Presenting Moroccan Bastilla

When I travel, it's not always about climbing the highest mountain or taking a photo by the iconic landmarks.  For me, traveling is about indulging every single one of my five senses in the culture, the environment, and most importantly, the food.  To me, the food is a reflection of a culture's creativity, resourcefulness, history, and tradition.  Great recipes sometimes develop by accident, but sometimes they're created as a result of a fortuitous meeting between different peoples with different traditions.  Sometimes out of the clash something absolutely magical emerges.  While the kings, revolutionaries, military generals, and other leaders argue about who gets what territory, the townsfolk are chowing down on a new hybrid concoction of ingredients that restores sanity in the moment of strife.  I truly believe food is that powerful.

Now, just recently, I had the  fortune of eating an absolutely marvelous Moroccan dish called bastilla.  Before I was to set foot in Morocco, I had written down a list of must-eat Moroccan dishes and bastilla was in my top 5--yes, I had well over 10 things that I had to devour before leaving.  I arrived in Meknes after a short stay in Chefchaouen and on December 31st before the end of 2011, I saw, met, and most definitely enjoyed a moment of transcendence as I slowly crunched and gave every bite of the long-awaited bastilla the 40 thorough chews that it deserved.  It's a perfect combination of sweet and salty, moist and well-seasoned chicken with sweet and crunchy almonds, with other complementary spices giving it even more flavor, and finally wrapped in a thin crispy exterior.

Moroccan Bastilla

Another foodie Christine Benlafquih in About.com, goes on to describe it as such: "A light, crispy warqa pastry shell conceals savory saffron chicken, spicy omelet stuffing, and crunchy topping of fried almonds sweetened and flavored with orange flower water. A garnish of powdered sugar and cinnamon adds to the fabulous blend of flavors."  You may ask what the heck is warqa? CliffordAWright.com explains:

The pie is surrounded by a very thin pastry leaf called warqa (which means "leaf"[also paper]), the top of which is sprinkled with powdered sugar and a lattice-work of ground cinnamon. Warqa pastry begins as a spongy dough that is tapped or slapped against a hot convex sheet of pounded metal, a kind of pan called a tubsil set over a hot charcoal brazier, in a series of overlapping concentric circles to form a large film of pastry. This collection of leaves, now forming a whole thin sheet, is carefully but quickly peeled off the metal and set side.

So how did this amazing dish come about?  According to CliffordAWright, the etymology of the dish's name may have several different origins.  When I first heard bastilla on a trip in Morocco's shamal (north), I thought it was referring to the Spanish word pasteles or pastries.  It could very well be that the dish, like many words that are part of the Spanish language and Moroccan Arabic dialect, is a product of a blend of several cultures, which co-existed together sharing their culinary know-how.   There's also a possibility that a similar sounding word was in use in Berber dialects for their chicken with saffron combos.

The history books tell us that the dish or some derivative of it was eaten by both the rulers of the Berber dynasties and even Spain's King Phillip II.   The dish somehow disappeared from the Spanish diet perhaps due to the expulsion of the Jews and Muslims from the Iberian Peninsula, but the Hispano-Jew and Hispano-Muslims who crossed over the strait or went further into the Mediterranean took the recipes with them and adapted the dish to the available ingredients in their new homes.  Since historically it was a dish for royalty, even in contemporary Morocco the dish has kept its luster as it is generally served only during special occasions.  The dish emerged in some shape or form in other parts of the Mediterranean even as far as Turkey as noted by another culinary anthropologist Claudia Roden who munched on pasteles made by some Turkish Jews.

I like to think that as empires, dynasties, and nations quarreled about the politics, taxes, and territorial boundaries, Berber Muslims, Jews, and Christians were probably enjoying a nice plate of bastilla.   CliffordAWright goes on to say, "Contemporary Moroccan cuisine is essentially an Arab and Hispano-Muslim cuisine set upon the foundation of an older and simpler Berber sustenance diet, with outside influences from sub-Saharan West Africa and colonial-era France." Seems like the best tasting things in life come about when people meet and share recipes.

As such, if you're reading this blog, it's just as if we had stumbled upon one another.  I've been fortunate to have had Moroccan bastilla in the region where it was born, but there's no reason, wherever you may be, why you can't munch on this delicious cultural mélange and its wholesome goodness.  Good luck, safe travels, and enjoy!

Chowing Down Some Jordanian Maqlouba

Sometimes when you travel, you set goals for yourself as to what you'd like to accomplish that day. Let's say for example you're in Paris. In Paris, you must, of course, visit the Tour Eiffel, Sacré Couer, Moulin Rouge, and perhaps other landmarks. Some people get a kick out of going to these historical, architectural wonders. I too enjoy taking in the scenery, but other times I like to indulge other senses. So when I woke up in Kerak, already on my third day of what was supposed to be a one-day visit, I got up with only one goal in mind— EATING MAQLOUBA!

The Peace Corps volunteer (PCV), Peace Corps trainee, and I had a very light breakfast so as not to spoil our hunger. Last time when I was treated to mansef, I was not as hungry as I could have been. I didn't want to make that mistake again. Jordanian families like Moroccans don't just suggest that you eat more; they order you to eat and I was planning to comply.

We walked to the Christian part of the town and arrived at the home of a Christian family that had befriended the PCV.  Upon entering, we were engulfed by an assortment of aromas indicating that something good was in the works. Our empty stomachs were ready. The father took us directly to the dining room, seated us, and then called his grand-kids and son to the table. The mother was still rummaging around the kitchen setting the table and giving a large pot its final stir.



Maqlouba

Then came the moment we were all waiting for: the unveiling of maqlouba. The mother brought over a the large pot and a serving tray, placed the serving tray on the pot, and flipped the contents of the pot onto the serving tray in one swoop. In front of us was a mix of Jordanian basmati rice, fried cauliflower and eggplant, and what looked like pan-fried chicken. It looked messy, but it smelled delicious.

