home.

Potatoes fry and fill the room with a warm tempting perfume. Chop crunchy vegetables that spray water and summer scents into the air, the red of the tomatoes not a color but a fragrance. Tearing mint leaves from their steam, a calm aroma inspiring expectations of sweet tea. Stewing meats, mixing salads, baking baby pizzas, stirring hummus and olive oil, simmering soup; all send smells of spices that dance in the air, from our nose to our stomachs, urging the clock to move closer to the hour when we can consume the sources of these wonderful aromas. We all enjoy their comforting scent, which warms our senses and satisfies more than hunger. Smells like home.

I feel a sense of belonging without fitting. Despite the fact that I am a stranger, unkempt blonde American amongst traditional and proudly Tunisian I am comforted to know the feeling of home is universal beyond the bounds of culture, country, or time. And as I brush off my curiosity at why they insist on putting tuna on the pizza, I smile at the collectively shared sentiment of home and family, how something so simple and common could be one of the strongest forces in our lives. I’ve read enough poems that can make you cry over a description of the smell of a mother’s coffee to know that home is not a small thing, not something we should take for granted or abuse, it is powerful. So when you ask yourself why we do most of the brilliant, crazy, stupid, ingenious things we do, it seems that there is a good chance it’s because we are doing it for home. To establish or protect our home whether literally or metaphorically. It’s a word we find enough worth to die for, enough worth to live for, enough strength to lift us, enough weight to crush us (see witch in Wizard of Oz). Maybe if we better understood how similar we are on this fundamental level we would sympathize and be more aware of each other. Maybe we would gain new perspective: other becomes m“other” and br"other”. But perhaps this sounds too corny and is a sentiment best left for soap boxes and poetry.

My few days as family member in this household were so incredibly comforting that I both miss my family all the more for the taste of love that I have felt and feel a stronger sense of love for them and all the family’s that have taken me in, sheltered me, fed me, called me their daughter or sister.

Awake with aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, parents, cake and tea. Midnight’s uproar, claps and shouts, excitement and optimism for a year just begun. My confidence that 2010 will be undoubtedly more rewarding than 2009 was short-lived as all the wonderful foods I had consumed brought with them an intruder into my belly. The terrorist spent the entire night leading me through nightmares, awaking me with pounding head and aching stomach. I couldn’t eat or speak a full sentence without feeling woozy. I conveyed only a fraction of my state to Rima who promptly sat me on the couch, turned on typical American cop show** and made me her special herbal tea with honey. The day was a lazy one in general with the whole family slouched on the comfortable couch under soft blankets. After refusing to eat and spending most of the day in and out of consciousness on the sofa, Amal’s mother jokingly stated, “you love to sleep! Eat a sandwich!” Pale faced, disoriented, and shivering I laughed and apologized. She scooted closer to me and did the tried and true mother’s fever test, kissing my cheeks and forehead, which surprisingly was not at all awkward and was lovingly nostalgic. Soon she was in full mom-mode feeding me strange, disgusting medicines, forcing me to eat some bread and yogurt and sending me to bed. But sometimes all you want is your mom’s chicken soup and your favorite blanket. Doesn’t matter if they are nothing unique, the fact that it’s not special is what makes it so significant. Feeling sick in someone else’s home is never an easy thing, but if my luck on maintaining my health had to run out, I’m glad I was there.

As my fever ebbed and broke I scribbled this into my small moleskine notebook:

Maybe my New Years waits for me somewhere. Perhaps this is just a separate time and the realness hasn’t set in. As if the year has not begun, life not quite true unless my mom’s laugh is echoing in the next room, I’m brushing off Leo’s dog hair as I sink into Beth’s couch, the Risk board abandoned, pieces and armies in disarray, or I sit in the back seat, stare up at the moon, dark trees fly by while my dad drives us home, empty Tupperware on our laps. (Of course it wasn’t this neat looking, but I kind of liked the idea though I didn’t recall writing it when I woke up)

The next few days I felt increasingly better though my stomach did not recover completely and my fever greeted me now and again. Rima, her cousin and I went on unhurried walks around the adorable little town along the sea, exploring outdoor art, admiring another of their cousin’s mosaic workshop, and lazing about. Another day was spent browsing through piles of used clothes in their neighborhood freep market (like a flea market and salvation army combined into one… meaning, spectacular), watching the sunset, exploring some seaside, historical ruins, saint's tomb, and additional couch potatoing. By the end of my stay I was puddy, relaxed and comforted in that atmosphere of family that it was difficult to leave. But as Amal and I stepped out of the shared van back in Tunis we both agreed, “feels good to be home.”

