An Open Letter to the Old Lady Coughing Next Door:
Please do not die. I know that I am American and you are Moroccan and we do not talk much so I will make my request short and easy to understand. I do not want to bend social moors and sit down next to you on your stoop as the sun goes down, but I have grown to respect you during the last year we have been neighbors. You have seen such changes in your day, and now are left holding together a traditional life in the new house your son Braheim built for you. I am new to the neighborhood, I do not yet have your confidence and respect. I am rather doubtful of ever breaking down some of these barriers between us, but that does not make my wish any less.
I can hear you each night, as I lay in my garden and you in yours. The wall is only 9 feet high, I listen to your Al-Jazerra news and you listen to my Jay-Z. I know that each night, you wake up coughing spitting choking and I worry about you. Please do not die.
Neighborly,
Scott
Sunday, December 02, 2007
Gone to the Dogs:
I have writen before (or at least I intended to) about the relationship between Moroccan people and dogs. It usually is mixed but mostly mixed badly. The Koran says that dogs are unclean, and most towns end up with a lot of feral strays that get rocks thrown at them then become angry etc which only keeps the cycle going. Orne guy in town told me a long and rather convoluted description of what one must do when they have been touched by a dog, I think it included washing your cloths 7 times in the dirt. At which point, any reasonable person would just throw away those clothes.
M'ssici is a little different. Our two feral dogs are really nice. Joyfully jumping up, eager to play, desperate for human affection. We have one white one and one black one, and they sorta roam around the perefery of town sleeping though the day and being active at night. They had children.
Last week I was walking behind our kasba, when some children came out carring a big ball of fluffy white fur. Puppy. We talk about it, and as I was in a poor mood I took the dog to have someone to talk to while I was writing a text message. Its a cute dog. I think so, the kids think so. Old men think so. A concensous is reached, its cute. We walk to the edge of town where there is some cell phone reception and I think about making an adoption. Could I keep a dog? I called my friend and asked her to talk me out of it. About a half hour later, mother shows up and takes her baby back. I was a little sad to see it go, but value family so was happy to see them reunited. Also, unlike the mother, I am not lactating. But, a bond has been established.
Two days later I am coming home from a bike ride and run into a families group of children. These are the boldest children in town, some would call them just rude and ill manored, though their father is a nice guy. I am part of that some. They have the dog again. Where is mom? "She's gone!" I take puppy, drop my bike at my house then walk though town to the fields. Mistake. Now all the kids have two facts connected; foreign man and puppies. On our way, kids find me the brother puppy. Now my arms are filled with white whimping dogs and Im trying to duck excited children on our way for a mother and child reunion. I put them deep in a stand of corn figuring that mom will sniff them out. I checked back an hour later, it was rainbows and sunshine.
Im still pondering adoption. I do not mind living alone, but a little friendly puppy would be fun. At least it seems fun. Lots of friends have cats, I know another guy with a canine. AT this time of this writing, I have not seen mama, papa, or the kid for a few weeks. I hope they are safe. Updates at this spot.
I have writen before (or at least I intended to) about the relationship between Moroccan people and dogs. It usually is mixed but mostly mixed badly. The Koran says that dogs are unclean, and most towns end up with a lot of feral strays that get rocks thrown at them then become angry etc which only keeps the cycle going. Orne guy in town told me a long and rather convoluted description of what one must do when they have been touched by a dog, I think it included washing your cloths 7 times in the dirt. At which point, any reasonable person would just throw away those clothes.
M'ssici is a little different. Our two feral dogs are really nice. Joyfully jumping up, eager to play, desperate for human affection. We have one white one and one black one, and they sorta roam around the perefery of town sleeping though the day and being active at night. They had children.
Last week I was walking behind our kasba, when some children came out carring a big ball of fluffy white fur. Puppy. We talk about it, and as I was in a poor mood I took the dog to have someone to talk to while I was writing a text message. Its a cute dog. I think so, the kids think so. Old men think so. A concensous is reached, its cute. We walk to the edge of town where there is some cell phone reception and I think about making an adoption. Could I keep a dog? I called my friend and asked her to talk me out of it. About a half hour later, mother shows up and takes her baby back. I was a little sad to see it go, but value family so was happy to see them reunited. Also, unlike the mother, I am not lactating. But, a bond has been established.
Two days later I am coming home from a bike ride and run into a families group of children. These are the boldest children in town, some would call them just rude and ill manored, though their father is a nice guy. I am part of that some. They have the dog again. Where is mom? "She's gone!" I take puppy, drop my bike at my house then walk though town to the fields. Mistake. Now all the kids have two facts connected; foreign man and puppies. On our way, kids find me the brother puppy. Now my arms are filled with white whimping dogs and Im trying to duck excited children on our way for a mother and child reunion. I put them deep in a stand of corn figuring that mom will sniff them out. I checked back an hour later, it was rainbows and sunshine.
Im still pondering adoption. I do not mind living alone, but a little friendly puppy would be fun. At least it seems fun. Lots of friends have cats, I know another guy with a canine. AT this time of this writing, I have not seen mama, papa, or the kid for a few weeks. I hope they are safe. Updates at this spot.
Elections
We recently had elecions here in Morocco. Not for King, thats a lifetime gig. Legislative elections.
As a Peace Corps volenteer I am not allowed to get involved in any of this in any way.
The election calander has very tightly structured start and stop days. We went from no campaigning to vans and trucks plastered with posters and handbilling in every cafe. Even my small town would be invaded a few times a day by workers from Rissani or Alnif affiliated with one party or another. It was good entertinment for us, thought I think some of the workers felt like they had entered the boonies.
Parties like to distinguish themselves with symbols, not much different than our donkey and elephant. The car party. The doplhin party. The open door party. The apple. The car and key. The lightbulb party (not to be confused with the oil lamp party). All in all I was told there are 33 parties in Morocco. Or 44. So many that people did not even know them all, or know how many there were.
One party (mustanges just like my highschool), ran a women who did not wear the headscarf. When they came to flyer my town the teenager down the street told me she wasnt Muslim. It should have been obvious from looking at her. Enough said on that.
Election day came and went. I was told I couldnt vote without my official government card by some over zelous poll worker. People seemed excited to vote, to participate. Women and men, which I thought was an overall good sign. Im told that the moderates won, I am not political I have no openion about that.
We recently had elecions here in Morocco. Not for King, thats a lifetime gig. Legislative elections.
As a Peace Corps volenteer I am not allowed to get involved in any of this in any way.
The election calander has very tightly structured start and stop days. We went from no campaigning to vans and trucks plastered with posters and handbilling in every cafe. Even my small town would be invaded a few times a day by workers from Rissani or Alnif affiliated with one party or another. It was good entertinment for us, thought I think some of the workers felt like they had entered the boonies.
Parties like to distinguish themselves with symbols, not much different than our donkey and elephant. The car party. The doplhin party. The open door party. The apple. The car and key. The lightbulb party (not to be confused with the oil lamp party). All in all I was told there are 33 parties in Morocco. Or 44. So many that people did not even know them all, or know how many there were.
One party (mustanges just like my highschool), ran a women who did not wear the headscarf. When they came to flyer my town the teenager down the street told me she wasnt Muslim. It should have been obvious from looking at her. Enough said on that.
Election day came and went. I was told I couldnt vote without my official government card by some over zelous poll worker. People seemed excited to vote, to participate. Women and men, which I thought was an overall good sign. Im told that the moderates won, I am not political I have no openion about that.
Talk like Moroccan with your Hands!
Moroccans love to talk with their hands. Not just to provide visual cues, but to communicate real information too. Here are a few way that will have you talking (or gesturing) fluently in no time. Right is right. Left? ...it's sinister.
Hand wildly flapped over right shoulder: Something happened long ago. Ex: "Sure, I ate sweet delicous other white meat porkchops. Pan fried with some onions and apples, little fresh cracked black pepper...but that was a very long time ago"
Making like a tea pot. Pinky is the spout, thumb sticks up as handle: Tea as in "do you want me to pour you some tea"
Thumb outsteached as a bottle neck, other other fingers curled as in a fist: Beer. "Do you drink beer?". Often accumpanied by snickering, knowing looks, and a vauge sence of transgresing social order. This might have to do with the low quality of beer available or person drinking.
Thumb is a spout, hand is a fist. Tipped into the mouth: Water. "Im thirsty, please can I have some water". Also used by bored impoverished shepard children to get tourists to stop for their entertainment and enrichment.
Thumb and pointer finger making a zero: Of no value, worthless. Ex: "I do not like Merzuga. It has to many tourists and jerk faux-guides. Its a zero".
Hand extended, middle finger down: Figure it out.
Both hands in front of body, rotating at wrists. Confused look on face: What are you doing? Where have you been? Whats up?
Thumb rubbing against pointer and middle finger, palm up: Money. Lots of it.
Thumb rubbing against pointer and middle finger, palm down: Salt. As in "Please put some salt on my french fries".
Thumb under chin, forward movement: Too much or its full. Ex:"There is no space on the bus, its full" or "That jerk wanted 1000dh for the carpet. Way to much".
Pointer finger aimed at the heavens: Talkin' about the man upstairs.
Hand at temple as though making to screw a lightbulb into ones ear: Crazy. Often directed at another who is speaking, or a third party.
Stroking chin as though one has a beard: Older man, or an actual beard.
Hand on back, left on an imaginary staff, body hunched over: A very old man, or even some object very old. Ex: "You need a new cell phone Scott. Your's is very old".
Pointer finger extended and rubbing along chin cleft (for those blessed with one): Older women. Referencing facial tattoo's sported on many older females.
Both hands in front of body, moving in small circles as though one was using them to ride a bike: Bike riding. Note: Moroccans use their feet to ride, but hands to mime the motion.
Pointer finger pulling skin down under right eye: Sinful,wrong, hsuma Ex: "That guy was talking about drinking Jack Williams brand wiskey. Sinful!"
Hand in chopping motion. Hand flat, or as holding something: A whipping. Ex: "That kid through a rock at me. He needs to get wacked".
Left pointer finger, turgid. Right thumb and finger in a circle. Left is inserted into the hole formed by right: An immature way to reference a mature subject.
Throwing food into an open mouth: Food. Used all the time.
Hand in a fist, pumped enthusisticly in front of the chest: Forcefully. Often used by males to reference "the marital act", wherether under that auspice or not. Not used by females, who have no interest in that stuff anyway. :)
Hands together, under head tilted sideways: Sleep, or sleepy. Ex: "Scott, are you sleepy? Did my braying mule wake you up last night?".
Fingers coming together in a pinch. In front of ones mouth or directed: Quiet, or be quiet.
Moroccans love to talk with their hands. Not just to provide visual cues, but to communicate real information too. Here are a few way that will have you talking (or gesturing) fluently in no time. Right is right. Left? ...it's sinister.
