rach in morocco

it's a new year

2008-01-22T18:43:00.000-05:00

I can’t apologize for my weaknesses or ineptitudes, or simple laziness; yes, much updating should be done. But I don’t necessarily view this anymore as a method of keeping in touch, as much a method of recording memories. Memories that I can reread when I’m 80 (inshallah), sitting in front of my outdated computer, eating Entiman’s donuts, a Seinfeld rerun on in the background.

I suppose I feel slightly compelled, although not entirely, as I feel like my time is dwindling, my ‘experience’ coming to a halt, and I need to get in as much as possible. Which may not be much, but it is what it is.

It’s strange how when I made up my mind (relatively firmly for my noncommittal nature) I started to see Morocco in new light. Things that had once been haslesome had been reborn as charming, the city of Rabat became cleaner, more charming, life itself became pleasant. And then my mind drifted.

I’m reading this book called Eat Pray Love by this woman called Elizabeth Gilbert; while reading, I feel resentful of this woman. I keep thinking, ‘but I could have written this’. I feel like she’s stolen my thunder. And, both of us being from Connecticut, and also both of us being Cancers, I feel this ridiculous similarity, and I now feel so un-original. The book is both good and bad, and while I do enjoy reading it, I’m so resistant to her enlightenments. I feel like I should be publishing my divine revelations!

Each minute (literally, no exaggeration) I glance at my gmail, in hopes that SOMEONE, SOMEWHERE, has actually read my email (with resume and cover letter attached) and found it irresistible. The emails date back to early December. So, two months gone by, and, um, well, wahloo (that means nothing)…wahloo kbir (big nothing).

I know this sounds ridiculously conceited, but who the fuck are these people hiring??!! PICK ME. (I wonder what would happen if that was my subject line…)

This unfortunate progress is not appealing, and certainly doesn’t boost any incentive factor in returning to the U.S.

But, I made up my mind…right??

I did actually, though I’ve yet to inform my landlord, or formally split ties with my current workplace. It’s as though I’m saving some ‘just in case’ card, for, well, just in case.

I think I have a split personality. Or serious indecision issues.

I like my life here. I like my apartment (I like living alone), I like going to the supermarket and market on my days off, I like sitting in my special cafés and reading a book on the weekend, I like going to the medina and buying DVDs, I like running in the forest (well, more like the result of running in the forest), I like my students and my job (not the pay so much though), I like that people know me and respect me. I do like my life.

There was a certain moment that I was very excited about returning to the U.S. The prospects – leafing through all the possible classes I could take, searching different websites for new jobs, fantasizing about moving to New York and making enough money to enjoy it, dreaming of really starting a serious career, and finishing my degree.

I was excited. Now I’m more luke warm-ish excited. More like, ‘eh’, I’d be fine with whichever.

So now we come to the main issue, probably the trickiest of them all. He’s called Badre. Part of the reason why I have this love-hate relationship with this book is because I feel like I’m eventually going to relate to certain pieces of it. More specifically, the heartbreak ones. I feel like that ‘recul’ that I once spoke of, will be too late. And I feel like, just like coming to Morocco, leaving Morocco, will change my life. And in both of these actions, it was my conscious decision that led (or will lead) to these changes. I was ready for the first (the coming part), but I don’t know how to be ready for the second.

I was chatting with a friend of Badre’s today, a Moroccan metrosexual comic, who managed to initiate a discussion of ‘compromise’ when Badre slipped into the bathroom. He was trying to understand (like many of my friends and family), what’s the deal man?

I DON’T KNOW!!! And I don’t know if not knowing is better or worse. One day I will know, and I’ll write a followup.

What I do know is that logic, and compromise, may not be enough. What I don’t know is what then is enough.

I don’t even know what I want. I can’t even decide on that. Part of me wants Badre to be like so many Moroccans (eager to immigrate), part of me wants to have a grown-up relationship with the person I love. And then the other part of me isn’t 100% confident that mixing Badre and ‘the west’ will be fruitful (although, in this situation, this would be an issue of location).

Today one of my students asked me for my phone number, so that we could ‘stay in contact’ after the end of the semester. Unfortunately, by principle, I can’t give my number to my students. Especially to the one who greets me ‘hi sweetie’. Am I the only one that finds that inappropriate??! Last week, my students cracked up when I started laughing. They said I should laugh more. I am kind of curious though to know the gossip about me. I know that the students have their judgments and I want to know what I am! I’ll probably never know. Oh well. I have to admit, I had a really great experience this semester; I definitely lucked out with my classes and my students. Although I know I definitely couldn’t be a real teacher, I have loved getting to know my students, and opening their minds just a teeny tiny bit. I am grateful.

I remember when I first started my blog, and I so faithfully clung to the ‘I’m only 24’ motto. Well, now I’m 25, and OK, I recognize 25 as being 25, I don’t know if I can attach the only to it anymore…am I only 25? Or, am I 25?! Should I be content with where I am, more importantly, who I am, at the ripe age of 25? Or am I still seeking MORE? (and furthermore, is that an American complex?) I am still seeking, yearning for whatever it might be, and consequently demeaning what is. Something I need to work on (yes, my father would be proud), is acceptance. And I am making a conscious effort with this one. With embracing myself, and being able to live with it (me?). So that I can minimize regrets (I’m not naïve enough to say I don’t have any of those) and be happy with what my life has been and continues to be, before I move on to…MORE.

Today is January 22nd. The flight prices have still not changed. So what day should I pick? February 4th? The 12th? May 31st?

ana? raciste?

2007-12-10T03:26:00.000-05:00

I had a discussion with one of my classes last week about boundaries, which led into a discussion of honor; they expressed their interpretation of honor, and then asked me how I define my honor. I was a little dumbfounded in trying to describe what I consider to be my honor as I’m not really sure I’ve ever thought much of it.

In any case, I am thinking quite a bit about it today.

Also last week I threw a student out of my class because he purposely mocked my nationality. Not acceptable at all, certainly not in my classroom. Unfortunately, I wasn’t especially graceful to the child, as I expressed my severe disdain for his ridiculously immature behavior. I say unfortunately because the stupid kid felt so hurt that he brought the matter to the attention of the administration.

Well, in fact, he told his mommy, who subsequently confronted the administration. I was called into my director’s office the following day to discuss the dilemma. Luckily, teachers generally stick together and the director didn’t take issue with the issue.

Unfortunately, again, the buck didn’t stop there. The director again approached me this morning with a document written in French attached to a signatory page with sixteen student names and signatures on it; the document claimed I was racist in my classroom, against Moroccan culture and the Islam religion.

So I guess I’m now debating where exactly the buck does stop, and who should or will do the stopping. Upon first talking to the director (who again, regardless of the petition, sympathized with me) I was shocked and hurt. OK, in all fairness, I have told certain students that their work is not nearly adequate, I’ve given dozens of 0’s for plagiarism, and I’ve reprimanded them for their truly inane behavior. But I have never done any of those things where they not be deserved. And I certainly have never used culture or religion to reinforce any of these points.

What assholes, seriously. Bunch of nincompoops.

But in all seriousness, I can’t quite grasp the gravity of the situation. I mean, could this provoke serious consequences? It is a written document after all. If this were in the United States, such a petition would be taken incredibly seriously. And then of course this begs the question, am I really racist?

I don’t think I am, but maybe I’m just fooling myself. I mean, as mentioned above, I have disciplined students through explaining to them that they should grow up, be more independent, etc. But I’ve never made generalizations about ALL Moroccans in that way. In fact, I think some of my students do work rather hard and rather well. And others, well, just don’t quite cut it. Have I made distinctions based on class, color, religion? No freaking way; I don’t even know the details of my students’ cases. My decisions and actions have been based solely on effort, which I can now see where that has gone.

Anyway, this leads into my next point. My initial feeling of shock and pain has now transformed into resentment and denial. And these feelings have made me realize that I do have honor. And my honor is my integrity. And my integrity is being challenged. And that’s just not right.

Call me a bitch, call me hard ass, judge me on the way I grade you or the way I teach you, but putting together a petition accusing me of being something I’m not, I can’t accept that.

So, now comes the hard part. What’s the solution? I have no idea. Do I walk into class and pretend as if all is hunky dory? Or do I not enter the classroom, hand in my resignation, noting that I refuse to educate students that are entirely ignorant and simply callous?

A friend of mine consoled me on the matter, and coached me on my diplomatic response skills, which, much later after the fact, seemed entirely reasonable. However, much later after the fact, things seemed to have mellowed. To the point where there was no longer any issue at all, leaving me feeling somewhat incomplete.

I suppose it’s just another lesson learned. Hemdulilah.

ramadan + christmas

2007-10-09T15:33:00.001-04:00

Ramadan is just like Christmas.

I know, that seems like an improbable comparison, but in fact, I can clearly identify similarities. Firstly, you know how on Christmas Eve, you have such trouble sleeping, either because you’re listening intently for Santa’s footsteps, or you just can’t wait to see what the heck you’re going to open in the morning? That eagerness, excitement – totally reflected in the windling days of Ramadan. I for one haven’t slept well for three nights now, in anticipation of this weekend, just days away, in comparison to the entirety should be nil, but you all know how that week leading up to Christmas just gets your heart rate up…yak?

Okay, so there’s no actual opening of presents, I won’t find a evergreen all lit up in my living room with shiny (and corny) wrapped boxes, inviting me in. BUT, I will find the café-lined streets bustling with people, during the DAYTIME, the restaurants and shops open during NORMAL hours, and the return to normalcy in general invading the Ramadan reversal. And of course I will find Badre in his djellaba (well, actually that’s not confirmed).

Actually, aside from this personal comparison between Ramadan and Christmas, there is a serious commonality in the whole gift giving mindset. Christmas is all about giving, and heck, so is Ramadan. At the conclusion of the grueling month, the good folk all give a zakat (not to be confused with the wonderful restaurant guide Zagat), which is a charity of sort. So, not exactly the same idea – no one really gives tangible gifts (clothes, electronics, perfumes, and best of all…gift certificates!) to loved ones, but in fact to unknown ones.

A little more humble than the westernized idea of Christmas, though in all frankness, don’t we get a ton of joy by giving much wanted gifts to our friends and family?? Doesn’t it make us feel just so damn GOOD? Yeah, I can’t imagine giving that up. I mean, don’t get me wrong, giving to the needy is an entirely just and wonderful idea, but don’t you think there should be a side of gifts for those, who though may not be financially needy, you just want to give to? Definitely.

What if we could combine the concepts of Ramadan and Christmas, maybe even throw in Hanukah and burn a few candles while we’re at it?

The world would be overflowing with presents! Imagine that…

4 october 2007

2007-10-04T18:43:00.000-04:00

I know I shouldn’t speak of others, let alone speak ill of them, but I can’t resist.

I’m bored.

I had a weird day today; it began at the photo shop (I was trying to put my pictures on a CD). I walked into the store to find the owner lounging in a chair, dozing away. (Luckily there was another woman there who assisted me.) A few minutes later he awoke, and started chatting with me about whether or not I partake in the Ramadan festivities. Even though I told him I didn’t, he still asked me if I prepared the iftar at night. Please, everyone knows I don’t cook.

Then I went to a local ‘little shop’ to try and pay my electric bill, but was informed that they only take cash, as they don’t pay directly to the electric company. Right.

Then I went to the pharmacy to state a complaint, and I found myself alone in the shop, surrounded by at least five pharmacists, all very attentive to my inquiry. Even the woman who once told me I looked ugly and my skin was a disaster was kind. That was strange.

But the strangest incident of all was when I was on my way home from the pharmacy and met my neighbor, Chloe, in the street. Chloe moved into the apartment next door with her husband Hicham about three months ago, and since I’ve heard a little more than an earful of their relationship (thin walls I suppose).

Anyway, as we were standing on the corner chatting, a car came by, and rather than going around us, as any normal human being naturally would, he attempted to sneak into the space between us and the curb. I couldn’t understand what he was doing, and so I made a hand movement, as if to demonstrate, ‘HELLO, THERE ARE HUMANS STANDING IN YOUR PATH OF DESTRUCTION. MOVE YOUR FUCKING CAR AWAY FROM US!’ As with everywhere in Morocco, we (the pedestrians) eventually had to yield way to the car. Chloe felt at that moment appropriate to continue my former hand motions, as well as yelling in Arabic something that would be the equivalent of ‘GO, GO, GET LOST’.

And yes, there were many bystanders.

Well, the nutcase (apparently overhearing Chloe’s non discrete commentary) stopped his car in mid-street, opened his door (I think his foot was still on the brake), and shouted ‘FUCK YOU’.

Fuck man, sometimes I have language issues, and I can’t discriminate between when people are speaking in French or English, and so it took me a second to process the apparent fluency of the nutcase, by which time his door was shut and he was speeding off, while Chloe continued throwing her Arabic insults.

And yes, the bystanders were still there.

Meanwhile, this guy, who looked like a total failure of a cracked-out rockstar (long hair and gold glasses), walked by, and said (again in English), ‘well, really flipped you out, huh?’

What country am I in?????? And what the fuck happened to Ramadan? Aren’t people supposed to be nice during Ramadan????

Anyway, after the whole situation calmed down a bit, Chloe and I switched corners and continued chatting. She is a firecracker, that’s for sure. She was telling me about our landlord, and how he confronted her regarding her temperment (like I said, it was kind of public), going so far as to confront her husband as well with wild accusations of pursuing prostitute means and the like. I’m sure Chloe didn’t take that too well, but I mean seriously, what is with Moroccans and this idea that foreigners are all whores?

Anyway, the landlord is a character in himself. I think he would love to be a pimp. Maybe that’s where he gets the idea.

By the way, for all those keeping track, we’re in the home stretch – 9 days left. Woo hoo!

yadayadayada

2007-10-04T18:42:00.001-04:00

I was about to step out for a short stroll, but upon looking out my window, I saw we were entering the second day of showers. So imprisoned I remain in my little apartment…

I was thinking today about the differences between Rabat and New York, and basking in the glorious memories that New York offered me. I admit that the time I spent living in New York was extremely saturated...lots of things, little time. There was plenty of silly superficial fun, there was equally a fair amount of tragedy. Though at certain moments, I'm a tad remorseful of all that New York embodied, I have to say, it was a pretty great fucking time.

I was inspired to write, as I was sitting in my room, attempting to study my Arabic vocabulary, and I was forced to close all doors and windows in attempt to reduce the horrific and incredibly distasteful display of noise outside. I just want to point out that it's illegal to honk in New York, and hemdullilah for that, because it's just obscene here. I don't understand the thought process, as if something positive results from the awful and total unnecessary noise. And let me tell you, it's not a short honk, it's never short. It's like people seriously take out their aggression on their horns. I'm sure this is the first part of the car that requires replacement it's so abused. And what's worse, one person starts, and then everyone else chimes in. Hence my title 'Moroccan music'. And it's not occasional, it's ALL the time. This is a cultural issue I hope never to retain, as I think it truly impolite and inconsiderate. I really contemplated walking out my door today to stand in the street and reprimand the crazy honkers. I suppose that would make me crazy as well. Patience is a virtue after all, and furthermore, patience should be a greater virtue during RAMADAN. Fucking horns.

In fact, now that I'm on the subject, I saw this Seinfeld episode (yes, they have Seinfeld here, go figure), and he did a bit about how men are so completely lost in terms of picking up women. They have no idea, no plan, no strategy, and so their attempts have just become desperate, to the point where they might just honk at a passing woman – that's when you know you've lost all hope (as he says), when you honk at a woman. As if she's going to stop!

Yeah, well, in Morocco, apparently a large percentage of the male driving population are entirely desperate. Except, in this circumstance, they don't use their horn as much as their lights. I don't know how many people have flashed their lights at me as I walk on by, but what could they possibly be thinking, that I would maybe give a smile and friendly wave? That I would pause, kneel down and poke my head into their window to say hello? That I would ask them for a ride? That I wouldn't ask anything, but just slide right into the passenger seat?

I mean, seriously, in any of those wild situations, there's just no way that anyone would do that. How do these men not get that???!! I know in the U.S. a lot of guys follow the quarter rule, I think it's called (if you talk to four girls in one night, you should be successful with one of them (1/4th)). I wonder if Moroccans have something equivalent, or maybe it's something like 1/20th. That sounds more like it.

Okay I’m finished with this subject.

Today I went to my first faculty meeting tipsy. It was fun. I went to a friend's house (the one who referred to me as snobbish, but I think has since reassessed her judgment) and we had lunch with Joel (Joel is a former ALC colleague from Australia). We had cheese and crackers and olives and nuts, and wine of course…

Americans are so much harsher of judges than Moroccans. Why is that?

another ramadan week bites the dust

2007-09-29T19:31:00.000-04:00

I’ve lost track of what day it is, both in terms of during the week, and in terms of Ramadan. I think we’re about halfway through.

Hemdulillah.

So, Badre had a little scooter trouble this week, prompting him to contact me. I agree that I should be au courant with his health, and was of course eager to accompany him to the doctor, both because it’s been over two weeks since we’ve spoken and because I have absolutely nothing to do. In fact, I really lucked out, as our first stop, the doctor had already departed, so we had no choice but to wait until the following day.

Anyway, I’m certainly no fan of doctor’s offices, or anything for that matter that oozes sickness, but it was a fun experience. It reminded me of the Moroccan community spirit – as Badre went to have his x-ray, I sat with his friend Malki, and we started on the subject of the pilgrimage in Mecca. As he was explaining why people make the pilgrimage during Ramadan, the waiting room filled with eager eavesdroppers, and one gentleman jumped into the conversation.

It’s funny, because it’s become kind of natural to me how people just don’t blatently ignore each other like in the U.S. I mean, I wouldn’t even give a curt smile to fellow patients, let alone intrude on a conversation for which I was never intended. I can’t imagine that ever happening in ANY waiting room in ALL of the country. But here, my business is your business, especially when it comes to religion, politics and work.

So this guy started chatting us up, about Ramadan, about Islam and such. I told him what I tell everyone – I don’t practice any particular religion, to which he called me an atheist, and to which I told him, no, I’m not necessarily atheist, I just haven’t decided, you know, I’m still somewhat young. That of course prompted him to reminisce about his embracing of Islam at such a young age.

Well of course silly, I told him (minus the silly part), I mean, this is your culture; your culture is your religion. It’s natural that you transition right into it. But for me, I grew up in a whirlwind of cultures, and therefore of religions, with no societal or familial pressure. I think I baffled him for a second, and the conversation moved into what the heck I’m doing in Morocco.

I think I should start making things up to respond to this. I remember, back in my social days, going out with friends, to bars, clubs, parties, etc., and sometimes, I would be so bored meeting people, I occasionally created interesting stories. I think my favorite was telling people that I was independently wealthy, and therefore pursued philanthropic goals. It always went over well, as I delivered with such a cunning face. Hmm, yes, that would be interesting indeed…

Aside from this brewhaha, Badre is fine, with just a hurt shoulder. I heard my parents’ voices echo in mine – put ice on it for 15 minutes at a time! Clean your wounds with peroxide! I even stood next to him and made him ask the doctor to do it. I chatted with him too, nice guy. I just had a thought – every time I needed to seek out a new doctor, my mother would always somehow come up with some Jewish fellow. Bet you can’t find too many of those here!

Anyway, other than this incident, my week has been relatively uneventful. I lunched with some friends on Thursday, one of which is not actually a friend. I was thereafter reminded how she finds me snobbish (which another friend associated with my elitist Connecticut accent…well, it is the northeast). I admit however, I couldn’t totally disagree with the assessment; in a way, I am a snob. I do not like to mingle or associate with stupid people. Not ignorant stupid, just stupid stupid. Like her.

Her findings go back nearly a year, though I think she’s moody and superficial, as she certainly has never dared say anything to my face, and at times is rather friendly. Besides, if anyone is snobbish, I believe it would be her, with her tales of luxurious spas in Tunisia, eating at Spago in Vegas, and her happy now non-working, stay-at-home life in her lovely and spacious villa (with a pool…and a tredmill) in Souissi. I could easily retort and belittle each of these things (and furthermore top all of them), but I always thought I was nicely reserved, and I certainly don’t recall ever spotlighting any part of my current or former glamourous self.

What’s worse is that I thought by leaving the ALC I would rid myself of her bad karma, but low and behold, I found her creeping up on me at the other school where I work. Small world, Morocco. So I’m debating whether to be a bigger person, which is not really in my interest, or my petty self, which suits me well.

Tomorrow another Arabic lesson. The only word I can remember at the moment is mowza, which is bananas. That could actually come in handy as I do like mowzas. I eat a mowza a day. And an apple, but I can’t remember apple. I think it’s toufaha. Something like that. I had a lesson today and I learned some animals…I think cow is something like baccara. It reminded me of Baccarat. I need to practice more.

Jihane told me bout her family feedback of me, from this week’s iftar - her brother said something about me being so different from all foreigners – cool, calm, nice, not pounding booze or inhaling smoke…of course adding the final comment that my boyfriend is a lucky man (yeah, I agree with that one). That’s worth a good laugh; obviously I didn’t take a drink in their home (it’s Ramadan and they’re Muslim!), and I don’t really think I’m the calmest of people. But hey, I guess I make a great impression (false or not), and that’s what’s important.

Alright, bedtime. Laïla saïda.

salé iftar

2007-09-24T18:39:00.000-04:00

Today is the 11th day of Ramadan, and I assure you, contrary to what everyone says, Ramadan is an incredibly slow-moving month. The idea that there are still 20-ish days that remain torment me, regardless of the fact that each day subtracts from that current monumental amount.

So tonight, I was invited by my Arabic tutor, Jihane, to have iftar with her family. I met Jihane through her husband Idriss, through his friend Chafik, who happens to be a friend of Badre. Idriss is a teacher at a public school very far from Rabat, of Arabic and French, Jihane is a monitor at a private French school in Rabat. I’m not sure how it came upon Jihane to teach me Arabic, but she’s become both my tutor, and actually more so, my friend. In fact, our lessons consist of about 90% banter and 10% work, but I don’t exactly have the heart to dismiss her. Plus, I enjoy her companionship.

Our very first lesson, Jihane greatly confided in me, I think relieving herself of not having a close friend with which to discuss insecurities and the unknown, to vent, to gain advise, etc. I was dumbfounded when she openly and eagerly recounted her life story with Idriss (of course, later bringing the wedding photos to accompany the discussion). In any case, Jihane is a character in herself, one that deserves an entire blog entry alone. For the current purpose, I’ll just sum her up as a truly sweet, well-intentioned, innocent and forgiving (perhaps overly so) person.

By the way, the purpose, to remind you and myself, was about tonight, the iftar.

So, Jihane, after many invitations and much prodding (she doesn’t know that I’m a naturally unsocial person… until I’m forced into the social situation that is), I agreed to return with her tonight, following our lesson. Jihane lives in Salé, the sister city of Rabat, just over the little bridge. I’ve only ventured to Salé a whole three times or so, regardless of the fact that it also houses my boyfriend and his family. So the two of us made of few stops, then hopped (well, more like squished) into a grand taxi and headed over that little bridge.

When we got to our destination, I found that she lived within the walls of the Salé medina. The one other time I visited the Salé medina was with Badre, and I remember distinctly him telling me that he lived not so far away. So of course, as Jihane and I set off looking for fabric for curtains for her new apartment, I was extremely suspicious, looking at every passing face, just waiting until one of those faces turned out to be Badre.

None of them were, and though I joked about a potential spy mission, I unfortunately don’t know enough of Salé to be able to pull that off, not to mention I’m not exactly the most discrete person (physically or mentally). So we departed, defeated, and went back to her house (she still currently lives with her family).

After a year in Morocco, I understand the social divides, and I’ve seen, if not experienced many of the diverse classes. Her family’s apartment in the medina wasn’t so small – there was an entranceway/hall, a small Moroccan salon, a larger one and another room in the back that I didn’t see, and then a very small kitchen. My first thought though was not of the size, but of the state of what was within – walls with paint and concrete chipped away, an open roof over the hall, allowing in both good and bad weather (and making it a nightmare I’m sure to keep out animals and dirt), and an overall rundown feel. I just thought to myself that the place could actually be quite decent if it was given proper attention. It just held the sentiment of longtime neglect.

In any case, regardless of the physical apartment, I really liked Jihane’s family. They didn’t make any special scene because I was there, but just welcomed me in naturally as if I was a fellow Moroccan, and I really appreciated that. Though Jihane’s mother doesn’t speak much French, her eyes and smile were both warm and welcoming; her father, after working for a hotel, spat out some English, and was a jolly, light-hearted guy, with good charisma. Her brothers, Yassine and Mohamed were equally welcoming; everytime Yassine saw something on TV he thought I’d enjoy, he’d call out to me – Rachel, viens! It was as if we’d been friends for a while, and I felt comfortable around them all – no pressure, just relax, and eat of course (one reason why I actually dislike going to Moroccan households – because everyone of the family chimes in to stuff me until I roll over!).

I talked a lot with Jihane – she showed me her suitcase of djellabas and another special kind of djellaba (takisha maybe?) which I promised to wear once she convinces her husband (Idriss) to throw a wedding party. She also sprung out all her old photos and told me stories about her family, her parents (who married within the family), her siblings and cousins and friends, and so on. She waited for my approval on all the items she’s collected for her new apartment – blankets and tea apparel for now. (I’m still trying to decide what I can contribute as a housewarming gift once they eventually move in…). I followed her around in the kitchen, hoping to pick up a few pointers, and shocked her when I told her that all kitchens in apartments in the U.S. come equipped with both refrigerators and ovens. There was rarely a silent moment, and when there was, there was always the TV in the background to serve as a distraction.

At the end of the night, when I left, Jihane and Yassine walked me to the grand taxi station, and they both chimed in that they hoped this wouldn’t be my last visit to their house. I assured them no, I would love to come again. And that’s the truth, I would be happy to see them all again.

