Ramadan Challenges

I really wanted to be out of Morocco by this time but here I am. Looks like I will be here until the end of the year although my time here in Oujda is drawing to a close. I am finding Ramadan particularly challenging here because there is no place to eat, even after the fasting has ended. It is not a tourist town so no restaurants are serving food, even after the fasting ends around 7:30 in the evening. Well, that's not 100% true, McDonald's is open but I never patronize McDonald's -- no matter how hungry I get.

In Fes, there are always a smattering of places one can go to to eat during Ramadan and there are plenty of shops open for purchasing food, even during the daylight hours. I spent the first 4 days of Ramadan in Fes and although I curtailed my intake of food and water out of respect for those fasting --  and frankly because it was just inconvenient to do otherwise --  I managed to privately satisfy my hunger and thirst with little effort or planning. I wasn't eating at the times I wanted to eat, but I adjusted. Back in Oujda, I have been making my own food at home and eating a lot of fruit but one week into Ramadan and I am craving a pizza. And french fries. You see, I don't have an oven at home and my cookware is very basic so my fare is limited to salads, eggs every way you can think of making them, cheese and tuna fish. I had hoped the cafe near the school where I teach would serve off their menu but I just found out that is not the case. No problem. I could stand to lose a few kilos.

I began teaching my last term at the American Language Center today and the schedule is strange, to say the least. I teach from 11:00 am until 1:00 pm and then return at 9:30 pm to teach until 11:30. I will do this 6 days a week for 2 and a half weeks. The split schedule will take some getting used to but I am happy for the chance to make more than a month's worth of salary in such a short time. Getting a taxi is not easy on the return trip from school in the morning or the trip to school at night. I assume taxis will be plentiful when I am finished tonight, though. I am considering walking to and fro.

Based on what's happened the previous two nights, there will be music across the street from my apartment when I get home. Last night, it carried on until after 1:00 am, making it difficult to get to sleep. But there was a joy about it that I tried to inhale on each intake of my breath and to surrender to the rhythms of Ramadan. So adjustments are called for at just about every level and my sleep pattern will be divided into two parts now; six hours at night and a couple of hours each afternoon.

Ramadan is a time for reflection and I am trying to do just that as I reconfigure my schedule for just about everything. When faced with a situation that is not to one's liking, it is natural to resist and complain. But I don't want to fall into that trap. I am trying to adapt, demonstrate my respect for the holy month, and cultivate patience. Sometimes I actually achieve my goals.  

Travel Deep

For over two years now my friend, Jess, has been conducting artisanal tours of the medina. I have heard her talk about the artisans and seen stunning photos of the craftsmen at work. Today, however, was the first time I accompanied her on a tour and the experience was a real treat, even for someone like me who has lived in the medina for over seven years. As Jess said, her tours allow the participants to travel deeply as opposed to travel widely. With the exception of the tannery, each artisanal workplace was little more than a cubbyhole packed with personalities the average tourist rarely gets to meet let alone commune with, observe in action, and learn from. I felt like I was on scene at the making of a documentary film. 

Our day began at 9:30 when we wound our way down Talaa Sghira to a lovely restored riad to collect a mother and daughter from South Africa who had booked a tour. After acquainting the pair with the itinerary, we set out on foot to our first stop of the day; a shop where wool, cotton and silk thread, clothing and fabric are hand dyed. The artisan explained what flowers, vegetables and plants were used to achieve each vibrant color. Our questions were translated by an official guide who patiently interpreted the English questions into Arabic and the Arabic answers into English. Questions about environmental and health issues, the process itself, how long the artisan had been practicing his trade and so on volleyed back and forth so seamlessly we felt like we were speaking one-on-one to the artisans. When a donkey arrived to cart off skeins of thread we took our leave and headed off to the next stop.

Around the corner from the dyers was a shop filled with aluminum trays. Here the artisan etched designs of his own creation into the large tabletops, platters and trays found in every Moroccan home. Using a compass and a ruler, he told us he meticulously lays out each design in the comfort of his home and then brings the aluminum back to his shop to begin the etching and polishing that makes each hand-crafted item a unique yet utilitarian piece of art. His workspace gleamed with the results of his labor. My particular favorite was a tabletop with camels marching around the circular surface. When asked which design was his personal favorite, he showed us a very intricately designed platter that contained the symbols seen on many doors and inside palaces throughout Morocco. 

Moving on we headed to the last remaining wood shop of its kind in the medina. The floor was softly padded with layers and layers of wood chips. Rounds cut from bark-covered trees were stacked here and there, smaller pieces that had been stripped of their bark and planed into a smooth surface challenged us to imagine what they were destined to become. Our artisan sat in a corner with a large mallet in his hand. Various pieces, all within arm's reach, were pulled into his lap to show a stringed instrument in the making, a form for making shoes, a farmer's tool. This father of six sons told us a little bit about each one, including pointing out the flat rock, half-buried among the wood chips, that marked the workplace of the one son who was following in this footsteps. 

The coziness of the wood carver's cubbyhole was then replaced by the cacophony of Place Seffarine where metal workers pound copper into kitchenware and meditatively hammer dimpled embellishments onto pots and pans. The work is loud and rhythmic and to me the worker's seemed to embody their craft as they were both boisterous and focused. 

Our next artisan had an inner glow that seemed to be a reflection of the horns he cut and polished to make animal-shaped combs, key rings and buttons. Using his foot to rest a piece of horn on, he stroked the horn with a tool that not only polished the horn but shaved the calloused skin off his feet as well. Unable to fit worktable or bench into his shop as his workspace was so small, he sat against one wall and offered up his story with humor and generosity.

But the best was yet to come. The slipper maker of the rich and powerful sat in his tiny shop and regaled us with stories of his life and his work. Eighty-four years old and clearly intent on performing his craft until he takes his last breath, this artisan has a twinkle in his eye that makes you smile and an immense pride in his work that you want to emulate in your own life.

No trip, artisanal in nature or not, would be complete without a stop at the tannery. And while I have been on many a tour of the tanneries found in the medina, I learned a lot on this particular tour. Our host told the story of the artisan tanners as we stood on the platform of a leather shop, high above row upon row of vats. The tanning process is quite amazing as is the system under which tanners operate. This information had never before been revealed to me. It's really quite impressive. If you have the desire to do so, you can descend down to the level of the many vats to get a first-hand look at the aromatic workplace. Once there, you cannot help but wonder how anyone can actually perform this work day after day, but most especially during the long hours of fasting that were being observed on this hot, mid-summer day.

