You know that feeling you get when your traveling. That you have (generally) moved beyond where people know you and you an be more free (more open?). At least this is me. Not that you hold me back, but still. . .

Hanging out in Cairo is like that, but on 'roids. I assume people will guess Im supposed to be a little different anyway, so if I want to be a little extra friendly thats ok. Who doesnt like friendly? Maybe Im just fighting against stereotypes about Americans. And Egyptians are themselves so friendly and accepting. It feels just right.

But, Ive noticed I tend to try to ratchet it back when I see other (obviously) foreign people. Why? Do I assume they will be more freaked out?

The truth is, i kinda like air drums.

Story; I got off work at 5pm (9am cdt) last night and in the elevator on my way to the ground floor some very excellent Bruce Springsteen came on. Glory Days. I was about to really bust out some killer moves, thinking that the lobby would be empty and if my licks were discovered by the doorman it wasnt a great issue. I was shocked (and the beat was thrown off) by some woman standing at the front desk.



It took me two months to notice there are a half dozen little birdies in cages behind the front desk of my building. Too much ipod.

I pity the fuul!

Unlike Morocco, Egypt does not seem to have a “national dish”. But, if it had to be anything, I think the winner would be fuul. Maybe its because I can make more puns with it. Maybe because it seems like it is everywhere. Maybe because no one else does it quiet like them.

Fuul. They say broad beans, but they are really talking about Hannabal Lector’s fava bean. Mashed up like refried beans. For reasons that I don’t understand they come from a huge special cooking pot that seems designed to be difficult to wash out. I am sure there are some things stirred in, I am just not clear what. A typical fuul has a little tahini on top, maybe some cumin, red pepper, lime juice, pepper, etc. Served and eaten with pita bread. Can also be shoveled into the bread for a sammie if you are in a big hurry.

There are two fuul places I would like to profile.

4 Fuuls. These guys set up their fuul cart outside my apt every morning and cater to a range of people from business men to those with a faded dirty blue collar. They dish up fuul as fast as possible and yet it seems like to get an order in you need to shout and plead. Fuul is flying, and the guys that work there seem covered in it by 9am when I show up. Brown beans drying in their hair while they work a disorganized assembly line of people stirring first one thing then another into bowls of fresh fuul. Ive always assumed that when it’s hard to even get the food, it must be good. And it is. One great part about 4 fuuls is that they lack any seating. There is one table about 2 meters long, dirty by 7am. Other seating and eating areas are rather ad hoc, and I would not advise parking your car on their corner. My favorite part is the bowl of fresh tomatoes, dill, onion, and other goodies that really freshens up the meal.

Magic Fuul. Magic because like Brigadon it appears from the mists of the Garden City. Also located within a few blocks of my apt, they roll out the car and set up sidewalk seating as the sun goes down. An excellent sit down experience, they bring several plates of side dishes to your table in addition to the main course fuul. I don’t like the fuul as much as 4 Fuuls, but fried eggplant makes pretty much any experience in life better.

I went hashing this weekend. Not “that kind” of hashing. Hashing is a strange sport invented by crazy British expats so that they have an excuse to drink and maybe get some exercise.

I met a few other American grad students and we went by metro and taxi out to a strange suburban club for expats. People say I live in a “nice” neighborhood. I do. The ACE club is in a “very nice neighborhood”. About 30 people and 2 dogs rally up, vaguely find rides and head out. I thought this was a sorta casual suburban jog, and inappropriately wore my Chaco’s, which seemed like a less and less good idea the further out of town we went. Keep in mind that Cairo is like any other metro area with 14,000,000 people. It has extensive suburbs, and we were going out past the last one.

We missed a turn. “Ah! There is the marker” my driver shouts over what was either Nigerian music or reggae covers of pop. I also had missed the marker, which is understandable because it turns out to be a roll of plastic trash bags by the side of a wildly dirty and polluted road. Maybe a joke by the hashers, a group known for hilarity.

The car works its way up into a slowly growing suburban sprawl of some even nicer houses and apartments, with a terrific view of some lesser pyramids, and also about 25 brick factories whose smog shrouds the area in something more tangible than mystery.