*I would like at this point to insert a description of Amal, but it seems that is fairly impossible. But here’s as close as I can get: an obvious intellectual, but not intimidatingly so, loving and warm-hearted by nature, wild curly hair, strong face, articulate speech, and animated greetings. She’s a writer, social butterfly, the keystone of her friends, an open ear, insightful advisor, but she isn’t over-complicated. Competed on Tunisia’s version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, is witty, perceptive, funny, and enjoys life with an open mind and heart. One of those people that I will carry with me like the ring on my hand she gave me. She’s the sister I never knew I had. Her sister is undoubtedly the same in many ways, though not all, younger and on a different path. They immediately adopted me into their sisterhood and made me feel at ease with simply their presence.

** The “typical American cop show” had several references to my home state, including; “the suspect is hiding in Virginia, near Alexandria” or in another show “we discovered the dismembered bodies in Fairfax” to which I responded, “I live near there!” to which they reacted with wide eyes and concern, “oh… Virginia seems nice.”

Call me Tekilla:

I forgot one of my most popular new nicknames since my arrival in Tunis: tequila (usually spelled tekilla because no one knows how to spell tequila… good choice for a nickname, huh?). The origins of this nickname are not what you may surmise. I have not danced on any bar counters or challenged any large Berber men to a shots competition. In fact, I have not been in a bar in Tunisia and the only beverage of this nature I had was a watered down Tunisian beer with a poet. Therefore the name tekilla seems rather curious. The story is simple; upon first meeting Amal, Hasna introduced me and told her my name. Her reaction was a wrinkled nose and the query, “do you have a nickname?” Hasna informed her that her household had chosen layla. “No, layla is no good…” Later she called Hasna to ask if she and I were going to meet at Baba Club for coffee that night. This is how the conversation went,

“Hasna, are you and… umm… kerz, umm, sena, noo, umm, tekilla coming to Baba Club” Amal inquired.

“Tekilla? Do you mean Kelsey?” Hasna responded, slightly confused.

“Tekilla is her new name!” Amal said excitedly.

And that’s how I got my name. This one has stuck more than any other name previously. Most people don’t know my real name; I have been entered in mobiles across Tunisia as “tekilla”. Well, it could be worse… I could be Natty-Light, and really no one likes that. But let’s be honest, quesadilla would be more fitting.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Yay pictures that worked: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034817&id=35501566&l=1c7a1c4e89

PPS-Lots more good pictures soon... my facebook and I are not friends right now. Well, neither are me and Blogspot... sorry for the lack of spacing in between my paragraphs. I am awful with technology, next time my blog is by carrier pigeon. What? carrier pigeons are extinct? Well, harry potter owls then.

Misspelled

2010-01-12T10:52:00.000-08:00

“God is the number one cause of death in the history of mankind”

George Carlin

After recent events in Malaysia inspired by the ownership over the use of “Allah” and Egypt’s recent religious violence this is my quick and rather inadequate gut reaction. I'm sure I could make it better if I spent more time on it, but I'm not right now. Here are some NY Times links if you’d care to learn more about each country’s specific situation. And I wish it was something new, some logical reason, an ‘ahh yes’ moment when fire and death are justified, but they’re not and never are. I’m not religious in conventional ways, I’m not an atheist in rejectionist ways. I’m just me so take what I say for what it is, or whatever you want it to be.

Cairo: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/world/middleeast/10egypt.html?ref=middleeast

Malaysia: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/12/world/asia/12malaysia.html?ref=world

If Allah spells arson, lechery, lies, anger, hate… that ain’t allah.

She’s better than your baseness, bombs, and blindness.

She more beautiful and powerful than your letters can enclose.

So when you burn buildings, end breaths, beat your fists- it’s not for her.