We were now hours into our tour and still had two stops to make; the weavers where we were educated on the intricacies of setting up the looms, and the neighborhood oven where hundreds and hundreds of rounds of bread were being shunted in and out of a cavernous oven. At both stops we were treated to something; at the weaver distinctly different styles of wrapping a turban were demonstrated. Soon bedouin and berber turbans were wrapped 'round our heads and somehow the styles managed to capture our personalities. At the bakery, hot, fresh bread was proffered to those who were not partaking in the fast. 

All-in-all, this artisanal tour was not your typical view of what the medina has to offer and left me feeling privileged to have been a participant. 

I encourage you to learn more about The Original Fes Artisanal Tours and other Culture Vulture projects by visiting http://culturevulturesfez.org. Once there you can start your journey by clicking on 'artisanal inspirations'. Travel deep. 

Ahmed

Ahmed is about as tall as he is wide. He's balding, sports a scruffy mustache and looks smarmy -- and he probably is smarmy as rumor has it he was once in jail for murder but had the resources to pay his way out and set himself up as a card-toting official guide. Rumors are the lifeblood of Bab Boujloud so who knows if it's actually true. But looking at him and watching him operate, you can imagine how such a story got started.

I've never actually seen Ahmed nab any tourists for a guided tour of the medina but Lord knows he tries. He gives off an air of someone entirely untrustworthy and no tourist ever seems to fall for his patter. And yet, it must work from time to time because every morning he is outside the Blue Gate, scurrying to and fro as fresh tourists emerge from taxis and vans, holding doors open for them as they emerge and displaying the oversized, laminated badge he wears around his neck to proclaim his status as an official guide.

Watching Ahmed from the vantage point provided by one of the numerous cafes near the mosque is rather like watching a comedy routine unfold. His short legs seem motorized when he spots a prospective client and rushes from one end of the wide road to another to be the first to encounter the newly arriving tourists. He has lots of competitors about but he often seems to get to the tourists first. I watch him start his spiel as tourists try to get their bearings and either ignore him entirely or politely try to extricate themselves from his attention. They look over his head, which is not hard to do, confer with one another, pull out their maps and shake their heads as they attempt to walk on. Ahmed follows them for a bit, continuing to talk the entire time until the tourists can gain enough distance from him to make it clear they are not going to employ him for the proffered tour. Within two minutes, max, the tourists separate from him and enter through the gates unattended. Ahmed, never deterred, invariably turns on his heels looking for fresh prospects. Like a windup toy set on a flat surface after the key has been turned to its full capacity, Ahmed propels himself towards the next petit taxi turning the corner to open the door -- maybe even grabbing hold of the tourists' luggage to make sure they have to stop and talk to him.

Say what you want about Ahmed, he's a spunky bulldog and an integral part of the colorful cast of characters that populate Bab Boujloud. I never get tired of watching him.

The Ranting Woman

To me, she looks like a quintessential someone from New York. I would say she is in her fifties. Every time I see her she is purposeful but not at all hurried. She is well-preserved and attractive, and there are elements of her style that make me think of the 1960's. She wears a scarf and hides her eyes behind black retro sunglasses. She has a pale, noble profile which I study as discreetly as possible because she also perpetually carries a scowl on her face. And sooner or later, I have learned, she will break into a rant. The rants don't seem to be directed at anyone in particular and you never know what's going to set her off. I've never witnessed anyone taunting her into her verbal outbursts which surprises me because she puts on quite a performance once she really gets going. But something gets her going every time so I try not to draw her attention. And because I don't know where she is looking with those large, black sunglasses on, I take care to study her from a distance. But I can't resist keeping her in my peripheral vision as she passes in front of me.

Today I saw her twice. The first time was in the late afternoon as I sat in a cafe enjoying a visit with a friend. I pointed her out to my friend and made a comment on her likeness to a New Yorker. My friend laughed as the woman passed on by. I didn't mention the rants.

About an hour later I was on my own and headed home when the ranting woman emerged from a doorway and stepped right in front of me. I was so close to her and she had her back to me so I could really study her. I hung back for a little while, curiousity mixed with caution and a healthy respect for the energy of anger she exudes. As soon as I decided to make my move to pass her, she started to talk to herself. Or was she addressing me? I murmured a peaceful greeting as I overtook her and she returned the greeting, barely breaking stride as her monologue continued to get underway. I passed on by without incident.

I can't understand a word she says but I understand the admonitory tone and I feel the anger behind it all. I secretly applaud her as she speaks up and presumably speaks her mind. The ranting woman could be mistaken for any number of nationalities (for me it's a woman of Italian descent living in the Bronx) but she happens to be Moroccan. That's why I admire her public expressions of her anger at something -- made up or real, it doesn't change my opinion. I like her free and consistent expression of her anger and indignation. It's rather rare here in the old medina of Fes.    

Cafes

                                                                       Cafe Opheon, Oujda
The men huddled around the small cafe tables all have a sameness about them. Without exception, they hold either a cell phone or a cigarette in their hands; sometimes both. Their clothes are mostly dark, their haircuts could have come from the same barber. They either hunch over the table in conspiratorial conversation or slouch in their seats with a studied insouciance. Everyone who walks into the cafe is given the once-over; especially the women.

Most of the women head upstairs to the non-smoking section and none of them enter alone. I often find myself the only woman on the ground floor and even though the ground floor is often quite smoky, I resist going up to 'the women's section' because I never have cared for the idea of women in one room, men in another. I care little for the speculative glances from the men throughout the cafe as I take my seat, pull out my computer, and mind my own business. I have been in Morocco too long to care what these men might be postulating.

The waiters are kind and solicitous. I have bought this attentiveness with my frequent visits and generous tips. I work just a few blocks away and this cafe has become my go-to place for late lunches, a sweet with coffee before work and planning time for my lessons. In Fes, it was Cafe Jawhara, here it is Cafe Opheon. To me they are interchangeable yet necessary to my sense of well-being. Everyone who lives in Morocco needs a cafe in which to hang out because that's how most of one's leisure time is spent ... hanging out in a cafe.