We head off road. Or rather on a dirt track. I asked where it went, and was told “to the desert”. After about 15 mins going further and further where Chacos seem less and less a good idea, we stopped and people gathered together. I noted more than a few beers being drank.

The idea is to follow one of two desert routes from marker to marker. Originally hash marks on trees we have adapted this so flour or red lentils on the ground. What is problematic is that it can be very difficult to find one from the next so there is a good deal of starting and stopping. Add to this a some false trails. . .and you have a quick 100 min desert hike. I opted against the run, thinking I would wait until I had real shoes on, and was even remotely in shape. The entire event finishes with a rally at base with some odd “get to know the new people” moments, a beer, and suddenly Im in a Chinese buffet with 15 expats. Good food, kinda pricey, did not have the traditional desert.

The original constitution:
• To promote physical fitness among our members
• To get rid of weekend hangovers
• To acquire a good thirst and to satisfy it in beer
• To persuade the older members that they are not as old as they feel

If this doesn’t describe my life fairly well, I don’t know what does.

More information? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers

So the top to my laptop is kinda loose. Not an emergency, not preventing it from working. I heard about a good computer repair person and emailed him today. This is the response I got.

"...don't worry i will be able to fix it for u if god will."

and that is just how it goes.

One lesson learned in Morocco was to always try to get change. If you could take a big bill and break it down to a smaller one via some normal transaction, that was a good idea. Inevitably, the next person you buy something from will not have anything close to enough change on hand to break your seemingly huge 20dh note.

Not the case in Egypt. First, the idea of coins is only slowly catching on, with 1pound coins being the largest. After an afternoon of shopping this leaves me with pockets bulging with old well worn semi-torn pieces of paper. At home my desk is littered with piles of them, making me look like a low rent drug dealer or extortionist. Because things are so relatively cheap, yet I want to have some reasonable amount of money on hand, I have been building up huge supplies of small change and find myself in the odd position of wanting to ask someone to cash in the stack of 5pound notes for something more reasonable like a 20.

It is a very odd in which we live.

I think Im hinting at something with the title of this blog, but it will probably change later. Here is a quick post about car horn use.

They love it. People in Cairo consider the horn to be useful for the follow different expressions; hi!, get out of the way, Im coming behind you, I see you, Im a police officer, You are terrible, keep driving (despite traffic being stopped), or just as a spontaneous sign of joy.

Point is, they honk all the time. All this honking sorta desensitizes people, so some horns have been changed a little to give them more notice. This sorta horn arms race has also failed as they dont really make a person any more interested.

Some people dispense with just a honk. But others are more creative. Double, or triple honks are not unheard of and are indeed common. Sometimes leaned on, sometimes short, they come in all shapes and sizes, helping sorta personalize each one for both the honker and situation.

There are some people whose apartments overlook these major streets, and I have no idea how they sleep. But, otherwise, in a lot of ways the honking isnt bad. People are more interactive. They want to let you know they are sorta there, about to come up behind you, or just say "hi". Like a lot of things here, its grounded in some level of community and expression that I find often lacking in America.

Now is as good as time as any for first impressions. They say they are lasting, like psychic forever friends.

Cairo. Im sure there are green leafy places full of quiet and tranquility. I have not found them yet. Maybe a private walled garden somewhere.

This isnt to say I have done a great job in looking. Im hanging out in a hostel that is on a fairly major road, alive 24/24 and 7/7. Depends how you feel about that I guess, but it def has influenced how I view the city. A hot fuss.

The people are either as nice as Morocco, or I am more respective to their niceties. Its funny how when I was in Morocco I felt like I really needed to "integrate". But, now I feel like I can do my own thing more. So if I want to stand out a little, thats my prerogative. If that means I walk down a street that is clearly for local car parts dealers, thats ok too. I think that this balances out both sides of the equation a little better.

People have commented on the heat here. As in "hey, its going to be insanely hot scott". Im looking forward to seeing if it can beat out Morocco in July. That would be a neat trick, because Im fairly sure it would lead to spontaneous combustion.

On Twitter:

You might notice Ive added the twitter thing. I feel like there were a lot of times when something interesting might happen but being either far from the computer or forgetful I might not write about it. So Im hoping to be able to tweet as interesting things and thoughts. Or at least what I think are interesting. That's the idea. Also, Oprah.