But, regardless of how occupied I was while with Jihane’s family, my mind drifted several times…

From the time Jihane and I got out of the taxi to the moment I left them all behind and came back to my life, I thought about Badre, about how similar his life may or may not be to Jihane’s. About the physical place, but also about the familial atmosphere. About how similar his mother might be to Jihane’s and equally his father. I can’t help but think that both the place and the people would be so alike. I can’t help but think that like Jihane’s family, Badre’s would receive me in exactly the same way – respectful but welcoming upon entering, and genuinely sad when saying goodbye. I can’t help but think that I would enjoy myself as much as I did with my company tonight as I would with the company of his family. I can’t help but think that his brother (who has the same name as Jihane’s brother) would also call me in to watch something interesting on TV.

I can’t help but wonder.

islam + governance (part wahad)

2007-09-22T20:40:00.002-04:00

Regardless of the fact that I’ve passed the first week of Ramadan, I’ve just up and decided to regain my formerly incessant reflections. And, keeping up with the idea of last night’s piece, I thought the month should be composed entirely of these past reflections, starting with some that I have yet to convey, as they are much more recent (and hence more fresh in my mind) than my latest blog efforts. I am reminded of a conversation I once had with Robyn, during a 3-day trip to Paris in December. We were talking over salads (and a bottle of wine) after seeing a movie (damn, I can’t remember which one). Anyway, we were both feeling fragile in our then current relationships, and we discussed the idea of recul. As we concurred that such a step back is necessary in assessing the reality, so that will be the theme of this Ramadan, recul. Perhaps at the end of the month I should have some form of conclusion.

Just prior to the Ramadan kickoff, I met with this guy, who is has some association with some Islamist party in Morocco, while having also founded an organization pursuing the concept of governance. As I consider myself quite liberal, and happen to have a social circle of similar-minded friends, I’ve always desired to encounter people encompass diverse views. I can’t say that I found this guy totally not liberal; he did seem, in a certain sense, somewhat flexible and open. Perhaps that was only because we were carrying on a simple discussion. However, I would characterize him as obscenely naïve, and as such, slightly offensive. Nothing I’ve not heard speculated before.

We discussed subjects such as Osama bin Laden and George Bush, governance in an Islamic society, ‘Western’ connections, etc.

Side note. I just got a text message from Badre. It was so sterile. But it made me beam.

Anyway, he talked a lot. I was exhausted, so I fumbled over all the grammatically incorrect French phrases I tried to put together in both fueling and disputing his banter. His initial explanation of his project and objectives were interesting, that of harmonizing Islamic principles in establishing good governance, which are not so far off the beaten path of what we call democratic values and principles.

Another side note from a previous discussion between Badre and I – the term ‘Islamist’ does not exist in the Arabic language, as it was one assigned not from inside the Arab world. He made it seem so obvious when explaining the idea – in a non secular Muslim society, most political parties would embrace the qualities of Islam within their platforms. Duh.

Anyway, what struck me about this guy, who’s currently undergoing PhD work in Morocco, is that, while he preaches interesting ideological thoughts, his tangible experience is minimum at best. Example: he claimed that it would be entirely feasible to incorporate and instill good governance based on the pillars of Islam.

When he spoke of this, his faith and belief in the purity and good in people resonated, which is admirable of course.

But when you walk outside, when you stroll the streets, there’s so much more to Moroccan inhabitants than religion. They’ve been traumatized by other influences – development, media, technology, etc. They’re tainted (I’m tainted too, it’s okay to be tainted.) But this guy insisted that regardless of these factors, the true good of Islam in Muslims is entirely feasible and would thus contribute in achieving that so sought-after idea of ‘good’ governance.

I hate to be a cynic (but I can’t deny my true being). So…

I told him to follow me around town for a day, to see the ‘real’ purity of the people. In my comment, I was referring to the ghastly and dishonorable conduct that some (I’m being generous in saying some) Moroccans engage in. I have a few of what I would describe as ‘most memorable’ evidence of this. Here are two:

One day I was walking to a tutoring lesson in Agdal, and on my way, I pass by a large mosque. As I crossed the street and looped around the mosque, a man standing outside paused and said to me ‘Hello miss. Would you like me to fuck you?’ After awaiting a response and receiving nothing, he mounted the steps and entered the mosque.

The day before the start of Ramadan, I was again out strolling, and passed by the guards outside the Princess’ house, which is very close to my apartment, and which I pass at least once a day. The guard, his eyes fixed on me, said ‘ very very very very very beautiful’.

These are only two examples, though I probably could go on for some time. Though typically enraged by bystander commentary, I do admit, I enjoy fascinating how exactly I would retaliate. But I’ve only actually retaliated once, and it didn’t work out as I expected. Enough said.

Disclaimer – Do keep in mind however (I feel it necessary at this point to insert this) that these sentiments are certainly not applicable to all Moroccans, and should be taken at face value, as mere examples. In the defense of Moroccan integrity, I would eagerly and happily say that for each bastard roaming the streets there are many others that are wonderful, kind people. (Just clarifying the both positives and negatives that appear in any society.)

So the guy, quickly cutting me off before hearing my descriptive examples, retorted with an example of his own, an expedition of sorts that he and some colleagues had coordinated, off in some wilderness in Morocco, to experiment as to whether Islam can prevail over, uh, natural human nature. He concluded yes, it could.

I laughed. Please, the fact that it was a secluded group, all with the same objective prohibits it from being used as an example.

In any case, our discussion continued, as he detailed his hope to create a dialogue with Europe or the United States, which I found (still do find) to be a great idea. But he was shaken by the fact that there appeared to be little interest. I tried to assure him that there was in fact plenty of interest, but that it’s not simple to be able to organize such an event. I can’t speak for Europe, but the U.S. is not the most readily accepting country – there’s a lot of rejection that goes around. That is, until you reach the right person at the right time in the right place. And that’s no simple task, but with a little perseverance and the ability to push aside taking rejection as personal, I must say, everything (within limits of course) is possible. He seemed disinterested in initiating further contact or partnerships, but I tried to encourage him, as it’s necessary and crucial that he take such initiative, because as we all know, doors don’t just open themselves.

Call me an idealist, but I have always found that with quite a bit of hard work, you can get exactly, whatever you want.

Unfortunately, our discussion wasn’t entirely lengthy, as it was late, and we all had places to be. But, looking back (recul) there are a lot of things I would have really liked to put out there, a lot more details I would have liked to know. Hopefully, we’ll meet again. Inshallah. In the meantime, as I take this recul, I feel I have much to elaborate on this meeting.

But for now, we end.

He drove Badre back to my apartment; along the way, he told Badre that in order to show his appreciation and that there were no hard feelings from our meeting, he’d like to invite me to McDonalds…

ramadan social

2007-09-22T20:04:00.000-04:00

The difficulty with being social in Morocco, as I have found in just one year’s time, is that there’s a very high turnover rate. I’ve adjusted to saying hello and bidding good bye to friends in a matter of months. There’s just no staying power…

Wednesday night I went to a party, hosted by a friend I had met at another friend’s farewell party. This party was at her apartment, in a building that has been secured by the French, so conveniently across from the French embassy, and where, from what I understand, houses many expat Frenchies at a very reasonable rate.

I went with a ‘blind date’ – one that was not so well organized by the former roomie – Isolde. She, darting out early to a last minute meeting, arranged for me to meet another former renter, at her apartment – Marie. We later dubbed it a blind date, with its haphazard planning, as both Marie and I failed to find each other until about an hour after our scheduled meet. In any case, à la fin, we found each other and cheerily headed to the gathering. Marie is French born, though currently a Canadian resident (Montreal), and was shipped off to Morocco by a program associated with the Canadian government, to work for a few months with an organization called OXFAM. I liked her immediately, as Isolde assured me I would, as she was both grounded and sociable and intelligible.

So finally we arrived at the soirée, where the host – Laiticia (also French born, but of one French, one Brazilian parent) greeted and introduced us both to mingle with the 99% French crowd. At the time, I was the 1% representing diversity, though later, a Moroccan woman wandered in, as well as the Belgian Isolde.

I don’t remember exactly why I’m writing about this event, nothing spectacular was to come of it, though I really enjoyed the company, and found (for once) to be welcomed into a crowd of Frenchies. Maybe to share with everyone that I do have friends here! Maybe not the closest of friends, but hey, I can be social (if I’m forced to).

The only thing that left me a little annoyed was Laiticia’s boyfriend, visiting from a stint with a German organization in Indonesia, who eagerly poked fun at USAID’s logo, after I spoke with him about my stint. He said he couldn’t understand why the logo included a note ‘from the American people’ when it was actually funded by the government. My god, do people really pay attention to such inane details? I told him that technically speaking, since the ‘people’ elect the government, to govern and manage such organizations and departments, one could actually say ‘from the people’ without causing a rucous. This led into a comment about how USAID always comes up with such clever acronyms that actually form into words with a meaning. Hmm, ALEF doesn’t mean shit it English, and if you want some crazy acronyms, check out the UN (represented by more than just the U.S.)

In my opinion, I just think non-Americans love to meet Americans, to share with them all these not clever at all remarks. As when they’re among themselves, they can only discuss and agree on the remarks to later share.

Tonight I went to a f’tor on the terrace of my old apartment; it was actually comparable to the idea of an American potluck – everyone bring something and voilà, we break the fast together. Except rather than pot roast and macaroni and cheese, there was harira, many types of something similar to crèpes, eggs, eggplant, dates, milk, and of course, plenty of sweets.

The group consisted of about fifteen people, Moroccans, French, Canadian even, the one token Belgian and the one token American (moi). I wasn’t entirely in a social mood so it was difficult to get going on the same pace, and I kept thinking to myself…where are all the Americans? I never hang out with English speakers (less I be charging them for lessons that is). I can’t really recall the last time I was in a social situation with a bunch of good ole Americans, or for that matter, the last time I could fully express myself in my native language (and have my listener fully understand).

Are the Americans just not social people? I was discussing this with my Italian student, Marina, and she agreed, though attributed it to the Moroccan culture (she previously worked in the Ivory Coast, and claimed the American embassy was widely known for its program of social and cultural events). I have no idea if there’s even a cultural or social bureau in Morocco, and I’ve certainly not heard of any sponsored events (not that events are even all that common to begin with).

Maybe I should sponsor a cultural event. It would be nice to dispel the idea that America has little culture, and what it does have, revolves around hamburgers and French fries – what’s that term – McDonalsization? What about hot dogs? No one ever mentions those. And baseball. That too is overlooked. There’s actually quite a bit of culture in the U.S. – it’s just not in sync throughout the country, which I would say is normal for a country that size. I always feel a twinge of remorse though when I hear foreigners mocking my culture, as hey, I’m a product of it, and hey again, look how great I turned out! Way better than you (I wish I could retort), so there.

It’s okay, I’m not bitter. We all have our assumptions and judgments we make before we actually have the opportunity to see for ourselves, what the world is really like. Plus, I am a pretty critical person myself.

Looking back at my unspectacular evening, I feel a little regretful – I should have clung to those Canadians – they are the closest thing I have to home after all.

ramadan mobrak, 2007

2007-09-20T16:39:00.000-04:00

It’s nearly a week into the second Ramadan that I’ll be experiencing in Morocco, though this one is in full, and I’ve just been thinking about the memories I have of the past year, in attempt to avoid, well, the seemingly inevitable state of boredom.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve last sat and written, due to physical and mental constraints, but I do feel empowered to write, I have so many new anecdotes to share, lessons to reflect on, people to, well, gossip about I suppose.

I’m at a very familiar point in my life, one that I think I’ve dealt with many times before, under different circumstances of course, but regardless, with the same essential point at its core. I’m torn, lost, uncertain, and, as always, am having difficulty to come to a conclusion. I think that’s because I try to use logical reasoning, but each side has such logical, reasonable pull.

And so continues the internal debate, as I’m reminded of what both my grandfather and father and perhaps even brother have remarked of me. Though I seek advice and guidance, in the end, I will always make my own way, a way that typically goes against much advice I receive.

No decision has been made yet, and I suspect it will be some time before I just ease into one gradually, without any formal acknowledgement of doing so.

But anyway, back to the memories. I distinctly remember the day of my arrival, the 24th of September, walking outside of Rabat’s airport, thinking, ‘where the hell is everyone’, being relieved to locate a person at a discrete information booth to indicate what to do next and doing just that, taking my first grand taxi into the city, to the Sofitel and being again relieved to be sheltered from the outside world in a modern, westernized (and chic) hotel. I remember calling Bridget, and then my parents to tell them I had safely arrived. And then wondering what exactly to do with myself, not so unlike this exact moment.

The firsts of a new place – the first daunting walk outside, to the first meeting at the ALC, the first time I picked up the phone at the Sofitel to hear my boyfriend’s voice for the first time, the first meetings, Nadia, in Agdal (who had shortly thereafter left for France), the first time I met Badre, outside the mosque (where we so nearly missed each other), Hicham, outside of Hotel Balima (where just beforehand I misjudged a step and fell), the infamous Isolde who returned from Belgium a week after I elected to move into her apartment, and reject the many I had seen with Badre, the ALEF team (and the 70 dirham taxi ride to get there, where I learned my first words of Arabic), Dana, the other American intern who happened to end up another roommate of mine…

As I reminisce, I realize that in fact, Morocco has been far from boring, as the memories I now have are so clear and vivid in my mind and entirely sacred. I remember every detail, struggling to find the way I had fought so hard to make, to adapt and to be accepted in a place that was and still is entirely foreign to me, in many respects I have succeeded, while in some others I continue to strive for this success.

So I now find myself amidst another Ramadan, and this one proves significantly more challenging than the last. For while the majority resist temptation, embrace sacrifice in certain habitual practices, I am left to resist and sacrifice in a less traditional form. Perhaps not exactly comparable, equally as tough and equally as demanding.

I thought I was prepared, I agreed it would be an interesting experience, test even, I understood and respected (more or less) the reasoning and conditions.

But, a bare week into it, I never expected it to be this hard. Easing into the second week, I already know the the results (hopefully that are reflected in more than just my own thoughts and feelings), I'm already ready for the end...of Ramadan that is.

And there are 24 days remaining.

street charmers

2007-05-31T06:09:00.000-04:00

In the eight months that I’ve been a Rabat resident, I’ve paused perhaps three times to respond to a passer-by’s inane commentary. Every day there is at least one comment. That means that I’ve absorbed roughly 240 comments (given 30 days in a month, and one comment per day). There are days when there are none, there are days when the comments are abundant. But to have responded only 3 times, that leaves me a response rate of approximately (again, based on the aforementioned given factors) of 1.25%.

Obviously, I personally believe in the whole tactic of ignoring people. It worked with my brother when we were little and used to bicker. It works now when I’m mad at someone. So why wouldn’t it work with the imbeciles that loiter in the streets?

The other day, I was walking home from the medina and there was this guy, easily nearing his 70th decade, who announced ‘I love you. Just like that’. How do you respond to such an idiotic and senile person? Is he worthy of a response? Um, I’d go with negative on that one.

I admit sometimes I fantasize about how I could really wreck a guys day by retorting to his comment. For example, again, strolling home, a straggler outside a café said (in a relatively loud voice) ‘You are beautiful’. I desperately longed to turn, in one swift motion, and say ‘And you are ugly’.

But I ignored and carried on.

Badre has however encouraged me to voice my opposition to these losers, thus diffusing their audacity of approaching foreigners. Look, I’m just one foreigner, I can’t tackle all of them! And I’m not really interested in doing so either.

Anyway, yesterday I was having a pretty shitty day, mostly due to a culmination of shitty things. So I decided to walk home, clear my mind. About 10 minutes into it, a youngish character came up from behind. He said ‘hello’. I said nothing. He said ‘Hello, I don’t want anything’.

I said, ‘if you don’t want anything then get lost.’

I don’t think he was very fond of my choice of words because, holy fuck, he went off. ‘Do you know who I am?’

(me) ‘Do I care who you are?’

(him) ‘I’m so and so.’

(me) no comment

(him) ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’

(me) ‘Why are you talking to me? Get lost.’

(him, screaming) ‘Fucking Europeans. I’m going to kill all the Europeans that are in Rabat that don’t live here.

(me, to myself) ‘Good thing I’m not European.

I’m returning to my traditional ignoring-people method.

moroccan observations

2007-05-30T06:34:00.000-04:00

Now that I’ve been here for a while I think I can start to make some observations about the Moroccan lifestyle. First, I’d declare their favorite pastimes as falling into three categories – sleeping, eating and beating their rugs. Seriously, not a day goes by when I don’t see (or hear) at least several people kicking their rugs around outside. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it seems like a very health-forward tactic, but who has the time to beat their rugs so frequently? And the noise. On the weekends, the habitants in our building take their rugs out for a good beating. And it’s so fucking annoying. I want to go out and beat the people that beat the rugs. Seriously. Personally, I have yet to beat my rugs, but I think that when I finally do, it will be like some sort of symbolic ritual…like I will truly become part of the Moroccan culture.

They also like to put their furniture outside, I guess to air it out. In New York, the second you put a piece of furniture outside, it means ‘take me, please. I’m free!’ I admire Moroccans for being able to do this without any concern for theft. I’m not sure I would be as trusting.

Anyway, I thought I would chatter a bit about daily life, seeing as I’ve swiftly fallen into the grind of it, and completely accepted all the parts of it. I have to say, I’m sure I’m going to suffer from culture shock the day I step back in New York and into a yellow taxi that has the option of rolling down your windows and doesn’t feature the Koran or French news on the radio, and where no one gives a shit where I’m from (or if I’m American). Wow, that’s going to be so strange.

I was thinking the other day about how I never partake in any shopping in Morocco. Since I’ve been here I haven’t purchased an article of clothing (nor shoes). At times it is depressing, but I just can’t submit to the selection. However, what I find absolutely sensational about Morocco is that if I want something, I can have it made, by hand. Like, a few weeks ago I was daydreaming about a bag, just like the one I have (I’m in need of a new one, mine is just slowly dying), and I thought, what the hell, I could probably have it made. Sure enough, two trips to the medina (specifically to the leather area), a picture of my bag and measurements, and within a week I should have a replica. OK, I’m not expecting perfection, but I think I’ll be content with the final product. And the final cost: 300dh (about 35$). My original bag cost somewhere between 100-200$ I think. Big difference, n’est pas?

So as this blog seems to be scattered, I guess I’ll further scatter with minor updates. So, my ex-French-roommate moved in with her French comrade, and I recently visited their mini villa…and I immediately fell in love. It’s perfect, small, quaint, guarded with a garden, charming, Moroccan (but not too Moroccan); now I’m just waiting to see if the pseudo-owner will accept me as a tenant, lower the price and extend the duration. That would be super. Dehbia and friend are leaving in just about a month, and yes, I’m still residing in the brothel, and still seeking an apartment elsewhere. But even though I’ve recently seen a few places, they just don’t compare to the mini villa. I mean, it’s just so perfect. So so perfect. I want it, I need it!

That’s the housing update. What else can I update? Relationship? Going well I suppose, not much news to report. Our next trip we’re planning is to Wales, should we be successful in coordinating flights and visas alike (well, visa). I’m sorry to report that (should you not be aware of this news) the American Consulate has recently (stupidly) announced that it has halted the issuance of visas (of all kinds) to Moroccans to go to the U.S., and should Moroccans wish to have a visa, they would be obligated to visit an American Consulate of a neighboring country (i.e. Spain, France, Italy, Algeria, Tunisia). The ridiculous part is that Moroccans need a visa to get into these European countries, so they would need visa to get a visa. And by the way, the Moroccan/Algerian border is closed.

I’m sorry fellow Americans, but how can we not feel shameful for our just plain dumb actions? I’m ashamed, that’s for sure. The argument of the Consulate is that they’re awaiting further security measures in Casa following the bombs a month ago (including a partial closing of the road on which they’re located). Fair enough, security is a concern. But shouldn’t alienating and insulting an ally and friend be a greater concern??

When I asked my students what they thought, I had at least one in each class that said, ‘Do you know that Morocco was the first country to recognize the United States?’

Anyway, I was just pointing this out as for all of you that desperately want to meet my boyfriend, it doesn’t look like he’ll be making any journey to the U.S. anytime soon…

As for work, well I feel burnt out. It’s becoming a burden on my personal life, and it’s diminishing my capacities in my professional life. I’m tired of working for the ALC and I’m tired to teaching students who all have sticks up their asses. Maybe I should teach them that phrase, and then tell them to remove the sticks. One of the schools I teach at is having a prom this weekend. It’s remarkably similar to an American prom (remember, I didn’t go to either of my proms). I had several students who asked me if I would go. I admit, I was slightly tempted. I wonder what it would be like to go to prom as a teacher and not a student. Hmm, I wonder if the guys will dress in tuxes and the girls in gowns. It would be interesting. I’m going to have to do further inquire.

What else can I report? The past five or so Sidi Ali water bottles I’ve bought re crooked. They lean. I find that strange. Today marks the first day of some sort of international music festival called Mawazin or something to that effect. Hopefully I’ll get to see at least one concert.

life

2007-05-24T05:31:00.001-04:00

People live their lives in part to accomplish certain goals. They create plans, they follow these plans, all in hopes of achieving one day something great.

I’m no different than these people. I too create plans in hopes of achieving something great. But I feel like, along these many paths I compose, there are endless impediments that detract from the path, from the plan.

I’m not exactly certain what great accomplishment I aim to achieve by the age of twenty-five, in which case I really shouldn’t be disappointed when I fail to achieve that inexistent goal. I had a discussion with Badre last night about how much my vision has changed since my arrival in Morocco, how much my priorities have shifted, to focus on entirely different projects.

It’s true, and I’m disappointed, highly disappointed, but not solely within the fact that my objectives have faded, but in the fact that I willingly and consciously let them fade. I came here with such determination, such passion. And slowly it disappeared. Hakba. Comme ca.

I’m sure I can regain this feeling and also regain these objectives. I just wish I had done some things slightly differently.

I can’t say that this experience, seven months into it, has been disappointing, it just has been different. I resent some of my decisions, some of my actions, this is certain.

But to give up now would just be silly.

My whole life I’ve always been especially hard on myself, expecting certain things to be finished by certain times. But why can’t I demand an extension? Why is it necessary that I accomplish what I set out to accomplish in one year, in one year? Why can’t I do it in 18 months? Or two years? What difference does it make how long it takes if it gets done eventually? So if it ends up that I’m 26 and just wrapping up my dreams and plans for my 25th birthday, does it really make a big difference? Why can’t I take more time? What am I so pressed for?

I can’t believe that I’ve been here for eight months. And a lot has happened in eight months. I can’t believe I haven’t seen my friends, my family, in eight months. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like to see them. Though I can’t say for sure that I’ve changed so much, I think I have.

Things have changed, and I along with them.

gay men hitting on me

2007-05-24T05:27:00.000-04:00

Each day in Morocco offers some sort of novel experience, but it equally reflects an ordinary sort of routine. For example, nearly each day I learn something new about the culture, the people, the religion, the lifestyle here. Each day I also feel similar glances, hear familiar noises as I prowl the streets. But today was an exceptional day. Today effectively combined the routine with the novelty.

Today I was strolling around waiting for Badre to finish his soccer match, and as I approached the stadium gates, I noticed two men walking in my direction. Totally normal, two men walking together, each attempting their own practiced and specialized glare. But what was odd, uncanny if you will, was that these two particular men were hand in hand, clutching each other quite tightly. Now it’s not entirely uncommon for men to be affectionate toward one another (which in Morocco actually bolsters the idea of masculinity), but I have never, in all my seven months, been given attention from one of these coupled men. As they walked by (again, hand in hand), they looked, they spoke (the usual – ‘salut, ca va?’ as they each glared their glare)…

I made a serious conscious effort not to glare back.

Oh Morocco, you amaze me every day.

touissit

2007-04-24T06:01:00.000-04:00

(the visual evidence: http://picasaweb.google.com/rholskin/TouissitMarch2007?authkey=1CYPr3xSbSc )

In my entire life, I have never tasted worse coffee. Seriously, I thought it was poison. I had to hold my noise to politely pretend to swallow.

A lot of times in business, you face that ‘lessons learned’ and ‘best practices’ bullshit. Well, I learned a lot from my ‘fieldwork’ with ALEF.

I learned to always travel with food (and water).

I also learned to always travel with toilet paper.

I came to understand that my nationality does influence and implicate my perceptions, abilities and reactions. And I came to understand that vice versa, my nationality (along with my physical appearance) influences the perceptions and judgment of others unto me.

I did survive.

I shouldn’t be so cynical. It wasn’t like those adventure-seekers who pay to be dropped in the middle of the desert, alone, for several days, without food or water. I was dropped in the east of Morocco, less than a mile from the Algerian border, in an inhabited village outside the city of Oujda. The village is called Touissit (or something to that effect).

The trip was arranged in about two days, and I should have expected things to be loosely organized (as little is ever accomplished in Morocco in two days), but while I was slightly nervous, I was also excited. Life experiences.

Side note – I suppose I should explain what the fuck I was visiting: so, part of ALEF’s scopes is with girls’ dormitories – a girls’ dormitory in essence targets super-under-privileged girls in very rural areas (mostly those who have difficult to no access to schools), around the middle school age, and brings them altogether under one roof, where they live, work, eat, sleep, hang out, etc. From this base, they also attend the local school, and thus are able to improve their knowledge, levels and obtain additional scholarly support. Oh, and all the girls are sponsored with a scholarship either by the Ministry of Education (or something similar) or a partnering organization.

I took the night train to Oujda, which cost a whopping 600dh (well, for ALEF, not me). Surprisingly the train was FAR superior to those night trains of Europe, extremely secure…and I actually slept! Imagine that.

