evelyn in morocco

Petit Taxi #2261

2012-01-25T14:43:00.000-08:00

I went to Batha today, as I do five times a week, to catch a taxi to school. I was in luck as several taxis were waiting for fares. I approached the one nearest me, but was motioned to another taxi that was apparently the first in the cue … although they were in a sort of circle and it was hard to tell who was first.

“Salaam alekum” I said. “Centre Americain?”

“Trente dirham” was his curt reply.

“Thirty dirham?!!” I said, with no small amount of indignation in my voice.

He lowered the price to 20. The expression on my face was enough for him to realize I wasn’t about to pay so much.

“How much then?” he asked.

“The price that will be on the meter” I replied. “It’s an 8 dirham fare. Maximum 9 if there is a lot of traffic … are you crazy?” I started to hail another taxi and I turned make a show of writing down the number of his taxi in order to report him. Believe it or not there are rules and regulations for taxi drivers.

Now he got conciliatory and tried to motion me back towards his cab.

“You are a thief” I shouted so everyone could hear. “A thief!”

He motioned for me to come to his taxi …

I shook my head and shouted “thief” one more time just because it felt good.

Another taxi arrived and I hopped in. I paid 7 ½ dirham for the ride. The real price.

I know this happens frequently to foreigners because the assumption is we all have a lot of money and the person trying to overcharge us hopes we have no knowledge of what the real price is. Or sometimes, they hope we will take pity on them because they were in need and they will tell you they are sorry but your money has been spent trying to solve their problem and they can’t provide the service you hired them for unless you are willing to pay for it again.

“Forgive me” they say with impressive humility.

And my favorite retort to non-repayment of a loan is "you only care for money!"

ARRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHH!

But do they really think this behavior is okay?

No, of course it’s not okay. And in the end, you do have to forgive -- because it feels better. But, here I go again, owning up to my own foibles -- shouting “thief” in the middle of Batha did feel pretty good today.

I guess we all behave badly at times.

Baby It's Cold Inside!

2012-01-14T03:36:00.000-08:00

Funny thing about winter here. When the sun shines in winter, it’s often warmer outside the house than inside the house. No central heating will do that. And the days are so short. Seems to me that by the time I’ve rallied myself to go outdoors, peeling the layers of clothes for sleeping off and replacing them with an equal or greater number of clothes for outdoors, it’s time to reverse the process all over again. But I take heart in the knowledge that the days are getting longer now and being cold will become a distant memory; replaced by the effort to stay cool in summer.

I think it’s a good thing to live with the elements (within reason, of course). I like the fact that here in Morocco, the fresh fruits and vegetables are still seasonal. First come the tangerines, then the oranges; it always surprises me that strawberries arrive in the dead of winter but I completely welcome their arrival. And they actually taste like strawberries. Not the beautiful, large specimens I used to buy in the U.S., with absolutely no taste. As spring approaches, I love to see the arrival of the orange blossoms, baskets filled to the brim with the fragrant flowers which you can buy by the handful. In summer, the prickly pears arrive on carts. The vendors stand with paring knife in hand, ready to peel as much fruit as the customer wants to eat. Personally, I’m not crazy about the prickly pears but they are revered for their ability to settle the stomach.

Everyone is waiting for rain as it hasn’t rained a drop in about 2 months. Normally, we are in the midst of regular downpours this time of year. But yesterday, the evening was quite a bit warmer, announcing the impending arrival of rain. The medina could use a good dousing right now. It’s dusty and filled with the debris of passersby who think nothing of unwrapping their cookies or cakes and dropping the paper on the street for someone else to clean up. I hate this; the litter and the garbage so thoughtlessly thrown on the street. But I know the rain will soon drive everyone indoors and the streets will occasionally look clean and debris-free; if only for a brief moment in time. In my mind, the medina of Fes is a precious gem that deserves to be well-cared for.

I guess it’s time for me to step outside my front door and give the area a good sweeping. I do this almost daily. It amuses me when some pedestrians get upset with me for not using water to keep the dust down when I sweep. I try to do this when no one is about and I am conscious of using my broom in a manner that minimizes the dust. And often I wet the bristles of the broom from the fountain opposite my house to help stop the dust from being disturbed. But there are times when I am in a hurry and inevitably I am admonished for not using water. Orange peels, wet mint leaves, donkey dung and foil wrappers are not a disturbance. Dust is. But I have to admit, sometimes I take a perverse pleasure in kicking up some dust.

Back to Belly Dancing!

2012-01-04T03:06:00.000-08:00

I used to dance all the time. I belonged to a troupe and then danced duets with a fabulous partner. Since I came to Morocco, I have been teaching belly dance to tourists and residents. But there has been a hiatus in my dancing since summer. But this week, a great dancer from Sweden is coming to stay at my B&B for 10 days and another belly dancer just arrived from the U.K. Then, just last night I got a text message from one of the residents here in the medina who wants to continue the series of lessons we started last spring. I consider all these incidents as clear signs that it is time to dance! I am really looking forward to bringing dance back into my life.

There are lots of occasions when live music just starts up and with the music, there are opportunities to dance. But I hold myself back all the time, merely 'chair dancing' when my heart and body really want to shake it up. But that would not be a wise thing to do as Oriental dance is still seen as a bit unseemly, even though everyone loves to watch it and seems to want to learn it. A stange paradox. I guess it's because belly dancing is so sensual. A woman's power comes through when she moves to the rhythms of Oriental music and it's my belief that it's just one more occasion for men to curtail a woman's innate power by associating it with something shameful. And believe me, this attitude isn't limited to the Arab cultures as I found the same attitude in progressive California. It certainly wasn't as pervasive, but it did exist. But that doesn't really bother me because I dance for myself and I am content to dance in the company of women. For me, belly dancing is a celebration of womanhood and an opportunity to see each woman's nature expressed through her movements. It's a joy to dance alone, dance with other women and encourage one another to embrace our femininity.

Yalla ladies! Let's dance all year long.

The Year in Review

2011-12-26T11:11:00.000-08:00

I hardly know how to begin to talk about 2011. I mean, what was that anyway? Much of it seems like such a blur but then some bits emerge through the fog of memory with clarity.

This past spring we got our authorization to rent rooms to tourists. Officially, the house is now Dar LMallouki. Business was immediately brisk and I was running up and down the stairs answering knocks at the door. We were off to the races! But hold on, soon thereafter was the beginning of the so-called 'Arab Spring' and then there was that bombing in Jma El Fna in Marrakesh and tourism took a nose dive ... and it hasn't exactly bounced back. But we've had a little bit of luck renting out our rooms and I'm happy to report the house is in great shape. I believe I speak for my husband as well when I say, as hard as it has been to get to this point and in spite of the fact that much remains to be done on the house, there is a lot to be thankful for. It's taken a long time to get to this point but when you look at the progress you've made, you forget the little things that drove you mad during the process. Or maybe you realize that after all, they really were just little things and what's the use in getting all worked up about them?

I taught through the beginning of summer, then spent 100 days in San Francisco. It was a fabulous rest from the frenzy of activity I had left behind in Fes. Honestly, I was working all the time and right before I left Morocco I resolved to work less when I returned. And, just like that I got what I asked for -- less work awaited me when I returned to Fes in the fall. Oh, I started teaching immediately and had a month of daily drudge work setting the house back in order. Summer dust, house guests (paying and non-paying) and the absence of my critical eye had taken its toll over the summer. There was a lot of sorting, dusting, sweeping and rearranging to do before I could be happy. Plus, I bought a washing machine and boy did I give her a workout those first few weeks of her arrival. But once the housecleaning was accomplished, the guests have been few and far between. And it follows that my belly dance lessons are not being attended. And my source for extra writing projects and other mind-bending marketing exercises kind of withered on the vine due to my lack of energy to continue and changes in management. So, now it's just teaching and housekeeping with 24-hour on-call notice to be the occasional innkeeper. A big change right there.

While in San Francisco I met with a publisher and I rather lamely pitched my book idea. Well, despite my delivery, she liked the concept and my writing samples and she told me I had 'found my voice.' I'm not exactly sure what that means but I liked the sound of it. I was asked to send an outline of the chapters as soon as I returned to Morocco. That was 3 months ago and I still haven't followed through. Of course anyone reading this blog will know I haven't been writing much this year and I see now I have been experiencing the classic writer's block. But things are getting 'looser' shall we say? and I'm putting words together again to express my thoughts. I even wrote a draft of some chapters (the first of which is on this blog) so I am making progress on the creatve writing front. But it's kind of like the work on this house. Things happen slowly and in their own rhythm and I am really not in control. I'm allowing things to come through me rather than trying to pull them out of me. Apparently these things take time.

What else about 2011? Well, there was a serious health problem with my sister and some mighty big challenges lie before her, but I think she will find the inner strength to find her way. My cousin got married and I was delighted to attend her celebration of marriage. My brother seems to be doing well, all my friends in the Bay Area of California are managing to weather the economic turmoil of the U.S. and I am counting my lucky stars that I left there when I did. But I also realize I am an economic refugee here and that realization is having major reverberations on my psyche. I'm not sure what I think about this situation. But the U.S. feels less like home this year and I'm rather surprised by that.

That Old Black Magic

2011-12-19T04:14:00.000-08:00

When I think of the word "magic", images of Disneyland characters, good fairies, and genie bottles first spring to mind. But here in Morocco, magic usually does not have such a positive connotation. It is connected to trouble and troublemakers.

The other day I was told of a woman who had a dream. In that dream, a mysterious form appeared and told her she was not keeping her house as clean as she used to and she was told in no uncertain terms to get busy. So, the next day she began a full-on house cleaning. While dealing with the sofa cushions, she found something disconcerting. Something that made the dream prophetic; for there, hidden in the recesses of the wool, was a crumpled piece of paper with writing on it.

Magic!

The writing was indecipherable but a name could be made out at the bottom of the writing. The name of a family member.

I imagined all the hubbub that followed the discovery. Much discussion about who left the magic and how that magic had been manifesting must have taken place. And I am certain that, in the end, appropriate measures were taken to break the spell.

For my own well-being, I was told what to do should I ever find evidence of magic in my house. You can do one of three things (or maybe you can do all three ... I didn't think to ask). You can prick holes in whatever was left behind. Alternatively, you can urinate on the paper -- or you can sprinkle it with salt.

Personally, I am leaning towards the hole pricking. I imagine there would be something satisfying about jabbing it over and over again.

The Road to Morocco - Part I

2011-12-15T02:59:00.000-08:00

When I was in the U.S. this summer, I noticed that whenever I told people I lived in Morocco, they didn't ask me what life here was like or what I did here, they wanted to know "WHY MOROCCO?" Since there was no short answer to this question, I started to write about it. Here is the first part of what might someday be a book about my journey to Morocco.

THE ROAD TO MOROCCO

INTRODUCTION

Within days of arriving in Morocco, I was given an Arabic name by the man who would soon become my husband.

"Are you happy to be in Morocco" he asked? When I answered in the affirmative, the naming was complete. I was now Saida, -- which means 'happy' in Arabic. The odd thing about being named happy is I've never really felt particularly happy in my life. Being Saida seemed like a big responsibility. One I wasn't sure I was prepared for.

Sometimes it's particularly hard for me to be happy in Morocco. The language is unfamiliar, some customs are so alien, and maneuvering through the governmental system in this kingdom can be a daunting task. But I am Saida when I pause to consider the unfolding results of my arrival in this land of Muslims, Arabs and Berbers. I am Saida where it counts most. The rest is just a series of incidents and encounters which never fail to show me what I'm really all about. I'm more Saida than I've ever been simply because I've learned to enjoy the bumps, misturns, glorious scenery and intriguing people on this journey through life.

PART I
Roads Signs.

Chapter One
Construction Ahead

The best thing about my having lived for nearly sixty years is the perspective I've gained. I can look in the rear view mirror of my life and see the cause and effect of my choices. Even better is the fact that I can relinquish the need to know or mange the outcome because I have learned the road before me will always be filled with detours, pot holes, wild rides, mechanical malfunctions and occasional periods of smooth riding. It simply doesn't matter how much I plan or fret or analyze my options. What truly matters is the intention I set.

When I left the U.S. in January of 2007, I didn't know I was destined to live in Morocco but I did know I was stuck, just spinning around in circles that seemed to get faster and smaller with each move I made. My trip to Fes was meant to be a brief stop on the way to a teaching job in Istanbul and I hoped it would break the cycle I was in of false starts and stops. But once I arrived, Fes just wouldn't let me go, no matter how often or how vehemently I ranted and raved. And believe me, I cried a river of tears the first few years here and swore time and time again I was going to leave. By the same token, I didn't know my own country was so intent on sending me away ... even though all the signs were there if I'd only had the wisdom to notice them and heed the messages. But I spent five years running around in circles before I was able to break free. Such is life. As one of my belly dance teachers once told me, "If you aren't making mistakes, you aren't living."

The signs indicating I needed to travel down a different road in life started appearing over 10 years ago when I decided to leave a 25-year long career in advertising and design to purchase an antique business. It seemed like a perfectly sound and enjoyable business idea. Magnolia Antiques was an established business in an affluent and quaint town in Marin, California. For the price of the inventory alone, I could set myself up for a quiet and comfortable early retirement. But the acquiring of the business turned into a contentious affair with the owner realizing half way through the purchase process that she wanted more money. But it was too late for that as contracts had been signed and savings liquidated to come up with the asking price. But after a lot of foot dragging and a few tricky moves by the seller to unload the best inventory and substitute it for lesser goods, the sale finally went through. However, I had totally failed to see the posted signs about the road construction up ahead.

Soon after I took ownership of the store, the town announced they would be lowering the street in front of my shop by 4 feet. That meant no traffic and no parking for months. On top of that, the popular cafe in the space at the north end of the building changed hands. Monstrously big scaffolding was erected as the new owners started to renovate the place from the inside out. Huge sheets of plastic were wrapped around the exterior of the building. Magnolia Antiques was completely obliterated from view down in the only part of town where a few brave shoppers ventured. So now, neither pedestrians nor cars could pass by the shop. The situation had disastrous decision written all over it. But eventually, the tide turned in my favor, pointing me in another direction which took years for me to interpret.

California real estate was going through the roof when I bought the antique business so the first thing I did was negotiate a new lease. That proved to be my salvation. After months and months of trying to make a go of things I ultimately sold my lease to the restaurant owners on the corner of the building. During this time I wrote letters to my landlord, to the city council and to the owners of the restaurant. I filmed people climbing over scaffolding to cross the street and conducted 'interviews' with the pedestrians in an effort to highlight the danger posed by the construction on both the street and the building. I made a real nuisance of myself until everyone just wanted me to go away. My plan worked when I was offered a deal to relocate my business. I was paid the same amount I had initially invested in the shop and I would still have all the inventory. So the plan was for me to take the inventory and recreate the store somewhere else. I knew the rent would be higher and the move would cost money, but that was factored into the deal. I had a big sale to reduce the amount of inventory to move and put everything into an antique collective while I shopped around for a new space.

That was in early September of 2001. On September 11th, the world changed and I never did reopen Magnolia Antiques. Instead, I kept the inventory in the collective and tried to find work in advertising and design. But I was never able to do that. In one short year, everything was different.. The dot.com era was over, our President had declared war on terrorism, Americans were hunkering down and waiting for the next shoe to drop and just like that I found I no longer had the skill sets needed to thrive or even survive in the business world as I had known it.

Another woman

2011-11-27T02:27:00.000-08:00

I don't know why it took me so long to buy a washing machine. I was always moving something else to the top of the list of "Things to Spend Money On". But now that I finally have one, it's just as my Moroccan friend Souad said: "It's like having another woman in the house!"

I used to either send the laundry out to other women and do it myself. I used a series of buckets situated under the very low spigot on the terrace. Let me tell you, it was hard work. And the towels were soooo heavy to wring out and a little stiff from some soap that inevitably remained behind. My wrists would complain for days for it really does take two to properly wring out a towel. But my little 6 kilo capacity washing machine spins most of the water out, reducing my drying time considerably and mesmerizing me with the "essourage" cycle as the timer displays the final 3 minutes of each wash. So the work of several women is now the work of my machine and yours truly. I am so happy to have the assistance.

These days, I rather enjoy hanging out on the terrace when the sun is shining and conditions are ideal for drying. Our plumber was very practical when he set up the fixtures, affixing the hose for the gray water to the terrace wall and fastening it just above a bucket rather than above the floor drain. This way, I can use the gray water to rinse the terrace floor, or the plastic on the halqa windows. What my new laundry area lacks in form is certainly made up for by it's absolute functionality.

One of the things that held me back from purchasing a washing machine was not the cost of the machine itself, but the need to create a space for it and the need to install the plumbing that goes along with it. But after 3 months in the U.S. this summer with full and ready access to a washing machine and a dryer, I threw caution to the wind when I returned to Fes and impulsively bought the machine. I had hoped to have enough money to build a shelter around it but that project soon got superceded by more pressing expenses.

Big problem for we were entering into the rainy season.

So, I was hanging out on the terrace one day, a mound of clothes, curtains, cushion covers and linens being washed for me when I began to tackle a heap of dusty, tangled tents that had been occupying a corner of the terrace for too long. As I wrestled with one tent, I began to envision arranging a tent around the washing machine.

Eventually, after lots of trial and error, I managed to create a little fort above and around my new best friend, the washing machine. I cut the tent apart and used bamboo, a rusty metal bar, cuttings from the tent and miscelleaneous pieces of plywood to enclose the corner of the terrace into a makeshift laundry room. Now, everytime I look at it I feel like a kid who build a neat fort or treehouse from an assortment of left over materials. But it's working. The washing machine stays nice and dry in the rain storms and the structure has held steady during strong winds.

Is it any wonder I am so delighted to have 'another woman' in the house to help with just one of the myriad of tasks I undertake? I think I'll go up to the terrace right now. The sun is shining periodically and it's about time to join forces again and make things happen around here!

Writer's Block

2011-11-22T00:40:00.000-08:00

Thanks to all my readers who have written and encouraged me to start blogging again. Months and months have gone by without actually following-through on my intention to post on the blog. I would tell myself, you must write about this or that and then the thought would just hang there, never actually becoming a written piece. I figure I must have been in the throes of the dreaded writers block these past 8 months.

Small wonder the block took hold, though. I actually was doing quite a bit of writing early in the year as editor of Cafe Clock's blog. Perhaps all the words I had to put together were spent there. But after a year of writing articles (which I thoroughly enjoyed as it entailed meeting incredibly interesting people and researching topics I only knew a little bit about) I decided it was time to reduce the 5 jobs I was doing to 3. I was really tired and leaving Morocco for the entire summer. And I found I was censoring my words before I wrote them ... I had lost the ability to let the words move through me onto the screen.

But everything comes and goes and I feel the block is moving on. This summer I met with a publisher who read some of my blog postings and encouraged me to write a book. I even began to outline the various chapters and found I had two books to write rather than one. Then a backslide into writer's block occurred.

But just a few days into the practices and activities in the book, The Artists's Way I find myself with pen in hand and fingers poised over the keyboard. The computer is fixed of all the problems that kept me from accessing the internet and the unexplained crashes that had me throwing up my hands in frustration have been addressed. All systems are 'go'.

So, as Lyle Lovett sang: "Here I Am". ... back in Morocco and ready to write once again.

The Man with the Gravelly Voice

2011-03-29T04:38:00.000-07:00

Fes is full of unusual characters. There is the woman who sits on my street every morning, eating her oranges, artichokes or pumpkin seeds and asking everyone to pray for her as they pass by and offer her a greeting. There's a squat, benevolent black woman who sits outside Cafe Clock every day with any number of stray cats on her lap who never fails to greet me and ask how I am faring. And of course there is the once beautiful femme fatale who paints her cheeks bright red and occasionally bursts into colorful tirades which never fail to draw an audience.

There are an equal number of men who add their own special hue to the scene. Among them was a man who had an unusual, gravelly voice that everyone loved to imitate. He would always surprise me when he spoke to me in English whenever our paths crossed.

"You have beautiful eyes" he used to growl at me.

During the time I've been in Fes, I have often seen him with his girlfriend. She is blind and seemed to be steadfast supporter of his. Often, I would see them walking arm in arm up Talaa Kbir. More often than not, he seemed contrite when they were together. But recently, I saw her shaking him by the shoulders, her gaze directed towards some distant place, as he succumbed to her public admonishments while the ever curious crowd watched on.

The other day I learned that this man died. I wasn't at all surprised as his face had become increasingly gaunt and had begun to look like it was carved from charred wood. I imagine that whatever it was that he took or drank or ate to help him get through the day had finally done him in. And then I recalled a scene I had witnessed about a week ago that now seemed particularly poignant. This man was outside my house at the public fountain. A friend was helping to shave him at the fountain. Together, they sat there for quite some time while his bristly face was scraped clean. Here and there, his face was slightly bloody from the closeness of the shave. But once again I was taken by the way he submitted to the ministrations of someone who cared about him. Little did I realize it would be the last time I laid eyes on him.

I wonder what is to become of his blind girlfriend and his companion who shaved him with such conscientious care. I wonder who will miss him and mourn his passing and my heart aches as I remember the vulnerable look on his clean shaven face.

The Winds of Change

2011-02-16T11:22:00.000-08:00

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything for my blog … I’ve thought about it many times but I guess I just wasn’t in the mood. And that’s strange because I’ve been observing more and more of everyday life recently and descriptions and thoughts fill my head as I take it all in.

There is so much going on and yet so much seems the same. But take Egypt. Everyone was full of talk about it and how it would never happen in Morocco. But just today a Moroccan told me he thought there was “a 20% chance” of something similar taking place in the Maghreb. Great. Just after I received an email from the States saying word of unrest in Morocco was filtering through and I reassured everyone that all is peaceful here.

And as for as I can tell it is peaceful here. I’ve never felt any strong undercurrent of discontent here and life is pretty good.

“Well how would something like Egypt happen in Morocco” I asked the man who thought 20% of Moroccans were ready to revolt. “You have a king. You don’t have a problem with him …”

“No, no. Not the king. The government. All the corruption..” he replied. “And remember, there’s an 80% chance nothing will happen” he added.

I was somewhat reassured but sensed something was afoot. For just that morning I had been told a story about a young man being stopped by the traffic control police and given a 300 dirham citation for not having a working light over his license plate. The policeman insisted that the fine was non-negotiable and refused to take any money to overlook the infraction. That was novel.

But then again I had just read how the government has dedicated additional monies in 2011 to subsidize some basic necessities. Already, the article stated, oil, flour, sugar and other commodities are heavily subsidized by the government. The officials reporting the news stated they wanted to make sure those living in poverty did not go hungry. And new jobs – to the tune of 5,000 for those with doctoral degrees -- will soon become available. That’s good news, too.

All I can say is with the winds of change blowing through North Africa, there seems to be a wonderful opportunity for great things to happen in this part of the world. And Morocco -- in my experience -- is the very best place to observe what happens next.

It's Been a Long Time ...

2011-01-26T03:32:00.000-08:00

... since I posted anything on my blog. Don't know why. Maybe I've been doing too much other writing and didn't have anything left to say. I've been writing for Cafe Clock's blog and editing translated copy for a new online newsletter called "What's On in Fes". But here I am. Ready to spew a few paragraphs about life, my state of mind and any random observations that happen to occur while I'm recollecting.

I have had a few moments of fame. There is a new, online television program called 100% Fes (www.centpourcentfes.com) and it's all about the best of Fes, including profiles on local personalities. Well, I am one such personality and they did a segment on my belly dance classes. There is also a brief interview about my life in Fes. This video, along with another entited "Three Steps in Three Minutes" is posted on YouTube. So far, they've garnered a collective 200 views. No great shakes but it's fun to see a small portion of my weekly routine captured on camera and have a place to send my friends and family as a way of connecting and communicating what's going on in my life.

Cafe Clock has been closed for a week now in order to expand their kitchen. I have to hand it to the owner, Mike Richardson. He just continues to create and thrive and metamorphasize. I've missed having a ready place to eat, drink, relax and commune but they will open again around the end of this week. But I won't be here ...

... the annual ALL ALC CONFERENCE takes place this weekend in Agadir. The journey there will begin at 6:15 am this Friday. A mini van will pick up the teachers who reside in the medina. We'll meet up with all the other teachers from Fes at the airport. Then on to Casblanca and a connecting flight to Agadir. We will be in Agadir for 3 full days attending conferences (the educational book publishers provide several workshops a day and they are usually pretty good) and there will be activities and dinners throughout the long weekend. The weather should be a lot warmer than here in Fes. The hotel we are staying in is right by the ocean so the air will be brisk and clean for walking along the oceanside promendade. I am looking forward to the change of scenery and a break from the routine of teaching.

Life in the medina is the same but the days are short. Shops close early because of the cold nights and it's difficult to get out of bed in the morning let alone undress for a shower. The days begin late and end early. It is cold and there has been little rain. But today, a rain is falling and in half an hour I must begin preparations for school.

I have a 3 hour Beginning 3 class and soon I must get my head around the lesson for the day. I think of my teaching as a performance of sorts. I am the director of the class' activities and I must entertain as well as inform. I use my enthusiasm and plan a variety of activities; I cajole and act theatrical using different accents. I tell stories about my culture and I ask questions about Moroccan culture. And all the while I try to complete the learning objectives for the week. Sometimes it's great fun. Sometimes it is an exercise in classrooom management. But mostly it's fun and gratifying.

So, it's time to shift into teaching mode. The day is quickly passing.

Ashura

2010-12-17T01:14:00.000-08:00

The last ten days have been marked by the arrival of the Islamic new year (Muharram) and the ever-progressing arrival of Ashura, which is the 10th day after Muharram (ahsura means ‘10’).

On the eve of Ashura, bands of children from every neighborhood gather together to play music. They beat drums and tambourines and blow into long horns that make a single, bleating note. Sometimes they sing. If you are lucky enough to live in a neighborhood where some of the older boys lead the children in learning rhythms, you are treated to some great sounds. Of course the kids ‘practice’ all week long and parade up and down the derbs in raucous good humor.

My street has tons of children and their numbers steadily increased as they banded together the other night to symbolically mourn the end of a year and celebrate the beginning of a new year. They probably don’t know that is what they were doing, but the idea of drumming out the old and heralding in the new gave me the wherewithal to deal with their learning curve and a great appreciation for the steady progress they made in producing the traditional rhythms.

I thoroughly enjoyed Ashura this year … perhaps it’s because I took the time to learn what it’s all about.

Still Searching

2010-12-10T01:28:00.000-08:00

A friend just sent me an email asking me why don’t I sell my house and come home to California. I’d like to, but the reality of life stops me. It would be difficult to sell right now and although I could conceivably get enough money to purchase a home in Northern California, what would I do for income after that? For truth be told, my skills and years of experience are highly valued here in Fes, but rather worthless back home.