                                                                       Jawhara Cafe, Fes
An incredible number of cafes populate the city and new establishments as well as renovated cafes seem to spring up every week. Like the patrons, the new cafes have a sameness about them. This year white is in vogue; white tables, chairs, walls, awnings and dish ware. I wonder what that is all about. The menus are invariably the same so every cafe becomes a choice between location, staff and -- to some extent -- the customer base. Otherwise there is no difference. Prices are the same, too -- 11 dirham for a coffee and small bottle of Sidi Ali (which the label on the plastic bottle tells you is safe for babies). That's comforting.

Cafe Opheon is frequented by college students so more women than usual visit. You can find most of them sitting upstairs with the exception of the bolder young women who arrive in pairs and smoke while they play games on their cell phones with the volume turned all the way up. Electronic noises emanate from their tables as they hold their cigarettes in their manicured hands and flip their hair every 30 seconds or so. It is rare for women who sit downstairs to wear a head scarf; most wear very fashionable clothes, are expertly made up and sport great-looking boots. They are really very stylish and highly visible. I take comfort in their presence as I sip my coffee and play Words With Friends on my tablet.

                                      

Yet Another Detour

I just got back from the annual teacher's conference for the organization I work for.  I had more fun than in past years, perhaps because I mingled with a number of other schools as well as my own. Whatever it was, the food I was treated to was fabulous and the entertainment one night at a cabaret was great. I roomed with a peer from Fes and we got along splendidly. It was great to share stories and gossip and keep each other company as we attended workshops, roamed through the medina of Marrakech and slipped away from the crowds to provide one another with a running commentary on all the people.

On the sleeper train from Oujda to Casablanca I managed to get off the train too soon based on some bad intelligence (or lack thereof) I received. I found myself standing alone on the station platform at 6:30 am with no familiar face in sight. What to do? I had neglected to get my ticket from the porter when I got off (and why he didn't tell me I was at the wrong stop is still a mystery although in retrospect, he did look rather sad as I handed him his tip for lugging my suitcase off the train). After a few frantic phone calls to my fellow Oujidians still on the correct train, I bought another ticket to Casa Port because the trains at that particular station did not go where I wanted to be and then took a taxi to Casa Voyageur in time for my connecting train to Marrakech. A minor detour.  The upshot of all this was that my peers were constantly keeping an eye out for me whenever we traveled in a pack to make sure I didn't go astray again. They don't know me well enough yet to realize I never take the normal path to anything but I rather like having someone care about me. 

Uncle Said

Said hoisted himself off the sofa to greet the customers one of the local guides had just led up the steep stairway. His sudden movements triggered a coughing fit. One of his employees quickly flicked on the lights and ushered the tourists over to some built-in seats. The tourists settled themselves in and accepted the tea that was offered and then ordered from yet another employee of the shop. The guide helped make the visitors comfortable and then  positioned himself away from the group so Said could take over. This gave Said time to recover from his chronic hacking so he could play the role of welcoming proprietor. Said didn't get up for everyone that came into his carpet shop. He had an eye for those who would spend and those who just wanted to look. He could see the hopeful gleam in the eyes of the guide. These tourists would be well-worth his time and efforts.

It was cold in the shop and Said was glad he had worn his galaba. Not only did it serve to keep him warm, it also contributed to the atmosphere of a place frozen in time. It was all theater, just like the old wooden loom with the equally old operator passing the yarn to and fro and rhythmically working the foot peddles. Everything and everyone in the shop served a purpose. Tourists liked the antiquated look of his carpet shop and happy tourists spent money. Said began his show.

After a few welcoming words and polite inquiries about the tourists' experience thus far in Fes, Said unobtrusively signaled his helpers to begin pulling carpets from the stacks that lined the walls. The tourists demurred, stating they weren't really in the market for buying today but that did nothing to deter Said. He knew better. He knew they would walk out of his shop with something; maybe some carpets or bedspreads. At the very least they would purchase some woolen blankets. He could smell the money coming.

Before long, the floors were covered in thick layers of carpets. Each successive carpet was more expensive than the one that preceded it. Said watched the women's eyes to see when they flickered or returned to rest again on a carpet before them. Now it was just a matter of asking them which carpets they preferred. No was not an option. All Said had to do was get them to start saying yes to something. Carpets that didn't pass muster were quickly taken away until the tourists were now ruminating over colors and patterns; making choices rather than offering polite refusals. The fun part, the negotiating, was yet to come.

After Said got the tourists to designate their favorites among all the carpets before them he sat back and simply waited. The tourists whispered amongst themselves and discussed the merits of each rug. Finally, the question Said was waiting for came up. "How much?" Calculators came into play and the inevitable question about the acceptance of credit cards followed. Of course Said told them he could accept their plastic but he almost never had to. Rather, he had one of his helpers escort one of the husbands or boyfriends to an ATM to withdraw the much preferred cash. While the cash was being collected, the carpets were rolled up into tight cylinders and wrapped in pink paper so no one on the street would see the purchase or ask what price had been paid. No reason to have a jealous competitor or anyone else tell the tourists they had paid too much (which they would not hesitate to say no matter what price was paid). That would never do.

Four Women

Zakia looked at the old man in front of her in amazement. "What do you mean nail polish is forbidden? Where does it say that?" The man merely shook his head at her ignorance and insisted, once again, that she should not be wearing nail polish. "I am not married and I am trying to look nice to catch a husband, " she responded in as gentle a manner as she could muster. "Is lipstick forbidden too?" The man gave her a pitying look and walked away from the counter where Zakia was working to pay for his medication.

Zakia couldn't understand such thinking. Even her classmate, Hanae, had supported this ridiculous notion when she relayed her story about the nail polish statement that night in class. "I believe you are not supposed to wear nail polish when you pray" Hanae mused. "It does say something in the Koran about the need for your hands to be clean." Zakia shook her head in frustration. "Clean, yes, but nail polish does not make your hands dirty," she retorted. It was one thing to hear such nonsense from an old man in the small town where she worked as a pharmacist. It was quite astonishing to hear the same thinking from a young woman in a city of 2 million people! Zakia felt a little depressed as her mind drifted to her desire to find a husband. She was sure the her future husband man would be more open-minded but she was certainly having a hard time locating him.