I arrived in Oujda at 7 in the morning, and had Hamzoui, an ALEF chauffeur waiting for me. We sped off in the direction of Jerada, where I was told I was going, until Hamzoui and I started talking, and I told him that I was visiting a girls’ dormitory, and puzzled, he was like ‘there ain’t no dormitory in Jerada’. That was sign numero uno. I should have known.

OK, we called Kamime, who revised our directions and sent us off to Touissit, a village in the REGION of Jerada. Hmm, Kamime, wouldn’t that have been cool to let me know that ahead of time? Like, where the fuck I’m going? Novel concept.

Kamime, my semi-boss for this project (he heads ALEF’s girl’s dormitory projects) briefed me before leaving, we reviewed what I should be looking for (along with Josh), who I should be talking with, and of course, trip logistics. Kamime assured me (with a smile and twinkle in his eye) – you’re going to be staying on the campus, with one of the encadrante’s, in her house. It’s very well equipped – you’ll have your own room, there’s internet, etc. Don’t worry.

Sure.

Firstly, there’s only one encandrante. She works with a surveillante. Both of these women weren’t even aware that I was coming until the night before (when I had already boarded the night train), and furthermore, it wasn’t even ALEF that informed them, it was a third party. So, a house with internet? Righto.

More like a house without running water, without what I call ‘a real toilet’. Look, I know this makes me sound incredibly spoiled, I get it. I wish I was one of those people who had no qualms roughing it. But five days without a shower isn’t exactly mon style.

I think I’ve covered the superficiality of the non-organized logistics (for now anyway). My purpose in being in Touissit was to interact with all parties involved with the operations of the dormitory – that includes the administrative end, the partnering organizations (and the school), and of course, the girls themselves.

The catch – the girls didn’t speak a lick of French. The secondary catch – the encadrante and surveillante who were expected to guide me, left the second day I was there.

Most of my research was conducted within two days. And I admit, I didn’t fuck around. I talked to EVERYONE who was able and willing to speak with me, and it went really well. Until I was faced with the aforementioned catches.

Part of being successful is being prepared. I was entirely too under-prepared for this mission. And instead of being motivated, I was ready to give up and go home. I was sad, I was mad, I was disgusted, I was resentful. And that was my downfall.

I’m supposed to be writing an analysis of my experience. Instead, I’m writing in my blog.

In any case, there were many things that I enjoyed while in Touissit (aside from leaving Touissit). There were also a few things that made me uneasy.

I enjoyed talking to people; everyone I met was extremely friendly, helpful, open. I really enjoyed the energy in the dormitory… Unfortunately I was able only to appreciate the energy, as it was near impossible to have a vocal communication with the residing girls.

Every day Badre would call at least three times and each time I would tell him how dirty I was, how I wanted to come home, how I was useless in this place. I wonder if circumstances were different, if I would have had a better experience.

I questioned my self and my intentions, as I had desperately wanted to be part of this organization, yet neither my brain nor my heart was in it.

I still question these things, to no avail, with no answers. Perhaps it simply means that I need to live in order to learn.

attack...?

2007-04-15T16:01:00.001-04:00

(Just a note - yes, it's been a while, hi! - I've made up for my disappearance - there are 3 new entries...yeah, 3!)

I don’t even remember when I last wrote; in the beginning, I was so adament to relay my stories, my experiences, and now I’ve just fallen into an apathetic hole, a big one. I thought I came to Morocco (partially anyway) to reverse this apathetic-ality. I mean, do you ever reflect and wonder what the fuck you’re doing? Yeah, I do that all the time…

Don’t worry, this isn’t some sort of self-loathing piece. I’m just noting a few things. Because of my severe negligence, I actually have quite a lot to recount, and I’m thinking we’re going to do reverse chronological order, seeing as those rather distant experiences have slightly faded.

So, yesterday marked the third suicide bomb event in a month in Morocco, with all three events targeted in Casa. The first was an accidental blow-up, in a Cyber café, following a dispute between the guy and the owner of the café. The second was in a residential apartment building. The third was outside the U.S. Consulate and Cultural Center. There was only one victim in all three, a police officer, in the second event. Before I go on, please (please) take into consideration that all of these three snippets I’ve written are not direct testaments, but rather uber-brief synopsi of what I’ve gathered from the media (Moroccan and elsewhere) and word of mouth. The third and most recent bombing, consisting of two separate men, happened yesterday morning, and is reported differently depending on the nationality of the news. Al Jazeera reports ‘close to the city's US consulate and American cultural centre’. ABC says it was ‘outside US diplomatic offices’. Middle East Online claims ‘outside a US cultural centre’. The New York Times says ‘near an American cultural center’. And finally, the email I received from the Consulate states ‘one near the United States Consulate General and the other near the American Language Center.’ When I asked Badre what he thought, he simply said ‘I don’t believe in the mass media’. I was interested to see the varying reports, thinking that the American sources would claim a higher link to supposed American targets. The reports are similar, but the Consulate’s email is pretty clear – we, the Americans, have been targeted.

I have a few comments of my own. It’s true that certain media sources are known to exaggerate; it’s also true that there were extremely few witnesses to testify the true story. It’s also true that the the Moroccan police played a role in molding the story appearing in these articles. So, all that said, do I believe that there was a suicide attack? Yes, definitely. Do I believe it was intended for American offices? Somewhat. From all of what I’ve heard, I suppose there is reason to believe that. However, in all three of the attacks that I’ve mentioned above, there has been one victim. So, what the fuck are these people thinking? Are they blowing themselves up just to make a statement? In which case, I would easily conclude that their efforts have totally failed, seeing as there has been little attention given to any sort of ‘statement’ – each case has been chalked up to men coming from situations of extreme poverty, conditions of desperation and a poor education status. I haven’t heard any sort of information like ‘well, seeing as these attacks are originating from deteriorated and under-privelaged neighborhoods, it’s clear that action must be taken in addressing issues of poverty and education’. Uh, negative. I feel like the message has been more like ‘stupid, disorganized people are doing stupid disorganized things’. Yes, there has been commentary posing the ‘what if’ – in other words, what if these newfound ‘terrorists’ suddenly become organized? Then what? Good point, indeed. What I wonder though is, if you point out to stupid people how they’re stupid, do they then have a revelation?

I fucking hope not.

There has been some chatter about relations to Algeria’s recent hit (much more massive, much more devastating) and upcoming elections. A friend (completely unphased by the events) told me this was a natural way to detract attention and popularity from the Islamist party (which is certainly a contender); it is also a way to scare the shit out of people from going to the polls. In terms of the Algerian connection, from what I understand, there were no non-Algerian targets. So what would be the connection? A trend of sorts?

Anyway, Badre called me yesterday around noon, probably just after he heard the report. I think he half-expected me to say something like ‘alright, I’m out’.

Yeah right. My thoughts – ‘but I have to stay…I haven’t even learned Arabic yet!!!’

Meanwhile, at the ALC (yeah, by the way, just a reminder – I work at the American Language Center, Rabat), there was no discussion of heightened security, ahem, I mean security at all.

Look, I can live my life always worrying about what’s going to happen to me (in Rabat, in New York, in Paris), under the influences of certain events, or I can live my life thinking about what I’m going to make happen.

I prefer the latter. Obv.

the brothel

2007-04-12T16:00:00.000-04:00

A recul is necessary in order to determine the true severity of the situation. Right now I’m a little bit in the moment, so it’s difficult to assess with clarity. I should actually be writing about the past two weeks, one of which was spent in a village in the east, the other in many villages in the south. But I’m a little entangled in the present, a little stressed out, a little frustrated, a little fucking terrified. Am I overreacting (again)? Yes, perhaps, but then again, considering I’m a natural over-reactor, does that then cancel the fact that I am once again overreacting? I don’t know. I just wish that circumstances were modifiable.

But seeing as they’re not, allow me to elaborate.

While traveling south, I received a phone call from my Frenchie roommate (Dehbia); I actually received two, but we’ll skip directly to the latter as that is the more crucial one. Apparently, as she was returning to the apartment after accompanying Isolde to work, she and Ismael, and Ismael’s dog, Twix, were accosted in the stairway of our batiment. Accosted verbally, not by a random Moroccan stragler, but by the super of our building. Yeah, the guy that runs the show. The why of it all - so the story has been told, the super perceives our apartment as a brothel, and therefore considers the habitants pure prostitutes. His words were vicious, threatening both to harm Ismael and to call the police to ‘raid’ our brothel.

Worried, yes. Terrified, yep. Fucking pissed off, totally.

I got back, and fuck, the stories Dhebia told me about Ismael’s confessions regarding Isolde, Hicham, the works, were just absurd. Like fucking absurd.

In other words, yeah, the super isn’t so naïve, he’s got his facts semi-right; unfortunately, he grouped the other residents (me and Dhebia) along with the disgusting and disgraceful actions of Isolde.

I got home around 11 on Sunday night; on Monday, I immediately started searching for apartments. I asked Mauritz, an ‘intermediare’, and another character not entirely trustworthy, to help me in the search.

Mauritz (a citizen belonging to the poorer class and therefore an extremely money-hungry character) was more than pleased to assist in any action that would result in defying the dishonorable Isolde. Later in the day he proposed I come to see an apartment in a building just down the street from my own. I asked Badre to accompany me as I couldn’t quite get a solid read on Mauritz. So we went, we met him and the managers of the apartment.

First let me say how incredibly irritated I was when I arrived to see a 3 bedroom apartment, at a going rate of 4500dh. Yeah, it was a nice place, but HELLO, I’m all alone, and I definitely don’t have a 4500dh budget for rent. I wanted to turn to Mauritz and say something like ‘what the fuck is the matter with you? Are you trying to waste my time?’ I mean, grave, please, don’t fuck with me. If you have something worth showing, show it. If not, tell me! My impression of Mauritz immediately fell, and Badre also immediately claimed his dislike and distrust of the guy.

Whatever man, just more proof that if you want something done right (or if you want something in general), do it yourself.

Later on in the day, Ismael, Dehbia and I congregated to continue our discussions. When I told them of the Mauritz ordeal, Ismael told me that Mauritz told him that the manager of the building told him not to help me as I was a prostitute.

(Sidenote – I actually started writing this days ago, but am now only finishing the story…meaning that I do have somewhat of a ‘recul’ at this point…)

When Ismael first told me this, I was like ‘holy fucking shit, I have to get the fuck out of here…this is just too much.’ I now change my sentiment (especially after reading what I wrote) to ‘wow, I am such a sucker. Since when do I so easily believe what other people have said? In my own defense though, with all the gossip floating around, I can understand how I reasoned at the time.

Anyway, I continued to search for apartments, but just with Badre, as I decided not only did I not want the help of Mauritz, but I didn’t want him to have any idea where I was living. Two days into the process, we stumbled upon something right around the corner from the ALC – a one bedroom, fairly new and decent apartment, at the rate of 3000dh. I met with the owner, and we immediately entered into negotiations. First impressions of Raouf – I liked him, his mannerisms, his honesty, but I sensed little uncertainty on his end, especially when he told us he was really looking for a buyer, not a renter. We still continued to talk, and he seemed keen on the idea – I think he liked me too. We agreed on terms, payment, etc. and set up a follow-up meeting to exchange money for keys. I was planning a quick weekend escape.

At this point, I decided it was time to inform Isolde, and I luckily did so in a well-thought out email, explaining my feeling of insecurity. When I came home later that night, Hicham was the first to confront me. He sat down with me, explaining their concern about my concern, about how he went around our neighborhood in search of our reputation, finding nothing remotely sinister. He also expressed his skepticism regarding Ismael and his total dislike of Mauritz. When Isolde later came in, she also reiterated Hicham’s words; ultimately, the two of them accepted my decision, although were not happy to see me go.

On another note, I visited a neighbor of ours, a colleague of Badre’s, to see if she was aware of any building gossip. She caught me off guard in saying that there was nothing at all going around about our apartment, and that the super is just a little crazy.

I should have felt reassured, but between this meeting, talking with Hicham and Isolde, and then the other end with Ismael and Dehbia, I felt totally confused. Two completely opposite tales, two completely contradicting facts. I found myself however wavering toward the side of Isolde, surprisingly so, after hearing all of her supposed history. Nevertheless, I was still fairly insistent on moving. That is, until Raouf decided he wasn’t feeling it.

Bastard. Friday morning he sent me a text message (coward) saying that he needed time to think and he wasn’t sure about having a contract… Uh, yeah dummy, that wasn’t me who was opposed to the contract, quite the opposite in fact. Take all the time you need, I’m no longer interested. I called him to let him know of my ‘disappointment’. If my parents have imposed anything on me, it’s that the term ‘disappointment’ is so much more effective than ‘mad’. Haha, that’s something I’ll never forget.

Phew. Lots of writing. Lots of patchy, impatient writing too I’m sure. What are the lessons learned from this extravagant ordeal? Trust no one? Kind of. But more so I think a reminder (one I think perhaps I needed) to think for yourself, not to rely on others to tell you what’s what and how it is, but to make your own conclusions. Don’t get caught up in banter, in drama, in unsupported gossip. And of course, when you want it done, do it yourself.

So, I’m writing this, once again, from my beautiful desk, in my shared apartment on Rue Idriss al Akbar…

the sud with hbibi (a.k.a. badre)

2007-04-10T15:39:00.000-04:00

There was a budget. There were pre-arranged agreements (like, not to interfere with any local negotiations). There was hitchhiking (there was a taxi strike). There was a bus with wings. There was turbulence.

But it was pretty damn fantastic.

Do I need to give details? I mean, fuck, there are like 500 photos.

Right, ok, let me start with Ouarzazate. There’s nothing to do in Ouarzazate. I wouldn’t go back to Ouarzazate. I hate having to write Ouarzazate, it’s so long.

We spent the afternoon strolling to and around the supposed famous Kasbah, but quite truthfully, it wasn’t anything remarkable. The interior is completely deteriorated, and inhabited by seriously impoverished families (who probably live without running water, but have yet managed to install satellite dishes to their roofs). It’s unfortunate, as this, among many other similar sites, reflect Moroccan history, and yet, the negligence assumed by them doesn’t contribute to a welcoming or attractive atmosphere (not to mention the eventual disappearance of these sites). I mean, it’s an interesting place to check out, but when you can’t wander in peace because you’re being followed by children, taunting you for money (and by money, I mean like 1 dirham), it’s really disheartening. And not solely because you feel a little ‘ennervé’, but because these children just don’t know any better. They live desperation.

We also stopped by the medina, the cinema studios (which apparently have hosted such movies as Gladiator (and that other stupid epic one) and oh yeah, that’s it.

Let me interject my first criticism of the south, which was unfortunately a severe recurring problem throughout the trip. They have no food. I found no supermarkets, no small supermarkets, no food markets, no fruit, no vegetables, not even bakeries. We did however stumble upon a café that made fresh fruit smoothies. Yum, that was good (better than Jamba Juice). Anyway, I couldn’t get over the fact that there was no food available, and I spent a good portion of the vacation seeking enclaves with food to buy.

By the way, this first day was Badre’s birthday (that’s April 1st, mark your calendars). He turned 30! Yeah, he’s old, I know (he knows too…I told him…many times).

So I wouldn’t return to O, but I would, eagerly even, return to the Vallé des Roses, which marked night number deux. About an hour east of O, and 25 dirhams (in a shared grand taxi) is a town called Kelaa M’gouna. This hole is famous for its (mass) production of rose-related products – lotions, water, perfume, etc. There’s no way that each year’s rose harvest can produce this much stuff. And by stuff, I mean these products look so artificially-fabricated (from who knows what decade) it’s just simply unappealing. Desolée for my honesty, but Kelaa M’gouna is not particularly appealing; it’s what I would type a town that tries real hard to attract tourists, but just doesn’t know how to do it (although, I will say, not all tourists have similar tastes as my own).

I thought we would be staying in a hotel in the town; I handled the hotel reservation, basing it solely on a brief blurb in the Routard Guide (which we later found out was written by one of the brother’s of the owner). The decision was also based on Mohammed, the owner, who I spoke with, and who I just liked immediately. Comme ca. (It is the people that make the place afterall, right?).

Mohammed told us he would meet us in the town to take us to the maison (it wasn’t a hotel, nor a riad, but a house/hotel), seeing as it was a little off the beaten path. I interpreted this as meaning we would be a few miles outside the main town, a little secluded. What we discovered upon arrival was that it would in fact be more like an hour and a half…over a mountain.

I need to make another food comment at this point. While awaiting our transportation, we sat down in a café; Badre looked at the menu to order a tagine. He first asked for kefta (which was clearly on the menu), but the waiter informed him that they were out of kefta. Badre then asked for another tagine, but apparently they were out of that too. The waiter proposed instead a tagine of eggs and tomatoes. I left him to eat as I searched the streets for an epicirie (of course, no luck).

Mohammed arrived an hour later with an old mini-bus filled with men. This was the daily over-the-mountain bus, for all those that lived in the valley. We climbed in and headed off on a well-paved road. That lasted about fifteen minutes, at which point we made a sharp turn onto dirt and rocks and a mountain. Up we went, down we came. It was pretty close. We survived (hemdulilah).

It was worth it. We arrived at the house, and truthfully, I was petrified. It reminded me of Touissit (the village where I spent 5 days without water or a toilet). But, as we approached I realized that it was well equipped and totally charming (and I don’t mean the New York version of charming, I mean, really intimate and nicely-done, with a really uplifting and peaceful atmosphere). Have you ever been to a place that makes you feel good? It’s magical.

Enchanting. That was the word I was looking for. It was enchanting. Like being in another world, in another life. Enchanting.

After seven days, if I could choose one place to go back to, or to advise others to go to, this would be it. Hands down.

Unfortunately, with the mini-bus, we arrived fairly late, and didn’t have too much time to venture out before sunset. We managed to see the village, to say hi to the people, to play with the children (we even bought them a box of cookies – 3$ and you make fifteen children’s day, a beautiful thing).

In this case, it was definitely a combination of the people and the place that made it the place. It just felt good. I just felt happy.

Another food insert. This was also one of the two places where we ate well, as Mohammed’s sister and another woman prepared the best harira I’ve ever tasted and an excellent chicken tagine. It was an elaborate and delicious meal; we ate, we talked, I learned ‘tbina’ (or something like that) which means ‘delicious’ in Berber.

Another unfortunately – we planned to spend the following night in Tinhrir, and were thus obliged to take the only mini-bus out of the village the next day. Departure time, 7AM. Yeah, that blew.

The valley, this one night, will be one night, one place I will never forget.

We rose for the sunrise and a fulfilling breakfast, and then took off with, this time, mostly women, although we were the first passengers, so we went along as we picked up a good fifteen others. Luckily, we took a different route, though still dirt and rocks, not as high a mountain or as long a path. We entered this town that began with a B, Bouk something, I don’t know, I don’t care either. I got there and my happy buzz was immediately tainted. There were only men, everywhere, men. And it was here that we first learned of the taxi strike.

Yeah, fucking strike. We had planned to take grand taxis. That was our transportation between cities. So yeah, we were fucked, grandly. We sat in a café and had some terribly disgusting tea, deliberating our options, which were few and far between. Someone suggested the bus. Morocco has two types of buses –CTM, which is a reputable and safe bus company, and the others. We took one of the others.

I slept the whole way. And anyway, it was only 10 dirham.

The center of Tinhrir didn’t entice me either. Regardless of the immense tourist visits, I felt like I was being watched. I mean, I was being watched, but I really felt it. It was sketchy. We only had about 10 miles between the center and the ‘gorges’ (these are like huge canyon/mountain things), but this is where we were really hit hard with the strike, as there was simply no means to get to the ‘gorges’. One motherfucker proposed to take us for 100dh, but both Badre and I were disgusted, and again, sketched out, by him. Instead, we took the advice of this old dude, and walked a half a mile where there were rumored to be rogue taxis.

We waited. For a long time.

The gorges were beautiful. But they were polluted with tourists and buses and cars and people.

I fought with the restaurant manager. It felt good. The food truly sucked. We lived off of our olive stash.

I’ll also remember the gorges. But not because it was magnificent. But I had a magnificent time. Because, in this case, it was the people that make the place. Well, in this case, the person.

And because, even though things weren’t ideal, we laughed. When things suck, laughter is the only solution. We laughed a lot.

We wanted to leave the same night, but our only option was an 800dh ride, and it on principle, we passed. Throughout the whole strike, I found it ironic and shameful that some (even many) people really took advantage, and really made some major bucks. Ironic and shameful because it’s quite contrary to both the Islam religion and also the Moroccan culture and mentality (that of traditionally helping people in need).

The next day marked the very first day (and hopefully the last) that I’ve ever hitchhiked. Don’t worry, it’s not like the U.S., though I clearly warned Badre that I didn’t think any white person would stop, considering the hitchhiking perception in the U.S. However, two and a half white people did – a Swiss couple with a baby. Our original goal was just to make it back to the center, but upon entering their van, we found we all had the same destination – Merzouga.

They offered (hemdulilah), we accepted. 200dh and 5 hours later, we arrived in our fourth destination. The Swiss story – they took five months off to drive in a Volkswagon, along with another Swiss family, around Morocco. Cool man. They were pretty cool actually – Janette, Beart (or something like that) and baby Yann. How Swiss.

And, we stopped at a supermarket! I stocked up. One of everything. In some cases two.

Moha warmly welcomed us when we arrived at the hotel (he’s the owner). We had initially planned to set off on camels and spend our first night in Berber tents in the dessert, but our late arrival obliged us to switch and spend the first night in the hotel. Mishe mushkil (that means no problem).

So we had some tea, Berber style (sans menthe) – it was gooood – and chilled out on the benches outside the hotel, overlooking the Sahara. It’s pretty much exactly what you would imagine – warm (not hot), sunny, dry, brownish. Beautiful. We crossed the ‘road’ and mounted a dune – the sand is comparable to that of a beach, but softer, cleaner, more enticing. Then we took a mini trip to a nearby lake. A lake and a dessert. Hmm.

Moha and his crew prepared the evening meal. It was supposed to be kefta, but kefta isn’t white. It was white. It was gross. I even sent it back because it was raw when we first got it. We ate olives. And bread of course. That was good.

Moha’s brother took us to Rissani the next day, a town about a half an hour north of Merzouga. (I think they took pity on us because we didn’t have a car.) I liked Rissani – it was bustling with markets and people and dirt and animals and food and life. It was alive. We went to the medina and bought dried roses and special tea and lots of peanuts and raisins (we later survived on peanuts along with the olives). We went to the animal markets – where live animals are sold to be killed for a few thousand dirhams – there was the sheep market and the cow market and the donkey market. Poor animals. Being sold to death.

Badre was irritated in Rissani because he said men kept looking at me. But here, I didn’t notice. I only noticed when a little girl (who was on her mother’s back) reached out to touch my hair.

I can’t believe I’ve written three pages and there’s still so much to be told. Oy.

Back to the food – we picked up this southern specialty called Medfoune in Rissani (we had specially ordered it). Medfoune is like a pizza (with dough on top as well, so maybe more like a calzone), stuffed with meat, almonds, onion, garlic, egg and spices. It was good, but I can’t say I felt so great after eating it.

I don’t think the camels that took us out that night into the dessert have ever been washed. Talk about nappy hair. Animal abuse, hardcore. I don’t know if I’ve ever been on a camel before, but it was definitely cool. You’re much higher off the ground, and the camels are so tame, it’s calming. They’re in no hurry. Not to mention the dessert element. I’m sorry, but I would have to go with indescribable for that one.

In fact, the whole experience, was really indescribable.

We ate a chicken tagine at the tent, which was prepared by two guys, who apparently don’t know what a day off is. Human abuse. By the way, the tent was located in a kind of ditch – getting down was a piece of cake, but up, different story. The tagine was actually good (more than just edible), but what was really memorable was lying under the sky, an utterly clear sky, feeling as though the stars are descending on you.

Untouched, natural beauty.

Part of me will forever be in the dessert. My pee that is; yeah, I peed in the Sahara…twice. How many people can say that?!

We rose the next day for the sunrise (around 6 I think) and took off immediately for breakfast at the hotel.

Then we sat and waited. Then we took showers in the public shower. We discussed the differences between real toilets and fake ones. Badre isn’t as picky as me, not even close. Then we sat and waited outside. Then we had tea. Then we talked to Moha. Then we went to the entrance to try and stop cars. There were no cars, so we went back to sit and wait. Moha made a Berber ‘piscine’ – he took his hose and watered down the area, watering me down along with it. I liked Moha, he was funny.

It sounds a little torturous, but actually it wasn’t at all. The day passed, not quickly, not slowly, it just passed, and we sat and talked and ate and drank. We just were.

In the evening, with still no certainty of our plans, we walked into town to buy water. We hitched a ride on a tractor to get back to the hotel (that was pretty cool).

When we got back, we met with one of Badre’s contacts, in hopes he might know someone headed in the direction of Ouarzazate. He was kind of tied up in his own drama with some clients (he’s a guide), so we sat inside and waited. Through evesdropping, we learned that there were two Spanish girls also planning to leave the next day (we were actually scheduled to leave that day, but at that point, it wasn’t looking so promising), and we propositioned them (in English, French and a little Spanish) to seek together.

It was at that point that Badre’s brother in law, a native of Tinhrir (and happening to be there at the moment) called.

He came the next day to meet us in Erfoud (Moha drove the four of us up to Erfoud). Badre and I got in a fight that morning. During the seven hour car drive back to Ouarzazate, we didn’t speak.

That was torturous.

Don’t worry, we made up as soon as we reached our destination. Actually, we didn’t go back to Ouarzazate (thankfully) but to a town about 20 miles north, called Ait Benhaddou, known as having a Kasbah protected under UNESCO’s world heritage site.