I make a lot more money teaching English here than I would in the States. Believe it or not, the pay is a mere $12-15 per hour for a qualified ESL teacher in the Bay Area. How could I survive on that???? Here is Fes, I teach belly dance to tourists and people love my classes. But back in San Francisco, I am one of thousands and there are dancers there who highlight the fact that I am strictly an amateur at the game. To bill myself as a belly dance teacher in San Francisco would be laughable.

I also have some marketing skills that I’ve been able to put to good use here and even get paid for. But in the competitive, youth-oriented California market I am sadly out of touch with the search engine optimization approach of today’s marketing gurus. Alas, the sad truth is I am out of touch, out of date and just too old to make a living at home anymore. But here in Fes, I find myself wearing five different hats some weeks, collecting fees and earning income from the myriad of skills I’ve gathered throughout my life and I’ve made a comfortable situation for myself in a world where money seems to be increasingly hard to come by.

I do miss home though and some days I fervently wish to transport myself back to the green, open spaces of California and the orderly life I grew up in. Chaos, confusion and conflict often pepper my days here and sometimes I just get tired of the effort that is required to keep going. But I think I am here for a purpose … a purpose I haven’t fully grasped yet … and so I carry on. I dry the tears of frustration off my face, put on a smile, pull back my shoulders and try anew every day.

Next month it will be 4 years since I arrived in Fes. I originally wanted to come here because of a documentary I saw about the Sacred Music Festival. This film talked about Fes as the Spiritual Capital of Morocco and I thought to myself that living in a so-called spiritual city would be great for my personal growth. Indeed it has been. But looking back I realize I had the naïve impression that a spiritual journey would be much lighter than what I’ve experienced thus far. I somehow thought a calm, wise and peaceful energy would envelope me just because I put myself on this path. But this has definitely not been the case. For life in Morocco is real life with capital letters and I find I am constantly derailed by the unexpected, the unfamiliar and the unexplainable.

So here I am, with all the trappings of a successful life but still missing an essential element. It’s called ‘acceptance’. And even though I am much better at this than I used to be, it seems I still have a way to go. They say life presents you with the same lesson until you have fully learned it. I haven’t passed my exam just yet. So perhaps when I truly accept and appreciate all of what life has offered me, I will be able to return home with the wisdom and peace I have been searching for all these years.

And who knows? When I finally do find what I’ve been looking for, maybe I won’t want to leave.

Here Come the Sheep

2010-11-10T01:17:00.001-08:00

It’s one week before the big annual feast of Eid and the sheep are starting to appear in and around the medina.

Truckloads of big, fat sheep are stopping along the roads into the medina where carousa owners wait to transport the sheep to their new owner’s homes. Those without the money to pay a carousa (or just wishing to save a few dirham to pay for some knife sharpening or some spices) find all kinds of creative ways to move the sheep along. Some pull them by the horns, others hoist them over their shoulders and then there is always the push and pull method.

Yesterday, a man was slowly walking a rather scrawny-looking cow up my street. Mud was caked on the hindquarters of the noble bovine as people young and old reached out to touch the cow as she was lead to her final resting place. I gathered it was some kind of good luck to honor the sacrificial cow in this manner.

I can’t say I share the enthusiasm this time of year brings but I do marvel at the activities and the religious meaning. I also am awed by the solidarity of activities and rituals which are a result of living in a culture where just about everyone shares the same religious beliefs and traditions are strongly upheld.

Every household will sacrifice their sheep or cow or goat at a prescribed time and every neighborhood will set up a place to roast the sheep’s heads on their street. The women will set to work after the sheep (or cow, or goat) has been sacrificed, skinned and the heavy-duty butchering has taken place. Women gut the animal and use absolutely every edible (and not-so-edible for my taste) part of the sheep. The skin will be dried, the fat will be carefully saved for later use and even the bones will be saved for soups at a later date. The liver will be cut into bite-size pieces for the first day and the meat will be allowed to cure for the following days. Small clay pots filled with charcoal and fanned with whatever is handy slowly cook the skewers of liver and protein is the mainstay of each meal for the next three days.

And of course the women will do all the nasty cleanup that is required after sacrificing the sheep and stringing it up from the halqa. But it only seems nasty to squeamish Westerners like me, Here, the blood is seen as purifying and no one turns their head at the moment the knife is drawn across the throat and the sheep struggles with the certain knowledge that life has come to an end. Indeed, many households keep the sacrificial animals on their terrace or in the house so the children can pet it and feed it and honor them before … well, before.

So here it is again. Eid Kbira. The time everyone looks forward to after Ramadan has passed. Once Eid is over, life will take on its expected rhythm with all the unexpected twists and turns until Ramadan is once again due to arrive. The wheel of life turns once again and thanks is given for being able to bear witness to all the marvels it offers.

On the Right Path

2010-10-20T02:44:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve noticed an unexpected and not so subtle change in my attitude. I’m pretty sure I know the reason for this change but I’m not going to give voice to it so I don’t jinx it. But there it is. And it’s resulted in a kind of an awakening.

I find I am a lot more accepting. I think I might even be starting to enjoy my experiences here. Now that’s going to sound pretty weird, I know. For why on earth would I have spent nearly 4 years here NOT enjoying myself? But things have been pretty difficult for me for a variety of reasons and I’ve slugged through my life believing I have to work hard to overcome these difficulties. So facing hard times is not new to me and I’ve always had the notion that life would always be this way. But I have come to realize we do experience periods of Grace and now one of my greatest difficulties here has seemingly vanished into thin air. POOF. It’s over. And quite unexpectedly, but probably just in the knick of time, I am feeling rather happy because I was ‘this close’ to running away for good.

But run away to where? For what they say is true … ‘wherever you go, there you are.”

So what it all really boils down to is changes in me. Sure, an obstacle in my life has been removed and I’m finding life a little easier these days. But when I reflect on my situation and think about all that I’ve experienced, I realize that I have put up a lot of resistance to my situation here. And this newfound acceptance and appreciation for all the situations life throws at you is one of the great results of the time I’ve spent here in Morocco.

A Visit to the Doctor

2010-10-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

For the first time in nearly 4 years I had to visit a doctor. I was rather nervous about the whole thing because most doctor's don't speak English and this was a visit of a very personal nature. I waited as long as I dared before making an appointment and yesterday I bit the bullet and had my husband call the doctor. We were told to rush in right away unless we wanted to wait another two weeks. I dashed out of the house in a very sorry state and we drove to the doctor's office straight away.

I waited nearly two hours before being seen. During that time my husband had to leave as he had an appointment that couldn't be missed. I paced back and forth in the waiting room, worrying about the appointment and wondering how I would get back to the house, wash my hair (it was wrapped in a scarf to disguise the terrible bed head) and gather my materials for my 3:00 class. Anxiety mounted with each passing moment. It occurred to me I could have done all that needed to be done before rushing off to the doctor's office and still have had time to see the physician. Oh well. Could have, should have, would have.

Finally, I was called into the inner chambers. I was directed to step onto a scale which I was loathe to do, especially with the extra weight of all my clothes. Thankfully, the number on the scale wasn't nearly as formidable as I thought it would be and I breathed my first sigh of relief.

In horrible and halting French, I tried to tell the doctor my problem. She nodded and proceeded with her examination. By U.S. standards, everything was rather, well, basic I guess you could say. Expedient is another word I would use. I'm not at all sure what the diagnosis was (is 'banana' a medical term????) but I do know I had to spend nearly $100 for the treatment. Yikes! My prescription pad had 6 separate items on it and of course I don't understand what's in any package nor do I know exactly what to do with any of it without the help of a translator. And of course the translation will only tell me what to do -- not why it's being done. Some medicine I am to take before eating, others after eating. There are creams, suppositories (how very French) and there's even some powder to add water to and use every night. Ten days of treatment and I think anything wrong with me (besides the original problem) should be vigorously attacked by all the medication.

But that's not all. The next hurdle is filling out the paperwork to get reimbursed for the fees and prescription charges. Every box of medicine is to be saved along with the instruction sheets within and attached to the form which need both the doctor's and the pharmacists signatures. Geez, and I thought it was tough in the United States. All I can do is blindly follow instructions and put my faith in the expertise of others. No answers to my queries of "why" or "what does it mean?" Just do what you're told to do and don't ask any questions because no one has the vocabulary to tell you. Or rather, I don't have the vocabulary to understand.

The House Knows All

2010-10-01T11:05:00.000-07:00

All hell is about to break loose in the house.

Even though I was determined NOT to invest any more money in the house and dedicated to trying to sell it as soon as I returned from the states this summer, it seems DESTINY has something else in store.

A week ago a huge plumbing problem reared its ugly head and necessitated breaking through walls and installing new pipes. And now that repairs to the wall must be made, I figured the house was telling me I am not through with her yet and must give her what she wants.

So, tomorrow, tile work and plaster and painting will commence. The walls in the upstairs bathroom are going to be tiled and the same goes for the water closet on the in-between floor. A new sink has been purchased for the water closet and repairs are going to be made to all the necessary places on the ground floor. And, of course, the kitchen walls have to be re-plastered and painted where the new pipes were installed.

Every room in the house will be covered in dust and debris. This I am sure of. And of course, this is happening right after I cleaned everything this morning. Silly me. But at least I get to enjoy a clean house for one day. Then, when everything is finished, a thorough seasonal cleaning will commence and the house will be better than ever.

A sturdy plastic cover has been custom-made to cover the halqa in preparation for the winter rains. The drainage problem on the terrace has hopefully been addressed.

Next step: gather some money together (just how to do this is yet unknown) and apply for a permit to make this a guest house. That’s the only way to recoup the money I have been spending to repair and improve my voraciously hungry and greedy little house.

Are you paying attention house? I’m listening to you and giving you what you seem to want. You seem to be fighting me when I try to break loose so I surrender. Believe me, I truly am trying to find the proper attitude to assume about the whole thing. But I waver between feeling trapped and calm acceptance. I know you are watching my every move and reading my mind -- I only wish I could read you as clearly as you seem to read me.

Tell me, once you are fully restored and delighting tourists from all over the world, are you planning for me to resume my journey to Istanbul that you interrupted when I arrived here almost 4 years ago? Will you send me a buyer looking for a turnkey operation so I can take advantage of the depressed real estate market back in California? Or is there something else you are contemplating that will totally surprise and astound me?

Tell me soon, little Dar on the Derb … What door will you open for me? For I am chomping at the bit for some significant change in my life.

Godzilla Bride

2010-09-25T13:10:00.000-07:00

I could see and smell the Juicy Fruit gum as she sat across from me in my house and talked about her trials and tribulations since arriving in Fes. I had been instructed to extol the virtues of Morocco and one Moroccan in particular as she was here to get married.

She met her intended on Facebook and they fell in love, even though he spoke no English and she no Darija. Even though he is at least 35 years her junior and they relied exclusively on the translation feature on their computers to communicate.

Left alone with her I learned she sells beds in the states but her real love is Zumba, the latest aerobic/salsa dance craze. She herself is an instructor and she told me she liked the definition of the muscles on her new love as photos were exchanged across the ocean and the continental U.S. She envisions teaching him to be a Zumba instructor in the States and she was here to arrange his visa. For a while the conversation was “Zumba-this” and “Zumba-that”.

Her entry into Morocco had not been without challenges as she was plucked in the middle of a lively Moroccan household and promptly got sick from drinking tap water. The lack of privacy and the excess of food didn’t sit well with her either. She seemed a bit unyielding to me but no one can be expected to show their best side after 30 hours of travel and such an immediate and strong dose of culture shock.

So I gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried to tell her to take her time. I wanted to impress upon her that she couldn’t possibly know how deep the differences are between our cultures nor find the clarity to assimilate them without the benefit of time and a healthy amount of patience. I cited a few examples from my own experience here. I asked her not to repeat my warning as I had been asked only to say positive things and this might not be received in the manner intended. She said she understood and was soon gathered up to return to her fiancé’s home.

The next day a phone call came. It was said I had told her Moroccans are ‘stealers’ and altogether bad.

What the hell!?

When pressed, she admitted I had said no such thing but that I had asked her not to repeat my words and this, she reported, didn’t sit well with her.

So much for trying to help.

And so, Miss Zumba, I think it best that you turn around and go back where you came from. I can’t begin to imagine what will transpire if you spend an entire month here. And while I am biting my tongue and refraining from issuing strong warnings to the Moroccan family that is increasingly bewildered by your behavior, I won't say another word as I have learned my lesson about dispensing advice to people I don't know. I only hope the next foreign bride-to-be that arrives full of hope and romantic notions doesn't come knocking at my door.

Back to Abnormal

2010-09-18T01:45:00.000-07:00

After 17 days in Fes, I am finally able to take a breath and begin to consider my options. Believe me, the re-entry hasn’t been easy for a variety of reasons.

There’s the heat. It’s been a lot hotter than where I’ve been these past three months and the last few days have been really hot and muggy. But right now I’m waiting for it to rain and there have even been rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightening but no payoff with a downpour. Which is just as well because my little drain on the terrace can’t accommodate a massive amount of water in a short period of time. The water rushes under the gap at the terrace door and cascades down the steps. But I’ll address that sometime in the next few weeks. Meanwhile, profuse sweating is the order of the day (every day) and I’m taking a lot more showers than usual.

There was work. Practically the minute I set down my suitcases I had to pick up the school books and start teaching. But that’s all over now and I had a terrific group of students. The two weeks passed, exams were given today and the grades have been handed in. I now have nearly 3 weeks of unstructured time to look forward to.

There was my house which was in complete disarray and in desperate need of a thorough cleaning. This I’ve managed to accomplish but still have a mountain of bed linens and towels to launder. Nothing seems to have been washed in my absence but I did haul 4 sets of bed linens and 4 towels across the U.S, through Europe and down into Africa so I’m okay for the moment as far as clean beds and towels are concerned.

Ramadan completed its last week when I first arrived and the celebration after it ended were followed by 3 consecutive days off from work. That was welcomed! It was a bit tough to get into the swing of things when I first arrived, but soon the month-long fasting came to an end and things are pretty much back to normal. Except my husband got very ill that last week of Ramadan. He hasn’t had the vocabulary to let me know exactly what the doctors said was wrong with him (“So many things, Saida”) but he spent days on end in bed and lost a lot of weight. He’s better now (thank God) and quit smoking as a result of the illness. He was cared for by his family during the worst of his illness and seems to be taking a lot better care of himself now.

So life here is slowly returning to normal --- which feels rather abnormal to me after an entire summer in the U.S. But soon what’s abnormal will feel normal again as the summer quickly becomes a distant memory and life in Fes takes gets back the its own arhythmic beat.

One Week Later

2010-09-10T01:51:00.000-07:00

I've been in Fes for a little over a week now and Ramadan has just ended. Today is the second day of the holiday that follows. People are no longer fasting and are dressing in their finery to visit friends and relatives in their homes. Everyone is making nice with everyone else, the shops are closed and there is a lot of congratulating going on. And well deserved congratulations I might add. From the little I saw of Ramadan this year, I could tell it took a lot of stamina to adhere to the fasting during the hot summer days. I am told it reached 125 degrees on the first day of Ramadan this year. And next year will be even more difficult. Many people are visibility thinner than the time I last saw them and are aglow with the triumph of adhering to their fast in a challenging situation and are basking in their successful practice of one of the five pilars of Islam.

How different this world is from the one I just came from. Not just the traditional month of fasting but from the very air itself. And by that I mean the mood, the energy level and the quality of the atmosphere in which people live. How interesting to witness a people pursuing a common goal and how they support one another spiritually and physically. In my own country, we are all such individuals with an endless variety of ways in which we approach life. Here, it's all for one and one for all when it comes to religious practices and family traditions. I like aspects of both views and that sometimes leaves me wondering where I fit into things.

One of the first things that I noticed when I returned to the medina was the smells. In the heat of summer things are more pungent than usual and the chickens and butcheries are redolent with a powerful organic odor. I also noticed how dusty everything was from the months of months of heat and the lack of greenery and moisture to help clean the air. And then night turns into day and day turns into night during a summer Ramadan as breakfast doesn't begin until 7pm at night and life picks up the pace from sundown to sunup.

The presence of everyday life is so apparent here and so unlike the overly manicured gardens and housefronts I walked past in Pacific Heights in San Francisco. I feel like Goldilocks as I absorb the contrasts; "this one's too overpowering and this one's too sterile." Again I wonder what I want and where the middle ground can be found. Does it even exist?

Yet here I am, taking it all in and training myself not to judge anything. Just observe and note the differences. It's really difficult to hold back the voices that want to proclaim this one superior to that one. I have to remind myself again and again that my own peace of mind comes from keeping judgements at bay and staying open to experiences.

The Return to Fes

2010-09-05T04:02:00.000-07:00

Well, I am back in town and it feels like I've passed through a portal into another dimension. The life I experienced in the U.S. this summer was so incredibly different from what awaited me here in Morocco. I must say it's a bit of a shock to the system.

After a 2 hour drive from the beaches of Delaware where I spent the last week in America I traveled to the hustle and bustle of Washington D.C.'s airport. Once there, I had 3 hours to wait for my plane's departure. About 6 hours later I arrived in Frankfurt, feet and ankles so swollen I could hardly fit into my sandals. I found a lounge chair (the best thing about Frankfurt's terminal) and raised my fat feet up to relieve the swelling. I had a long, 10 hour layover in which to catnap, walk around, hydrate myself and eat. The flight from Frankfurt to Casablanca was a little over 4 hours. My feet swelled up to their previous elephantine size and I hobbled through customs to find Hassan waiting for me outside baggage claim. It was very good to see his smiling face. We stayed in Casablanca for the night and arrived in Fes around 6:00 the next day. I put my luggage down and hurried off to the school to get my assignment for the next day. Books in hand, I returned to the house and wept a little bit for all the work ahead of me to right the house again and to mourn a little bit the carefree summer that was now completely and utterly over. But that's the life of the working class. And these days, I count myself lucky to be working at all!

I have been warmly received by my co-workers, neighbors and friends now that I am back in town. This is the last week of Ramadan and schedules are topsy turvy. But this, too, will end soon and life will resume it's regular pace before long. Meanwhile, I am cleaning a little when I have the energy and motivation and preparing my lessons for the intensive course which is now in full swing. Slowly but surely the expats who left the heat are returning to Fes and everyday is a new opportunity to reacquaint myself with the people who have become such a large part of my life here.

This life is like a dream sometimes. One minute you are watching dolphins cavorting in the ocean while you sit in a rocking chair and enjoy the cool ocean breeze. The next minute you are hurtling through the air towards a different destination, enduring the torture of sitting in a small space for hours on end with bad food and recycled air. And then, before you know it, that, too is over and you are sitting in communion with a Muslim community patiently waiting for the call to prayer signifying the end of the long day's fasting. The swifts in the sky above are feeding on the insects and the sky is darkening and the busy area around Bab Boujloud falls strangely silent as everyone momentarily concentrates on eating and drinking.

Thus Far

2010-08-04T07:38:00.000-07:00

I’ve now been in the U.S. for two months with one more left. It’s been a great summer thus far and a much needed rest from the hurly burly life in Fes. I’ve slept more, eaten more, traveled more, and shopped more during these past two months than I have in the past two years. Ahhhh, it’s been a delight.

I am staying in the equivalent of a riad in Fes. The house has everything (including a baby grand piano which I torture from time to time) and I want for nothing (well, perhaps more sunshine would be welcome in this foggy city by the bay). I’ve been chauffeured from California to Montana and back, seeing the natural beauty of this great country of mine … Crater Lake, the Sawtooth Mountains, Shasta Mountain, vast plains of wheat, verdant valleys and pristine ski resorts. It takes my breath away. I have been the recipient of generous hospitality staying in quirky, woodsy, country, newly renovated and comfortably lived-in homes. I’ve soaked in the mineral hot tubs of Calistoga, partied with the hoi polloi of Missoula, dined with artists, watched dance performances and shared time with family. I’ve even worked a day here and there so I could add to my little stash of vacation money.

Tonight I am going to the theater to see “Wicked” with two friends. Tomorrow I’m heading to the Russian River to stay with a long-time friend for a few days. And there is still the possibility of a drive to Portland (a small money-making business venture). After all that, one week remains to see all the people I’ve yet to see and then the grand finale … a week at a beach front property back east and the chance to see my brother who I haven’t seen for 4 years. Then the arduous journey back to Fes where it will be back to work almost as soon as I arrive {sigh}.

Summertime. This year my summer has been reminiscent of childhood summers where time seems to stretch endlessly before you in June, is punctuated by the rituals of the 4th of July, and then races to an end the minute August arrives. My family always planned two weeks ‘at the shore’ at the end of August and this year I am doing much the same.

The notion of unplanned time and the feeling of unnamed adventures always surrounded summer’s arrival as a kid. And this year I have been able to capture that same feeling as I have summered here in the good old U.S. of A.

Here and There

2010-07-13T09:24:00.000-07:00

Without even noticing, I have reached the halfway point of my vacation in California. So far, the time has been spent rejuvenating and catching up with family and friends.

The contrast between here and Fes strikes me everyday. Life in Fes is full of colorful chaos and striking contrasts between interior and exterior life. Here in San Francisco, daily life is full of order and calm. In Fes I am ‘strange’, in San Francisco I am one of many and it’s easy to be anonymous. Fes is hot and dry, my city is walled-in, and I do all my own household chores. Life in my temporary dwelling here finds me chilled to the bone with daily fog yet filled with ease as the weekly housekeeping staff changes the linens on my bed, washes and irons anything I leave on the laundry room floor, cleans the bathroom (my favorite luxury) and empties the garbage which has been sorted into ‘recyclables, compost and non-recyclables’.

In Fes I work several jobs everyday. In San Francisco I have found some fill-in work that I do once in a while and at my discretion. In Fes I eat the same foods day in and day out. In San Francisco I have been enjoying foods long lost to my taste buds … salami and gruyere cheese, giant prawns, ahi tuna, smoked salmon, guacamole and fresh salsa with salty corn chips, and bacon, pork ribs and the occasional marguerita. Yummy, forbidden foods which are eaten with gratitude and relish. But here I must guard against myself and not succumb to eating processed foods or anything that isn’t organic (have you watched Food, Inc.? … if so you will appreciate what I am talking about).

Here in this lovely home in Pacific Heights I have a baby grand piano to torture and a television to watch horrifying reality shows such as ‘Jersey Housewives’ and the highly entertaining“America’s Got Talent’. Much to my surprise, I saw a belly dance duo I have shared the stage with win their way to a competition in Las Vegas. But I don’t own a TV in Fes … and I must say it is a decision that is validated every time I turn on the tube here.

I walk outside the door and stroll up one hill and down another into the Presidio where George Lucas has created a wonderful campus overlooking the Palace of Fine Arts and the San Francisco Bay. Back in Fes, the lovely gardens are all behind great walls and invitations are needed to enter the peaceful surrounds. Beautiful vistas await in Fes, too, but more often than not I must drive quite a distance to obtain the same spaciousness and often have to squint my eyes to overlook the plastic bags caught in the Agave bushes or the nooks and crannies of the terrain.

Life here vs. life there is a study in contrasts. And while I’m not saying one is better than the other I am enjoying the ability to move between the two and appreciate all the experiences on offer.

Fes to San Francisco

2010-06-08T04:43:00.000-07:00

The last days in Morocco, before heading to the States for a 3-month stay, were filled with organization and anticipation. I packed all my clothes and personal belongings into one small room to make a 4th room available for sleeping. The house looked great and it was so gratifying to see every room in the house in use and cleaned. I actually felt very proud of myself as I looked at the totality of the house and recalled all the work it has taken to get it to this stage.

The heat was on and Hassan and I spent the last few days at Hotel Reda where they have a great, natural spring swimming pool and poolside food and drink service. Hardly anyone was at the pool as it was the first day of the season and the water was sparkling clean. In the evening, a group of musicians came with dancers and played until late in the night. It was so relaxing to be by the pool and have the ability to climb the stairs up to an air-conditioned room when the sun was at its highest. It was the one and only time Hassan and I agreed on hotel accommodations. Usually he thinks my choices are too posh and I think his choices are too, well, too 'limited' for my tastes and comfort. Finally, after 3 years, we agreed on something!

On Saturday afternoon, at 5:00 we headed up to Casablanca to the airport. A friend of Hassan's accompanied us so he would have some conversation and driving help on the return trip to Fes. We arrived at the airport in good time (3 hours before the flight) and only one near-death driving experience only to find the flight was delayed an hour. Oh well, nothing to do but wait so I urged Hassan to return to Fes and the comfort of Hotel Reda where he and his friend would spend Sunday at poolside.

No problems at all with the long travel to San Francisco. Just the reality of the fact that my connections were far between and I spent as much time waiting in airports as I did actually flying to my destination. That, plus the fact that the seats are far too small and a little bit like torture and I had 30+ hours of transit time. I finally arrived in San Francisco where my friend, Mary, was waiting for me with "WELCOME HOME EVELYN" sign in hand. I cried a few brief tears of gratitude and relief that I had arrived back in my favorite place in all the world.

Bacon and toast the next morning. What a lovely smell and even more heavenly taste. Champagne at dinner. Mixed green salad. Conversation. Phone calls where I can talk as long as I like. Well wishes from friends who know I have arrived, sitting in front of the television with a box of Wheat Thins on my lap. All so comforting and familiar.

Making the Morning Rounds

2010-05-21T03:50:00.000-07:00

I opened my door this morning to go to a few local shops for breakfast items. As usual, the first thing I did was sweep the debris the street cleaners left in front of my door. This is the only place I know of where street cleaners deposit dirt at your doorstep rather than take it away. Oh well. I must say, great care seems to have been taken to ensure it is evenly distributed.

After tidying up a bit, I took the short walk to the end of my street. I greeted the egg man. Once again, he is fostering a young chicken. She struts around his shop, pecking at anything and everything on the ground. Once she’s grown and fattened up, she will inevitably become part of a tagine or couscous.

Hakima was lolling around on the ground, as she does every morning. Sometimes she is sitting upright but I gather the heat is depleting her considerable strength. Hairy legs sticking straight out, plastic bags of food and ‘God-only-knows-what’ surrounding her and eyes keeping tabs on everyone who passes, Hakima is a fixture on Derb Ben Salem. I, however, keep my distance from her ever since she tried to poke my eyes out one day when I tried to retrieve the 50 dirham note that fell out of my pocket and which she deftly snatched into her hands. We keep the peace by ignoring one another now.

I turned left onto Talaa Kbira. A lot of the shops won’t open as it is Friday. Those manning the stores were dressed in white to honor this holy day of the week. Wares were being displayed, tea was being poured, and the sounds of Koran recitations filled the air.

