What's Wrong with the Rough Guide

There are three books in every Moroccan Peace Corps volunteer's house: the most sacred of Peace Corps texts, Where There Is No Doctor; a journal, which only half actually use and only half of those use regularly; and The Rough Guide to Morocco. The Rough Guide is by far the most frequently read book in a PCV's life, but there's never been a volunteer who constantly used it and didn't also constantly complain about it. Of course, there's never been anything that volunteers do that they don't also complain about, but, in this case, they may have a point (beyond the simple nitpicking of grammar and spelling that any schmo with too much time and education can do). The Rough Guide is invaluable, and it is not my intention to pillory the book, but there are a few edits that really need to be made, and who better to make them than me? Here they are:

I would say that the most important aspect of traveling to a foreign culture is language. It's hard to find all the beautiful sights or interact with the interesting people if you can't communicate, and Morocco's language schizophrenia only complicates matters. Most visitors plan on speaking French, and they tend to stay in the parts of Morocco where in some ways it's easier to speak French than Arabic. That's fortunate for them, because if they came armed only with the Rough Guide's Moroccan Arabic glossary, they'd be in for a few surprises.

Granted, the word “Arabic” itself is about as useful in today's world as the word “computer.” Is it a desktop or laptop? Mac? PC? Other? Is it for work or home or both? We understand the idea, but we also need a good deal more explanation. “Arabic” is obviously the language spoken by Arabs, but is it the U'rdania spoken in Jordanian-dubbed Turkish soap operas or the Misria of inane Egyptian comedies? Is it the Modern Standard Arabic of news reports or the Classical Arabic of the Qur'an? And in Morocco, we've got not only the Modern Standard of the classroom, but also the Darija of the streets.

The Rough Guide tackles this issue straight on from sentence one: “Moroccan Arabic, the country's official language, is substantially different from classical Arabic, or from the modern Arabic spoken in Egypt and the Gulf States.” This is not only incorrect, it's the exact opposite of the truth. Moroccan Arabic (known as Darija, meaning “dialect”) is not the official language of Morocco. In fact, the same modern Arabic (called Fos-ha, meaning “pure”) spoken in the east is used here as the official language (which there, too, is generally not the same language as what you'll hear spoken in the streets), though you aren't going to find it spoken anywhere other than in interviews or street signs. They go on to say that most Moroccans can understand the eastern dialects through media exposure and that they'll adapt their speech if you speak to them with one. The former is absolutely true; the latter is rather doubtful. My only experience observing someone speaking to Moroccans in Jordanian Arabic was met with laughter and the exact opposite of paying her any heed.

Ultimately, however, though this is false information, it's largely forgivable. No one's trip to Morocco is going to be ruined because they thought they could get by with Modern Standard. The real problem is in the pages that follow, wherein they proceed to spread misinformation with it's English-Arabic-French glossary. Now, this was not so malevolently constructed as Monty Python's infamous English-Hungarian Phrasebook, but, with a lack of clear premeditation comes the more critical question of how. How could the editors, who clearly have spent some time in Morocco and (presumably) would have had to use some of these phrases in order to learn them in the first place, have allowed this to happen? Despite their lengthy – albeit misleading – explanations as to the difference between Moroccan Arabic and the Arabics of the east, the glossary is filled with Fos-ha.

I'm not going to go into too great of detail as to the specifics of the inconsistencies between Fos-ha and Darija. Firstly, that would be boring, and second, my good friend and stagemate Mike Turner has already done it. I would, however, like to point out just a few examples. There are major differences between the dialects, and they begin at the beginning: with subject pronouns. I, you (masculine, feminine, and plural), he, and she are all the same. (Being a gendered language, there is no “it” as you or I would conceptualize it.) Both Fos-ha and the Rough Guide will go on offer nehnoo for “we” and hoom for “they.” Unfortunately, Darija prefers hooma (pretty close) for the latter and hna for the former.

My favorite, though, is given for “go away:” imshee. This was one of the words I knew before coming, as it's yelled with great frequency by Salah, Indiana Jones's Egyptian pal, particularly on the many occasions upon which he steals camels from both Nazis and their stooges. How I wished I could yell imshee with the same gusto, but it is not to be, as Moroccans say seer instead. The root of imshee is used for every other conjugation of the word expect for imperative. It's too bad that's the only form the user of this glossary is offered.

