Making Couscous

Every Friday in Morocco families gather to celebrate their most revered day of the week. Often extended family comes to munch on a delicious serving of couscous usually topped with chicken, beef, or lamb and veggies doused with a tasty broth.

In one of my Dances with Wolves moments, I decided to find out the source of this scrumptious meal. I wondered, "Does couscous grow on trees? Does it rain from heaven like mana?"  I needed to know. Thankfully, one of our fellow volunteers knew the path to the origins of couscous. I and several other never-miss-a-couscous Friday convert took the pilgrimage to Khoukhate, a small village near Zaida that had begun teaching the steps to reaching a culinary nirvana of couscous making.

Khoukhate is a small valley of green with nothing but an arid wilderness to one side and towering desert plateaus to the other. When climbing onto the plateaus surrounding the village, it appears as if the ground level plane suddenly collapsed and the spring that gives this village its life carved out a beautiful and bountiful oasis. So bountiful, according to the locals, that the village for the most part is self-sustaining producing its own fruits, vegetables, and staple cereals like corn and wheat. Both the men and women labor in the fields, but when it comes to preparing the labor-intensive, time-consuming, but utterly gratifying couscous, the women take over.

There are many pre-packaged couscous varieties at the market that can be put immediately onto a couscoussiére, steamed, and served within a couple of hours. Couscous being such a central part of Moroccan tradition, I felt I needed to learn how to make it from scratch. Back in my home-stay, my host family gave me a five-minute step-by-step guide to make couscous, but I was not able to practice partly because I would have been the only guy with a roomful of older ladies toiling away on the flour. Not that I mind hanging out with older ladies, but at that particular point I was just getting to know my family and trying to understand the nuances of Moroccan culture and gender roles; so instead, I went out in typical Moroccan fashion with my younger host brother to a café to pass the time people watching until it was time to eat.

Whenever we would get back, I would pig out on the couscous as usual sometimes forgoing the meat that everyone sought out for more couscous. Sometimes I felt that I was in a couscous eating contest, but I wasn’t doing it to win any prize; it was pure self-motivation. To make things worse, when the family saw me slowing down, they aided and abetted my gluttony by adding more broth to my couscous so that it could go down easier and then offering the customary bssHa(To your health) as I stuffed my face.

Needless to say, I’m a fan. Back in the states, I purchased the 5-minute pre-steamed variety to spur things up a bit as a substitute for rice. I enjoyed it then; however now that I’ve had the real thing cooked Moroccan style, I’m hooked. Not wanting to revert back to the 5-minute boxed couscous, I went out to Khokuhate to learn the craft of couscous making alongside other couscous fans.

A group of fellow PCVs got together at the Association Ennahda for our couscous making class. The women's association with the help of a PCV is looking to draw tourists and study abroad groups interested in learning about Moroccan culture and experiencing it first-hand.

The association hosts the cooking classes, sells a whole wheat herb-infused couscous, zmita, and different types of jams. To learn more about the association, please click on the associations link above.

The association's president, who was going to lead the class, had already gathered the pots, pans, sifter, meats, veggies, spices, and Khoukhate's own milled whole wheat flour.

She poured the flour onto the ceramic couscous serving dish. Then slowly began sprinkling a bit of warm semi-salty water throughout swirling the flour with her other hand as it began to clump up.

Once there were enough clumps, she got sifter to separate the clumps from the flour. The clumps were then dumped onto several water reed baskets, which we all began pressing and rolling in

classic Karate Kid 'wax on, wax off' style adding a bit of flour from time to time so the granules would not stick together.

Then when the clumps were pretty much

gone, we dumped our baskets onto a sifter so that the sifter could filter out the right size couscous granules.

We repeated the process until we felt we had enough for a couscous feast.

Then, all the rolled and sifted couscous was put into a couscoussiére, kind of a two-tier type pot where chicken and veggies are boiled in the bottom pot while the couscous rests on the top tier pot, which is designed to allow the steam to seep in through its perforated base making it possible for the couscous granules to get nice a steam bath.

After 30 or so minutes, there was a gap between the couscous and all around the edge of the pot, which meant that it was time to fluff it out. The couscous was dumped onto the ceramic serving dish. After a thorough hand wash, I dug in and began to fluff the couscous.