I continued down the road to Malika’s shop where I bought some coffee and water. We exchanged our standard greetings and money changed hands. When her father is there, it is necessary to speak very loudly as he is partially deaf and you must be very patient as he peers at each coin handed over to him and makes change. His sight is rather dim and making change takes a little bit of time.

Next, there was a stop for pastries around the corner on Derb Tariana. An old man dressed in a galabah was leaning against the counter and greeted me. I returned the greeting in Arabic. A long, one-sided conversation ensued -- in Arabic. I nodded at what I thought were the appropriate pauses in the ‘conversation’ and took my leave after buying 5 petite pain au chocolate.

I passed a friendly young Moroccan man who always says hello and tells me it’s nice to see him (he could use a little help with his pronouns). He offered me some of his deep fried donuts which he carried on a circle made from a strip of bamboo stalk. I wanted one (they are delicious) but graciously declined his generous offer.

The man who sells light bulbs greeted me, as did the simsar who lives on my street. The simsar was walking with some tourists and greeting a foreigner like me gives him extra credibility. I know this but take the friendly ‘hello’ at face value.

Back to my house. I open the door and close out the world on the streets. I have my coffee, pastries and computer to occupy me until it’s time to prepare for school. Inside, my world is clean, organized, un-peopled and calm. I look at the calendar on my refrigerator …

… in two weeks I will leave for Casablanca and from there, after a 2-day visit of the city, will board a plan to the U.S. for the summer.

I wonder … will I miss the color and the chaos? Or will I revel in the familiarity of the world I grew up in?

Colorful or Contemptible?

2010-05-17T04:56:00.000-07:00

Seems to me that the answer to this question is the key to my own peace of mind. – or lack thereof. If I can answer ‘colorful’ I am much happier and accepting. If I answer ‘contemptible’ I am in for a lot of suffering. It’s my choice. As is everything in life I suppose.

So I practice finding the color in situations that give me a start. Here are a few examples of finding the color (sometimes a light tint) in everyday occurrences.

#1 The Man With the Slashed Face

The other day I opened my door to see a man walking past with blood streaming down his face. As I unabashedly followed his progress down the street, I noticed his right ear lobe was flapping and barely hanging on to rest of his ear. Apparently, a neighbor had ‘punished him’ for some insult (or worse) to his wife.

Color it “Expedient Justice”.

The two men had a problem with each other. The aggrieved party could have pressed charges with the police and sent the aggressor to jail. But a quick knife slashing settled the score and the slashed party now has a ‘badge of courage’ in the form of new scars which some young men here seem to covet.

#2 Litter, Litter Everywhere

There is a lot of foot traffic on my street and children come and go many times a day … either for school, to run errands or play in the street. These youngsters are the major contributors to the trash that accumulates everyday. They unwrap their candy, cakes and cookies and just throw the trash on the ground. Of course there isn’t any receptacle for them to use so the wrappers end up being discarded ‘in the moment’.

Color it “Opportunity”.

Because there is trash (and more) on the streets every single day, it creates jobs which must be performed every single day. This keeps people employed and feeling useful. Also, if someday, someone wishes to educate the children about the joys of environmental friendly practices, there is a big need to be fulfilled here offering yet another job opportunity which will serve generations to come.

#3 Donkeys, Carossas, Motorcyles & Other Impediments

Walking through the medina is an exercise in navigating an obstacle course. One needs to keep an eye on the ground for open holes, animal dung and uneven pavement so as to avoid a twisted ankle or redolent footwear. And there are also the obstacles created by machinery, handmade conveyances, trains of donkeys, mules with oversized loads on their backs walking downhill, and masses of people.

Pedestrians come barreling out of a side street without looking, stop unexpectedly with you right on their heels, and aimlessly veer right and left making it impossible to pass. And then there are the herds of tourists following a guide through their tour of the medina. They take up all the space, stop without warning to take photos and generally behave with blithe ignorance of the fact that most of the people traversing the medina are trying to get some where or accomplish some task. And my all-time favorite is two women, each holding one handle of an overstuffed bag, walking side-by-side. They unerringly expand the space they occupy at the very moment when an opportunity to pass them arises, thereby making it impossible to go around them.

Color it “Developing Dexterity”

In order to get from here to there in the medina, it’s necessary to keep good “eye/foot” coordination and be ready to stop and adjust in an instant. This is excellent practice for cultivating quick thinking and even quicker action when responding to an endless array of obstacles. It also helps cultivate mental dexterity for it helps immensely to tint the situation with tolerance and patience for the flow of life before you. I like to look at the traffic in the medina like a river. The obstacles are the boulders in the river and I am the water that must meander or rush around it in order to keep flowing in the direction I want to go.

#4 Give Me …

… a dirham, a pen, a cigarette, 200 dirham. Everyday I get asked to give something. Or lend something. But I’ve learned I must be prepared to part with the requested item forever when someone asks me for a loan. It’s not that the person doesn’t intend to pay me back when they make the request. I believe they do. But often they just can’t … otherwise they wouldn’t be asking for it in the first place.

People knock on my door, grab my arm when I am passing in the street, and follow me for a short while as I am traverse the street of the medina and the new town and beg my favor for something.

Color it “Count Your Blessings”

I come from one of the wealthiest areas in my country. When I am there, I am the one without. Most people where I come from have more money and more holdings than I could ever dream of possessing. Here in Fes, I am the one who has more than most. And even though I barely have enough money to cover my own modest expenses, I do try to remember each day that I have what I need and I remind myself to be grateful.

#5 Being “Strange”

I am a stranger here. People stare and comment because I am different in look, attitude, clothing and experience. I am ‘other’ and that calls forth a host of responses; curiosity, contempt, envy, pity, interest, indifference, delight and more. It runs the gamut.

Color it “Compassion and Understanding”.

I now know what it feels like to be a stranger in a strange land. So many people in my own country have been in this position and I’ve never really understood what they deal with day in and day out. I have a newfound compassion for foreigners and expats. Also, I am now deeply aware of my own thoughts when they head in a negative direction and with this awareness I am able to work on turning those thoughts around to something beneficial to me and to my fellow human beings.

More than Homesick

2010-05-09T10:51:00.000-07:00

I miss my friends.

Two of the four friends expected last month made it to Fes, despite the air traffic mayhem following the volcanic eruption (the first one, that is). I was so lucky half the party made it and their visit was a needed tonic.

But then again, their visit highlighted something missing in my life ... good friends with whom I share some history. Ever since they left I have been full of wishes to return home to California. I struggle every day with my dissatisfaction about my life here and have to work hard to acknowledge the good things about my life in Morocco.

But there are, indeed, lots of pleasures that fill my day. Many of them are very small moments, but that doesn't mean they aren't full of meaning and good medicine.

The sticky kisses bestowed upon me by the neighborhood children and the ritual of greetings from each and every person I encounter as I walk through the streets let me know I am alive and acknowledged. And the offerings of a prayer on my behalf, the small treats from the shops that I frequent, and the invitations to tea remind me that Fes won't leave me alone. And for me, a person who can be rather reclusive and introspective, that's often a good thing for it forces me to interact and cross a cultural divide that is all too easy judge.

And then there are the big things that jar my sensibilities and continually knock me off balance. Like the recent debacle with the tourist police (who, by the way, refused to let my husband take my friend's niece through the medina the following week even though we registered her presence in our home with the police upon her arrival). And petty thievery from people I know, the unending absence of job opportunities for my husband, and, and, and.

And while I miss the comraderie of my longtime friends and I miss my country, I am willing to acknowledge that it's the new and the challenging experiences in life that afford me with the best opportunities for personal and spiritual growth.

But I can't help but wonder ... have I grown enough? Can I go home now?

Not Your Typical Tour

2010-04-25T02:05:00.000-07:00

A couple of my good friends made it to Fes after 3½ years of following the ups and downs of my life on this blog and listening to my stories during the two visits I’ve managed to make back to California. Despite the volcano and with great determination, they managed to get across the U.S. and arrive in Fes a mere 12 hours after their planned arrival time. Their plane was diverted to Marrakech on the final leg of their journey and they were boarded onto a bus for a 9-hour drive to Fes. But they made it and, oh boy, was I glad to see them!

About halfway through their visit to Fes, it was necessary for me to spend some time on my work and prepare for the upcoming week of classes at school. I had papers to grade and lessons to plan. So my husband agreed to walk with them through the medina and show them the city he is so proud of while I stayed at Café Clock to read my students’ writing and grade their quizzes from the previous week.

An hour into my work I received a phone call from one of my visitors … “Evelyn, we’re at the police station and we need to you come with your marriage papers.” I rushed home, grabbed my marriage act and implored one of the workers at the cafe to take me to the police station, for it was deep in the bowels of the medina and I had no idea how to get there. I arrived about 15 minutes after I had received the phone call only to find my friends shunted off into a corner of the room and my husband behind the partitioned counter with several policemen around him. I waved my marriage act around and tried to ascertain what I needed to do to get my husband released.

I was told by the head honcho at the station that the arrest had been ordered by the Chief of Police and only he could rescind the order. I was told I must go to the main police station in the Ville Nouvelle to speak to the Chief. My husband was trying to downplay the whole thing for the sake of our visitors, but he implored me to go as quickly as I could.

It was important for me to take my friends with me so they could attest to the fact that they are family members and not some random tourists that my husband decided to squire around the medina to shop. Alas, they did not have their passports on them so it was necessary for them to return to my house before proceeding to the main Police Station.

Feeling a great sense of urgency to get to this Chief of Police, I instructed my sisters to follow the guy who had brought me to the police station back to my house where they should pick up their passports and get in a taxi. I would meet up with them at the main police station. Understand that the young Moroccan man they were following was now at great risk of being arrested by the police for being a faux guide … but he didn’t hesitate to help.

All this time I was in full adrenaline mode and charging up the steep incline of the medina. With each step I was leaving them further behind. My mind was racing, trying to figure out how I would communicate with the officials at the main police station. I was nearly at the top of the medina when I saw a former student of mine standing against a wall. I beckoned to him and asked if he had a half hour to spare so he could help me. He readily agreed and stayed with me through our travails for the next three hours! He, too, was putting himself at risk but did nothing more than call his mother to ask her to check in with him periodically to make sure he wasn’t arrested as he acted as my interpreter.

When I arrived at the police station and I was dripping wet from the heat of the day and the charge up the medina. We went to the main door, were directed to a side door, and then directed to yet another entrance. Inside there was no evidence of the Chief. In fact, after a phone call was made, we were told to return to where we had come from for the Chief was actually still in the medina.

I met up with my friends as I was leaving and we ordered two taxis to take us back. Of course when we arrived, my husband was now gone for the police had taken advantage of our absence and had processed him through the system (of course). We were told he was now in jail in Batha where he would remain until a judge saw him the following morning.

The four of us jumped in a gypsy taxi (petit taxis can only take 3 people) and drove off to Batha. Once there, the guards outside were not about to let us enter. But we persevered and eventually got to see the superintendent of the jail. He kindly and calmly listened to our story and made every attempt to help. But it was all to no avail. My husband was in jail for the night for it was too late in the process to go back. I had been duped from the very start and shouldn’t have left the medina police station in the first place.

Feeling defeated and embarrassed and powerless, I made arrangements with my interpreter to buy food, water and cigarettes for my husband as he waited out the night with 30 other’s incarcerated in a small, dirty, foul-smelling room. As I was handing money to my student to make these purchases, a passing undercover policeman saw us and stopped to question my good-intentioned helper. It turned out this was one of the policemen who had just arrested my husband. A few words of explanation satisfied him that another arrest was not warranted and my student was permitted to make the purchases and reward the guards for passing the goods onto my husband.

Word about the arrest quickly spread throughout the neighborhood and throughout the afternoon and evening, many deliveries of warm clothes, food and drink were passed through the guards’ hands and handed over to my husband to help him get through the night. The following morning he was released after paying 1,000 DH and being told the next time they arrested him he would spend a month in jail and the arrest would go on his record.

I am reluctant to go into details about what happened next, but in the end it was eminently clear to me that my husband’s arrest was a foregone conclusion. The Chief of Police disavowed all knowledge of the reason for the arrest, as did the arresting officers. Some believe a jealous Guide put in a phone call to arrange the arrest. Others say it was so-and-so who had been laying in wait for the past three years for my husband to make a misstep. But it’s very clear to me that someone, somewhere, decided it was time to put him in his place and there was no way to stop what happened.

Of course, if I had been with them, nothing would have happened. If we had gone to the main police station and officially registered my visitors (heretofore, I never knew about this procedure), nothing would have happened. If we had hired an official guide my husband could have accompanied them and nothing would have happened.

Could of, would of, should of!

And now that my friends are gone and my husband is free, I am left with the thought that this incident was an enlightening example of the realities of life here. It actually served to give my family (and yours truly) an incredible insight into how things work. And following the arrest, you wouldn’t believe how kind and supportive everyone was and how concerned they were to leave my visitors with a good impression of their country. Everyone pulled out the stops to show their renowned hospitality and generosity. Of course I also got more than my fill of conflicting advice about what I should have done which I patiently listened to and will selectively heed.

But all is well that ends well and I am content to let all the experiences and impressions sit with my visitors for the next 6 weeks so they can process them and give me the benefit of their insights into the life I have created here. I am looking forward to having a thoughtful discussion with them about my own future in Fes when I arrive in California for the summer.

Being Philosophical

2010-04-17T12:56:00.000-07:00

Before the eruption of the volcano in Iceland (I’m not even trying to remember its name, yet alone how to pronounce it) there was a plan in place for four lovely friends from San Francisco to converge at my home for a weeklong visit in Fes. We haven’t seen each other for two years. They were coming from points in America and Europe and were expected to have been happily ensconced in my house by mid-afternoon. After I arrived home from school (around 6:30) I had planned to take them to an art exhibit in a Batha riad.

But, disappointedly, it’s nearly 8:00 and I am sitting at home without any visitors. And I can forget about the art exhibit because I am on standby mode and must let time metamorphasize.

One friend never made it out of San Francisco. Another is stuck in Italy until Tuesday (that leaves 3 or 4 days to visit). The last I heard (via a Blackberry email this morning) the remaining 2 were on their way from Barcelona, even though 75% of the flights had been cancelled. I had sent a driver to pick them up at their scheduled arrival time at midday, but received a call at 1:30 that the first flight was cancelled (I already knew this) and the second flight was in reportedly in Marrakech; its arrival time was unannounced. I haven’t heard anything since and am wondering where my friends are.

As much as I wanted to see all my friends, it’s surprisingly difficult to get too worked up about the situation. After all, as disappointing and frustrating as it is, there are so many bigger problems caused by this volcanic eruption. I just can’t help but see the irony that it’s all happening around Earth Day and I can’t help feeling that I am bearing witness to something so much bigger than me and my little life here on this planet.

Yes, I dearly want to see my friends. And yes, I am saddened that they aren’t here right now -- and some cannot come at all. And yet, I am in awe of the force of nature and know I will find more peace if I just submit to her power and accept what comes.

Cafe Clock

2010-04-14T00:37:00.000-07:00

I often say that if it weren’t for Café Clock, I wouldn’t still be here in Fes. It’s no secret that I’ve had a great deal of difficulty here and yesterday was one of those days when I would have given anything to just pack up and leave. I was fed up. Again!

As so often happens when I have a meltdown, I still had to pull myself together and go out into the world to work. I guess that’s because I work everyday … either teaching, or giving dance lessons, or doing writing assignments or working on some project related to the house.

I did my best to put on a composed face and went to The Clock for an appointment to interview someone for their blog (I write most of the articles on www.cafeclock.com). I sat down at a table, plugged in my computer and ordered a coffee. But I wasn’t able to hold my composure and I felt the tears coming on. Luckily, this was before my appointment arrived and in an unobserved moment with Max, Café Clock’s head domo. Max was full of warmth and compassion and gave me the strength to carry on.

Support comes in such a variety of forms from the people who work there and from my fellow expats who frequent the café. The café owner, Mike Richardson, is always giving me interesting projects to do or distracting me with his endless energy and head full of plans for a new project. Often, we work out a trade for food. This is wonderful for me because I don’t cook. I know how to cook; I just don’t do it. It’s not one of my talents nor is it one of my interests. So this plan works out great for me. Especially since the café is only a block from my house.

When I’m feeling lonely on a Sunday evening, there is always a concert to attend. The same goes for Wednesday evenings where a jam session is always underway. Inevitably I go alone to these events but also sooner or later someone I know comes in and keeps me company or greets me with warmth that fills a hole in my heart.

When I need a ladder or extra seating for guests or glasses for a gathering, Café Clock is there to help. They send me belly dance students and introduce me to interesting people who I get to interview for the blog. I get free wifi and effusive greetings upon my arrival and all manner of love and support every time I go there. Souad, who works in the kitchen, calls me “the flower of Café Clock”. A great photographer willingly photographs my house for nothing; people ask for my advice and offer some in return. Contacts are made, friendships are formed and English is widely spoken. And all this is just a few steps from my doorway and away from the curious eyes and the wagging tongues that are always present in Fes. Café Clock is truly an oasis for me and a tonic that never fails to soothe me.

Living in a culture that’s so different from the one I grew up in is an endless lesson for me. I must confess I sometimes feel like I am punishing myself with the hardships that I naively arranged for myself and with my inability to find balance when the cultural differences are so extreme. But in my more lucid moments I realize I am becoming a better person for unearthing the differences, looking them straight in the eye and being willing to bear witness to my own prejudices (which I previously thought were nonexistent) and I always make a conscious attempt to dispel the negative thoughts. And Hamduliallah I have a place to go where I feel welcome and supported and appreciated as I struggle with myself to broaden my perspectives and self-correct.

The Monthly Marjane Shopping Trip

2010-04-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

Once a month I go to a superstore here called Marjane where I load up on cleaning supplies, paper products, beauty products and some foodstuff. Occasionally I purchase something I’ve been wanting for a while … like a vacuum cleaner or a chauffage to heat the house. I also routinely buy myself a treat like any cheese that isn’t “La Vache Qui Rit” and crackers, or a medium-sized bag of peanut M&M’s (which never seem to remain unopened during the taxi ride home).

I always try to go when the store isn’t crowded because I don’t really like to shop at superstores and I prefer to get in and out as quickly as I can.

But that’s not always possible.

One deterrent to my swift shopping is the products themselves. I rarely recognize a brand name and rarely purchase brands I know because they cost a lot more. So I find myself peering at labels in French and Arabic trying to sort out if it’s the product I need. I look at the pictures and try to recognize some words. Cleaning products pose the biggest challenge.

Another deterrent is the store is constantly changing the layout. Paper napkins used to be in the front isles but now all paper products are in the back along with other household goods. Summer patio furniture now occupies the space previously devoted to kitchen utensils.

The merchandise is haphazardly priced and even then you can’t trust that the price on the product is what you will be charged at the register. And woe to the shopper who picks up a product without a bar code. Try to purchase it at the register and you’re in for a lengthy wait while someone ambles over to the register, looks quizzically at the product, then saunters off to search for its location. If you are extremely lucky, they will find another with the required sticker. More often than not you are told the product can't be located and it’s impossible for you to purchase it today. Then the cashier sets it aside.

I don't like hypermarches.

Some people like to ‘shop’ at Marjane and fill their cart to the brim with anything and everything that catches their fancy. Then they just walk away, leaving the full cart in the middle of an aisle, creating a kind of obstacle course for those actually intending to purchase the contents of their shopping cart. This seems to be a kind of leisure activity.

And while there are plenty of employees wandering around stocking shelves and arranging displays, and putting things back from overfilled and abandoned shopping carts, they aren’t very useful if I have a question about a product. To begin with, I can’t communicate with them as I can only speak a few words and phrases in Arabic -- and my French is not much better. When I do manage to get my point across, the employee generally tells me to buy what I am asking about -- or not.

After getting through all this and filling my plastic bags with my purchases, there is still the challenge of finding a taxi and schlepping the twenty-some-odd bags to my door. Of course I could always hire a carossa to wheel my purchases home when I emerge from the taxi at Bab Boujloud, but there never seems to be one handy. So I distribute the weight of the bags as evenly as possible and race down the derb before the circulation to my hands is cut off.

Once home, I survey my purchases. Invariably I have spent 1,000 DH. I see before me a relatively small display of products for the cash outlay … mostly over-packaged, brand name knock-offs and some cheaply made products from China.

I am relieved that my monthly shopping foray is over as I put everything in its proper place and sit down to finish the bag of M&M’s.

Work, Work, Work

2010-03-23T02:12:00.000-07:00

When I was living in San Francisco, it was becoming increasingly difficult to find work. During my last couple of years there, I came to grips with the fact that I was just getting too old to be hired by others. So, I planned and started my own business. But it was tough going and I didn’t have enough capital to maintain it after a year. Of course, locating my shop in a flood zone and getting hit with 4 feet of flood water the very first week I moved in didn’t help matters.

But here in Fes, employment opportunities are a different matter and my age seems to be a plus rather than a detriment.

At any given time I seem to have 4 jobs going. There is my full-time ESL teaching job and there is the job of restoring my house. Of course the latter doesn’t pay yet, but one day, Insha’Allah, I will be in a position to rent it out to visitors. Then there are my belly dance classes. These are sporadic but fun to do. I have the idea to teach some young Moroccan women some Egyptian dance technique along with a choreography or two which they can then perform for hire at riads. I have two young ladies who have expressed interest and I hope to put a show together with them. The idea is to act as their ‘booking agent’ and reimburse myself for the investment of time and energy as the jobs come in. I have also taken on the job of editor for Café Clock Online. I write 1-2 articles a day about the personalities that come and go through this popular eatery.

Occasionally, I coach Moroccans who are seeking a visa to the U.S. and are about to have their interview at the American Consulate. I help them to formulate and articulate their answers to the questions they will be asked. I’ve only done this twice but I’m batting 1,000. Both applicants got their visas! I’ve done marketing communication projects, written an operations manual for a new business and, like most women, I am the unpaid housekeeper who makes the beds, washes the dishes and cleans the house from top to bottom.

I find it very odd to have so much work available to me while most Moroccans I know are struggling to find one job. But then again, I have a great deal of work experience and life experience that I bring with me and it’s gratifying to find a market for my skills. I work very hard and get up early each day to support myself, my husband, my house and the car. Sometimes I get weary, but I always remind myself I’d rather be tired from working then bored and listless from having no sense of purpose.

I feel valued for my experience and skills. Something I was losing in the U.S. And while I barely make ends meet --- even with all the work I do, I am not in debt and I live within my means. I am wearing the same clothes I’ve worn for years and washing those clothes by hand but I do know where my next paycheck is coming from and I never go hungry.

Little by little, I am creating a fantastic home and preserving the traditional style that makes it so impressive. I am teaching the next generation of Moroccans to speak English and improve their chances of finding gainful employment. I’m teaching others how to express themselves through Arabic dance. And, I am finding a wider audience to speak about the draw of Fes as I write for yet another blog.

I never imagined I would find such a venue for the potpourri of skills I have gathered throughout my lifetime. I’ve walked through the looking glass and found another world.

Pretty Woman

2010-03-22T03:48:00.001-07:00

There is a fine-boned, delicate woman who lives and works in the Medina. She was born here and seems to float through the streets with a calm that I rarely see in the chaos of old Fes. She always addresses me as ‘madame’ and formally greets me each time we meet.

I was sitting atop the Cascade hotel the other night, enjoying the temperate air and the sounds of people coming and going below, when she materialized. She slowly made her way to the far corner where I was sitting with two others and sat down beside us. Her voice was high and clear as she greeted everyone. Her ‘r’s’ rolled endlessly off her tongue, making me smile inside at the sheer musicality of her words. After some time had passed, the two men sitting with us left on an errand and we found ourselves alone. With no one to interpret for us, we resorted to the little bit of French we both knew to continue our conversation.

I found out she is 45 years old and lost her parents at a young age. As beautiful as she is, I was shocked to learn she was much younger than I had thought she was -- for her bearing is that of someone in her 60’s. She moves slowly and has a weariness about her that belies her age. I think to myself that she must be ill.

Ever so deliberately, this elegant woman opened her handbag and sorted through several layers to extract a cigarette. This surprised me, too, as few Moroccan women her age smoke. She asked me why I had come to Fes. Through gestures, some French and a little bit of Arabic I explained that Fes offered me work, a home and a husband … things I wasn’t able to have back home. I told her Fes kept offering me things and I just kept saying ‘yes’ until I found myself settled in. “Marhabah, Saida,” she said. “Welcome”. She seemed to like my explanation.

Another cigarette was taken in hand and she offered one to me. More of her story came out and I learned she lived with her sister and her nephews in a house that was far from calm. She has no husband or children. She counted all the places she had travelled in Morocco on her fingers and ended by saying Fes was where she preferred to be. “Fes?” I asked. “Fes is far from tranquil … why Fes?” Her answer was lost on me but I gathered it’s because this is the place that is most familiar to her.

Taking my leave I later learned a little bit more about her story. She was quite a beauty in her youth and many a young Moroccan man sought her favor. She lived the high life and it seems now she is paying the price for her youthful follies. In any event, that’s how the story was relayed to me. To me, she is unearthly and I now have this fixed image of her in my mind, floating through the dark recesses of the medina, wistfully carrying her past around with her.

A British Author, A Ukrainian Belly Dancer, and an Aspiring Accordian Player

2010-03-16T11:36:00.000-07:00

I had a much needed day off yesterday after 6 straight days of teaching, reviewing the semester’s teachings, invigilating exams and then marking exams into the wee hours of the night. It was tough to get up that morning, but by noon I succeeded in feeling semi-human.

Off to Café Clock where I was scheduled to interview an author passing through Fes who was collecting ‘stories’ for a book he is writing. I don’t know if it was my foggy mind or the effect of the warm sun on the terrace that prevented me from fully comprehending the nature of his book, but I never did quite grasp the concept. Oh well. It was a pleasant enough start to the day as the gears of my mind started mesh and we shared a convivial cup of café crème. I figured I would be able to fashion some words later that would catch the essence of what he is doing here.

Later that day I was scheduled to conduct another interview (I am now writing for Café Clock’s blog). This time it was going to be much easier because the subject was an international belly dancer who is here in Fes for a month. I am no stranger to belly dance and I was looking forward to meeting Nadia. I arrived at the house where she was staying in Batha. I had Omar in tow to take some photographs. Little did we know what awaited us.

After knocking at the wrong door, we finally gained entrance into the proper place. Behind the kitchen doors sat a visitor from Zimbabwe, our Ukrainian dancer, a Jordanian chef and our Irish host and her daughter. The atmosphere was charged with laughter and the conversation was filled with the melody of English spoken in a variety of accents. It’s always interesting to me that people think I have an indefinable accent and so I wasn’t surprised when they asked me “What is your accent?” After being asked this question so many times I’ve finally pinpointed the answer and was able to readily reply. “It’s articulated English.”

