Tongue Tied

We realize that the statute of acceptability on our living in Morocco without speaking Arabic is coming to a rapid close. While our "shwiya, shwiya" or "little bit" elicited for many months an appreciative chuckle from the locals when they asked us if we spoke Arabic, they now ask how long we've lived in Marrakech and when they hear it's been a full year, our lack of fluency gets a dismissive cluck. "Americans are usually very good at learning Arabic," we've heard on a number of ocassions, as if we're not only letting down the Moroccans, but our homeland, too. So, as we embark on year two living in Morocco, as well as a business venture here, we've vowed to step up our efforts to learn Arabic.

That said - and please don't take this as an excuse - we know how remiss we've been; we have had some curious encounters when we've tried to acquire and use new words. Our tile factory for popham design, for example, is located in a neighborhood out by the airport called Bouqaz Junction. On our regular trips to the factory, we instruct the taxi driver to go to "Bouqaz, aafak" (please). About half the time, we get a nod of understanding and off we go. The other half, the driver cranes his neck around to look at us and ask, "Ou?" "Bouqaz, pres de l'aeroport," we reply. "Ou? Quoi?" the driver asks again. "Just head to the airport, and we'll tell you where to go from there," we finally concede after about 10 more attempts: "Bouqaz, Bouqaz, Bouqaz . . ." Invitably, when we reach the neighborhood in question, we hear from the driver's seat, "Ah, Bouqaz," as if why didn't you just say do? No kidding, Bouqaz. That's what we've been repeating. But to the Moroccan ear, what we're convinced is a pretty spot-on pronunciation of the word has become horribly mangled. Or is it that when a person speaks in an unexpected foreign tongue, the native speaker cannot process the incongruity and so fails to recognize what's being said?

A similar thing happened just the other day with a new acquaintance. She's Moroccan, a Marrakshia born and raised, who is married to an Englishman and learned fluent English - infuriatingly - in just a few short months. Over lunch, we were talking about having gone out for eggs that morning, a Friday, only to find all of the corner shops closed. We headed to the chicken seller, figuring that where there are feathers, we should find eggs. And here Samuel throws in what we've been taught is the Moroccan Arabic word for egg, "bayda," which is pronounced like bed, but with a Sopranos-like accent. "What?" our multi-lingual guest asked. "Bayda," Sam repeated, "you know, egg." "What?" she looked at us as if we'd lapsed into Dutch. "Un oeuf," Sam explained, reverting to French, her 2nd language. "Ah, bayda," she happily replied. Exactly. Exactly what we'd been saying for the past few minutes, our attempts falling on deaf ears.



And these are just two quick anecdotes. We get these reactions daily to the handful of words that we have learned, use in correct context, and (she says with a sniffle) pronounce correctly, damnit.

So, I guess I offer a disclaimer as we throw the gaunlet down on learning Arabic this year. Will fluency even count if the native speakers we're talking to are not able to understand us? I understand even better why there is comfort in the default language of French, a second language for us and for the Moroccans, too. Neither side of the conversation comes with great expectations, or comprehension-blocking preconceptions. Moroccans expect foreigners to speak a bit of French, even if muddled, and the same goes for us of them. So, whether successful or not with Arabic, I guess we'll always have Paris . . . I mean French.