If your God is your purpose, your path and your end- don’t make her your excuse

Your god’s not a god if she desires destruction for letters in a name

Your god’s not a god if she craves cruelty towards her creations

Your god’s not a god is she finds favor in you from fluke

When you’re born into your family’s faith- god would not reject you

In your house of worship, communing amongst neighbors and friends- god would not reject you

Wear your star, cross, veil, and symbols on your skin, in your heart- god would not reject you

But it is man in all his reasonless rage, his mind's filth finds fault in pure faith

Faith that can find light in deepest darkness, warmth in coldest winds

Yet man will dirty Allah’s name; but they can’t own her, can’t hold her, can’t capture her

Justify your ignorance, disgust, violence, which inspire devastating tears of love lost

Justify your flames, matches, and smoke, which demolish bricks and obliterate books

Justify your hate with their hate, from your hate, their hate, your hate, their hate hate hate

Justify your ownership over the letters in the name of Allah, though you clutch at wisps of smoke

Allah is not a name, not a name not a name, not a letter, not in a book, not on paper, not born in ink

Give me the Allah of my Grandmother, warm heart pointed in the direction of good by her God

Give me the Allah who brings man together in joyous songs of justice and caring

The god of bake sales for charity and magnificent sunsets, the god of cupcakes and buttercups

But if Allah spells arrogance, lust, lassitude, animosity, heedless… that ain’t allah.

Shukran,

Kelsey

Sugar, Milk, and Olive Oil

2010-01-11T03:07:00.000-08:00

Coffee and Cigarettes

I arrived near midnight; the street was wet with rain. My taxi cab driver would not believe that I only know English and would respond to my Arabic in French. After spending the entire day locked in Egypt’s airport unable to leave for not having though earlier to ask for permission for a day’s excursion into Cairo as I waited for my connecting flight, I was so joyous to be out of the airport the cold, wet Tunis drive was a sweet dream. As we pulled up to the dark arch near my hostel I stumbled out of the taxi and into the Tunisian night air. Dim street lamps, an elegant arch, and the smell of quiet city souk. The streets were empty, just Tunis and me. A personal meeting with a city, a history, and a place of such inspiration and passion for so many. Ahlan Bikee Tunis.

The next morning I woke early to the sound of the souk coming to life outside my window. With no destination in mind and only a very general sketch in my mind of how the city was organized I walked down the street and into a different world. Women in high heels, men in fitted blue jeans. Everyone chatting loudly in mixed groups, filling the street at the cafes stacked on top of one another all side by side. Where had I woken up in? Surely this is Italy or France, some European city that I have only imagined. I listened astounded at the Arabic mixing with French, the sound of the call to prayer echoing off the Cathedral, watching the western fashions worn so naturally, where men and women mingled, held hands, shared conversation, welcoming cheek to cheek kisses without reservation. And as I walked up and down the main street of Tunis, eyes wide, nerves on edge I realized that this was my first taste since the beginning of my journey of culture shock. Suddenly waking up in a quasi-European city where baguettes and high French fashion had replaced the flat khobz and conservative abayyas. It was the first time I really felt slightly alienated, but only for a fleeting moment. In Abu Dhabi I rejected what I perceived to be shallow and though the city did not inspire any great love within me, her diversity of people was welcoming in its own way. Though I may not have wanted to stay there she was a city that could consume anyone with ease, as long as you could accept the fact that you would never truly be a citizen. You could still be a part of Abu Dhabi. But I had not prepared myself for such a radically different way of life as I had experienced in the Middle East, even in Egypt life had not been like this. Modern, traditional, religious, secular, European, Berber, and Arab: Tunis is its own world.

I slipped into a café, searching desperately for an empty seat. I just needed someplace to sit, breathe, and take it all in. I had already been entranced by her long beautiful streets and the loud conversing, but swallowing the coffee and cigarettes lifestyle was something I could not do as quickly as I might assume after the more conservative and reserved societies I had been living in. A kindly older gentleman came up to my table and stood. He didn’t hand me a menu and waited for my order. I asked for a tea, as I usually do and he gave me a sideways glance. We stared at each other as I repeated the word slower, perhaps I had mispronounced it, “shaayy?” He smiled, shook his head and said, “café,” left, and returned later with a small cup of light coffee and five packets of sugar. Never having been a big coffee drinker, I stirred in some of the sugar, remembering to breath, intensely concentrating on my cup. The warm milk and sugar was just what I needed to calm me and the caffeine sparked me enough to keep moving. I explored Tunis for the next few hours on foot, tracing the curving metro lines, breathing deeply the smell of coffee and croissants, and attempting not to be run over by the soccer fans draped in their team’s colors hanging out the sides of their cars. Eventually I found the place I would be studying Arabic for the next month and after a few hours of waiting, with much relief, they put me in contact with my hostess Hasna with whom I would be sharing her family house with while studying.