I was responsible again for this hotel reservation, and once again, we found ourselves just slightly off the beaten path (only this time it was really only a mile or so from the center of town). But, like the Valley, it was magnificent – the maison was charming, and the surroundings really tranquil and secluded.

We hitched to the center of town in the afternoon, after having a nice lunch at the hotel (there was an adjoining one with a French restaurant…and a French chef!). We climbed to the top, well almost the top, of the Kasbah, before it started to get dark. There were a lot of tourists, but it wasn’t overwhelming, as it had been in the gorges. Each tourist had his/her own niche.

There isn’t much to do in Ait Benhaddou either, certainly not in the ‘center’, but it gives the desire to walk and explore, not just to check out the main attractions.

The evening attraction was the French restaurant. It was nice. Mmm, nice French restaurant. I miss my New York French restos. I even had a glass of wine. That’s big. We had pigeon pastilla, which is pigeon, raisins, onions, spices and maybe some other stuff, wrapped in a phyllo crust. We also had chicken curry. The pastilla was fucking phenomenal; the curry wasn’t anything special. In our hotel, there were a few guys rocking out to what Badre informed me was political music. The guests filled the room, many of them jamming (and dancing) along with.

That’s it man. That was our last night. The last night. I miss the last night. I miss every night. Every day. We left everything behind. It was an experience, right from the start.

And it was perfect.

Now that I’ve written about the details, about the real details. Was the vacation a test for our relationship? I asked Badre. Like five times. Yeah, of course it was. Spending a week together is kind of big. For me, it’s fucking huge. The verdict?

I would do it again. In a heartbeat.

catch up

2007-03-01T05:50:00.000-05:00

It’s been a very long time since I’ve written a blog. Perhaps because I haven’t had much to say, perhaps because I have a lot to say, but no real interest in saying it.

Let me start with the most recent events. This morning, as I was riding in the taxi to ALEF, I noticed that each billboard we past had a jovial poster of the King. Yesterday they were advertising the Megamall’s disco night, and today, the King. Overnight.

Apparently the King had a baby last night, at least so I’ve heard. A baby girl. She has no name yet because they (they as in Muslims or Moroccans or Arabs – I’m not sure if this is a cultural or religious thing) wait seven days to have a baby party and assign/announce the name.

On Tuesday, I took a taxi home from work, and about 3/4ths of the way home, the driver pulled over to the side of the rode, politely excused himself and went to pee behind a tree. Slightly appalling.

On Monday, I went to this place called Chellah. It’s kind of like a super old little city – I mean, now, it consists mostly of ruins and gardens. It was lovely, a very nice outing. I flew solo. I tried to take a picture of the American Embassy on the way there (I walked) but the guards starting yelling at me. Retards.

On Sunday I did nothing. I never do anything on Sunday.

On Saturday, an ALC colleague and I headed to the French Institute for a post-work, weekend-kickoff glass of wine. Upon our arrival, we were informed that we couldn’t be served alcohol without a meal. I swear I thought our waiter was joking. Yeah, not really. So we got a salad and demi-bouteille. It was actually quite nice. I think maybe we’ll make this a regular Saturday-evening affair.

Last week I began Classical Arabic lessons with Abdelhak, another ALC comrad, who’s super nice. Unfortunately, I’m not making exceptional progress. I also tried a chisha, with apple flavored tobacco. It tasted the way that stale smoke smells. Nasty.

Last week I also started teaching at the priciest private school in Rabat. I told my students they were pathetic on Tuesday. I prefer honesty, and they were honestly pathetic. Anyway, it’s obvious that these students are uber-loaded, as their Beamers, Mercedes, Audis, etc. line the streets, and they talk about weekend-ing in Spain. Whatev yo, money ain’t everything.

Today I’m working from 8 in the morning ‘til 8 at night. It’s only 10:30 and I’m already relatively tired. Meanwhile I have to get through several classes without beating my students. Life is certainly a challenge.

I’m vying for vacation. Three weeks. It’s becoming a mantra. I have no idea what I’m doing for vacation, but I have a sickening feeling all my hoped plans are going to somehow be replaced with nothing-ness. Yes I know, I am no optimist. I just need break.

I can’t possibly think of anything else I have to report, so, bye.

match juge*

2007-02-08T06:34:00.000-05:00

I think I’m leaving in an hour for Ifrane, and I really wanted to write this while it’s fresh…

Okay, so I feel slight pain in many of my limbs, mostly my legs. But I know it’s only physical, only temporary, so c’est pas grave.

I’ll also insert that this is no one’s fault (as I know already that the person who accompanied me feels entirely TOO guilty.)

Anyway, so last night, I attended my second soccer match at Rabat’s stadium; it was supposedly a ‘friendly match’ (i.e. a scrimmage) between the Moroccan and Tunisian professional teams.

Regardless of the scrimmage status, the audience was not nearly as friendly (though noticeably less rowdy than the first game I had experienced).

So, it was just Badre and I, and his friend Mohamed drove us to the stadium (during which point I was slightly nauseous due to his particular interest in rogue driving). Anyway, we luckily made it out of the car alive, and headed to the ‘ticket office’ which was completely surrounded by fans trying to get in front of one another. Regardless of their impatience, things seemed rather calm, with the police directing cars in, and groups of people waiting to pass through the gates.

Badre instructed me to wait near a group of Moroccan girls while he went to buy the tickets. I was definitely hesitant – me standing alone next to a group of anyone who I don’t resemble at all – I couldn’t camouflage myself, I felt like a standing target.

Anyway, so I stood, and all of a sudden, I turned to look at the ticket office, and masses of people are running toward me, shouting along with the police. I tried to shift position and move out of the way, but there just was no way.

So, my body met the ground. Pretty damn hard too. I was sure I would serve as a mat, and I was definitely afraid I would be trampled…

I wish I could recount all the details, but truth be told, I hardly remember anything of the event, with the exception of being pulled off the ground and some stranger handing me my glasses’ case.

Anyway, Badre pushed through the remaining people, so we could move past the gates, and the police officers, after finding out what happened, were kind enough (yeah) to let us in.

Thereafter, getting tickets was a whole other ordeal, unfortunately resulting in handing over a bribe to a cop in exchange for getting them. That was so not cool. The cop was a total dick too. After he tucked away his ‘tip’, he asked me if I was French. I said no, American. I really wanted to add, ‘you should really be careful of how you treat Americans.’ Or ‘Fuck you, you just illegally took a bribe and now you’re trying to make small talk?’

Badre said it was true it’s not within his job description to handle ticket sales. I replied, true, his job is to protect. But he obviously sucks at that, so we should be awarded some form of compensation.

Whatev. So we finally entered the stadium (where I met another policeman, who I spoke Arabic with…I think I must have hit my head to pull that one off…) and watched the game for about an hour before heading back.

The score, wahad-wahad. Tie, meaning Morocco lost.

(*juge = two; i.e. - second match)

the cooking cop

2007-02-07T06:25:00.000-05:00

I feel guilty for posting two somewhat dry and one-sided blogs. And so I’m desperately trying to conjur an anecdote; I’m seriously tempted to just invent one…

Oh, I know, maybe I should update you on that cop guy – the one who took Isolde and me shopping, and advised us regarding the prostitution predicament.

So he invited himself over one night, through strategically offering to prepare a tagine, and, as Isolde and I only frequent the kitchen to hang around or leaf through meager food options, we were more that willing to open our door to the cooking cop.

(A quick side-note – I was later informed that it was really abnormal to have a guy friend come into your home and prepare food…not so traditional…)

So we decided on a Wednesday evening, and when I arrived home at 6, he was already in the kitchen, eager to start something. He and Isolde were chatting, and I joined them. Shortly thereafter, Hicham entered, going directly into their bedroom, and Isolde, like the faithful (ahem, sometimes faithful) girlfriend that she is, followed him (well, also because she wanted to start some drama comme d’hab).

So the scene is set with me and Abdel or Adil (I’m sorry, I truthfully am not entirely sure of his name). We’re going to call him Abdel. There has always been something about Abdel that I found suspicious – perhaps it was the glimmer in his eye or the way he only repeated the same thing over and over, not ever adding any new material. I mean, he’s a nice guy, just not one that I particularly am interested in getting to know…

So, there we found ourselves, asking and answering the same questions, until he somehow got started with that good ole Moroccan charm… Just slightly awkward as, I remind you, I’m not even sure of this guy’s name! I don’t care for being left to tend to others’ guests, and I was certainly even less pleased to be around this one, who’s in the process of telling me how important love is to him, how beautiful he found me on our first meeting (that was the shopping excursion) and his way of testing me was by asking me to call him for anything I may need… Oh brother… quel horror!

I patiently waited for some non-existent hero to rescue me…or at the very least, for Isolde to descend from her chambers. Isolde stayed there, for over an hour; Badre came, and retreated to my bedroom. I was out of hope.

I was really insulted and disgusted by the inconsideration of Isolde. I didn’t expect it at all… Anyway, the night ended with a really fucking delicious tagine, five people eating, talking, laughing…

In the end, it all worked out.

fuck you nyu

2007-02-07T05:46:00.000-05:00

(Alright, now that I've written this entry, taken a step back, gone to the supermarket and returned, I just want to say...I really really want to buy those boots. I just think they would really be an excellent solution...)

I don’t think I could be more furious, feel more betrayed than I do at this very moment. I am fucking fuming, and my adrenaline is definitely in that ‘I want to kill someone right now’. I could furthermore think of a few candidates.

I know I’m not particularly thinking logically at this moment, but do I need to reason every aspect of my life? I feel violated.

Here’s the deal. I am an NYU Masters student in a program that rears about thirty candidates. Me = one. It’s also a program that calls itself ‘individualized’, one that supposedly promotes internal and outside exploration.

I am so ready to drop out.

First, I am not a person that handles bureaucracy well, nor inefficiency, nor administrative n’importe quoi. My body rejects it as a virus.

So when I decided to come to Morocco, I sucked it up and prepared a ridiculously long proposal to negotiate credits. There are times when you have to work for what you want…compromise. Fine.

I hate incompetence. And when I was faced with it, within my school’s own mini-structure, I obviously was disgusted. I overlooked it for the time…compromise. Fine.

I remember the day I went into my advisor’s bright blue office to pitch to him my idea and have him mark his final authorization. My proposal looked amazing, and it ran the length of 20-30 pages. He barely flipped through it, before signing.

Appearance is everything.

Luckily I know (and embrace) that.

My advisor, an ex-pat Iraqi doctorate poet, is pretty lackadaisical, like me. We get along well, and I appreciate having him on as my advisor. But, being lackadaisical implies a hint of procrastination and avoidance, and I must say, I am a little disappointed with his non-responsiveness.

Maybe I compromised too much though. As now, I have just been notified that I was denied any credits for this spring semester.

Dandy. Keep your fucking credits. But don’t think I’ll go quietly.

Here’s how it started:

Email 1:

Dear Mr. Lang,
I understand that I've potentially exceeded even the late registration deadline, but I'm desperately hoping you may be able to help me and tell me exactly what I need (i.e. those permission codes?) to obtain fromwhom - I'm doing an internship, registering for 3 credits which has already been approved by Faith Stangler and my adviser, Sinan Antoon. The only problem is that my internship is in Morocco, and so I absolutely cannot be available in New York for any further paperwork... Any suggestions??
Thank you so much in advance,

Rachel

Email 2:

Dear Rachel,

John Lang forwarded me your note as I work with most Gallatin students who are abroad. Unfortunately, I do not think we will be able to permit you to do an internship for credit this semester as it is well after the deadline to submit an Internship Proposal. (I spoke with Faith Stangler, and her understanding is that your internship from Fall semester was for that semester only; students typically cannot extend their internships from one semester to another.) I understand that this probably comes as a disappointment to you. Nonetheless, my advice is to plan to register to maintain matriculation this semester. Please let me know if you need information about how to do that.
Please let me know if you have any questions.

Best,

Patrick McCreery,
Gallatin study abroad adviser

Email 3:

Dear Patrick,

Thank you for your response, although I must admit I am shocked.

Ms. Stangler was well aware of my plans, as was my advisor, both of whom approved an elaborate internship proposal (one which took many months and much coordination to prepare) I had submitted before the fall term. To be honest with you, dealing with the administrative and bureacratic system of NYU, since my initial registration, has been a constant struggle, something I find highly unnecessary and incredibly discouraging, especially those whose time and energy is not focused solely on studies; for a program that emphasizes creativity, innovativeness, ambition and independence, these points are certainly contradicted through the incessant permission codes and paperwork required to pursue any opportunity that might be considered slightly worthwhile. Should the pillars of Gallatin (those which attracted myself and many fellow students) encourage individual development and exploration, perhaps flexibility, confidence and trust should be equally intermingled.

Clearly at this point, from your email, I understand I have no other option but to maintain matriculation; if this is the case, please pass on whatever many codes I need to do this, or if I have to contact another several people, please pass on their names as well. I need to know how this will affect my financial aid status as I am in absolutely no position (in Morocco) to be paying back any loans. Should I assume that in addition to registering for this 'maintain matriculation' status, I will incur another several hundred dollars of late fees?

Regardless of the fact that I am no longer receiving credits for this position, I am obliged (and wish to) remain with this internship, as my commitment with ALEF was not in fact for a semester but one academic year.

Again, I understand this was not your decision, and I do apologize should my words seem harsh; however, I ask you to put yourself in my situation - halfway across the world, in a developing country, working and living to pursue a more advantageous and worthwhile environment. Disappointment does not slightly touch upon how I feel.

Where I am I going with this? First to the Dean of Gallatin, perhaps afterward to the Dean of the Graduate School, perhaps followed by the President of the University.

Disappointed? How about appalled.

Email 4: au Dean

7 February 2007

Dear Dean Mirsipassi,

I remember our first meeting, when I had been assigned to you as temporary advisee, my first semester with Gallatin. You had welcomed me into your office, and upon leaving, extended your availability should I need any help in the future…

I regret having to write you this only as I am now in need of your assistance, which I am not assured is possible, but I thought it imperative to inform you of my situation, because of your position within the Gallatin hierarchy.

I am writing you this email from my desk in Rabat Morocco, where I had coordinated an internship position with an organization titled ALEF, a project funded by USAID. This process, which further involved the Academy for Educational Development in Washington D.C. was something I foresaw as being vital, not only to my experience as a Masters student, but equally in developing my future vision and professional endeavors. Following a eight-month process of constant attention, energy and time, I was offered the position I now currently hold (under the title of Development Fellow) and approved by the necessary Gallatin authorities, in focusing study on such work as development, gender equity, education, organizational liaison and external communication elements.

Being in Morocco for the past four months embodies multiple significations in my mind, firstly that of realizing a grand and intense idea, of accomplishment resulting from determination, ambition and passion. Secondly, of pursuing an opportunity that would allow me insight into similar elements on which I have focused in the classroom, and thirdly in inspiring and encouraging me to further explore future possibilities. In my mind, I embarked on this Moroccan experience as a pure compliment to my studies, and I equally thought it had been interpreted in this form by my Gallatin support.

The sole glitch that I have had with this experience falls within the university’s ‘policy and procedures’, which to me, resemble an unappealing labyrinth. I would like to voice the fact that I did not choose NYU or Gallatin in order to constantly struggle against the forces of bureaucratic and administrative protocol; perhaps had I been forewarned of such factors, I would have turned in the opposite direction. I embraced the concept of Gallatin in its intended independent and innovative style, and I now have come to regret this decision. I have just recently come to understand that I will no longer be able to receive credit for this particular experience. I can’t begin to imagine the ensuing repercussions regarding said forced verdict, in terms solely of my financial aid categorization.

In the three semesters that I have maintained status as a Gallatin graduate student (with a near 4.0 GPA), I have had incessant qualms with the registration process. Living in New York, but working full-time outside of the city afforded me no opportunity to stop by the Gallatin office for assistance, less I sacrifice professional time. For a highly independent and modern university and an individualized school therein, NYU and Gallatin embody entirely the notion of inflexibility in its organs, thus trickling down to the students in the form of discouragement. The time and energy spent on obtaining signatures, paperwork, permission codes and arranging appointments is simply absurd.

I have committed to working with ALEF for a full academic year, and regardless of NYU and Gallatin’s rigidity, I refuse to renounce any commitment I have made. This principle poses yet another dilemma within my decision to pursue a Masters degree from the Gallatin School, as I my confidence and admiration of the program, and those that support it, has severely faded.

I received this morning an email from Mr. Patrick McCreery, advising me that my only option at this point is to maintain matriculation. I will not refute this as I have become apathetic and numb in this struggle of permission, registration codes, and so on. Not to mention that I have little leverage in the ordeal, regardless of the initial authorization I had received, as I am now a resident in Morocco. I detest the use of the word ‘unfortunate’ because it carries little effect, and my sentiment for this situation is far from menial, but it is most certainly unfortunate, disappointing and frustrating.

What can I ask of you? Many things come to mind, but logically, I anticipate little action to occur, reflective again of my waning image of Gallatin. The only thing I can hope for from you is that of understanding and consideration, as your leading role holds alongside it much influence.

I thank you in advance for your time. Most sincerely,

Rachel Holskin
13, rue Idriss al Akbar, Apt. 208
Hassan – Rabat
10000 Maroc
(m) 011.212.13.07.35.14
(e) rh1005@nyu.edu / rholskin@gmail.com
(w) http://rholskin.googlepages.com/home
http://rholskin.googlepages.com/rachinmorocco

Et alors? What do you think? Too much? Trop? Bizef?

abroad view

2007-02-06T05:39:00.000-05:00

I have at least ten things I must address. And I’m already in such a pleasant mood, so here I sit, updating my blog, which serves no real purpose but to entertain myself (and irritate others). Bridget again told me to update my blog, but I really had nothing to report. In fact, I can’t claim with all certainty that I do have something to report at this moment, but I definitely have a little venting to do (parents note: stop taking everything so seriously).

I’m not sure which I should start with, so I’m going to go with the email I received this morning from this guy Carl, a contact of mine at AED (Academy for Educational Development) in D.C. I’m getting a little paranoid about inserting blurbs about people, I guess all the conspiracy theories are getting to me… Anyway, the one thing that really sticks out about Carl was his insistence that I get AD+D insurance (ahem, Accidental Death and Dismemberment). He was quite firm about me shelling out additional money to cover any unfortunate incidents.

I wasn’t really interested in the policy, so I passed. Thanks anyway Carl.

So I got an email from him this morning (the first by the way since I’ve been here) about this magazine called Abroad View, something to do with students abroad and international education. Apparently they’re soliciting entries, and Carl was wondering if I would be interested in preparing such an article. He failed to mention that ideally, should I choose to write anything, he would also wonder if I would be interested in including ‘AED’ in the beginning of each sentence. Of course, I need not consult with him on this (these are his words) as it is not affiliated in any way with AED, but he would really appreciate taking a look at it… righto Carl, let me get on that.

Then he mentioned something about Suzanne (another AED contact) asking me for some quotes for the website. Truthfully, I kind of owe Suzanne, but I also am aware that they were thinking of asking me to write some sort of guide, for which I would be compensated. I think they’re trying to pull a fast one on me. That is so not cool.

Anyway, back to my friend Carl. So, he pasted the magazine excerpt detailing the ‘call for articles’. I skimmed, and I find myself so disgusted, I would love to write an article. This is the title: *The Gift of Study Abroad:
Privilege, Responsibility and Sustainability*”

First of all, let me state this: I received nothing from no one for anything. So I’m not sure where the term ‘gift’ comes from, but I find it offensive, highly offensive. I understand perhaps this was not the intention and for that I lower my ‘highly offended’ comment, but regardless, it’s poor choice of words, and I’m not sure I want to contribute to a magazine that imposes such an image.

Me, overreacting? Maybe slightly, it was afterall only the title. (Although, I think furthermore: privelege, responsibility, sustainability…what the fuck is that supposed to mean?) So I scroll and skim, and come across this:

Students who study abroad have been given a great gift. Blessed by a system that supports the learning which results from a study abroad experience and with money in their pockets (whether their own or from financial aid) they set off into the world to expand their minds. They arrive in cities and communities around the globe and are again gifted by the hosts who teach them, put them up in their homes, provide for their comfort, and help them acquire that which they are seeking. In the context of the global community, they are extremely privileged in this way.

Como? I’d like to know which drugs were running through the bloodstream (that is, of whoever wrote this). Then, there’s this:

Yet, the study abroad experience is normally not presented as a gift. Nor does there seem to be much conversation regarding the responsibility to acknowledge this privilege or to reciprocate the gift in some way. With the looming problems of global climate change at our doorstep and with the myriad conversations around the topic of sustainability in all industries, including that of higher education, we must inquire deeply into all aspects of our being and our teaching and learning to see how we are contributing (or not) to a brighter future. Sustainability can only be achieved when we are living in an equitable local and global society that exists within the earth’s carrying capacity.

Let me start my response with this, and I preface it by saying, this is my personal opinion, and relates solely to my experience: STUDYING ABROAD IS NOT A GIFT. Let me state secondarily: fuck studying abroad as a trigger (or determinant) of inequality…how about access, pedagogy, materials, interest, involvement, economy? Studying abroad, now that is something that really should be left to discuss after these issues.

Is it an opportunity? Absolutely. A life-changing experience? Potentially. But a gift? Nope, can’t say that it is. Obviously it’s not presented as a gift, because the majority of the time it’s not freaking free!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Do I need to consult my dictionary to cite the literal definition of a gift?

I’m further perturbed by this ‘we need to reciprocate’ bullshit, and ‘I should feel blessed’ and ‘I should look into my being’. What the fuck. I don’t feel blessed, I feel successful (to an extent) from ME pursuing MY goals. Not from someone handing me a wrapped box with a ribbon, holding inside a perfect program. As far as looking into my being, well, I’m hollow, so let’s forget that one. (haha, just kidding Dad)

Now, this whole article nonsense is kind of long, but I’d like to address just one more thing:

To this end, can the study abroad experience be sustainable in the long term if social inequities are not addressed? Is study abroad really just a continuation of a global imbalance where the richer travel and study at the expense of the poor? What are the implications of the study abroad experience on the peoples and cultures of the places visited? How does the study abroad experience educate students about their role in the global community?

I’m sorry, social inequities of students of the American higher education system. Look man, if I can borrow money, so can you (less you be a felon of course). I can’t even begin to fathom how this magazine could think of comparing studying abroad to global imbalance. That is serious, ‘where the rich travel and study at the expense of the poor’. Exaggeration? I don’t particularly feel as though I’m abroad at anyone’s expense other than my own. And for someone to assume such a statement is quite extreme.

What’s kind of ironic about the whole thing is that, at the conclusion, the magazine offers compensation for those articles accepted, in the amount of 25$. Yeah, that’s going to change a lot.

I guess my point is (again, for me), I worked hard for what I have had in the past, and for what I do have in the present. To challenge my ethic in this respect is not acceptable.

So yes, I’ll write the article. Perhaps not exactly the most idealist of versions, but I’ll write it regardless.

Anyway, I’m done with writing this, I’ve got to write some bullshit letter to the Directrice. Oh, my second news. I may just have a minor setback with my carte de sejour…that should be interesante.

moi, une pute??!

2007-01-23T08:24:00.000-05:00

I half expected to walk out my door this morning to see PUTE graffitied on my door.

I know, I have such a graphic imagination. By the way, ‘pute’ means whore, prostitute, slut, etc.

I do admit, I have become highly fascinated with the operations of prostitution in Morocco, but I never thought I would ever be even loosely connected to it…

So, yesterday afternoon, after returning from the Animal Society (with Isolde and Ismael, where we had planned to adopt a puppy…however, there was a shortage), and then spending the late morning relaxing on the upper terrace, Isolde received a phone call from the landlord.

I’ve met the landlord a few times – older, respectable gentleman, formerly a governor or something to that effect. Anyway, he called to ask if we receive a lot of guests at the house, to which Isolde responded that the only people that are welcome are her boyfriend, mine, Ismael, Fatima (the maid) and an occasional straggler here and there. That’s it.

He explained his inquiry to be originating from a phone call he had gotten, from a neighbor, who accused Isolde and I to be prostitutes, basing this on the fact that there were constantly people coming and going.

First and foremost, this un-named neighbor is clearly out of his mind, as we hardly have any guests, let alone masses entering and exiting throughout the day and night. Dummy.

Ismael wittingly suggested posting tariffs on the door.

If we were in America, I would consider it.

I called Badre to tell him the news, that I was officially a prostitute. He asked me what my initial reaction was upon hearing the accusation. I told him there was a part of me that wanted to put on a mini-skirt, high-heels, a cleavage-showing shirt, and prance around the building. In other words, fuck you. My life is my life, I don’t insert myself into your life, and so why would you possibly think you have the right to attack me, my privacy or my lifestyle? Followed of course by a ‘you’re out of your mind’ and ‘you don’t even know me’.

The second main sentiment was that of disappointment. I understand the ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans’ and that I am an outsider, being welcomed by a society and culture that functions totally different than my own. Got it. But I’m not making an effort to offend anyone, I’m certainly making an effort to be respectful of culture, traditions, etc. I didn’t eat on the street during Ramadan for fuck’s sake!

Anyway, this returns to that recurring theme of, I don’t feel any desire, nor do I have any energy to defend myself. Regardless of in which role it might be – as an American, as a woman, as a non-prostitute. Whatever it might be, the issue of defense is not something that interests me.

If you wish to approach me, you wish to learn or try and understand my mentality, who I am, why I am the way I am, that’s awesome. If you wish to only observe from afar and deduce ludicrous judgments, that’s fine. Just don’t expect me to react. I don’t respond well to nonsense, I don’t respond well to stupidity. Wow, I really hate stupid people.