Omar and I sat down at the table and greeted everyone. We wanted to photograph Nadia straight away as the light was quickly fading. Alas, she had not brought any costumes with her but that was okay. Nadia was quickly taken to an appropriate backdrop for her photo session and returned to the kitchen where our new-found Jordanian friend was preparing crevettes in a garlic and curry sauce for dinner. The smell was divine and the taste was sublime.

Before long, stories were being exchanged and several enactments followed. There was a brief rendition of Irish song, followed by some high-stepping Irish dance. We were also treated to an example of traditional Ukrainian dance and a tantalizing glimpse of Arabic dance from Nadia. Ali, the Jordanian, extolled the virtues of his country and Philomena revealed the fact that she would soon be reunited with her accordion which she fully intended to finally learn how to play it. Believe it or not I was able to tell her an accomplished accordion player is currently teaching with me --- someone who also plays Irish tunes. Omar gave insights into Moroccan culture and mentality to those recounting stories of encounters that left them puzzled while the visitor from Zimbabwe played host, replenishing glasses and serving second helpings from the crevette stew.

Later, as Omar escorted me across the Medina to my own home, we shook our heads in wonder at the gathering we had just left behind. Fes certainly is a magnet for unique personalities and our evening of ‘work’ had served to underscore the phenomenon. Of course we both realized that we, too, are unique personalities, and consensually agreed to keep accepting projects like the one that led us to Batha that evening.

Good Luck People

2010-03-12T01:27:00.000-08:00

I’m told certain people are ‘good luck’. These people are said to possess a special ability to attract good fortune to others. In order to avail yourself of some of their luck, it’s vital that you be in their presence and in their good graces.

One such good luck person is also the laziest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know which started first; the laziness or the good luck. But he’s universally regarded as good luck, so he only has to sit in the cafes, day after day, waiting for someone to buy his coffee, give him something to smoke, or take him along on an errand or an adventure which someone inevitably does. His lack of interest in work is entirely excusable because just to have him in your presence means something good will happen to you. Therefore, it’s good to have him available, 24/7.

I think it’s a great gig if you can get it.

And I, too, have been told I bring good luck. My house has been dubbed ‘good luck’ as well. I certainly prefer to be the harbinger of good luck rather than bad, but I am not clear on one’s responsibility as the bearer of good fortune or what demeanor should be adopted. In fact, I’d love to receive the message that I should quit my job, stop doing the housework and make myself available to dispense good luck to those who need a little boost from the unseen realms. But alas, I have yet to embrace the idea that I bring good luck and am more interesting in receiving it than bestowing it. Perhaps that’s the problem.

Maybe tomorrow I will hand in my resignation and begin embrace the role of good luck provider. It’s a tempting thought.

Ups and Downs

2010-03-06T01:29:00.000-08:00

Some days are a roller coaster ride of emotions.

Take yesterday. So many heartwarming things happened ... mostly small little things but together they seem to sustain me when homesickness visits once again or culture shock sets in. You'd think, after three years here, culture shock wouldn't pay a visit anymore, but it does. Surprisingly, I'm sometimes shocked by the behavior of visiting Westerners more than Moroccans.

Among the positive experiences yesterday were the enthusiastic greetings and kisses from the neighborhood children I encountered on the street. There was the timely offer of a ride to the taxi stand as a colleague saw me walking down a dark street after school, closely followed by an unsavory looking character. At my favorite cafe, the chef inquired if I'd like some french fries added to my dinner order, as a little extra sustenance after a long day. And kind words and supportive strokes from other foreigners who told me I am beautiful and a look at my face always brightened their day. And my students who always respond so warmly to a single word of encouragement or a simple acknowledgement of their efforts.

On the flip side there were arguments. An argument with my husband and an argument with a guest. This is how I ended my day. In point of fact, I hate contentious confrontations but they seem to be totally acceptable here. Anger flares up and quickly subsides. I've got the flare up part down pat. It's the subsiding of the anger that I need to work on. I often feel like a tea kettle that's with boiling water inside that simply must be released to avoid an explosion of the kettle. I am the kettle and the anger is the boiling water. Like vaporized water my tears inevitably appear when things heat up and I am later filled with remorse for my inability to hold my temper.

But displays of temper are everywhere and I seem to have assimilated this behavior. Couldn't I have picked something else to emulate?

Ah well. Today is another day. Either I must learn to ride the rails with all the ensuing emotions or get out of the car altogether.

The Annual Paper Chase

2010-03-03T22:10:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again. Time to fill all the paperwork needed for my new work contract. Every year the documents I am required to provide change. One year I need the papers for my house and a copy of my marriage act. The next year, those documents are not required but I must provide a copy of my college diploma and teaching certifications along with translations in Arabic. Now I'm sure I provided these papers the first year but this year they are now requested again. There are forms which must be filled out in triplicate -- I can't copy the original but must laboriously complete the same form with the same information --three times for one set of papers and five times for another. Oh yeah, and it's all in French which I barely comprehend.

These documents are next sent to Rabat and Casablanca for review and approval. Approval that comes in the form of a stamp and a scribbled signature. This can take up to 2 months if the authorizing individual happens to have scheduled a vacation that coincides with the arrival of my paperwork for it seems there is only 1 person who can approve the contract. Once this is done, I have one of the precious documents necessary to renew my work visa.

Now the fun really begins because a completely different set of forms, along with this new work contract, need to be provided to the police in order to renew my visa. Nine passport photos must be provided and money must be paid for a stamp which will ultimately find it's way onto the visa/identity card.

But before I can present these forms to the police, a trip to the Beledia is necessary to notorize a copy of appropriate pages in my passport and some other official papers -- exactly what they are escapes me now. I seem to block out the memory each year because it ends up taking a month or more to chase down the paper (this is after the two months needed to get the work contract) and fulfill all the requirements for copies, stamps, notarizations, etc.

But that's not the best part. The best part is the trip to the police station where I must present all these papers which took months and months to gather to officials who don't exactly find their work fulfilling. Perhaps its because they are forced to work with ancient manual typewriters with carbon paper behind desks piled precariously high with folders and paperwork from seemingly thousands of others just like me. Every day the line of visa applicants stretches around the corner and these officers are behind schedule before their workday even begins. Day after day after day.

I consider myself incredibly fortunate if, by some miracle, I'm not sent away to gather some other obscure document or trade the stamp I purchased for one in a different color or make additional photocopies. Any business with these officials must be conducted in Arabic or French and woe to the foreigner who tries to speak English. But once all the hoops have been jumped through, I only have to wait another two months to get my new visa. Once my new visa arrives 5 months have passed since the whole process began which means that by the time I get my new annual visa I only have 7 months left before it expires again and need at least 2 of those 7 months to collect the paperwork all over again.

Thank God I am eligible to apply for a 10 year visa this year.

The Case of the Missing Underwear

2010-03-01T15:32:00.000-08:00

While enjoying a relaxing cup of coffee at Café Clock the other day, a recent posting on Trip Advisor was pointed out to me by an acquaintance. A local riad was panned for what seemed like an unbelievable situation. The guest reported that someone got access to his room, rummaged through the suitcases, and stole his girlfriend’s used underwear.

We were shaking our heads at the ludicrous situation when a Moroccan friend volunteered that the underwear was probably used for magic. We were further told that used underwear was one of the ingredients (if you will) used in a spell in which someone wishes to separate a man and a woman. The other ingredients include her maiden name and some of her hair.

Really?

Yes, we were assured. These items and information would be then taken to a woman who performs black magic and the woman and the man would then be separated.

“Then it must have been a woman who entered their room and took the underwear. She wanted the man for herself,” I said.

“Or it could have been a man who wanted the woman”, pointed out my friend.

Either way, I felt sorry for the owner of the riad and sorrier still for the person who took the underwear.

Deflection

2010-02-26T14:21:00.000-08:00

Among my Moroccan acquaintances, I have observed masters at the art of deflection …especially when it comes to arguing. And if the person doing the deflecting happens to feel he or she is wrong, their artful ways increase to a truly awesome level.

For example, recently, the children of a neighbor were caught red-handed taking things off my terrace. When the mother came to apologize, she asked to speak to my husband. Eventually he went to her house and an argument ensued. Despite being 100% in the wrong, she turned the ‘discussion’ into my husband having said a bad word. And while I can only imagine the exchange, for I wasn’t there, it’s typical of how arguments go here. Accuse someone of doing wrong and if you are correct in your accusations, expect to be accused of something yourself. Or, failing that, the conversation is going to go ‘round and ‘round in circles in the hope that the original point will soon be forgotten or a different grievance will take its place. A grievance in which your adversary becomes the wronged party. It’s quite an art. One must be diligent in holding on to the original point and must resist the temptation to engage in an all together different argument to make any headway.

The keynote here is the best defense is a good offense, although often the offense argument is completely off the subject. But that doesn’t matter. The point is to get the wronged party tangled and twisted up in a different scenario as quickly as possible. If you are not aware of this tactic, you can naively start to defend yourself or begin to argue an altogether different point and find yourself in a shouting match about something completely off the original subject. And eventually, you might find yourself doing or saying something that justifies their feigned indignation. Then you are wrong. Masterful!

Indeed, arguing or creating a scene seems to be a kind of entertainment here. Life in the Medina can take on a sultry routine and to shake things up a bit there is nothing like a good, public rant or argument to spice up the day. You can choose to be an impartial observer, or you can rush to the aid of one party and thereby put yourself in the thick of things, or you can wait and see how things proceed, then choose sides and create a whole new fracas if you wish.

Returning home last night I was walking down Talaa Kbira when shouting suddenly began. I looked back up the street to see a very large man take off his shirt, start swinging it around and shouting at the top of his lungs and flailing his arms wildly. It took about 2 seconds for a very large crowd to gather. Some ran to either calm down the perpetrator or egg him on. Probably the latter as things had been pretty quiet. In true Moroccan fashion I stopped to gawk at the fray. A tide of people continued to rush past me to get a ringside view of the proceedings. Of course nothing came of it. It stopped almost as quickly as it began. It was just a fleeting moment of homespun diversion from everyday life.

What makes it all so tolerable is that one minute you witness tempers rising and you think a lifelong enemy has been made. Then, in a very short time, everything is forgotten and the person you were arguing with is your best friend again.

First Runner Up!

2010-02-23T07:37:00.000-08:00

No prize or coveted badge to display on my blog announcing that Evelyn in Morocco is Morocco's Best Blog of 2010. No, that honor goes to others. Best Overall Blog deservedly went to The View From Fes. To tell the truth, I was just thrilled to be in the running. I never thought I could come close to their votes but did, at one point, take the lead with less than 12 hours to go in the contest. I only missed winning the Best Personal Blog category by one vote! That's due to lots and lots of soliciting for votes in the eleventh hour and incredible response from family, friends, colleagues, local Moroccans and my students. Everyone put out the word for me and I picked up quite a few new readers.

Special thanks goes to Vago for organizing the contest on Morocco Blogs. What a great service he did for the blogging community here in terms of raising awarenss about the blogs and generating interest. Well done Vago! And I can't forget all the sponsors who put up great prizes to sweeten the pie.

I gotta tell you, it was great fun to give the other contestants a run for their money. Sorry I didn't win the prizes or the badge to display on my blog, but I did win in a big way ... great support, new found interest in my blog and an exciting evening of watching the numbers go crazy as voting heated up.

Congratulations to all the winners. It was a great contest.

Trespassers

2010-02-22T04:45:00.000-08:00

Came home yesterday afternoon to the sound of voices up on my terrace. I quietly climbed the stairs to the rooftop and opened the door. The sound of the door opening announced my arrival and in the far corner of the terrace perched a young girl, straddling the corner of the wall between my terrace and two other houses. Her face registered complete alarm when our eyes met. Poof! She fell backwards – not onto her own terrace, but our mutual neighbor’s terrace. I gather she got a good thump as she fell because an indignant wail followed her abrupt descent.

I rushed to the corner to check on her only to discover another girl cowering in the corner that was outside my view when I emerged from the stairwell. She made a dash for the corner to hop over the wall. “LA!” I shouted -- for I could see what was coming. She used an antique olive oil jar to propel her over the wall and it crashed and broke under her weight. I unleashed the full power of my fury on her. My terrace had been stripped of all personal belongings … a table, a tea kettle, ashtrays, clothes pins … and now a prized belonging had been shattered. Big problem. Thank goodness I didn’t have laundry hanging out to dry for no doubt that, too, would have made its way off the terrace.

Who knows where the first girl went. She probably ran to save herself while her friend or sister was trapped with the angry “foreigner” on the terrace where they had no doubt been trespassing all day long. A glance to my right let me see where they had transferred my things onto their own terrace.

I made a grab for the girl. She cowered and cringed as if I were going to strike her. She cried and simpered as her eyes looked wildly around for an escape.

I let her go with a torrent of angry words. What could I do? I was suddenly filled with memories of bad decisions I made when I was a young girl. Fortunately for me, I always got caught and therefore learned some lessons the hard way about what's right and what's wrong.

Eventually, some adults emerged onto the rooftop to find out what all the commotion was about. My belongings were handed over to me, one by one.

Later that evening, the mother of the two young girls came to my door to apologize. “No problem” I told her. “Just teach your girls a lesson and don’t let it happen again.” I had no desire to make trouble but I was hoping the girls would learn not to repeat their mistake.

Nevertheless, today I am making plans to build a higher wall.

Best Blog????

2010-02-21T03:26:00.000-08:00

Last night, my friend Jess and I got together for some food and a long visit. She spent the night at my house. After midnight, we logged on to Morocco Blogs to see how we were both doing in the voting for Best Blog in Morocco. One by one we checked the results. BEST PERSONAL blog was first. I was in the lead! Then we checked her blog status under BEST CULTURE blog. She had taken the lead, too. We whopped and hollared and gave each other the high five. Finally, BEST OVERALL. I never thought I had a chance in this category as The View from Fes was always way ahead of me. But there I was -- Evelyn in Morocco was in the lead for the first time. We jumped up and down and laughed and laughed and laughed some more.

Alas, this morning we'd both lost our leads. In all three categories!

What a horse race ladies and gentlemen. Now there is only one half hour left.

But you know what? I feel like I've won because my colleagues, my friends, my regular readers of this post and especially my students have been so supportive of me and my blog. Because of this contest, more and more people who I live and work with have taken the time to read my blog and have encouraged me to continue to write. Now that's a prize. In fact, it's a priceless prize and I am grateful.

Thanks, too, to Vago ... the brainchild behind Morocco Blogs and the contest.

This morning I am a happy camper.

May the best blogs win!!!

A Blustery Night

2010-02-19T02:29:00.000-08:00

WOW! What winds we had last night! Things were bumping and thumping in the night and there was a pelting rain. I’ve never before experienced such high winds here. The plastic covering the halka rattled and flapped itself into tatters. Pottery blew over and crashed onto the terrace. Eventually it stopped and sleep was possible. I’ve yet to go up and look at the damage on the terrace but I’m sure a big sack will be needed to collect the debris. This I must do or it will plug up the drain and water will come cascading down the stairs again with no where else to go.

The drain on the terrace was not operating earlier this week due to a cat. Yes, a cat. They roam the rooftops here and use the terrace floors as a litter box. When I came home one evening I saw water had come down the stairs and was even dripping through the underneath of the stairs. When I opened the terrace door I saw the floor was covered in 2 inches of water because the drain was plugged up. I reached into the drain (in the dark) and came up with a handful of cat droppings. UGH! I flung the offending droppings into the night and eventually the water drained off the rooftop. Ah the joys of home ownership.

Today, it’s cold and rainy but the wind has died down. It’s Friday (again) and the sounds on the street confirm what day it is. More children are running around because they only have a half day of school and the promise of a couscous lunch is wafting through the air. Pressure cookers are whistling and rattling the lids on the pots. A glance outside my kitchen window reveals men in their Friday galabahs and crocheted caps. Young men I know to be real rascals look so pious and innocent on Fridays. Perhaps today is the day they will turn over a new leaf. Friday is the perfect day to re-dedicate oneself to goodness and healthy discipline. I should try it.

As I make myself a second cup of coffee, I glance out the window and see a couple rays of sunshine. It’s my busy day at school and I have papers to grade and worksheets and activities to prepare. I’ll get to work soon, but not before I stare at the walls for a bit and listen to the birds chirp their greetings to this new day. Maybe I’ll wear my galabah to school today.

The Same Old Same Old

2010-02-15T04:01:00.000-08:00

Time and time again, I am struck by the ‘sameness’ of everyday life here in the Medina. I think it might be the reason the culture has been so well preserved in this microcosm.

Everyday, I observe people following their routines. Shopkeepers display their wares in the same place everyday… patiently putting everything out in the morning and taking it back inside every evening. Restaurant menus do not alter. Fridays are for couscous. Bisarah is for breakfast. Every Ramadan, you’ll find dozens of shops springing up with mounds of the same honey pastries. One’s best kaftans and galabahs are brought out for fests. There is quite a variety of music but one hears the same songs over and over so everyone knows the words and can sing along. Even I know some of the refrains now. Religious holidays are celebrated in exactly the same way each time they come ‘round. Taxis go on strike twice a year. People pour into the Medina at 5:30 every evening for their daily constitutional. The routines are endlessly repeated and passed on to the next generation.

I recall watching a documentary on the Dalai Lama. He has been trying to preserve the Tibetan culture after the Chinese have done their best to eradicate it. His solution is to encourage the celebration of festivals where the people can sing and dance and prepare traditional food. This, he says, is the way to help preserve their culture and keep it from being absorbed until it’s no longer recognizable or distinctive.

Well, here in the Medina, the Moroccans are doing just that – every day, every ritual, every routine is an act of cultural preservation.

The Return to Fes

2010-02-08T04:04:00.000-08:00

I just returned from a 4-day trip to Agadir. I went as part of an annual ESL teacher’s conference which was organized by my employer, The American Language Association. So, it was 3 full-days’ worth of workshops and lectures with a sprinkling of brain-storming sessions. All-in-all, it was a great experience.

My teaching today was inspired. I used a lot of approaches and activities that I learned at the conference and even created an activity of my own which was a big success in the classroom.

I have some great memories of funny and unexpected moments with my colleagues, too. I’ll refrain from recounting any of them here!

And last to mention -- but certainly not the least of the experience -- was some great food with flavors I hadn’t had for a long, long time.

The whole trip was perfect.

But I much prefer Fes. For me, Fes is a difficult place to live. And I will choose open, airy, water-filled, ‘green’ spaces over the closed-in, dry, brown Medina I currently live in any time. But just because living here is hard for me and seemingly such an unlikely place for me to have chosen to live, I increasingly realize that striving to meet its challenges has been good for me. It seems I enjoy meeting challenges.

Agadir had more of the physical components I like in a place to live. But my experience as a tourist in the tourist section (surrounded by Europeans) made me miss my oh-so Moroccan life in Fes.

So it was with great to get away and breathe some fresh air. It was gratifying to have the chance to learn ways to improve my teaching, and oh-so satisfying to eat and drink like a gourmand.

And in the end, it’s been surprising as well as gratifying to learn just how at home I feel in Fes.

Women Keep it Going

2010-01-30T04:11:00.000-08:00

Near as I can tell, it’s the women who keep things going here. They are the ones going to work, earning the household money, cleaning the house, shopping, cooking the food and raising the children. It’s the women who manage the money and make sure there is enough to pay the utility bills and creatively manage to feed their families on a shoestring budget. That’s not much different from where I come from.

But here, I find the roles of men vs. women are in sharper contrast to those found in good old California, land of the alternative way of doing just about everything. And while I marvel at the stamina and forbearance of the women in Morocco, sometimes I just want to shout, “Stop the madness! You’re doing too much.”

Like many places in the world right now, work is hard to come by. Yet it’s the men who sit around in the cafés all day long while women board the buses to the factories and take in laundry. I’m told women get the jobs because they are willing to work for cheaper wages. Okay, so who takes over the full-time job of managing the household while the women work? It’s certainly not the men.

But isn’t this often the case? Women do what needs to be done to take care of their families. Women bear the burden of the daily drudgery and are breadwinner and bread maker all in one.
The workload is not being shared and the efforts of these tireless women and their acceptance of their lot both irritates and awes me. I can relate to the idea of taking a deep breath and doing what needs to be done as gracefully as possible. But I bristle at the notion that house management duties cannot be assumed by a man. Sure, some roles are more natural for them than others, but adjustments can certainly be made, can’t they? Shouldn’t they?

Maybe not.

I observe the women holding their families together and adding on responsibilities -- never delegating to the men. And the thing that really strikes me is the unquestioning acceptance of their lot. Why should they be doing all the work? And why, oh why, do they train their sons to let women mother them and coddle them for the rest of their lives, expecting their daughters and daughters-in-law to carry on the tradition?

Perhaps it’s because the system works. In Morocco, if there is more work to be done, simply gather more women together!

But can you picture a medina where it is the women who populate the cafes from morning until night, some smoking, eyeing and gossiping about the young men and tourists walking by on their way to the hammam or hanut? Envision the women bringing home friends for their husbands to feed. Imagine it is the women who arise from their beds in the morning, leaving the men to tidy up and fold the blankets.

Turn the whole situation around and see the men making breakfast for the household. Watch him usher his mate out the door with a few words of encouragement and a pocketful of dirham. Picture, if you will, these same men cleaning up the breakfast dishes and cleaning the house which the women messed up the previous night as they entertained their friends until the wee hours. And after this, imagine the men going off to their full-time jobs, returning in the evening with the 50 dirham they earned to prepare a hot meal and waiting for the hour when their women ultimately decide to come home after the football game they were watching in the café has come to an end.

Of course that doesn’t seem right either. It sounds downright preposterous when you switch the roles of men and women. But put the roles back in their place and this preposterous situation is accepted and passed on to the next generation.

But who am I to challenge the status quo?

These women appear to have a contentment that eludes me. I always seem to want more than the situation offers. And I always try to go it alone.

I recall being very upset one day about my life here and being told by a Moroccan woman that I just had to accept my situation. The fury of my reply surprised me. “I don’t have to accept” I hissed. “I can just leave.”

Ahhh. Perhaps this is the underlying difference. I have more choices and the resources to exercise those choices. I don’t need the forbearance Moroccan women need. I remind myself to keep this in mind as I bear witness to the yeoman-like work of the women here. They are doing what needs to be done to keep life going. And they do it with grace and humor and incredible aptitude. And in spite of all their responsibilities, they smile and laugh and take pleasure in the simple things in life. Me, I have more angst.

Who am I to suggest that things be done differently? Without these women, the foundation of family life would surely crumble.

Once again, I am reminded not to try to force fit my ideas and attitudes onto a culture that appears to be getting along just fine the way it is.

Little Girls

2010-01-28T06:45:00.003-08:00

There are a lot of young girls on my street. When they see me approaching my door, or coming out for the day, they rush en masse to give me a greeting. I kiss each and every one of them. They giggle and stand in a cluster waiting for me to do something interesting.

Once in a while I have a treat in my pocket which I hand out. Very occasionally I put a dirham in their hands but I don’t want them to get in the habit of asking me for money so this is a rare occurrence. Most of the time, I simply ask them how they are and then tell them I have to go to work. They ask me questions in Darija which I cannot understand. Some try a little French they have been learning in school and we fare better with this. Despite our difficulties communicating, they never fail to greet me as if it’s been years since we last saw one another. Their sticky kisses and upturned faces are a welcome balm to my spirit.

One girl likes to draw on my door with chalk. I’ve admonished her several times about this but she can’t seem to help herself. Another girl always extends both arms wide open and comes running towards me for a hug when she spots my arrival. Sometimes a small group will escort me for a short time on my way to Batha where I catch a taxi to school. Their voices are like the chattering of birds as we part company and they skitter off.

Unlike the boys, these girls don’t stray far from the neighborhood. Their approved path is to and from school or the hanute (shop) to buy some bread or small staple for the house. But soon enough, I will see those same girls toting boards of bread on their recently scarved heads as they sashay to and from the bakery, growing into the responsibilities of young Moroccan women. All too soon they will lose the freedom of childhood that allows them to chant songs in the street and run up and down the derb in carefree abandon. They still won’t stray far from the neighborhood, even in young adulthood. Not if their families want to preserve their reputation.

Sometimes I cast my eye to the future and see these girls as young women with children of their own. I wonder what role we will play in each others lives as the years unfold. Will they remember me? Will I still be here when they choose a husband and begin to create their own family? Will I learn more Darija and will they learn some English so we can better communicate?

I don’t know. But right now, they are always a breath of fresh air, never failing to add something sweet and innocent to my day.

Fifty Dirham a Day

2010-01-25T05:51:00.000-08:00

Fifty dirham is about seven dollars. Right now, I am on a tight budget (due to the fact that I am trying to save money for a trip to the U.S.) and have found it necessary to limit my spending to a mere 50 dirham a day this last week before I am due to get paid. That’s pretty tough. I must spend 20 dirham for the taxi to and from work. That leaves 30 dirham for food. But it’s do-able!

I can make a breakfast of eggs and baguette for 3 dirham. For lunch, I can have a bowl of soup and some bread for 5 dirham. That leaves a whopping 22 dirham for dinner. I can buy a hearty keftah (hamburger) sandwich for 20 dirham but you can see your diet is then filled with a lot of bread. It’s no wonder a lot of people who live on a small amount of money get fat. In order to fill up one must eat a lot of starches. But if I am really ambitious, or find someone to cook for me, a tagine of fresh vegetables with a smaller amount of meat can be prepared for that same 20 dirham.

You can buy a lot of starchy foods for little money; like crepes, deep fried potatoes, rounds of bread, french fries and rice. Peanuts are cheap,too. If you want to snack on a paper cone filled with freshly roasted peanuts or seeds, it will cost you 2 dirham. But you have to wait until the night when the nuts and seeds are roasted. Otherwise, you risk getting soft, unappetizing nuts or seeds that won’t crack open. If you want cashews, you have to spend 4x that amount.

There is also a healthy and cheap soup called bisarah that is made from mashed fava beans with copious amounts of olive oil poured on top. But I hate fava beans. All beans and olives are plentiful, nourishing and cheap. But I hate most beans and all olives. So I turn to alternatives.

Fresh fruit can be very reasonable. Right now, strawberries are in season and 2 small baskets of this delicious fruit are only 6 dirham. Oranges are in season, too and provide the means for fresh orange juice each morning. I prefer to prepare my own as many street vendors unnecessarily add sugar to the juice. And fresh pastries are offered daily for 1 dirham a piece.

