Teenagers

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. Many arrive early to visit or flirt with one another. The more daring  play snooker in one of the nearby cafes where 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 in this crowd. And some boys have their hair gelled into a shiny, spiky, gravity-defying arrangement which won’t move a centimeter -- even when riding their brightly colored scooters. The girls seem to like to streak their hair in contrasting colors and the luckier ones have their hair straightened into a flat, asymmetrical style. Of course there is a mad scramble for these relatively racy gals to revert back to their modest attire after the bell announces the end of class. Parents are waiting outside in their cars to transport their precious cargo home before they can be exposed to bad influences.

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 innocent ploys. 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 interactions with these teenagers. They are always a bright ray of sunshine in my life and they never fail to transport me into a glimpse of their varied worlds.

New Game

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

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!

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

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 ...

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

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.