Hand wildly flapped over right shoulder: Something happened long ago. Ex: "Sure, I ate sweet delicous other white meat porkchops. Pan fried with some onions and apples, little fresh cracked black pepper...but that was a very long time ago"
Making like a tea pot. Pinky is the spout, thumb sticks up as handle: Tea as in "do you want me to pour you some tea"
Thumb outsteached as a bottle neck, other other fingers curled as in a fist: Beer. "Do you drink beer?". Often accumpanied by snickering, knowing looks, and a vauge sence of transgresing social order. This might have to do with the low quality of beer available or person drinking.
Thumb is a spout, hand is a fist. Tipped into the mouth: Water. "Im thirsty, please can I have some water". Also used by bored impoverished shepard children to get tourists to stop for their entertainment and enrichment.
Thumb and pointer finger making a zero: Of no value, worthless. Ex: "I do not like Merzuga. It has to many tourists and jerk faux-guides. Its a zero".
Hand extended, middle finger down: Figure it out.
Both hands in front of body, rotating at wrists. Confused look on face: What are you doing? Where have you been? Whats up?
Thumb rubbing against pointer and middle finger, palm up: Money. Lots of it.
Thumb rubbing against pointer and middle finger, palm down: Salt. As in "Please put some salt on my french fries".
Thumb under chin, forward movement: Too much or its full. Ex:"There is no space on the bus, its full" or "That jerk wanted 1000dh for the carpet. Way to much".
Pointer finger aimed at the heavens: Talkin' about the man upstairs.
Hand at temple as though making to screw a lightbulb into ones ear: Crazy. Often directed at another who is speaking, or a third party.
Stroking chin as though one has a beard: Older man, or an actual beard.
Hand on back, left on an imaginary staff, body hunched over: A very old man, or even some object very old. Ex: "You need a new cell phone Scott. Your's is very old".
Pointer finger extended and rubbing along chin cleft (for those blessed with one): Older women. Referencing facial tattoo's sported on many older females.
Both hands in front of body, moving in small circles as though one was using them to ride a bike: Bike riding. Note: Moroccans use their feet to ride, but hands to mime the motion.
Pointer finger pulling skin down under right eye: Sinful,wrong, hsuma Ex: "That guy was talking about drinking Jack Williams brand wiskey. Sinful!"
Hand in chopping motion. Hand flat, or as holding something: A whipping. Ex: "That kid through a rock at me. He needs to get wacked".
Left pointer finger, turgid. Right thumb and finger in a circle. Left is inserted into the hole formed by right: An immature way to reference a mature subject.
Throwing food into an open mouth: Food. Used all the time.
Hand in a fist, pumped enthusisticly in front of the chest: Forcefully. Often used by males to reference "the marital act", wherether under that auspice or not. Not used by females, who have no interest in that stuff anyway. :)
Hands together, under head tilted sideways: Sleep, or sleepy. Ex: "Scott, are you sleepy? Did my braying mule wake you up last night?".
Fingers coming together in a pinch. In front of ones mouth or directed: Quiet, or be quiet.
When you live in a mud house a certain...comfortability with the animal kingdom developes. Im am now fairly flexable, so it brings a little smile when insect-a-phobes (i think this has a real name), come visiting. A small list of my ark.
It is my beliefe that if you have a garden in the middle of the house, and your walls more closely resemble the ant farm i got for christmas a few years ago, that ants are going to be my friend. I keep my food sealed tightly, and whatever they get to is my fault. But, ants lead to...
Roachs. I had some. I know some PCVs who employ a cat to solve their roach problem. I had a "wig out" and went a little nutter with some insecticide. It wasnt pretty, but problem solved. However...
Ive been visited by a plauge. Or at least some confused grasshoppers who would rather be devouring a field of wheat but who are despertaly bouncing around my living room. This makes them perfect prey for...
Lizards. Last year I had one lizard I named Gorden. I dont think he was a real gecko. But, sadly I found him dead and being visited by my ants. This year I have more lizards, but Im not naming them.
Bats. I had one fly in yesterday. No confusion. He flipped upside down and took a little nap in my hallway. Live and let live.
Birds. I watched one make a nest in my rafters and being rather tender hearted I let it stay. Birds wake up early, and while they were in residence so did I.
Scorpians. My friends have so many of these ghouls. I dont know whats going wrong. If anyone should have some, its me. But so far so good. I had two last summer, and one baby one this year. Thats it. T
Spiders. Not many either. I do need to get a photo of those camel spiders. Those are huge and scary. I almost walked over one in the road a few days ago and it scared the crap out of me. I found one inside my house, lets hope he does not return.
Flies. So many I lost count.
Weirdo's. There are a lot of flying, hopping, buzzing and humming bugs and I do not have a clue what they are.
It is my beliefe that if you have a garden in the middle of the house, and your walls more closely resemble the ant farm i got for christmas a few years ago, that ants are going to be my friend. I keep my food sealed tightly, and whatever they get to is my fault. But, ants lead to...
Roachs. I had some. I know some PCVs who employ a cat to solve their roach problem. I had a "wig out" and went a little nutter with some insecticide. It wasnt pretty, but problem solved. However...
Ive been visited by a plauge. Or at least some confused grasshoppers who would rather be devouring a field of wheat but who are despertaly bouncing around my living room. This makes them perfect prey for...
Lizards. Last year I had one lizard I named Gorden. I dont think he was a real gecko. But, sadly I found him dead and being visited by my ants. This year I have more lizards, but Im not naming them.
Bats. I had one fly in yesterday. No confusion. He flipped upside down and took a little nap in my hallway. Live and let live.
Birds. I watched one make a nest in my rafters and being rather tender hearted I let it stay. Birds wake up early, and while they were in residence so did I.
Scorpians. My friends have so many of these ghouls. I dont know whats going wrong. If anyone should have some, its me. But so far so good. I had two last summer, and one baby one this year. Thats it. T
Spiders. Not many either. I do need to get a photo of those camel spiders. Those are huge and scary. I almost walked over one in the road a few days ago and it scared the crap out of me. I found one inside my house, lets hope he does not return.
Flies. So many I lost count.
Weirdo's. There are a lot of flying, hopping, buzzing and humming bugs and I do not have a clue what they are.
It was Ramadan again!
From an outside viewpoint the entire Thanksgiving to New Years time must seem pretty strange. One holiday after another blending in to a smooth commercialized campaign that runs for months.
That said, Ramadan is strange. A month of fasting during the day. No water, no food from very early (like 4am) until sundown (6pmish). Its hard. But the fast breaking is a riotous affair, with sugar and fattening foods proliferating. Its easy to see how some people put on weight during this holy month.
Im not fasting this year. I tried some last year, found it didnt strike a cord with me and did not see any reason to give it another go. Im not sure what I expected last year. Did I seek salvation, or a feeling that I was paying off some penance? Did I think it would help me grow closer to a higher power? Or closer to my town? I felt hungry and thirsty, but that is about it. People in town still like to ask me on a daily basis if I am fasting, I think for children it is just another way to be reminded of the infidel that lives down the street.
Being a luner month, a person can keep watch each night for the progress. I have never seen the moon wax and wane so slowly in my life.
From an outside viewpoint the entire Thanksgiving to New Years time must seem pretty strange. One holiday after another blending in to a smooth commercialized campaign that runs for months.
That said, Ramadan is strange. A month of fasting during the day. No water, no food from very early (like 4am) until sundown (6pmish). Its hard. But the fast breaking is a riotous affair, with sugar and fattening foods proliferating. Its easy to see how some people put on weight during this holy month.
Im not fasting this year. I tried some last year, found it didnt strike a cord with me and did not see any reason to give it another go. Im not sure what I expected last year. Did I seek salvation, or a feeling that I was paying off some penance? Did I think it would help me grow closer to a higher power? Or closer to my town? I felt hungry and thirsty, but that is about it. People in town still like to ask me on a daily basis if I am fasting, I think for children it is just another way to be reminded of the infidel that lives down the street.
Being a luner month, a person can keep watch each night for the progress. I have never seen the moon wax and wane so slowly in my life.
My parents visited my town in early june. Our timeframe was very rushed, and we only spent about 16 hours in town. Most of that time was spent in my house, cooking, sleeping, or just spending a little time together. To be honest, most people in town didnt even know they had visited, which seems to have some odd results now.
I had the following conversation in early September with ladies at the end of my street:
Me: Peace be with you!
Lady: Also with you!
Me: How are you? Your are good?
Lady: Yes, good. You?
Me: Great
Lady: Are your parents in your house?
Me: What? In my house?
Lady: Yes. Parents in your house?
Me: My parents?
Lady: Your parents.
Me: Now?
Lady: Yes. Now.
Friend of Lady: He understands nothing.
Lady: Go to the store and buy your veggies.
Me (silently): They understand nothing.
I had the following conversation in early September with ladies at the end of my street:
Me: Peace be with you!
Lady: Also with you!
Me: How are you? Your are good?
Lady: Yes, good. You?
Me: Great
Lady: Are your parents in your house?
Me: What? In my house?
Lady: Yes. Parents in your house?
Me: My parents?
Lady: Your parents.
Me: Now?
Lady: Yes. Now.
Friend of Lady: He understands nothing.
Lady: Go to the store and buy your veggies.
Me (silently): They understand nothing.
Saturday, September 08, 2007
I am always excited by signs of enterprising spirit in Morocco. When people sense a market niche, and provide a product or service to fill that need. The only exception might be faux-guides and touts, both of who also make me excited but with...vigor. In any case, the reason I "geek out" to such an extreme am that this happens fairly infrequently. It's not uncommon for people to sell identical products directly next door to each other, the defining difference not being the products but the people doing the selling. It's a different way of doing business I suppose, one based more on family and friendship than what exists in the US today.
As readers know (ye few but faithful), my town got electricity a few months ago. It brought a lot of changes to town, mostly a lot of refrigerators (not one for me). My second favorite (of 4) store in town was seized by some of this above spirit. Perhaps it came down in a tongue of flame; maybe it was inspiration from the mosque that is a 30second walk away. In either case, 90% of the time the owner is prone on the ground slumbering so it must have been a strong inclination that leads him to start selling homemade popsicles. Wonderfully cold, and wholesomely simple. Morocco is blessed with a lot of faux-Tang, which he pours into a tea glass and adds a small stick from a tree in front of his store. A few hours and a 10 ryals (7cents) later I am a very happy man. The sublime joy of a cold treat and a meditative walk though the date palms is hard to quantify on a law school application.