Most of the time, I can eat and drink whatever I choose. But right now, every day is posing a minor challenge. But I make a game of it in my mind and feel victorious when I stick to the 50 dirham a day budget. But I do confess I wouldn’t like to have to do this everyday. I think of the families that live on the 50 dirham a day and marvel at their ability to do so, day in and day out.

When I arrived at work the other day there was a notice on the bulletin board. The center is switching over to a new payroll system and our paychecks will be delayed for another week.

Oh dear! I think I might have to dip into my savings afterall. Thank God I have some!

On Speaking Arabic

2010-01-22T04:42:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow will mark the third anniversary of my arrival here in Fes. And with every passing year I am asked why it is that I don’t speak Arabic.

Well, there are many reasons. First and foremost, it’s very difficult to learn a new language at my age … especially a language which I have, heretofore, only listened to in music. I have an easier time comprehending French, Spanish, Italian and even German than I do Arabic. I guess it’s because I’ve been exposed to those languages throughout my life and it’s easier for me to pick up the cadence of these language. But Arabic eludes me even though I am now able to discern individual words. At first it was all a mish mash of sounds in which I could not distinguish the beginning to one word and the end of another. Today, I have a vocabulary of phrases that include pleasantries, entreaties to Allah, and a cache of haphazard words such as mulberry, mouse, knife, shattered, and retired.

Another reason I don’t speak Arabic is I get along fine without it. By a stroke of luck, there is currently a great interest in learning English among many Moroccans and so there is a willingness to try to communicate with me in my native language. Also, I know a little bit of French and a lot of Moroccans are proficient in this language. So with a mélange of English, French and Arabic, I am able to communicate with many people. And because it is my job to teach English, I am often forgiven for my lack of Arabic because of my so-called expertise in English. Lucky for me.

I did try to learn Arabic and took 3 semesters of instruction. And while my teachers did their best to teach me the alphabet and the corresponding sounds, the complexities of the vowels and the compounded challenges of learning how to write characters from right to left, and create sounds in my throat that had never housed such utterances before, plus structure the words in a way that have never been clearly explained to me have left me relatively mute and more than a little frustrated. Plus I found it incredibly challenging to be a teacher and a student at the same time. I was always scrambling to do my homework assignments in between preparations for my English classes and full-time teaching.

And finally, I have my own translator. Whenever I need help getting a legal document or finding the exact branch of the post office to pick up a package from home, or negotiate the price of laborers, my husband speaks on my behalf and I get the information I need. And while I don’t always understand the nuances of what is being said, I am getting more adept and comprehending the general meaning or intention of the speaker because I can pick up a few phrases and words that I do understand.

And when I don’t fully comprehend what is being said to me at all times, a smile and an appropriate utterance seems to serve me well.

I guess my difficulties learning this language in a country where so many people are multi-lingual has made me humble. At the same time, I am more tolerant of those in my own country that haven’t learned English.

So even though I haven’t learned to speak Arabic, I have learned something valuable.

Disappointment

2010-01-21T05:40:00.000-08:00

About a month ago I was contacted by a producer of a popular American television series who reads this blog and was apparently intrigued by my ‘story’. I was invited to send a written account of my search for a home in Morocco along with a video. The program is about Americans house hunting abroad. At first I tried to dissuade the producer, saying I didn’t actually hunt for my house. I really couldn’t see how I fit in with the premise of the show. In fact, I had bought my house sight unseen. There was no hunt per se. But this was not perceived as a problem and I was encouraged to proceed with the process.

So, I wrote my account and scrambled around for a video camera. I borrowed said camera but had to purchase a cartridge for it and some batteries. Then, with the help of some friends, a video was prepared. It was incredibly amateur and I had a great deal of difficulty making my camera-shy husband act naturally while being filmed. In point of fact, his effervescent personality never did come across on film. And at first, I almost entirely cut him out of the scenes as he couldn’t be heard and kept his head down out of shyness. Ultimately, I relied on my own innate theatricality to carry the film.

We didn’t have the appropriate cable to attach the camera to computer so we had to find someone in the medina that could transfer the video onto my computer so I could email it. Then I spent hours sitting in Café Clock uploading the video. So with a little bit of time and money and a good deal of perseverance, I completed the task.

Miraculously, the producer ‘loved’ the video. But they wanted more footage … of my husband.

So the entire process was repeated (and not without a good deal of cajoling on my part) and we waited for word on the decision, telling ourselves it was destiny that would decide for us.

Finally, word came that the producer was ‘going to pass’ on my story.

While I never fully allowed myself to believe this would actually transpire, I did allow myself to briefly imagine the fun of filming in the medina and the excitement of the proffered trip to the U.S. for a day of studio filming. And I confess I did allow myself to fervently wish for the all important visa that would be granted to my husband for the trip. I also saw this as a great opportunity to tell others about Fes and encourage them to visit or purchase their own home here. I rather naively saw myself as a kind of ambassador for Fes. And last, but not least, I thought it would be a great opportunity for my family and friends to see a bit about my life here in Morocco.

But none of this will happen now. As quickly as the opportunity arose, it faded away. Easy come, easy go, I guess.

But in spite of my underlying doubt about the actuality of my being on national television, what I am left with -- having allowed myself to dream a bit -- is a sense of disappointment. I’ve found myself in a bit of a funk these past few days. And I wonder, if I do believe in destiny (and I do), then this ‘exercise’ was for some purpose. It just remains to be seen just what that was all about!

Tips for Foreign Women

2010-01-18T03:07:00.000-08:00

A blog reader has asked for tips for women considering a visit to Fes.

The first this I should tell you is I feel very safe here but I do take precautions. I don’t go out late at night unescorted. I don’t speak to people I don’t recognize. I dress modestly. And I always try to appear purposeful when going from here to there.

That said, there are some things that take getting used to. Like being stared at. At first it really bothered me the way people would follow you with their eyes and don’t even attempt to hide the fact that they were staring at you. Now I just pretend I am someone famous to whom this happens routinely -- so I basically ignore it.

The other thing is you must understand is, as a tourist, it is unlikely you will pay the real price for something. This is not 100% true but it is common to be charged a different price from a Moroccan. Even when I shop with a Moroccan who bargains on my behalf, my benefactors are criticized for ‘taking my side’. Most people will assume you have a lot of money because you are a foreigner and will quote prices accordingly. But once you frequent a shop for a while, I have found the shop owners are courteous and fair. When someone overcharges me, I simply take my business elsewhere.

Young women are subject to a lot of harassment -- mostly from teenaged boys. The boys can get away with more than their adult counterparts for they are too young to be arrested. So, they can be very bold and rude and relentless. They will follow you for a long time and if you don’t respond, you may be subject to some harsh words. I’m not even sure they fully understand what they are saying half the time. But for every obnoxious experience, a heartwarming one seems to follow. Most of the people in Fes are helpful and hospitable. It’s just a matter of separating the wheat from the chaff.

If you dress in a provocative way, you are opening yourself up to harassment and ridicule. Dressing in a modest way is less problematic in the winter when one must bundle up to be protected from the elements. But summer is a different story. I always find it incredibly challenging to find something appropriate and conservative to wear in the sweltering summer months. A light linen scarf draped over the shoulders can do the trick nicely.

Marriage proposals are made with some regularity. Taxi drivers routinely chat you up on your way from here to there. During that time you will be asked if you are married. You can save yourself a lot of hassle by referring to a husband throughout the conversation. Unless, of course, you are looking for a husband. If so, you will find a lot of interest. It will be up to you to ascertain their motives.

Finally, I believe the truly valuable tip holds true for anyone visiting any foreign country. Leave your judgments at home and keep your mind, heart and eyes wide open. Be aware without being overly wary.

Ranting and Raving

2010-01-15T03:44:00.001-08:00

I rant and rave a lot in Morocco. Mostly I rant against the brick wall I run into as I am immersed in yet another clash of cultures! Often – well, always, really -- the brick wall is something within myself that is difficult to face. And the mental, emotional, and physical push & pull of the ways of my own culture and those of this culture twist me around until I realize I don’t know what to think anymore! So I rant. And I rave. And eventually, I kind of sort things out and calm down.

Lately I have been ranting about giving. Seems I am always being asked to give. And the brick wall here was the realization that I don’t like being asked to give. I want to give when I feel like it. Ugh. That doesn’t sound – or feel – very good. And giving is so much a part of the culture here.

Now I have always embraced the notion that generosity is a highly worthy characteristic and a generous spirit should be cultivated. But the funny thing is, I’ve never truly practiced being generous because I’ve always given when it was comfortable for me to do so. That’s generosity with strings attached so it isn’t really generosity. So I quickly review my lifelong giving habits and I find them wanting.

Ok, I ask myself, what amount of giving can you live with? I am a woman with limited means, and I really don’t have much extra money to give to others. And what little extra money I do come by, I put into the house. I do try to be generous with others when I get a bonus or a gift of money. You know, ‘extra money’ that I feel comfortable parting with. But I now realize that that doesn’t count. Not really. Not in the true sense of the word.

But darn it, the need here seems never ending. People come right up and ask for all kinds of things many times a day! They ask for money, pens, jeans, English lessons, copywriting, the food you are eating … you name it. They ask for a loan, they want to be seen talking to you, they want, this, that and the other thing. Whew! Sometimes it’s exhausting running this gauntlet of extended hands and fair weather friends.

Being confronted with so many requests for help is a new experience for me. I realize I have been pretty sheltered from poverty during my life. Seeing it full-on is unsettling and brings on lots of security issues. So I think about money a lot.

But then again, I’m sure the basic problem lies with me. Maybe I just can’t find the mindset that will free me from this assault of empathy mixed with contemptuous anger and guilt over the realization that I am feeding that anger. Can a balance be found in that mélange of emotions? And yet I feel that if I don’t establish some sort of boundary, I’ll dissolve into the mass need.

‘Trust in Allah’, I am told. And I think about this. And I come away with the resolve to take the wisdom of all the religions I’ve become acquainted with; a wisdom which encourages me to yield to a higher power. And I do believe in the existence of a higher power and I know I am not in control. So I try to let go.

But my head won’t leave me alone and I plan and I analyze and I realize I am pretending to be in control. But even though I hold my plans lightly, I still want to prepare and accumulate. I seem to be hardwired that way.

So I seek a place in the middle.

Everyday I try to regain my balance. And when I don’t do well, I rant. And I rave.

Winter again

2010-01-14T07:25:00.000-08:00

For me, winter is the lesser of two evils here. I find summer to be unbearable with the withering heat and I find it next to impossible to work. And while the winters are not much better, at least you can always pile on another blanket or wear another pair of socks. With no central heating (anywhere it seems) I am often cold. And Fes has been bitter cold with rain this past week. It requires real fortitude just to take a shower.

I do have a portable gas heater on the ground floor where it is the coldest. I’d love to buy one or two more but they are pretty pricey and right now I don’t have any spare cash. I’ll just have to rough it for a while. Right now I am sitting at my kitchen counter, warming my hands with a cup of hot tea.

I was supposed to give a dance lesson at 11:00 but just couldn’t get myself together in time so I postponed it until 3:00. That’s coming up soon so I’ll have to prepare myself for a hot shower and layer on the clothes to withstand the cold. I’m tempted to go back to bed so I can pull the covers over my head for a while and gather some warmth.

The thing I like best about winter is the excuse to hibernate. After all, winter is a time to go fallow and rejuvenate. I sleep longer in the winter and eat more. Just to stay warm. The thing I like the least about winter is the steady rain. As I am from Northern California, I am used to rainy, wet winters. But here, I find it really challenging just to keep up with the laundry for without the sun, there is no opportunity to dry the clothes and linens on the terrace. I have a basket full of laundry that has been sitting by my front door, just waiting for the sun to show itself and for Rachida to pass by so I can give her the wash to do.
I understand it is bitter cold around most of the northern climates -- colder than here. But at least you probably have central heating or a fireplace to keep you warm.

Oh well, at least I don’t have to pay exorbitant heating bills!

Sounds

2010-01-06T13:24:00.000-08:00

There are some sounds I will always associate with this town.

The twittering sound of the swifts as they careen through the sky.

The man’s voice pleading for wares to sell as he slowly traverses the streets in the morning.

The beating of pigeons wings as they are released from their cages on neighboring terraces.

The soft rolled “r’s” as an owner encourages his donkey to keep going with his heavy load of gas canisters.

The abrasive ‘tak tak tak-ing’ of heavy machinery as it putters up and down the street carrying debris and lumber to yet another restoration project.

Hakima’s cackle.

The sound of water splashing in the fountain.

The dulled but constant thumping of the wood workers next door as they pound nails into yet another repair project.

The chanting cadence of the first call to prayer.

The sound of silence late at night -- no cars, no airplanes, no people. Just profound and utter silence.

Laundry

2010-01-05T02:45:00.000-08:00

Getting my laundry done is often a trial; especially when it rains for an extended period of time and the clothes and linens cannot be hung out to dry on the terrace.

I, myself, do not have a washing machine. I need to get some electrical work done and the top floor before I can put in a washer and, of course, there is the price of the washing machine itself. I have yet to move ‘washing machine’ to the top of my list of things buy.

So, for the past three years I have relied on the help of others to do my wash for me. Oh, I do my own hand washing when possible. I now have the required number of buckets to perform their various duties – one for cleaning fluids to wash the ground floors and one for the upper floors so I don’t have to tote them up and down. I have one very large bucket for receiving my sudsy clothes; another for rinsing. But when it comes to towels and sheets and jeans, I don’t have the power or the will to wash them by hand.

One of my neighbors has a machine and twice a week (when it isn’t raining) I hand over a basket filled with linens and sturdy clothes for her to wash. It’s a fine arrangement. She, a single Mom, appreciates the extra income. And I appreciate getting changes of linens (often just in time) and turning a chore on my ‘to do’ list over to someone else.

The first time I asked Rachida to do my laundry for her I handed over some Tide with the laundry. She looked at the Tide and said “Ariel” to me. Rachida doesn’t speak English or French and I didn’t understand what she was trying to tell me. She then said “ma-chine” (with the emphasis on the first syllable) and I still didn’t understand her. She raised her voice (as if I were deaf) and kept repeating “Ma-chine, ma-chine”. Finally I understood. The laundry detergent she needed was called “Ariel” because it was specifically for washing machines. I’d never heard of the brand before but somehow I made the connection. I ran down to the hanute (shop) and purchased the required Ariel.

The sun is shining today. I think I’d better gather up my linens, purchase some Ariel and find Rachida.

On Creating Ambience

2010-01-02T02:56:00.000-08:00

I like to create ambience. I always have. Even when I was young I would paint the walls and the furniture to create new looks in my bedroom. Eventually, as I grew older and more skilled at painting, my mother would ‘let’ me paint the other rooms in the house. I was especially skilled at painting trim without slopping over onto the wall paint or the ceiling paint. Later, as I got a job and earned money, I would purchase curtains and carpets and light fixtures for my bedroom and then my mother, Bless her soul, let me unleash my creative efforts in my parent’s bedroom.

I guess decorating is in my blood. But my talent in this area is more one of making do with what is at hand rather than envisioning something and creating it from nothing. I guess that comes from my middle-class upbringing and the constant threat of my father’s death … we never knew if we’d have money coming in so we created something new with a fresh coat of paint or by arranging something in a different manner. My mother wrapped presents in aluminum foil and cut out bouquets of flowers from magazines and pasted them on the package in lieu of ribbon and I guess her imaginative use of items on hand was a skill passed on to me.

Renovating this house and now furnishing it brings me fresh opportunity to enlist my skills as a ‘use what you’ve got on-hand (or can purchase cheaply)’ decorator and I always take great pleasure in sitting back and observing my handy work.

And while I don’t particularly enjoy housework (who does, really?), I do enjoy the results. I like order and the appearance of cleanliness (I am not a white glove tester at all). These old houses in the Medina are subject to a lot of dust from the streets and the wood surfaces always need oiling and polishing. So I find I spend a lot of my free time re-ordering the house and polishing and oiling and scrubbing and wiping down.

But I can deal with that if I get paid for my efforts.

Seems maybe 2010 might be the year I finally make some money from my housekeeping/decorating/renovating efforts. Lord knows I have been apprenticing for a long, long time.

2009

2010-01-01T03:48:00.001-08:00

This past year can be summarized as a year of perseverance, patience and personal growth. Although it was not a year of ease, it was a year of accomplishments, acceptance (sometimes resignation) and realizations.

Perseverance characterized my work on the house and my marriage. One has shown progress, the other – well, the other keeps presenting me with new opportunities for growth. Both aspects of my life have shared the feeling of a having set something in motion with a resulting need to see the events through to the next stage. I have always felt that the setting in motion was more never driven by me, but rather a force I agreed to go along with.

We all learn that patience is a virtue. Why do you think virtuous behavior is difficult to cultivate? Every day I practice patience … when I am teaching and must repeat my instructions (slowly and distinctly) 4 or 5 times because the students are chattering away with one another. Or repeat a lesson for the 20th time but attempt to teach it yet again with an enthusiasm that isn’t always easy to find. When I employ someone to work on the house I must wait twice the time for the promised completion date while being hounded and wheedled to meet the original payment schedule. And when I work so hard to understand that those brought up in this culture have many viewpoints and behaviors that differ from my own but that understanding of differing points of view and behaviors (or even the attempt to understand) is not often reciprocated. And when I long to be among my friends and family but cannot fulfill that wish because of financial and time constraints. Yes, patience has been hard to come by but I am getting better at practicing it. For practice I must because it doesn’t always seem to come naturally.

As for personal growth, well, that is something that always seems to be hard-won. I can say though, that this year I have been able to see the mistakes I’ve made with greater clarity and step outside myself a bit and witness unfolding events as part of a greater pattern. Likewise, I can view all the good that has happened is a result of cause and effect and certainly not a reward for my efforts, intentions, intelligence or skills. I can accept that I am flawed but always intending to do the right thing. I can accept that I am not in the driver’s seat and my effort to navigate from the ‘shotgun seat’ is just another illusion about being in charge of my destiny. I can also see that what is difficult and challenging today is often exactly the issue I need to deal with in order to prepare me for what is about to happen next. And the really big lesson I’ve learned is not to take matters so personally. That has been a huge leap into a more peaceful mindset.

So I welcome 2010 as I would welcome returning to a novel that has me enthralled. I know the basic plot, but the individual events and the twists and turns of the paths taken will hopefully keep me turning the pages.

Last Day of the Year

2009-12-31T07:42:00.000-08:00

It's New Year's Eve, 4:00 in the afternoon and I just got myself showered and out of the house. Don't think I was just lounging around though. Oh no! I cleaned 3 bedrooms, changed all the linens, scrubbed three toilets (ugh, I hate that part the most), shined up the faucets and cleaned up the clean-up materials. I have one visitor in my house (a friend of a friend) and two more expected tomorrow (brothers who own a guest house and rented all their rooms so asked to crash at my pad for two nights). After they all leave I won't be able to house anyone else until there are a couple more days of sunshine so I can have the linens washed and hung out to dry. But today began with a howling wind and rain, followed by sunshine and wind and then all hell broke loose and the rain and winds returned in full force.

I am sitting at Cafe Clock. I had hoped to order their incredible sticky date pudding with vanilla ice cream but that is not to be. The wind and rain drove everyone into the Clock and they are out of everything. Except coffee and tea. Oh well. I'll just have to return later to indulge myself.

This year has been one of hard work. But, I do see the results of that work and hope it will abate for 2010. I am not doing any more work on the house for a while. Without the construction work, I will not have the cleanup and inevitable disruptions of having workers in the house. It's almost like a full-time job has been eliminated. I rather like that. The house is staying warm-ish and dry --- unlike previous winters here. I have hot water showers (one caveat; the hot water heater mysteriously shuts itself off after a 5 minute shower so I cannot linger like I did before. But no problem. I just view it as a ecological and economical benefit). I have some great, warm, woolen blankets on all the beds and a neighbor who washes my linens for me when the sun is shining. My teaching job, although not exactly on auto-pilot, is easier to do because I know the materials so well and can be more creative with my presentation of the lessons. The belly dance lessons are not plentiful, but they come with enough regularity to supplement my income and keep me moving.

Yesterday I taught two Slovakian women a small dance routine and showed them a few maneuvers with veils. As they left, one told me "I will never forget you". I was taken aback as I just did what I always do and although she seemed to enjoy herself, she didn't seem over the moon. But then I realized one never knows the impact one has on others and I was grateful I helped make her Moroccan experience a little bit more memorable.

So, to celebrate the close of a difficult, challenging and enlightening year, I plan to spend a quiet evening at home. Reading. Watching a movie. Eating chocolate. I am not inclined to join the group headed to the bar at the Hotel Batha where it is rumored that 200 Cameroons will be in attendance. Somehow, drinking the night away doesn't appeal to me, even though there will no doubt be lots of dancing and highjinks.

No, I plan to see the year out quietly and give thanks for the delights that await me in the coming year:

1. A visit from 4 good friends in April
2. A 3 month trip to California to see my sister and friends
3. A house that is comforatbly habitable
4. A secure job -- and one that I enjoy
5. Several sources for extra income
6. Continued good health
7. Developing new friendships
8. An escape from the brutal summer heat of Fes
9. The possiblity of a segment on my story on House Hunters International
10. The unknown

Happy New Year Everyone. Peace. Goodwill. Prospertiy to all.

Another Day

2009-12-29T04:08:00.000-08:00

I awoke at 5:00 this morning. This might have something to do with the fact that I fell asleep around 9 pm last night. I went to the hammam with two friends and the treatment evidently wiped me out!

I don’t care for the public hammams. I’ve tried several of them. I’ve gone to 4 or 5 different hammams in Fes and one in Chefchouen. I didn’t really like any of them although it is an experience one shouldn’t miss. The reason I don’t like the public hammans is probably because I am a rather private person and have always been one to shy away from crowded places. But the hammam I prefer to go to now is really posh compared to the public baths and I always enjoy my time there. My attendant gave me a hard scrub, taking away one or two layers of skin that left my body red and smooth. We purchased the spa package that also included a clay-like body mask of rose water and who-knows-what other substances. It felt great and I could have stayed there all afternoon, sleeping in the ‘relaxation room’ afterwards.

Right now the first call to prayer is underway. I love the early morning call to prayer. Outside the garbage collectors are sweeping the streets clean of all the debris from yesterday. This time of the day Fes is clean, quiet and spirit-filled. I am drinking coffee at the kitchen counter and planning the belly dance lesson I will give at 1:00 this afternoon. The fee I collect for the lessons will reimburse me for yesterday’s hammam.

I am on holiday right now and like every other holiday; I never seem to get out of town for the break. I seem to need the time to regenerate from the previous semester and all the various jobs I do in-between. Or my money is earmarked for something else and I can’t afford to travel. These days, I have some longer term plans for my money.

I’ve stopped spending money on the house. I still need to plaster and paint the rooms above the ground floor (that’s 7 rooms plus the stairwell), I still need to install some electricity on the upper floor and purchase a washer and dryer. I need a sink in my water closet, plumbing for the washer and shelving in the kitchen and closet. Oh yeah, I also need two more windows made and dozens of light fixtures. I estimate another 15,000 dirham will finish this place nicely. It’s not a lot of money by U.S. standards, but it will take me months and months to accumulate the money on my income. But that’s okay. The house is eminently habitable now and it can wait.

Rain, rain and more rain

2009-12-22T05:06:00.001-08:00

Winter has arrived. And with it has come the blessed rain. I enjoy the rain because it washes the air and the streets clean. I don't really mind the mud that accompanies it. I just wear industrial boots and clean them up from time to time.

I am happy to report the plastic on the skylight is keeping the rain out of the house. Even though I spent a fortune building a pitched, metal frame around the skylight and added tempered glass to it, the cover never did stop leaking. Seems no matter what you try or how much you spend to cover your skylight, in the end it's plastic that solves your problems.

The house is much cozier that the past few years. I have had windows built and doors made for all the rooms so I can now shut out the cold. Well, not all the windows have glass on them yet but the majority do. Those without have bubblewrap and other creative solutions to the drafty air that whistles through them. But comparitively speaking, the house is quite warm this winter.

Right now the sky is blue. Perhaps I should take advantage of this and find Rachida. She's a neighbor who washes my linens for me. One must grab opportunity when it arises and with a breeze in the air and a brief respite from the rain, perhaps now is the time to get my laundry done!

2009-12-18T07:00:00.000-08:00

The water fountains that pepper this city draw many people. There is a fountain across from my house and I witness many comings and goings.

Some people use the fountain because they don’t have running water in their house or they are trying to save a few dirham by using the city water instead of the metered water in their homes. Dishes and clothing are routinely washed in the fountain. Donkeys and mules are given a brief ‘coffee break’ here and the myriad of stray cats jump in and out of the fountain’s well to take a sip of the cold water.

In the early morning hours, vendors with large bunches of mint wash the dirt off it before taking it to their designated spot to sell it. Passersby drink from the spigot or perform their morning ablutions. Feet and hands are washed and plastic containers are filled and carted away for a variety of household duties. There is hardly a moment that goes by without someone turning on the spigot and using the fountain water.

I’ve seen motorcycles, hand carts, work materials and laborers themselves washed by the fountain. And each use has it’s own sound or smell. I particularly like the smell of the mint being washed.

Occasionally a fight will ensue at the fountain. Someone wants to use it for something not really acceptable … like cleaning fish. Or some harried housewife is taking too long washing her clothes and a workman is pressed for time. But in the end, everyone works through their differences and the fountain continues to provide for all who need it.

2009-12-15T08:06:00.001-08:00

The children in my neighborhood are rather poor and I always find it interesting to see how resourceful they are in creating games or finding things to occupy their interest.

Of course this can often include things that are rather mischievous.

The young boys like to fight. Nothing serious (most of the time) but they grab one another and wrestle their opponent to the ground and chase their friends from one end of the street to another. Typical of young boys all over the world I’d say. The young boys also like to pick on one particular, be-speckled kid named Omar. He inevitably responds by crying and some adult inevitably makes the perpetrators apologize.

The girls like to chant as a group. A chorus of their bird-like voices carries a long distance. The girls also like to take chalk and write on the doors of their neighbors. I’ve had pictures drawn on mine, various words like “father” and “mother” and some nonsensical words. Someone once wrote “Non-believer” on my door. I didn’t particularly appreciate that. After all, how do they know what I believe or don’t believe?

Soccer is often played in the streets. Much to my annoyance when it’s right outside my door because the “thunk, thunk, thunk” sound of the ball hitting my wall reverberates throughout the house. And the boys’ voices are always rough, loud and aggressive. But all I have to do is ask them to move a little bit and they almost always comply (with someone grumbling mightily but acquiescing nonetheless).