Meanwhile, Hanae turned to the classmate to her right, a very nice older man with a gentle manner. Rafik knew that Hanae and their teacher shared a taxi after class and he mentioned to her that he had a car and could drive them both home. Hanae demurred because although they had been in class together for a couple of months now, she really didn't know Rafik. Getting in a car with him would be unacceptable, even if their teacher was there as well. She had no absolutely no doubt about this.

Outside stood a squat middle-aged woman asking all the passersby for a handout. She spied a stranger walking on the other side of the street and hurried after her. 'Madame! Madame!" she shouted as she caught up with the foreigner. She held out her hand and offered her best smile. The stranger continued to walk but the woman grabbed her arm and pleaded for some change. The stranger tried to get away but the woman did not relent. Her tattooed chin quivered as she insisted that some money be handed over.

A little bit further down the boulevard, during an off hour in a popular cafe, sat an older man and a very young woman. They spoke French to one another rather than Arabic as they sat at a corner table. He drank coffee and smoked Marlboros. She drank a milkshake and sat on her hands. Over and over he asked her how she was. She giggled and cast her eyes downward. "Ca va," she replied in a high sweet voice, "ca va." The man looked her up and down as he tapped his cell phone that sat between them on the table. The young woman watched his every move with a nervous anticipation.

Women in Bedclothes

I can't help but notice the sleepwear certain women wear for their everyday attire here in Morocco. Of course there are as many elegantly and fashionably dressed women here as anywhere. And yet there quite a few who wear pajamas all day long, throwing a galabah on top of their pajamas when they want to go out out the house. Even with the galabah and headscarf on, they still look like they just never fully got dressed for the pajama bottoms peek out from under their galabah. Now I have no idea if these ladies wear these same clothes when they retire at night but I do know they wear the pajamas while working in the house and on those occasions when they venture outside the house. Invariably, those pj's are pretty girlish with patterned hearts, skating polar bears or childish kittens. These women are almost always wearing some kind of slipper as well, adding to the impression that they just never managed to get dressed that day. Sometimes they don't put a galabah on, they actually tie a bathrobe around their waist and wear it outside like a coat. The bathrobes are always a plush synthetic fleece and tend to be just as girly as the pajamas underneath; sky blue material with fluffy white clouds or a solid color in some pastel hue.

I have always known Moroccans to be eminently practical and at first this choice in clothing seemed to me to be just that; a sensible, economical and comfortable choice not unlike the tracksuits everyone wore everywhere in the '80's or the yoga wear of today. And yet something about it increasingly bothers me and it has nothing to do with aesthetics. Is it because the choice of sleepwear is so connected to being tied down at home whereas tracksuits and yoga wear are associated with activity outside the home? Is it the choice of patterns in the bedclothes that typically appeal to young girls yet end up being an unintentional parody of femininity and innocence? I'm not sure but it all seems kind of bothersome to me because even though no one is forcing these women to put on the pajamas and robes in the first place, I personally would like to be reassured these women see themselves as more than domestics. But that's just me and I could easily be guilty of reading too much into what seems to be an enduring fashion phenomenon here.

  

Weathering Winter

Central heating is non-existent here so winters require a different solution if you want to keep semi-warm. During the daytime, it's routinely warmer outside than inside. Electric space heaters and propane gas heaters are the go-to heat sources for most people and in offices, shops and homes you can usually find the inhabitants huddled around their preferred heat source throughout the long winter months. I have one electric heater but electricity can be expensive so I don't use it all the time. I usually shut the door to the kitchen (which is the smallest room and easiest to heat) and stay at the table to read, prepare my lessons, check out the internet and sometimes I actually eat there. Essentially, I am living in one room these days. But the best solution to deal with the cold is to wear as many warm clothes as possible and wear thick-soled shoes or boots over two pairs of socks.

My apartment is like an icebox with all the tile and no carpets to provide protection from the flooring that collects and retains a rather frosty temperature. I don't have any curtains to keep the drafts from coming through the doors and windows because my budget doesn't allow me to purchase the hardware and material to make insulating drapes just yet. I have three blankets (one is on loan, another was a gift and I purchased the third) and I often go to bed early just to keep warm. I also sleep in my clothes more often than not and even wear a hat on particularly cold nights. Last night I contemplated getting out of bed to find my gloves because my hands were cold holding the book I was reading, but I didn't want to get out from under the covers. What makes winter more bearable is the knowledge that everyone is going through the same experience and everyone looks about 10 pounds heavier with all the clothing they have piled on.

Winter also presents a challenge when it comes to doing laundry. Washing clothes is no problem. Getting them to dry is -- especially if you don't have access to a rooftop terrace to take advantage of the all too brief period of sunlight and any breezes that might be in play. Dryers are a luxury and most people do without them, opting to hang the laundry on a line or drape the clothes on a drying rack. As I am no where close to being able to afford a dryer I, too, use the economies of a clothes line and drying rack. However, it takes three days to dry jeans, towels and sweaters. I do everything possible to expedite the drying time including wringing as much water out as I possibly can when the clothes come out of the washer (my wrists ache in protest), hanging the clothes in different positions throughout the day, and placing some clothes in front of the heater when it's in use. But not matter what I do, it takes three days to get the bulkier items to lose their dampness.

This situation considerably limits my wardrobe choices, which are small to begin with. I have made the mistake of letting too many bulky items pile up before laundering them and had to wear a ridiculous number of layers of shirts, tops vests and jackets for several days because my warmest sweaters were still too damp to wear. It's kind of hard to move your arms with so many layers. And so my solution has been to wear the same outfit several days in a row, sometimes keeping most of the items on when I retire for the night, while trying to disguise the fact that I haven't changed my clothes in a couple of days through the judicious use of a variety of scarves and the application of different colored lipstick. Looking on the bright side, I take comfort in the knowledge that I am reducing my carbon footprint for a good portion of the year. 

Reflections on a Rainy Day

There is a piece of advice I give myself that I think is pretty sound; try not to compare yourself to others. I followed this advice when I began to learn belly dance at the age of 45 and it served me well. In the dance studio where I took lessons, there were women who could learn choreography after seeing it one time. Not so for me. And then there were those whose bodies were far more agile than mine and could isolate movements at will. It took me a rather long time and a lot of effort to achieve a similar result. There were more experienced dancers, dancers with more flair, younger bodies and greater beauty. But early on in my dance life I decided that these comparisons would only hold me back and so I positioned myself in the front row of the class and put blinders on to those around me. I only focused on what I could do and what I hoped to be able to do. After a relatively short time, I became an entertaining, if not an accomplished, performer.