As readers know (ye few but faithful), my town got electricity a few months ago. It brought a lot of changes to town, mostly a lot of refrigerators (not one for me). My second favorite (of 4) store in town was seized by some of this above spirit. Perhaps it came down in a tongue of flame; maybe it was inspiration from the mosque that is a 30second walk away. In either case, 90% of the time the owner is prone on the ground slumbering so it must have been a strong inclination that leads him to start selling homemade popsicles. Wonderfully cold, and wholesomely simple. Morocco is blessed with a lot of faux-Tang, which he pours into a tea glass and adds a small stick from a tree in front of his store. A few hours and a 10 ryals (7cents) later I am a very happy man. The sublime joy of a cold treat and a meditative walk though the date palms is hard to quantify on a law school application.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
When I was growing up, Salina had a small dirty place called Bogeys. Its name being an homage to Humphry Bogart, star of many classic movies including Casablanca. Bogeys was one of those odd businesses, ones that prosper enought to stay open but were slow to adopt some modern conviences. It was located down a small residential side street in an aged commercial strip. My friend Andrew's grandparents lived a few doors away, and I always thought they had cleverly picked out a wonderful location, especially for their grandchildren. I can not remember how much a vanilla cone was, but it was a convient amount for young boys to find under the sofa, slip into the lower left pocket in their cargo shorts, and zip over on a bike ride in the afternoons. The perfect word for this perfect time is halycon.
I was a fairly nieve youth, and in retrospect I have little doubt that Bogeys had its fair share goofieness. It was located near a small college, and the drinking habits of Lutherins are legend. It seems like the type of place where the afternoon fry dude was ahead of the late 90's low-fat trend and was staying baked all summer long. It was one of those places that had a venier of family friendly, yet somehow was never able to clean up that tacky feeling you could have sitting on the benches. Salina has a hyperactive health inspector, and pure bribery was the only way they could have stayed open. I find this type of activity somehow comforting. While Im sure there was some "plan" to Bogeys, the beauty was that in being left alone it had a personality that made it a home in my heart.
Casablanca (dar bidia) Morocco is not unlike Bogeys in some ways. It certainly has a tackyness to it. A certain trashiness pervades. Yet, somehow this is a different trash. This isnt clean, its not a family friendly place. Even the fry guy would be scared away. The same things (bribes, thc, etc) that a person might find so quirky their more intense incarnation down right troublesome.
I read recently that Casa was the first town in the world laid out and designed entirely by airplane. Ive known that the town was heavily built up by the French and Spanish during their time here, but this seems to confirm that the random hand that creates beauty was held back. Its not that European colonial powers make ugly things, it is just difficult for the natural forces to take over. Could this artificial additive be connected to the slums that have become so well known there? Poverty mixed with religous extreamism is an explosive combination as the town has experienced over and over.
Im not advocating that Casa be left to mellow out on its own. That the forces of international trade will give jobs to the unwashed masses. I am trying to point out that planned expansions and modern cities often seem to lack a certain connected feeling that evolves naturally in many processes. These can help make something that would be bad, into something acceptable. But if prevented can lead to determential mixes that have the opposite effect of what the planning was trying to achieve.
Besides, who ever heard of using an air plane to plan a city?
Sadly, a few years ago Bogeys built a new building, and cleaned up its act.
*****************
I spend half of the ride home today trying to use my book (globalization and its discontents) as a pillow . I spent another part serving as a pillow for the kid next to me who passed out on my shoulder with his bus ticket in his mouth.
******************
That above post sorta implise a dirtyness on the part of Moroccan people. Its not true. I think people here are much cleaner than most Americans would be in similar situations. I am sure I have the dirtiest house in town.
Also, it suggests that residences of suburban American could be prone to violence because they are not exposed to natural randomness and beauty.
I was a fairly nieve youth, and in retrospect I have little doubt that Bogeys had its fair share goofieness. It was located near a small college, and the drinking habits of Lutherins are legend. It seems like the type of place where the afternoon fry dude was ahead of the late 90's low-fat trend and was staying baked all summer long. It was one of those places that had a venier of family friendly, yet somehow was never able to clean up that tacky feeling you could have sitting on the benches. Salina has a hyperactive health inspector, and pure bribery was the only way they could have stayed open. I find this type of activity somehow comforting. While Im sure there was some "plan" to Bogeys, the beauty was that in being left alone it had a personality that made it a home in my heart.
Casablanca (dar bidia) Morocco is not unlike Bogeys in some ways. It certainly has a tackyness to it. A certain trashiness pervades. Yet, somehow this is a different trash. This isnt clean, its not a family friendly place. Even the fry guy would be scared away. The same things (bribes, thc, etc) that a person might find so quirky their more intense incarnation down right troublesome.
I read recently that Casa was the first town in the world laid out and designed entirely by airplane. Ive known that the town was heavily built up by the French and Spanish during their time here, but this seems to confirm that the random hand that creates beauty was held back. Its not that European colonial powers make ugly things, it is just difficult for the natural forces to take over. Could this artificial additive be connected to the slums that have become so well known there? Poverty mixed with religous extreamism is an explosive combination as the town has experienced over and over.
Im not advocating that Casa be left to mellow out on its own. That the forces of international trade will give jobs to the unwashed masses. I am trying to point out that planned expansions and modern cities often seem to lack a certain connected feeling that evolves naturally in many processes. These can help make something that would be bad, into something acceptable. But if prevented can lead to determential mixes that have the opposite effect of what the planning was trying to achieve.
Besides, who ever heard of using an air plane to plan a city?
Sadly, a few years ago Bogeys built a new building, and cleaned up its act.
*****************
I spend half of the ride home today trying to use my book (globalization and its discontents) as a pillow . I spent another part serving as a pillow for the kid next to me who passed out on my shoulder with his bus ticket in his mouth.
******************
That above post sorta implise a dirtyness on the part of Moroccan people. Its not true. I think people here are much cleaner than most Americans would be in similar situations. I am sure I have the dirtiest house in town.
Also, it suggests that residences of suburban American could be prone to violence because they are not exposed to natural randomness and beauty.
I want to say a few things about suicide bombers. I wanted to spend my holiday weekend in Meknes, so one can imagine my shock when I found a note in my email inbox saying that "Man Blows himself up, no one [else] hurt".
The entire idea of a suicide bomber is confusing to me. Not because I do not understand war or wanting to kill the enemey. But from a practical matter it is saying that it better for a person to wear some explosives and die in their delievery rather than just putting them in a box under his seat and walking off the bus. This would not raise an eyebrow in Morocco, and if it did people would be more intested in returning the box than thinking it might blow them up. In the second senerio the worst that could happen is the same thing that is almost assuredly going to happen in the first. I think to understand the "suicide bomber", more emphisis should be given to the first part, and not just the headline grabbing trajic results that come with the second.
In the time I have been in Morocco I think we have had 3 bombings. 2 in Casablanca (see other post) earlier this year and 1 now in Meknes. I assume that a Moroccan bomber is at least as intelligent as one in any other country, so their lack of getting done what they want is confusing. At first it was gallows humor. A butt of jokes, to take our mind off of the danger and risk in our lives. But, the longer I think about it and live near it the more I worry about the people who make such an odd choice for ending their lives.
If you ask people here they will say the men are "crazy". Its probaly true, mental illness is overlooked so often or papered over with a quick phrase. Clinical depression affects millions. If we passed a man on the street suffering from a bloody compound fracture of the thigh bone, we wouldnt say "the man is sick", and walk along. We would be inclined to help, and look into the cause. If we saw a rash of men around the country, prone on the ground with crimson streaked white bones poking out under their jallabas we would need to look into root of such problems, it must go further than a soccer red card. These bombings are a depressive cry for help, in an international language.
A few days ago that in Iraq petrol lorries were blown up killing hundreds. The perpetrators were mad. Pathological, but also angry. Having lived amoung Moroccans, and enjoyed cities such as Meknes, I do not think these are the same acts. It is a big place, so some people are going to be upset with forigners. Some Americans hate Arabic people. Facts of life. But, Moroccans are not an angry people and they are not xenophoic.
I suggest that a cause is that Morocco is stuck in Africa, but wishes it was invited to the European party, or was more firmly part of the Middle East. But, geography (and other things) has left it stranded out on the edge of both unable to fully realize the benifiets of a closer assoication with either. Morocco is the exotic bridesmaid. It is this sence of alienation, and the real effects of economic depression, that lie as causes of this psycosis.
Morocco is about the size of California, Ive been told. I am sure that if one were to parse though newpapers over the last year and a half in that state, there were at least 3 instances of people engaged in some anti-society act that would result in their death. Holdups, hostage taking, shoot outs. Not that much different.
To summeries: Morocco has suicide bombings not because it is full of "insurgants" or Al-Quidia ops, but because they have become a trendy way for young confused hurt Muslim men to end their lives.
Of comment. I read that the tour bus that was targeted was saved because of the quick work of the bus driver. First, I have never seen a large bus do anything quickly. They are the blue whales of the highway. Second, what visual clues does a person give off that they are going to blow themselves up. If they give any, they are doing their job poorly. If they give none, how did this driver know?
Meknes. A lot of people do not realize how great Meknes is. I love it. It is just friendly nice place that I have found is very welcoming to foreign visitors. It has all the aspects of a major Moroccan city, without being overly tackyly touristy. It is renowned for having the best candy (near and dear to my heart) and good carpets. It does not show off, to cater and pander like Marakesh. Nor does it rudely demand your attention like Fez. It quietly offers itself and that is something that I appricate very much.
The entire idea of a suicide bomber is confusing to me. Not because I do not understand war or wanting to kill the enemey. But from a practical matter it is saying that it better for a person to wear some explosives and die in their delievery rather than just putting them in a box under his seat and walking off the bus. This would not raise an eyebrow in Morocco, and if it did people would be more intested in returning the box than thinking it might blow them up. In the second senerio the worst that could happen is the same thing that is almost assuredly going to happen in the first. I think to understand the "suicide bomber", more emphisis should be given to the first part, and not just the headline grabbing trajic results that come with the second.
In the time I have been in Morocco I think we have had 3 bombings. 2 in Casablanca (see other post) earlier this year and 1 now in Meknes. I assume that a Moroccan bomber is at least as intelligent as one in any other country, so their lack of getting done what they want is confusing. At first it was gallows humor. A butt of jokes, to take our mind off of the danger and risk in our lives. But, the longer I think about it and live near it the more I worry about the people who make such an odd choice for ending their lives.
If you ask people here they will say the men are "crazy". Its probaly true, mental illness is overlooked so often or papered over with a quick phrase. Clinical depression affects millions. If we passed a man on the street suffering from a bloody compound fracture of the thigh bone, we wouldnt say "the man is sick", and walk along. We would be inclined to help, and look into the cause. If we saw a rash of men around the country, prone on the ground with crimson streaked white bones poking out under their jallabas we would need to look into root of such problems, it must go further than a soccer red card. These bombings are a depressive cry for help, in an international language.
A few days ago that in Iraq petrol lorries were blown up killing hundreds. The perpetrators were mad. Pathological, but also angry. Having lived amoung Moroccans, and enjoyed cities such as Meknes, I do not think these are the same acts. It is a big place, so some people are going to be upset with forigners. Some Americans hate Arabic people. Facts of life. But, Moroccans are not an angry people and they are not xenophoic.