The purpose of the fluff, of course, is to loosen the couscous so it doesn't become one big massive pasta ball and to move it around so all the couscous granules can get a better steam bath. This process was repeated three times.

Once the couscous was done, the chicken and veggies were cooked through, and the broth was ready, a little saffron was added to the couscous and then placed on the large ceramic couscous serving dish(I'm sure it has a name, but I can't recall it at the moment). The chicken came next, then the veggies, and finally a bit of broth was poured all around.

We quickly said our grace, which in Morocco is a simple Bismillah (In the name of God), and then dug in. A few of us tried to pick up the traditional way of eating couscous, which involves grabbing a bit and moving it and rotating it around to create a small couscous ball that you then pop into your mouth or use to start a couscous fight.

As usual I stuffed myself, but was outdone by fellow PCV Steven who claimed the title of last man standing. All in all it was a great learning experience. My hope is to replicate it in the States Inshallah (God willing) so y'all can partake of what I plan to make a tradition of mine: couscous stuffing Fridays.

Larache Spring English Language & Salsa Camp

Back in early April, I had the opportunity to participate in the Spring Holiday English Language Immersion Camp in Larache sponsored by the Morocco's Ministry of Youth and Sports.  I was looking forward to leaving the frigid temperatures and nonstop rain and drizzle of the Middle Atlas Mountains and to enjoy a bit of sun and hopefully a bit more warmth in Morocco's northeastern coast.  The camp was also an opportunity to change up the work routine from consulting with artisans on business ideas to working with high school age young people on language learning.

I and three other volunteers made up the team of English teachers, two volunteers were from the Youth Development (YD) sector, another was part of the Environment sector, and I represented the Small Business Development (SBD) sector.  In addition to us, the camp had a good number of local camp counselors who were quite good at getting the kids out of bed and getting them from one activity to another, and there were about 5 or so cooks fixing food for about 60+ kids plus all staff.

Every morning we would teach a lesson for about an hour or so and then after lunch we had the responsibility of running a club on anything we wished. An environment volunteer took groups of kids on scavenger hunts in the nearby forest and also allowed them to go swimming in the nearby beach called La Peligrosa or the dangerous one--the beach is literally called that by the locals who stuck with the name given by the Spanish back when they controlled much of the north.

Another volunteer conducted a number of team-building activities, which according to her was very hard to do given that most of the kids preferred to work independently.  I encountered a similar problem when playing basketball with some of the kids.  They were worse ball hogs than Allen Iverson taking on double teams rather than passing to the open man or sometimes they preferred to bust out some Harlem Globetrotter/And 1 type move to get a reaction from the crowd; however, more often than not, the attempt at some flashy move intended to make the opponent look ridiculous often ended in a turnover and a basket for the opposing team.  It was interesting to hear some of the campers later on commenting on the flashy move someone made and not about the team that had won five consecutive games.

Aside from a bit of basketball, for my club activity I decided to impart to these kids the one skill that I felt most qualified to offer: a little salsa and merengue dancing. So in my broken Arabic, I explained how the beats and sounds may sound a little familiar because much of the Caribbean is a mélange of cultures and traditions from Africa, Spain, and indigenous tribes that is constantly changing, adapting, and evolving. The merengue beat for instance is very similar to the Moroccan pop music called Chabbi(Arabic for Popular). For a little home country taste, check out this link:

Given the similarities in the beat and since many of the young people have grown up shaking their hips to their music, my introduction of merengue was well received. I remember in our Peace Corps training we were warned about how conservative Morocco can be, but we got very little about how liberal different areas of the country really are. At first I thought it would be difficult to put mixed partners together, but again it was no problem and the girls responded much like they do in the States, dumping the guys with two left feet for the ones who could move without stepping on their toes. We started with a little merengue first as a warm-up. They got the hips moving left and right, learned to step without looking like they were marching, and then I taught them a couple of style moves, but nothing too sensual although merengue is essentially a make-out type of music and not in the slow, romantic way.

So you can do a little comparing and contrasting, here's a bit of old-school merengue for ya:

I also got the couples to learn a few turns and we developed a bit of a routine for a club spectacular that would be taking place at the end of the week.