Hasna is the only one in the house who speaks English. She’s a part time teacher in her early 40s, and is an out-going, talkative, and energetic woman surprisingly quick for her height. She’s more like a teenager or a tractor on rabbit. She dashes me through the city, half in English, Arabic, and forgetting herself uses French. We walk to my hostel and retrieve my bag; apparently her house is only a short distance from where I had stayed. As she enters the souk my heart quickens pace and I smile. As we weave through the crowds of people in the old bazaar with its cobblestones, strange smells, loud shouts, and bursting life I begin to feel the knots in my muscles come undone. I can’t keep track of where we’re going or what path we’ve taken, I’m sure that I will never be able to find her house again. We turn down another small alley to two large bright blue and white wooden doors, enter to an open courtyard, climb the broken, crooked, winding stairs and glance into each room with thin mat beds/ couches, curling iron windows, small, bright kitchen, chipping walls, clothes lines strung, and dates drying on the doorframe. I learn about the many family members occupying the house, their Berber-Arab heritage, the broken plumbing, unusable shower, my shared room with Hasna’s 70 plus year old mother (Umm Hajja) and Hasna’s older sister (Khadija). As Umm Hajja shouts something in incomprehensible Arabic at the TV screen, Khadija’s pots clatter, and the laughter of children echoes up from the courtyard - I know, I’m home.

Some like it Harr

Hasna, Khadija, and I sit on cracked plastic stools around the large silver tray amongst the piles of mismatched shoes and empty water bottles stacked high in the windowsill. Bowls of unidentifiable foods fill the table, spicy, unusual scents cut the cold room. Long baguettes are retrieved from a plastic bag and ripped into large pieces. Crispy crust, soft and chewy I rip off chunks of the bread and dip it into the bowl of burgh; hot barely, tomato, and garlic soup with chunks of the Eid lamb stewed in the middle. Spicy, warm, and strong it warms my stomach reaching out to my fingertips.

A large wooden bowl sits in the center of the table, steam rolling off the top. Khadija (also cook, washer, cleaner, server, hostess, shopper, and any other number of the daily and necessary thankless jobs that she does without complaint on two aching knees) has her hand sunk deep into the dish and is mixing the large white something with the soupy red something. It seems to be a mashed potato island with tomatoes and spicy green peppers swimming in the deep red sea. Called Aseeda, the meal is a Tunisian specialty made of thick wheat meal that must be carefully watched until it obtains the right consistency, which is then doused in what they call “salsa” a mysteriously hot and flavorful spicy tomato soup. Khadija splats a handful of the mixture on my side of the bowl, “kulee!” (eat!) she demands. Khadija is a mighty woman, a powerhouse in the family, she may be four feet tall, but she could make the strongest man cower with nothing but a glare. All in all, she’s not someone you question and when it comes to her demanding me to eat something I do so without hesitation. How I love her so. I burn my fingertips on the mixture and unceremoniously shovel it into my mouth. It is the sentimental equivalent of my mom’s meatloaf or a pot of bowling cinnamon sticks. Though I have never tasted anything like this, I feel a strange nostalgia.

After the dishes are taken back to the kitchen where they will sit on the countertop for the next round of family members to devour, Hasna returns with a large pink and tan pomegranate. The fading glow of dusk is our only light as we peel the pomegranate and pluck her gem-like seeds. We crunched loudly, savoring table spoons packed with pomegranate seeds soaked in rose water and covered in sugar. I eat past my full, not speaking, completely consumed by the unusual and comforting tastes and smells that surround me and warm me despite the chill in the room and my place as stranger greeting a new every day.