I suggest that a cause is that Morocco is stuck in Africa, but wishes it was invited to the European party, or was more firmly part of the Middle East. But, geography (and other things) has left it stranded out on the edge of both unable to fully realize the benifiets of a closer assoication with either. Morocco is the exotic bridesmaid. It is this sence of alienation, and the real effects of economic depression, that lie as causes of this psycosis.
Morocco is about the size of California, Ive been told. I am sure that if one were to parse though newpapers over the last year and a half in that state, there were at least 3 instances of people engaged in some anti-society act that would result in their death. Holdups, hostage taking, shoot outs. Not that much different.
To summeries: Morocco has suicide bombings not because it is full of "insurgants" or Al-Quidia ops, but because they have become a trendy way for young confused hurt Muslim men to end their lives.
Of comment. I read that the tour bus that was targeted was saved because of the quick work of the bus driver. First, I have never seen a large bus do anything quickly. They are the blue whales of the highway. Second, what visual clues does a person give off that they are going to blow themselves up. If they give any, they are doing their job poorly. If they give none, how did this driver know?
Meknes. A lot of people do not realize how great Meknes is. I love it. It is just friendly nice place that I have found is very welcoming to foreign visitors. It has all the aspects of a major Moroccan city, without being overly tackyly touristy. It is renowned for having the best candy (near and dear to my heart) and good carpets. It does not show off, to cater and pander like Marakesh. Nor does it rudely demand your attention like Fez. It quietly offers itself and that is something that I appricate very much.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I lost my shoes. There are some really great ways to lose them, maybe in a kayak accident or stolen at gun point. This has to be the dumbest way.
I was elaited to be invited to a wedding fest, I dont like to be a door crasher but Moroccan culture is a little more vauge about invitations than American. Embossed paper is expensive, but word of mouth isnt. So at 1130am, I biked over (with helmet!) to Mulay Abdulahamans. I tend to call all weddings by the name of the father figure, mostly because they seem to be the ones in control of everything. It wasnt Mulays wedding, I think it was his daughtors. Truely that part was not important, and at this lunchen fest I never once saw either the bride or groom. I like to wear what I call "traditional" sandles, because many people have them. Really, they are imported (China?) plastic sandles. They are very sturdy, and very cheap. Most of them are blue (this is key).
When you arrive at someones house it would be impolite to track dirt into their rooms. So you take your shoes off at the door. Which is a simple process in plastic sandles (another reason to wear them). At large gatherings the piles of shoes grows to impressive size, looking like you have arrived to a grade school sock hop. Instead we all hang out barefoot thinking "damn, that dudes feet have been treated harshly". The food came, we ate, and pretty much as a group we stood to leave. Because everyone is looking for shoes at the door it creates a small bottleneck, and I was at the end. As the crowd thins and I move to the front I do not find my fairly new size 44 blue plastic sandles. What is left are two mismatched, smaller blue plastic sandles.
This leads to two conclusions. Either one man came wearing drasticly mismatched sandles and worked a little prestidigitation. Or two men came, switched one foot each and now have mismatched pairs. I am hesitant to assign sinister motives, and am more concerned about the lack of observation skills in my town. While the right footed sandle is close to the correct size (its a 41), the left is truely too small for my foot, which makes me think someone in town has a left that is way to large for them. In a week of strangeness, which I am attributing entirely to the informally named "owner of the stars", this was the icing.
Time to go back to market and buy another pair.
**************************
I looked back on some of these "posts". I am unimpressed. But, more importantly, it is hard to believe how quickly this time has gone.
I was spending some time with a few vols from my cohort this weekend, and we all could not believe how soon we were done. As the summer starts to fade, and I know that I have a mostly mild winter then the trip home I know that it is coming quick.
This does raise the issue of counting down months. It is my feeling that one should count a month as finished at the end of the month. But, strangely some vols count off a month at the begining of the month. Strangeness. Think about it this way, when school is out, Ill be home.
I was elaited to be invited to a wedding fest, I dont like to be a door crasher but Moroccan culture is a little more vauge about invitations than American. Embossed paper is expensive, but word of mouth isnt. So at 1130am, I biked over (with helmet!) to Mulay Abdulahamans. I tend to call all weddings by the name of the father figure, mostly because they seem to be the ones in control of everything. It wasnt Mulays wedding, I think it was his daughtors. Truely that part was not important, and at this lunchen fest I never once saw either the bride or groom. I like to wear what I call "traditional" sandles, because many people have them. Really, they are imported (China?) plastic sandles. They are very sturdy, and very cheap. Most of them are blue (this is key).
When you arrive at someones house it would be impolite to track dirt into their rooms. So you take your shoes off at the door. Which is a simple process in plastic sandles (another reason to wear them). At large gatherings the piles of shoes grows to impressive size, looking like you have arrived to a grade school sock hop. Instead we all hang out barefoot thinking "damn, that dudes feet have been treated harshly". The food came, we ate, and pretty much as a group we stood to leave. Because everyone is looking for shoes at the door it creates a small bottleneck, and I was at the end. As the crowd thins and I move to the front I do not find my fairly new size 44 blue plastic sandles. What is left are two mismatched, smaller blue plastic sandles.
This leads to two conclusions. Either one man came wearing drasticly mismatched sandles and worked a little prestidigitation. Or two men came, switched one foot each and now have mismatched pairs. I am hesitant to assign sinister motives, and am more concerned about the lack of observation skills in my town. While the right footed sandle is close to the correct size (its a 41), the left is truely too small for my foot, which makes me think someone in town has a left that is way to large for them. In a week of strangeness, which I am attributing entirely to the informally named "owner of the stars", this was the icing.
Time to go back to market and buy another pair.
**************************
I looked back on some of these "posts". I am unimpressed. But, more importantly, it is hard to believe how quickly this time has gone.
I was spending some time with a few vols from my cohort this weekend, and we all could not believe how soon we were done. As the summer starts to fade, and I know that I have a mostly mild winter then the trip home I know that it is coming quick.
This does raise the issue of counting down months. It is my feeling that one should count a month as finished at the end of the month. But, strangely some vols count off a month at the begining of the month. Strangeness. Think about it this way, when school is out, Ill be home.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
All I need in life I learned from the Iraqi War (continously updated as the war continues).************************************************
1. Things that seem simple can be very complicated.
2. Try not to be in the middle of someone elses family feud.
3. Thou shall not kill.
4. Drink lots of water and use oil sparingly.
5. If you are going someplace dangerous, take a lot of friends.
6. The world is full of lots of different people, most of them are nice, and most of them dont like guns any more than you do.
7. It is ok to be wrong, its not ok to be delusional about it.
1. Things that seem simple can be very complicated.
2. Try not to be in the middle of someone elses family feud.
3. Thou shall not kill.
4. Drink lots of water and use oil sparingly.
5. If you are going someplace dangerous, take a lot of friends.
6. The world is full of lots of different people, most of them are nice, and most of them dont like guns any more than you do.
7. It is ok to be wrong, its not ok to be delusional about it.
I might have mentioned it, but I only recently bought a fan. Keep in mind that last summer my town was without power in the daylight hours, so any percieved extream slowness in this case, was only normal Scott slowness.
My little box of joy cost 100dh, I should have bargined more but standing in the hardware store the idea of a fan for such small amount of money seemed reasonable. If a the quality of a price can be found by compairing the overall pleasure and utility of a product, weighted against the amount paid, then I think I got a very good deal. Those guys were suckers.
Tempering this, I can not claim to be an expert on fan technology. I have in my life owned one fan that I felt was "a really good fan". All others have been pretty much the same with minor variations. The product currently winding my feet is in the second class. It is on the small side, and has few visable studry metal parts. If I was to carry this fan onto an airplane, I feel confident it would breeze though security. My coke bottle and Tevas would get more scrutiny.
It is a 2foot square box. White in color, with odd gray aerodynamic trim on the top. The grill is also gray. It has three speeds, and a two hour timer. A simple need, simple fan.
As mentioned I do not stay current with advances in fan design. Many fans sold here strangely feature a rotating grill. This is so absuredly useless and cosmetic that it can only have been created by Americans looking for a way to sexy up an otherwise normal household appliance with a feature I neither need nor want, the camreraphoning of the world. My fan has a switch to turn the movements of the grill on and off. Gnomes within seem to dictate if the grill will rotate clock or counter wise. My friend a few hours away has a fan with 4 seperate moving circular grills arranged in a confusing square. But, Im not the Mr. Fancy Pants he is. In theory, these moving grills should create a "spin" to the air current pushing it further without dying out. Same prinple behind throwing footballs in a tight Sunday afternoon spiral, and putting grooves in gunbarrles. In reality, it does nothing except provide a little visual distraction. I keep the switch turned on.
A common conversation I have is to compaire the current weather with weather in the United States. I try to explain that while Kansas does not have the same heat that we have, there are places, like Arizona, that are similar. It is hard to summerize a place like America and people here are unsure exactly what is American weather. They are however confident that European weather is a lot cooler. Thus, my fans name is "Europa". If the economic success of France and Spain can not be equaled right here at home, at least some of the comfort of the climate might be.
Not to be overlooked is the tranquile element of fan sound. I read a piece of writing influenced by Eastern philosophy few years ago about the beauty of silence. The author said he did not play music as background noise, that there was entirely to much of that in this world and to appriciate silence (with natures orchestra) was a good thing. Unluckaly, this chop souy (American muddle with faux-Eastern flaver) made a small impression on me. Before, I felt some conflict about turning on a noise machine, as if silance was a comlicated and intricate sand drawing and my stero was blowing it all away. But, Ive learned it is easy to get silance back, simply turn off your noise. It can be appriciated then. My time here has me wondering about the wisdom of the author. His ideas are better suited to a different world. The first world. The smooth purring whiring sounds like everything is all right in the world. I wonder if those same geniously of marketing that worked out the grill could help design extra calming sounds for the fan. Certainly not all are the same. Some must be more relaxing, more tranqual than others. This would put a fan in the first catagory.
My observations are antidotal, but it seems like many more fans are for sale this year at market. It take this as a good sign of improved economics and more modern conviences.
************First there were glass containers for our soda that we named "bottles". Then came steel and aluminium "cans". Now we are back to bottles with plastics. Here in Morocco, all three states of drink container technology exist more or less peacefuly side by side in the store refrigerator. I like the glass bottles best. It has an odd retro look and feel. They have solid reasuring protective heft of thick cold glass in your hand. Good in case of a fight too.
My little box of joy cost 100dh, I should have bargined more but standing in the hardware store the idea of a fan for such small amount of money seemed reasonable. If a the quality of a price can be found by compairing the overall pleasure and utility of a product, weighted against the amount paid, then I think I got a very good deal. Those guys were suckers.