Jordanian Maqlouba

The mother and father went about filling our plates. I savored every bite trying to take in all the flavors and spices. I ate and ate until I could eat no more. Everything in that dish was so juicy. The cauliflower and eggplant were cooked just right. The chicken had been seared, but it was still tender. It was a wonderful combination of ingredients that produced another Jordanian masterpiece.

Shortly after filling our stomachs to the brim, the mother brought over some pitch black Turkish-style coffee. A sip of that and any desire to lay down quickly dissipates, and perhaps it was given to us for a reason. Any normal person would simply collapse after that meal. We still had to walk a few kilometres back to the PCV's house.

Jordanian Red Bull - Turkish style coffee

The father told us that he had private classes starting in a few minutes. That was our cue to go, but not before exchanging hugs with both the father, mother, high-fives with the two young boys, and thanking everyone profusely for the marvelous hospitality they bestowed upon us.

Our gracious host

Once again, I thanked my lucky stars and the cosmic forces of the universe for what had just transpired. I didn't see any tall buildings or historical landmarks, but I was fortunate to have been the recipient of some amazing Jordanian hospitality. Muslim or Christian, they have given me the best that they could offer and did it out of the kindness of their heart. We shared stories, ate together, and sipped a little coffee or sweet tea to cap our encounter. I'll forever remember maqlouba and the folks that made that day a day to remember.

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Click here for maqlouba recipe Jordanian style.

Walk the Abraham Path and Then Couchsurf It!

Couchsurfing host in Jordan

A dear friend of mine sent me an interesting TED Talk, which focuses on the need to build upon William Ury´s idea of what he calls "The Third Side".  Mr. Ury said that in conflict there are always two sides and the third side is the one that we all share--our common humanity.  He speaks of how Abraham exemplified hospitality and the unity of us all and proposes that people retrace the steps of Abraham from cradle to grave to understand and to connect with the people of this region who to this day display the same hospitality that Abraham showed thousands of years ago.  Ury adds, "Abraham is not just a figure in a book for these people; he is a living figure."

Couchsurfing hosts in Israel

I agree with Mr. Ury and his belief that traveling, touring, and walking alongside others on the Abraham Path or any other corner of the world has the potential to reduce the fear and hostility between us.  As Mark Twain once said, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness" and in the words of French novelist Marcel Proust, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes."

Couchsurfers in Amman

I would take Mr. Ury's idea a bit further and urge people to invest a little time in getting to know the region and the people you plan to visit.  Just knowing how to say basic greetings in the local language, however choppy or mispronounced it may be, brings smiles to people's faces.  The locals will appreciate the effort and most likely reward you with an invitation for coffee, tea, or even a homemade meal.

Eating a bit of Maqlouba in Jordan

I've been fortunate to experience the amazing hospitality that Mr. Ury spoke of.  Throughout my travels, I couchsurfed with Jordanians, Bedouins, Israelis, Moroccans, Spaniards, Italians, Dominicans, and lots of fellow expatriate Americans.  Some gave me a place to stay and others took me to their favorite hangout spots.  Those that I stayed with gave me the best that they could offer and made me feel like family and others introduced me to their circle of friends.  Time after time, I was blown away by this gesture of kindness and goodwill offered to a complete stranger.

Late last year, I hosted a number of couchsurfers in Morocco.  I had a great time hosting people from around the globe with such different points of view and experiences.  I learned a great deal about myself from our exchanges and made great friends in the process.  Couchsurfing is a wonderful experiment that falls in line with Mr. Ury's idea of turning "hostility to hospitality" and "terrorism to tourism".

I hope that wherever I end up that I can continue to host more couchsurfers.  If you've never heard of couchsurfing, take a moment to check it out.  Host, couchsurf, or simply meet folks for a little drink.  I and other couchsurfers will be eternally grateful, and my hope is that you'll learn from me as much as I hope to learn from you.  Hope to see you in my next couchsurf search!

Good luck and bon voyage!  


FYI: Couchsurfing is not the only website linking travelers and locals.  It is perhaps the most popular with perhaps more profiles than others.  Recently, Couchsurfing changed from a non-profit to a "socially responsible" corporation.  I have no problems with the status change because being a non-profit does not make an organization more noble by any means, but as a corporation it is likely that soon they may begin selling member info to marketers similar to other social media platforms so careful what you post.  Here is a list of other travel sites I've been using in place of Couchsurfing:

www.bewelcome.org - similar to couchsurfing
www.tripping.com - combines couchsurfing with paid temporary stay accommodation options
www.airbnb.com - paid temporary accommodation options.  Great for group vacation rentals or temp house/flat exchange. 

In Jordan - A Taste of Life In Jordan's Shamal

I arrived in a town close to Irbid on November 15 and learned that the following day would be the start of Leid l-Kbir, the grand feast celebrated by the sacrificial slaughtering of a sheep.  Because of all the festivities during Leid and with little to no public transit available, it meant that I would have to spend at least a couple of days in the volunteer's village.  I was no inconvenience for me; I was looking forward to the experience.

One of the reasons for traveling through Jordan and Egypt was to get a different taste of the Arab/Muslim World.  I was curious to see what if any similarities there were between the peoples of the Maghreb(West) and the Sarq al-Ousad(Middle East).  In Morocco, there was no question that they identified themselves with the Muslim World in terms of their faith, but when it came to ethnicity/heritage, some Moroccans were extremely proud of their Amazigh roots and saw the Arabization of the educational system as a continuation of Arab imperialism.  I had read in Peter Mansfield's A History of the Middle East that the Arab World was by no means a homogeneous bloc.  Political and cultural differences had existed for centuries.  Islam had unified the various tribes, but many of the cultural traditions that distinguished one tribe from the other continued.  I was hoping to see or experience these small subtleties.  I was also hoping to see how much of an impact Turkish rule had on the region.