Kicking empty, liter-sized plastic bottles that litter the street is great sport and amazingly loud. Kids will kick them up and down the street until all the air is gone and the bottle becomes a flat, sorry imitation of a cylinder. They also like to pull apart Styrofoam and other packing materials that occasionally find their way onto the street into little bits that make me cringe on behalf of the planet.

Yoyos were popular in the summer and games of tidily winks come and go. Top spinning is also great sport and the kids like to slam the metal cover to my utility gauges against the metal bit to sharpen the point on the bottom of their top. Card trading turns into a fury of bargaining and shouting. And every year when elections are held and leaflets literally paper the street, the kids take great joy in grabbing a handful from the adults (who have been paid to distribute the leaflets) and then throw them hither and yon or stuff them through the doors of the houses on the street.

I live across from a public fountain and spraying your friends with water from the spigot is great sport; especially when it’s hot outside. Kids also like to take a mouthful of water and spit it through the keyhole in neighboring doors. Knocking on the neighbor’s door and then running away before it is answered is full of fun, too!

All-in-all the children don’t have many toys to amuse themselves. At least I haven’t seen many aside from a kind of rubber punching ball sold at carnivals back home. I remember one boy coming to me with tears in his eyes because his ball had a hole in it and was now a rubber blob that was unusable. I walked down to the neighborhood store and bought him a new one. The look of surprise and delight on his face was priceless! I saw him proudly carrying that ball with him for about 1 week. I guess it, too, became a rubber blob before too long. Then it was time for him to start kicking plastic bottles again or jump on the discarded wrappers of cookies and other junk food to try to elicit a loud “pop” from the cellophane. Another amusing sport.

Daily Economics

2009-12-10T04:18:00.001-08:00

When I read about all the economic turmoil around the world, I often thank my lucky stars that I am living in an affordable place. Even though I haven’t been able to save any money yet, and even though I often long to return to San Francisco, in Fes I have been able to find gainful employment and live within my means. And while I only make the equivalent of $20,000 U.S. a year, I do live in a house I own and have a relatively stable job. Fortunately, the language center where I work has a waiting list of students each semester and I can work as many hours as I want.

Some things are comparatively cheap here while others are over-the-top expensive. But it seems the things you really need are affordable and the frivolous or ‘exotic’ things are what cost an arm and a leg. Food is eminently affordable. Bread, which is baked fresh every day, costs only 1 dirham (>8 cents). A baguette is a dirham and a half. A cup of coffee that would cost $2.00 or more at Starbucks can cost under a dollar here. You can buy a fresh sandwich with lots of healthy ingredients for under a dollar. But then it’s going to cost you nearly $7 to purchase a “Big Tasty” from McDonald’s.

Utilities don’t cost much either but then I am unbearably hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. One does live with the elements here. But every month I spend less than $20 for my water and electricity. If I need to refill the propane gas for my heat and stovetop, each large canister (I have 3) costs 40 dirham to fill (5-6 cents).

Some skilled artisans work for very reasonable prices, too. I had someone build 5 cedar wood doors (each with nice detailing and including all the necessary hardware and installation), three shelves for my kitchen, and a step for about $750.

A taxi ride to work is about $1. Hiring someone to carry heavy items in his push cart from Bab Boujloud to my house is about $1.25. And you can hire someone to clean your house for a mere $7.00. I can even get a very professional haircut and highlighting for a fraction of what I would pay in the U.S.

But then there are some other ‘luxury’ items that cost way too much. A very small tube of foundation makeup cost recently cost me almost $20. Votive candles are cheap at home but costly here. Paper products like napkins, tissues, toilet tissue and paper towels are priced dearly. Cleansers and Edam cheese, familiar brand name products from home and 100% cotton sheets and towels all cost way too much.

So, you pick and choose what you need vs. what you want or can afford. And at the end of the day you realize how the choices between what you want and what you need are really simple choices to make … and it’s not always a matter of economics.

My biggest challenge now, economically speaking, is to save enough money to visit and live in the U.S. for three months next summer. I know I can manage to live on 100 dirham a day here when I have to. I can feed myself, take taxis to and from work, buy a cup of coffee and a pastry to treat myself and even have some money left over to handout to the local children or local indigents. But that same money will only buy me a fraction of what I need just to eat every day in the U.S. What can I buy with $15 there? Not much.

Back to School

2009-12-02T03:03:00.001-08:00

Last night I returned to teaching after three days off. I haven’t had two days in a row off -- let alone three -- in quite a few weeks. Unlike my Moroccan colleagues, who routinely work 6 days a week, I am a spoiled American who craves long weekends … one day to do household chores and prepare for the upcoming week, and one day to play or do absolutely nothing productive and the occasional third day off to read, see a movie or treat myself to some shopping.

But I was glad to see my students and with many shops still closed for Eid, I had found myself doing more household chores than usual with the time off -- I actually even cooked some meals in my new kitchen … something I have not done for almost three years! My return to work was kind of a relief.

My students routinely give me pleasure. I was teaching a more advanced English class last night and our discussions are always enlightening. We were discussing the topic of plagiarism and drawing lines around ‘acceptable’ cheating and other questionable behaviors. I asked them if there was ever a situation when not telling the truth acceptable. We talked about stealing – would their principles change if one person stole 20 dirham from them and another stole 200 dirham? Most said 20 DH would be acceptable. What if it was their child who stole 20 dirham. Would that be acceptable? No one could accept that but first, they said, they would have to verify with absolute certainty that their child had, indeed, stolen the money. Good answer.

Finally, I asked my students if it was a teacher’s job to help educate students about these matters. Or should a teacher just stick to the curriculum and let students learn from their own social network. My students were quite adamant that a teacher should broach these subjects. “You are more experienced than we are and we need to learn from you.” I can hardly imagine American teenagers responding in a similar fashion.

When I stand in front of the classroom and look out at all the beautiful and open faces of my students I am often filled with gratitude. Mind you, they drive me to distraction many times, chatting away in Arabic while I’m trying to teach them the difference between a defining and non-defining clause and furtively checking their cell phones for text messages or taking note of how much time is left before they can bolt out the door. But there are those times when what I say captures their full attention. I can actually feel the atmosphere change in the classroom and I am aware of the responsibility and trust I hold. When I speak from my heart they, too, can feel it and always give me their full attention. More than once it has brought an incredible fullness to my heart and tears of gratitude to my eyes. I cannot recall feeling so honored for my years of experience in my own country.

What a rare and wonderful honor.

Home Alone

2009-11-27T03:50:00.000-08:00

This is always a tough time of year to be away from the U.S. Thanksgiving has now come and gone and I have survived my third year away from family and friends on my favorite holiday. It helps a great deal to get together with other Americans during these holidays. Yesterday, our school director treated all the American employees (there were 8 of us, including the Director himself) to a huge lunch at a posh restaurant. We had wine, too much food, lots of laughs and an overwhelming urge for a nap afterwards. Too bad we all had to teach that evening.

Now that just leaves Christmas to get through. Luckily, we don't have to work that day. I don't think I could bear working on Christmas day. But the end of the fall semester always coincides with Christmas so the school is blessedly closed. Even though it's great to miss the over-commercialization of Christmas, it's not-so-great to miss your family, friends and the traditions of a Christmas tree, carols and holiday merrymaking.

Everyone here is in the final stages of Eid Khbir fever. There are lines of people outside every food stall, knives being sharpened for the sacrifical sheep who will succumb to the knife tomorrow morning, women scurrying to and from the bakery with trays of cookies, breads and sweets on their heads (these bakeries are ovens where goods prepared at home are baked for a small fee) and sheep being carted to homes and then carried up to terraces to enjoy their final moments. Everyone says all the cats disappear when the moment of the sacrifice arrives. As the medina is filled with cats, not seeing one is unusual. I wonder ... do the cats smell the blood or do they sense the panic and resignation of the sheep? Hard to say.

Regardless, tomorrow I will spend the day alone. I am teaching today but plan to stop by Cafe Clock tonight to buy some premade food for tomorrow as all shops will be closed up tight. I haven't had the time or desire to fight the crowds at the stores to lay in some food so I will once again turn to my ready food source at the cafe for nourishment. Some couscous, a plastic bowl of my own filled with homemade harira and the baguettes, cheese and eggs I have managed to purchase should see me through the day quite nicely.

I doubt I will even venture outside my door tomorrow. The teenaged boys will have set up their fires for roasting the sheeps' heads right outside my door and I want to turn a blind eye to the activities. No garbage pickup tomorrow, of course, so there will be lots of stuff I don't want to investigate thrown out on the streets too. I have a few movies to watch, several litres of linseed oil to paint my new cedarwood doors and windows and a book to get me through the day.

Holidays have taken on a whole new meaning for me. I'm not sure it's altogether to my liking but somehow I know it's good for me to have these experiences and cultivate the tolerance and understanding needed to appreciate what I miss and accept what I don't really resonate with.

Strong Women

2009-11-04T04:30:00.000-08:00

Strong Women

It should come as no surprise that the foreign women who take up residence here in Morocco are particularly strong and interesting women. Coming from all parts of the world, I have met some truly fascinating females. There are artists, writers, teachers, workshop organizers, actresses, young mothers, dancers, computer programmers, psychics, massage therapists and more.

These women are incredibly intrepid and creative. Others are full of electric energy. Their accents are Australian, South African, British, Welsh, American, French, Irish, German, Spanish --- you name it. It seems to me more foreign women than men are taking up residence here.

Why is that?

There certainly isn’t an abundance of what I would call feminine energy here. In fact, I often feel it’s an overwhelmingly male energy that permeates the city.

Is that what draws the women?

Of course there is an abundance of gorgeous males to look at and lots of attention (both positive and negative) is showered on foreign women.

Is that it?

Not only are the women coming here to live, but they are buying houses and restoring them. They are starting businesses or finding jobs in a tough job market. Certainly this is not the easiest place to negotiate major transactions and projects like restoring ancient buildings and having to hire workers when you don’t even speak the language. And, more often than not, have never tackled a restoration project before.

Are they crazy or what?

Personally, I lean towards the ‘or what’ explanation. The more experience I have, the more I see it is women who are the stronger sex. They can do so much on so many levels. And the women who come here are full of an adventurous spirit. I think they are drawn here because it’s a peaceful place and relatively inexpensive to live here.

Don’t you just love women?

Lucky Me.

2009-10-27T05:52:00.000-07:00

I could never have imagined the difficulties I have faced in adjusting to life in Morocco. It’s easy for me to fall into a negative spin when my monkey mind decides to enumerate all my grievances and hard lessons.

And then I stop myself and realize just how lucky I am that I came to Morocco when I did.

I was in a financial tailspin by the time I decided to leave the U.S. Ever since September 11th, I was having trouble finding a financial foothold, in spite of all my efforts to support myself. About a year before 9/11, I had bought an antique business. One problem after another arose until I finally sold my lease to the multi-millionaire who owned the neighboring raw vegan restaurant. It was the construction on the restaurant which caused many of my problems with the shop. That, and the fact that the town decided to dig up and lower the street in front of my business. The construction going on beside me and in front of me totally obscured the view and the access to my store. Anyway, I sold the lease (which I fortuitously renegotiated and extended when I bought the business) just in the knick of time and never did relocate the business because of the economic situation following September 11th.

After consigning my antiques, doing a few marketing projects here and there and even trying my hand at selling advertising space for a new age magazine, I took off for Paris where I lived and worked on my own personal growth for 5 months. Upon my return to the U.S., I eventually sold my condominium and everything in it. I made a nice profit because the real estate market was still skyrocketing. Unfortunately, my intention to relocate to Annapolis, Maryland never manifested. I wanted to buy something there and possibly engage in some business venture with my brother and his wife. Tragically, my sister-in-law died the day after I arrived on the east coast and the summer was spent standing watch over my brother, who was devastated by his wife’s untimely death. Meanwhile, real estate prices continued to climb all over the country and I just couldn’t get back into the market. With no job I had little chance of obtaining a loan. And prices were out of my reach now.

And then, at the request of my brother, I stayed in his house during the winter months while he traveled and grieved and I wrote a business plan for a retail business. It was a consignment business which specialized in selling costumes and theatrical wear. I called it Caravan Costumes.

Armed with a business plan, some seed money from the sale of my condo, and a big consignment from someone heading off to Egypt, I eventually found a location and opened my shop. But within days of opening the store, a flood hit the town and my shop was inundated with water and mud.

Not to be deterred, I took everything out of the shop, cleaned it, repaired it and reopened in the same location a month later. But the town was slow to recover from the disastrous flood and I wasn’t making enough money. After moving my shop back into my apartment and trying to sell exclusively to the Burning Man market, I was told about an ideal location next to a live performance theater. I took a short-term lease (it was twice the rent and half the space), once again lucked into a consignee who had a tremendous inventory of gothic type clothes, I re-opened in my new location for the Halloween season. The store did phenomenally well.

But by this time I was out of steam and money and couldn’t keep it going.

So I abandoned ship, so to speak, and decided to leave the country. I had been moving non-stop during that last year in the U.S. I began Caravan Costumes in an apartment in San Rafael. Next, I moved to the flood zone (alas) in San Anselmo. Just after the flood, I moved my residence across the street from my shop. After several flood warnings after the flood that ruined so many businesses (talk about closing the barn door after the horses are gone) I moved my entire inventory in and out of the shop on three separate occasions. Then I moved everything into my apartment and finally, I went to Mill Valley and reopened the store. I decided to share an apartment with a friend to save money. That lasted just a short while before I was on the move again. The shop closed, I returned the inventory and began house sitting throughout the Bay Area. More moving, and packing and unpacking.

Finally, I decided to get my certification to teach English as a second language and travel outside my country. I had a teaching degree and thought I would fall back on this to support myself for a while. Also, I felt all the too-ing and fro-ing was a message that I was to travel.

I had accepted a job offer teaching in Instanbul but had already booked a flight to Morocco to study Arabic in a 3-week intensive course. I arrived in Morocco in January of 2007 and I was a miserable student of Arabic. Nothing seemed to sink in. I was one of three students (the other two students were fresh out of college and excellent at learning the alphabet and sounds) and soon dropped the classes all together. I was embarrassed by my inability to absorb the lessons. And anyway, I was headed for Istanbul soon, so why bother? They don’t speak Arabic there.

But destiny had another path in store for me and I was offered a job at the school where I was studying Arabic. I accepted the offer simply because the hours were better. Full-time teaching here is 15 hours a week. In Istanbul, it was 35 hours a week. I didn’t want to work so much so I stayed.

And I got married to a Moroccan within 4 months of my arrival. Within 6 months I had purchased a house and a car. And for the past 2 years I have been teaching and restoring the house. Every dirham I make goes into the house. And it’s still not finished.

BUT … and it’s a big ‘but’ and here’s where the lucky part comes into the story … I own my own house and I am able to live entirely within my means. I have no debt and feel I am building nice equity even though it may take a while to realize the gains. I am employed in a school where there is a waiting list so, at least for the present, there is a semblance of job security. Were I to have kept the money I invested in the house in my portfolio back home, I’m sure I would have lost a significant portion of it. As it stands now, the money seems more secure in the house. My house is in an excellent location (I finally learned the lesson about location) and I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. I feel I can realistically expect to complete the restoration by June of next year. Three full years of work!

On the personal side, my marriage has not been without great challenges, but I married a man with a good heart. He’s a wild card at all times, but he has always done the right thing when push comes to shove. I am really, really lucky to have chosen him even though we challenge each other every day and in every way.

So when I read the emails and the news reports about the economic situation abroad, I can only give humble thanks for being saved from financial ruin, for surely I would be running scared by now had I stayed in San Francisco.

I am in the right place for now. With all the difficulties and all the differences, I am confident I am where I should be.

Lucky me.

Straight Talk

2009-10-20T05:11:00.000-07:00

There are so many experiences and reactions to those experiences that I am tempted to write about in this blog. I used to write absolutely everything I felt. But I have come to know that my American ‘directness’ is neither appreciated nor well tolerated here.

And so I weigh the pros and cons of being direct in my mind. Not just here in Morocco, but in every circumstance in life. And, as always, I come to the conclusion that the best path is in the middle. If I can learn to express my feelings in a more ‘cultured’ manner, I will have more peace of mind. And by this I mean with more consideration and forethought about the ‘culture’ I am living and operating in. And I don’t think of culture as something necessarily foreign, unless it’s to realize it’s something foreign to my experience. An experience I haven’t lived or a view I didn’t grow up with, for example.

Too often I just shut up instead of practicing a more thoughtful approach. This, too, is a mistake because I replay imagined and real dialogues in my head. I can’t find peace. So my lesson is to temper my tongue. Develop ‘Right Speech’. This is rather a challenge coming from a culture where speaking one’s mind is more often than not seen as an admirable trait. And coming from a family where the barbed ‘come back’ was admired, often applauded and tacitly encouraged.

What a Petri dish this place is for me. Without close friends or family or even someone who can offer wise counsel I find I am left on my own to figure out how to be. These days I am my own guide, my own teacher.

It helps immensely if I keep reminding myself I am where I should be. And, too, remember the gestation of the idea to visit Fes. Back in San Rafael, I had seen a documentary on the Sacred Music Festival and it was from this film that I learned Fes was considered the spiritual capital of Morocco. I wanted to grow spiritually, so visiting Fes seemed like a good place to further my growth.

Ahhhh, it’s so true what they say.

Be careful what you ask for …

Update

2009-10-19T05:08:00.000-07:00

I’m feeling old and creaky lately. Not enough exercise to limber up and I have to climb too many stairs of varying heights in my house. It’s all beginning to take a toll on my body. I feel like I need a hip replacement, although I’m sure that’s just an exaggerated response to the inevitable aches and pains that come with advancing age. When I wake up each morning, my feet and joints are stiff and I hobble to the bathroom. I’ve noticed that after sitting for a while in a café or at my desk, it takes several yards of steps before the joints lubricate and allow me to walk without a noticeable limp. Aging does humble one, doesn’t it? I keep telling myself I’m lucky to know the effects of aging. But sometimes I’m not very convincing and I reach for the ibuprophen to reduce the inflammation and pretend I am still in my middle years. That could be true were I to live to the ripe old age of 112.

One sure sign of getting older is talking about your aches and pains. I’m going to stop this conversation and change subjects right now.

Last month I had 3 weeks off between semesters and I was able to pick up some extra cash doing odd jobs. Of course all the money went straight into the house. My house is always hungry and greedily eats all I am willing to give her. I vacillate between thinking I am almost done restoring the house and thinking it will never end. When I look at the house, I see there are just a few jobs remaining – install sinks (3), plaster and paint the walls from the stairwell up (it’s a big ‘up’ however), tile the floors in two small rooms, build and install a few doors, plus complete a little bit of electrical work. Then I tally up the cost for all of this (not counting the need for about 2 dozen wall sconces and appliances for the kitchen) and I lose heart. How long will it take me to make enough money to do what remains to be done? And how many hours of cleanup must I do after each project deposits layers of dust over the entire house?

{sigh}

But, I must remain hopeful and positive. This week alone, Hassan and I managed to get the shower upstairs tiled and finally, finally, finally, all the stairs have had zeliig installed. The entrance is now getting zeliig around the bottom edges which the last worker left unfinished when he walked off the job over a year ago. Tomorrow, Insha’Allah, another worker will bring 5 windows for a variety of locations and one door to install on a utility closet. I’m particularly happy about the windows because they will help to keep the house warmer throughout the winter months. Plus there is the added benefit of muffling some of the street noise and keeping some of the dust from the streets out of the house.

But then I remember the cleanup required after each project and I grow weary before the work even begins.

{deeper sigh}

And to what end? Why am I doing this? Am I going to run a guest house? I really don’t think I have the proper temperament to host tourists on a regular basis. Lately I’ve been thinking of setting the house up as two separate ‘apartments’ or suites and renting each floor in its entirety. This means looking for longer term rentals. If I can rent the house for several months at a time, I am free to travel back to the U.S. I am aiming for this by summer.

(a sigh of contentment and hope}

But plans are meant to be changed and who knows what will ultimately happen?

A Profile of American Tourists

2009-10-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve observed several categories of American tourists here in Fes. These tourists usually stay in Fes for 2 or 3 days and are really among the minority of the various cultures that visit here. We get a lot of European tourists due to the proximity and cheap airfares. We also get a surprising number of Australians. I’ve found Australians are great travelers and the fact that it takes up to 24 hours to reach their destination is just part of the journey for them. Eastern Europeans, Japanese, Koreans, and even one or two groups of Mexicans all find their way to Morocco. But it is Americans I want to write about because I am one of them and so I am keen to observe their behavior outside of the U.S.

One group of American tourists includes the blissfully naïve. Often, they are quite young and seem to make their way through their time here with blessed aplomb. They might get taken advantage of by some seasoned hustlers, but more often then not they are befriended by some Moroccan or another with a truly kind heart who takes them under their wing and provides them with great experiences and touches their heart.

There is another group of tourists who are found in organized groups. They travel in herds and follow the prescribed path of their official guides. They, too, leave with a smile on their face. And while this group most assuredly overpays for any trinket or carpet they have purchased, they have either accepted that this is just the way business operates here, or they remain unaware and truly believe their guide was negotiating on their behalf and received a good price for their purchases. Either way, they are happy.

The next group is the back-packing crowd. They carry their complete needs on their back and front, like a camel laden with necessities for a long trek through the desert. They are the bargain hunters with basic needs for shelter and high expectations for experience. They are a hardy lot and make their way across the country in pairs or small groups. They go with the flow and either know what they want, or accept what they get. This group seems to have a happy experience here, too.

Another group is made up of two distinct subgroups. These are the Americans with money. Some are quite well-off and this group has a great time here. They can afford all the special offerings like excellent 5-star hotels, specialty tours for cooking, wine-tasting and calligraphy classes. They never really experience the nitty-gritty part of life in a medieval city (except the occasional power outage or water stoppage that just somehow adds to the charm of the experience) except from a comfortable distance. Their sheltered experience is full of color and charm. And if something happens to ‘go wrong’ – like some unrelenting street boy who won’t stop pestering them to buy his hand of Fatima key rings – they turn the experience into an entertaining story to regale their friends and family. They are incredibly adept at rising above the fray and keeping perspective.

And then there is the ‘not-so-rich, but ‘better off than most’ group of American tourists. This group lacks the charm of all the other groups because this tourist is always on the lookout for being taken advantage of. Armed with their Lonely Planet, they challenge every exchange and want it to be known they are nobody’s fool. They reject, judge and seem to label everything as either good or bad. They are so intent on ‘coming out ahead’ or ‘being in the know’ that they miss the journey completely. I see it so clearly because I, too, have been guilty of this guarded attitude that seems to guarantee an unhappy response to one’s experience. They insist that people behave according to their standards. And of course this is a recipe for disaster when trying to immerse oneself in a different culture.

Take it from me. I’ve learned the hard way. But all-in-all, I think my fellow Americans are open to the Moroccan experience and I am always happy to see them.

Tomorrow After Tomorrow

2009-10-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

Often, when I ask when something will be done, or begun, or arrive I am frequently told ‘tomorrow after tomorrow’. Now I have grown up with the exhortation that tomorrow never comes. So then ‘tomorrow after tomorrow’ becomes a truly nonexistent date. And often it is nonexistent. But then sometimes, the event or project or product really does arrive. Not exactly ‘tomorrow after tomorrow’ but it does arrive.

Accepting ‘tomorrow after tomorrow’ has been just one of the lessons I have learned whilst living in Morocco these past three years. My ‘to do’ list is useless. Time and time again I have learned that my timetable is never the same as anyone else’s timetable. So, a list of things I want to accomplish or acquire and the desire to tick off everything on the list just becomes an exercise in frustration. I’ve found the easiest thing to do is give up the list.

Now having an intention is different. I have great long lists of intentions that I dare not put down on paper lest I become wrapped up in actually realizing them and – God forbid – have a mental ‘due date’ associated with each intention. And lo and behold the manifestation of these intentions actually happens sometimes. It seems kind of magical.

Take, for instance, my intention to limit my time in Morocco each year. One more gruelingly hot summer, accompanied by a month of Ramadan, has brought me to the end of my rope. I can’t bear the idea of another summer in Morocco and want to find a way to return to California for several months next year.

Here’s what has happened since voicing that intention:

The Director of my school said I could work 4 semesters, rather than 6, and still keep my job.

In 24 hours, two parties have approached me about renting my entire house --- one for a year and a half and the other for up to two years.

Another party has expressed interest in partnering with me to finish the restoration of the house and help operate it as a guest house.

Now the trick is, as I see it, to avoid pushing for any one solution but keep my mind and heart open as to what will happen next. This is tricky for a task-driven person such as me. I try to weigh all options and have contingencies all planned out. Of course this approach has never really been effective --- especially in Morocco where ‘tomorrow after tomorrow’ rules the happenings (and non-happenings) of the day. But what is rather fun to observe is how intentions give way to opportunities which may or may not come to fruition. And the real fun comes in observing my reaction to the rise of opportunities (“oh wonderful”, I gleefully tell myself. “This must be the Universe’s way of telling me this is the right action”) and my response to the slamming shut of doors that once seemed wide open (“how could I have been so wrong? … What should I have done to make this thing happen?”). In other words, I masochistically observe myself drive myself crazy until I finally surrender to the wisdom of “Insha’allah”.

Fasting fueds

2009-08-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

When you are fasting during the hot summer months, it is easy to lose your temper. And at least three times a day, I bear witness to tempers flaring and a great release of pentup frustration and anger.

It's best to give everyone a wide berth and keep to yourself during the daytime if possible. But many hearty Moroccans are out there taking bread to the bakers, toting water in buckets and visiting the few shops that are open to purchase food and drink for the young, eldery and sick who cannot fast. Life carrys on as before for many and fasting is more of a challenge for those who must continue working during Ramadan.

I marvel at their fortitude and strength.

But things that would be overlooked with a full stomach and quenched thirst can give rise to awesome displays of temper right now. I witnessed a tremendous row at the water fountain yesterday. A big crowd gathered and as the combatants gained momentum, those standing sentinel nearby swooped in at the appropriate moment to stop the argument just when you thought blows were about to be exchanged. It was compelling to watch. They were allowed free reign to 'let it all out' until the moment when an invisible line was about to be crossed. Then the two people arguing were appropriately soothed by their 'minders'. And I can't help but think those losing their temper knew their brothers and sisters would protect them from themselves.

More heated exchanges ensued later that same afternoon. But this was more apparent as pure bravado and bluster.

Sometimes it feels good to raise your voice, wildly gestulate and storm off in a huff. I imagine those who lose them tempers like this can enjoy a nice siesta after expending so much energy.

The heat is on!