And there are more, but they don't need to delved into now (if you have time, and know about these languages, check out the list of numbers). There are also other translations that I can't be sure if they come from Fos-ha or somewhere else. These include, but are not limited to, the following [in the form of “English,” Moroccan Arabic, and (Rough Guide Moroccan Arabic)]: “there,” tma (hinak); “hospital,” sbitar (el mostashfa); “jam,” confitur (marmelad); and “yoghurt,” dannon (rayeb). To be honest, after reading through this glossary, I was convinced that the editorial staff just decided to copy/paste terms from some other Arabic phrasebook of theirs.

That was until I re-read their numbers. When I first came to Morocco, I was a little worried about how I'd only taken two semesters of Arabic in college, and particularly how I hadn't really paid that much attention in either of them. I learned to relax, however, once I learned to count to two. Modern Standard gives us wahhed for one and ithnain for two. Darija is hip to wahhed, but prefers djooj for two. This actually comes from the Arabic word for “couple” (zouwj is “marriage”), and – amazingly – this is accurately documented by the Rough Guide. Moroccan Arabic, however, returns to its Standard roots for nearly every other instance of two (twelve, twenty-two, etc) except for those in which in English we would say “...and two” (such as “one hundred and two”). This means that twelve is tinash (not “entnashar,” which as given by the Rough Guide is Fosh-ha ), and twenty-two is tnain o 'ashreen (Fos-ha would call for ithnain wa 'ashroon, which is pretty close). Our Rough Guide, however, recommends “jooj wa ashreen,” which you would think is really funny, too, if you realized that saying as much is – literally – like walking into your favorite deli and asking for “two and twenty bagels.”

But the Rough Guide is so much more than glossaries. In fact, only eleven pages are given to the entire language section, including one that simply says “Language,” a second that lists the contents of the remaining nine pages, and a final page index other (and presumably better) language resources. No, the meat of the Rough Guide is concerned with what to do and see in Morocco, and, though I haven't seen enough of the country to offer comment on much of the book, I've been to a good deal, and I want to talk about one of the country's most incredible natural sights: the Caves of Hercules.

The caves are located outside of Tangier, and get their name – supposedly – from the legendary founding of the city by Sophax, the son of Hercules, who named it after his mom, Tingis. The Rough Guide is skeptical of this story, and offers a countertheory that tingis is an Amazigh word meaning “marsh,” of which there are many. Believe what you will, the Rough Guide offers some very interesting perspective on the connection between Herculean mythology and Morocco (Lixus is allegedly the site of the Garden of the Hesperides, the home of the Golden Apples and object of one of Hercules's labors). It also makes it abundantly obvious – in a nearly full-page photograph – the caves' main attraction: “their strange sea window, shaped like a map of Africa.” It even includes Madagascar.

The greatest mistake I've made in my service was to completely dismiss the caves the first time I went to Tangier, and, when I finally returned, I nearly made the second greatest mistake of my service: to take a taxi directly there. Fortunately, however, either our driver didn't quite understand us, or he simply knew better, and he deposited us on a beach some four kilometers from the caves. The walk is absolutely breathtaking, and of the caliber of experiences that can literally leave you indifferent – and contentedly so – to any other disappointment. That worked out in our favor, as, upon descending the depths of the caves, we discovered that the sea window is not, in fact, shaped like a map of Africa.

That's perhaps a bit misleading. There is a strong resemblance; however, there is also a very key difference: it's shaped like a backwards map of Africa. I suppose that if you were of the sort with such a powerful imagination that upon seeing this shape your already distorted sense of reality would simply tell you that this is what Africa looks like, you wouldn't have any problems with this. Alternatively, you could simply stand in the ocean after tossing the sun into the caves, thus allowing it to create an accurately Africa-shaped silhouette. Either of these solutions is preferable to the thought that the Rough Guide would peddle such blatant – and so easily debunkable – falsehoods. I mean, you'd expect that they'd simply advise you to enjoy the “strange sea window, shaped like an inverted map of Africa,” or “a map of South America.” It's enough to make you wonder if perhaps Tangier really is the namesake of a mythological queen.

Perhaps the problem stems from there being just so much to do and see in Morocco. The Rough Guide tries to help, though, by offering 35 Things Not to Miss. To date, I've seen 29 of them and in general, I'd say it's a pretty solid list. There are a few, of course, that I don't think were really all that worth it. Windsurfing in Essaouira (number 5), though fun (like windsurfing pretty much anywhere), is really nothing to write home about, and the Bab Oudaia in Rabat (31) is probably one of the least interesting features of that city. Certainly the Shellah – or even the mausoleums of Mohammad V and Hassan II – are both far more attractive and historically significant. There are others that I haven't seen that I'd really love to, and in the case of the Glaoui Kasbah (1) and Tin Mal Mosque (18) I've certainly tried. I'm a little more skeptical of a few others like the big blue painted rocks (6) in the Tafraoute dessert and the skiing at Oukaimeden (10), but in the end, I'll probably just never see those.