Attempting to speak with the locals

I arrived in Jordan hoping that I could put to use a bit of the Moroccan Colloquial Arabic I had learned.  When I arrived, I was happy that I could pick out the numbers, but even the numbers sounded differently.  The /t/ for "Tom" used in tlata (three) or tlatin in Morocco was now replaced by the /Ө/ "th" for "think" and was now thlatha or thlathin.  The Moroccan juj for the number two was now ithnayn. I heard more "g"s in the place of the hard back-of-the-throat "q" sound. Instead of kif dayr for "how are you", I was now being greeted with a kayf f Halk or an even shorter kayfak.  Words like nishan for "straight" or aji for "come here" that have Amazigh/Berber roots were completely absent.

At the cafe and restaurant, I wanted to order a ns ns or half and half (Moroccan cappuccino) and some aatay (tea), but Jordanians would ask me, "What is it that you want half and half of and there is no such thing as aatay, but we do have chay".  For coffee, they either had 3adi (regular/normal) or wasit (medium) and those two options just told the waiter how much sugar to put.  I had to stick to root words and the few words of Fusha that I knew to get around, but even my pronunciation of those standard words was off.  When I asked for sugar (skkar), they would correct me by saying sukkar.

When addressing someone, I had used khouya (my brother) or sidi (my dear sir) to get someone's attention.  In Jordan, I heard more sadiqi (my loyal friend), sheikh (chief), and the Turkish basha (a title for a distinguished govt.official).

When scoping transportation options, telling someone maHtta (Darija word for station), I was told, will get you to the police station not the bus station. For the bus station, I had to use mujemma.  And to find out how much anything was, bshaHal got me blank stares, but gddesh got me the price.  Chnu for "what" was just chu.  Sometimes some people noticed my delayed reaction to their price offer and were kind enough to write the price out for me, but they would write it in Arabic numerals, which I never used in Morocco.  Saying the French tren for train, tobis for bus, or tomobil for car that are commonplace in Darija had to be replaced with the Fusha equivalents except for bus, which was just bus.  I could go on forever on how the dialects differed.  It was interesting because I could halfway understand what people were saying, but only a few could understand what was coming out of my mouth.  Fortunately, volunteers were there to fill in the gap and I am sure the exchange baffled Jordanians.  Here was this Arab-looking guy asking someone who was clearly a foreigner to speak on his behalf.

A volunteer I had met in Amman the night before and I left the city sometime late morning and took a Hijazi bus for less than 2JD to head over to Irbid where I would be meeting two more Peace Corps volunteers. We got off at Irbid's Amman Station and hopped on one of the many passenger vans/small buses that circled the city. We got off at University St, which was home to a long strip of restaurants, cafes, cybercafes, and shops. It looked like if anything happened in Irbid, it probably took place on this strip. We chilled out at a snack shop while the other volunteers arrived. I tried a few of the shop's specialty mojeena, a baked pastry with a variety of different fillings. I got a cheese one, one with meat, and another with spinach.

Mojenna

  

Gender Expectations: Similar and Different

The volunteers filled me in on their experience.  It was nice to a get a female perspective on the topic.  I was curious to find out how conservative Jordan was in comparison to Morocco.  Attire-wise, I did see more burqas and more niqabs than I had seen in Morocco, but I also saw a great number of ladies strutting their stuff with form-fitting western wear, high heels, full-on makeup, and a classy or flashy color-coordinated headscarf.  I told volunteers that I had worked primarily with women during my service and they were surprised that I had that much freedom to interact with the opposite sex.  Then I asked them about their service and all of them told me that they were working as TEFL Teachers or as Special Education Counselors,  but I was surprised to learn that all their classrooms were segregated and that in some cases girls and boys went to different schools.  That certainly was not typical of Morocco; most classrooms were integrated.

What took me most by surprise was our goodbyes.  I was ready to shake the hand of the female volunteer who had made all the initial contacts with other volunteers and had given me a wealth of travel tips, but when I extended my hand, she left me hanging and just waived goodbye.  Apparently, even a friendly shake could be misinterpreted by the locals.  That incidence, though, was indicative of how my experience in Jordan would be.  This moment when we exchanged a friendly conversation with a female was a rare moment; most of my time would likely be spent in the company of men.

Mi casa es su casa Jordanian style

So I arrived in a male volunteer's village later on.  We were invited to several households to have coffee and tea.  In one instance, we were invited to a colossal feast featuring Jordan's famous mansef.

Mouth-watering Mansef

The dish has an unleavened bread base that is then covered with a layer of a saffron-flavored rice-n-roni that is then topped with a seasoned, baked chicken with roasted peanuts and then doused with a tangy, yougurty broth.  I gorged on the food and exhaled a hamdullah(Thanks be to God).  It was a feast to remember.

Applying the tangy broth

I wanted to thank the cooks who had made this fabulous meal, but this was out of the question.  Even in Morocco, I sometimes did not meet the female members of the family until the 3rd or 4th meal(Three Meals Later) so I wasn't taken aback by it.  It was interesting, however, that in the few days I spent in the shamal (north) and visited a couple of homes,one in particular twice, I had no interaction with females.  That in most parts of Morocco would have been rare even for a foreigner.

Me and some FC Barcelona fans

Our male hosts treated us wonderfully.  I felt welcomed and I learned a great deal about the male side of Jordanian culture and etiquette.  They shared their love for football and we exchanged tid bits about our respective life experiences.