Then came the salsa. We started with the basic steps to the front, side, and stepping back to the left and right. Most got the moves although they looked a little robotic and had a hard time following the rhythm, but we continued to press on. The number of couples became even smaller as only a few could remember the syncopation and routine without stepping on their partner's toes. At the end of the class, I maybe had 4 people dancing out of about 20. I was happy to see, however, a few of my students who found my moves a little too inhibiting break out with their own routine. A group of 5 guys took some of my moves, added some Moroccan flair, and taught themselves a little repertoire in which they were all synchronized. They looked like the backup dancers to your typical salsa band.

Our dance spectacular was a disaster because there was a bit of confusion about who would be in the spectacular and then we had some last minute defections from shy kids; nonetheless, we pressed on and delivered what I think was the first Latin dance large group extravaganza in Morocco's history.  

Time flew by in Larache.  We were busy, but we still had plenty of time to explore and for fun.  Here are a number of things I'll always remember about Larache:

Larache and Ras El Ma: The camp site right on Ras El Ma' was a great location.  The eucalyptus trees that surrounded the camp sheltered it from the strong ocean winds, but still allowed a nice, cool breeze to pass through.  We had beaches of all kinds, one for the risk takers and one for the laid back floaters.  The oceanfront beach properly named La Peligrosa (The Dangerous One) held nothing back living up to its name as each waved revved back and upwards until finally crashing down in thunderous fashion.

The Loukus River and its inlet to the Atlantic were also quite scenic.  Everything was very green all around, there were lots of birds, and many colorful fishing boats.  The only downside to the beautiful scenery was all the trash strewn all over the riverbanks.  At one point I took my shoes off to feel the sand, but a second later I put them right back on when I saw several broken bottles and jagged edges sticking up in the sand.

Lixus: Just a bit upstream, there is a pretty well-known Roman ruin of a former sea port called Lixus, which the campers visited towards the end of camp.  The site is not as big as Volubilis, another Roman ruin near Meknes, but it does leave you with a good impression that at one point Lixus was a pretty important port back in the day.  It´s always interesting to walk through the ruins just to see how things were laid-out and to imagine how people lived.  It´s also a good reminder of how cities, civilizations, and people come and go leaving just faint traces of a their former grandeur. 

Morocco´s city on a hill: Larache itself sitting atop a rising plateau stands out as a beacon.  At night you can see its lighthouse beaming a green light, green being the color of Islam, thereby emitting Islam into the dark horizon as the Rough Guide put it.  The city itself was rather clean and the port city medina was fairly easy to maneuver.  

Multilingual and Multicultural: One could see signs in both Spanish and Arabic everywhere.  Many lodging options were called pensiones, restaurants advertised their bocadillos, paellas, and other typical Spanish dishes, and the kids roaming the streets would yell "Hola, ¿cómo estás?" instead of the "Bonjour, ça va?" commonly heard in most of Morocco.  I walked into a pharmacy to pick up some things and noticed that the pharmacist had her degree from a Spanish university posted proudly for all to see near the entrance and the entire transaction was conducted in Spanish.

Palm Sunday in Morocco: Lastly, being curious volunteers we decided to check out the Spanish cathedral in the center of town.  I had read in the Rough Guide that it was peculiar in how it looked very much like a mosque with its zellij (tiled mosaics) and bell tower, which resembled your typical minaret, and indeed it was a bit strange to see architecture and decor typical of a mosque along with effigies of Christ, the Virgin Mary, the Cross, wooden pews, confession chambers, and a grand altar.  We were met by one of priests who welcomed us and asked us to stay and to be part of the Palm Sunday ceremonies.  It had been a long time since I had participated in any religious rituals and I felt a bit weird taking part in this one, but for the sake of another cultural experience we stuck around and held palm leaves as the priests and an entourage of believers conducted a brief procession throughout the chambers of the cathedral symbolizing Jesus's arrival into Jerusalem.  We got some stares from some of the nuns who saw how lost we appeared to be, but others were kind enough to tell us what we needed to do and where we needed to go.  The head priest gave a sermon, they held mass, and then afterwards the priest that welcomed us gave us a brief tour of the cathedral, shared a bit of history, and introduced us to some Spanish volunteers who were there on a goodwill mission.  We asked him if Moroccans ever jumped ship and converted and he said that the church was there for all Catholics and that they did not engage in any proselytizing.  He said that ever since the turnover of territory to Moroccan authorities that the church had experienced a steady decline in attendance as much of the Spanish population migrated back to the peninsula.  He thanked us for taking the time to visit and told us that we were always welcomed.

