Adventures with My Mudir.
22.10.05
My mudir asked me to come with him to Errachidia in order to meet his family and go to a meeting with him. He told me it would be like the youth café I planned at the dar chebab. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into but I didn’t have anything else to do so I went along. I met the monsieur at the bus station and was surprised to see him carrying his guitar and briefcase.
We took an hour ride into town in a taxi, arriving a couple hours before l’iftor. No one in Morocco has a car so whenever anyone wants to go anywhere, they have to take a taxi or a bus. It is completely impossible to get anywhere on time. We got off the bus in front of this little auberge (kind of like a hotel but the literal meaning is hostel). Two of my mudir’s friends greeted us and welcomed us into the auberge. It was new and very charming. It had a large lobby, restaurant, guest rooms, garden, and terrace.
One of my mudir’s friends was waiting for us. He introduced himself as Driss and the three of us spoke in Arabic for awhile until said friend revealed that he spoke perfect English. He was a teacher at the high school and was even my mudir’s teacher long ago. He told me that he had worked with many PC volunteers in the past and recently worked with two girls from a British association called “Project Trust.” It turned out that he knew my two friends Sarah and Miriam, the girls that worked at the Agadir camp with me. He gave me two of his English grammar books that he had written and told me he had to go but would see me later that night. I had no idea what he was alluding to but I didn’t have any time to think it over because I was swept away to my mudir’s family house.
It was there that I met most of his entire family, including his mom, dad, sister, sister-in-law, nieces, and nephews. When his father came into the room, he looked at me with big eyes and a big grin and said, “Bienvenue Madame!” I had to tell him I was not a madame but a mademoiselle. He laughed and we all broke fast together. After, the grandfather played with his young grand kids and made them laugh and laugh forever. Looking at them, I thought about my grandpa and missed him so much. I can’t wait to be able to see him and my grandma again. I don’t think I will be able to fit in his lap anymore but we will have to see come December.
After l’iftor, my mudir told me it was time to go and I followed obediently. We went back to the auberge and it was now crowded with lots of men. They were all about in their 30’s and 40’s, wearing suits and speaking French.
(Whenever I come across a Moroccan man who speaks French, I can’t help but think it’s weird. I mean, it’s okay some of the time but when you speak it all the time you just sound stupid. There are some Moroccans who only speak French! And it’s not even good French. If I lived in a country where France had once ruled and then left, I wouldn’t continue to speak French but I would speak my own language. Isn’t it like saying that France is better than you if you continue to speak French? I guess this is something that really bothers me. I always get very frustrated when people automatically speak French to me when they meet me…what, just because I’m white and foreign means that I speak French? I know this is very annoying for the volunteers who don’t speak French. Even people in my own town insist on speaking French with me. To me, it is disrespectful and I cringe whenever I hear little kids shouting “Bonjour!” at 7 o’clock at night. If you’re going to speak French to me, at least be correct and say “Bonsoir” when it is evening.)
I met a bunch of my mudir’s friends. His friends included many men who write poems and books in French and even the president of the writer’s union. I followed everyone outside and sat on the terrace overlooking the garden. A small stage was set up with mikes and a musical group was seated center stage. A lot of men were seated and I was the only girl. It was a little awkward, especially since everyone was staring at me and I had no female companionship. The music started and all my thoughts disappeared. The music was wonderful, even though I didn’t understand any of it because it was in Berber. After the group finished their set, many men took their turns reciting poetry, singing a song, or even playing the guitar. My mudir recited one of his poems about the challenges youth faces and also sang a song on his guitar. Later on, my mudir handed me a book and told me that I should get up and do something. I told him I had nothing to read and that I wasn’t prepared. If I had known, I would have brought something of my own. He told me to pick a poem from this book and read it anyway, that no one would understand and the important thing was to participate. So I did. I read a poem from an early American poet about a bee who got lost and swallowed in a glass of wine. It was the only good poem in the book! I wonder what they would have thought if they had understood.
After the “literary café” was over, the president thanked “the American volunteer” for coming and everyone else. I had dinner with all the speakers and a journalist interviewed me for his piece about the evening.
It was a fun evening and I can’t wait to go again. But, this time I will make sure to be prepared and take along a couple of friends with me.
