“So, what exactly is going on?” We had to ask about ten
times last night while watching a singing game show on Arabic MTV, and we still
didn’t get it. The contestants were famous singers, who had to do abbreviated
karaoke ranging from “Someone Like You” to “Oh, Susanna” as well as Arabic and
French songs. After singing, each celebrity team of three had to choose a
number from one to six, which corresponded to a box. Behind each number was a
word from a lyric in another song. If the contestants chose the right number,
the box lit up blue and another word was revealed. If they guessed incorrectly,
the box was red but still revealed a word. The turn of play transferred to the
other team, who proceeded to sing another section of another song. But the
rhyme or reason to what made the guess wrong or right evaded us for the entirety
of the show, as did the relevancy of any of the songs. The singing, however,
was sing-a-long style with the lyrics on screen, so we belted our hearts out to
Bryan Adams and Maroon 5. Our host sisters had to sing along alone on the Arab
hits – for now. Our host sister (who turns 30 soon) compared the host to Lady
Gaga – “She’s very strange,” she said after I couldn’t help but let out a “What
is she wearing?!” Personally I wouldn’t subject Lady Gaga to the insult of being
compared to this host, but she definitely added an extra element of confusion
to the show.
The night before, we’d all enjoyed Arab Idol (after catching
the end of Project Runway, in English with Arabic subtitles). It was the first
Friday night elimination round of the show, and we were rooting for the three
Moroccan female singers. The contestants’ names would be called after clips of
their songs from the previous episodes. Everyone sang in Arabic, one of the
requirements of the show. This surprised me, since our host brother in Fez and
his friends listened almost exclusively to English music. After we were
reminded of how talented everyone was, the crying began as contestants were
eliminated. The men managed to mostly stay stoic, but a couple of the women
sent back to their bleacher seats on the side of the stage let out a few tears.
The shockingly skinny Moroccan girl advanced, but the hefty Egyptian with a
deep and moving voice to match was, in my opinion, unfairly denied. Some of the
contestants returned to their seats with smiles, and our host sister explained,
“They got a second chance.” We weren’t entirely sure what that meant, since
there proceeded to be no additional singing.
Whereas I’ve only seen one woman wearing a T-shirt on the
streets, on television all concerns of modesty disappear. Strapless shirts and
dresses, short skirts, and tight everything is suddenly okay. Even in family
photos, arms can be bared without protest. I’d like to return to Rabat in the
summer, since the winter weather could be the motivation for the conservative
clothing. Even if I could wear shorts, it’s far too cold, except in direct
sunlight in the middle hours of the day, and never inside these ice-box
buildings.
Our Arab Idol viewing was cut short by a text from our
friends inviting us out for a post-dinner snack. We took them up since dinner
at our place had been more like teatime, with some light breadstuffs and tea
around 6:30. That’s not to say teatime wasn’t utterly delicious. We were
treated to ghaif, a thin flaky pancake reminiscent of scallion pancakes
but without the scallions, and Moroccan crepes with honey. Since we’d sat
around chatting and watching Arab Idol for an hour it too, it was lucky that
our inviters were guy friends, since it was well after dark. Yesterday
afternoon, I walked alone through the medina as well as the new part of the
city without any problems – my long pants and sleeves and high collar helped me
avoid all but a few cat-calls – and I felt completely safe sitting alone in the
Andalusian gardens of the Kasbah to read. But once the sun goes down, the city
takes on a different feel and unaccompanied women disappear from the streets. It’s
weird to be walking along a main boulevard and suddenly realize that you and your
friend are the only females you can see, while the streets are filled with men.
Our exploits last night, though, were
completely safe, thanks to our escorts who picked us up at our door and
walked us back. (I'm going to owe these guys a lot of baked goods when
we get back to Chicago!) We
headed down Muhammed V street, the main boulevard of the modern city
lined with
cafés, bakeries, and newsstands. We bought small ice cream cones for
less than
an American dollar each and tried some falafel and schwarma at a Middle
Eastern
restaurant for about $5 total. We were home just a little after the
suggested
arrival time of 10:00pm – but our host sister didn’t seem to mind
unlocking the
“big door” to let us in to the vestibule that leads to the main house’s
door
and our own wing’s door. When we asked if being out a little past ten
would be
okay, she said, “Yeah, don’t worry, I’m open minded.”
Although Moroccan television has been utterly confusing so
far, I’m sure American shows are just as incoherent without the correct
cultural and language knowledge to pick up on everything. And the show isn’t the
point of our evening rendezvous in the big house’s sitting room. We gather
around sweet mint tea for a quiz from our host sister’s son (aged 2) on the
words for “bread” and “coffee” (he doesn’t tire of asking until he’s checked
our knowledge 40 times), to learn new ones from our host sisters, and to bond
over our praise and criticisms of the celebrities who smile at us from the TV. While
watching television together, the reach of globalism is undeniable. Perhaps it’s
only a matter of time before the laxity in dress trickles down to the streets. Whether
that would be good or not is a matter for another day, when our dinner
conversations move beyond pop songs and my host sisters can weigh in.
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