Tapas bar with ocean views: After our visit to the cathedral, we walked up a block and found a bar.  We climbed up the stairs and found that the place had a nice ocean view and was serving not only your staple Moroccan beers, Stork and Flag, but also had Heineken on hand.  We sat down and asked for a round and to our surprise along with the beers came a platter of fried seafood, small salads, and olives.  At one point we got some calamari, then sardines, and then some white fish.  The food was complimentary perhaps following the Spanish tradition of serving tapas along with the drinks.

It was a bit surreal to be in Morocco, an Islamic country, and to partake of Palm Sunday activities, to be speaking Spanish throughout the day, and to cap the day with beer and seafood tapas, but in a way all those things I saw, heard, and did in just a few days in Larache are a good snapshot of what Morocco is all about.  Over centuries, it´s had influences from a number of different countries, colonial powers, and ambitious imperialistic dynasties, and to this day the vestiges of those influences still remain in its cultural makeup, architecture, and its language.  I enjoyed working at the camp and enjoyed chilling in Larache.  I´d stay away from La Peligrosa, but other than that there´s a lot to like about this town.

Button-Mania in Morocco

Sefrou hand-knotted buttons

Sefrou--Morocco is going crazy (Hmq as they say in Moroccan Arabic) over hand-knotted buttons. It's all the rage. It's mayhem & pandemonium wherever you go. Thankfully, a cooperative of about 40 women and many families living in some of the most remote areas of the country have responded to the call for buttons and are producing them at an alarming rate in order to dispel any notion that there are not enough buttons in the market.

In a move to quell some of the fears in foreign markets, a partnership between the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market and the W.K. Kellogg Foundation was struck to bring one of the leading figures in the handmade button-making industry, Amina Yabis, President of the Coopérative Artisanale Féminine des Boutons en Soie 'Cerises', also known as the Cherry Buttons Cooperative, to their market, taking place July 11-12 in beautiful Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Amina Yabis at Fez Artisana Expo

The cooperative is taking an ample supply of buttons that will be available for purchase. She will also be holding several button-making demonstrations at the event. If you're in the neighborhood, I invite you to drop by and get in on one of the hottest trends in the country. You can also visit the cooperative's site, http://boutonsdecerises.wordpress.com, to view a small sample of buttons and other products adorned with her buttons, but you will not be able to buy just yet. Reports from anonymous sources who did not disclose their names because of the sensitive nature of the situation have said that ordering from the web may be available upon the return of the cooperative's president in late August.

If I had to write a press release for the cooperative, that's exactly how I would do it.  Granted the rush for buttons might be a bit exaggerated and global markets are not in disarray over the imbalance in the supply and demand of hand-knotted buttons, but I do think the product is one of a kind and like many things produced by many artisans here in Morocco, all that's needed is a bit of recognition and marketing and their artistry would be in high demand.

Along with this press release, I have worked with the cooperative to create a website/blog that tells the cooperative's story.  It's been a work in progress for quite some time so it's nice to see it up and running. Just imagine getting all the info for a site in two languages that you can half speak. Many of the photos came from a guest photographer all the way from Argentina that decided to help the cooperative during her short visit to Sefrou. Thank you very much Jimena for the shots and thank you, Mr. Gregg Johnson, RPCV Morocco, for providing a lot of the history and for continuing to assist the cooperative at the market.

Sometimes it does feel as if the whole city is caught up in button-making. As I walk around town in the morning and afternoon, I see many women sitting just beyond their front door with a small basket, a small spindle, and some thread sewing buttons at remarkable speeds.  In the evenings, small groups of women gather at the city's main plaza to chat it up and to weave buttons.  At night, as the late-night dinner cooks in either a tagine(Moroccan cone-shaped crock pot) or the pressure cooker, they continue to wind the intricate patterns into the tiniest of buttons. In the case of my host family, all my host siblings even as young as 5 years old were weaving the buttons. So in a way at least for Sefrou, it is pandemonium.  My hope is that the pandemonium spreads to the U.S. and other areas where the artistry will be recognized and valued, which in turn would improve the livelihood of all involved in the button-making mayhem.