This reminds me of something my grandfather used to tell me when he was trying to interpret whether I was stuck in a lie: ‘As long as you know the truth, that’s all that matters’.

My final sentiment, obviously, one of humor. How could I not laugh at the fact that some random guy called up our landlord to express concerns of our indecent behavior. Hahahahaha, righto.

The truth of the matter is that no one chez nous is a hooker. I can slightly understand how Isolde’s schedule might possibly be misinterpreted, as she leaves to work at night, and comes home in the wee hours of the morning. She also wears a little bit of n’importe quoi…don’t get me wrong, that’s her deal, but needless to say, it draws attention. She manages lounges and clubs, what do you expect?

I’m going to try and explain a point that Badre re-explained to me yesterday, but even for me, living in Morocco, I just can’t quite grasp it. One reason why this guy has made this accusation is because he’s most likely witnessed Isolde and I interacting with guys. In Morocco, traditionally speaking, you don’t really have friends of the opposite sex. Furthermore, you would never invite any friends of the opposite sex, should you happen to have them, to your house. According to Badre (referring to Moroccans) it’s rare that women would even live on their own first of all, forget having male guests at their apartment. (Please note that this is a generalization, not necessarily representative of the entire population.)

For me, I really can’t fathom not just not having guy friends, but not really being permitted by traditional and societal regulations. I just can’t imagine. But apparently, for some, this idea of intermingling may be relatively serious. Look, whatever tickles your pickle.

My final thought in my conversation with Badre was this: further proof that this mec is out of his mind – what possible motive could exist for an American and a European to move to Morocco to take up the occupation of a whore??? I mean, seriously, is that not the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard??

Meanwhile, Isolde definitely freaked out a little, but was calmed by Adil, the cop, who came to her rescue and explained in detail the ‘Moroccan law’. He kept repeating over and over to me ‘ Rachel, if you ever need anything, anything at all, please call me, please.’

I should have told him I didn’t even have his phone number, but instead I just smiled and said, ‘oh yes, of course, thank you so much.’

Alright, how to end this. I wonder if some of you are reading this, thinking, wow, that’s pretty serious. And maybe some, just cracking up.

I used to reside in an apartment, on one of the gayest streets in the country, above a sex shop and a tattoo parlor.

Whatever man, never a dull moment. And that is definitely worth a laugh.

angine episode

2007-01-21T08:34:00.000-05:00

Something I’ve always admired in Europe, and apparently in Morocco as well. The ability to get prescription drugs, sans prescription.

The U.S. is totally conspiracy-ing the whole pharmaceutical scene, and doing so in collaboration with the health-care networks. It’s so obvious.

For example, about four days ago, I felt my annual ‘angine’ coming (that’s tonsillitis), and I told myself (as I always do) that if I pop a handful of Motrin and it doesn’t diminish over a few days, I’ll head to the medecin.

Well, a few days passed, and, parallel to my stress level, I anticipated the worst. I went up to Isolde’s room to back out of our planned go-karting adventure and mentioned my throat issues. She was like, oh yeah, check out our box ‘o medicine, there should be something for it.

Yeah, there was something. It was called penicillin.

And it was only 60DH on top of that.

Sure, I may be able to speak freely in my country, but I certainly can’t get my hands on a bottle of penicillin without first waiting to visit a doctor, then visiting a ‘doctor’, then having a prescription written, then having the prescription filled and finally paying a nice big amount.

my first half-a-movie experience

2007-01-16T08:52:00.000-05:00

I am very pleased to report my very first experience with the Moroccan cinema, Rabat style.

Last night, Badre and I decided to go to the ‘Royal Cinema’ (maybe it’s ‘Cinema Royal’ – it’s not very clear on the exterior…) to see ‘Laila dt ça’, a French-Tunisian production. I had actually been interested in seeing this film when I was living in New York. Interesting, considering you can buy current box-office films on DVD in the medina, but if you dare go to the theatre, it’s for a film not quite as new.

Anyway, we walked into the theatre to buy our tickets (same type of set-up as you’d find in a one-screen theatre), and I noticed that there were three price rankings – balcony, orchestra and something else, with a five dirham difference in between each.

Quoi??

At a theatre theatre, of course you find cost tiers based on view, but in a movie theatre? Well, we went for the middle – not the most expensive (which I believe was 30DH) but not the cheapest (20DH). We then proceeded to the stairs to mount to our exclusive balcony seating.

At the foot of the stairs were two people (both looking a little bored). The women, took our tickets, and proceeded to show us up to our seats. An usher??!!! In a movie theatre?! Oh yeah. Flashlight and everything.

Meanwhile, as far as we were concerned, we had checked out the movie times the day earlier, and chose the 6PM slot, arriving about ten minutes beforehand to pick up the tickets (no popcorn or anything…).

When we were graciously escorted to our seats (for a tip of 1DH by the way), the film was already playing.

It wasn’t even 6PM. I turned to Badre and was like, ‘how is it that everything in Morocco is just slightly late, and yet the movie we come to see starts early??’ I couldn’t believe it.

The movie finished just past 7. Neither of us really appreciated anything in the movie…normal, considering we only really saw half of it.

Yeah, it actually started at 5:15, not 6.

the lines

2007-01-13T08:39:00.000-05:00

Part One.

I was about to write about something, and then something else just overtook me, and so now, on change. To maybe a more controversial subject. That of limits.

Let me first reflect back to my original thought, that of being in Spain, and the contrast between Spain and Morocco. Overall, the main comment I wished to convey was that of different limits. Or liberties perhaps. The ability to do as I wanted when I wanted without a discerning judgment from the españoles (within natural reason of course).

Here’s where it gets a bit tricky. Last night, I met Badre and his friend Mohamed for a tea and an evening stroll. I’ve met Mohamed once before, and my initial impression of him was favorable – he seemed truthful, genuine, good-hearted and clever, with a good sense of humor.

When we sat down to have drinks (non-alcoholic bien sûr), I was in a quiet mode. I was in a quiet mode for two reasons. One, because I didn’t particularly feel I had much to contribute to the conversation, and secondly, because I was concerned that my potential contribution could have stirred up some trouble, as there were moments when the conversation took on a political undertone.

When asked about my silence, I responded that there are times when I don’t feel comfortable, not having defined limits, to comment, and I’d prefer not to surpass them in ignorance. So, let me be quiet.

Mohamed said that there were no limits with him and Badre.

I highly disagree.

I’m not entirely sure if it gives a Moroccan (or any non-American for that matter) pride to hear an American confirm his or her political perspective of American policy. But as of late, politics have come up quite a bit with many Moroccans I’ve encountered. And I’m not opposed to discussing politics; in fact, I love discussing politics. But then again, I haven’t quite learned to absorb all of the insults that fly my way.

I totally agree that America has become an infamously hypocritical nation, that the people that make the policy are missing a few pieces, that government is the bordel.

I GET IT.

I don’t need people telling me that everyday.

I don’t need my students to giggle when they talk about September 11th.

I understand ‘curiousity kills the cat’, and perhaps this is why my patience continues to reign. I also understand that as a matter of respect to a country and people that have welcomed me, my words remain muted.

These are my limits.

This is Part Two.

Sometimes, I feel slight embarrassment for holding the American passport that I do. Maybe embarrassment is not entirely the correct or fair term. Maybe I should say something more along the lines of, ‘shit’.

Don’t get me wrong, the flash of the passport can come in quite handy. But man, the weight that comes along with carrying that is freaking significant.

As much as people preface (or interject) the comment ‘people versus policy’, I feel that sentiment dwindling in genuineness. I find myself often sitting at an interrogation table.

If I write it, maybe more people will believe me.

I DID NOT VOTE FOR BUSH.

There, I said it. Now the whole word can know my voting history.

I AM A REGISTERED INDEPENDENT.

I am not affiliated with a party.

Finally, Part Three.

I just spoke with my father, about a few little things, and then we started discussing a few things similar to what I’ve written above.

I mentioned how I was starting to see a disturbing blur between external perception of American government and its people.

Although when faced (literally, directly faced…or accused) with judgments and stereotypes of the country to which I belong I can initially be offended, distressed, annoyed, etc. (you get the idea). After responding in what I deem to be a patient manner, I do ultimately calm down, reminding myself of the normalcy of such probes, the logically curious nature of those inquiring and that they are essentially giving me not only the opportunity to offer an explanation, but furthermore, the opportunity to impact their mentality, influence their perceptions. So it therefore becomes crucial that any reaction I exude is one that is well thought out and not defensive.

The problem is that I am a very defensive person. And I love to investigate the many facets encompassing situations, crises, etc. Good or bad.

When I find myself interacting with Moroccans that are my friends, I feel like everything is normal, the same as it would be in New York. We all share certain sentiments, have certain grievances, and we all equally embody a distinctness.

But then, when the moment is over, and I’m confronted with the reality of the matter, I realize that, while I call these people my friends, they will always carry (regardless of how slight) a resentment toward my country and therefore, to an extent, me.

How do I respond to that?

For a few years, identity was a recurring issue in my academic work; I always found it fascinating to study the identifications of a culture, of a country, because I personally never felt any of those. I feel as though my own identity is a matter of infinite pieces, but pieces that operate and fuse in real-time, and therefore, I can’t always claim an identity at the moment of which I’m asked.

I don’t feel a strong connection to my hometown, my state, my family’s origins (in fact, I don’t even know them), my culture (which has a weak existence in itself). So what the fuck do I identify with?

I identify with my life, with the people that surround my life, and the experiences I strive to make true. I identify with my aspirations, my academic addiction, my sometimes ridiculous nature…

I also identify with the mentality of being open, willing and ready. To discuss, to explore, to understand. Perhaps this is a cultural identification.

Anyway, when I spoke to my father, the concern in his voice was pretty evident (although there usually is concern). I understand, based on the disorder of the world’s affairs, why concern (or maybe fear) would appear in many American minds.

I too am afraid. I’m afraid that my country is in the process of self-destruction (or from external destruction), I’m afraid of when a time might come that there is absolutely no more distinction between American government and people, I’m terrified that individuals (internationally) will fall victim to assumptions, judgments, stereotypes.

The future will always hold hope, especially within the generations that step up to create it. But when tainted visions trickle down through generational lines, the future becomes just a mirrored image of the past.

Although I struggle to maintain a reputation as an American in Morocco, I remain very proud to be where I am, extremely proud to be able to interact with Moroccans as an American.

While I’m here, I don’t expect to change any one person’s viewpoint. But I do expect that people’s viewpoints will change.

a la pharmacie

2007-01-06T05:40:00.000-05:00

The interesting thing about Morocco and Moroccan mentality (ahem, excuse me, I mean, one of the many many interesting things bien sur) is that there’s a general understanding that when the rain doesn’t fall, many fall ill..

Where I come from, it’s the inverse.

Rain is considered precious in Morocco, which is completely understandable, as the country is partially consumed by desert territory and much of the economy is dependent on agriculture. I say I get it, but then again, I buy bottled water everyday. It’s challenging to imagine really just how valuable water is…

Anyway, so people fall ill when it doesn’t rain. This is one of the consequences. Meanwhile, while I was in Paris, the weather was seriously nasty – cold, gray, rainy. Exactly what I would associate with catching cold.

What I can’t quite figure out is whether I caught the cold from my traditional association (and therefore from being in Paris) or if my body is transforming to absorb some pieces of Moroccan culture (and therefore catching the cold upon return).

Mind over matter, right? I’m still a little confused.

In any case, I decided to pick up some cold medication, and hence popped into a pharmacy in my quartier. I wasn’t in the most pleasant mood, as snot was constantly inching its way out my nose…

So I approached the pharmacist – an older gentleman – an explained to him what I was seeking. Isolde had lent me a cold medication to bring to the pharmacy as a comparative tool, and when I handed it to this guy, his reaction was to ask me where I was from (the medication was Belgian).

When I told him I was American, I think I totally made his day. He emphasized ‘love’ when he told me how he felt about the country and people.

Shocked, me? Yeah, just a tad.

Not once did I get a ‘Oh yes, Americans are so nice, but the government, well, the government…’ Followed by a typical critique of American policies in the region.

It was refreshing and delightful to say the least. The genuine nature of this polite and patient man.

He too was very pleased when I confirmed the same feeling toward the Moroccan population.

So pleased in fact, that he offered me a 50% discount on my purchase… simply for being American.

The next day, following my typical routine, I popped into the ‘mini-market’ across from the ALC to purchase a bottle of water. The same guy is always there (I have no idea how he manages to sit behind the counter for as long as he does, but I certainly admire his patience and ability to maintain a smile…). I usually chat a bit with him when I go in. This time, I handed him my usual six dirham for my bottle of water, and he handed me one back. Discount, for such a good customer, he explained…

welcome to cabaret

2007-01-04T00:47:00.000-05:00

http://www.cabaret-lemusical.fr/

http://www.radioblogclub.com/search/0/cabaret_foliesberg%E8re

bonne annee 2007

2007-01-03T06:14:00.000-05:00

Bridget told me to update my blog. This will be my final update before leaving for Spain in two days, leaving for nearly two weeks. These will be my final words of 2006.

I’m consumed.

And how does it end?

The days are dwindling, but they still exist; time is running out, but it’s not over yet, so I don’t know. It could end in so many different ways, there are so many possibilities, there are always so many possibilities.

…

Now I know how it ends, and also how it begins as well…

Over dinner, Robyn made the point that to document life, there needs to be a recul. In other words, you can’t state with full conviction what moment will become an everlasting memory at that very moment itself, you can’t pass judgment as to how blissful or horrific an event while it’s in the process of occurring. It’s only after that you grasp the ability to do that.

Does that mean, each fleeting moment is simply unknown, undetermined, or to be determined? Can we only define ourselves by later making comparisons, contradictions? Can we truly embrace these fleeting moments in our memories, vault them in our minds, or is it futile to try and evaluate what is, as it is?

Beats the fuck out of me.

But as we had this discussion, some fleeting, very vivid moments, rushed through my head. The tiniest details, that perhaps have been forgotten by many, reside within me and will continue to shape me, forever.

Some moments conjure laughter, some tears, some total embarrassment and of course, few, true happiness.

I decided to post my previous entry unedited, partially because I was struck when I reread it, and partially because I don’t want to censor my occasional crazy thoughts and personality more so than I already do.

In any case, at this point, I’ll make my recul.

The blur of one year into the other doesn’t particularly interest me (with the exception of reading my annual horoscope that is). The fusion of 2006 and 2007 is certainly no exception, I could barely distinguish one day from the next in all truthfulness…

So the end. It ended in Barcelona. It began in Paris. (I feel like my fingers are just typing random n’importe quoi.)

I’m trying to create some sort of philosophical statement. (I just returned from Paris by the way…I’m a little feeble at the moment.)

The end, right, the end. Actually, it’s not necessarily about the end. It’s about the entirety of one year, and what that year signified for me. In fact, it was a big year. Probably one of the biggest in my life.

2006 has embodied so much. So much struggle, so much desire, so many good-byes and so many hellos, so many moments of true bliss and equally moments of pure pain

I said goodbye to so many faces that make me smile when their images come across my mind, so many characters that I’ve shared so many amazing adventures and sentimental experiences with. Wow, how much I miss those people. I always find that when I’m far from ‘home’, it’s when I realize who’s who (ha, the who’s who of Rachel’s book…pas mal). It’s interesting, but yeah, it was totally hard to say ‘see ya at some point’ to plenty of folk. To not know when that some point will be, to just maintain some sort of faith that it will come…at some point.

So 2006, I left a lot…but I think, maybe, I’ve gained a lot. Maybe enough to balance out my losses, maybe even to exceed them. I took a chance, I took that dare, and here I stand, with the unknown in front of me.

I’m still a realistic. I’m still a cynic. I’m still sarcastic, and I’ll certainly always be critical. But my optimism grows each day, my hope, my ambition, my desire.

There’s tons of bad, lots of discouragement, much negativity that I could easily fall victim to.

But my goal, not my resolution for 2007, but my goal, in life, is never to give up, never to let go of the strength that I already have, and that continues to build. To pursue the impossible (and the possible in the interim), and to profiter.

Did I mention yet how 2006 ended? Does it really fucking matter?

I will say though that I attended Cabaret, Robyn’s show, in Paris, at the Folies Bergeres. It was such a charming night – everyone, including myself, was dressed like everyone should dress when going to the theatre, and the show itself, it was just dazzling.

Imagine sitting at a cabaret table (toute seule), watching one of your best friends star in the show.

Words cannot describe.

I wish this for all of my friends – that they achieve their ultimate dream, and I wish as well, that I get to witness it… (Of course, I need to be there.)

I’m being so sentimental – I think it’s the background music. How ironic what just came on as I started that thought…(A Long December).

I spent a week in Barcelona. I feel like I’ve been on vacation forever. I’m just glad that the Moroccan authorities glance at my flash of an American passport, and usher me in. It comes in handy, I’m starting to appreciate more and more the beauty of being a blond, white American citizen, and the power it holds…

Bueno, Barcelona. What happened in Barcelona… Well, it was nice and relaxing. I went to a museum, I ate a lot, I fucking drank tons of wine. Ugh, so much wine. I didn’t fight that much with my mother or my brother. I went to a gay bar. I met Moroccans.

Highlight? Uhhhhhhhhhhh, the shoes are pretty hot. My hair looks awesome. Christmas dinner was definitely enjoyable. I would say overall, it was tranquil and pleasant.

Gracias mama.

So I didn’t start 2007, but I’m seriously fatigued, and I have no idea what’s in store for me tomorrow, so I best get on with it.

On and up, over and out.

Welcome home, bonne nuit.

oh the emails...

2006-12-14T06:39:00.000-05:00

Every now and again, I get emails from friends, from the fam. I thought now I would share a few of the uplifting, maybe humorous/maybe depressing emails that I’ve read… I was going to put names along with each blurb, but I think perhaps it’s better anonymous… (anyway, some you’ll easily be able to decipher)

(This one is the exception…)
"It is true that a sudden illumination may now and then light up a destiny and compel a man in a new direction. But illumination is vision, suddenly granted the spirit, at the end of a long and gradual preparation. Bit by bit I learnt my grammar. I was taught my syntax. My sentiments were awakened. And now suddenly a poem strikes me in the heart."
-Flight to Arras, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Where would I go? Sometimes I want to go to where I have friends, like Paris or California, or to a place with great memories, like Paris. And sometimes I want to go to a place where no one knows me and I don't know them, where there are no memories, a place where I can be who I am, not who I was. I know however, that with the strength that I have I can have both. Life is a matter of choice. I always have the choice. You always have the choice. And our choices define us, plain and simple!

I feel all my passions roiling around inside of me. My concern is not that they're dying, but that one day soon I'll explode. I feel so frustrated that I cannot fully express them as I see fit. They make my fingertips itchy and my legs restless and I want to go go go!

I need to be able to look back on my life and say, "I lived."

I insist that you do pick me up on a moped. That would be hysterical.

It's nice to hear that I still got it. My mission is to have the tears streaming down your face. And by the way, is there anyone on this planet that has the same mentality as you?

Its hard to read them without having you there to talk about them or banter or comment or just be like "wow."

Because it's the truth... not sure why it reminded me of you, maybe its that rebellious i-don't-give-a-shit attitude that we sometimes share, and its always great just to sit around and drink wine … and eat cheese and all sorts of other goodies....

You can be incredibly glib sometimes.

Life is change! But there also is a core, a center from which all else takes shape, unfolds, evolves. So where we are, and what we're doing may physically seperate and distance us, but what connects us cannot be impacted by time, space, or any other physical elements. If we are truly the family I believe we are, you believe we are, we are with one another all of the time.

So yeah i need the update on u and africa. whats the deal with this dude and why haven’t u updated the blog??? oh AND another thing, my mom said your mom told her that you were really liking the religion and cr*p over there...r u going to convert and stay there 4ever? u have to come back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I met this Turkish guy the other day who I’m infatuated with…..we both need international men….I hate Caucasians.

religion

2006-12-14T06:18:00.000-05:00

As some of you may know (I have no idea who actually reads my blog, and who just says they read it) I like to accompany my silly entries with serious ones.

Balance my friends, balance…ommmmmm.

Anyway, last night, I got home from work to find Isolde and Ismail sitting in the kitchen, chatting. I think I’ve previously spoke about Ismail, but in case I haven’t, allow me to do a brief recap. Ismail is an unemployed anti-religious, partially Jewish, Moroccan, who has periods of being at our apartment daily, and periods of not showing his face for weeks. I’m not exactly sure why he’s unemployed, but I do believe part of it is by choice (or maybe by rebellion). I actually like Ismail for several reasons – one, he’s overly eager to extend to Isolde and myself any services he possibly can. Secondly, he’s extremely intelligent and can converse and comment on quite the spread of issues. Finally, and perhaps the best, he’s terribly sarcastic and witty and loves to make fun of anything and everything (like me). He’s especially interested in religion, conspiracies and Britney Spears.

For the hour or so I spent with him and Isolde last night, we covered everything from relationship advice and judgment to the anti-Holocaust conference that took place in Iran this week, to how Israel and Palestine should reunite to be one state, to how I should meet a friend of his to get a job with the government, to who Britney Spears is now dating.

Ismail can talk, that’s for sure. But typically, I do find his words interesting. He strikes me as one of those people that would be immediately jailed for being one of the intelligentsia, should a coup ever occur and military rule, well, rule.

Because Ismail and I are both a fraction Jewish ourselves, it’s a common subject of both debate and humor in our conversations.

I strongly hesitate to vocalize my religious origins in Morocco for two reasons - I don’t find it necessary that everyone know everything about me; as I don’t practice any particular religion to claim belonging to one would therefore not be entirely truthful; finally, while I haven’t come across any direct anti-Semitism, there is always some slight insecurity as to how someone may perceive my religious roots.

All that said, occasionally my name gives it away, and of course my tattoo (for those who see my toe), but I rarely volunteer any unnecessary personal information less I feel truly comfortable and I deem it appropriate.

(Here’s where the story will now begin to circle back.)

I was talking to Ismail and Isolde about how I told Badre the other night I was Jewish. To be honest, I don’t know why it never came up in the past – it easily could have, but for some reason I think I wanted to avoid it. I didn’t voluntarily tell him though, it was in a response to a remark he made. He later said something to the effect of suspecting my tattoo to have been either Hebrew or Russian characters.

How did he take it? I can’t remember if he told me this anecdote before or after, but I found it to be very interesting – during his recent travels in Peru (I think it was Peru, if not, then Mexico), he went into a bar (he doesn’t drink by the way, but he went in to socialize with the locals) and he came across a group of three young people who looked like they were having a good time. He joined the group (two girls, one guy), danced with them, conversed with them. A short time later, one of the girls (who was initially very friendly) asked Badre where he was from. When he replied ‘Morocco’, her expression and attitude, along with the rest of the group, completely changed, as she explained she was Israeli.

What’s interesting, as Badre pointed out, is that he could have easily lied and claimed a different nationality, one that would have resulted in less friction. What’s hurtful is that he would even have to think of such an idea, that it wasn’t his mentality that froze the situation, but rather that of the others.

My question is, if the world as it is now, the mentality that occupies the minds of the current rulers and involved and responsible adults, trickles down to infect the younger generation, to impose stereotypes and judgments, criticism, anger, negativity…how will we ever progress? I’m not even trying to reach the level of effective, harmonious governments, I’m speaking solely of humankind, of the interaction among people.

Some of the statements that I hear from my adolescent students…they blow me away. How is it possible not to taint the lives of the youth, not to impose a legacy filled with inhibitions and suspicions? This predicament, this question extends to each corner of the earth…

Anyway, I digress…as usual. The point is that Badre, other than recounting this story of his experience with Israelis (along with commenting on Israeli military recruitments and tendencies…) didn’t comment on my Jewishness, not at all. So, as I was explaining this to Isolde and Ismail, Isolde (who is totally religiously tolerant, and not religious herself) slipped in a comment about Hicham (her boyfriend), and his reaction.

It went something like this (roughly translated of course): He was completely disgusted, he said he was never going to speak to you again.

Quoi?!

Apparently my perceptiveness was not very high, because, though I did recognize a glimmer of disapproval and disinterest in Hicham, I certainly would not have imagined this extent. I mean, fuck, that’s harsh.

There were a lot of things that flew through my head in the moments that followed. I’m definitely moving out now. What the fuck does he know? How could his ignorance lead him to make such a rash statement? He doesn’t even know me! How did I never realize this? Does he still feel this way?

I wanted to react, to retaliate in fact. I mean, to be disgusted by the actions of a person, the actions that occur due to beliefs, mentality, etc., this is one thing. This is a sentiment felt in response to an experience. But an automatic disgust of a person for having a particular background (which implies nothing necessarily) is absurd. I mean, grave. Come on now.

I told one of my classes that I was Jewish. I saw similar reactions in their eyes. It was painful. But after I talked to them about it for a while, their insecurities faded a little at least.

Actively choosing to dislike or disagree a religion, a gender, a nationality, ethnicity, etc. based on nothing. Based on speculation, on stories, on passed-on attitudes. It’s terribly sad.

Hicham’s response reappeared in my head several times, as I tried to rationalize it all. I can’t rationalize irrationality. I can accept it or reject it. I can understand his inadequacy to effectively pass judgment and his subsequent unjust reactions. I can attempt to disprove his natural disgust, to dispel any unsubstantiated myths.

My voice is my own, and belongs not to the defense of any religious misperception, nor to the defense of the ‘evil empire’, nor to the defense of anything else. I don’t wish to be responsible for defending anything.

Alright, so I recognize this to be too naïve a thought, and in spending any duration of time outside my country, I will ultimately be in a position where I must choose to submit or defend.

Really though, I’m not the submissive type.

cop shopping

2006-12-12T04:41:00.000-05:00

I went shopping with a police officer last night.

It was so cool.

