Once upon a time there was an old, beautiful city called Fes which was full of community pets. Cats were the most common of these: roaming the narrow streets, playing in the doorways, and constantly getting underfoot. Some people would bring their scraps to feed the strays, others would mercilessly kick and shoo them away. Chickens were also well known by the community, kept in cages for the eggs they produced. Roosters added to the noise, color and bustle of the venders and buyers. And of course, there was the constant flow of mules and donkeys hauling carts and various merchandise, and the occasional calf or sheep being led by his master. Fes accepted, ignored or made use of all its pets. But perhaps the most acknowledged pet--whether loved or hated--was the foreigner, who provided endless entertainment for the Fes residents.
One day, one such pet migrated to the old city. Her name was Kat. Pet Kat was adopted by one of the families of Fes, and quickly taken in by the community. Every day that Pet Kat headed into the streets, she was greeted by many calling for her attention. "Bon jour madam. Hello." "Do you like our city?" "Come into my shop. I have the best price, just for you." (What Pet Kat heard was, "Here, kitty, kitty," and generally ignored such encounters.)
Frequently the young men of the community would attempt flattery to capture Pet Kat's interest. "You're very beautiful. Not just today, but forever." "Very nice." "Are you married?" "Come get a drink with me." Catcalls were never more appropriately named when it came to Fes and its foreign female pets. But Pet Kat knew better, and instead of wagging her tail and getting all excited like puppies do to praise, she would keep her eyes lowered (and tail tucked) as she continued on her way. Inwardly she might laugh at some of the more sappy pieces of flattery, but mostly she didn't like how they treated her; it felt degrading.
And just like children like to imitate animals, so does Fes its pets. Oftentimes when Pet Kat struggled to speak in her host country's language she was met with laughter and mimicking ridicule. While Pet Kat thought she was saying it right, her new community heard "bow wow!" and responded in kind. Fortunately she was able to laugh at herself and keep trying. And most of the residents were willing to correct her and patiently listen to her frail attempts of communication, for which she was grateful.
One time Pet Kat went to a shop for a particular item. The shop owner kindly told her he didn't have it, but suggested a shop nearby. That shop didn't have it either, but a map was drawn for The Pet to guide her to another place. Pet Kat quickly found the store; but it was locked, though the sign said it was open. A young man informed her that the owner would return shortly, so she decided to wait. But then he offered to show her another place. Pet Kat weighed her options and chose to chase the string some more. After a few twists and turns, the store was encountered, but yet again resulted unsuccessful. The boy led her to one more across the street where finally Pet Kat found what she needed. The Fes boy thought he had earned a date with The Pet, but she declined, while thanking him for his help. Pet Kat turned the corner to return home, only to recognize her surroundings and realize that the boy had led her in a big circle from where he had first encountered her. She shook her head at the games and tricks he had made her play, licked her paw and swallowed her pride.
Another day, Pet Kat went to the park for some alone time and to paint. She found the park peaceful and she enjoyed soaking up the afternoon sun. A lady with her sister and brother-in-law and mother came and sat down next to her. "Bon jour madam," she began. As it was a woman talking to her, Pet Kat replied with "Salam alekum." Laughter from all four was her reward. The lady began to speak and ask all sorts of things in Arabic, none of which Pet Kat could comprehend. "Mafemptsh" (I don't understand), Pet Kat kept stating. They just kept laughing, "She doesn't understand!" Pet Kat went back to her painting, but the lady continued poking her with questions. She wanted The Pet's phone number. She wanted to take a photo of The Pet (which she did although Pet Kat had expressly told her no). Pet Kat felt cornered, like a caged animal in a zoo, her fur was ruffled. She slightly turned her back and returned to her painting, ignoring all further pokes and prods. Eventually the family left.
Everyone thought Pet Kat's accent and actions intriguing. It was irresistible to leave her alone; they wanted to be a part of her life. Pet Kat found her fish-bowl life to be extremely exhausting. Being an introverted pet, she would steal away to her room for peace, as a turtle retreats into his shell. There she would rest, message friends on facebook, and write silly blogs.
Pet Kat did find some friends who took a genuine interest in her--like her co-sufferers at her aerobics class (read previous blog), and her home-stay mom. Pet Kat learned and thrived with these people of Fes. She was happy; and if her friends listened closely, they may have heard her purr.
Showing posts with label language learning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label language learning. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
awkward aerobics
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)