Pictures of muscle builders posted on a sign indicate the way down a twisting road toward the gym. I descend several stairs to enter at basement level, and using the few Arabic words I know, attempt to express my interest in joining the women's classes for a month. The young man behind the desk responds in French, which is no help to me. "English? Español?" I query. "La. No," he replies. I determinedly repeat my four Arabic words: "Mra´. Shar wahed. B´shal?" (Woman. One month. How much?) Being a smart young man, or because there is (hopefully) only one way those words can be interpreted given the context, he pulls out a registration form and has me fill out the necessary information and pay a 1 month fee of 250 dirham ($25). ¨The class will start in a few minutes,¨ he informs me (or something to that effect, I only understand a couple words). I nod and sit down to wait.
As I wait (I´ve learned that waiting is a quite common activity in this culture and I´m prepared to wait a long while) my mind wanders to why I´ve decided to join a gym in the first place. I´ve always enjoyed staying active, whether it be running, swimming, biking or climbing; and I know that if I go awhile without being active, I become lethargic and go stir-crazy. I already knew that my activity options would be limited during my month stay in Fes. While it is physically possible to go running, I really didn´t want to draw any extra attention to myself, a foreigner, nor did I want to encourage unwanted catcalls or advances from men. As a norm, women just don´t go running outside. Thus the gym. Here again I have limited options. Men and women do not work out at the same time, so this particular gym reserves three evenings a week for women. And currently there is only one class offered. Thus aerobics. I´m skeptical, but beggars can't be choosers.
After only a short wait (literally just the few promised by the young man), a woman enters. And then another. The third to approach speaks a bit of broken English and she encourages me to follow her. We pass underneath a curtained doorway (which has been hung expressly for the women's privacy) into the weight room where the women begin to change into their sportswear. One lady is wearing a tight body suit, another normal sweats and top. One young lady sports a push-up bra and a tight tank top, and an older lady has opted for baggy sweats and headscarf. I notice I´m wearing the shortest shorts though, coming to mid-thigh. Loud Arabic music begins blaring throughout the gym and the ladies begin to shimmy and dance. I can't help myself and begin to wiggle a bit as well. One lady behind me laughs and says (in Arabic which I undertand) to the others, "Look at her now!" I laugh too, but now I'm self-conscious and end my poor dance attempt.
After changing, spraying on tons of perfume and I assume catching up on all the current gossip, we pass through another curtain into a smallish open room covered with floor pads. Some women briskly walk around, while a few run. I start out walking and then jog--the room is too small to actually run. I quickly get tired of the senseless and dizzying circles. Finally our instructor enters and assumes charge at the front of the room by ordering out directions--in French! Un, deux, trois, quatre...I rigorously begin marching in place, lifting my arms above me and to the sides. Next come lunges and half kicks and other crazy marching steps--always marching. One particular marching series confuses me and I can´t seem to get the steps right. My instructor comes over and enthusiastically shows me the steps, all the while explaining in French. I smile and nod and keep attempting. She moves on when she sees relative success. Unfortunately I´m a hopeless case when it comes to the shake-nothing-but-the-hips routine. Next, our drill sergeant leads us through a series of arm lifts and circles (while still marching). I´m sweating now, but I chalk that up to the small room and absolute no air-flow due to the closed windows and curtained doorways.
Fifteen minutes later, as I start to wonder how effective all this really is, a dull ache betrays my doubts and spreads through my upper appendages. How long do I have to keep my arms circling? Some ladies give up. I catch eyes with the woman next to me and we both laugh at our miserable situation. Can we please move on to another exercise? A tingling sensation begins in my fingers--I think I´m losing circulation. Just as I bring my arms down to shake them out our instructor switches to a new repetition. Alhumdu'lla! (Thank God!)
Nearing the end of our hour, the women begin pulling yoga mats from a pile at the back of the room. I follow suit and cool down stretches commence. My mat already smells like stale sweat and I try not to think of how unsanitary this place is as I mimic the awkward poses of our instructor. She is even cruel with our stretches, walking around pushing and pulling on our spread legs to expand even further. I´m glad she passes me by. Finally everyone gives a cheer and claps. We must be finished. I sigh relief.
My broken-English friend, Fatima,* and my "look-at-her-now" friend, Bahija,* lead me back into the weight room where we gather up our clothes and they steer me toward the showers. "Daba doosh" (now showers) they tell me. Hmmm...I hadn´t prepared for this and didn´t think to bring soap or a towel. But in we go into one corner of the bathroom to strip sweaty clothes and bras. Only underwear modestly remains. My friends attempt to converse with me, and they laugh at and mimic my attempts at their language. I´m feeling vulnerable in more ways than one. Then my friends usher me into the shower room where there are four shower heads and several bodies underneath. I get under one and rinse off, careful not to bump any bodies or boobs--a difficult feat as everyone is quite large and the Minnesota space bubble is as foreign a concept to them as a potluck without a Jello salad. I´m surprised at how quickly I adjust to my new situation though, observing the ease of conversation and laughter, and I return a few friendly smiles. I leave the shower and head back to my clothes attempting to shake off as much water as possible. "Next time I´m bringing a towel" I tell myself. But Bahija comes up and offers me hers. Again, I try not to think about the unhygienic possibility, and gratefully accept and dry off. Fatima, Bahija and I finish dressing. "Nshoofu lhamis" (see you Thursday) I say. They laugh. Because they laugh at everything I say. "Insha'lla" (God willing) they respond. I´m glad I´ve made friends. Perhaps I´ll enjoy this aerobics class after all!
*not their real names
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