Tempering this, I can not claim to be an expert on fan technology. I have in my life owned one fan that I felt was "a really good fan". All others have been pretty much the same with minor variations. The product currently winding my feet is in the second class. It is on the small side, and has few visable studry metal parts. If I was to carry this fan onto an airplane, I feel confident it would breeze though security. My coke bottle and Tevas would get more scrutiny.
It is a 2foot square box. White in color, with odd gray aerodynamic trim on the top. The grill is also gray. It has three speeds, and a two hour timer. A simple need, simple fan.
As mentioned I do not stay current with advances in fan design. Many fans sold here strangely feature a rotating grill. This is so absuredly useless and cosmetic that it can only have been created by Americans looking for a way to sexy up an otherwise normal household appliance with a feature I neither need nor want, the camreraphoning of the world. My fan has a switch to turn the movements of the grill on and off. Gnomes within seem to dictate if the grill will rotate clock or counter wise. My friend a few hours away has a fan with 4 seperate moving circular grills arranged in a confusing square. But, Im not the Mr. Fancy Pants he is. In theory, these moving grills should create a "spin" to the air current pushing it further without dying out. Same prinple behind throwing footballs in a tight Sunday afternoon spiral, and putting grooves in gunbarrles. In reality, it does nothing except provide a little visual distraction. I keep the switch turned on.
A common conversation I have is to compaire the current weather with weather in the United States. I try to explain that while Kansas does not have the same heat that we have, there are places, like Arizona, that are similar. It is hard to summerize a place like America and people here are unsure exactly what is American weather. They are however confident that European weather is a lot cooler. Thus, my fans name is "Europa". If the economic success of France and Spain can not be equaled right here at home, at least some of the comfort of the climate might be.
Not to be overlooked is the tranquile element of fan sound. I read a piece of writing influenced by Eastern philosophy few years ago about the beauty of silence. The author said he did not play music as background noise, that there was entirely to much of that in this world and to appriciate silence (with natures orchestra) was a good thing. Unluckaly, this chop souy (American muddle with faux-Eastern flaver) made a small impression on me. Before, I felt some conflict about turning on a noise machine, as if silance was a comlicated and intricate sand drawing and my stero was blowing it all away. But, Ive learned it is easy to get silance back, simply turn off your noise. It can be appriciated then. My time here has me wondering about the wisdom of the author. His ideas are better suited to a different world. The first world. The smooth purring whiring sounds like everything is all right in the world. I wonder if those same geniously of marketing that worked out the grill could help design extra calming sounds for the fan. Certainly not all are the same. Some must be more relaxing, more tranqual than others. This would put a fan in the first catagory.
My observations are antidotal, but it seems like many more fans are for sale this year at market. It take this as a good sign of improved economics and more modern conviences.
************First there were glass containers for our soda that we named "bottles". Then came steel and aluminium "cans". Now we are back to bottles with plastics. Here in Morocco, all three states of drink container technology exist more or less peacefuly side by side in the store refrigerator. I like the glass bottles best. It has an odd retro look and feel. They have solid reasuring protective heft of thick cold glass in your hand. Good in case of a fight too.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
I just bought a fan. Most people would have bought theirs a year ago, but Im not always the first on the scene. It has not been a high priority item, and even my selection was haphazard, rushed and probaly inadaqute for my needs. To truely cool a person off, a fan would need to create wind speeds akin to Mount Washington in New Hampshire. Today, it felt as though I wasnt being cooled so much as having a nice warm breeze sweep over me. Great for springtime sunshiney naps, bad for summer time.
I have not done a complete survey of other voleteers, but for me, summer naps are a strange experience. Between 2 and 4pm the town is deathy still. Walking around, you will find doors open and people laying inert on the floor. A cat burgler could wipe out the 74$ of value in this town in about a half hour. I have tried to battle though the afternoon, doing quiet work and keeping down the racket such as playing The Presidents of the United States first album at an appropriate volume. It is hard work unless one is so jazzed on tea and coffee that sleep is impossible. It is a better policy to wake early, be productive when when suns rays are indirect then crash for a very needed afternoon sleep. I have thick heavy dreams now. I never confuse the world of dreams with the real, but the heat keeps me suspended between the two unable to fully enter one or the other. The best policy seems to be to leave some piece of enjoyable work for the midafternoon, as an inducement to clear out the cobwebs and to fuel the rise from the dead on a zombie elixer of stongly sugared green tea.
Somehow my local store got a 194X quarter. Im not sure, but it may be before they took out much of the silver meaning it has some precious metal value. However, the son of the store owner was sad to find out it was only worth 2dh. No trade.
I have not done a complete survey of other voleteers, but for me, summer naps are a strange experience. Between 2 and 4pm the town is deathy still. Walking around, you will find doors open and people laying inert on the floor. A cat burgler could wipe out the 74$ of value in this town in about a half hour. I have tried to battle though the afternoon, doing quiet work and keeping down the racket such as playing The Presidents of the United States first album at an appropriate volume. It is hard work unless one is so jazzed on tea and coffee that sleep is impossible. It is a better policy to wake early, be productive when when suns rays are indirect then crash for a very needed afternoon sleep. I have thick heavy dreams now. I never confuse the world of dreams with the real, but the heat keeps me suspended between the two unable to fully enter one or the other. The best policy seems to be to leave some piece of enjoyable work for the midafternoon, as an inducement to clear out the cobwebs and to fuel the rise from the dead on a zombie elixer of stongly sugared green tea.
Somehow my local store got a 194X quarter. Im not sure, but it may be before they took out much of the silver meaning it has some precious metal value. However, the son of the store owner was sad to find out it was only worth 2dh. No trade.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
So... I havent updated for awhile. It isnt as though all the information can not or will not get onto this page, its just that its nicer to have it come in manageable gulps and not in long chilly chugs that give you an upset tummy and a cold headache.
My parents visited. I think its fair to say we made a 3 egg omlete. It was tasty, and I think that for the most part it went almost exactly as plan. I have heard that some parents wont visit their kids who are in Peace Corps. They are "not the traveling type" or are "worried about such-and-such". A shame. Nothing like shared problems to overcome that help us come together and learn about eachother. Possible, but harder to find in the USA. An inevettable part of visiting Fes.
One thing that I liked about my parents visit was they got to meet a few of my friends. Not a lot, and not for a long time but it was good to get the two groups together.
********************
What do Peace Corps in Morocco people talk about when they get together (not in order of frequency):
1)Eachother. Who are going out together, who is sick/healthy, who you just saw last week, who is having a little "freakout". Its all out there on the grapevine. I like decenteralised information (and centeralised too), so for me this is great fun and sometimes educational.
2)What strange to us thing we "just saw" some Moroccan people do/say. Sometimes this is honestly odd, and sometimes its just a cultural thing. Stopping the transit for an hour to drink tea with a friend on our way home from market.
3)Policy. Like any company we grumble and bitch about such and such a policy we dont like. Happens in all Peace Corps posts, happens in all jobs.
4)Health. I have never been part of any group of people who more openly and frequently talk about #2. Then again, its good to commicerate over shared suffering. The Peace Corps Medical office said that 95% of PCVs report having diahreara. That means 1 in 20 are lying.
***********************
Im trying to listen to a small radio station from West Africa. Its nothing personal against my own North Africa, but I like the music better. Call me a griot. It is a little haven of cool calm relaxed sound on a dial that is otherwise crowded with talk. Spanish, Arabic, Arabic, French, Arabic, French, Italian. Its so much chatter. I want to make belive Im on a desert island. I dont need to pretend.
Radio China has a show that is almost a perfect copy of a United States morning drive time. The most mindless of chatter. Its impressive their attention to detail. The "side-kick" women even sounds ditzy. I would like to know if she had to practice that inflection in English or if she had it naturally.
Everyone has heard of Voice of America, or the BBC. But who gets to listen Radio Austria? Its there, and with English broadcaasting. Its a pleasent reminder that there is local news everywhere, and every country takes seriously the same indicators of their health and well being. Yesterday was Sweeden. Their youth are not protecting themselves against HIV. Radical Scandanavian solution? More education.
My friend who lives up in Iminchil (one of the coldest Peace Corp sites) is a dedicated listener to Canadian Broadcasting. The "Maple Leaf Mailbag". She has been a call-in guest at least twice.
The best part of the small power West African station is that it comes in very badly. Like Royals baseball games that I used to listen to in grade school as I went to sleep. Their signal gets mixed up with the other stations that come in on neighboring frequencies. Radio Harvet Internatinal. They reap souls. Guitar and singer with reminders that Im going to hell soon. It makes for a good afternoon.
I finished my MidService Medical. No paracites. No TB.
**********************
My problem with the heat isnt that its so hot. I dont mind how hot it is, and I dont even own a fan (Im thinking about changing this). The problem is not that Im covered in sweat, from morning to night. Or that my clothes all pick up a curious salty white stain. I can wash them. My issue with the heat is the lethargy that it brings out. It crushs a person. I have not had a solid, enjoyable nights sleep in over a month.
A man at my reserve told me that the redness in my eyes was no lack of sleep, but rather that my shoes did not let my feet breath and let out the heat thats built up inside me. In chararistic Moroccan hospitality he offered me a pair of his sandles to wear when I was visiting. I am not a medical doctor, but I am pretty sure his ideas would not pass muster with the Lancet.
The funny thing about the heat is it makes you want to stay up late. Just when its bedtime, the air starts to cool. On the other hand, its already 90 when I wake up at...630am. Then, no matter how much sleep I got last night, I grow tired again in the afternoon and try to lay down in my living room. Its so still in town as everyone takes a nap. Only occasionaly puncuated by the wailing cries from the babies a few doors down. I have tried to power my way though. Finding a good book, putting on some upbeat music to give me the energy I need to avoid this crippling loss of productivity. But, its impossible. Try as I might, I can not avoid it. Sleeping is easy, but fighting your body as it tries to wake up/shut down and do everything else you dont want it to do is getting difficult.
***********************
I found some old James Bond movies in Rabat last month. I never knew how fake they looked. Not at all the realism of say...GoldenEye.
I neglagently passed on picking up a Special Edition of BarberShop. Ive tried sending another PCV up for it. What a great movie.
***********************
I dont know why apricot jelly is so popular here. Its huge. Best seller. My local store stocks only apricot and that comes in two sizes. If a small jar is not enough for your family, have a large. It is possible to find many other flavors in bigger cities, but I am starting to grow attached to this stuff. Knott's Berry Farm it isnt. Big chunks of fruit are not visable in any way. Its a pourable jelly, rather than a sticky jam. Ive been using it in stirfry. On top of pancakes. As a dip for bread. Over cous-cous. With hot cocca. This stuff is great!