I am frustrated that I continue to struggle to apply this same approach to my life in general. I look around at my peers and see friends and acquaintances with families, homes in places they love, serviceable cars to drive, cultural activities to attend and a wardrobe full of nice clothes. They are retired or nearing retirement, have a comforting social network, participate in hobbies or clubs, attend workshops, and host dinner parties. Then I look at my life and see a stark contrast; no children, an incredibly small family spread far and wide, no car, a home I am stuck with in a country I have yet to fall in love with, a sparse wardrobe made up of mostly second-hand clothes, an apartment with a bare minimum of furnishings and no end in sight vis-a-vis my need to produce income. Where is the front of the classroom and where are the blinders I made such good use of in the past?

I try to find a way to replicate my past success as a dancer and apply it to my life right now. If I focus on what I can do my attention goes immediately to teaching. I know I can do this well and I know I get a great deal of satisfaction from it. Just last night someone was telling me how well I am being received at the center where I teach. The students in both classes I taught yesterday asked it I could be their teacher in the next session. So I mentally go to the head of the class. I am in the front row concentrating on the job at hand. That feels better.

I keep going with this train of thought. I know I am adaptable. I stare at myself in the mirror and appreciate that quality. I have the ability to put myself in unfamiliar situations and learn something valuable from the experience. The comparisons begin to fade a little bit. I carry on. I tell myself I am skilled at creating appealing living spaces and I have the opportunity to recreate a nice environment once again. I am beginning to see myself with greater clarity now and I am putting less emphasis on those around me. My lack of possessions and responsibilities enable me to move at will and experience life in unexpected ways.

For a moment I am increasingly centered and begin to think about what I hope to do with my life. And here is where I go off course for my mind snaps back to the frame of reference the lives of my friends and family offer and I see myself outside of the picture. And part of me wants to be inside with them. Part of me wants to sit back, rest and simply witness the adventures of others in an environment that is familiar and alongside people I have known for a long time.

  

Fair Trading

It's really hard to know if you are paying the right price sometimes. And while I have never been one to note the price for individual grocery items, household cleansers and the like, I do know I will pay more in some stores and will find higher prices in some cities. Put me in a foreign country and I am in a real quandary when it comes to knowing what the small, every day necessities cost. Especially when bargaining is part of almost every transaction.

While living in Fes, I always relied on my Moroccan husband to shop and to this day I can't tell you what a kilo of bananas should cost nor do I know the fair price to pay for a broom so my inattention to the price of day-to-day necessities has continued. But now that I am living on my own in Oujda, where I know the prices are generally lower but still have no knowledge base upon which to gauge pricing, I must navigate the shopping myself. And so I am making a concerted effort to learn pricing. To that end, I have a long list of household items and food to buy and I will note the prices I am quoted to begin my education. I will ask the price of everything from two or three vendors before I buy so I have a better understanding of who is being fair and who is not. Mind you, this is a new behavior for me but one that I must adopt as the need to pay careful attention to my budget increases from year to year. Also, I have been overcharged for little items on so many occasions that were I to add the sums up, I know I would be appalled.

Just this morning I ran into Aziz on the street as I headed outside to run a few errands. Aziz was keen to tell me I had been overpaying for my coffee and croissants each morning and led me to a small bakery/cafe a couple of blocks away where I got the same breakfast and of a much higher quality for almost half the price. Lesson noted.

All that said, when it comes to buying handmade items, furnishings and clothing, I have a keen eye for bargains and yet sometimes I am more willing to throw caution to the winds because I appreciate nice things. I almost always buy second-hand because I can afford a better quality item this way and I like the hunt.  And because I am interested in decorating both my home and myself, I pay attention to what things cost and know a good value when I see one.

After saving 8 dirham on my breakfast (more if you count the tip I give to have someone bring it to my doorstep) I walked up Boulevard Mohammed V to a temporary street fair where vendors were selling handmade goods. I was especially interested in the basketry and approached the table where a variety of woven baskets were on display. In no time at all I bought two baskets made right here in Oujda for the equivalent of $20 (170 dirham) and was happy to do so. I could probably of paid less but I liked the quality of the workmanship and the usefulness of the items. I also liked the idea of supporting the women who made them. Plus I reasoned, if I buy my breakfast for the next three weeks from the cafe Aziz led me to this morning, the savings I will have realized will more than cover the cost of today's purchase.

As I walked home with my baskets in hand, I felt someone behind me walking a little too closely for a little too long. I watched his shadow. When he reached his hand into my basket I was ready for him and pulled it away. I turned on him shouting "shame, shame" in Arabic and 'thief, thief' in French. No one gave us a second glance. The young man simply looked back at me from a now safe distance and demanded a dirham. Huh. You fail to steal from me and now you want me to give you money? That's ballsy I thought. I spat out one more 'Voleur', gave him my dirtiest look and walked on, my heart beating fast and my mind filled with indignity. This was the first time in all my years in Morocco that someone was so blatant in their effort to steal from me. But the incident put things into perspective for me. Being overcharged is not the same as being stolen from. In one situation I may be a target but I am a willing participant. In the other situation I am simply a target. And there is a lesson to be learned from both situations; be mindful. It pays to be mindful.

Early One Morning

I woke up very early. By 6:45 I had caught up on my Words With Friends games, Skyped with my cousins back in California, finished a load of wash and showered. I didn't have any food in the house and my electric kettle had stopped working. I wanted a coffee, a cigarette and something to eat so I decided to venture outside.

The elevator in my building has been broken for several days now so I walked down 6 flights of stairs, being careful not to turn on the light on the ground floor because I didn't want to wake up the cranky guardian whose room is right next to the non-functioning elevator. If the elevator hadn't shown signs of petering out in the preceding days by stopping at the 2nd and 4th floors when I pushed the button for the 5th floor, I might have suspected the guardian of having simply turned it off. That's exactly what he had been doing whenever any of the residents used it after 10 pm because it interrupted his sleep. Because this is primarily a commercial building with only a handful of full-time residents, I guess he felt entitled to his rest, figured we should all be home at a decent hour, and could benefit from the exercise if we had the energy to stay out late. I decided to adopt the same position rather than fret over his selfishness or the ancient elevator that may have stopped functioning because of being turned on and off. No need to antagonize the watchman.