Rials, Francs, and Dirhams...And Everyday Drama at the Souq

During our language lessons in my Community Based Training(CBT), I remember thinking how it would be unlikely that I would have to use numbers past a hundred at least for a short while. Going to the souq (outdoor market) during CBT was a wake-up call because no one there used dirham, the name of the national currency.  I was still trying to memorize the names of the veggies and fruits I wanted to buy. I still did not have a grasp of how things were priced or even why or how vendors would compute rials or francs to give prices.

Moroccan money

Rial and francs are simply the names of the currencies Morocco has had over the last 100 years. According to the authoritative Wikipedia, the rial was the name of their currency from 1882-1921.  Later on, the rial was converted to Spanish pesetas in Spanish Morocco and the Moroccan French Protectorate area adopted the franc. Once Morocco gained its independence, they changed the currency name to dirham. However, the name change did little to change years of history as people were already used to pricing everything in rials and francs. So for foreigners, the challenge is to refresh our mental arithmetic to be able to figure out how much anything costs and not get hosed in the process.

At Ain Leuh Souq

Rials are very popular at the souq and I´ve heard francs being used when buying appliances, negotiating rent, and other high ticket items. So for example, produce like onions, tomatoes, and potatoes, was yelled out in rials: tlatin(30) rial, sttin(60) rial, and tmnin(80) rial, and then for some of the expensive veggies like avocados, tlata miya u tmnin(380) ryals. My initial reaction to these large numbers was a “what the…@#&%!” Am I hearing this right? 30, 60, 80, and 380.  Can't be!  And thinking that I won't be able to buy much of anything with my Peace Corps allowance.  Thankfully, the mul xodra, vegetable vendors or literally masters of veggies, call out the prices of their entire produce line continuously.  The second time around I heard rials,  which was a relief, but now I had to figure out what all those numbers were in dirhams.

Fortunately, our Moroccan Arabic textbook has a graph with detailed instructions breaking down the rial, franc, and dirham confusion. Here’s how it goes:

Rial, franc, & dirham breakdown

Basically, one way to remember it all is that a dirham is the equivalent of 20 rial and 100 francs.  After a while you get used to hearing the rial prices at the souq, but sometimes you have to do some quick thinking when negotiating for a meal at a restaurant.  The other day I was at the Essaouira fish market looking to buy a plate a seafood.  Essentially, you go up to the fish stand--fish still wiggling and flopping around and crabs still snapping in defensive retreat--select what you want, and then haggle a price with the vendor.

At Essaouira a ready-to-grill fresh fish stand 

As you can imagine, I am no match for a professional haggler who knows the cost of his product and knows his rials and francs frontwards and backwards, but a measured pause can actually work to one's favor; that is, if you don't do your arithmetic out loud or use your fingers to calculate it all.  On the photo, you can see me staring off in the distance trying to compute the price.  The vendor, chilled out as ever, gives me the classic yawn as he awaits my counter offer.   

I still have those about-face reactions when people decide to use francs. The other day I went to buy a foldable clothes hanger for indoor air drying (great for the wet winters), and the gentlemen told me "ashreen alf"(20,000). I responded with a somewhat critical and surprised tone, "SHNU! Ash qulti?" (What! What did you say?). To which he responded, Iyeh! ashreen alf wlla rb3 alf rial (Yeah! 20,000 or 4,000 rial). After hearing the rial, I then proceeded to do some quick calculations without staring out yonder. Luckily, the round numbers were easy to calculate. So the item was actually only 200 Dirham, about $25. A bit steep, but not an overblown price. So I responded in typical Moroccan fashion, "Hadak gali bzzf, gali 3lya, nqsh swiya a3fk" (That is very expensive, expensive for me, lower it a bit please). I was ready to compute the new prices. I was ready to divide by a 100 or by 20, but it never happened as the gentleman stuck to his price and told me, “hada tamn mzyan, jouda mumtaza, u safi” (This is good price, excellent quality, and that’s that). It was a disappointing bargaining attempt, but nevertheless a learning experience.