All in all, though – like I said – it's a pretty good list, except, perhaps, for one: number 23, Berber transport. It's probably quite racist – definitely Orientalist – but even more, I'm not really sure what to do with this one. I mean, do I have to get in a truck with Berbers? Or see one? Or merely be aware that they're out there? And once in, how important is it that I make sure my co-passengers are Berber? I've seen the transport trucks before (riding in an open air vehicle is “illegal” for Peace Corps volunteers, so clearly I've never done that), and I know that some of the people I've seen in them were Arab. Does that not count? Also, it doesn't specifically say that it has to be a truck. My family is Amazigh, and I once rode in my uncle's car. I think that counts.

To be fair, though, it isn't always the Rough Guide's fault for spreading misinformation,and for this, now turn to Freedonia herself. It's always been a point of pride for me that Freedonia gets a good page and a half – not the most for a volunteer, but more than any of my immediate friends. For obvious reasons, though, I don't really need to read it very often, and so it wasn't until much later that I read this sentence: “A small Monday souk is held just off the central square within the ruined kasbah, location for music and dance events during a Fête des Pommes festival in August.” Freedonia really is famous for her apples, but in my two years, I'd never seen an apple festival, nor heard anyone speaking about it.

Until recently. There are several topics of conversation that are disproportionately popular in Morocco (whether Morocco or America is best is a big one), and one of those topics in Freedonia is how impossibly corrupt our last mayor was. I learned about this right from the beginning, when I was introduced to the town mascot, a cheetah named “Tiger.” You may not know this, but neither cheetahs nor tigers have much of a history in Morocco, and, as I quickly learned, they don't have much history in Freedonia, either.

The national animal of Morocco is the lion (Atlas lion, to be specific, of which there are no more in Morocco), and – allegedly – we used to have a giant stone lion statue to display our patriotism right in the center of town. The mayor, however, in an obvious appeal to popular sentiment, declared that we could do better, and had the statue removed to make way for the future: a scrawny little fiberglass cheetah, affectionately referred to around here as “the cat,” which only ever gets a new coat of paint when an unnamed concerned citizen goes out and does it himself. That may not sound all that corrupt until you hear what he did with the lion. Certainly, there aren't a lot of ways to dispose of a massive stone statue – and I'm sure he was motivated exclusively by civic pride – and he had no choice but to send the old lion down to live out its days guarding his ranch in the valley.

To be honest, I hadn't heard a story like that since they took Carmen Sandiego off the air, but it turns out that our mayor did more than just steal the town mascot. There's a little pond right near the cat where nowadays kids like to go swimming in the algae, but in the past folks would come and try to catch the fresh mountain fish. The mayor sold them all, and I'd always wondered why so many of our hotels and cafes and restaurants were named “something something trout.”

And as if it wasn't enough to steal the town monument or sell all the fish in the sea, he apparently sold off the festival to another town. Despite the fact that Freedonia is well enough known for its fruit that my programming staff have during visits here spent as much time buying apples as they have in talking to me about my work, the Apple Festival now lives in Midelt, for which it does receive credit in the Rough Guide.

Which brings me to my last issue: the general “roughness” of the guide. I'd always imagined that we were talking along the lines of rough-and-ready, “rude or unpolished in nature, method, or manner but effective in action or use” – what Indiana Jones would turn to if Short Round was on vacation. The more I read it, though, the less I'm convinced it's intended for really that much of an adventurous spirit. Taken in aggregate, it's the tourist track that outbid the road less traveled. The little towns get billed as places with nothing to see, fancy dining trumps street fare, and the Majorelle Gardens got listed as number 3 in the 35 Things Not to Miss. It turns out that it's a lot more Ginger than Mary Ann.

Not that there's necessarily that much economy to be made from marketing to Peace Corps volunteers – who are too cheap to buy anything, anyway – and the people who want to be like them, but if it isn't that kind of rough, just what kind of guide is it?