Coffee with town elder

They were curious to hear about my two years in Morocco.  They wanted to know if it was a nice place to live, how was the climate and food, how were the people, and if I had enjoyed my time there.  They were also eager to learn about Venezuela and my opinion on the controversial Venezuelan President, Mr. Hugo Chavez, a darling of the Middle East.  We spoke in a mix of English and Arabic.  Fortunately, the volunteer's friends were all sympathetic interlocutors.

I must say that after spending a few days in a village in the shamal when a Jordanian would tell me marhaba (welcome) or ahalan wa sahalan fik (Loosely translated, it means, "May you arrive as part of the family, and tread an easy path (as you enter)*, I felt that they really meant it and they went to lengths to show me that they did.  In terms of hospitality, Moroccans and Jordanians are neck and neck.

To some, chilling out in a village may seem like a waste of time given all the amazing sites and natural wonders in the world, but to me, observing the dynamics of village life, tasting the homemade cuisine, and talking with the locals are immensely satisfying and absolutely fascinating.  I've been fortunate to be the recipient of some of the finest hospitality imaginable both from Jordanians and from volunteers.  Their insight, connections, and assistance in helping me with the rest of my trip was invaluable.  I hope I can one day return to the favor to fellow sojourners.

*Translation source: http://forum.wordreference.com/showthread.php?t=170419
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My journey through the Holy Land continues.  Next, I'll share a bit of my experience walking through the Holy City of Jerusalem.  A guide is a nice handy reference, but I got tons of info from Jordan's own tourism site:

http://www.visitjordan.com/Default.aspx

They also have a lot of great pics and pdf files you can print out.

In Jordan - Reaching Amman and Tasting Nirvana

I arrived in Amman, Jordan, on Saturday, November 14, after taking a red-eye flight from Casablanca on Egypt Air. Without even planning it, I and three other Peace Corps volunteers were on the same flight out of Casablanca. They were starting their Middle East trek from Cairo; I had a quick layover before heading to Amman. Before our flight, we scoured all the money exchange bureaus at the Mohammed V Casablanca Airport and none had Jordanian Dinars or Egyptian Pounds to exchange. Knowing that I was going to come back to Morocco after my Middle Eastern trek, I kept my funds and hoped that the 25 Euros that I had kept stashed from my last trip to Europe would be enough to get through customs and to get to the nearest ATM.

I blogged earlier about my arrival to the Holy Land and the great experience I had with Egypt Air. I was fortunate to get a window seat, which allowed me to take in the scenery during the descent and ascent into and from Cairo. I'm 30 years old and I still feel like the 10 year old boy who was completely awestruck by his first flight out of Venezuela and how different things looked at 40,000 feet.

Like the experience I wrote about earlier about the mountains and plateaus making me feel insignificant or being humbled by the sheer breadth and size of nature's wonders, I feel the same when staring out from my tiny window in the sky. Ironically for me, every flight is a grounding experience. It just makes me realize how inconsequential my problems are in the scope of such vast amounts of space and over the course of time. What I begin to understand is that many of these landscapes are indifferent. Men and women have come and gone and yet they are still here changing and adapting to the elements. On my way in to Jordan, I saw various shades of sand, the blue of the Nile and the Red Sea, the Sinai Peninsula's mountainous wilderness, many dunes, plateaus, rocky hills dotted with olive trees, and a few lush valleys and oases.

The flight from Cairo to Amman was about 40 minutes. Counting our ascent and descent, we probably had about 20 minutes of coasting, and in that brief lull the flight crew scrambled to give everyone their complementary drink. It was a nice surprise to be able to walk directly onto the terminal rather than taking a shuttle or walking to it like you often do when travelling outside of Europe or the U.S. The causeway takes you straight to customs where an Arab Bank money exchange branch is at the center of the hall ready to exchange almost any currency to Jordanian Dinars. I found it interesting that a money exchange branch would be situated in the middle of the customs hall, but I guess a lot of countries do not carry Jordanian Dinars, Morocco being one of them. I exchanged my 25 Euros and got 22 Jordanian Dinars(JD). I knew coming in that the Jordanian Dinar was an expensive currency, but all the blogs I read said that most things are nowhere near U.S. or European prices. So it's little startling at first to get less money for your dollar or euro, but once you get out, you realize that a JD can be stretched out pretty far.

It was 10JD to get the visa. Some of the blogs I had browsed through before coming said that the visitor's visa was for two weeks so I was surprised to hear that the visas were now good for an entire month, which makes a lot of sense. You could traverse the country in two weeks. It's not very big and transportation to the main touristy sites is readily available, but for those who wish to take their time to meet people, taste the cuisine, and ponder the meaning of life in nature as I do, two weeks goes by in a flash.

Once I passed through customs, I went down to pick up my luggage. At the luggage carousels, I found some stands with maps and guides in various languages to the main sites in Jordan. It was a great find since all I had to go by on this trip was a Lonely Planet guide titled Middle East on a Shoestring Budget published in 1997. I was planning to travel on a shoestring budget, but after sleeping in one of the hotels this guide recommended, I decided to upgrade myself from shoestring to respectably clean. I stayed at one hotel called Jerusalem Hotel in Aqaba, and it literally was the nastiest place I've ever stayed at with roaches crawling around and the grimiest bed sheets I had ever seen, but the guide was spot on with the price. It was the cheapest of all the "budget" options. After one night in that hole, I moved next door and paid 5JD more for a bigger room, hot water, and peace of mind.