I stepped out into the early morning light with a bag of trash in hand. I was going to leave it on the street for the garbage men to collect but everything was spic and span so I squished the small plastic bag into one of the public trash bins. I looked to my right and saw a small gathering of men outside a lit cafe and headed in that direction. A seller of cigarettes was set up outside the cafe and I approached my fellow early risers and asked for a packet. I handed over 40 dirham and was given 5 dirham in change. "No," I said in Arabic, "the packet costs 32 dirham." He grumbled and begrudgingly produced the 3 dirham he had hoped to pocket for himself. I primly thanked him and retraced my steps on Boulevard Mohammed V to search for an open cafe that was to more to my liking.

As I turned a corner I felt someone was following me. I turned my head slightly and one of the young men who had been sitting with the seller of cigarettes picked up his pace to come alongside me and began speaking in Arabic. I guess he thought I understood more than I did because not only had I spoken Arabic during my transaction with his entrepreneurial friend, I had also exchanged pleasantries with him about the cold weather. I advised him that I only spoke a little Arabic and a little French. He switched to French in the blink of an eye and asked me to join him for a cup of coffee. I told him that would be a problem for my husband. He bowed his head, rather humbly apologized and turned on his heels.

During our brief conversation, a street sweeper had been eavesdropping as he slowly pushed his broom along the gutter but never moving an inch himself. When the conversation between the young man and I ended, the street sweeper gave a satisfactory nod of his head at the result of our encounter. I'm not sure if he was happy with me or the young man but clearly, he thought the right thing had happened. I walked on and entered Paradise, a modern cafe that was brightly lit and ready to serve.

Room Service

My doorbell rang at an astonishing volume. There was no way not to hear it. I unhooked the chain and slid the bolt back without bothering to ask who was there. The breakfast I ordered last night had arrived. Only this time it was not Mustapha, who has been bringing me the slightly wrong order since we began the morning ritual, it was Aziz. And lo and behold, the order was correct. It was also an hour late but hey, nobody's perfect.

Aziz is the street parking attendant for the block outside my apartment building and he is a friend of my husband, Hassan. As a parking attendant, he wears a bright orange safety vest and helps drivers identify parking spaces and then guides then in and out of the space. He uses hand gestures to show drivers which way to turn their steering wheel, raps on the hood or the trunk when it's time to apply the brakes and then reverses the procedure when it's time to for them drive away. He relies on the few dirhams in tips drivers offer up.

The night before Aziz had returned from a trip to Fes to attend his sister's marriage celebration. Aziz wasn't going to go but Hassan insisted, tempting Aziz with a free ride, and so the two of them drove to Fes about ten days ago.

Aziz speaks French and Arabic but no English but somehow we are able to communicate. The previous evening he ran towards me as I emerged from my building to catch a taxi to school. He asked me what time I would return home and we agreed to rendezvous at 9pm in front of the building. I wasn't sure why we were meeting but I was game. Then he hailed a taxi for me and gave the driver my destination.

I arrived back on Mohamed V a few minutes before 9:00. Soon, Aziz came around the corner and sent his fellow parking attendant into the night. We waited for about 15 minutes in the cold air and spoke about where we had each traveled in Morocco. It turned out Aziz had  journeyed to the Sahara to visit with his father after the wedding celebration. We stamped our feet and remarked on the cold until his friend returned with a plastic bag. I was presented with the bag and inside was a gift wrapped kleenex box filled with cookies from the wedding. I thanked Aziz and politely turned down his offer to buy me some dinner. But Aziz was insistent that he do more for me and I agreed to have him bring me coffee and a croissant the following morning. Behind all of Aziz's solicitation I could hear Hassan's voice telling Aziz to "take care of my wife" so I felt obliged to accept the offerings. I can only wonder what Mustapha was thinking when he saw Aziz carry the tray with my breakfast order into the building. Poor Mustapha ... if only I had the words to explain. I think the best thing for me to do from here on out is to forego the room service and get my own coffee.

Youssef

I like to write profiles of the archetypical characters I meet. Here is an excerpt from a profile I have written on a young man who, like so many of us, is devout in Spirit, but not always in his actions.

Youssef awoke to the amplified sound of the muezzin clearing his throat in preparation for Adhan, the call to prayer. Youssef focused his mind and heart on the incantation that followed; Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar. Yes, thought Youssef, God is Great and awaking to these words confirmed Youssef’s belief that God held Youssef in special esteem. Youssef hoped it was the second praying and not the third. Usually, he slept until well into the afternoon but today Youssef wanted to get to Bab Boujloud a little earlier than usual and clearly this was a sign that Allah was especially near today had something extraordinary in store for him.

Daylight never entered the room Youssef slept in so he could only guess at the time. He would find out soon enough, though. Youssef contemplated saying his prayers. Later, he thought. Allah would forgive him. He felt hungry and needed to begin his walk to the medina so he could meet with the owner of the Garden Hotel. Youssef had been patiently waiting for several years for the hotel to complete its restorations so he could begin work there. A job had been promised to him and he had a strong feeling today would be lucky for him. In fact, Allah had practically insured it by awakening him with His name and so Youssef felt compelled to answer His call.

Sitting up in his bed, Youssef cracked his back with a sharp twist, first to his left and then to his right. ‘Allahu Akbar’ he said in deep reverence and gratitude. Youssef jumped from his bed and was out the door of his miniscule room in two strides. “Meema!” he called. “Meema!”

Youssef found his mother in the kitchen and he walked up to her. Bending down he kissed his mother’s hand before rising up and kissing the crown of her head. “Salaam aleikum Meema. Bring me tea and bisarah. I am in a hurry.”

Youssef loved his mother almost as much as he loved Allah. And both Allah and his mother loved Youssef very much. Allah loved him because he was poor but more importantly Allah loved Youssef because he never, ever forgot about Allah. Youssef had no doubt that his mother loved her youngest son because he was special. Youssef was happy to live his simple life in the house of his mother and his unshakable faith in Allah. But there was no question that a job would help. More than anything, Youssef wanted to be able to hand a little money over to his mother every day. The Holy Koran told of a son’s obligation to help his family and if, God willing, Youssef earned a little money for his family, that would, indeed, please Allah.