Fashion Sits Lowest

How many times do you think I can start my writing by telling you how Morocco is a “crossroads between cultures?” You'd be surprised; why don't you go back and count? And it's true, too. Then again, in this era of globalization, pretty much everywhere is a crossroads between cultures, but in Morocco, it's especially true. And, as in every other part of the world, it's a struggle between modernity and traditionalism, and it's literally tearing the country apart. It's the core of every major issue: if I should stay in school or drop out, if I should give my daughters the same freedoms as my sons, and if I should wear pants today.

Moroccan fashion falls squarely into these two categories, and it's usually a good measure for drawing all sorts of other snap judgments. Is this person old or young? Cosmopolitan or country-fried? Angst-ridden or comfortable in their personal awkwardness? Let's now take a little look at Moroccan fashion so that you, too, can tell the difference between modern and traditional as well as I can.

Traditional Moroccan clothing is epitomized in the jellaba. We've already talked about the jellaba's greatest contribution to human history – inspiring the Jedi robe – but there's more to it than that. In case you've been living under a rock these last two years, you know that a jellaba is a robe-like piece of clothing with a signature-style hood. It has two slits on the sides, which aren't pockets but allow for accessing any pockets you might be wearing underneath. Other than that, everything is variable. Fabric can be as simple as thick, monochromatic winter wool or as fantastic as pink and black velvet tiger stripes. Most have some embroidering along the cuffs and down the front made from a special kind of button (which can also be a popular jewelry item in itself), and a few luxury models come with a tassel that, in its spare time, doubles as a decoration for fancy curtain rods.

Jellabas a great for pretty much anything. Moroccan women – those who are more conservative, especially if they're married – won't be seen in the streets without one. My host mom and sister, even if they're just going down the street to the corner store, will either toss on a jellaba or tell one of my brothers to go. It's perfect for a quick run outside, though. It takes a moment to put one on, and it's guaranteed to look better than whatever you have on underneath. If college students ever found out about it, we'd have to call it the Jedi Academy.

And in the winter, a jellaba is big enough that you can always toss it on top of whatever you've already got on. That's particularly useful here in Freedonia, especially now that I've recently learned that I live only about 25 kilometers away from the lowest ever recorded temperature in Africa. Around here, folks like to toss on a second jellaba.

But as cool as a jellaba is, it's not really formal attire. I mean, I've certainly worn one as such, but, to be fair, it's really only business casual at best. When it's time to get dressed up, dudes who know go with jabbadors. A jabbador is pretty much just like what it sounds: an ornate, usually linen, long-sleeved shirt and embroidered pants of the same material. For really special occasions you can toss on a cloak-like outer layer, and some people wear varieties of hats and turbans, though I've been told that's not necessary. The only required accessory is the bilgha (which are worn with jellabas, too).

To be honest, though, formal Moroccan wear is very much like formal American wear, which is to say that the guys tend to get the minimalist end of the stick. Sure, you can tell a fancy jabbador from a bargain basement model, but, at the party, no one's going to notice. Why not? Because, just like at your homecoming semi-formal, the subtle class of your vintage suspenders don't stand a chance in a room full of day-glo taffeta, that's why. I'm talking about kaftans, Morocco's nuclear response to the prom dress.

There's no such thing as a subtle kaftan; they all range from “moderate” to “chiffon explosion” (which usually aren't even kaftans, they're takshetas, also called kaftans plus an extra aura-like layer of elaborate gauze). That's not a really great surprise, though, since they aren't worn except for weddings and other big events. And it's not only the bride who wears one, and hers isn't even necessarily the nicest there. The difference, though, is that she doesn't have to wear only one, and will spend the whole night disappearing into the darkness only to reemerge in a colorful new gown – like a butterfly, with many changes of clothes.

There are other traditional styles of clothing in Morocco, too, generally unique to specific regions. For example, as you go south and deeper into the desert (and Africa) you'll find women wearing the very iconic lizar. “Lizar” means “sheet,” and that's pretty much what it is, a sheet that you wrap yourself in, which serves to both keep you cooler by creating a pocket of air around you, and to completely obscure any shapeliness you may or may not have. And in the northern Rif mountains – if you're lucky – you can find the most incredible hat in the world. It's uncertain whether the Rif hat was first modeled off a lampshade (or vice versa), but this tall, colorful headgear not only protects you from the harsh sun, but it's also an important safety measure, allowing mountain travelers to be seen from great distances. And there's a popular trend in wearing traditional clothes from the Middle East. These include the abaiya, a white gown worn (here) by particularly religious men, and the black robes made popular by Syrian and Saudi soap opera actresses and decorated with the pirated logos of Coco Chanel in metallic silver thread.