One of the questions I get asked the most is "can you get me/my brother/son/newphew/grandchild/the guy standing against the wall etc a job".

The major industry in my town is house building, which is a knock-on from the housing booms in Spain. Men from my region go to Barcalona, either legally or not and get jobs on house building crews. It is simple physical work, requiring little formal education and a lot of brawn. Most importantly it pays in Euro's, which are tradeing at around 11dh (compare with 7.5USD). This money is sent back to town in cheques, and brought back on vacation and used to hire the men who are still left in town to build a new house for the family, the men on these local crews then have the money to reovate their own homes. One Euro, three homes.

Lets be clear. The people in my town need a new house as much as you do. we dont live in grass huts, and only nomads live in tents (thier choice). The homes that people have now are made of mud, and from time to time it does have some problems (namely during the brief rains), but they certainly fulfill the functional needs of homes. Importantly, thick mud walls are fairly good insulators. Walls cooled over the night will soak up heat in the summer mornings. They will also absorb sunlight in the day for release during winter nights. People use mud and packed earth to build houses in the US, its true.

But, the nature of people is often to be unsatisified with what they have, and to want better/differnt things. It causes progress, also a lot of unhappiness. People here being no exception to this rule, want bigger houses, and nicer houses but often dont know exactly what it is they are losing. For them, a nice house is one made of brick and concrete. Thats a step up, they say doesnt melt in the rain. I have never seen a house in my town fall down, nor heard of it happening here but it has happened elsewhere during times of extream precipitation. Sadly, their new brick homes have no kind of insulation at all. However, it is a great way to show how you have made it in the world (or your kids have).

The result of this is that both abroad and at home my men are surrounded by home building, so naturally any thoughts of work in the United States are shovel and trowel oritented. I have turned down a number of well meant requests to build my parents a new home, I thik they are happy with the one they have. Similarly, while I am not opposed to building a new home for myself, Id have to say "not yet". This is little deturrent to them, and I suppose it never hurt to ask.

The bigger barrier comes from the government. I have never heard of a United States company hiring a crew of Moroccan men and getting them all Visas. Sometimes I point out that America has its own unskilled work force that we pay poorly who send money back home. 150 years ago we called them "Irish". Now we call them "Mexican". Either way, its tough going, and it is a lot harder to sneak into America illegally from Morocco than from Tiajana.

It is presumptius of me to think that everything around the world needs to conform to my own midwestern views. Ive been aware of this for awhile now, but I cant shake it off. There are some things like human rights that I feel are universals, and that no amount of history or tradition should stand against these. Other things are more pedestrian, like winter.

Snow should exist somewhere in winter. Im flexable, ice is an acceptable substitute. Plants should no grow in winter. This said, I talk about the "winter" weather in town ALOT. Maybe 10 time a day I say "its cold, im cold, are you cold". It is, its 55 degrees cold!

Wildflowers do not share the same ideas as I do. Its probally good, I like a diversity of openions and I like flowers. Over this last week I have watching at first the start of the yellow flowers that will soon blanket my region for a few weeks, slowly gaining speed like an avalnce that will never be here until in late March it will all disapear for another year.

One of the sign to me that winter has gone, is that smells like spring. It is the same wind as last week, but now its full of spring. It smells like fresh earth, like cool rains, like bright sunlight. This is the best smelling spring of my life. It smells like potential, and I take in deep whiffs of it as I walk though town watching plants green up and flowers comming to bud on bushs that I had walked by for the last nine months. It is a good season.


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One really strange to me thing to watch is people collecting animal forage while using a station wagon. There is no reason why people need to use the old methods of transportaion, witness our very own President Bush 42 who drives around his ranch but has few horsey skills. When the prodigical son returns from Spain, it only seems fair he should help his long suffering mother by loading his new car up with mountains of food for the goats.

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Moroccans are very particular people. Sometimes the sun is to hot, sometimes to cold. The ideal way to be during this season seems to be wrapped up in a few layers to stay warm, but sitting in the shade. I guess this cuts the amount of skin cancer, but it also seems a little...out of sync to me. I sit in the sun and love every minute of it.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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.



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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.

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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.