Scrub Down

After a week and one bucket bath, Bushra, Hasna’s Moroccan sister-in-law and mother of two, invites me to go to the hammam with her. I have avoided hammams up to this point, but I’m starting to smell and it must be better than heating pots of water on the stove and bathing from a small plastic bucket. I gather my shampoo and towel, leaving behind inhibitions. But abandon your perverted thoughts of a room full of scantily clad shapely Mediterranean-styled Tunisian women with olive skin in a low lit steam room. Imagine instead your grandmother’s overweight group from bible study lessons and bingo night; you know Aunty Greta and Miss Maggie, see them? Now imagine them completely naked save see-through knickers. And how gravity is unkind! The entire complex is underground and completely tiled a mosaic of blue and white in floral patterns cracked along the walls. Doorways and hallways are steeply arched, I duck from room to room. Bushra and I continue to the very last corner in the back, only one of the lights seems to be working- al-hamdulillah! (Thank god!). I breathe in steam, everything is hot, wet, and I stare intently at the floor smiling nervously beside myself. Oh I dream of disappearing.

Bushra stands in front of me with two large plastic buckets filled with steaming water. She drops one at my feet with a thump and splash; I hesitate and look up staring at her eyebrows with utmost intensity. The opportunities for awkwardness are reaching a critical breaking point. I’ve refused to remove my underwear and on her face an expression of silent resignation. I was the wrong person to be her hammam buddy. To go to the hammam is not a solo adventure one must be sure to take with them only the most trustworthy and close of friends, but perhaps more so than this it is necessary to have someone accompany you who is the strongest and most ruthless. Your hammam buddy will spend the next few hours rubbing the skin off your bones and drenching you in boiling hot water. She splashes steaming water in my face, rubs a finger along my clavicle like a dusty mantle, ticks her tongue, and tosses a bar of soap into my lap. She leaves to fill more buckets while I rub soap all over me, a fierce looking woman just to my right, I avoided eye contact, still clutching onto my bra which I refused to remove against strong advisements and tugging by both Bushra and old hammam mothers.

Before I could gather my senses enough to protest Bushra had taken hold of my wrist and was, as far as I can tell, attempting to remove my freckles with the aid of a sandpaper glove. My skin came off in black rolls. She stopped, looked from me to my arm in surprise and slight disgust. Apparently, I was in real need of a good scrubbing, my previous bucket bath and sitting on the edge of a tub bathing techniques were obviously inadequate. She pushed me onto my stomach where she began to press my sternum into tiles, unclipped my bra, shouting something that could probably be translated to “get over it!” flipped me over and continued until everything hurt and I had a bright red shine. She pushed a bucket of steaming water in my direction and I washed off the layers of scum and sat in complete unbelief of what had just occurred. I had pictured something similar to the communal showers of American high school movies, the ones I have avoided, the ones of nightmares. But this, this was much worse and so much better. I clenched my teeth and asked Bushra with extreme hesitation, “need help?” She waved me away, to my great relief, and motioned that another woman would be giving her the scrub down. I felt awful for not being able to help her, but from me came a sigh of such sweet relief.

For the next hour I sat, shoulders slumped, in another awkwardly well-lit room surrounded by mothers and their children. I stared at my knees, attempting not to glance at the bright pink flowered bloomers of a bent-backed, white-haired hajja (old mother). From the corner of my eye I saw Bushra’s scrubber extraordinaire rushing over wobbling, attempting not to slip, her hanging flesh and rolls of fat swayed and bounced towards me. I braced myself for the attack. She snickered and began scrubbing me with her soapy outstretched hand then proceeded to dump an entire bucket of water on my head, laughing wildly.

I left, feeling akin to a wet dog, confused, disoriented, unused to such cleanliness, desiring only to cover myself and perhaps roll in some dirt. We walked through the souk and back to the house, my hair soaking wet, pushing through the crowd of shoppers, salesmen, and tourists attempting to go unnoticed but assuredly failing miserably. Bushra bought sweets for me and her two six-year old boys whom I adore. Bushra loved and accepted me immediately and I’ve become extremely close to her and her kids who only recently once went on a hunger strike until I agreed to have lunch with them.

News of my hammam experience has spread all over the house and through my ever-increasing group of friends. I may not speak that much Arabic, but it becomes especially easy to translate a story when someone is acting out my own actions, laughing to tears, and yelling words like “mafi milabis!” (no clothes!) as I had done upon entering the hammam. I’m happy to have provided them with a comical story, like an Egyptian comedy I’ll trip, stumble, and gag- joke my way into their hearts… or at least I hope that’s how it works.