Isolde and I have what have become our male-bashing Mondays, as we typically end up spending the afternoon or evening together, prancing around the city or having a tea, discussing to all extents the weakness of men.

So, in any case, this Monday, we decided to head down to the Medina for our outing, and as we approached the overcrowded entrance, tout à coup, we heard someone shouting Isolde’s name.

It just happened to be one of Rabat’s finest, primped and proper in his uniform. Apparently he and Isolde are friendly, and he came over to greet us, inquiring as to our intent in the Medina. Isolde told him that she was looking for a new cell phone (she lost her phone after having it for less than 5 hours), and he graciously insisted that he accompany us. I mean, having a policemen à côté was like seriously the highest you can get. No one can fuck with a cop. Bargaining, negotiation, nah. No way.

But what I find to me the most interesting component of this whole ordeal – a legitimate police officer walked Isolde and I through the Medina paths, speaking for us when we paused to look at various items…various items that were not necessarily legitimate…

Is it me, or is something just a little off with this picture?

Anyway, on top of being obviously foreign, we were like the stars in the Medina, with a police escort. Regardless of legitimacy, it was freakin fun….

a+, dana

2006-12-07T10:16:00.000-05:00

I just got home from Dana’s farewell dinner. By farewell dinner, I refer to her and I faring her well. I hope more people will attend my peace out party, but then again, perhaps no party will be had at all…

I wanted to go with her to this cute mod café where I had been once before, but as we entered into the dining area, we were immediately informed that closing time had descended, and thus left to seek out another dwelling hole. Off we sought.

As we debated our next move, we picked up some fans on the street corner. These two, twenties-ish looking duo, one with dreds, the other with those convincing eyes and selling smile. They trailed behind, calling to us in English, not outlandishly or anything, an innocent chase if you will.

It was only around 9, and the streets were far from empty, as we strolled around Mohammed V Avenue, but regardless, followers are not necessarily desired, and we attempted to discount the attention through ignoring it completely. Which was partially effective, but then again, like small children when they are ignored, this duo was after a reaction, they wished to be recognized, noticed. So they approached. In fact, they walked beside us for a short time. We continued our strategic act of ignoring.

But then we cracked. Actually at the exact same moment, responding to their demand of just one minute, Dana and I both looked down as we said ‘NO’. Unfortunately, our uncanny in-sync-ness caused us to break out in hysterical laughter.

We tried crossing the street to quell our laughter, but to no avail. And the boys continued shouting from the other side, waiting, plotting, until they too could cross and we could once again be reunited.

Finally, at the corner, their persistence took hold and we paused (also because we couldn’t decide which direction to choose). They took advantage, one playing the outgoing, imposing type, the other the bashful and apologetic kind. Dana said nothing, as I tried to casually dispose of them. They were harmless, this was obvious, and to be quite honest, they seemed like two decent and normal guys. (Except for the fact that one of them had mentioned spotting me on a previous occasion at a café, and felt now that this was his second sighting, it must be destiny… Destiny is overrated.) My approach to them however was terribly, systematically cold, to the extent of which they turned their back to us and said a+.

You all might be thinking, how annoying, or even how dangerous, or simply how frustrating. But after the fact, and even during, I felt like a complete ass. A total ass. Here I am in Morocco, feeling slight pressures of being a woman. And yet I just actively and consciously deflected those onto two guys. Random ones I admit. But what the fuck did they do to deserve to be treated like insignificant nothings?

Nothing.

(After-note; precisely one day after – I just got back from my daily stop at La Bel Vie (supermarché), where I saw the same guy (the one with dreds). Weird.)

babel

2006-12-06T05:14:00.001-05:00

It’s the sixth of December, and the sky is bright blue, after suffering a bout of dreary overnight weather. The temperature, maybe around 65ish – mild, warm in the sun, cool in the shade.

Just a little anecdote for you…

Over the past two weeks, three people have mentioned the film Babel, how I must see it, it was so wonderful, etc. etc. I understood it to have just come out in theatres in the U.S. and Europe, but, like I said…

Anything you want, you can find in the Medina…

So off I went on my mission to the ‘electronic junkyard’ of the Medina with my perky native sidekick, Badre, in search of Babel.

My friend asked me last night how many vendors I had to go to before I found it. One. I found it at the second booth at which we stopped.

There it was, waiting for me. Badre handled the interrogation into the quality of the film and the language options.

I also picked up ‘Thank you for Smoking’ and ‘Casino Royale’.

How much, you may wonder? 30dh. Just over three bucks. (That is, for the three of them.)

How much did you pay?

the beginning of the end

2006-12-04T11:55:00.000-05:00

Where to start. Maybe the beginning should depend on the end. But then the end would have to be defined. And what if it’s a ‘to be determined’ end?

I’m not sure what I want to write right now, but I do know that I want to write. I just had a conversation with Dana (my American roommate and ALEF colleague) about what exactly I need to be doing, or what I am doing, or maybe what I want to be doing. Specifically in relation to work.

Maybe if I type this out, my head will become clear and my mind peaceful…though I highly doubt this.

I’ve lost my train of thought. Merde. Oh right, I’ve had several people recently asking me if I’m working yet… What the fuck do you all think I’m doing?? Partying, Rabat-style? Sleeping all day, eating tagines for dinner? I guess I haven’t really been so work-oriented on my blog, so here goes nothing (once again)…

I work for ALEF as an intern, but I work only part-time, as I need to finance my not-so-lavish-lifestyle through an actual paying job. I love ALEF – I loved it since the day I stumbled upon their website, and I continue to love it. Why, you may be wondering? I found in ALEF the vocalization, the initiatives that embrace so much for which I am truly passionate. Why still? I am amazed, and I sincerely admire the operational structure of the organization, top down. Of course there are minor flaws, but the people that make the group, and the efficacy they invoke is really, really formidable.

So, where do I come in? Enter Rachel, the mysterious part-time intern. OK, I have many places of entrance, I just need to choose one and run. I currently am working on this attempted partnership between the elite University (in Ifrane) and the girls’ dormitories that have been an enormous source of pride and success for ALEF and its partners.

This is getting boring, I feel even myself drifting off. Well, back to my conversation with Dana. I was explaining to her that I’m not entirely sure of what Kamime (one of the education specialists) wants exactly from me. He seems to want my ideas, my input, but I find myself struggling to come up with anything substantial, anything even remotely worthwhile. What am I contributing? I need more definition, as to what role I’m playing in this particular project, and what work needs to still be completed. Are there any boundaries in this scheme? Are there any boundaries in Morocco?

So, as I resorted to my defense system of humor, and joked with Dana about how useless I am, we came to discussing our differences. Dana is hardcore literacy girl. She spends her time working on various literacy initiatives, and has spent her time here working with a private consultant on creating an evaluation system for NGOs funding or engaging in literacy projects (by the way, I read part of the first draft…not so much a fan of consultants…I don’t know, every time I come across a consultancy production, I’m always like, ‘yeah, duh’). Anyway, I have no interest in working on literacy programs, and not because I don’t find it essential to an effective society (by the way, Moroccan illiteracy is in the high 40 percentile range…) but I just feel as though there are other areas that need to be addressed strongly in the now, in order to seriously impact the future.

For me, it’s all about the younger generation.

What’s interesting is that many people tell me I have a lot of potential. And my most recent response to this was, ‘Fuck potential, I want to have this potential realized, materialized.’ I’m sick of hearing that I have something in me which reflects on possibility, on intangibility, on facts that have not yet occurred. I want to have someone say to me ‘holy shit, your profile speaks wonders…’ Not my potential, my accomplishments. And until I accomplish, I will hear no more of this potential garbage.

Meanwhile, when I read about ALEF’s projects, when I interact with the people that run the show (those that have a million accomplishments under their belt) and I hear the passion that illuminates their eyes, that powers their words, their voice, I’m indelibly inspired. And I feel the same passion that I know embodies them; this is one of my sources of motivation.

Another source – when I look at the young faces of my students, and I know that now is the time when they choose either to be lost forever in n’importe quoi, or to commit to their own passions, I feel (though partially helpless) the demand to tell them now, to convince them, that it is they who will write and live the future. The people that hold the power in the world now will eventually fade, leaving much space to be filled.

I know as well that I am part of this group – my young intuition faltering between apathy and determination to persevere. There are days when I wish only to crawl into bed and forget that I hold any responsibilities, times when I want to go out and live to enjoy the material side of life.

But as I sit here (the very first time at my desk), I feel with such impatience, such passion, such emotion, above all, to struggle, to take part in creating and producing the ability for others to make the right choice, to discourage apathy, to focus on the future, to live for the things that are so fundamental we dismiss them everyday as forgettable.

Each one of you that reads my blog – you wake up each day with so many things that are absent from the lives of so many. Forget about food, water, housing – these things are too distant to even try to comprehend.

How about a college degree? Or even a high school diploma? Even being able to attend a primary school where the teachers (though maybe not being the most pleasant) were always present? Or having this for your children?

Or, having the ability, and the freedom, to question everything…?

So now we return to the beginning, as my random thoughts have completely taken over this blog. I have nothing to propose, while I sit at my desk, observing Morocco. Nothing in my mind, only a feeling in my heart, in my stomach too. I’m young and naïve. I recognize that things can’t change immediately, but I also recognize that things can change. So now, it turns into the question of how.

As an American, I continue to have that mentality of ‘what can I get’; I wish that this weren’t the case, that this wasn’t a natural trait of humanity. Rather than dwelling o my imperfections and idiosyncrasies, it’s my turn to choose to focus instead on ‘what can I give’.

I have the option of working on at least four projects with ALEF, all of which consume my interest, but all of which also make me inquisitive regarding the bigger picture. At which point, I must remind myself, petit à petit.

Because for me, as for you, the only way to impact the bigger picture is to impact the little one. And then, watch it grow.

amnesia

2006-12-02T03:53:00.000-05:00

I just wrote some super serious blog (above). So, in order to achieve that ‘omm’ balance, here’s a little tidbit of my superficial Rabat-ian adventures. (This doesn’t mean you get to skip the other entry – I really poured myself into it…I mean, grave.)

This weekend I went to Amnesia for the second time. The first time was a week ago, on a Thursday night. Amnesia is a club in Rabat, the one where Isolde (my Belgian roommate) is a manager and Hicham (her bf) a bouncer. This means I get in sans payer (a.k.a. free). Anyway, I also know Isolde’s boss, Reda, who’s a bit of a trip as well.

Let me backtrack to the Thursday-night debut. It was actually Thanksgiving, which was not the day I hoped it would be. Nostalgia drowned me, and the daily Moroccan shuffle didn’t ease the ‘pain’. I was ready to call it a failed day, when I walked into my evening class (advanced). I had my students begin the class with a writing exercise, in the spirit of Thanksgiving – write about what you are thankful for. Then I showed them pictures online from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Then they asked if we could pause the class for a few minutes, as they took out a huge platter of cookies, to celebrate the holiday. Does it get any better than that?

Wow, I lost the point there. Des. So the point was, by the end of the day, I was in high spirits and ready to show them off. So I did. I went home to inform Isolde and Hicham that I wanted to come, and Isolde told me she would send someone to pick me up – Reda’s brother – at around 1:15. By 1:15, she really meant 2, and this is when Imad showed up at my door to accompany me to the club. He seemed nice, very perky, and though he’s Moroccan, Isolde assured me that his years spent in Belgium calmed the testosterone-driven Moroccan need to hit on every woman that shows a slight hint of life. (Please note, this is an exaggeration…well, kind of.)

So I went with him and his friend down to the gates of Amnesia, where Hicham, Reda and Isolde met me at the door. I was greeted as a total VIP (I think it might be the foreigner thing), and Isolde escorted Imad and I down to a table on the floor.

Pause, to evaluate the club. (Strictly narrative of course.) The entrance is gated off, guarded by at least two bouncers. Once let pass, you enter into a little area, to the right of which is the caisse, where you would normally pay 150dh to enter. After which, you must go down two flights of stairs (after the first is the coat check should you choose to accept). This whole area is painted with horizontal black and white stripes. Seriously reminiscent of what I would think a jail cell to look like. At the bottom of the stairs is another set of doors, leading into the club. I must admit, I was pleasantly surprised – after hearing about the redecoration and the reputation, my expectations were severely low. But, in all honesty, it wasn’t terrible at all – the black and white theme continued, but more in a modern/seventies way, with low booths and tables encircling the dance floor, and rounded booths behind. The VIP section was up a short set of stairs, where simple chandeliers hung. The bar was also simple, sleek (with the exception of some awful gaudy light fixtures hanging above). The bottle service looked legitimate and well presented. And the crowd had a mid-20s to mid-30s air. Some attractive, some not so pretty, but most looking put together at the least. The music, well, the techno music, definitely sucked. But apparently, techno is pretty popular in Morocco. N’importe.

I might be able to get some pictures, in which case you can really get a sense of the place. Anyway, Imad introduced me to a few of his friends, as we took a seat next to them. I liked Imad in the way you would like a playful puppy – he was just that. He enjoyed discussing subjects such as Moroccan lovers versus European ones, and his particular interest in women, and we went over all the women in the club that were whores – he explained to me the various categories and differences in price. Oh right, apparently there are a lot of hookers in the clubs. (For the record, these hookers look relatively normal, in my opinion anyway.) By the end of the night, Imad was not so far off from proposing marriage, and as he graciously made sure I returned safely, he made his intentions, while not totally blunt, not so hidden either. The one thing that disrupted his grand overture was my ‘not available’ status. Although, while the status may slow him down, it certainly hasn’t distracted his focus.

Meanwhile, I have just one thing to say. HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW ME!

In any case, Thursday night Amnesia style was decent; though the music lacked quality, it was a nice atmosphere, not overcrowded, and I didn’t drop a dirham on anything. I was content when I climbed into bed at 5 in the morning.

Nor, back to this weekend. Dana is leaving for the States on Thursday, and she felt the need to have at least one Moroccan nightlife experience. I was a little dubious (as would you be should you know Dana), but I agreed, and on Saturday night we decided, what the hell. We got ready as the rain poured down, chilling the air, and I called Isolde around 1:30 in the morning to let her know we were coming, and to ask Imad if he could come get us. About 20 minutes later, she told me he hadn’t yet arrived, so to just take a taxi. Yes, we left the apartment, Dana and I, two obvious foreign women, alone, in Rabat, at 2 AM. Not necessarily the wisest idea, but I mean, come on, we had to go out. We were completely fine, it was just a bit creepy how dark and desolate the city streets were. After about fifteen minutes we secured a taxi, who took us for a 15dh ride to the club. Hicham greeted us, along with the head of security, who’s also quite creepy, but seems nice nonetheless. Isolde came up to meet and greet, leading us back into the prison.

So I recounted my first Amnesia experience to Dana, inserting the clause ‘but I don’t know how Saturday night will compare’. Well, the difference was fairly large. In fact, I felt I was in a different club. We walked into where the dance floor was, and I was taken back by the semi-trashy, not so pretty atmosphere. We did a little tour, paused to bouge for a minute on the dance floor, got a drink (gin and tonic for me), and watched the Moroccan nightlife. Isolde brought us up to the VIP section, where we stood around for a minute or two, before returning to the gentile section, at which point, enter Reda and Imad (with the ‘go go’ dancers of the evening).

Things picked up, as we socialized with Imad, and then several other VIP characters, one of which who lived in Boston for some time. I find it so hilarious how actively sought after we were, just for being American (well and women of course). This one Bostonian dude reveled in speaking English, especially speaking English about living in Boston. Yawn. Super yawn. I have no patience for boring people. Luckily he saved himself by buying us a drink. (Haha, ahh yes, I can be bought.) So we sipped and talked, Dana and I and him and his friends for a few minutes. His friend though was something else. He couldn’t understand English for the life of him, nor could he speak or understand French. I definitely had no patience for him, desolée.

Meanwhile, there was this other guy, who was dressed in off-white hues, showing off his super-sculpted body. He had caught our eye earlier as he fucking moved on the dance floor. He must have trained outside of Morocco. I could just imagine pairing him up with Robyn and seeing the two dance together – stand back, wow.

He approached us as we were talking to the boring threesome, and asked us to dance. I declined, as did Dana – simply a matter of courtesy of course. Then he started speaking to me, in English. His English was ok, but he kept repeating the same thing over and over, so I switched to French. He told me my French was terrible. Haha, what balls, to say that to someone. And that was after maybe I had muttered two simple words in French. I wanted to respond with something like ‘I think it’s your intoxicated state that’s impaired your hearing, not my inability to speak’, but I refrained from being a bitch. He continued his slurring in French, inviting me to his house, and telling me that he had a lot of money…

I’m NOT a PUTE dummy. What a dummy. That was the end of him.

I don’t think even I get that dumb when I drink. I fucking hope not, otherwise that’ll be the end of my alcohol days.

As Dana and I tired of the scene, we decided it was time to get out, and left the VIPs in their VIP section to bid our au revoirs to some friends. As we waited for Isolde, I chatted with Reda, telling him that his choice of dancers sucked (to which he responded something to the effect of, ‘yeah, well I thought it would be classier if they didn’t take their clothes off’…) Right. He, like his brother after, inquired into my Moroccan love life, as if they were a part of it… Right. Imad went a little further by demanding I have dinner with him on Monday. Right. I slipped out without handing over my phone number (a definite advantage not to know your own phone number) and Dana and I hailed another 15dh taxi to bring us home.

I crawled under my covers at 6 AM, and slept through half of the day, until the phone woke me at 2PM…

Rock on Maroc.

dear family

2006-11-23T19:11:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving, 2006.

I keep forgetting it’s Thanksgiving really. It’s almost as if it’s a secret – no one speaks of it, no one acknowledges that today is the day. Even Halloween had a tiny fanfare, but Thanksgiving is totally a mute holiday. Shouldn’t all countries have a Thanksgiving?

Maybe the equivalent of Thanksgiving in the Muslim world is Ramadan – after all, it is their way of giving thanks in some form I suppose, and they do end each day with an incredible feast…

This is a terribly ‘nothing to do with Morocco’ blog. Tant pis. I find that whenever I’m outside of my country though, I feel the most patriotic. Maybe it’s because it’s during these times when I spend the most time explaining (patiently and calmly) the differences between government and people, policy and individuals. Thus, leading me into the whole ‘is America so bad?’ reflection. Anyway, another topic entirely.

Thanksgiving 2006, so many things are different. For one, I’ll be eating a tagine for dinner (that is, should I be able to explain this to the new maid). Secondly, no one seems to mind that it’s Thanksgiving, there’s no holiday spirit anywhere. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, even in the U.S., I feel that there’s no longer any reminence of Thanksgiving, at least among my scattered family.

Now that I’ve released my overly depressing impressions, perhaps I can tap into those happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, happy memories.

When I think of Thanksgiving, I think of the infamous ‘cousin pictures’ (a tradition preceding even my youngest cousins), the kids table separated from the adults table, the fire warming the typically freezing house, my mother taking out her secret stash of nice dishes (for the adults anyway), the 5AM wake-up to start the turkey, and thereafter the aroma of so much food, the turnips (the only thing my father was responsible for, food-wise), the excitement over new knives to carve the turkey, me always getting stuck doing the dirty work (as for some reason, I was never trusted to handle any cooking), my brother replacing baking powder with baking soda in the cranberry nut bread (ugh, I still remember that taste), the random birthday cake for Jennifer, the food – the turkey, the sweet potatoes, the cranberry sauce, the turnips, the cranberry nut bread, and who could ever forget the long-awaited, mouth watering stuffing. Oh, the stuffing.

And the bickering, the sound of silverware and plates clinking, chewing (lots of chewing and silence). But most importantly, the laughter, the laughter that always encircled all of it, and the warmth (figuratively of course) that made every Thanksgiving, well, Thanksgiving.

Things change, Thanksgiving changes. Last year I spent Thanksgiving in Los Angeles, with turkey, string beans, crème fraiche and ‘special’ brownies. There was stuffing too, but it wasn’t the same. It will never be the same…

Thanksgiving 2006, I will spend with my colleagues, with my students, maybe with a friend. There will be no turkey, there will be no stuffing, there will be no family.

It will always be my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, not because of the food, but because it always reminds me of what is most important in life, family. And on this Thanksgiving day, while I may be halfway across the world from all of my family, you, and our memories will forever be with me.

Things may change, and nothing may ever be the same, but I will eternally be grateful for what I have had and for what continues to be mine.

Happy Thanksgiving, 2006.

le match

2006-11-18T16:00:00.000-05:00

Fuck I have so much to report. So much drama. Who doesn’t love a little drama. Where to start, where to start…hmm, let’s go with reverse chronological order.

This past weekend I attended my first sports game. Soccer of course, what else. When Badre mentioned it, I was like, HELL YEAH, let’s go do SOMETHING. I’m falling into that ennui those 17th century Frenchies used to rant about. He forewarned me that it might be slightly different than any match I’ve ever attended. Flashback to all those crazy fun UCONN games, basketball, football, hockey. How bad could it be???!

Flash forward. I told my class the following day that I had gone to the Morocco vs. Tunisia match. They looked at me as if I was crazy, then vocalizing my craziness to submit myself to the ‘savages’ that attend these matches.

Haha, savages. Oh yes, savages…

I went with Badre and Michael, a friend of Isolde’s who was visiting for the week. We planned to take a bus to the stadium and a taxi back, as it was relatively far from my apartment. Well, that didn’t work out, as both buses and taxis were highly fearful of approaching the stadium; buses drove past the stop as if it didn’t exist, taxis sped off when upon hearing our destination. It took maybe 20 minutes for Badre to finally convince a taxi driver to take us near to the stadium, and as he sat in the front, Michael and I speculated about Badre’s attempt to reassure the driver. Grave.

When I heard about why people were insecure about the whole ordeal, it seemed reltively normal. Broken class, crazy fans – don’t all sport matches have this?? Yeah, not quite. As we drove, we passed people standing on the side, waiting for rides, some people who just gave up and started walking. When we finally arrived though (15 minutes prior to the start), I don’t recall seeing any ‘hooligans’, breaking shit.

There were people. Well, there were men – children too, but no women. No no. This I expected, and while sometimes my ‘I’m foreign’ card undermines me, in some situations, it equally allows me to surpass certain things, or at least to excuse myself for inappropriate behavior. I’m foreign, I didn’t know!

In any case, Michael was equally as foreign with blond hair and blue eyes, so I was not a loner in this circumstance. As we walked up to the stadium, Badre pushed his way through the mini crowd, stringing Michael and I along.

There were several gates. I use the word ‘gates’ loosely. There were police blocking the first, with a bunch of ‘hooligans’ trying to push their way through illegally. The police looked our way and pointed us in the direction of the ticket booth. Now, like any other sport event, there were several options for seating, but I was set on sitting in the cheapest, routiest one. I mean, what fun would it be otherwise? 20 dirham, not bad. We purchased the tickets, waved them in front of the police, and he opened the first gate for us. Aucun problème.

It was the next two gates, the one that led way to the stairs and then to the actual seats, that were problematic. As we walked up, in the background were ‘hooligans’ throwing rocks, bottles, anything really, into the crowd trying to get in. Then, there were police, lots of them, with lots of those stick things, and I’m pretty sure they took them out, as people started running in the other direction.

What the FUCK! Meanwhile, Badre pushed us forward, I cringed, looked the other way and followed. We got up to the gate, and it was like a competition to get in – who could push the best. Here’s where the blonde hair and fair skin came in super handy. One look, and the gates were parted, only for us, and then sealed again. The next gate, the same thing – one look, and ushering in. I felt so VIP.

We mounted to our seats, which in and of themselves were not bad at all. It was just the craziness that encircled us that was a little bizarre. Cigarette smoke all around, two seats next to us, a guy was rolling a joint – crazy shit. I thought of the differences between the U.S. and Morocco…

Security. In the U.S., you enter stadium in an organized (again, relatively speaking) fashion, getting searched at times, sometimes going through metal detectors. No smoking is allowed, no alcohol, certainly no drugs. Vendors are just that, vendors – registered to sell immensely expensive hot dogs and beer.

In Morocco, there’s no security – you bring your knife if you want to, not to mention the flares that were lit (and then thrown onto the field) – yes, FIRE. Lots of toilet paper too. There’s no such thing as a souvenir shop, or a vendor – just random Moroccans walking up and down the stairs selling literally, anything, and for very cheap. Lots of lollipops, and after the break, a lot of bread with something in it (no idea what).

In terms of the cheering though, I’d say we have a lot in common – the wave, the stomping (whatever the fuck that’s called), the nasty name calling – nothing out of the ordinary.

In terms of the crowd however – I wouldn’t recommend a woman, or women attend alone, nor any foreigner without the accompaniement of a native. NO WAY.

But all in all, it was a lot of fun, and we did take adequate precaution in leaving two minutes before the very end to avoid the rioting and violence that is known to occur…phew.

The score – Morocco, 1, Tunisia, 1. Yes, a tie.

Oh and by the way, this wasn’t the national teams. In fact, I was informed that the Moroccan team that was playing was owned by the military.

Huh, owned by the military. Go figure.

the desk saga

2006-11-13T15:27:00.000-05:00

So a week or so after the desk was completed and delivered, I remarked on the poor craftsmanship. I mean frankly, I could have done a more professional job, and seriously, that is not saying so much.

Luckily, the door needed no additional sculpting, but the base of the desk is just so far from any sort of nicely designed or well thought out work. And now, just a week or so following, there’s even a gap growing in between the door and what’s supporting it. What the fuck. I mean, in U.S. terms, this desk would have been considered a steal, but here I’m like high roller, investing in such a piece.

It just is super fucked up that certain things just cannot get executed properly. The desk is the perfect example. Another one you ask? Well, while on my design kick, I ordered two red rugs to be made, of equal dimensions. They were made based on my specific desires. One came out six centimeters longer than the other. It makes my room look so poorly planned out.