Having drunk his tea and eaten his bisarah, Youssef put on his coat and set out for Bab Boujloud. It was a few kilometers from his area and the exercise was good for him. Everyone called Youssef the Bruce Lee of Morocco and it was important to Youssef to uphold his reputation by staying lean and quick. Besides, he had no car of his own and no money for a taxi. In fact, he had no money at all -- but Allah would provide. He hoped for a black coffee and a cigarette when he reached his destination; if Allah was willing. Maybe he would even score a little hash to mix with his cigarette. Youssef knew he shouldn’t smoke hash and hoped every day to quit. But he also knew Allah would forgive him because Youssef, at his core, was a good and true Muslim.

Thanksgiving Blues

It's now been a month since I arrived in Oujda and began teaching again. Time passes so quickly. It's turned cold, inside and out and my days have settled into a routine of sorts. But this week I feel a little bit sorry for myself. Thanksgiving is coming and very few foreigners find their way to Oujda, so I'm fairly certain there will be no recognition of the holiday.

When I lived in Fes Thanksgiving Day didn't expose such a large hole in my life because there were quite a few foreigners running restaurants that paid tribute to the holiday. The Director of the ALC there always took the expats out for a Thanksgiving lunch and invariably he was able to get the chefs at the restaurant he selected to approximate a turkey dinner. I'm sure the Director here would do the same but alas, he will be traveling on The Day. And so that's that. I did find a small place around the corner that makes a turkey tagine but the thought of going there alone doesn't appeal to me. In fact, I think it might make me feel worse. Plus there is the reality that I have to work that evening; something I share with employees of WalMart. It looks like I am having a small pity party today.

Last year I was also alone even though I was in the United States. I was in a very small beach town in Delaware that pretty much shut down during the winter months.But the brother of my high-school boyfriend very graciously invited me to join his family for Thanksgiving dinner that somewhat miraculously was being held in a nearby town. I hadn't seen the other members of his family for forty years so it was also a reunion of sorts. The most interesting part of the gathering was to notice how some of the same aspects of their personalities as children and teenagers still held true. The dinner took place in a restaurant and it was the first time I was not in someone's home for Turkey Day. But the restaurant's meal with very traditional and satisfying on a variety of levels.

So I am thinking this year the best I can do to acknowledge the day is to focus on gratitude. Tears come to my eyes as I write this, I guess because the first things that come to mind are those people and traditions I am missing. Hardly the way to begin a mental list of things to be grateful for. I take a deep breath and tell myself to change my thinking. Be grateful that you have good friends and loving family to miss I remind myself. Be grateful that you don't have to work at WalMart. But my throat is still tight with emotion and the tears run down my face. It's a tough time of year to be alone. 

Mint Coffee Anyone?

I like to begin my day with a cup of coffee and a pastry. The cafe next door is very convenient and obliging. I take my coffee mug down to them and they give me a double order of coffee with steamed milk and I choose the pastry I want them to heat up. I pay them and then I carry my breakfast up to my apartment for a relaxing start to my day. Simple. But lately, things haven't been going too smoothly.

Invariably, Mustapha is standing outside when I emerge from the building and insists that he get my breakfast for me. Now Mustapha has told me time and again that I can simply call him and he will come up for the money and then do the schlepping for me. Sometimes I take him up on his offer but invariably I don't get the pastry I want. I really like the warm almond croissants and no matter how I try to pronounce almond, I get a plain or a chocolate croissant instead. Unheated. No big deal but I want what I want and rather than risk embarrassing Mustapha I do what I always do --- take matters into my own hands. But with stoic regularity, Mustapha stands outside the entrance to my apartment, waiting to help and make a few dirham in the process. I can't seem to refuse him and I guilt myself into offering him some small change for his service. Oh he declines the first time I offer a tip but the second offering is accepted with a winning smile. It's all a problem of my own making, I know. But the extra money is adding up and I'm just not getting through to him that I want a hot almond croissant.

Yesterday the routine continued. This time I was pretty sure I conveyed I wanted a 'croissant amande' in my best French accent. Mustapha speaks French. But when Mustapha returned to my doorstep with the beautifully arranged tray with my coffee mug covered in aluminum to preserve the heat and paper napkins arranged just so and plain, unheated croissants, there was something extra on the tray. A small pitcher that Mustapha was keen to point out was being offered at no extra charge. Inside the pitcher was a bright green liquid that I later discovered to be mint syrup. I reasoned my head cold made my pronunciation of almond come out to sound more like mint. Maybe. Peut-etre. I poured the mint down the drain and resolved to go out and purchase a jar of instant coffee for the next morning. I guess I can do without the pastry.

The Second Hand Market

A friend called me the other day and said I sounded like I was talking to her from an empty swimming pool. That's because my apartment, with it's bare, tiled floors and sparse furnishings makes my voice reverberate against the surfaces. I am in need of some furniture and softening textiles and now that the worst of the offending dirt left behind by the previous tenants has been removed I am ready to begin decorating the space.  And so with Hassan's arrival and eagerness to help make this place more homey, we set out for the second-hand market on Sunday.

Hassan befriends people wherever he goes and yesterday was no exception. A middle-aged man who works in the cafe next to my building named Mustapha told Hassan he wanted to help guide us to the marketplace. So the three of us piled into the trusty Hyundai that looks like a junkyard heap but is actually an amazingly steadfast performer and headed towards the vast open-aired market.

The market was huge but well-organized and Mustapha played his role of helpful guide to perfection, pointing the way to the most convenient parking, asking prices of each vendor who caught our eye, and grabbing the arm of the young boys selling 'mica' (plastic bags) and handing over a dirham to purchase the carryall for the potatoes, tomatoes and peppers we bought. This section sold vegetables, over there were the housewares, plants, and colorful rows of rolled up carpets made from plastic and within the vegetable market there was even a small cafe with a thatched roof and plastic tables and chairs. Plastic is plentiful in Morocco although I do everything I can to avoid purchasing something in plastic when a natural alternative (difficult to find but highly preferred) is available. There were tables with soft goods like the patterned polyester blankets so favored by Moroccans piled high. Each blanket was emblazoned with creative signatures meant to sound like a designer or evoke images of prestige. My favorites were Pierre Donna (perhaps a distant relative of Pierre Cardin and Donna Karan?) and Californa ... the second letter 'i' mysteriously omitted.

