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?
3 comments:
Evelyn: I so understand your thinking at this time, and just wanted to comment. Those of us who are foreigners living in Morocco have so many colorful examples of human interaction here - far more than we may experience or give notice to in our own culture. Back home in North America, you or I could engage in all the daily errands you detailed in this blog post, potentially without speaking to another human being. We could travel to our stops and shops by car, minimizing the chance that we would need to speak or look at anyone. We could get money out of the bank machine, use self-serve checkouts, buy in large quantities to ensure we would not need to go out to shop again for at least a few days or more. . . And all those conveniences help us to keep our world orderly and neat, conditions which I completely appreciate also.
Perhaps one of the most difficult realities I have tried to adjust to here in Marrakech is the need to interact with people everytime I step outside my door: the hanout is designed so you have to ask for some of the things you wish to buy, meat is not already packaged and ready to be picked up anonymously but instead must be chosen and asked for, and longer trips require interaction with a taxi driver, since I don't drive here. And then there are the ever-present comments and stares from the locals, whether you have built up a passing acquaintance with them or not. One simply cannot be anonymous and detached here, whether a local or otherwise.
As I step out on my balcony to bring in my laundry, I look out onto a busy street, full of the noise of little motorbikes, but even busier with the sounds and sights of people just living their lives outdoors - meeting friends on the street, sitting and watching passersby, picking up daily bread, etc. Once in a while, I wish I could be part of that regular daily social interaction and that I could genuinely manifest that desire to live life out loud, on the street, as many Moroccans tend to do. But then I return to the clean and quiet of my modern apartment, and I realize that this is where I need to be. Without it, I could not survive here.
It sounds like you have significant decisions facing you as you get ready to return to the States. I wish you happiness in your visit, and peace with whatever decisions you make about your future as a result. I hope that your heart will tell you what you need to do!
Evelyn: What a great post, and such decisions to make, or not.
Krista: A most thoughtful comment -living life out loud. How much some of need our privacy, and yet, want to interact at times as part of a more vibrant whole. Well said.
I hope you write something for your blog when you get back to the US, the things you miss about Morocco, I think a few things at least.
Post a Comment