Another example? Last week I took my shoes (and Dana’s) to the shoe guy. I picked the shoes up a few days later, slipped them on, and went to the grocery store. The store is less than 10 minutes away. By the time I returned home, the heels had broken off again.

Now, out of these three examples, I must admit, it’s neither the expensive and specially ordered desk and rugs that really get to me. But my shoes. Why my shoes? It’s so simple, so terribly and ridiculously simple. I just can’t comprehend how this shoe guy could be so incompetent. I mean, either you know how to fix shoes, or you CHOOSE ANOTHER PROFESSION. Grave.

Sometimes it’s just frustrating when even the little things just can’t get done. Comme ca.

In any case, check out the desk, and the little man who did it…

some days are good, some days are bad...

2006-11-06T10:17:00.000-05:00

As you know, I’m very moody. But if people sense this about me, shouldn’t they try to appease me, so as not to set me off?

This morning, as Dana and I were in our petit taxi going to work, I was so close to telling her to shut the fuck up. I’m sorry, I have those days, where I just can’t listen to it anymore.

Everyone has problems. Fucking deal with them and get over it.

I’m sorry, I know, it’s harsh, and I know right now I’m just irritated. But I’ve never been the type of person to smile and nod as someone recounts his/her sob stories. Unless I’m drunk or something of course. But seriously, enough already. One day to the next, there’s always something. I’m not here to comfort anyone, I’m sorry, I’m just not. I don’t want to play that role.

…

When I look out my window, the clouds pass vite. It’s a reflection of time. Time will pass.

What do I have to show for it?

People around me tell me I’ve accomplished a lot. This is a lie. I haven’t accomplished enough. Here, I’ve accomplished nothing.

I am so incredibly blocked, but I feel myself doing the blocking and I don’t know why. I just don’t know. I don’t understand why I’m being this way, why after a month, I still feel lost, I still feel like I’m holding myself back. Why am I doing this to myself? Why am I, me, allowing me to do this to myself?

Today I was really in the merde. I went to work, spoke to my boss, Josh. He was in a good mood. Petit a petit. Petit a petit. It’s so hard for me to be a fucking intern. I want power, I crave control. But I’ve hardly proven shit. I haven’t worked for anything, and therefore I deserve the nothingness that I feel.

After speaking with Josh, I hopped in a petit taxi to go to a conference on girl’s dormitories. Ive been assigned to work with Kamime. I like Kamime – he has kind eyes. I mean, I like him as a person, and that’s the end of the road. He and I sat and talked briefly, and his passion and ambition sparked my own.

But I left the conference early – perhaps, well, definitely, too early. Fuck. It was in Arabic, et ca sert a rien. Rien. I ate with them, spoke very little and left.

How cowardly of me. What happened to my presence, my audacity? Did I leave it in the U.S., or did I lose it altogether?

But if I’m doing this to myself, than I can stop. But everytime I try to stop myself, I procrastinate. OK, well, today I stayed until 2. That’s good, right? No, not good. Bad. Very bad.

All I want to do is write, but all I have to write about is n’importe quoi.

31 October 2006. Happy Halloween!

2006-10-31T14:55:00.000-05:00

You’d never know today was any different than any other. Although we do have a green pumpkin.

I left the house at 10:30, no shower, no makeup, no deodorant, no perfume, not even a brush through my hair, with dirty jeans, sneakers and a wrinkled t-shirt.

My favorite accessory in Maroc is my sunglasses.

My second favorite is my iPod.

I have the day off (well, I’m teaching tonight), so I thought I’d head to a few marchés toute seule to see if I could swiftly pick up some furnishings and head home to just chill out.

I’m writing this as I lay on my bed (which also serves as my desk and my chair). Obviously, I failed.

So first I went to this place called Akkari, where I had been once before with Dana and Badre to look for furniture. We had gone on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and it was packed. So packed that while stopped at a bookstand, I got hit in the head with a mattress (a whole other story in itself, but a funny one at that).

Today wasn’t quite the same. I arrived via taxi and entered into what would be in comparison to the previous visit a ghost town. I walked down to where the furniture shops were, and as I walked, I felt it.

The stares, the words, the gossip that lingered behind me.

As I walked, I thought to myself, ‘OK I’m not a tourist. I live here, and I’m going to be living here for a while. Either I walk like I rule the world, or I run. But this feeling, while maybe it will dwindle over time, will never disappear. So, this is the moment to decide whether to defend myself or to submit to the testosterone-thriving culture. But then maybe I should respect the masculine-dominating culture? After all, this isn’t America, that’s for sure.’

So, where do I draw the line? Between being confident in where I am, who I am and how I am? Between appreciating the intrigue I receive and laughing away the remarks whispered to my back, or scowling at these comments, retaliating?

Sometimes I laugh, at the stupidity of it all, the harmlessness and ignorance that I know provokes it. Sometimes I am so tempted to turn around, approach the person(s) and punch them. Not slap, punch. Really hard. Not just to show them, how dare they speak to me in such a way, but how dare they speak to anyone in such a way.

For a culture that appears to be so magnificently respectful in so many ways, there are equally, so many obvious flaws that destroy it.

Well, at the market, I did walk through the alleys, pretending not to pay heed at anyone looking my way. Then I ran (well I walked, but briskly).

My favorite accessory is sunglasses. Because a look is never just a look, and when you catch someone’s eye, it’s not by chance. It’s a purposeful expression of interest. When my eyes are covered, I feel like everyone can look at me, because they’ll have no idea who in return, I’m looking at.

For me, to walk with my head down is a sign of disgrace, of self-loathing, of weakness. I never wish to walk with my head down, and if that means I make eye contact with every man that lives in Morocco, so be it. I have enough weaknesses, plenty of flaws, but regardless, part of what security and confidence I maintain comes from not showing these to the world.

On a more lighthearted note, I was thinking as I crossed through the Medina, how those American women who vie for that stay-at-home, marriage thing, should totally hop a plane to Morocco. You blink at the first man who strikes you and c’est fait, within a month you’ll be married, with 10 babies to come later. It’s like ‘adopt-a-man’ program. Or, better yet, like a ‘hmm, which kind to I want today, which flavor pleases me…’ – a candy store of men! A candy store of men!

In New York, you’d be lucky if a man noticed you enough not to bump into on the street. Here, yeah, they still bump into you, but for the exact opposite reason.

On a totally different note, I’m getting the impression that when some of you read my blog you feel I’m having a horrible experience here. Well, let me put it simply:

I’m not. I’m having a great time, especially in deciphering the culture, the lifestyle the people. Yes, of course good days happen, bad days happen – it’s a part of life. And yes, I’m not pleased with my work schedule, nor am I happy about the fact that I haven’t unpacked yet, patience is a virtue. Morocco is teaching me this, and yes, I’m learning the fucking hard way. But for everything that sucks, there’s something greater that makes it better.

Like two days ago, I was out with Badre, and he was trying to convince me to learn Classical Arabic over Moroccan dialect. I have my head set on dialect first (as I have my head set about the desk…) and I asked him to give me an example of a sentence in both languages. The first, the Classic – no idea. The dialect, I got it. Two words and the rest I made up, but I got it. This made me happy.

Which brings me back to today. As I left the first market and went to Oudaya (where many artisans set up shop), I passed by a tiny tile store, and this one piece hanging close to the ceiling caught my eye. It was gorgeous, pure beauty, and I wanted it. (As my desk…haha) I said bonjour, not even thinking twice, and then I realized that the three men in the store spoke about three words among them in French.

Patience is a virtue.

Never give up.

One of them got up and tried to talk with me. I explained to him, as slowly as I could, in French, what I wanted – I pointed, said, I want to buy it. No clue. He tried. In French, even a little in English. Then I remembered that I know how to say ‘I want’ in Arabic. I said ‘I want’ (something like ‘bereet’) ça (this). Tobla (this is like ‘table’ in Arabic). Big, juge (‘two’) mètres.

I was there for maybe a half hour, as he started out with 1500dh and 15 days to do it, then 2000 and 3 days, then 3000 and 20 days. I said bizef (‘too much’) and he said zwina (‘beautiful’). In other words, his response to my meager bargaining attempt was, ‘yes, but this is a beautiful craft, which takes time’. I’m pretty sure the dernier prix (this is their lowest bargaining price) was 1500, but then again, ma’arafch (I don’t know).

I told him I would come back. With an Arabic speaker.

Though I’m not entirely certain I got my point across to him, I wasn’t at all frustrated. He really tried to meet me half way, and I really respect that, that he didn’t shoo me away because I wasn’t able to speak his language, because I seemed to be a tourist. He really tired, and I really respect that. This one moment (or 30 moments I should say) was so fulfilling. So little, yet so wonderful.

Saffi (‘that’s enough’). I also learned how to say shit – tfou and fuck…but I forgot that one. Anyway, no language does as much justice to the word fuck as does English. So I’ll stick with the English version for now…

sans titre

2006-10-29T04:42:00.000-05:00

Chouf…choufi

Normally I feel an indescribable emotion…something that would fall near that paradis-like place. Tonight I felt disturbed, angered, uneasy.

And now I feel a whirlwind of thoughts encircling me.

Comme d’hab. What to say, how to act, who to be, what to choose, how to let myself go…

I’m not a child anymore (well, relatively speaking), and I’m certainly far enough from ‘home’. It’s now, the time to embrace a new part of my life, the part that I’ve pushed aside, for so many years. The part that killed relationships of all sorts, that even killed a piece of me.

I don’t know what to think, and I certainly don’t know what to do. But I do know that I can’t do nothing. Something must be done. I just wish that it wasn’t me who was doing the doing.

What am I afraid of? Everything. What do I have to lose? Nothing. So maybe, by deductive reasoning, I’m in fact afraid of nothing?

Though things may feel so clear and so right, they’ve become so distraught and muddled in expressing them.

Tfou (this means merde in French, which means shit in English).

I can only imagine what must be going through your heads as you read this, the people who feel closest to me, who know me so well, who know me even better for my sarcasm and cynicism, who have witnessed me allow such little warmth into my life.

The only thing I know is that I know nothing.

And here I came to Morocco, expecting to thrive in what I once considered my life – my ambitions, my career… And instead, it’s those things that are now wilted, leaving much room...

Could I possible be more vague? That is my specialty – avoidance, and I have so well mastered it…

A week ago, I met this colleague, and a brief mention was in my blog. But very brief, as he asked I not include him in any way, and although tempted, I’m choosing to respect that. Tonight, we had the ‘just friends’ talk. Phew. In any case, this isn’t even the point.

The point is that this brief note stirred up a little curiosity in some minds, as it naturally should. But yet I felt my defensiveness rise tonight when questioned about it.

It wasn’t the question in itself that found me unprepared, but the doubt that accompanied it. In life, I suppose there’s no way of proving trust, as it remains an intangible quality to be learned, to be earned, and I have no way of assuring to others my trustworthiness. I lie all the time in order to support my avoidance tendencies – I’m not in denial about this by any means.

How hypocritical it then becomes of me to take offense when someone directly undercuts what I consider to be a principle of trust.

The thing that frustrates me is that those I never would think of lying to can only trust that. How? I don’t know that I would should roles be reversed. But I guess in the end, it’s a matter of instinct, and all I have left is the faith that these select people have this instinct.

Fuck hypocrisy, I will always take offense.

I want to be so much more specific, I want to retell all the detailed moments that I’ve saved. Is this reality?

I do know something. I’ve never felt this way before.

byn + me

2006-10-25T20:53:00.000-04:00

I just spoke for nearly two hours with Byn, and I am so tempted to hop on a flight tomorrow night, just for the night, just to see her very first performance of Cabaret.

If I could only express in words how proud I am of her, but more importantly, how much peace I feel when I think of her being on stage, performing for hundreds of people…

It’s been almost a month since we spoke, the last time being when I called her from Charles de Gaulle during my layover, and even then, that was just a few minutes.

We started off by recounting our problems. Her first, then me. Normal.

How we ended though was more important. How we felt. How beautiful life is, how beautiful our lives are, that each of us are realizing our dreams.

Tomorrow night, she’ll be starring in a show. It still sounds like a dream.

And I’m living in Morocco. This still sounds like a dream too.

a little reflection, a lot of insight

2006-10-25T13:36:00.000-04:00

(avant-note: the picture (not one I have taken) is of the soccer team; Badre is the one on the far left, standing...)

Fuck! I forgot again to take the picture. I think I must be slow or something. Either that, or I’m just starting to assimilate to the Moroccan pace. Let’s go with the latter, as I prefer not to fail in being sharp.

I’ve just returned from an evening out with Badre, and I’m writing this immediately, almost hurriedly on request – his request. Yes, I gave him my blog link, which means I no longer will have the option of writing anything improper about him. I suppose this is both good and bad, as he now also must continue to uphold our relationship in a certain manner, so as that I never have anything nasty to retell; bad in that, should I keep anything from him, to him, I must also do so in my blog.

For now, ça va.

I remember at one point, I looked at my watch and it was 7:30 (we met at 5). The next time, it was 9:30. Ironic, considering the phrase ‘time flies when your having fun’ came up in our conversation. It’s now 11:30, for the record.

First of all, he showed up, as promised, in his off-white djellaba and yellow babouches (these are the Moroccan ‘slippers’). (If you scroll down, you’ll see a photo of him in his garb.) Though I’m somewhat of an anti-flatterer, I must say, this get up is beautiful – sophisticated and elegant. In Moroccan humor, I would say something to the effect of ‘you’re ugly’, which, translated would go something like ‘wow’.

Some humor.

For the first time, we did the bisous; this is my first remark of post Ramadan differences, (as I specifically had my iPod on as I descended to meet him, thus avoiding contact with the city). In our previous meetings, it was always a handshake. But that was then. That was Ramadan. And this is now.

I originally met Badre about a month ago, just a few days after I arrived in Rabat. I remember walking around the Mosque in Agdal while waiting for him, clutching my bag and avoiding all eye contact. I had no idea what to expect of him, as I couldn’t get a good feel for his personality via his emails. But the moment we met, I liked him immediately. His light-hearted spirit, sincerity and respect were readily present…

About our conversation – it started on ‘nice people’. In my mind, the thing is, with all the merde that surrounds us, everywhere, in every country, every city, every community and every house, I wish to have hope and trust that there exists a sense of altruism within some people. I’m not naively saying that everyone is ‘nice’ because it’s of their own human fruition, without demanding or expecting something in return. Far from it. Perhaps the distinction should be made in what they seek in return for their services. And I believe this was one of the points Badre was making.

While it may be extremely few and far between, I will not discard the conviction that this notion of altruism does exist, that certain people have this innate quality. I expect nothing of anyone. I only hope that what anyone decides to present to me is genuine and real. And in the interim, I’m pretty sure I read characters well enough to judge as to whether they’re fucking with me.

OK, I’ve had enough with the nice-ities. Let’s move on.

I want to recount all the topics we covered in a matter of hours, but in fact, the listing of these holds little importance, but rather what was remarkable within each discussion.

A fairly consistent internal dilemma I’ve had since being here, since experiencing Ramadan through several different perspectives, is the contradictions, or I should say, clashing interpretations. Where lies the line between the superficiality of judgment and that of rational, thought-out judgment? Who is correct in his or her assessment of what is right versus what is wrong? Badre wrote me an email following the barbeque we had over the weekend, and made a comment about the other guests, which I found to be very interesting. And then I realized that his commentary was essentially a judgment of others judgments.

From judgment sprung trust, faith and Islam. One of the things I’d really like to do while I’m here is read the Koran, as Islam holds such a significant place within everyone I’ve met. Because I want to understand what this inseparable attraction is. Because I feel this would allow me to better grasp the actual lives of the people here, and their foundations. Because then I could intelligently question and debate both the physical practices and the beliefs that trigger these practices.

First the language. Then the religion. In time. Patience is a virtue.

I had mentioned earlier in the day that I wanted to get his opinion on something I’m working on for ALEF – Dana and I are writing a proposal regarding assigning funding (lots of dirhams) to several targeted fields in literacy programs. I know little about literacy, less about the groups targeted, and even less about the region set to receive the funding. I can find what I need to know on my own, but what I want to know is a different story. This I want to hear directly from people, whatever their perception may be of whatever the topic may be. This is the most important, as who gives a flying fuck about policy if the policy is not so tightly wrapped around those to whom it will be applied? Ca sert à quoi?

Those of you who are reading this are terribly bored. I can tell. It’s too long, and you all have ADHD and OCD. So, let’s move on to more juicy topics…well, the beginnings of juicy topics anyway.

So I don’t probe too much into Badre’s life, partially because I’m not entirely confident in my limits. Well, let me rephrase – I probe, discreetly (or so I think). I sense he comes from quite a conservative background, whereas my background is pretty fucking liberal. But even though my curiosity knows no boundaries, my respect grounds me…to a certain extent anyway…and so it goes…

I asked Badre if he has any girl friends, and this evolved into a whole other matter on its own. In Morocco, from what I now understand and have also observed, it’s apparently rather uncommon to intermingle among the sexes. In other words, when you walk along the streets, there is little presence of women (to clarify, I’m referring more to evening hours and social places, like cafés), and rarely would you come across a man and woman together who is neither married, nor in a relationship. There would generally be a specific reason for the two being together, aside from them liking each other. Only among the younger generation, is it more accepted to be out in a group consisting of males and females. But again, this is a group.

What a foreign concept. My response: in the U.S., women are a good part of the reason men would even consider going out to a café or bar. All that said, me in Morocco is the opposite – it’s rare I’m out and about with more than one person, and equally rare that that one person would be a female.

So does dating exist? By dating, I’m referring to the simple idea of a couple with no necessary thought given to marriage. I have no fucking clue. From what I’ve experienced thus far, it seems to me that marriage is something heavily considered in relationships, and I’m pretty certain that ‘dating’ wherein exclusivity is not adhered to would be a synonym (in the case of women) for ‘whore’. So, where does that leave me? Rest assured, time will tell…

OK, back to non-juicy matters. ..

We walked through the Medina, speaking about children (further provoked by all the mini Moroccans running around us). I think I’ve mentioned this before that Moroccans play with each other’s children. Strangers will go up and kiss children, play with them, as if they’re their own. Badre told me that it makes parents so happy when people do this. I told him if you were to do this in the U.S., there would be a chance that parents would fear this stranger would harm their child. He told me they would love it more if I, as a foreigner, would do it. I told him I was scared of kissing random children.

This is the difference between a society and culture rooted in love, versus one rooted in fear.

As Badre accompanied me home, we spoke more of politics, mostly in the form of the rich versus poor divide. Not in so many words, but the entirety of the issues stem from this gap – in terms of poverty, health, etc. I wasn’t shocked to hear his stories of inadequate healthcare, nor was I surprised at his own disdain for the manner in which health issues are handled. Healthcare is a global concern and there’s no doubt it will remain as such until the day I die…

There were two things that I found interesting. One relating to Islam, in which charity to those less fortunate is an essential quality. This seems obvious, overly obvious. But actually, the point is not whether this concept is encouraged by this religion, but rather whether it embraced by its followers. And here, I feel like you see it happen. The reflex to give.

The antithesis of capitalism.

Secondly, I responded to an idea his friend had, of starting an organization so as to provide funding for urgent health responses. I responded with something to the effect of, it’s unfortunate that such a simple idea would suffer so many unnecessary challenges in order to succeed in its mission. I hate using the word ‘unfortunate’, because it has no meaning – it’s an apathetic word. It has no passion, it just floats. There’s no anger, sadness, disappointment in it. It lacks feeling. But I wonder if I use unfortunate as a way in which to dismiss certain things I find unconquerable… Wouldn’t it be nice if idealism was in fact realism? If everything that can be changed and should be changed, was in fact changed? ‘Unfortunately’ this will never be the case.

This is the problem - when simplicity is suffocated by complexities, and irrelevant ones at that. When positive intentions are shattered by insignificant details.

So then, is the solution to give up? Abandonner?

Never give up.

i have no idea

2006-10-23T04:09:00.000-04:00

Patience is virtue. Patience is a virtue. Patience is a virtue.

Today I lost my virtue.

It’s 2:41 AM.

In skimming over my blog, I realize that my past few entries haven’t been entirely uplifting.

Everyday I learn something. Some days are good, some are bad. Some days are good, and I fail to appreciate them, and thus they turn bad.

It’s of my own determination to create and transform what is presented. And when my determination is flawed, I fail to achieve the positive. This is my flaw, not to be assigned to those who surround me.

The last time I wrote feels so long ago, and so much has happened in the past several days, I have no idea where to begin. Two days ago I had begun to write about a new person in my life. He (of course it has to be a he) has thrown me a total curveball.

I want to write about him in detail, but not now; Now I want to want to write about where I am and what I’ve learned thus far.

In New York, I have a mentor (sometimes I call her Master even), and even being several thousand miles apart, we’ve managed to connect on a few occasions. I’ve told her about how awed I am from this new culture. And she repeats, every time, “Rachel, be careful with people that are too nice. There’s no such thing. People who seem too nice always have a motive.” And we laugh, but I dismissed this concept as a foreign one, one that for me had dissolved when I crossed the border into Africa.

I know my thoughts seem completely random, but in time you’ll see how perfectly they fit in…

My room has been painted. For the first time in my life, I did not do the painting (I’ve done a lot of painting in the past as some of you may know). I hired someone to do it for me. Truthfully, he did a fairly terrible job and caused quite the commotion within the apartment, but it’s done, my room is painted. The color…you’d never guess. Luckily, there’s a photo. I love it. I was weary because no one was in accord with my choice, but I don’t remember when anyone has ever agreed with my color choice. But I totally love it. I don’t think there could have been a better choice. Regardless of the sloppy application, we’ll just say this adds character.

Now I just need a desk. Then maybe a dresser and bookcase.

And tonight, I’m writing this blog in my own room, on my bed, with my wireless internet connection finally hooked up. Finally. Finally.

Patience is a virtue.

Last night, we had a barbeque at the apartment, and invited a few friends to come join us. I can’t remember the last time I partook in a social event with friends, food and excellent banter, sans alcol. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since I’ve arrived in Morocco.

I knew I should have taken that mini wine bottle from the plane!

So the barbeque consisted of about ten people, with a good men to women ratio (or vice versa). We ate turkey and vegetables and salads, mostly grace à Milouda. Milouda was initially invited as a guest, but I’m pretty certain the intended invitation was lost in translation. In any case, the food was wonderful, and I had a very nice time as my conversations swept me away elsewhere.

Wow. I’m just remembering the last time I had people over, in Connecticut, just a week prior to my departure. I can imagine everyone’s faces, sitting around the table outside on the deck… The faces I’ve left behind, but that will always remain so vivid in my mind. My greatest friends, my loving family. The laughter we shared, over the most ridiculous of subjects, and the sincerity and grace that embodied it all. That will never leave my heart, those moments, those feelings…

There are so few moments in life that give you such peace, that are so sublime. These are the moments.

Last night I was surrounded by new faces, new people, new mentalities, new laughter, new feelings.

I have so many things to say. Such is life. This is life.

couscous friday

2006-10-20T00:17:00.000-04:00

Dana, Isolde and I sat around the dining room table planning out our menu for the week. Dana was super excited to have a cookbook placed in front of her, with no restrictions. So, needless to say, she did most of the planning.

It was shortly thereafter that Dana, Isolde and I were invited to Hicham's house for "Couscous Friday". Apparently there's some sort of relation between Couscous and Fridays in Morocco, though I can't quite figure out the logistics of it all.

Anyway, we planned to go to Hicham's family's house on Friday (just for dinner, not for the f'tour). It wasn't until Friday that we were then dis-invited.

Hmm, ok. So how it went down, I'm not entirely sure, but from what I understand, something came up, and his family's presence was required elsewhere. But rather than leaving us sans couscous, Hicham's mother did in fact make it, and Hicham transported it to our apartment.

I finally remembered to take pictures!

This dish could have fed at lease ten mouths, if not fifteen to twenty. Filled to te brim with little bits of couscous, stuffed and topped with vegetables and chicken, it was pretty awesome. Well, you can see for yourself.

i have no idea

2006-10-19T23:49:00.000-04:00

OK, I just went through some recent photos, and I've really been slipping here...

I'm sorry.

Thursday night I went to the Tour Hassan, with a few 'people', for this special night of Ramadan. The name exactly escapes me at the moment, but it's the night when all the children dress up - the little girls look like princesses, and the boys like princes, in their traditional garb. As if Moroccan children aren't cute enough...

Normally the Tour Hassan closes at night (meaning people cannot enter into the area where the tower and mosques are). But on this occasion, families flocked to the scene, primping for family photos and chattering away, among the carnival-esque setting. Even food vendors set up shop just outside the gates, and people selling these huge balloons.

The swirl of colors and energy was so beautiful and charming...

Mauritz, Habiba and baby Yasmine

2006-10-18T14:37:00.000-04:00

Last night we had kefta tagine, which Meluda (our housemaid) made. I keep forgetting to take pictures of what we eat…maybe tonight I’ll remember. Every night we (Isolde, Dana and myself) eat together, usually with our hands, digging into the tagine du jour.

The point of this entry truthfully has nothing to do with food…I just got carried away for a second. Last night, as we were digesting our kefta tagine, Isolde said something to the effect of, “I want to ask you guys something, but I’m little scared”. Uh oh. Me too. Dana too. No one should preface a question with that.

A few days ago, Isolde and I went to visit her former housemaid, who had just had a little baby (they were in a previous blog) – Habiba, Mauritz and Yasmine. I think I wrote about their living conditions – very shabby, no chic. Anyway, Isolde continued with her proposal. A day earlier we had heard they had been back to the hospital as something was wrong with the baby. We didn’t know what or how serious, but we also heard that they might not be able to return for further analysis because they just didn’t have the money.