2009-07-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

Summer in Fes is a test. Can you keep working, keep your cool, and survive life in an oven for 90 days? That’s the big examination question. For me, the answer is “not if I don’t have to”. I can’t stand summers here. But here I am because work isn’t over yet.

Last year I opted not to work in July. This year, I didn’t think I could press my luck another year so I asked to teach half-time. And only in the mornings. This way, I can get up and dressed before the heat of the day settles upon us. Then I’m back at home during the blazing heat of the afternoon where my foot-thick walls and tiled floors help to keep the ground floor somewhat cool. During these afternoons I take a nap. After the sun goes down I come out again … as does the rest of Fes.

Of course there are few tourists here in the summer. It’s just too damn hot. But those who do come brave the heat of the day in their strappy tank tops and shorts and thereby add a point of interest to those who are lounging on the floors of their darkened shops waiting for the heat to dispel. Cheap entertainment. No electricity, cables or satellite dishes required.

I don’t want any visitors in my house right now because I don’t want to give up the ground floor. Upstairs is hot. Too hot for guests and too hot for me now. I lived upstairs for five days last week and that was the last time. I couldn’t wait for my guests to leave! The terrace is unbearable during the daylight hours but a source of welcome breezes by night. I have yet to sleep up there at night but I can tell the time is coming. And while the downstairs is pretty nice for now, the heat is inexorably building. I can practically hear it.

Everyone is talking about Ramadan and anticipating the challenge of not eating or drinking for what will be about 18 hours a day I guess. The month of Ramadan progresses forward 13 days every year. So it takes about 30 years to go through the entire calendar. I don’t actually know how old one is when they begin to observe Ramadan but for all those Moroccans under 40, this will be their first time to fast during the long, hot days of summer. And Ramadan during the summer will last for about 5 years. It’s going to be brutal as far as I can tell. People will simply have to stay indoors during the day if they hope to fast safely. This is going to be very interesting this year. It’s THE TOPIC on everyone’s mind these days as we get the full taste of summer heat.

Drama

2009-06-27T03:33:00.000-07:00

It seems to me that drama is a way of life here. And it plays itself out in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

Take yesterday, for example. The heat was on and tempers flared along with the temperature. The workmen in our house all wittingly or unwittingly participated in the black mood of the artisan working in our entry way. And what is normally at the heart of the drama is money (or the lack of money to be more accurate). The result at the end of the day was an argument with the supplier of zeliig. He didn’t give us the correct amount of tile and was demanding more money to provide us with what we needed. Egos got involved and we refused to pay more. So this meant we couldn’t finish the stairs we’ve spent an entire year trying to do. No more zeliig to finish the final four steps. So the workers laying the tile called it quits. And the worker who was stripping the front door of its toxic lead paint got a piece of something or other in his eye so he had to stop to tend to his wound. And the artisan who set the dominoes tumbling grumbled off the job complaining that we was hungry and wouldn’t pay him (not true … we just wanted him to finish his days work before giving him his daily wage. A lesson we learned the hard way after paying people before the job was done and then never seeing them again.) I am at the end of my pay period and money is tight. So I was in a foul mood when I left to teach because everyone was asking me for money ahead of the agreed upon schedule. So my class suffered because of my short fuse. When I came home after teaching an extra class due to a last minute request from a colleague, it looked like the Moroccan mafia waiting outside me door. Everyone wanted money and the peacemakers had arrived with them to settle the mob down. But money was dispensed and today everyone is friends again.
And that’s an example of the more subtle type of drama.

The more exciting drama is when shouting and yelling occur. And oh boy the volume that can be generated is awesome. This can result in people not speaking for a year or more and the entire town seems to take sides. I myself have participated in this. And yes, the issue was about money. Who owed whom money. And while I now give a slight nod of recognition to my antagonist, his wife still won’t allow her children to say hello to me. But one of her sons likes to greet me when neither of his parents is around. He sneaks a look right and left before kissing me and exchanging a few words. Then he hurries off. It’s a secret love affair along the lines of Romeo and Juliet. Drama. Life is full of it here.

Squeegees

2009-06-27T03:28:00.001-07:00

No Moroccan household is complete without squeegees. And I don’t mean the handheld type that I am used to … the kind used to clean windows or the windshield of your car. No, Moroccan squeegees are long-handled and are used to clean the tiles floors. And if you have squeegees, you have to have buckets too. I have three squeegees and an ever-changing number of buckets. I try to keep a bucket or two for household cleaning and one to wash dishes in (no sink yet for dishwashing). I fondly refer to my dishwashing bucket as my dishwasher. “Just put the glasses in the dishwasher, I’ll take care of them later …” But whenever a construction project takes place, one of my buckets is inevitably used to mix cement or plaster. So I am constantly buying new buckets.

I keep a squeegee in each shower and one in my ‘utility’ closet in the downstairs bathroom. I have tried to keep the shower squeegees designated for ‘bathroom use only’ but those darn workmen always grab the nearest one and use it to wash down the wet cement mixed in the heretofore mentioned buckets. It’s a losing battle so I just clean the squeegee after the workmen and put it back where they found it. I’ve tried hiding them but there really isn’t anywhere sacred in this house. And I’m often away at work while any construction project in happening. I do swear under my breath when I have to clean my cleaning tools before I can clean the house because I haven’t found any solution to this ‘what’s yours is mine’ mentality except surrender. I’m not too gracious about this surrender yet. Perhaps with time I will find this grace I used to think I had.

It’s funny. I am so keenly aware of my feelings of ‘ownership’ of things. This is my glass and that is my towel. Don’t touch them! Can’t seem to fully integrate into the ‘share and share alike’ mentality. Perhaps it’s because I am with one with the good stuff to share. And the people wanting to share with me can’t replace anything they break or ‘lose’. My CD player and my camera have been shared to death. Likewise some of my tools. One of my favorite outfits (shared with a friend) was lost at the cleaners. I swear – someday I will attack the woman I see wearing it on the street. See what I mean about no grace? It’s shocking when I think about it but this graspy attitude sticks with me.

I share my house with groups of friends who want a safe harbor. But I am the one left to clean up afterwards and I am the one with the job to pay for the place and the electricity no one can seem to remember to turn off when they leave the room. I try to remind myself to be grateful that I have a job but it’s kind of challenging when everyone else is staying up all hours of the night and then traipsing off to Essaouira for a music festival while I must go to bed early because I have a class in the morning and must remain in Fes to keep my job … and pay for the things that Moroccan hospitality demands that you share.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent. Where was I? Oh yeah, squeegees.

I’m fairly proficient with a squeegee now. I’ve mastered the technique of wrapping a towel around the rubber part to damp mop a floor. I can turn it over to the clean side with a flip of the handle and wrap it around the rubber once again with a flick of the wrist. I can squeeze the water out of the towel so that it’s almost dry and mop the house from top to bottom in a short amount of time --- that is if I don’t get distracted by the dust somewhere. So much dust collects on a daily basis. When I mop the floor the dust collects in big clumps that look like cat hairballs. Ugh!

It’s raining now and of course the halqa is leaking so the water is collecting on the ground floor. Time to get my squeegee out and push the puddles into the drain. Hey wait a minute … why isn’t someone sharing this work with me?!!????

Comings and Goings (and stayings?)

2009-05-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

People come and go in Fes; particularly foreigners. Of course there are the expected comings and goings of tourists. And then there are those foreigners who have invested in a house or apartment in Fes and they periodically show up to check on the progress (or often, the lack of progress) on the restoration of their houses. And finally there are those expats living here who are from nearby countries. A trip home to France or England is just a two-hour flight so they ‘pop’ home several times a year to visit friends and family or renew their visas. For me, it’s a little more difficult to arrange a trip home because it’s so far away (which makes it a costly trip) and I really don’t have a home to return to. I divested myself of all my possessions in the U.S., including my condo, my car and all my belongings. It looks like I am here to stay.

But with summer looming ahead, I am loathing the thought of spending the stultifying month of August in Fes. Add the fact that Ramadan and fasting begins in the latter part of this month and it’s just one more compelling reason to find a way to get out of town and head north for some relief from the heat. But where to go? Finances dictate that it be a free place to stay. I tried camping my first summer here and it’s not something I want to repeat. I’m just not made for life in a tent and cold water showers from a hose or communal shower --- at least not for an extended period of time (like more than two days). We have contemplated going to England to visit Hassan’s sister but that involves getting Hassan a visa and so far, no movement has been made to get this underway. So, I’m still pondering my options. The least attractive is staying in Fes and frequenting the water holes daily. The most attractive is a miraculous invitation to stay with someone (who?) in a climate-friendly place. Time will tell.

Busy, busy, busy

2009-05-17T07:42:00.000-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to write because I’ve been so very busy. The house has been full of guests. Some university students from America occupied the ground floor for a week whilst a friend and her two young sons occupied my bedroom upstairs. Fes was booked full with tourists and my friend was here from England to check up on the restorations of her house. I offered her our bedroom for a few days because they had no other place to stay. Counting Hassan and me there were ten guests in the house! What a crowd.

School continues at its predictable pace. We are now midway through the term and this is when the teaching begins to feel like a bit of a grind. But I know from experience this feeling will pass as the end of the term draws near. After this semester ends, we have a very short break of five days and then the two week summer intensive courses begin. I will teach two classes, six days a week, for five hours a day. What makes it difficult is the heat. There is one more intensive semester in July and then a month-long summer break. I wish I could travel to the U.S. in August but I don’t think finances will make it possible this year. Hassan and I are thinking of going to visit his sister in England, but it all depends on getting him a visa and, of course, the cost. I loathe the idea of August in Fes and simply don’t know what I will do if I have to stay here. It’s unbearably hot and I get cranky just thinking about it. But let’s see what the future brings.

We have ordered the tiles (zelig) to finish the stairs up to the terrace. Just the tiles cost nearly a month’s wages so it’s been a long period of saving to finance this project. With any luck, the tiles will be cut to size and ready for installation within a week. I already have the cedar wood treads for the stairs and what remains to be paid for is the installation, the cement and the sand. But the big costs have been covered so I am anxious to finish the stairway. Access to the terrace is very important in the hot weather for sometimes sleeping on the terrace is preferable to sleeping inside at night. Even with the mosquitoes and bats flitting about! Early morning hours are delightful on the rooftops and Hassan is full of plans to set up a barbeque for cooking and even the installation of a shower (cold water only).
We can arrange a tent for shade during the sunny part of the day and this will expand our living space.

I have been delighted to meet a fellow Californian who is married to the Moroccan man living on the street next to ours. We share a common wall with this family and Hassan grew up with the myriad of boys (there are 8 of them I think) who make up this lovely family. Amanda and her husband met and married in Brazil and have now come to Fes to meet her husband’s family and have a Moroccan wedding fest. She is from Southern California and is managing editor of a magazine in the states. Amanda is articulate and one of the most balanced people I have ever met. I enjoy her company so much and I think I’ve been very helpful to her as she tries to acclimate to Moroccan life. We laugh and laugh at the absurdities and inevitable mishaps that are a result of the cultural differences. I am hoping they elect to stay in Fes because it’s really great for both Hassan and I to have this couple to share experiences with.

Today I am hoping the man we hired to build a door on the downstairs bathroom will show his face. Right now there is just a curtain from the salon to the bathroom and it’s not all that private for the person sleeping in the salon. It’s been over two weeks since we hired him (really, just how long does it take to build a door?) and yesterday he promised to arrive and install the door but he was a no-show. Not unusual, just mildly irritating when you are anxious to complete a project. Anyway, we’ve been trying to track him down to come finish the job. The last “woodman” we hired didn’t complete his job (again, not unusual) and I’m hoping for more success with this guy. Lot’s of doors need to be installed (they were taken off to strip down to the cedar wood) and more need to be built (for those that were left out in the rain and warped beyond recognition). Shutters to the salons upstairs need to have the furry wood sanded smooth (the fur coat is a result of the product used to strip off the years of lead paint) and some of the transom windows with colored glass need to be rebuilt and missing glass needs to be cut and nailed into place.

There are so many projects. Some beamed ceilings need to have the plaster and cement scraped off and tinted with a unifying color. All the cedar wood needs a new application of linseed oil. Metal grillwork needs a thorough cleaning and painting. Walls need to be plastered. Sinks need to be purchased and installed. Windows need to be built, etc, etc. etc. The list seems endless.

So, life is full of projects and work to finance the projects. Socializing and family life need time and attention too. Most mornings I wake up and need a few hours to just stare off into space and gather my energy for the day’s ‘to-do’ list. And things don’t get ticked off the list like I’m used to. Things progress in fits and starts. But I’m getting used to the pace and don’t get frustrated like I used to.

Unwittingly, a terrace garden began to take shape today. Hassan picked me up from school and as we were walking home I spied two young boys hoisting some terracotta planters onto the sidewalk. After a little negotiation, we bought all three large, cylindrical shaped planters for about $8. They are very old as some elderly woman gave them to the boys to sell for her. The boys carried them to our house and situated them on the terrace. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. The boys had returned with two more, large planters. These we bought for about $6. Now all I need are some plants to put in them and the rooftop garden will have begun! I laughed to myself as Hassan and I were just talking about his plans to create a nice space on the terrace for summer. And the containers for the plants miraculously appeared. It all felt a bit magical to me.

Spring Break

2009-04-05T04:43:00.000-07:00

The long, cold, wet winter is over and spring has sprung in glorious fashion. With a week off from school, I decided to travel to the Moyen Atlas and visit a part of Morocco I had yet to see.

We started our journey with an 8 hour drive to the big cascade (waterfall) in Morocco; Cascades D’Ouzoud. The drive took us through the most wonderful countryside that was filled with wildflowers; red poppies, calendula, some undefined purple flowers and sprigs of white. The surrounding mountains were still snow-capped and the valleys were incredibly green. I saw one of the most beautiful meadows filled with wildflowers that I have ever seen in my life! And with a daily shower of rain, there were rainbows to see everyday!

Cascades D’Ouzoud is basically a campground with hiking trails which lead down to a meandering riverbed of muddy waters. The heavy rains are responsible for the muddiness; I’m told most of the year the waters are crystal clear. And there are monkeys that live in the surrounding forest and they are quite humorous to watch. They have a blond fur and are incredibly playful. They come very close to you and leap into the trees with great dexterity. It was fun to watch them.

After the waterfalls, we carried on through Tizi N’Tichka to Ait Benhaddou. An oasis with great palmeries and a place called the Thousand Casbahs. You had to cross a riverbed on donkeys to get to the casbahs and thereafter you could wander around the city and climb to the top to view a Jewish cemetery. We spent the night at a nice place next to the river. The room was grander than anything else we encountered in our budget range and included dinner and breakfast. Both of which were pretty dreadful. But, you can’t have everything!

The next day we went to the Dades Valley and the Gorges via Ouarzazate, which is known as ‘Hollywood in the desert’. It is here that many films have been produced including Sheltering Sky, Gladiator, Mummy I & II and The Last Temptation of Christ. We saw two beautiful canyons. One with the weirdest rock formations and the other with sheer cliffs filled with serious rock climbers. We pressed on to Erfoud in the Sahara desert.

Erfoud was a nice relaxing town. We spent the night in a step up from a fleabag hotel and visited with some friends of Hassan’s. His brother met up with us in Rissani and helped with the long drive home. Upon leaving Erfoud, we were stopped by the police who said we were going 56km in a 40km zone. After a long harangue they divested us of 100 dirham. We drove back through town to see this 40km sign. After traveling the length of the town and seeing no evidence of a sign, we went back to the police and insisted they return our money. They did so with great reluctance but with fear in their hearts that I would go to the gendarmerie and report them. One more stop along the way to a farm where yet more acquaintances lived and we picked up another passenger for the ride to Fes. We arrived safe and sound, having travelled nearly 7,000 km in 4 days.

International Women's Day

2009-03-10T05:58:00.000-07:00

A really lovely gathering took place the other day at a cafe in Batha. There was a nice mix of expats and locals and the most fabulous garden setting.

An all-women musical group called Jililiat played to the delight of all. There was henna and a luncheon for those with the foresight to book ahead. Because the music was so enticing, women from the surrounding houses climbed up to their terraces and joined in. I particularly liked the hair tossing! Long tresses were flung back and forth as they rocked to the rhythms of Jililiat. Ululations echoed around the courtyard and a good time was had by all. Everyone was in the mood to celebrate the feminine spirit.

Searching for Evelyn

2009-03-08T01:48:00.000-08:00

It’s taken me some time to find my footing here is Fes. When I first arrived, I played the role of student. I was studying Arabic and I must admit I was a terrible student. That was difficult for me because I love learning and I am usually successful at my studies. And I had just graduated from my ESL course at the top of my class! But this time, I was the worst student in the class. So my knee jerk reaction was to dropout of my course. Within a few weeks of dropping out, I became a teacher. Now I was on firmer ground. I’ve taught before and even though it was my first experience teaching English as a second language, I was much more comfortable.

Next, I became a wife for the first time in my life. Once again, I was in unfamiliar territory. It was strange, exciting and unsettling. Time and time again, when seemingly insurmountable difficulties arose, I tried to ‘dropout’ but was met with strong resistance each time. So I stuck it out and it has not been without great struggles and hard-learned lessons. But the lessons have been important. I found myself behaving in a way I thought I was supposed to behave rather than being who I truly am. Of course the results were unsatisfactory. But more and more I am reconnecting with who I am and the adjustment is making my life more enjoyable.

An overlay to all these experiences is being an expat. I’ve never lived in a foreign country before. Here I am a ‘gowree-ah’ (a stranger/Westerner). Sometimes Moroccan’s find me interesting and exotic; sometimes they think I can provide a golden opportunity for their own advancement, and sometimes they respond to me with derision, envy and resentment. It runs the gamut.

My fellow expats are an interesting lot. At first, I did little to cultivate relationships with other expats. Perhaps it was because of my marriage. I was trying to fit in with Moroccans but after many unsuccessful attempts to adapt to the lifestyle of my husband, I have abandoned my attempts to reinvent myself. I didn’t really cotton to the heavily communal lifestyle. I couldn’t relate to the traditional roles of the women. And I no longer had the stamina to pull all-nighters with my husband at wedding fests or gnouah and milhoon music gatherings. So after months and months of trying to deny my ‘other-ness’, I have decided to embrace it instead. The result has been reconnecting with my strengths and experience as well as the flowering and deepening of friendships with my fellow ex-pats … all of whom have interesting and wacky aspects to them that I really admire and enjoy.

Another change in how I am perceived has to do with my economic situation. I have always held a firm place in the middle-class. And living in Marin County, California -- one of the wealthier and more privileged places in America where prices climbed into the stratosphere during my 30 years there --I found myself slipping into the lower middle-class. But here in Fes I am perceived as being rather wealthy. Little do they know! But perception and reality are often at odds and in the Medina particularly, a lot of the locals think I hold a strong economic position. Aywah! The result is I have to constantly be wary of prices I am quoted … for everything from a kilo of strawberries to the price of cement and labor. Additionally, I have to be judicious with my offers of help because fulfilling all the requests I get would leave me penniless and with no time to make a living of my own. And finally, I try to stay aware of the unique perspective I have; economically-speaking, I am a ‘have-not’ in the U.S. – I have no real estate holdings, no car, a miniscule ‘portfolio’ and no income. While here in Morocco I have more than most. I have experienced both perspectives and I am working on recognizing my own envies with the goal of eliminating them altogether. How much more satisfying and energizing it has been to feel joy for another’s good fortunes and blessings rather than being plagued by envy.

I am back to dancing. Something I love and something I had abandoned when I arrived here because it is thought to have a limited place in a woman’s life. Here, a woman dances at wedding fests and at women-only gatherings. A ‘respectable’ woman doesn’t dance in public. But I am not a respectable Moroccan woman. I am a respectable American who loves to dance and takes great joy in this form of expression. So I am now the weekly teacher of belly dance at Café Clock. I also give private lessons. Yesterday, I held a special workshop for 9 young women from the American University in Paris. It’s extra income for me and it feeds my spirit.

Additionally, I host overnight guests in my house. The ground floor is quite comfortable now and I no longer feel like I am camping out all the time. When some tourists are referred to me by mutual acquaintances and the conditions are right (i.e., no workmen in the house and there are plenty of clean linens available) I open my house to these travelers. I’ve had people from Spain, Italy, New Zealand, England and Germany stay with me. I like sharing my space with people who appreciate my style. And I like it when they leave, too.

So now I am a teacher, a wife, a dancer, a quasi-business owner, and a strange character in society. I guess you could say I have fully embraced my “gowhree-ah-ness”. And with the exception of being a wife, I have been played all of these roles before. The main difference is my audience has changed. Now I am playing a lead role in an off, off-Broadway production. And like any good actress, I draw upon my previous experiences to bring authenticity to my character. And that’s something I have always known but seemed to have forgotten these past two years. Be authentic. Be true to yourself. Even in the midst of significant change, never forget who you really are.

Jobs!

2009-03-03T02:48:00.000-08:00

After two years of unemployment, my husband has finally landed a job! And it’s not something I envisioned at all but it seems perfect! My habibi will be working full-time as a rep for a furniture company in Casablanca. And the job begins this week.

Destiny played her hand after both of us had reached the end of our ropes. I had delivered yet another ultimatum to my spouse. In response, he fell ill and went home to be nursed back to health. During that miraculous week, he healed. He got physically better and spiritually stronger. He quit smoking altogether. Hash and cigarettes are a thing of the past. He began praying five times a day. And knowing I wouldn’t turn down the request of his good friend, Adil, they both approached me one day and asked for a 400 dirham advance to go to Casablanca to work on what I understood to be a construction job. As it turned out, that job was actually building a faux waterfall in a furniture showroom. The owners saw something in Hassan that sparked their interest and before the week was over, he was offered a job to represent their line of furnishings. He will be provided with an allowance for his housing and his car and will be paid on a commission basis. Hassan is a superb salesman and this is a great opportunity for him!

Hassan returned from Casablanca bearing small gifts and enough money to pay for his car insurance (the car had been sitting in the parking lot for three weeks). My loan was repaid and the women in Hassan’s family switched into high gear to clean and press suitable clothes for his work. Suits, slacks, shirts and shoes were piled high in the salon yesterday and we all carefully stacked his work clothes into suitcases for the return trip to Casablanca. None of his clothing remains in our house on Derb Ben Salem for his home will be Casablanca for the foreseeable future. His energy is remarkable and I feel like I am seeing the real Hassan for the first time. It was a joy to have him around this weekend.

Sunday night, as I waved goodbye as he drove away, I felt really hopeful about the whole situation. I really don’t mind living on my own for the majority of my time. I am rather used to it.

During the past three weeks things have picked up for me, too. I have two marketing projects and am now teaching dance at Café Clock every Monday evening. I still enjoy my English teaching job and have just begun another major project on the house. That project is being funded by the money I’ve collected from overnight guests. In the end, I hope to have one more salon ready on the upper floor with an en-suite bathroom. Just in time for the Sacred Music Festival and tourists coming to visit on spring break. So there is plenty to keep me occupied in my solitude. Next week I have four days off from work (there is a small holiday in honor of the prophet’s birthday). Inshallah, I will travel to Casablanca to meet Hassan’s new employers and we will stay at his sister’s apartment. Hassan’s mind is full of plans for the future and his determination is inspiring. While in Casablanca, we intend to visit the American Consulate to see about securing a visa for him so he can visit the U.S. with me this summer.

Blessed be!

10 Things

2009-03-01T04:20:00.000-08:00

Ten things I never used to do before living in Morocco

1. Drink my coffee with milk and sugar.
2. Sleep in my clothes and wear them again the next day.
3. Wear slippers on the street.
4. Take taxis everywhere.
5. Ride trains.
6. Sleep until noon.
7. Live within my means.
8. Speak Arabic, French and English in one sentence and be understood.
9. Bathe from a bucket.
10. Pay cash for everything.

Ten things I don’t do anymore living in Morocco

1. Cook (at all).
2. Wear revealing clothes.
3. Drink alcohol.
4. Go to the movies.
5. Launder my own clothes.
6. Move every 6 months.
7. Eat junk food.
8. See a therapist (of any kind).
9. Use a credit card.
10. Wear wigs (a real pity).

Knock, knock

2009-02-17T07:56:00.000-08:00

Opportunity is knocking and I am determined to answer the door!

Since my birthday last week, I felt I have been given a new lease on life (see last posting). And while the long-term tenants I recently wrote about haven’t come to fruition, the other night two German fellows stayed at the house for two nights giving me new motivation to seize opportunities when they arise. And if the first knock at the door doesn’t bear immediate results, I am just keep answering the door until opportunity actually enters.

I have recently agreed to write business plans for my local hangout; Café Clock and for another business in Moulay Idriss (a guest house). I happen to have the business plan I wrote for Caravan Costumes here in Fes and I have presented it as an example of what I am capable of doing. I re-read the plan I wrote several years ago now and I was impressed with myself! I can do this and I can do a good job! So, a trade deal is about to be made (food and lodging for the plans). This works well for me and will actually result in more money in my pocket each month (or rather, more money to spend on restoration) as well as a nice getaway for days off. Additionally, I also agreed to start dance classes on Monday evenings at Café Clock starting next week. I’ve wanted to do this for sometime but one thing or another prevented it from happening. But I let my interest be known and --lo and behold -- the wish is coming to fruition. I will initially conduct a “free introductory dance workshop” to kick things off and hope to build a steady clientele from there.

I now realize, after living here for two years and not really enjoying myself all that much, that I have not really been true to myself. I’ve kept myself from doing things I used to do or really like to do because I’ve been unsure of how I would be perceived or because I’ve been questioning my own abilities. And I’ve been doing things I don’t really like to do in an effort to ‘fit in’. But how could I possibly fit in anywhere if I’m trying to be someone I’m not?

So with this newfound resolve, opportunity is tapping (ever so lightly but definitely tapping) and I hear it and am ready to respond!

Wish me luck!

A New Lease on Life?

2009-02-15T05:22:00.000-08:00

During the past two days I have been approached twice about renting my house on a long-term basis. Nothing has happened beyond the initial inquiries and a look-see at the house. But it gives me something to think about. For if I were to rent the place it would provide me with an infusion of cash to begin a significant project; like rebuilding the last 15 stairs to the terrace or buying some appliances for the so-called kitchen.

Of course renting the place has other implications. For example, would I park myself in one unfinished room for 6 months and live in semi-camping mode or would I find another place to live on a temporary basis? I have thought about moving back into the teacher’s riad where I first lived two years ago. But another teacher has been living there on his own for many, many months and he is loathe to share space with anyone now (even though he said I would be the least objectionable option were I to move in), Living with my husband’s family is out of the question. And renting something else would cost too much money. So, where would I go? The answer hasn’t presented itself yet (but then, I’m not in actual need of an answer at this point in time). Yet, the possibilities are swarming around in my head.

