Yesterday I thought it best to make another run to a bakery or two, and hanoots (Darija, or Moroccan Arabic, for "grocery stores"), here in town. Here in Morocco we're on the verge of L'Eid Kbir, a major Islamic holiday (see my November 2010 blog post "Eid Kbir" for an explanation of this holiday, and my December 2010 blog post "Holidays," my August 2011 blog post "Summer Camp 2011," and my October 2011 blog post "Women Drivers" for more about Islam). Some shops and stores are going to be closed for much of next week, so I figured it would be best if I made sure that I have plenty of food at home.
At one of the hanoots where I was buying food, I noticed that the "mul-hanoot," the shopkeeper, had his fly unzipped. Immediately, I decided that I was going to inform him of this fact. Next I realized that I couldn't remember the word in Darija for "zipper." Next I thought, "Well, whatever I do, I have to make sure that I don't say the English word "zipper." Here you find one of those unfortunate linguistic intersections which can, and, at times, does, embarrass many an unsuspecting foreigner in Morocco. The word "zip" sounds perilously close to the Darija word "zib," which is the word for the male reproductive organ.
Added to this linguistic landmine was the awkwardness created in this particular situation not just by the presence of other customers in his shop, but women at that. And he was directly in their line of sight. Once I had his attention, first I partly zipped my jacket up. I hadn't thought of how he was also wearing a jacket. Of course he responded by zipping up his jacket. Once I got his attention again, I again zipped up my jacket, this time all the way up. Of course he responded by zipping his jacket up all the way. I tried to explain this gesture the second time by saying, "Lla; laxur," meaning, "No; the other one," but he just shook his head in confusion.
At this point, the other workers in the hanoot were beginning to look at me, perhaps wondering what I was trying to tell the mul-hanoot. I decided to busy myself in loading the groceries which I had just bought into my bag. I glanced over at the mul-hanoot again. One of the other workers in the shop told me in English, "Just say it in English." For one thing, I didn't want to announce to the entire shop that a man's fly was unzipped. For another thing, I also knew that if I said it in English, it would probably be misfortunately misinterpreted given the Darija word "zib."
The mul-hanoot came over to me, this time out of view of the women in the store. This time I whispered to him, "Lla; taht," which means, "No; down below." He then looked down at his fly and understood.
Later that night, when I was at home, I chuckled, thinking that when I had finally successfully communicated to him that his fly was down, as he was zipping it up, he was yelling across the street to someone. In retrospect, I laughed at how I had been so concerned about embarrassing him, when it turned out that he wasn't self-conscious at all about it. It reminded me that just because a cultural norm exists in one's own country, it doesn't necessarily mean it exists wherever else you happen to be. You might think that this conclusion is a bit obvious, and shouldn't be that surprising, especially to a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). But I think that to get more specific, I think that what was surprising to me was that the cultural norm here is to cover up. Given the potential risk of exposing oneself, and how poorly that would be viewed here, I would have thought that he would have been more concerned and/or embarrassed by learning that his fly was down. So I suppose that yesterday I was reminded that while I've learned that there are certain cultural norms here, I've yet to learn all of the parameters of those cultural norms, and how those are or are not prominent in a variety of different situations.
At one of the hanoots where I was buying food, I noticed that the "mul-hanoot," the shopkeeper, had his fly unzipped. Immediately, I decided that I was going to inform him of this fact. Next I realized that I couldn't remember the word in Darija for "zipper." Next I thought, "Well, whatever I do, I have to make sure that I don't say the English word "zipper." Here you find one of those unfortunate linguistic intersections which can, and, at times, does, embarrass many an unsuspecting foreigner in Morocco. The word "zip" sounds perilously close to the Darija word "zib," which is the word for the male reproductive organ.
Added to this linguistic landmine was the awkwardness created in this particular situation not just by the presence of other customers in his shop, but women at that. And he was directly in their line of sight. Once I had his attention, first I partly zipped my jacket up. I hadn't thought of how he was also wearing a jacket. Of course he responded by zipping up his jacket. Once I got his attention again, I again zipped up my jacket, this time all the way up. Of course he responded by zipping his jacket up all the way. I tried to explain this gesture the second time by saying, "Lla; laxur," meaning, "No; the other one," but he just shook his head in confusion.
At this point, the other workers in the hanoot were beginning to look at me, perhaps wondering what I was trying to tell the mul-hanoot. I decided to busy myself in loading the groceries which I had just bought into my bag. I glanced over at the mul-hanoot again. One of the other workers in the shop told me in English, "Just say it in English." For one thing, I didn't want to announce to the entire shop that a man's fly was unzipped. For another thing, I also knew that if I said it in English, it would probably be misfortunately misinterpreted given the Darija word "zib."
The mul-hanoot came over to me, this time out of view of the women in the store. This time I whispered to him, "Lla; taht," which means, "No; down below." He then looked down at his fly and understood.
Later that night, when I was at home, I chuckled, thinking that when I had finally successfully communicated to him that his fly was down, as he was zipping it up, he was yelling across the street to someone. In retrospect, I laughed at how I had been so concerned about embarrassing him, when it turned out that he wasn't self-conscious at all about it. It reminded me that just because a cultural norm exists in one's own country, it doesn't necessarily mean it exists wherever else you happen to be. You might think that this conclusion is a bit obvious, and shouldn't be that surprising, especially to a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). But I think that to get more specific, I think that what was surprising to me was that the cultural norm here is to cover up. Given the potential risk of exposing oneself, and how poorly that would be viewed here, I would have thought that he would have been more concerned and/or embarrassed by learning that his fly was down. So I suppose that yesterday I was reminded that while I've learned that there are certain cultural norms here, I've yet to learn all of the parameters of those cultural norms, and how those are or are not prominent in a variety of different situations.
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