***********************
The major "off brand" of cola is called "ICE". Nothing says cold like ICE right? Its 5.50dh for a L, verses 7.90 for Atlanta's best. But that is not why I like it, even asking for it by name if possible. Whats great is how they distingush the regular from the diet. I have never seen diet ICE, but the regular is marked as "STRONG". Who would not like to drink a strong cola?
I am trying to slowly introduce the idea of ice cream floats to Morocco. The concept (as far as I can tell) does notice yet exist. They have the four major componants. Ice Cream, cola, glasses, and heat. Soft serve is availble on almost any street corner. It may not always be cold. Or creamy. But it holds a close enough resemblence to real dairy ice cream to work fine. Like a second cousin to the Blue Bunny. The first time I went with a glass up to the ice cream man he gave me a funny look saying "what you want ice cream in there? you weird forign guy". But, I think my first cafe is slowly warming to the idea.
My parents visited. I think its fair to say we made a 3 egg omlete. It was tasty, and I think that for the most part it went almost exactly as plan. I have heard that some parents wont visit their kids who are in Peace Corps. They are "not the traveling type" or are "worried about such-and-such". A shame. Nothing like shared problems to overcome that help us come together and learn about eachother. Possible, but harder to find in the USA. An inevettable part of visiting Fes.
One thing that I liked about my parents visit was they got to meet a few of my friends. Not a lot, and not for a long time but it was good to get the two groups together.
********************
What do Peace Corps in Morocco people talk about when they get together (not in order of frequency):
1)Eachother. Who are going out together, who is sick/healthy, who you just saw last week, who is having a little "freakout". Its all out there on the grapevine. I like decenteralised information (and centeralised too), so for me this is great fun and sometimes educational.
2)What strange to us thing we "just saw" some Moroccan people do/say. Sometimes this is honestly odd, and sometimes its just a cultural thing. Stopping the transit for an hour to drink tea with a friend on our way home from market.
3)Policy. Like any company we grumble and bitch about such and such a policy we dont like. Happens in all Peace Corps posts, happens in all jobs.
4)Health. I have never been part of any group of people who more openly and frequently talk about #2. Then again, its good to commicerate over shared suffering. The Peace Corps Medical office said that 95% of PCVs report having diahreara. That means 1 in 20 are lying.
***********************
Im trying to listen to a small radio station from West Africa. Its nothing personal against my own North Africa, but I like the music better. Call me a griot. It is a little haven of cool calm relaxed sound on a dial that is otherwise crowded with talk. Spanish, Arabic, Arabic, French, Arabic, French, Italian. Its so much chatter. I want to make belive Im on a desert island. I dont need to pretend.
Radio China has a show that is almost a perfect copy of a United States morning drive time. The most mindless of chatter. Its impressive their attention to detail. The "side-kick" women even sounds ditzy. I would like to know if she had to practice that inflection in English or if she had it naturally.
Everyone has heard of Voice of America, or the BBC. But who gets to listen Radio Austria? Its there, and with English broadcaasting. Its a pleasent reminder that there is local news everywhere, and every country takes seriously the same indicators of their health and well being. Yesterday was Sweeden. Their youth are not protecting themselves against HIV. Radical Scandanavian solution? More education.
My friend who lives up in Iminchil (one of the coldest Peace Corp sites) is a dedicated listener to Canadian Broadcasting. The "Maple Leaf Mailbag". She has been a call-in guest at least twice.
The best part of the small power West African station is that it comes in very badly. Like Royals baseball games that I used to listen to in grade school as I went to sleep. Their signal gets mixed up with the other stations that come in on neighboring frequencies. Radio Harvet Internatinal. They reap souls. Guitar and singer with reminders that Im going to hell soon. It makes for a good afternoon.
I finished my MidService Medical. No paracites. No TB.
**********************
My problem with the heat isnt that its so hot. I dont mind how hot it is, and I dont even own a fan (Im thinking about changing this). The problem is not that Im covered in sweat, from morning to night. Or that my clothes all pick up a curious salty white stain. I can wash them. My issue with the heat is the lethargy that it brings out. It crushs a person. I have not had a solid, enjoyable nights sleep in over a month.
A man at my reserve told me that the redness in my eyes was no lack of sleep, but rather that my shoes did not let my feet breath and let out the heat thats built up inside me. In chararistic Moroccan hospitality he offered me a pair of his sandles to wear when I was visiting. I am not a medical doctor, but I am pretty sure his ideas would not pass muster with the Lancet.
The funny thing about the heat is it makes you want to stay up late. Just when its bedtime, the air starts to cool. On the other hand, its already 90 when I wake up at...630am. Then, no matter how much sleep I got last night, I grow tired again in the afternoon and try to lay down in my living room. Its so still in town as everyone takes a nap. Only occasionaly puncuated by the wailing cries from the babies a few doors down. I have tried to power my way though. Finding a good book, putting on some upbeat music to give me the energy I need to avoid this crippling loss of productivity. But, its impossible. Try as I might, I can not avoid it. Sleeping is easy, but fighting your body as it tries to wake up/shut down and do everything else you dont want it to do is getting difficult.
***********************
I found some old James Bond movies in Rabat last month. I never knew how fake they looked. Not at all the realism of say...GoldenEye.
I neglagently passed on picking up a Special Edition of BarberShop. Ive tried sending another PCV up for it. What a great movie.
***********************
I dont know why apricot jelly is so popular here. Its huge. Best seller. My local store stocks only apricot and that comes in two sizes. If a small jar is not enough for your family, have a large. It is possible to find many other flavors in bigger cities, but I am starting to grow attached to this stuff. Knott's Berry Farm it isnt. Big chunks of fruit are not visable in any way. Its a pourable jelly, rather than a sticky jam. Ive been using it in stirfry. On top of pancakes. As a dip for bread. Over cous-cous. With hot cocca. This stuff is great!
***********************
The major "off brand" of cola is called "ICE". Nothing says cold like ICE right? Its 5.50dh for a L, verses 7.90 for Atlanta's best. But that is not why I like it, even asking for it by name if possible. Whats great is how they distingush the regular from the diet. I have never seen diet ICE, but the regular is marked as "STRONG". Who would not like to drink a strong cola?
I am trying to slowly introduce the idea of ice cream floats to Morocco. The concept (as far as I can tell) does notice yet exist. They have the four major componants. Ice Cream, cola, glasses, and heat. Soft serve is availble on almost any street corner. It may not always be cold. Or creamy. But it holds a close enough resemblence to real dairy ice cream to work fine. Like a second cousin to the Blue Bunny. The first time I went with a glass up to the ice cream man he gave me a funny look saying "what you want ice cream in there? you weird forign guy". But, I think my first cafe is slowly warming to the idea.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Mouse in the house. I had thought that was my situation for some time. Most Peace Corps volenteers report one little furry friend at some time or another. Those of us in hot warm climates also get scorpians, and it could be hoped that one problem would take care of the other. Uninvited guests seem the natural by product of living in a mud houses in rural areas. It is not as though I am against mice. I dont mind them really. If it ate the food I provided expressly for its consumption, and was house broken I might find it a good pet. I certainly understand its plight. The winter is not a wonderful time, and my house is much warmer and my provisions better than outside. Im always well stocked on rice, cous-cous, a wide selection of beans, and always have fresh veggies about. Im a good host.
Almost since the day I moved into my own house, Ive been thinking about installing the age old mouse nemisis for some time, but couldnt bear to leave a cat here in Morocco after I left nor did the idea of taking it home seem like a good idea. So the plan never got off the ground.
Tonight, I put on the Traveling Wilburys at what I think is a good volume, but is probally a little loud for both my ears and neighbors. Neither have called up to register a complaint, so I guess Ill keep doing my damage linerialy, one track at a time. Bam! Out of nowhere the mouse flys around the room. When I say nowhere, I think he was hiding near some books piled on the ground next to my speakers. I can see where Bob Dylan could be kinda scary. Add to that Tom Petty, Roy Orbinson, George Harrison, and the guy from ELO and this was like D12 to a Suburban mom.
Knowing that my living room door was shut and locked, this became something like a WWF RAW Cage Battle. One man, one mouse, only one of us would leave by our own 2/4 feet. I had high hopes that it would be me. The fight became heated. Back and forth we went, round and round the room. First to some other books, then around the bed, then the door, and back again to the books. Sometimes my foe would find a hiding spot to catch a breather, but I smoked him out every time. My original plan was to case him into a large bag I have, then take it outside. This was a plan destined for failure, I chalk up the novise mistake to inexperience in pest control.
When I spotted him huddled in a corner, an idea struck me. My Christmas stocking was nearby in a box, the perfect way to grab him and protect my hands at the same time. As a proof of concept, it went well. But, he squirmed out of my grip. I took it to the next step, picking up my heavy leather work/cooking gloves from the floor. The are the perfect tool to catch a mouse, or to punch cattle. 15 more minutes of back and forth action until he was mine, and safely escorted out of the house and into the wild.
Tom and Jerry are HUGE here. I mean giant. You can find T/J VCDs at market, and while I have not done a complete survey they seem to be on TV almost constantly. Great to watch because there are almost no words, and the cross cultural transition smooth. Interestinly, I think Jerry is assumed to be a female mouse. I wont tell Hanna or Barbara.
Almost since the day I moved into my own house, Ive been thinking about installing the age old mouse nemisis for some time, but couldnt bear to leave a cat here in Morocco after I left nor did the idea of taking it home seem like a good idea. So the plan never got off the ground.
Tonight, I put on the Traveling Wilburys at what I think is a good volume, but is probally a little loud for both my ears and neighbors. Neither have called up to register a complaint, so I guess Ill keep doing my damage linerialy, one track at a time. Bam! Out of nowhere the mouse flys around the room. When I say nowhere, I think he was hiding near some books piled on the ground next to my speakers. I can see where Bob Dylan could be kinda scary. Add to that Tom Petty, Roy Orbinson, George Harrison, and the guy from ELO and this was like D12 to a Suburban mom.
Knowing that my living room door was shut and locked, this became something like a WWF RAW Cage Battle. One man, one mouse, only one of us would leave by our own 2/4 feet. I had high hopes that it would be me. The fight became heated. Back and forth we went, round and round the room. First to some other books, then around the bed, then the door, and back again to the books. Sometimes my foe would find a hiding spot to catch a breather, but I smoked him out every time. My original plan was to case him into a large bag I have, then take it outside. This was a plan destined for failure, I chalk up the novise mistake to inexperience in pest control.
When I spotted him huddled in a corner, an idea struck me. My Christmas stocking was nearby in a box, the perfect way to grab him and protect my hands at the same time. As a proof of concept, it went well. But, he squirmed out of my grip. I took it to the next step, picking up my heavy leather work/cooking gloves from the floor. The are the perfect tool to catch a mouse, or to punch cattle. 15 more minutes of back and forth action until he was mine, and safely escorted out of the house and into the wild.