Were I to move out, it would solve another dilemma in my life. Life with my husband has become increasingly problematic due to his lack of initiative and inability to make a living. And for the past week he has been living at his family house. After delivering an ultimatum; “start doing something productive or I will divorce you” he fell ill and went home to be nursed back to health. If I were to rent the place and vacate the premises, this ‘separation’ would be extended and I can’t help but think that would be extremely desirable for me.

Well, I guess I am just in a ‘wait and see’ mode for now. But I feel significant change is in the wind and I warmly welcome it’s arrival.

A Grand Day

2009-02-11T04:55:00.000-08:00

Roses, chocolate, cake, songs, assorted emails and the best hammam ever were the ingredients of my birthday celebration yesterday. What a day it was! I awoke at 6:30 and sang the birthday song to myself. For the first time in ages, I felt really happy. I went back to sleep and had dream after dream. At 9:30 I woke up for real and took a couple of hours to get my act together. The sun was shining for the 2nd day in a row and I hung some laundry out to dry on the terrace. Around 11:00 I went to Café Clock and had some coffee and a bagel (bagels are one of the many non-Moroccan treats The Clock offers). At noon, my new friend, Rose, joined me. We had a date to go to a posh hammam for a body scrub. She arrived with roses, a card and a gift of perfume in hand.

Nauti-kah is one of the chic hammams in the New Town. I’ve only gone to the cheaper hammans in the Medina and surrounding area. After experiencing a dozen or so of these hammans, I had sworn off them. I didn’t like the crowds, the schlepping of buckets and the curious stares of my fellow patrons. And then weren’t exactly hygienic.

Nauti-kah costs 10X more than a ‘regular’ hammam but boy is it worth it! To begin with, you don’t have the initial, extended bargaining over the price when you enter the door. In regular hammams, a foreigner is often charged a different price. Even when you know what the real price is, you can spend at 20 minutes arguing over the cost and in the end you are still overcharged. Sometimes you have to fight to get your change if you don’t have the exact amount. And if you’ve somehow managed to pay the real price, your service is not up to par. Who wants to go for a relaxing few hours and begin with such a hassle? Not me! But at Nauti-kah, where the price is fixed at 180 dirham (about $24 U.S.), you are treated like a queen. You are given your own locker, a plush terrycloth robe, a towel and a really nice mitten for scrubbing the skin off your body.

After changing into the robe, you are escorted down into the hot, steamy hammam and ushered into ‘the vaporizing’ room. Your hand is filled with the special olive oil soap and you are instructed to rub the soap over your body and soften your skin with the steam. Soon, one of the workers comes to take you to a table with a foam head pillow (you don’t lie on the floor like you do at the other hammans). The scrub was so thorough and the women working there were incredibly nice. Once a few layers of skin had been polished off, you are taken to the whirlpool. Another sojourn into the steam room is followed by the application of rose-scented oil in another room. Next, you are given shampoo and directed towards a shower. Finally, there is the relaxation room – a dimly lit lounge with reclining chairs and muzak playing softly in the background. This process was 2 hours long and Rose and I were both glowing.

A taxi ride took us back to the Medina where we intended to have lunch. I dropped off my bag at the house and found a notice from the post office. My package from my friend Mary had finally arrived. I hurriedly set off for the post office and picked up the box. When I entered Café Clock I was told a gas leak in the kitchen had stopped all food preparation for a while. While sitting at a table drinking some water and preparing to rip into the package from home, the staff of the restaurant came around the corner with a cake and candles. I was serenaded with ‘Happy Birthday’ in English & Arabic.

Mary’s package included loads of goodies. Chocolate, body and hair products, more chocolate, a box of Mac & cheese (!?!!!), miniature slinky toys, a pink bandana, a vibrating toothbrush and something to house photos. WOW!

It was time to return home and prepare my lesson for class that night. Upon arriving at school, I had the teachers sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me. They were very obliging. Then I went for a quick coffee before class and fellow teacher insisted on paying for it. After class, he even gave me a ride home so I wouldn’t have to take a taxi on my birthday. I had my class sing to me, too. A text message instructed me to stop by Café Clock again when I got home and more flowers awaited me. And finally, my sister-in-law, Meryem, came by the house with a great sconce and two clay potting trays.

Where was my erstwhile husband on the special day you might ask? Well, he’s been rather ill and spending time at his family house where his mother is ministering to him. He did come by the house in the evening and offer to take me out for a fruit salad. But I needed to eat something heartier and so he joined me at a restaurant where I was given a few Moroccan pastries to commemorate the day. Hassan was sent back home to his mother and I settled into bed with a movie. I felt completely content and grateful for this wonderful day.

Teenagers

2009-02-04T04:04:00.000-08:00

Most of my students are teenagers; they are 15, 16, 17 years old. Many times I give them an assignment to write about their families. And when I read their writings I am struck by the difference between American teens and Moroccan teens. Moroccan teens extol the virtues of their family. They write about how much they love their family and describe how beautiful their mothers are and how handsome their fathers. They love spending time with their family and enjoy their vacations together. In America, the teens I know can’t wait to get away from their elders. But family life here is central to existence and meals are eaten together, free time is spent visiting one another (for everyone has a big supply of aunts, uncles and cousins) and many even have grandparents over 100 years old. Why, I met one old man who claimed to be 116 years old. He asked if he could meet my sister.

Of course there are plenty of teens in the new town who have embraced the styles of Western culture. At night, the school is swarming with teens. There are literally hundreds of them. They arrive early to flirt with one another and play snooker in one of the nearby cafes. It is not unusual to see young women arrive in their galabahs and headscarves and then later watch them emerge from the café restroom in black leather knee-high boots, low cut sweaters and studded mini skirts. Stiletto heels are all the rage. And the boys have their hair gelled into a shiny, spiky, gravity-defying arrangement which doesn’t move a centimeter even when riding their brightly colored scooters. The girls like to streak their hair in gold, red and blue and the luckier ones have their hair straightened into a flat, asymmetrical style. Of course there is a mad scramble to revert back to their modest attire after the bell announces the end of class because the parents are waiting outside in their cars to transport their precious cargo home.

A few weeks ago I saw one student roaming around the café an hour before class. I was in the café correcting papers from my morning class and preparing my lesson for the afternoon. This student came to my afternoon class without one page of homework completed. When I called him on it, he shucked and jived and failed to give me an explanation for his blank workbook pages. After the break, he arrived in class reeking of hashish. Yes, the students smoke, even drink wine and generally misbehave as teenagers all over the world are prone to do. But I didn’t expect this during the middle of a class. However, these students are more privileged then most and are often given more money to spend in a day than some families spend in a week on food. So, it’s no small wonder that they get into mischief.

But by and large, I find my teenaged students miraculously innocent and well-behaved. The jokes I crack in class in Morocco would be met with derision in California. But here, the students giggle in delight at the most simple things. For example, sometimes a student gives me an answer that includes a compliment to me. I pretend to add a nice notation about that student on their chart, just for saying something nice about me. Inevitably, the students laugh and laugh at this. I have another student who always wants to use the restroom at the same time every class. After the 4th or 5th time this happened (I was slow to catch on) I asked him to tell me the name of the girl he was meeting in the hallway. The entire class joined in on teasing this student and now that the jig is up, he good naturedly takes a ribbing every time the appointed hour for his rendezvous arrives. A rendezvous that he now does not keep.

On Sundays I privately tutor a young girl who is not allowed to leave her house alone. Her father is a wood worker and he has promised to exchange his craft for the lessons I give her. She speaks very little English and I am teaching the absolute basics to her. It’s challenging for me as my Arabic is more basic than her English. But we get by with pantomimes and pictures. At the end of yesterday’s lesson, she simply and earnestly said to me, “I like you.” It was so sweet and gratifying. Her mother arrived several times to proffer coffee with milk and sweets. Her younger sisters peeked in the salon from time-to-time and giggled at my attempts to speak Arabic as well as the sound of their older sister speaking English. And my young student sat very close to me during the entire lesson, leaning her body into mine as she laboriously practiced writing her letters.

I thank God for my students. They are always a bright ray of sunshine in my life and they never fail to cheer me up.

New Game

2009-02-04T03:38:00.000-08:00

I often play solitaire on my computer when I am feeling out of sorts. I think it has something to do with wanting to create order in my life. During those times when I feel out of control, I either clean the house or play solitaire. It helps ease my mind.

These days, I often wish I had a “new game” button to press when my life is off track. A button I can push when I’ve made the wrong moves and get stuck. Erase this hand and give me a fresh one, please. And while I recently wrote about trying to stay focused on the positive, all too quickly my house of cards tumbled into a heap. Now where is that “new game” button when I need it? Clear everything away. I want some new cards.

I don’t think the weather is making it easy to stay positive. I think the sun has shone all of 3 or 4 days during the past few months. And the cold adds another depressing variable to the mix. Yesterday it hailed heartily which caused an overflow of water on the terrace and that overflow came down the stairs carrying wet cement from the unfinished stairs. And just about everyone is sick. I had a worrisome few days with a wracking cough at night that left me absolutely wheezing for breath. And I was very sore from the severity of the cough in the area of my midsection where the ribs join together. After being told the tale of someone with a similar condition which was diagnosed as a lung infection, I quickly got some antibiotics and am pleased to report I am feeling better and the coughing has all but subsided. But my energy has been low and I’ve been sleeping a lot.

A new hand of cards is definitely in order. A simple “undo last move” button won’t help. It’s not the last decision I need to undo, but rather the last dozen or so moves. The way I see it, one mistake after another has been made and I’m afraid I simply cannot see the way to keep going. I’m not even interested in winning at a new card game -- I’m just weary of the game before me and would like to start over again. Mix things up differently. See what a muddle I can make of another arrangement of variables.

But throughout the trials and tribulations I live through, I always smile when I recall an astute observation a French woman once made. After telling her the tale of one of the business mistakes I had made in my life she sighed and said, “Ahh Yveline … if you aren’t making mistakes, you aren’t living.”

Well, here’s to living.

But still, could you deal me a new hand, please?

Schweeah, schweeah

2009-01-19T02:35:00.000-08:00

A common response to any expression of frustration about how slowly things are progressing is “schweeah, schweeah” (little by little). I am constantly being reminded that this is how things progress (or not) here in Morocco. Coming from a culture steeped in instant gratification, this is not always easy for me to swallow. But there is a wisdom here that I am coming to terms with.

Since arriving back in Fes in September, I have used schweeah schweeah as a sort of mantra. With so much left to do in the house and only my monthly salary to work with, I have tried to do a little something everyday to help restore this house back to its original grandeur. And in three months time I have accomplished a great deal … little by little.

I’ve added some greenery to the central salon, purchased a table and four chairs. I’ve cleaned and oiled the tile work on the ground floor, scraped the dried plaster off half the metal grillwork on the interior windows and oiled the metalwork to a nice sheen. I’ve had the shutters to the upstairs salons refitted to the windows and installed new hardware. Two doors have been built to replace those which were unfortunately left outside and warped beyond repair. A window has been added to the ground floor bathroom to keep out the dust, the cold, and (some) of the street noise. A few sconces and chandeliers have been added. The terrace has been tiled and the walls have been painted. I purchased cedar wood to rebuild the remaining 15 stairs leading to the terrace and a door has been added to the terrace entrance (it doesn’t close properly but that’s another project). Blistered, peeling paint has been scraped off the wood underneath the steps in the stairwell and the ceiling of a small room. A few days ago I repainted some wall surfaces that had yellowed from the cold and touched up some areas that were splattered with ‘God only knows what’ during previous work projects. And while the remaining work seems insurmountable at times, I do see progress when I take the long view.

So schweeah schweeah is actually working for me.

It’s all about perspective, isn’t it?

Presto -- Change-o!

2009-01-18T08:02:00.000-08:00

I awoke yesterday morning trying to make peace with the fact that I had hours and hours of clean-up to face. I really don’t mind the physical work and I really like the results, but I get tired of cleaning the same things over and over again. I never have liked repetitious work.

So I sat in the main salon drinking my morning coffee, eating some petit pain au chocolate and putting off the start of my day’s activities. Mehdi came to the door bearing gifts from his recent trip to Mecca. He gave Hassan a nice, traditional scarf and he gave me a small vial of perfume. I smiled to myself when I saw the label, “Channal 5”. We had our breakfast and then Mehdi went on his way. Soon after that, Hassan brought a man ‘from his area’ to the house and they began to clean the floors and walls. It was such a great help! After they left I still had a few hours of work, but nothing like I would have had if they hadn’t pitched in. So now, the house is back in order and the walls look pristine again. I have clean linens on the bed upstairs and we’re ready for visitors again. Too bad there aren’t any friends coming to fill our rooms right now. The economy and the cold aren’t helping matters. But things change and all I have to do is be patient.

Sometimes I am so grateful that I decided to come here when I did. I think if I had stayed in the U.S. I might have gone through the same amount of money with nothing to show for it for I would have had to rent a place and pay for insurances and the upkeep on my car. Those expenses alone would have depleted my savings significantly. And I’m not so sure I would have found employment to help with expenses. But here, I have a job, a fully-paid for house and minimal living expenses. No insurance (my health care is paid for through work), no car expenses (it’s all Hassan’s responsibility to keep the car running and insurance paid for now), and about $25 a month pays for my utilities. Of course I don’t have a landline telephone, internet, or television satellite fess to pay for. I keep things pretty simple. But I net about $12,000 a year and that’s enough to keep us going. We are cold in the winter, hot in the summer, and we drive a beat-up car. But we get by. We can eat breakfast for $2, share a nice dinner for $7 and I can take a roundtrip taxi to school for $1.50. That’s not so bad.

Every now and then I am struck by the wonder of the changes in my life. Here I am in Africa, teaching young Moroccans to speak English, restoring a house that is hundreds of years old, married to someone who has never been out of his own country, and immersed in a culture that is so different from the one I know. Living here has changed me. Not quickly, but inevitably I think. I am more tolerant, more adaptable and more appreciative of what I’ve got and where I come from.

Mehdi just came to the door again. He asked for a small glass for water. When I brought it to him, he filled it with holy water from Mecca. He told me to have Hassan say an invocation and then we should share a drink of the water. How lovely. What shall we invoke as we drink this holy water? World peace would be nice.

Presto, change-o. May the world know peace.

Deconstruction

2009-01-14T03:47:00.000-08:00

I am someone who likes things neat and orderly. Living in Morocco has been a great exercise in letting go of my strong need to put things away and keep my world tidy. Well, I can’t honestly say I’ve let go of my desire for this but I don’t rant and rave as much as I once did when my world gets torn asunder. If I didn’t ease up on this urge, I would always been upset.

This constant tearing apart seems to be a way of life here. Every time I go to my husband’s family house, there is endless movement of furniture and belongings. Beds are disassembled and rearranged in another part of the house. There are two kitchens and it’s anybody’s guess which one will be operational on any given visit. People think nothing of picking up a roomful of furniture and taking it up on the terrace to enjoy the sun. The small gas canister used for heating water and cooking goes from room to room, depending on where everyone wants to have tea or cook a tajine.

Now the year before I moved to Morocco, I, too, was constantly moving my belongings. Floods and flood warnings were the primary reason but in one year I moved everything (including the contents of my shop) so many times I swore to myself I would only purchase furniture I could pick up myself from that point on. Little did I know this nomadic existence would become my lifestyle.

I was of the mind that because of the nomadic history here, it was in everyone’s blood to pick things up and move. Much of the furniture is designed to do just that. Tables to eat on are trays set on folding metal or wood. Beds are mattresses situated atop low wooden slats. Cooking is on small gas canisters. And extra seating or bedding is arranged with cushions and blankets piled on the floor. But then one Moroccan woman I know suggested that moving things and rearranging a household are things that keep a woman busy in the house – and keep her inside where it is still desirable (by the men) for her to remain most of the day. It’s probably a combination of these things but whatever the reason, it’s easier to go with the flow than to ask for things to be different.

So I sit here writing in what used to be my well-arranged, neat ground floor living space. But today, all the furniture has been piled into corners and the dust is once again filtering over all my belongings. That’s because the walls in the two salons have peeled off their paint from the cold and damp over that past year. And we are trying to make this place into a guest house and no one believed the flaking, peeling plaster was a special and traditional wall treatment. So in the end (Inshallah, tomorrow), the result will be good and more guests will come to help pay for the materials and the work.

But for now, I’m getting more practice letting go. For in the end, that’s what we all have to do with everything, isn’t it? Let it all go.

You've come a long way baby ...

2009-01-13T07:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I decided to allocate some of the proceeds from a recent project to purchase some wall sconces for the salons downstairs. Just purchasing lights is a major financial undertaking. I still have a bare bulb hanging from the central salon, but I need a really big light for this space (as well as a long, heavy chain to suspend the light from the halqa) and it will probably cost in excess of 1,500 dirhams. It will have to wait. But, I now have 8 sconces and two big lanterns to decorate both salons. Or, I soon will have when Hassan goes down into the Medina to pick up (and pay for) the four sconces I ordered. These sconces are rather bizarre, but I think they will work. They are reminiscent of Olympic torches with brass and bronze flinger-like ‘flames’.

As I sit in the salon that was once the only room we inhabited here, sealed off from the dust and debris of construction with heavy plastic, I think we have accomplished quite a bit during the past 16 months of restoration. The house is beginning to take shape and it has my signature style all over it. Eclectic, leaning towards the exotic, yet tasteful. That’s me all over. I’m a master at taking what I’ve got and making the most of it. I’m not one of those decorators who sees a vision and then manifests it. Rather, I take what exists and arrange it in a manner that pleases me. Because there is so much going on architecturally in this house (one pattern of zelig on the walls, another on the floors, decorative plaster on the walls, painted wood ceilings above, colored glass in the windows) one doesn’t need much in the way of furnishings. In fact, the simpler the better. So, a room can seem quite full and complete with a bed, a small table here and there and a chair. That’s enough. Safee!

And how luxurious it feels to have two toilets! Still no sink, no kitchen and no shower, but they are coming. And lately I believe they are coming sooner rather than later. Funny how the rest of the world seems to be tightening their belts and suddenly I am feeling more expansive. Maybe the feeling is just relative. After two years of scrimping and doing without, the simple act of making a few purchases now seems totally luxurious. Perhaps we’ve reached critical mass … at least on the ground floor. At this point, any money spent on the ground floor is for aesthetics or additional comfort. I’m not obliged to spend money on building a new wall, installing new electricity, water pipes and drains. Now I can add a cushion to the seating area, change the cord on lamps I brought from the U.S. to accommodate 220 voltage or buy some wool to stuff those Berber cushions and leather poufs I got so many months ago.

And while there are still many basic things to take care of to complete this house, we now can take refuge in some nicely decorated rooms and pat ourselves on the back for weathering the stormy times that got us here.

Winter

2009-01-12T05:14:00.000-08:00

It’s hard to believe winter has only just begun. Here in Fes, it feels like it’s been winter for months. Today, as usual, it is cold and rainy. I am alone in my 10 room, drafty house. The tourists have gone and Hassan in traveling with a group from Peru. His family is away as well, having piled into the eldest daughter’s van to deliver daughter number two and her family to Marrakech and from there they will fly home to London.

I am enjoying my solitude however. I move from room to room, watching the play of light from the well in the center of the house filtering onto the tiles and listening to the rain tap on the plastic. Like everyone else, I have found that plastic is the ultimate solution to keeping rain from coming through the skylight above.

A pile of laundry awaits the return of the sun … most people here do not have a clothes drier. We depend on the sun to dry our wet linens and clothes. On those rare days when the sun does come out, it seems every woman in the Medina can be found on their terrace hanging clothes and carpets in the air. On these days, the terraces are festooned with color and the steady movement of household maintenance marks the passing hours of the sun’s all too brief appearance. If you haven’t wrung enough water out of your clothes before hanging them on the line, they will not dry. Today I hand washed socks, underwear and tights. I have run out of these items and must hang them from the rafters to dry in couple of days.

Buckets. I seem to buy a lot of buckets for they are widely used here. I have a bucket to bathe from. Buckets to clean dishes and laundry, buckets to catch the rain that is leaking from the terrace floor. And women are seen carrying buckets to and from the hammam every day (but I never go to the hammam anymore … the scene is too crowded, too intense and – dare I say – too dirty for me). Then there are buckets for construction work. These inevitably end up full of dried cement or paint and crack under use. I’ve never had so many buckets in my life.

Life here is elemental. Talk about getting back to basics! Sometimes it is hard and sometimes it is soothing. Today I am soothed. For there is little to do beyond prepare for my class this evening and feed myself along the way. No house guests to look after, no demands to make an appearance at Hassan’s family house for lunch or dinner. No workers to clean up after and no one knocking at the door to ask for Hassan.

In this sociable society, I am a curiosity for I often prefer to keep to myself. And I especially don’t want to go out in this dreadful weather. “Aren’t you afraid to be alone in that house” they ask? “Why don’t you spend the night in our family house … sleep with us (all 6 or 8 or 10 of us) in this warm room…” But this is not who I am. I prefer to be alone or just with my husband when I sleep and when I awake and then ready myself for the upcoming day. Even as a young girl I remember the weekly shopping trip with my mother and my siblings. I was always hanging back, walking several paces behind them. I enjoyed the sense of being on my own. And I’ve never changed. I will never be someone who seeks constant companionship. In fact, I avoid it. I do like the company of others, but in small doses. I like to make guest appearances, kind of like the sun during this long winter season.

End of Year Report

2009-01-12T05:03:00.000-08:00

In a few short weeks I will mark my 2nd year anniversary here in Fes. And what a time it has been … never easy, always challenging and full of opportunities for personal growth.

As you might remember, I was just passing through when I arrived here in January 2007. But instead, I got a job, a husband, a house and a completely new lifestyle. I even got a new name.

You are aware of all the difficulties I’ve faced during my two years here, but I don’t think I’ve given a full accounting of all the positives. In keeping with the spirit of a new year bringing a fresh beginning, I am going to focus on just that … the positive.

The end of this year brought our first houseguests. I wasn’t quite prepared for this (to say the least), but Fes has been full of tourists during Christmas vacation and many people were scrambling for a place to stay during the last week of the year. So one evening a young Moroccan man brought 4 Spaniards to the house looking for accommodations. Well the few days before their arrival at my doorstep, I had purchased a new mattress and moved the existing mattress into one of the still unfinished upper salons. I then moved all my clothing and jewelry upstairs as well. Hassan, his mother and I went to a souk on one of the outer reaches of the Medina and purchased two long, foam cushions and I fashioned a Moroccan salon in the room where I had previously used as my ‘dressing room”. I had no sooner finished plumping up the cushions on the couch/beds, when the Spaniards arrived.

They stayed as our guests for three nights (during which time we had to turn away a hapless American woman whose reservation had been given away --- on New Year’s Eve no less) and then four more guests came on the following night. Minutes after the second batch left there was another knock on the door and an English couple came looking for a room as well. Fortunately for me and my sanity, they agreed to take the rooms but then left to get their luggage and never returned. The reason I was relieved they didn’t stay is because Hassan and I still don’t have a bathroom upstairs yet and we had to use public toilets and pee in a chamber pot upstairs while our guests were in the house. We’d wait until they left for the day to sightsee and sneak downstairs to shower and use the facilities. I grew tired of this setup after the fifth day so the English couple did me a huge favor by not returning.

But soon after our guests left, we put in another bathroom upstairs. I have installed a second toilet and, with any luck, a new sink will follow soon. No hot water yet but right now I am thrilled with just a toilet. I scrambled around yesterday buying a few things to accommodate more visitors(more pillows, bed linens and a big supply of toilet paper). So, we’re more ready than last week for guests and even though we don’t have the proper permit to do this yet, we are getting good experience housing guests until we can begin to accommodate tourists officially. This is great because I haven’t been able to fund much with my salary and the future looks promising in terms of financing a room here and there from the tourist trade. And, lo and behold, two Italian women came yesterday and stayed with us for three days. So, I’m back upstairs in an unfinished room, sleeping on a mattress on the floor and tiptoeing around while my guests enjoy the downstairs. And, even better luck, Hassan got a job to take seven Peruvians to the Sahara for 5 days. He left early this morning completely excited to be traveling again and earning some money.

School begins all too quickly and while I don’t prefer to work as much as I do, I do enjoy my students more than ever. I was invited to speak at a University to students in an English language Master’s program. I was a hit with the students and have been invited back to speak about cultural differences between Moroccans and Americans. That should be lively!

Like most people, I have been suffering with a cold but it is hard to avoid. The weather has been cold and rainy for months now and the houses in the Medina are rather damp after all the rain. But it’s nothing to keep me down, just saps my energy a bit. The good news is everything is incredibly green and lush in the surrounding hills and there is snow on the mountains in the distance. Flowers are in bloom too and it looks like spring (even if it doesn’t feel like spring).

Hassan likes to say I am famous here in Fes. And he calls me the “teacher of the teachers” because I have been assigned several student teachers during the last two semesters. And in some ways I do feel ‘famous’ around here. Children stop me on the street to give me a kiss (sometimes they kiss my hand), sometimes I get preferential treatment at the post office or some municipality just by nature of the fact that I am a teacher. And often I am treated to free coffee or food or tickets to an event because …. well, because of who I am I guess.

All this is to say, while life here is often difficult and my skills to handle the difficulties are often inept, I have established myself as a respected member of the community. And the house is looking better and better every month. We now have five rooms that are habitable and a terrace too. There are still many, many projects to tackle but for now, I just close the doors (when I have a door to close that is) on the rooms that are still under construction and try to stay focused on the positive.

I'm back!

2008-11-11T08:56:00.000-08:00

After a long hiatus and many people contacting me to ask me to please continue writing, I have decided to return. No need to go into the reasons why I stopped ... just glad to be back.

So, the Dar restoration process is maddeningly slow. Mostly because I must fund it from my monthly paycheck. Believe me, although I have a nice job, the money doesn't go very far when I am supporting two of us and a house that needs constant attention!

For over a year now I've been wanting to buy a refrigerator, but tiling the terrace in preparation for the rains (which have been torrential at times)came first. Then I had to have new doors built to replace those I had taken down to refinish -- which were unwisely left out-of doors to warp beyond recognition. I needed doors to shut out the cold air from the windows which have no glass on them.

After tiling the terrace the surface was raised just enough to allow all the rain which accumulated on the terrace to wash under the terrace door (this was because so much came at one time and the drain couldn't accommodate it). After about ten minutes of a downpour, the rain would then cascade down the stairs like a waterfall carrying wet cement and sand along with it. After this happened three time, I finally convinced someone to come help me. So, priorities are always shifting and a refrigerator still isn't in the cards for me. But not to worry ... it's now so cold in the house everything stays refrigerated naturally!