My mudir asked me to come with him to Errachidia in order to meet his family and go to a meeting with him. He told me it would be like the youth café I planned at the dar chebab. I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into but I didn’t have anything else to do so I went along. I met the monsieur at the bus station and was surprised to see him carrying his guitar and briefcase.
We took an hour ride into town in a taxi, arriving a couple hours before l’iftor. No one in Morocco has a car so whenever anyone wants to go anywhere, they have to take a taxi or a bus. It is completely impossible to get anywhere on time. We got off the bus in front of this little auberge (kind of like a hotel but the literal meaning is hostel). Two of my mudir’s friends greeted us and welcomed us into the auberge. It was new and very charming. It had a large lobby, restaurant, guest rooms, garden, and terrace.
One of my mudir’s friends was waiting for us. He introduced himself as Driss and the three of us spoke in Arabic for awhile until said friend revealed that he spoke perfect English. He was a teacher at the high school and was even my mudir’s teacher long ago. He told me that he had worked with many PC volunteers in the past and recently worked with two girls from a British association called “Project Trust.” It turned out that he knew my two friends Sarah and Miriam, the girls that worked at the Agadir camp with me. He gave me two of his English grammar books that he had written and told me he had to go but would see me later that night. I had no idea what he was alluding to but I didn’t have any time to think it over because I was swept away to my mudir’s family house.
It was there that I met most of his entire family, including his mom, dad, sister, sister-in-law, nieces, and nephews. When his father came into the room, he looked at me with big eyes and a big grin and said, “Bienvenue Madame!” I had to tell him I was not a madame but a mademoiselle. He laughed and we all broke fast together. After, the grandfather played with his young grand kids and made them laugh and laugh forever. Looking at them, I thought about my grandpa and missed him so much. I can’t wait to be able to see him and my grandma again. I don’t think I will be able to fit in his lap anymore but we will have to see come December.
After l’iftor, my mudir told me it was time to go and I followed obediently. We went back to the auberge and it was now crowded with lots of men. They were all about in their 30’s and 40’s, wearing suits and speaking French.
(Whenever I come across a Moroccan man who speaks French, I can’t help but think it’s weird. I mean, it’s okay some of the time but when you speak it all the time you just sound stupid. There are some Moroccans who only speak French! And it’s not even good French. If I lived in a country where France had once ruled and then left, I wouldn’t continue to speak French but I would speak my own language. Isn’t it like saying that France is better than you if you continue to speak French? I guess this is something that really bothers me. I always get very frustrated when people automatically speak French to me when they meet me…what, just because I’m white and foreign means that I speak French? I know this is very annoying for the volunteers who don’t speak French. Even people in my own town insist on speaking French with me. To me, it is disrespectful and I cringe whenever I hear little kids shouting “Bonjour!” at 7 o’clock at night. If you’re going to speak French to me, at least be correct and say “Bonsoir” when it is evening.)
I met a bunch of my mudir’s friends. His friends included many men who write poems and books in French and even the president of the writer’s union. I followed everyone outside and sat on the terrace overlooking the garden. A small stage was set up with mikes and a musical group was seated center stage. A lot of men were seated and I was the only girl. It was a little awkward, especially since everyone was staring at me and I had no female companionship. The music started and all my thoughts disappeared. The music was wonderful, even though I didn’t understand any of it because it was in Berber. After the group finished their set, many men took their turns reciting poetry, singing a song, or even playing the guitar. My mudir recited one of his poems about the challenges youth faces and also sang a song on his guitar. Later on, my mudir handed me a book and told me that I should get up and do something. I told him I had nothing to read and that I wasn’t prepared. If I had known, I would have brought something of my own. He told me to pick a poem from this book and read it anyway, that no one would understand and the important thing was to participate. So I did. I read a poem from an early American poet about a bee who got lost and swallowed in a glass of wine. It was the only good poem in the book! I wonder what they would have thought if they had understood.
After the “literary café” was over, the president thanked “the American volunteer” for coming and everyone else. I had dinner with all the speakers and a journalist interviewed me for his piece about the evening.It was a fun evening and I can’t wait to go again. But, this time I will make sure to be prepared and take along a couple of friends with me.
posted by AEW @ 11:02 PM
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