The Amman Queen Alia International Airport is about the size of your regional airport in the U.S. Once you get past customs, you walk out into the arrivals waiting hall, which has a number of snack shops, car rental stands, banks and ATMs, and a couple of cell phone boutiques. If you plan to spend some time in Jordan, I strongly encourage purchasing a SIM card from one of the boutiques. They run anywhere from 4-6JD from Orange, Zain, Umniah, and others, and the purchase generally includes 1 to 2JD of credit, which is more than enough to make initial arrangements with friends and hotels. Also, right outside the airport there's a bus shuttle company called Airport Express that travels back and forth from the airport to Amman. They have a stand at the airport and an attendant is outside asking any confused-looking tourist if they're going to Amman. It cost me 3JD and it dropped me off at the North Station also known as either Abdali Station or in Levantine Arabic as Moujemma Shamal. As the bus begins to park, taxi drivers converge near the bus's drop as they prepare to pounce on the fresh-off the plane tourists. I told one gentleman my destination and he offered to take me for 12JD. I told the guy in all honesty that I did not have 12JD and immediately he lowered the price to 7JD. I told him to lower it some more so he lowered it to 5JD and said in English, "Final price."

The guy took me through a touristy route, which allowed me to see the Roman fortress and auditorium. A ride through Amman is much like your typical roller coaster ride. The taxi drivers go just as fast as they wind up and down the many hills and valleys of the city. My first impression of Amman was not a memorable one. I thought the city lacked color, but then later I heard that it's by city mandate that the buildings use the local white and beige stone for the exterior. I don't know how legit that statement is, but it certainly seems like most people are adhering to it. The only contrast to the vanilla cream buildings are a few skyscrapers in the new city.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I asked the hotel receptionist about how much it costs to get from the North Station to the hotel to which he said, "Oh about 1.5JD to 2JD." I was hosed, but fortunately it was only for 3 or so dinares. Oh well, it was a lesson learned. From there on, I didn't hop on a taxi unless they had their meter running.

I checked into the Farah Hotel, which I had made a reservation on www.HostelWorld.com. I paid 5JD for a shared accommodation for one night. The rooms were clean, the bed was soft and sturdy, and the bathrooms were well-tended too. The lobby was also nice with plush couches, a TV and DVD player, a couple of large dining tables, and a couple of shelves full of board games, books, and bootleg movies.

When I checked in, I saw a guy chilling out on one of the couches. After I dropped my stuff in my room, I asked him about his travel plans. He told me smilingly that he lived in Jordan. Immediately I asked him if he was a Peace Corps Volunteer and he said yes. I told him that I had just finished service a couple of days ago.  He then asked me if I was Jonathan and I said yes, and then I followed asking him if he was Torin and he said yes. We had exchanged a few emails prior to arriving. He had said that he was likely going to be busy touring with some friends. It so happened that he was at Farah waiting for his friends to arrive from Palestine. I was exhausted from the red-eye flight, but I had a lot of questions about travel options and sites and then we spoke for a while about his Peace Corps experience and he gave me his lowdown on Jordan. I also shared a bit of my Peace Corps Morocco experience and gave him my lowdown on travel, food, and culture. I was fortunate to have found him and to have had this exchange on the first day of my trip.

We decided to meet up later on in the evening. I ran into him at a small fast food joint and joined him for a shawarma. The shawarma was not that great, but it was dirt cheap at 1.50JD for the plate. I was more impressed by the size of the meat spikes rotating in the fire. These spikes were probably about a meter and a half long and about half a meter wide. Some of the guys tending to it had to climb a small step ladder to shave off the meat at the top.  Some used a long knife to cut the meat and others used what looked like industrial size hair clippers. 

After the shawarma, we walked over to Habiba, a confectionery shop preparing Jordan's famous kenafa. This delicious sweet treat should rank pretty high in terms of the world's greatest inventions. The scrumptious treat has a mozzarella cheese base, a thin crunchy cake layer or stringy top that is doused in a honey or sugar-based syrup, and topped off with pistachios, cinnamon, and nutmeg on top. Every bite was like reaching taste-bud nirvana.

After Habiba's kenafa, we moved on to a cafe right on the main strip of King Hussein St. called Eco-Tourism Cafe. It was a scruffy looking place. About the only thing “eco” about it were the plants that the owner had throughout the cafe. There I got my first taste of Jordanian coffee. It was a contrast to Morocco's fancy coffee presses that squeeze out the coffee from the coffee grounds. In Jordan, you get the coffee and the grounds. Moroccan coffee also seems lighter in comparison to the almost syrupy makeup of Jordanian coffee, but as far as sugar is concerned, they're neck and neck. The coffee's bitterness is offset quite well by the generous amounts of sugar in each cup.

It was a nice first night in Amman. The following day I was to head out to Irbid with Torin to meet a couple of other volunteers. Upon arrival I had heard that L3id Kabir would most certainly fall on Tuesday, November 16. When I was drawing up my initial plans, I was hoping to avoid another sheep slaughtering, but it looked like I would be witness to yet another. I felt bad for the sheep, but at the same time I was thinking that I wouldn't object to some slow-cooked or grilled sheep meat. I was looking forward to meeting up with more volunteers and was even more excited about the opportunity to experience village life with one of them.

It had only been two days since I had checked/stamped out of Peace Corps. You would think that I would be running towards the comforts of Western amenities, but here I was wanting to experience village life in Jordan, and here I was in the hands of volunteers that were making it possible for me to do so. I felt blessed and fortunate to be part of this select group of people who have invested so much time and energy to get to know the people around them and their surroundings and who are so willing to share the little bit they know with me.

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Some Travel Details

Farah Hotel

Amman Al-Hussein Cinema St.