Tom and Jerry are HUGE here. I mean giant. You can find T/J VCDs at market, and while I have not done a complete survey they seem to be on TV almost constantly. Great to watch because there are almost no words, and the cross cultural transition smooth. Interestinly, I think Jerry is assumed to be a female mouse. I wont tell Hanna or Barbara.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
I did not think this would be a problem here...but Im always flexable to new situations...
"Last week some earth tremors were experienced in different regions of Morocco, specifically in the provinces of Figuig (Beni Tajjit/Talssint) and Taza. The strongest was of a magnitude of 3.7.
This e-mail is to remind you of some precautions to take in case of earthquakes..."
-Mohamed
Safety & Security Coordinator
"Last week some earth tremors were experienced in different regions of Morocco, specifically in the provinces of Figuig (Beni Tajjit/Talssint) and Taza. The strongest was of a magnitude of 3.7.
This e-mail is to remind you of some precautions to take in case of earthquakes..."
-Mohamed
Safety & Security Coordinator
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Money. Curren. Flus.
My favorate way to say money is "flus". I think it sounds like something that a rapper would make up to talk about buying lots of "ice". It rolls of the tounge, rhymes with everything, and sounds as slick, smooth, and sexy as Gorden Gecko. Expect to hear me us it when I get home.
Morocco has very simple money if your life does not get very complicated. If you
buy normal, simple things in large major towns then it is no problem at all. Most people even can quote the price in either Arabic or French (sometimes English or Spanish), which just makes it even easier for European type tourists. The official unit of currency is the Durham. Like in North Carolina.
The Durham comes in coins of .5, 1, 2, 5 and 10. Bills of 20, 50, 100, and 200. There are two different 5Dh coins and 20 Dh bills. They are available in two completely different styles. Clearly its about a newer release slowly taking over the older style, but all the same its a little confusing at first. You can also find different coins of .5 in value, but they look the same.
Now for the confusing part. There are more coins. Centems. They are (metrically) 1/100th of a Dh. These come in 5,10,20 and 50. There are at least 3 versions of some of these coins, but its not a problem. What really sets them apart is that they are all gold colored and there is no confusion after that. You might wonder if the 50 centim is the same as the half Dh. It is, and it look alike (see above). The problem is that almost no on really "uses" the centim. When its quoted I usually end up confused because it comes as a bit of a suprise. Bread bought directly from a baker often ends up with some confusing centim amount. 1 and 1.5 L bottles of Coke are priced with them, but usually stores round up. Its a difference of (really!) 1 cent. Im flexable in this regard. Thankfully, most prices come in rounded off durham amounts, so when a centim shows up it tends to float around in PCVs pockets for some time. Also because they are of relative little value, I do not know anyone who saves them up for a big purchess like a candy bar. I just used a considerably sized 6 month old pile of mine in paying off my bill at the local veggie stand.
Now for an extra wrinkle. My veggie stand doesnt charge in either centimes, or durham. They only work in the ryal. 20 ryal makes 1 durham. It would be like only talking about prices by the nickel. I have heard that the ryal is the Berber unit of money, but they dont seem to be minting any not being in charge of the government. I can not tell if the Ryal is more used in rural and poor areas or in Berber areas because they are (sadly) often one and the same. Interestingly, you can show someone a bill clearly marked 20 dh and they will tell you its a 400 ryal bill. On no part of this bill are the words ryal, or the number 400. This can cause a bit of a sticker shock, my veggie bill came to a little over 4000 ryal. You might think that the ryal would allow for more exact charges for things, such as 17 ryal. But, in reality almost everything is either in whole or half durham amounts. I have heard that sometimes prices will get quoted in centimes, but I havent had that problem yet. My unproven theory about the ryal is that the durham came along more recently in large part to solve inflation after France went back to their own continate.
Recently I had a 20 Dh bill completely disinegrate in half. I spent an entire day trying to pass it off in various towns as I traveled, but couldnt find anyone who would accept it. Appearly a cut bill is not considered legal tender, or no one had some scotch tape. I couldnt figure out exactly which was the predominate reason, both were given (sometimes by the same person).
The final word on money in Morocco is "surf". Great for going to the beach, bad as a career option. In this context, it means "change". As in, "do you have some change, I cant break this 100 durham bill?" No one has change. Generally, my living allowence is payed out in 100 or 200 durham notes. Usually the 200. This is common practice across the country and makes common since when dealing with paying out one month of standard living. But, making that big note work is a real exersise in diplomany. Few shop owners will flat out refuse to sell something due to lack of small change, but they will be very unhappy with you. This can also lead to an uncomfortable period of time when they (or a young child represenative) have to leave the shop, walk down the street and find change while you stand around wondering just how it is this happens so often. I have found myself hoarding 20 durham notes, or the ever useful 10 dH coins trying to bluff my way though a conversation with people who I judge have the change so I can have a little more spending flexability. I suspect they are doing the same thing to me. The change always seems to be available somewhere, but it is never where you are.
Just for those who are curious. The exchange rate is around 8.5dH to a 1 US $. It has been falling slowly, and everyone tends to still use a 10:1 whersion. Who has that exact rate right now? The Euro.
My favorate way to say money is "flus". I think it sounds like something that a rapper would make up to talk about buying lots of "ice". It rolls of the tounge, rhymes with everything, and sounds as slick, smooth, and sexy as Gorden Gecko. Expect to hear me us it when I get home.
Morocco has very simple money if your life does not get very complicated. If you
buy normal, simple things in large major towns then it is no problem at all. Most people even can quote the price in either Arabic or French (sometimes English or Spanish), which just makes it even easier for European type tourists. The official unit of currency is the Durham. Like in North Carolina.
The Durham comes in coins of .5, 1, 2, 5 and 10. Bills of 20, 50, 100, and 200. There are two different 5Dh coins and 20 Dh bills. They are available in two completely different styles. Clearly its about a newer release slowly taking over the older style, but all the same its a little confusing at first. You can also find different coins of .5 in value, but they look the same.
Now for the confusing part. There are more coins. Centems. They are (metrically) 1/100th of a Dh. These come in 5,10,20 and 50. There are at least 3 versions of some of these coins, but its not a problem. What really sets them apart is that they are all gold colored and there is no confusion after that. You might wonder if the 50 centim is the same as the half Dh. It is, and it look alike (see above). The problem is that almost no on really "uses" the centim. When its quoted I usually end up confused because it comes as a bit of a suprise. Bread bought directly from a baker often ends up with some confusing centim amount. 1 and 1.5 L bottles of Coke are priced with them, but usually stores round up. Its a difference of (really!) 1 cent. Im flexable in this regard. Thankfully, most prices come in rounded off durham amounts, so when a centim shows up it tends to float around in PCVs pockets for some time. Also because they are of relative little value, I do not know anyone who saves them up for a big purchess like a candy bar. I just used a considerably sized 6 month old pile of mine in paying off my bill at the local veggie stand.
Now for an extra wrinkle. My veggie stand doesnt charge in either centimes, or durham. They only work in the ryal. 20 ryal makes 1 durham. It would be like only talking about prices by the nickel. I have heard that the ryal is the Berber unit of money, but they dont seem to be minting any not being in charge of the government. I can not tell if the Ryal is more used in rural and poor areas or in Berber areas because they are (sadly) often one and the same. Interestingly, you can show someone a bill clearly marked 20 dh and they will tell you its a 400 ryal bill. On no part of this bill are the words ryal, or the number 400. This can cause a bit of a sticker shock, my veggie bill came to a little over 4000 ryal. You might think that the ryal would allow for more exact charges for things, such as 17 ryal. But, in reality almost everything is either in whole or half durham amounts. I have heard that sometimes prices will get quoted in centimes, but I havent had that problem yet. My unproven theory about the ryal is that the durham came along more recently in large part to solve inflation after France went back to their own continate.
Recently I had a 20 Dh bill completely disinegrate in half. I spent an entire day trying to pass it off in various towns as I traveled, but couldnt find anyone who would accept it. Appearly a cut bill is not considered legal tender, or no one had some scotch tape. I couldnt figure out exactly which was the predominate reason, both were given (sometimes by the same person).
The final word on money in Morocco is "surf". Great for going to the beach, bad as a career option. In this context, it means "change". As in, "do you have some change, I cant break this 100 durham bill?" No one has change. Generally, my living allowence is payed out in 100 or 200 durham notes. Usually the 200. This is common practice across the country and makes common since when dealing with paying out one month of standard living. But, making that big note work is a real exersise in diplomany. Few shop owners will flat out refuse to sell something due to lack of small change, but they will be very unhappy with you. This can also lead to an uncomfortable period of time when they (or a young child represenative) have to leave the shop, walk down the street and find change while you stand around wondering just how it is this happens so often. I have found myself hoarding 20 durham notes, or the ever useful 10 dH coins trying to bluff my way though a conversation with people who I judge have the change so I can have a little more spending flexability. I suspect they are doing the same thing to me. The change always seems to be available somewhere, but it is never where you are.
Just for those who are curious. The exchange rate is around 8.5dH to a 1 US $. It has been falling slowly, and everyone tends to still use a 10:1 whersion. Who has that exact rate right now? The Euro.
Monday, January 15, 2007
So I guess this should be the "Spending Christmas in a Different Place/Culture" post.
Christmas came, and went. It was hard for me to get in the mood this year. I usually rely on intoxicating levels of other peoples consumerism to help fuel my more pop culture holiday spirits. The lack of pure MidWestern fa la la la la, combined with relatively warm temperatures in "my" Saraha desert, the sand, the palm trees, and the absolute promise of no snow threw me out of my normal seasonal moods. Im sure it would have been much the same if I had moved to L.A. I don't want this to sound like pined for the holiday. If anyone is really curious, I spent Christmas Eve Eve, and Eve talking to my family on Skype, and most of Christmas sleeping, hiking, and cooking.
There are those who would ask if that jolly old elf and all he stands for has made it over to Morocco and if His message has penetrated though the tight mesh of Islam. Sorta, but not by much. No one in my town seemed really aware of the holiday, or at least pointed it out to me. Since I am a lighting rod for all things outside the world of Morocco, I feel someone might have brought it up if awareness was high. Maybe everyone in town still thinks I am Jewish (I have pointed out on many occasions that I am not).
Two fresh memories to share:
First. Riding north to Errachidia in my favorate bus (the TransBougafer) thinking at the time how odd it was I had not yet seen much sign of Christmas. Suddenly, a modern sleigh (Toyota 4x4) sailed past us filled with a happy family and stamped with a Spanish licence plate. Their back window was half covered with a giant Santa Clase and Felise Navidad. We continued to play passing tag with them for another hour until we got to the station. Maybe it was the Clase family returning north.