Learning to love breakfast:

The sun was just beginning to slip rays through the window facing the courtyard passed the swirling iron bars. I wake when Khadija begins moving around. The television is still humming as it has been all night. I’m already wearing my clothes for the day; I’m too cold and lazy to attempt changing at night. I wash off my face with frigid water in a small, broken hallway sink that leaks onto the floor. I step into the kitchen where Hasna and Khadija are wordless lighting burners and inspecting the staleness of a hanging grocery store bag of bread scraps. We sit around the large round metal tray and poor creamy and warm milk into each of our cups, mixing in teaspoons of Nescafe and sugar. We rip the cold, slightly stale bread into small chunks and soak it in a small bowl of olive oil and honey. The thick, flavorful olive oil against the rich, sweet honey along with the heavy glass of sugary milk wakes me up in the best way as if to ease you out of sleep and ready you the day. I’ve never been one to eat breakfast especially when it mostly consists of sugar, milk, and olive oil (which seems to be the three main ingredients of every meal) but it’s filling and comforting in a way that no other food up to this point has been. Food contains in it so much history, tradition, love, and life so when the food makes you feel warm and welcome everything else is better without effort.

Adding to my list of names:

Call me Layla- In my traditional Tunisian style house complete with large family, I’ve counted ten in the residence, but I can’t be sure. Umm Hajja, Hasna, Khadija, Bushra, and I sat in the small room with the latest episode of their favorite Turkish soap opera dubbed in Arabic blaring. Umm Hajja with her wrinkled faced lined with Berber tattoos turns to me, searching for my name. “Kelsita!” she beckons, I look up and all present burst into laughter. Apparently Kelsita in Tunisian dialect translates to “socks.” They discuss my need for a new name and come to the conclusion that instead I should be called “layla.” I do not think there was a reason for this name save the fact that it is easier to remember and pronounce. When I knock on the door they won’t open when I answer Kelsey. I’m layla now… though I would prefer Kelsita.

Call me Raylu- Omar and Yaseen are Bushra’s two adorable boys. We’ve become very close. Omar and Yaseen love to color in my animal doodles, play soccer in the small courtyard, kill mosquitoes with stuffed animals, and get lost in the souk. Omar has downsyndrom and the family loves him deeply, his brother looks after him, and everyone gives him extra attention despite the fact that the only thing I think they know about him is that he is “special.” Bushra and I go to pick up Yaseen from his Qur’an reading lessons with Omar in tow. We walk down the narrow, cobblestone streets of the Souk to Zaytouna Mosque while Omar high fives every shopkeeper and old man sitting sipping coffee and smoking his hubbly bubbly. They all know him and smile when he comes by. If a shopkeeper is passed by without a hug or hand slap he quickly calls for Omar who returns in his wobbly run. We turn back home with Yaseen and Omar causing mischief all around the souk, running amongst the jalibayyas, shoe shops, and stores under construction we return to the bright blue and white doors of our house just passed the women’s lingerie and night clothes stand.

Later Yaseen runs up to me, a handful of gold-colored coins in his hand begging me to come with him to buy bread and eggs. With Omar’s small hand in mine we amble down the souk’s uneven stone path, little Yaseen leading the way against the pulsing crowd and loud vendors. We return triumphant with the day’s dinner ingredients in hand. We watch Egyptian comedies and I draw poorly done cats, dogs, and lizards which the two boys rejoice in despite my lack of artistic skills. I bring them chocolate cookies and strawberry wafer treats when I return from class. Now throughout the house I hear the echoes of my name. Yaseen shouts: Layla! Layla! And Omar, who has trouble speaking shouts: Raylu! Raylu!

Got Milk?

Khadija dons her plum colored jacket and zebra stripe headscarf, motions with her head towards the door, “Layla, namshee!” We hit the cobblestone streets. In her gruff, all business, but kind and cordial manner she greets passersby, “aslaama.” We make our dodging through the crowd, Khadija swaying back and forth on aching knees, but with an energy and drive that I can only relate to the energizer bunny and my Aunt Terry. She speeds through her chores like a freight train, never asking for any word of recognition or thanks, never stopping for a breath, I don’t know if I’ve seen her sit for more than five minutes at any given time. She has grown fond of me for my deep appreciation of her cooking and we have made a habit of buying each other sweets and watching Fetafeet, the Tunisian cooking channel.