Behind Arab Bank

Downtown

+962-6-465-1443

Email: farahhotel@hotmail.com

www.farahhotel.com.jo 

One of the best state-run tourism websites that I've seen to date:

http://www.visitjordan.com/

Lunch with the Ambassador

It's not everyday you get to chill out with the high-ups in our government and much less in an informal setting, but just recently I got the chance to do that.  I can't explain exactly how it all came about.  It could have been that through my email blasting, which I've been doing over the last month, that word got around about my counterpart's trip to the U.S. to participate in the Santa Fe International Folk Art Market and at the opening of an exhibition titled Empowering Women hosted by the Museum of International Folk Art.  Another possibility was a referral from a dear friend of the Cherry Buttons Cooperative, Dr. Susan Schaeffer Davis, who not too long ago brought a delegation of U.S. Americans to Morocco and took them on a tour of events, some of which were attended by embassy staff and perhaps even the ambassador's wife.  Dr. Davis was one of the victims of my email blast to which she responded and said that she had recommended that the embassy staff meet my counterpart, Amina Yabis, if they were ever in the Fez region.

I got a call from Peace Corps staff alerting me of the ambassador's visit a couple of days prior to the expected arrival date, and then shortly after that phone call, embassy staff contacted me.  I was given a date, but few specifics: only that the ambassador's wife wanted to meet Amina and that they were aware that a Peace Corps volunteer was in the neighborhood so they also asked that I be present.  I was told not to contact security personnel as they would be responsible for doing so.  I relayed the information to my counterpart, but I forgot to tell her not to call any security personnel.

The day before their arrival, embassy security called me to give me an approximate time of when they would be there and to settle on a meeting point.  At the time, Sefrou was in full Cherry Festival mode.  The streets were decorated, there was a lot of foot traffic, music playing on different stages throughout the city, fantasia was on exhibit in the evenings, and expo tents were set up all over town, but the visit was not to partake of the festivities.  We decided we would meet at the artisana tent expo where Amina would be present with her cooperative ladies.

The following day there was a bit of drama.  Amina had told the Pasha, the equivalent of the security chief of the region, about the ambassador's visit and that he and his family may possibly dine in her home.  Amina said the Pasha did not take too well to the late notice and rebuked Amina for it.  At the artisana expo, local security personnel from either the police or other services approached Amina for more details, but she had none to give.  She told them to speak to me and I told them exactly what I had told Amina.  They wanted an itinerary that I simply didn't have.  When they realized that we were in the dark as much as they were, they cooled off and later on apologized to Amina.

As soon as the drama subsided, the black Suburbans arrived.  Amina and I went over to meet Ambassador Kaplan and his wife as they exited their vehicle.  On another suburban, members of the ambassador's family got out and we greeted them all.  A couple of volunteers who were planning to meet with Amina for Camp GLOW business came over to the tent and also greeted the ambassador and his family.  The ambassador's wife went over to Amina's booth, greeted the coop ladies and apprentices, and her family got to buying the coop's famous button necklaces and bracelets.

In conversation with security personnel, we determined that Amina would indeed host the ambassador and his family at her home for lunch.  As soon as we decided, Amina took off to get things prepared.

In the meantime, the ambassador and his family took a lap around the artisana expo with only the entourage of the security personnel.  The ambassador's visit was quite a contrast to the visit from the Minister of Artisana who had come through Sefrou only a few months back.  The entourage that followed that man was a good 50 meters long of what we PCV's call The Suits.  When the minister came to the artisana, all the artisans, members of the chamber of artisana, apprentices, and even myself formed a line for the minister to shake our hands.  Security personnel were out in full force with multiple vans shadowing the glossy, black Mercedes Benz-- the typical transport for government officials.  It was just a lot of pomp and circumstance everywhere.

I was happy that the political entourage was not there.  After all, this was not an official visit.  He did not come to make a proclamation or to shake hands with the political hierarchy; the ambassador and his family were here as your everyday tourist.

Next on the agenda was a visit to the Jewish cemetery in Sefrou.  I was about to say goodbye and to tell them that I would meet them at Amina's, but they urged me to come along.  I was honored to be accompanying the ambassador and his family, but more importantly I was psyched about the ride in the Suburbans.  For all my criticism of entourages, I was now part of one and I got to say that it did feel pretty cool.  The cemetery attendant greeted everyone with a "shalom" and then he began to blurt out some rapid-fire Moroccan Arabic that I could not understand nor could begin to translate.  Apparently, he thought that I was the tour guide for the group--not the first time this has happened.   The security personnel went over to the gentleman and explained that I was not Moroccan, but American, and that I was still learning.

The ambassador pointed to a grave that he said spelled out his first name Samuel in Hebrew.  The attendant led the group around the cemetery and pointed to graves where the remains had been removed and transported to Israel.  The ambassador said something to the effect that he had read that Sefrou had more of these empty graves than any other Jewish cemetery in Morocco.  In my nearly two years in Sefrou, this was my first time there.  It was interesting to see Hebrew written everywhere and to think that only 50 or so years ago Sefrou had a thriving Jewish population that lived in relative harmony with the Amazight and Arab population.

After the tour of the cemetery, we headed to Amina's home.  Once again I got to ride in the Suburban (it was cool the second time around as well).  Amina greeted the ambassador at the door beaming as she said in her limited English, "Welcome, welcome, welcome, and thank you, thank you, thank you."  We all sat down in Amina's living room and began to chat it up.  RPCV Gregg Johnson was there.  Amina's younger sister and her family were also there.  The ambassador and his family sat in one room while the security personnel sat in another not because there was not enough room, but because it was World Cup season and the other room had the TV tuned to the Paraguay vs. Slovakia match.

The ambassador and his family sat huddled towards one side of the room with the typical octagonal Moroccan table in the middle.  First, Amina's husband walked around with a water kettle and had everyone wash their hands.  Then, Amina began to bring out the food.  She did not do anything outside of what she normally does when she has guests visiting.   She served up the usual garnishes: small saucers of chopped tomato and cucumber, some saffron seasoned rice, some spicy tomato sauce, and a variety of olives.  She brought out the silverware in a tray that we passed around until everyone had one.  She also passed around a basket of bread.  Then, came the family platter of two oven-baked chickens with crunchy fries on top and a thick lemon sauce and green olives at the base--a classic Moroccan dish and one of my all-time favorites.  Not having individual plates to eat from, the ambassador's daughter asked, "So how do we do this?"