None of these, however, are worn by the Shebab, the hip youth of Morocco. To really be down with the youth development, you have to know about the G Star. Before we go any further let me make it absolutely clear just what I mean by “G Star.” In this context it means not only the brand ,but also the lifestyle, which means that you could be – and often are – wearing Diesel, Armani, Versace, or Takeshy Kurosawa (whoever that is) brand clothing, and it would still be “G Star,” provided, of course, that it's raw enough to uphold the G Honor. Furthermore, it's possible to be wearing actual G Star line clothing that isn't actually G Enough. This is particularly true in America, where, I'm told, G Star has become a mainstream brand.

So what is it that makes G Star “G Star,” and everything else just clothes? How do you describe the beauty of a rose, or the awesomeness of rocket blasting into space? Usually, you don't; you take a picture and let that do the talking for you. Fortunately, I've largely done that here, too, and, though it will be impossible for you to appreciate G Star without having a visceral and deeply religious experience with it of your own, but that shouldn't stop us from discussing its glories while you explore.

When you see G Star, the first thing that hits you – literally – is color. G Star is not afraid to declare that hot pink is the new pink, and that pink is the new everything else. Quality G Star should not only keep you hip on a warm summer night, it also should keep you safe when you have to walk home at the end. If it isn't lime green or imperial purple or neon pink (or all of the above), it isn't worth wearing.

But it's so much more than just a creative re-imagining of the color wheel. When we lived in America, we had this idea that pants were just that, pants. But the truth is, pants are a tapestry. You can hide your shame with denim, or you can hide your shame with denim, extraneous buttons and rivets, zippers that don't open onto anything, and the Wrath of Bedazzler. They shouldn't be worn, but painted on, and if you still need a belt, make sure it's big, shiny, and has something on it that spins. The same goes for your shirts. Don't just make a shirt, give it a border of unnecessary thread. Put a picture on it, make it awesome, and then make it velvet. And whatever you need to say, it's always better when you say it with rhinestones.

The defining quality, however, as in all movements, is in the message, and G Star is a message from the future. Like the Qur'an, it includes verses that were never meant to be understood by man. Other times, quite the opposite. Consider the following passage from “Freshness:”

The stare or quahty of being tresh. 2.New or clean, 3. Of produce, not from storage 4. Refreshing or cool. 5. Without salt (ospecially of water). 6. Rude, cheeky, cr inappropriate. 7. Very clean, and trendy looking graments, clothes, shoes, accessoires. 8. (Militsry) Rested and ready to engage with the enemy immediately

Whether it be subversive like “For Armani Those about to Rock,” which has a secret message of “dont evver obey” hidden under sequins, or poetic to the tune of “Real Eyes / Real Lies / Real Lize,” there is no G Star that does not evoke a greater understanding of reality. “Cool Wheel Deals Ice Iceberg.” Think about it.

Unfortunately, however, it is in the pursuit of this message that so many would-be G Acolytes fall. The point, though, is not something hipsters would wear ironically to some coffee shop where they talk about their feelings. G Star is something rockstars wear to meet their commander in chief. That should be the guiding rule. “Born to Dance” is not G Star; it's a bumper sticker – unless it's got one hell of an accessorization.

And when in doubt, just remember what G Star told you: “On the waist, fashion sits lowest.”

Something for the Readers

Have you ever sat and thought to yourself, "I love reading Duncan's work so much, I just wish there was a way I could do more." Who hasn't, right?

Well, we have good news for you. It turns out that Duncan has convinced himself that he should go off and study for a PhD in Cultural Anthropology so that one day he can sit in a classroom in some university somewhere and continue spreading his message of nonsense and cross-cultural communication to generations to come. It turns out that to get there, he's going to have to spend a little time filling in applications that ask for things like writing samples and whatall.

And he's going to need your help. If you're really motivated, and can type at least eighty words per minute (send references and writing samples, please), you could do this for him. If you're only moderately interested, or don't have the necessary skills to contribute in more constructive ways, there's still work to be done. Fortunately, he's already written massive amounts of world-changing literature, and all you need to do is pick the one that's affected you the most.

So, what are you waiting for? Get up and reread every post here, and when you're done, vote for your favorite in the handy poll aplet available on the main page. If you feel like recommending something not on the list, I'd really rather that you keep it to yourself, but if you insist, I guess you can post a comment, or use your imaginations.

Thank you.

- The Management