Bargaining can be a lot of fun. When I step back to watch Moroccans do it, it’s like watching a mini-drama escalate to a climax that ends in either a deal accompanied with a handshake and a couple of God phrases like llah yxlf and/or llah yrHmu walidinik (God replenish you and God bless your parents) or a solemn goodbye followed with still a number of God phrases like, llah ya3wnk and/or llah yfdk (God help you and God protect you).

Fruit stand at Sefrou souq

It all starts with a question that is sometimes accompanied with a serious look as you try to discern the price and try not to give the seller any nonverbal clues that would reveal your interest in the product. The price is given. The buyer looks surprised, eyebrows go up, eyes open wide, and the jaw drops. The seller is sometimes indifferent or sometimes fires back with a few statements to prop up his goods. The buyer counters with his opinion of the product or shoots down the assertions of the seller with arms flapping and sometimes a little saliva flying out from all the hard Xs, breathy Hs, and the gargled Ghr sounds in their speech. The arguments cease and the buyer or seller offers price alternatives. The alternatives open up another round of arguments with sometimes some white lies about competitor prices, sulking looks from the buyer, and the occasional silent treatment to see who will give-in first. Then finally, ultimatums are given. The buyer pleads and the seller reasserts. Sometimes the buyer caves in and other times the buyer throws his final bluff, the slow walkout, hoping the seller will finally agree. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. For some ladies, that’s the drill just for buying a few of kilos of tomatoes.

Price haggling is certainly a skill worth mastering. In most cases, my Moroccan appearance automatically gives me the regular Moroccan price, but that doesn't mean I can’t bargain that price down. I just start lower than many of my fellow volunteers. It’s comforting and nostalgic to go to a supermarket where all the prices are labeled, but it is definitely not as exciting. I like to see some drama from time to time even if it’s just about a few kilos of tomatoes and a few dirhams.

The Slurrrrrp

Medina Harira

I remember the day when I was handed my first bowl of harira, a dish that ranks up there as one of my all-time favorite Moroccan dishes. It´s a chunky tomato-base soup with chickpeas, lentils, onions, parsley, some vermicelli  and sometimes with a bit of meat.  I proceeded as I normally do with my soups to dab the bread and to munch on the dunked portion. I went about it without a care in the world completely immersed in the smells and the warmth of the soup. I was focused on my bowl, my bread, and devouring it all. As my tunnel vision began to dissipate with every bite, I remembered that others were at the table with me. I looked up from my bowl and saw my host family staring at me. I carried on with my bread dabbing, but much slower this time. As I placed the doused bread in my mouth again and savored the bite, everyone began to laugh. I laughed along with them and then tried to tell them in my limited Arabic how delicious the bread dunking really was.

My host father then proceeded to show me his way of eating the soup which involved grabbing the small bowl from the bottom, swirling the soup around in a gentle circular hand motion, and then to avoid the burn sssslurrrrping it with authority. I saw the rest of my family do the same so I decided to give it a go. My first initial slurps were painful lessons that quickly taught me to create the great vacuum that would enable me to slurp the scolding hot soup without having my lips, tongue, and throat suffer 3^rd degree burns.

Moroccan mint tea aka Le Whisky Marocain

Although I have burnt the roof of my mouth and tongue on occasion, it has not deterred my will to master the slurp. The slurp is not only used for soups; it is also commonly heard in many cafes where hot sugary mint tea and coffee are served. Often, when several teapots are delivered at the same time, you can hear for a very brief moment a symphony of slurps. There is the full, open, and loud slurp that is usually followed by a deep sigh of contentment, and the shallow, less overt slurp that is usually accompanied by a measured sip and a comparable sigh. I have also noticed that some simply seem to enjoy slurping and engage in what other Moroccans regard as long somewhat overdrawn slurps. My host father from my home-stay would probably fall in that category. Every here and then, we would compete to see who could generate the most volume and who could drag it out the longest.

Not everyone in Morocco slurps and I have encountered some Moroccans that dunk their bread like I do. I continue to dunk my bread, but I have also added the slurp into my eating and drinking repertoire. It feels good to slurp and to have Moroccans offer a bssha or “To your health” as I do so. If you haven’t slurped loudly and freely in a while or ever, I invite you to do so. Forget the spoon, grab the bowl or mug, swirl it around a bit, and then slurp like there is no one but you and your soup, tea, coffee, or whatever it may be. If you get some strange stares, tell them that this is how they do it in Morocco.