I proceeded with my vast knowledge of Moroccan table etiquette to explain how the bread serves as the fork or in essence kind of like a glove for one to dip and grab whatever is in one's real estate or food that is directly in front of you.  Gregg provided some cultural commentary on the tradition by explaining how eating in close proximity to each other and from the same platter was part of the community lifestyle that is exhibited in Moroccan society and how it serves to reinforce family bonds.  However, even with my exemplary demonstration on how to eat Moroccan style or the commentary, everyone went for the forks and went straight for the chicken.  Even though I am a big Moroccan bread fan, I'd much rather eat the meat without bread so I joined them fork in hand in prying the meat from chicken.  After getting our fill of all the garnishes and the chicken, Amina followed it with a platter of watermelon and big, fat Sefrouian cherries.

It was cool to see the ambassador and his family in an informal setting: his family kidding with him calling him "His Excellency" and his youngest grand-child taking bites out of the cherries and spraying everyone around with cherry juice.  It was great to see the ambassador almost eating Moroccan style.  I gave him a break.  It took me a while to replace the fork with bread.

He was happy to see that his security staff also got fed.  He mentioned that in some cases his security staff are not invited to eat.  Amina said that there was no way she would let those men go hungry.  The ambassador was extremely grateful for the food and the company, gave me and Amina his business card, and then we all posed for photos.

We walked the ambassador and his family back to their Suburbans.  I stayed behind with Amina and waved to them as they departed.  Amina was still overjoyed.  She still could not believe that  the Ambassador of the U.S. to the Kingdom of Morocco had dined in her home.  I was happy for her, but I was even more happy for the ambassador and his family who I believe got a different taste of Morocco here in Sefrou.  It was an exciting moment for me.  It was a pleasure to tag along with the ambassador and his family for a bit, being part of the entourage and riding in the Suburbans was a highlight, chowing down some Moroccan grub in typical Moroccan fashion, and just relaxing and shooting the breeze with him and his family.  It was a fine and memorable day in the life of another Peace Corps volunteer.

Three Meals Later

I would say that the Balti proverb illustrated in the Gregg Mortenson book "Three Cups of Tea" runs true in some parts of Morocco.  In some instances when I've been invited to dine in someone else's home, the first dinner is with the men of the family only.  On that initial visit, I don't even get to greet, meet, or for that matter see the wife or the women of the home.  It's utterly strange to me and I almost feel like I am inconveniencing the women and the kids who then eat their dinner in a separate dining room or in the confines of a small kitchen.  On the second visit, some of the kids have been allowed to eat with me and by the third or fourth meal, the entire family joins the dinner table. 

I have asked some Moroccan families to explain this custom to me and some have said that it has to do with protection from strangers and some of the women have said that they would rather leave the men alone to speak about whatever they feel like and would prefer to congregate with other women.  I would add that in all instances the food has been fantastic, which has served to minimize my concern about the absence of women at the dinner table during the course of the meal, but then the guilty feelings resurface when the food settles.

"It's not you; it's me"

Before I make any blanket statements about other cultures, I like to do a little introspection.  Perhaps, it's not them, but who I am that is prompting them to behave in that particular way.  Maybe, it's not that I am a man, but rather a very strange man.  Luckily, not too long ago, Joy and I received a dinner invitation from a female friend Joy had met at Amina's coop boutique on one of her first visits to the shamal(north).  I was really curious about this dinner.  Would Joy be asked to eat with the women and I with the men?  Would everyone dine together since it wasn't just this strange man as the guest, but also a very amicable and not Moroccan-looking Peace Corps volunteer?  (On one occasion I visited a family who upon entering the home said to their son, "But, I thought you said he was American?")

We arrived and were seated in their large dining salon.  It was a splendid salon with beautifully tiled walls, large Persian-style carpets on the floor, and Andalusian-styled, artisan designed furniture.  We both greeted the entire family.  For Joy, it was her second or third time there so she gave lots of hugs and kisses to all the women and kids.  Since this was a large crowd, my greeting is the customary handshake that I equate to a quick down-low high-five slap of the hands that is then proceeded by a left chest slap to one's heart that I now reciprocate without even thinking.  Some folks kiss the hand that was slapped, but I have yet to incorporate that in my greetings for personal OCD reasons. 

When we were seated in the large dining room, Joy and I were in the company of all the men in the house, which included the father, brothers, and close cousins, with the exception of Joy's friend who would join the conversation from time to time.  We spoke about a number of issues even the taboo subjects of politics were discussed.  Her friend then brought the dinner courses one after another, but did not dine with us.  We pigged out in traditional Peace Corps volunteer fashion.  (Generally, my goal for cooking is to make something edible and worth eating a second time as leftovers so the treat of a professionally cooked Moroccan meal is consumed to the maximum capacity available, which is often tested to its very limit on these rare occasions.)  Joy and I ate and conversed with the men all night while all the ladies ate in separate yet equal in size dining room with all the kids and the television. 

I was somewhat relieved that the hosts treated Joy and me equally and it wasn't just me or my strange ways altering their routine.  I will continue to ponder this.  I gotta say though that I’m not really fond of having to eat with just the men.  Don’t get me wrong.  The conversations are great, but I still feel like I'm more of nuisance than an honored guest.  Well, there is only one way to solve the ordeal.  No, I’m not going to tell them how I feel about their “three meals gets you into the circle of trust” tradition.  I am going to proceed graciously and gladly to my second and third meals.  

Assimilated Routines - The Family Platter

Dig in! Wait, did you wash your hands?