Second. After a long and relaxing hike being invited into a house to drink some tea with the two sons recently returned for the L'Eid holiday (see next post). This caused a decorm problem because the desert hike had caused my socks to become less than Snuggles fresh&white. They were thoughful enought to not this out, and thats good because I like this family. Halfway though what turned out to be a 5 hour long visit, I noticed they had a Santa on their shelf. From my seated vantage point, it seemed to be the exact same 1970's era battery operated bell swinging Santa that my family has, and brings out of storage every year for his one month of faded glory. I had always questioned keeping the old fellow around, but now, I think he might be one of my favorate signs of Christmas. No one talked about it.
Christmas came, and went. It was hard for me to get in the mood this year. I usually rely on intoxicating levels of other peoples consumerism to help fuel my more pop culture holiday spirits. The lack of pure MidWestern fa la la la la, combined with relatively warm temperatures in "my" Saraha desert, the sand, the palm trees, and the absolute promise of no snow threw me out of my normal seasonal moods. Im sure it would have been much the same if I had moved to L.A. I don't want this to sound like pined for the holiday. If anyone is really curious, I spent Christmas Eve Eve, and Eve talking to my family on Skype, and most of Christmas sleeping, hiking, and cooking.
There are those who would ask if that jolly old elf and all he stands for has made it over to Morocco and if His message has penetrated though the tight mesh of Islam. Sorta, but not by much. No one in my town seemed really aware of the holiday, or at least pointed it out to me. Since I am a lighting rod for all things outside the world of Morocco, I feel someone might have brought it up if awareness was high. Maybe everyone in town still thinks I am Jewish (I have pointed out on many occasions that I am not).
Two fresh memories to share:
First. Riding north to Errachidia in my favorate bus (the TransBougafer) thinking at the time how odd it was I had not yet seen much sign of Christmas. Suddenly, a modern sleigh (Toyota 4x4) sailed past us filled with a happy family and stamped with a Spanish licence plate. Their back window was half covered with a giant Santa Clase and Felise Navidad. We continued to play passing tag with them for another hour until we got to the station. Maybe it was the Clase family returning north.
Second. After a long and relaxing hike being invited into a house to drink some tea with the two sons recently returned for the L'Eid holiday (see next post). This caused a decorm problem because the desert hike had caused my socks to become less than Snuggles fresh&white. They were thoughful enought to not this out, and thats good because I like this family. Halfway though what turned out to be a 5 hour long visit, I noticed they had a Santa on their shelf. From my seated vantage point, it seemed to be the exact same 1970's era battery operated bell swinging Santa that my family has, and brings out of storage every year for his one month of faded glory. I had always questioned keeping the old fellow around, but now, I think he might be one of my favorate signs of Christmas. No one talked about it.
I do not know if the stars and the moon have aligned, but due to a freak cosmic chance the moon and the sun have shifted together and placed the Muslim feast of L'Eid (spellings differ) along with the Gregorian based fete of New Years Eve.
I think that most of you are familure with the more Western of these two holidays. To be honest, I have never been much impressed with it. But, this is not a post about that.
This is a post about L'Eid! Or as a greating, "MBrook L'Eid!". To get the prounciation just right, the "E" should sound as an "EA" combo. So much so that I have seen many people spell it Aid, or L'Aid. Also, the "L" is jammed on in the French way, so demphisise it. If at this point you are tripping over simple words and the concentration of rules causes you to question even your English, welcome to my world where speaking follows the same rules as horse shoes and hand granades.
The feast is a commereization of a true act of piety. Abraham was set to kill his son Ishmael. The boy was bound, the knife was raised. But, knowing the sincerity of Ab's heart, God did not make him go though with it. Exchanging a errant ram for his son (who was as hairy as one), he sealed the fate for millions of father goats down through the milinia.
Let me say that this was obviously an act of God. I have spent much of the last week following and talking to shepards, and it is a rare moment indeed when they let even the smallest fall behind and get lost. Let alone overlooking a large male with horns getting stuck in the brambles. Today I talked to one who was carrying a young kid as gently and securely as if it were his own Ishmael.
Each family here buys (or raises) their own ram. Those who did not have one already been picking them up at market over the last month, so that yesterday you could hear the bleatings all over town. To be honest, in a more agragrian town like mine, this is not that uncommon on most days. But, I have been told that in larger cities it is a sight to see and hear when horn honks are replaced with baaaa. I have seen goats recently stuffed into the trunks of grand taxis, slid under souk buses, and (once) slung over a mans shoulder while he was driving a moter scooter.
On L'Eid the sun rose warm and as full as the promise of tomorrow. It was perfect weather, and I suppose if I were a ram it would have been as good of a day as any to be sacrificed. This is a time that sons who are working abroad or in a major city like Rabat come home. There is that rich wholesome feeling of families enoying eachother. Groups of teenage girls roamed the streets, dashing into one house and back out the side door just as quick. Boys gathered on corners to buy and share candy. And if you listen closely, you can even hear family fights as the prodical son tells his parents about the new job he took last week.
I went for a walk this morning not knowing what exactly to expect. One of the first people I spotted was my local Imam from the mosque. I have often thought about how he is a young fellow, probally in his early 30s. He was walking quick enought to be called a trot down the street sharpening a rather impressive blade that he used to wave out a hurried hello as he flashed a bright smile. I didnt have the heart to call out a kindergarden teacher's warning about the danger inherent his Jason Voorhees-esqu behavior. It was his moment to shine as he was called from house to house, to carry out his duty to sever arteries and windpipes with a twist of the wrist and a wisper of prayer.
As I stood around the local shop, the single most talked about killing was of Saddam. Poor timing from the persepective of those here. Nothing says "Stop the Violence" like a hanging. I tried my best to explain that it was not actually Americans who hung him, but real honest Iraqis. I think we all had a decent grasp of what went on, but we stuck to our stories just the same.
I finished my tour of town as the last ram was put down to find my neighbors already well on their way to preparing lunch. The ladder that was used last month to replaster the house was now doing duty to hang the now dead, decapitated, and skined ram as my friendly neighbor Usfe worked quickly and carefully to take out each of the improbally shaped internal organs to be cleaned by his neice, while two young boys of 5 or 6 watched nearby listening to The Band (self-titled). That night, as well as the next, and those after will find dinner plates pilled high with mutton until every bit had been consumed. Eyes and brain too.
You might wonder why the two boys were listening to The Band. I would like to think that even from a young age they appriciate good music. But, its because that is what I was listening to on my iPod. The enire day has a feeling of Thanksgiving, of appricating what you have, and those who you can enjoy it with. Looking around the table, being happy in the moment...right before you stuff your face and fall asleep. The youth of M'ssici liked The Band almost as much as I do, even if they did not yet understand the profound connecion between history, family, celebrations, and roast meat. But, I think they are getting closer now, and maybe the New Year will find us all understanding each other a little better.
***There will be those who ask why the boys were listening to the "Self-Titled" and not "The Last Waltz". It is because I dont have that release here. We all make some sacrifices.***
I think that most of you are familure with the more Western of these two holidays. To be honest, I have never been much impressed with it. But, this is not a post about that.
This is a post about L'Eid! Or as a greating, "MBrook L'Eid!". To get the prounciation just right, the "E" should sound as an "EA" combo. So much so that I have seen many people spell it Aid, or L'Aid. Also, the "L" is jammed on in the French way, so demphisise it. If at this point you are tripping over simple words and the concentration of rules causes you to question even your English, welcome to my world where speaking follows the same rules as horse shoes and hand granades.
The feast is a commereization of a true act of piety. Abraham was set to kill his son Ishmael. The boy was bound, the knife was raised. But, knowing the sincerity of Ab's heart, God did not make him go though with it. Exchanging a errant ram for his son (who was as hairy as one), he sealed the fate for millions of father goats down through the milinia.
Let me say that this was obviously an act of God. I have spent much of the last week following and talking to shepards, and it is a rare moment indeed when they let even the smallest fall behind and get lost. Let alone overlooking a large male with horns getting stuck in the brambles. Today I talked to one who was carrying a young kid as gently and securely as if it were his own Ishmael.
Each family here buys (or raises) their own ram. Those who did not have one already been picking them up at market over the last month, so that yesterday you could hear the bleatings all over town. To be honest, in a more agragrian town like mine, this is not that uncommon on most days. But, I have been told that in larger cities it is a sight to see and hear when horn honks are replaced with baaaa. I have seen goats recently stuffed into the trunks of grand taxis, slid under souk buses, and (once) slung over a mans shoulder while he was driving a moter scooter.
On L'Eid the sun rose warm and as full as the promise of tomorrow. It was perfect weather, and I suppose if I were a ram it would have been as good of a day as any to be sacrificed. This is a time that sons who are working abroad or in a major city like Rabat come home. There is that rich wholesome feeling of families enoying eachother. Groups of teenage girls roamed the streets, dashing into one house and back out the side door just as quick. Boys gathered on corners to buy and share candy. And if you listen closely, you can even hear family fights as the prodical son tells his parents about the new job he took last week.
I went for a walk this morning not knowing what exactly to expect. One of the first people I spotted was my local Imam from the mosque. I have often thought about how he is a young fellow, probally in his early 30s. He was walking quick enought to be called a trot down the street sharpening a rather impressive blade that he used to wave out a hurried hello as he flashed a bright smile. I didnt have the heart to call out a kindergarden teacher's warning about the danger inherent his Jason Voorhees-esqu behavior. It was his moment to shine as he was called from house to house, to carry out his duty to sever arteries and windpipes with a twist of the wrist and a wisper of prayer.
As I stood around the local shop, the single most talked about killing was of Saddam. Poor timing from the persepective of those here. Nothing says "Stop the Violence" like a hanging. I tried my best to explain that it was not actually Americans who hung him, but real honest Iraqis. I think we all had a decent grasp of what went on, but we stuck to our stories just the same.
I finished my tour of town as the last ram was put down to find my neighbors already well on their way to preparing lunch. The ladder that was used last month to replaster the house was now doing duty to hang the now dead, decapitated, and skined ram as my friendly neighbor Usfe worked quickly and carefully to take out each of the improbally shaped internal organs to be cleaned by his neice, while two young boys of 5 or 6 watched nearby listening to The Band (self-titled). That night, as well as the next, and those after will find dinner plates pilled high with mutton until every bit had been consumed. Eyes and brain too.
You might wonder why the two boys were listening to The Band. I would like to think that even from a young age they appriciate good music. But, its because that is what I was listening to on my iPod. The enire day has a feeling of Thanksgiving, of appricating what you have, and those who you can enjoy it with. Looking around the table, being happy in the moment...right before you stuff your face and fall asleep. The youth of M'ssici liked The Band almost as much as I do, even if they did not yet understand the profound connecion between history, family, celebrations, and roast meat. But, I think they are getting closer now, and maybe the New Year will find us all understanding each other a little better.
***There will be those who ask why the boys were listening to the "Self-Titled" and not "The Last Waltz". It is because I dont have that release here. We all make some sacrifices.***
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