Pushing passed the crowd she would only slow to ensure that I was still close behind her. When we exited one of the arched gates of the old souk we ran across the busy street as the gates clang to a close on the shops and buses rushed by with people trying to return home. In the dimly lit street we leaned up against a dusty car- waiting. I was not sure what we were waiting for. I had been told we were going to buy milk, but we had passed several small shops selling small boxes of milk. What alternative mission was this? Did Khadija really lead a double life that I had accidentally stumbled upon? I imagined the possible scenarios until I was distracted by a truck with large cans clanking loudly in the bed rumbled into sight. A large group of mothers and old men passed small coins and empty plastic bottles to the man in the truck who would ladle the thick white milk into each bottle. As I watched him wipe bottle lids with his grimy hands, dipping the ladle into the deep milk cans I decided not to think of whether or not this was sanitary, because when the morning comes and I have my delicious warm cup of coffee I don’t much care what fun friends might be swimming around in it. It’s that good.

After we have our bottles filled with milk Khadija takes me down a different path through the fish souk pointing out all the places she buys her food. That night she invites me to come spend the night with her sister Daranda at her house farther into the city. We pick up a few pastries and climb the many flights of stairs to Daranda’s heavily barred door. After putting on a pair of soft, pale pink, stripped PJs Daranda lent to be we turned on fetafeet, a relaxing escape from the noise of the family house. Who knew buying milk could be such a lovely little adventure.

Sun it Rises:

Every morning as I hit the street, my footfall thumps with the bass of the music blast on my headphones. Sky so simple. Every morning reveals a blending of colors on a canvas that's ever-changing, everlasting. How the souk never looks the same from one moment to the next, the aslaamas (greetings) roll of the tongue, singing, clanking, feeling my heartbeat and breath a melody, Fleet Foxes calling tired minds to lift from the pillow. I thought all my late nights would snatch from me my ability to wake, but as soon as that sun starts to warm the cold night air all my cells feel compelled to great the day; glimpse at sun's procession that casts such beautiful and fleeting colors. I’ll choose different streets to see new garbage piles, regulars sipping coffee on plastic chairs, raw chickens in the rotisserie, breads, fresh air, and the entire day will never be as quiet and loud, as fulfilled as the morning walk to class.

Damascus Paper:

I’ve forgotten to share a funny little story from Jordan so why not just throw it in here seeing as this is all rather random and mostly inadequate descriptions of stuff I ate. Well… on my short stint back in Amman between Oman and Tunis I went to stay at my friend’s house to sleep in a spare room. It was free and he makes the best mocha I have ever tasted- how could I resist? “I have a roommate though, will that be a problem?” No of course not, I can pretty much live anywhere or curl up on a concrete floor just as long as it’s cheap. “Oh, and he says he knows you.” Interesting. My friend would not reveal to me how I knew his mystery roommate, but upon arriving at the house my friend called out, “Hani! She’s here.” Hani? It sounds familiar but I know I have not met anyone recently named Hani. Into the kitchen where I am currently searching my mind’s registry of names steps in a man I haven’t seen since riding in a fruit truck bed up a mountain in Damascus over two years ago. If you were a Kelsey in Cairo reader and by that I mean my mom, you will remember one installation where I detailed my Eid journey into Syria where my group of friends and I met another group of ragtag adventurers during our ten hour stint at the border. One of those in the group was Hani, a Jordanian student who I most vividly recall demanding to no avail for the musician to play Wonderwall in a small smoky café on a quiet Damascus night. Now we were face to face once again. “Wait right here.” Astounded and unable to move whether he had requested it or not I stood in the kitchen, mouth agape, processing the unusual encounter. He returned with a folded piece of paper in his hand. “Do you remember this?” I took the paper carefully knowing exactly what it was but still unbelieving. While we had raced off to have our last iftar of Ramadan in Damascus I, though the idea was communal, drew a sign in bubble Arabic letters that read “Nahib al-shams” (we love Syria). The picture of me holding the sign even made a brief debut on the Ursinus website, the most famous I will ever be. Hani had kept this trifle of a paper and now upon our meeting decided to return it to its maker. This may not seem such an amazing story, but to me I am flabbergasted at such strange luck. How the fates work I’ll never understand.

Shukran,

Kelsey

PS- Pictures of Oman and Jordan… slowly catching up: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2034178&id=35501566&l=1f0a097141