When I talk about the family platter, I'm not referring to the generous value size portions you can get at various American restaurants.  I'm talking about the tradition in which an entire Moroccan family typically eats from one giant dish.  At first, I found this practice a bit strange and unhygienic, but with time I have begun to see the logic in the custom and if proper protocol is followed as many Moroccans often do, you can easily make this routine as hygienic as eating from your individual plates and stainless steal silverware. 

In the U.S. every Thanksgiving many of us gather around a grand table and "ooh and aahh" as the house chefs bring out a series of platters of all sorts of steamed veggies, both sweet and tangy sauces, and creamy gravies all placed in what often looks like an ceremonial altar awaiting the arrival of the dish of all dishes, the properly dressed and painstakingly marinated baked turkey (makes me hungry just writing about it).  So large is the feast at times that it requires a collaborative effort to pass down or to serve everyone a portion of each dish.  Everyone has their own plate, silverware, glass, and napkin.  Drinks are served.  Then, the chowing begins.

Leid Kbir, bismillah and slice

In Morocco, I have had both humble and extravagant meals.  For the most part however, the tradition of the giant family platter is applied to both settings.  The equivalent of Thanksgiving in Morocco is Leid Kbir, a holiday in the Muslim calendar that commemorates the test of faith Abraham underwent when God asked him to sacrifice his first-born son.  The offering of an unblemished lamb was offered in its place.  Every Muslim family must in a sense do the same.  Many families slaughter a sheep and then go about dressing the entire animal.  This ritual produces a tremendous amount of meat that is then eaten over the course of three to four days.  In addition to the meat, families prepare salads and other vegetables as well.  Every meal that I have eaten during this time is grand even for those of meager resources.

Leid Kbir Morocco indoor grilling tradition

We all huddle around a small table no more than a square meter wide, which means that in some cases you are shoulder to shoulder with your host family, and then wait in anticipation as the different platters are retrieved from the smoked-out kitchens.  Smoked-out because most people engage in the still-odd-to-me custom of indoor grilling.  Some places are well ventilated, but others simply let the smoke permeate the entire house.  There's often a haze in the house, but kids go about playing their games and adults watching their television shows despite the tears swelling in their eyes.  Safe to say that everyone smells like barbecue for three to four days straight.

Let bread be thy fork...

Every platter is like your typical serving dish, but there are no individual plates.  A vegetable tray is often served first, which can include lettuce, radishes, carrots, tomatoes, and other seasonal fare.  Everyone is given a fork or spoon and then everyone begins the assault.  Sometimes small dishes of olives or sauces circle the main dish.  After the salad comes the meat, a giant serving of slow-cooked tender chunks of sheep meat resting on a pool of oil and spices served on another large serving dish.  With the arrival of the meat comes the breaking of the bread--a moment that always makes me think about the Last Supper and perhaps this is why I devote so much time to savoring every meal.  Most of the time people begin by dipping and dabbing the bread in the oils and spices and then once the moat surrounding the meat has reached a certain level, folks move on to the meat.  Your bits of bread serve as your edible glove that has permission to dig into and rip apart meat from bone.  No forks, spoons, and no individual plates are necessary.  You rip and dip and stuff your face.

For most of the holiday meals prior to any dipping and dabbing, someone is responsible for ensuring everyone has clean hands.  A basin is passed from one person to the other and the person in charge pours warm water over your hands.  For other meals, you hope and pray everyone took the time to wash.

The meals are then capped with a tray of fruit from which everyone grabs a bit of each type of fruit.  All peels and seeds are put on the table along with some of the meat bones.  Someone then brings out a dust pan (not the same one used with the sweeper) and rounds up all the scraps.  A soapy sponge then cleans the plastic table mat signaling the end to the feast.

For napkins, a medium-size towel is passed around and for drinks sometimes individual glasses are available when one is treated to a soda or juice.  When not, there's the ubiquitous community cup with a liter of the city's punch available for the thirsty.

Who needs plates and for that matter forks?

At first, I found the practice a little odd, but slowly I began to see its practicality although I doubt that's the sole purpose for its existence.  As a kid, I hated washing dishes.  It has got to be one of the most boring activities out there.  I was overjoyed when my parents would decide from time to time to use paper plates.  It made whatever meal I ate on those plates even that more delicious.

Dinner with host family

Eating from serving dishes has a lot of benefits.  Ecologically, without the dish washing, you're conserving energy from not using hot water, using less water in general, and using less soap.  Financially, you save on the use of water and electricity.  Without such a vast amount of plates to clean, you probably do not need a dishwasher or the vast amount of plates.

If you hate washing all together, replace the fork with the bread.  In Morocco, bread is the equivalent of the fork.  I remember one time during my home-stay my host father felt bad that the family had to leave for the weekend leaving me in their home all alone.  I told him not to worry and that I could cook for myself, which prompted him to ask, "Well, can I get you some bread?".  To which I responded, "No thanks, I don't need any bread right now."  He then gave me a bewildered look and asked me, "But how will you eat?" gesturing the motion of using bread to grab your food.  I smiled and said that I would use a fork.  He said, "Ah, waxa (Oh, okay)."  They only had a couple of forks and during my time there I never ate with one so it was natural to be perplexed by these bread-free meals.

I'm still leery of the community cup so I think in that regard I will continue to add individual glasses to my table for water and soda.

I gotta say though that I kind of like the towel idea as opposed to paper napkins or even individual cloth napkins as long as people don't abuse it.  There have been flagrant abusers who use the entire towel to wipe their face and hands leaving no part of it unsoiled.  I think rules can be spelled out prior to its use.

All in all this new adaptation of the family platter and family dining is a win-win for me and the environment.  I'll gain more free-time, use less energy and resources, and end up happier with less dishes to wash.  Don't worry, when you come to eat, I'll make sure everyone washes their hands before we dig in.

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.