Ramadaan 2013 begins tomorrow (…depending on the mood of the moon, of course, but for all intensive purposes, we’ll just go with that definitive opening line). Seems like just yesterday I was spending my daylight hours sitting in my laundry bucket, brimming with water, counting down the minutes until I could put some of this heavenly nectar known as lma (water) into my parched mouth. As I mentally prepare for my second and last Ramadaan in Morocco, I’m fondly recalling this surprisingly festive time of year– and I would like to address a cultural phenomenon that I talk about a lot here in Morocco, but have yet to throw into my online platform of cultural exchange (goals 2 & 3, just doin’ my job)— man parties!
Man parties are something I’m not sure I ever encountered in my previous American life. Sure, there are occasional jokes about “sausage fests” when men outnumber the ladies in any given social situation. Fraternities exist. And I won’t deny that the man-to-woman ratio for sporting events is often tipped in favor of testosterone. But man parties….man parties need their own category. Or, at least, their own blog entry.
I should probably begin by explaining the “space” delineations of Moroccan society. In general (italicized to emphasize that, like everything in life, there are many exceptions), men are kings of the public domain, and women are domestic queens– especially in rural areas like Tameslouht. This translates to men being able to hang out at the cafe and women gathering in each other’s houses for social stimulation. Mixing of these places happens, but it’s always a little strange for all of those involved.
I– the entity that is the white chicken– occupy some gray area between the two genders. This means that I get the best of both worlds (I can sit in cafes! I can sit in houses!) while not really integrating into either (“Why is she sitting in the cafe?” “Why is she sitting in the house?”). Oh, limbo.
And this, my friends, is how I was able to enter the sacred realm of the man party.
It all started last Ramadaan, that fateful time of heat and no food. Almost every night, after we broke our fast, I would get invited to hang out “outside.” If you actually read the previous paragraph, you would know that “outside” translates to “hanging out with dudes.” We would sit at a cafe, drink water, and enjoy the (comparatively) cool weather. No other women were around this particular area– except those passing in the night to go to a store or a friend’s house. A specific mission, it seems, is one of the only things that inspired the women to enter into the realm of the male at this time. And I don’t blame them– even as a white chicken who is able to transcend the male/female, I still feel not entirely comfortable when I find myself in a situation where I am the only one representin’ the sacred vessel. But, seeing as how my options are usually being stuck in the house or hanging out with dudes in a cafe, I often opt for the latter. I find my mental well-being often benefits from this.
From the cafe, at least once, twice, sometimes three times a week, I would find myself invited to none other than a bona fide man party. We’d cram ourselves into a car and drive to a cafe about halfway between Tameslouht and Marrakech. The cafe sat across from a grassy median, and we would spread out a blanket on the ground, enjoy the (relative) “freshness” of the outdoors, and talk about manly things, like politics and…other stuff I didn’t really understand. Then, more men would come to join us, usually bringing some kind of manly food, like a tanjia (all meat + oil). We’d eat it up like men, then bask with full bellies on the blankets and wash everything down with manly soda.
Tanjia, a true Marrakchi dish
Apart from these codified & bona fide (oh snap!) man parties of Ramadaan, I’ve found that my life outside of the house is basically some sort of variation of the theme. Basically every meeting I have attended for our interfaith dialogue event was stocked with an ample supply of male. A meeting with the governor (a man) on the schedule? That means that myself, my male counterpart, the priest (obviously a man), the rabbi (man), and the scribe taking notes for the meeting (man), get to sit together and bask in the manliness for an hour or two. Even a majority of the local events that I attend and/or help with turn up this demographic. Look how well I blend in!
One of these things is not like the other!er
So, as yet another Ramadaan begins, I’m looking forward to sweating out the days and man-partying up the nights– occupying that weird in-between of just existing here in Morocco. Ramadaan Karim everyone!