We plied our way through rows of rusted car bodies piled in tiers, an acre of motorcycles, scooters and bicycles neatly lined up and plastic tarps set out on the ground with extensions cords, aluminum cookware and used clothing. Foam cushions for sofas so hard you could bounce a coin off them were stacked here and there. Clusters of sheep wandered by and everywhere throngs of people and conveyances of all manner surged through the marketplace.

We found little of interest beyond the vegetables and fresh sardines so we made our way through the dusty, rock-strewn trails to our car and headed back into town to see if another market might offer something I was willing to exchange for my money. In the end I purchased a full-length mirror for less than $20. I asked for a receipt and was told I would have to pay extra for that. After some back and forth the receipt was provided, free of charge. I also bought a replacement light bulb for the bathroom and a very small carpet that seemed more like those you use inside a car than a plusher version I would have preferred for my bathroom but I needed something to keep me from slipping and sliding when my wet feet hit the tile outside the shower. Against my better judgement I resigned myself to purchasing a polyester blanket. I reasoned with myself that the offending synthetic fabric was to be ignored because it is getting pretty cold at night now and the fact that material doesn't breathe would act in my favor by keeping my body heat trapped against me. Also, the blanket was a rare solid color in a rich shade of jade green. Now, If only I could do something to hide the brand name, stamped in an oval of white at the corner of the blanket. But then again, perhaps reading the message "Shital" will serve to keep my sense of humor firmly in place.

Malika the Shopkeeper

Day in and day out, Malika positions herself on a battered plastic stool inside her cramped shop in the old medina. She places her plump arms across the tiny counter and gazes out at the street. Praise God her shop fronts on a well travelled street, otherwise it would be impossible to stay in business. Like hundreds of other shops in the medina, Malika sells Coca Cola, jars of instant coffee, processed snacks, yogurt and small household necessities.

Every shop owner amongst the thousands of streets that twist throughout the ancient walled city offers the same basic merchandise but thanks to God, Moroccans love to eat and shop close to home and so they provide a steady market for necessities that can be had for just a handful of dirham. Tourists aren’t as plentiful as they used to be but there are always some and no one thinks twice about charging them a little bit more for their goods. Most transactions are very small -- a single cigarette, a round of fresh bread, one disposable diaper or a packet of candles -- but ninety percent of the time people who stop make a purchase. Allah be Praised, there is usually enough of a profit at the end of the day to meet the modest needs of Malika's family. If only ninety percent of her customers had the money to pay! It was impossible not to extend credit to the neighbors but doing so put a strain on Malika’s own budget. Ah well, Thanks be to God, somehow she managed.

Everyday Malika opens the shop around 8:00 and closes by 10:00 at night -- except on religious holidays and Friday afternoons, of course. Her elderly father used to open the shop for her in the mornings so she could get her daughters off the school, but he is a bit deaf now and his eyesight isn’t very good. He can no longer be counted upon to make correct change so Malika keeps her father away from the money and has him run errands for her. Sometimes she wished she could trade places with him, though. She barely had room to move in the cubbyhole she worked in and there were times when she imagined pulling the metal shutter over the opening to her stall, locking it out of habit as well as necessity, and never coming back. But Malika is a steadfast Moroccan woman who has learned to accept what Allah, Peace be upon Him, has provided.

Malika turns on the old tv in the front corner of her tiny domain. Of course watching locals and tourists walk up and down the cobblestoned street often surpasses watching tv, except for the fact that she can’t turn that channel off. Sometimes variety is called for even in her limited world. She turns on the station that provides still images of Mecca and a montage of nature shots while teachings from the Koran melodically filled the space she occupies.

Malika's movements are limited; she can sit down or stand up. From the middle of her shop she can take two steps in all four directions provided the floor isn’t stacked with cartons, which it always is. The only other position available to her is to stand and lean on the counter which is actually her preferred posture when neighbors and friends  to gossip or make speculations about mutual acquaintances that invariably turn into gossip. Since her house is nearby her daughter almost always comes by to do her homework or just sit on her mother’s lap and receive some loving. Her older daughter has grown too big to come inside now but she prefers to run around on the streets with her friends and cousins. Malika’s days have comforting rhythm and a mind-numbing predictability.

The busiest time of the day is after the fourth praying when the women come out of their houses for a fresh perspective and to pick up a few items for tea and dinner. People crowd in front of her shop and compete for her attention for the rule of first come, first served is not practiced here. Orders are shouted, coins are tapped on the counter and Malika pulls what her customers have come to buy from a shelf. She then makes change or puts the purchase on account. She grabs bits from the right, the left and from the small refrigerator in the rear of the shop which is rarely turned on.

All the shelves in Malika’s shop are within arms reach but they go up pretty high so sometimes she has to stand on her stool and stretch precariously to reach the items on the upper shelves. She likes to think this provides her with some much needed exercise. But most items such as fresh bread, cigarettes, rolling papers, sundries, sweets and packaged snacks don’t require her to get up so most of the time she simply twists around on her cracked plastic stool.

Tomorrow, thank God, is Friday and she will close up shop after the second praying to have couscous with her family and then head off to the hammam with the women and children. Once there, she can rid herself of her clothes and scarf and douse herself with the hottest water she can withstand. Maybe she will be lucky enough to talk her sister into massaging her neck and back after she scrubs off a week’s worth of grime and dead skin. Malika can't wait to relinquish herself to the weekly ritual and set aside the realities of her daily life for a few precious hours.

Another Reset

After15 months in the U.S. and countless packings and un-packings of my luggage as I moved from one coast to another, from this home to that home, I have returned to Morocco. Perhaps this time will be different. Of course it will be different. It has to be different for not only am I in a different city, I am confining myself to working only one job rather than the five jobs I juggled while living in Fes from 2007 until the summer of 2012. 

My time was well-spent in the U.S. I rested my weary body and my bruised mind, first on the east coast in self-imposed but splendid isolation, then on the west coast amongst very supportive family and friends. Now I am back to make another go of things and change my experience from challenging to rewarding; from rash to considered.

I think I've weathered my fair share of challenges, hopefully I have learned from my mistakes and now I feel I am due for some "Baraka", some blessings.