In Morocco, any medical visits must be paid in advance. You put the money on the table, otherwise no doctor will see you. If you re lucky enough to have decent insurance, you might, within the year following, be reimbursed.

Isolde’s proposal was to each put in some money to give to the family so they could seek medical help. Her rationale was that she preferred to be able to give a little bit more to help a family she knows than give out 1 dirham (equivalent of 10 cents) to each beggar on the street. I completely agree, but then again, I was bracing myself for her to ask a donation of several hundred dirham (the equivalent of tens of dollars). Which I would love to give, but I’m still spending a lot to settle in, and anticipating spending more…

Isolde told us, 50dh (bout 5 bucks) would be a nice contribution and sufficient on its own.

Fifteen dollars.

What the fuck would fifteen dollars buy you in the U.S.? A few packs of gum?

In Morocco it goes a long way. Fifteen dollars. Can you imagine. The reaction of Mauritz, Habiba and Yasmine, from such a minor sum of money. But it feels good to have the ability to comfort someone, with such a small gesture. To be able to give the gift of security, of comfort, of respect and of love.

university mohammed v - souissi

2006-10-16T11:09:00.000-04:00

Some days are good, some are bad. Today falls into the latter category, and it’s only just after 11 AM.

I just spent an hour and 40dh taking a taxi to and from the Université Mohamed V Faculté des Lettres, so that I might be able to attend a class on cultural representations. This was set up through one of my contacts, a professor who is well connected and well known within the international circuit.

I arrived at the “University” after 10h30, at which point I had already decided I couldn’t enter a course late. I don’t do that, not even in the States, and especially being a foreigner, I’d rather not show up than disrupt the class by coming in after it’s started.

The taxi driver assured me it wasn’t far, and though he was new to the cab driving business, he knew well the campus. It was fucking far; I didn’t anticipate it taking 20 minutes to get there…although, on the way back, it took about 5-7 minutes.

I have no idea where this place was, but when he stopped in front of the building, there where a bunch of what looked like teenagers, loitering. I didn’t see anyone that looked like they could possibly be over 20. I was convinced he had dropped me off at a high school.

All eyes were on me.

There are some times when I don’t feel like a foreigner in a developing country. Then there are sometimes when I’m made so aware. I never feel endangered, but at the same time, I feel completely uncomfortable. I know in my mind that it’s curiosity that triggers the staring, the comments, but today, being the sole white person among a mass of Moroccans was really hard. Really hard.

So I didn’t look very closely for the room in which the class was scheduled. I walked around the building a bit, and then left.

Only to come back to work, where I found out this morning…while Dana is working on an illiteracy program with JICA and the Spanish Embassy, and will be traveling around Morocco for it, I continue to do database entry. And perhaps Dana will pass her Access work on to me as well. Fuck that.

Sometimes things really suck. I understand that soon enough, after Ramadan, things will improve. But, for the moment, they fucking suck.

quick notes...

2006-10-16T10:29:00.000-04:00

should any of you be interested in my professional career, i've created a web page to post my work, with links and such. it's not quite complete yet, but it's coming along...

this is the original page of my previous work at nyu: http://rholskin.googlepages.com/

this is the new moroccan version: http://rholskin.googlepages.com/rachinmorocco

i've also posted a bunch of new blogs below...so don't forget to check them out. after all, i hope i'm not just rambling on for my own entertainment...

Ode to Dad

2006-10-16T08:27:00.000-04:00

I need to learn how to say dad in Arabic.

I paused my other blog entry to write this. I felt compelled.

(Please note – Mom, don’t be jalouse – your ode will come in time. After Ramadan.)

Dear dad,

I love you. For how you guide me. For how you slightly support my naïvité. For the way in which you absorb my insanity and clarify my indecisions. For being there for me. Regardless of your own insecurities. For your patience. (Ahem, well, sometimes, for your patience.) For your sense of humor. And your innate desire to always protect me. For what you try to teach me, and for when you occasionally pardon me for not learning my lessons…

In two weeks time it’s all already come in very handy.

So, choukran dad.

My First Arabic Lesson... / Date...??!!

2006-10-15T23:25:00.000-04:00

I went on my first date tonight.

Well, I didn’t discover it was a date until I returned, when my roommate informed me I’d been duped!

A few days ago, I posted an annonce (a.k.a. ad) for an Arabic professor/tutor. The idea was to have someone come to the house maybe three days per week, for an hour or two each time, so as to improve (or at least start) my Arabic – my Moroccan Arabic (as opposed to Classical Arabic).

I got a few responses actually within two days – one from a guy living in Casa, one from a young woman in Rabat, one from a guy preparing his doctorate in International Law. Can you guess which one I chose?

Yacin was the most responsive, and responsible it seemed. I was attracted to his profile first when he told me he studied international law, and on the doctorate level. I’m attracted to those intellectual of sorts. I was also attracted to the fact he spoke several languages and assured me of his fluency in Moroccan dialect, Classical Arabic and French. I was most attracted to his email in which he responded to my question of price by saying “this is up to you to decide, as I cannot put a price on knowledge”. I’m such a fool.

I consulted with my roommate, who agreed he sounded good, should he be telling the truth. Well, of course, one never knows who is lying and who is telling the truth. She told me I should ask him to come to my apartment, and his willingness would reflect whether he had money, as those with money are willing and able to go here, there, everywhere. I was thinking more, let’s meet in public, so should you choose to attack me, I have witnesses. Anyway, I followed her direction, and it was he who suggested he come to meet me chez moi, and we would continue on for a café. Super.

He came exactly on time, at 7PM. I wonder if he arrived early to pace around and then call me.

I descended to meet him, and he was very formal with me. I’m not accustomed to the formalities of life, so I immediately switched him into informal mode. We walked together down to Centre Ville, in search of a co-ed café, and talked about what I do, what he does, etc. etc.

He’s 33, doing his doctorate at University Mohamed V, but in Collaboration with Paris X (Nanterre), regarding International Law and Work. He’s not particularly cute, but he’s not not cute either. He does have some sort of bizarre/psycho-esque look though. And although I didn’t inquire, I’m assuming he’s unmarried, which is equally strange for a 33-year-old Moroccan.

We spent about two hours together, and talked about the Arabic lessons for about 5 minutes of that two hours.

His English sucked, though he had told me he was decent. And of course this was his ulterior motive. I don’t blame him, in our fields, it’s pretty damn crucial to speak English and French. But I didn’t post an ad for a language exchange, and frankly, I’m not super keen on this idea, even if it were to eliminate the costs of the lessons.

In this sense, I’m a little torn (go figure). He could prove very very useful in the future, professionally speaking. He seems rather well connected, and decently high in society. His field differs not so much from mine, and in my attempt to construct the network, he could be useful. If only he were an old female – this would be a perfect relationship. But he’s a young male. Ca va pas.

This is why: he bought my café. If I’m the employer, this is not necessarily normal. We walked around the city – he wished to give me a mini tour. (This is the third or fourth mini tour I’ve had). We walked past the flower market, and he asked if I likes roses, and I said yes. He asked if he could buy me one. I said no. We continued, and he asked if I wanted something to eat, or some chocolate. I said no. I asked him if he drinks or smokes (I ask every Moroccan this, as I hear they’re big partiers, but I’ve yet to meet anyone that drinks). He said no, and asked me in return what I drink. I replied, Moroccan rosé, red wine and gin and tonic. He said he would buy be a bottle of wine. He invited me to his family’s house for the f’tour. I said nothing. When I mentioned I wanted to visit other places in Morocco, he said we could set something up to go to Marrakech. I said nothing. He asked me how long it would take for him to learn English. I lied and told him three months. He said we should begin tomorrow. I said I couldn’t, but maybe Monday.

Should I really pursue this? I need to consult with Badre. I may have to sacrifice a place in my network in order to avoid having to avoid in the future.

Don’t get me wrong, he didn’t outright flirt with me. But it’s Ramadan. After Ramadan.

Ramadan Revealed (14 October 2006)

2006-10-14T22:14:00.000-04:00

About a week ago, I wrote a sort of self-reflection on Ramadan, on what I initially encountered inside the minds of Moroccans. Everyone confirmed their volunté in participation, their commitment in this sort of sacrifice.

A week later I am now seeing the other side. I hear talk of hypocrisy, doubt, resentment.

Last night I went with Isolde to her former “maid”’s house, who had just had a little baby girl, Yasmine. She lives just down the road from us, in a house, but a house shared by multiple families. Isolde forewarned me as to what I would see in terms of conditions and quality of life (as I have not yet truly encountered the “lower class”). I feel as though this paragraph makes me seem pretentious or unwilling, but I’m just stating the facts, setting the scene. Truthfully, I was interested, I am interested to see all lifestyles, and I want to interact with all forms of people, not solely those that belong to the same class as me. Je mon fous de ça.

In any case, we went to their house, hosting the new mother, the father, the mother of the new mother and two other guests. The new mother (her name escapes me at the moment) was obviously in significant discomfort, as apparently she had to be cut in order to deliver the baby, and her recovery time in the hospital was one day. Her strength though was also quite obvious, and though she didn’t speak much French, her warmth was well felt…

I’ll get to the Ramadan part in a second…

Anyway, the apartment in the house was pretty teeny, but that was hardly the focal point. The mother of the mother made everyone mint tea, and plates were placed on the table, filled with a sweet mix of almonds, flour and some other stuff. We all sat around on the Moroccan sofas, chatting, with the TV in the background. I knew only Isolde there, and at first, the other guests were asking Isolde questions about me, their curiosity peaking little about this new person sitting among them. But surprisingly, not once did I feel uncomfortable among them. Little by little, I myself began to receive the questions directly – typical, about where I’m from, what I do, whether I’m a croyante. The other woman there (I also forget her name!) has a thirteen year old daughter, who is half Moroccan, half Palestinian. She is divorced. She was so full of life, like most Moroccans are. Why is this not the case anywhere else? Where does that sparkle in the eye disappear to? So, she was most interested by the fact that I’m teaching English (I think from now on I’m going to leave this minor detail out of my profile). She wants to organize a group, including herself and her daughter, to come to the apartment for English lessons. Of course I agreed…

What am I supposed to do? Say no? No no.

I sense this will be a great challenge in me living in Morocco – it’s very attractive that I’m a native English speaker, as many people I’ve come across vie to master the language. They want to always slip in the few English terms they know, as much as they want to improve these few terms. I want to help all of them achieve their desires (please note, I’m not assuming it’s a grand passion for people to learn English, but of course, knowing any additional language is always useful in the world, especially in gaining employment, which is a whole other story in itself). But, at the same time, I don’t want at all to diminish my desires in helping others. I didn’t come here to speak English, and it is hardly my desire to practice it on a daily basis. Au contraire. I want to learn Arabic, I want to improve my French. My English will always be there, but I certainly don’t want it to be my focus. It’s bad enough I’m writing this in English. It’s bad enough one of my friends here is American. It’s bad enough that should my French crack, my roommate speaks English. It’s bad enough that my friend Badre and I communicate in English. Safe. (I don’t mean “safe” in English; in Arabic, pronounced sah-fay = ca y’est = that’s enough.)

I need to remind myself I’m only going into my third week of being here. It will come.

After Ramadan.

In the past three days, I’ve already agreed to help three different people with their English. Merde. I just hope I have time to do the things I want to do, without hurting others. I can hear my father in the back of my mind. “Rachel, you have to take care of yourself. You shouldn’t submit to other people just because you feel obliged.” It’s the Jewish guilt, I always feel obliged. Merde. But you know, this doesn’t have to be a negative thing. This is all about achieving a balance within all aspects of life. If I can reach that balance, this will be my nirvana. I don’t want to give up on other people in order to pursue the things important just to me. I want to work alongside others as I realize my own personal passions.

We went to see the baby around 10 PM, and left around 11:30. There are about two blocks between us, but the father accompanied us home, because it’s not the best idea to be out at night alone, for women anyway. As we walked, we talked about Ramadan.

Isolde is convinced of the hypocrisy of it all, and her friend Ismael is equally suspicious of some sort of conspiracy theory behind it.

I found out last night that if one were to be eating on the street during Ramadan (by one, I mean a Moroccan male), he would be arrested and sent to prison for a month. Less he have some sort of papers proving he is in need of eating. For a woman, it may not be as harsh, as woman can claim certain excuses, and for foreigners also, as well, you know, “stupid tourists”. But, one month, in jail, for eating in public during Ramadan. And apparently, once you arrive in your cell (with true inmates/criminals), and they find out “what you’re in for”, you’re severely judged…”how could you break Ramadan??!!!!!!!”

Holy merde.

I mean, I was advised not to eat in public during Ramadan, and I haven’t, nor would I, simply as a sign of respect for the culture and act therein. But shit, I didn’t know you could be thrown in the slammer for it. Wow. Grave.

Anyway, we continued our discussion of how people claim they “do Ramadan”, but in fact many are a bunch of liars. Isolde and Mauritz agreed that if someone truly does Ramadan, his/her mouth will look super dry, and he/she will stink, from not eating, not drinking, not brushing teeth, etc. Like sewage, it’s normal. They note that they observe few people like this, and said in fact, many people do eat, just inside, out of sight. Neither Isolde nor Mauritz gave a flying fuck whether someone partakes in Ramadan, but they both resent the contradiction of the event. The way in which some Muslims cheat, or even how those who participate, fast all day and then party all night. True, the latter is quite a contradiction. And more importantly, the judgment they pass on other Muslims should they break Ramadan.

Such a completely opposite view than what I originally heard. To each their own. But me, you know, I’m a realistic idealist. And now I’m totally torn. I’m going to be looking and smelling everyone now.

I want to believe in Ramadan. I want to have faith in it.

another day in the life (but with more photos)

2006-10-11T20:52:00.000-04:00

J’ai pas envie de travailler. So I’ll write a story. After all, that’s what life is really about – doing what you want to do…

I feel like I work quite a bit, when in fact, compared to my former lifestyle, I am working almost part-time; I go into work around 8AM, which means I leave my apartment around 7:45 (unfortunately I cannot walk to this particular work, as it’s several miles away…I guess I could, I just always have so much stuff with me.) So I walk a few blocks to the main road, by the Embassy of the Netherlands, smile at the guards as I pass them, and hail a petit taxi. Ten minutes later, and voila, I’m there. The office usually closes around 3PM because of Ramadan, but so far, I have yet to stay until 3. I usually leave somewhere around 2 or 2:30, to leave time for me to come home, change, get to ALC and bug them about when I’m getting paid. That’s been my schedule at least for this week. And tomorrow it will be the same.

Silence all around. This is my favorite time to write.

I was a little worried initially about how this whole fellowship thing was going to work out, seeing as I’ve never played the role of the lowly intern before, and I’m now super demoted compared to ever other position I’ve ever held in my life (including that of the Gap). I’m accustomed to being respected, and being a resource for many people, having a decent workload and proving my worth easily. But here it’s not the same, and this I must accept. This isn’t to say I’m off running errands for the big shot, or fetching coffee for the office. Not even close (though, then again, it is Ramadan, and no one’s allowed to drink coffee…). In fact, within one day of being in the office, I touched base with Josh, who really pulled me in pretty damn quickly. Already I’m involved in two projects, potentially three or four. And these are serious projects, all of which I’m super enthusiastic about and I’m really looking forward to working on. I now actually feel like working, or at least telling you all about the fantastic things I’m going to work on but I suspect this might bore you all to death.

So let’s switch subjects and leave that one to another day when I’m more developed so to speak. I can imagine my Aunt Patti sitting in front of the screen saying, forget work, tell me about the shopping! Any cute guys?!

I was walking down the street today to return to my apartment, and I passed this guy who said something like “you’re beautiful” in French. This is not uncommon, rather I would go so far as to say that it is in fact normal that I walk down the street and all around me are men whispering little nothings. It’s not scary, if that’s what you’re thinking – they’re harmless. But this guy today, made me realize, wow it’s like a natural reaction to regurgitate these words in passing a woman. It’s almost funny how it happens. There’s no second thought to it whatsoever. Natural, comme ca. Don’t get me wrong, this is most likely not the case with Moroccan woman, but I certainly stick out. My friend Badre said to me one night, you see how Moroccans are always looking at each other. My response – yes, I see how they’re always looking at me… Every once in a while I get slightly creeped out, but overall, it works in my favor. Blondes trump all.

Back to the cute Moroccan boys – oh, there are plenty! But don’t forget, it’s Ramadan, and one of the most basic of rules is, no flirting, no touching your woman (girlfriend, wife, whatever), no sex. You can imagine now a little better why they say people are so cranky during Ramadan. It’s not just the food you know.

I was ready to end this entry with some special clarifications, as I’ve understood some names to be confusing. But then I forgot about the shopping! Oh my. Alright, well, every time I pass Moroccan tea glasses I think of Jill (for those of you that don’t know Jill, she’s my Uncle Mike’s sister in law…whatever), and her yearning for tea glasses. Once I get the post office deal worked out, I’ll get on that. Overall, the shopping though – there’s the Medina, this is the hub. Anything you could desire to buy or to have done can be yours in the Medina. That’s what I’ve been told anyway. And yes, they do carry the variety of knock-offs, or maybe they’re real in fact – I have no idea. Other than the Medina, in Agdal, there are the European shops, which I have yet to frequent, though this is only because I’m poor. Once I become a paid employee, I’ll check out the scene, though I’ve heard that the prices are higher here than in Europe. Imagine that.

OK, c y’est. That’s enough. Here are the clarifications, and hopefully I’ll cover them all:

Gary = current boss (Director) of the ALC; ALC = the American Language Center. There are many throughout Rabat, under the organization of the ACA. I am working for the one in Rabat – this is my supposed paid income, teaching English to Moroccans. His nickname, asshole. Asshole is set to “retire” (somewhat of a forced retirement) in December, and will be replaced by Hal. Hal rocks; we met randomly on a website and he’s been a huge support for me before and during my stay here (going as far as assisting me with my ALC nightmares and taking it above and beyond his own needs), and he’s the biggest reason why I’ve decided to stay at the ALC. We’ve not met yet (he now works in the UAE), but I already feel a very strong connection with him, and I foresee good times ahead under his leadership.

Yasmine = a colleague/fellow teacher at ALC in Mohammedia, which is about 40 minutes outside of Rabat. Age 27, and originally from Marrakech, Yasmine was a Fullbright scholar in the U.S. (in Texas in fact). She came to meet me my first day here, and take me around. Very nice person, and I look forward to spending more time with her. She’s interested in pursuing a career in international relations, so I think we’ll work well together.

Kathleen = same status as Yasmine, although Kathleen is American, from Massachusetts. This is her second year teaching, though she’ll be leaving in December. She also came to meet me on my first day.

Josh = current boss (Chief of Party) of ALEF; ALEF = something about education and training for the future. This is where I’m working without pay. Josh is a Jew, bikes to work everyday and plays on the company softball team. He invited me to play as well! He seems like he’s from the Northeast, and has a doctorate from some ivy league. Nice guy, very busy, but doesn’t forget about the people he works with (or who work for him). He’s also about to have a baby.

Dana = fellow colleague/intern at ALEF; Dana is 27, originally from North Carolina (where she grew up on a tobacco farm), now lives in D.C. and attends Georgetown as a Masters student. She speaks classical Arabic, and is learning the Moroccan dialect. She is supposed to be moving into my apartment, but who knows… She and I recently visited Casablanca together, and is in several photos. She’s only here for three months (now actually two more remain).

Isolde = my current roommate (13, rue Idriss Al Akbar). She’s 24, from Gent (Belgium) and is a sort of graphic designer by trade, but right now is tutoring Moroccans in Dutch to pass a test and emigrate to the Netherlands. She’s also thinking about becoming a manager for a nightclub in Rabat. She’s cool, though a bit dramatic at times, but we seem to mesh well (I’ve included a photo of her in this entry).

Hicham = Isolde’s boyfriend, who I met in person before Isolde. He’s from Rabat, speaks primarily Moroccan dialect and French. He’s somewhere around mid twenties age. He’s a bouncer by profession at Amnesia, but also does kickboxing competitions on the side. His family has a traditional Moroccan house in the Medina. When I go, I’ll take photos. He has four brothers and four sisters, all who live at this house. Wow.

Badre = my Moroccan friend, who I met on VirtualTourist.com long before I came to Morocco, who gave me random advice on Rabat, and consoled me during my “I’m terrified” phase. He’s twenty-nine, and lives with his parents in Salé (this would be considered absurd in the U.S., but here, this is the normality of it all). He has a brother who lives in Montreal and a sister who’s married and lives next door (or something like that). He works for Maroc Telecom and travels to developing countries during his vacation. Very interesting guy, and I like hanging out with him (not just because he speaks English, although that is a super advantage). His picture is with another entry, in his white djellaba.

Badr = the guy I met on the plane…who I still have yet to call.

Ismael = a friend of Isolde’s, age 34, who’s going to set me up with a reuter for wireless internet. He likes to talk politics, and claims not to be a Muslim. The first time we met, he told me he heard Connecticut was a poor state with a water problem. Hmm, bizarre how rumors spread.

Mouna = a “French” girl, age 21, who I met while looking for an apartment in Rabat. I haven’t met her in person yet; she seems a little immature, but is pursuing some law degree at a university in Rabat. I’ll let you know how that goes.

Soraya, Chakib and Driss Laroussi = the family whose house I went to for f’tour. Chakib is the Chief Communication Officer for the King. Soraya works for Royal Air Maroc, and Driss is a student at the French high school. Charming family…I also need to call them.

I think that covers it for now. From this point on, I’ll try and insert some bibliographic references with new characters.

Time for tagine… mium mium, tagine…

Casa (8 October 2006)

2006-10-09T15:20:00.000-04:00

(the photos...well, some of them at least, can be found here: http://www1.snapfish.com/thumbnailshare/AlbumID=52679778/a=70340652_70340652/t_=70340652)

Yes, today I went to Casa. I kept my word (probably for the first time). Normally I should still be there, but inshah Allah (sp?) – Allah didn’t will it.

Dana and I took the 13h ONCF train out of Rabat Centre Ville. The train resembled a bit of a shanty European one, although it was most certainly sufficient and rather timely. I would have no qualms in taking it again. It cost 32dh each way, and the duration was just around one hour, so we arrived in Casa Port at about 14h.

We had decided, as it was Sunday, and there would be little to be seen apartment-wise, that we would journey out to Casa for the night. And plus, I had a meeting scheduled on Monday in Casa, and that would certainly make my life a lot easier to wake up and be there.

My mother had told me that if I had decided to fly into Casa’s main airport, and take the train out to Rabat I would shelter my eyes from the desperate and desolate view. However, I would say the worst part of the trip was not in fact the view, which was far from unpleasant, but rather the smelly Moroccan man who shared our cabin. Ah, the smell of Morocco… In any case, the landscape did lend to the poverty of a developing country, but to be quite honest, I wouldn’t say it differs so much from the slumminess of the Paris banlieu, with the exception that this impoverished view was expansive, and not cluttered all into a small area.

Right, so our arrival – as we strolled out of the station (me carrying a small bag and Dana a backback), Dana immediately expressed her like for Casa, as it was semi-bustling (keep in mind, Ramadan creates a milder scene than normal). I also felt an immediate attraction. As the day passed though, this dwindled, eventually casiment evaporating.

We hadn’t officially reserved a hotel room, and during part of our ride we spent leafing through our matching Lonely Planet Morocco guidebooks (thank you again Jennifer). I had called a few places earlier, including the site of a former bomb target in 2003. When I told Dana, she was as excited as I to explore this particular option (go figure). So we stopped a friendly policier to ask for directions, and continued until we found the former Hotel Safir, now under construction to become the Hotel Farah Golden Tulip. No wonder they didn’t answer their phone. Failure. We then stopped at the Sheraton nearby (much more splendid than you would imagine an American Sheraton), who graciously offered us a rate of 50% off. Although it was still 1500dh. Um, non.

It was then that I got the call. From my “boss”, the Chief of Party at ALEF. I told him we had just arrived in Casa and were searching for a nice hotel. At which point he informed me that our 10:30 AM Casa meeting had been adjusted, to 12PM…in Rabat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

OK, it was still only around 15h, and we could still spend the afternoon walking around, find a place to stay and explore the city’s nightlife. So we headed for the Hotel Excelsior, just down the block. It’s a bit of an old hotel, but very quaint, with tiled décor. We asked to see a room, and were shown to the second floor; ok, the room is what a New York realtor would call “charming”. In other words, it’s do-able – there’s a bathroom, a little balcony, two beds. For 275dh, it’s fine, and we decided to take it. The hotel manager asked us to come down with our passports to check in formally, and it’s at that moment that I realize, again, fuck, I didn’t bring mine. ME. When have I ever been one of those lowly and retarded travelers, unprepared?! Apparently today, I became one. So we descend, hoping that Dana’s passport alone will fly. I tell the Manager our situation – that we live in Rabat, we’re only staying one night, etc., etc. He shakes his head no. No way. No. I plead with him in French, Dana even tries in Arabic. Toujours, non. So we go back to our room and contemplate our next move.

Luckily, Dana wasn’t hard on me at all… I don’t know if I would have been as forgiving. Inshah Allah. God didn’t will.

I called the hotel I had called earlier, and spoke with Yized. I told him, please, I have forgotten my passport, is there anything that can be done. He says yes, come to the hotel, leave your bags and check in, and then you can go to the Commissariat to get a receipt. It’s Sunday, there’s no way the Commissariat is open. He ensures me it is indeed. Fuck.

Dana and I decided this would be a stupid move, as we only have so much time to spend in Casa, and it’s not worth it to run around like the moron that I am. So we left the hotel (well, in fact, we were escorted out), crossed the street and entered the Hyatt.

Wow, nice hotel. Really nice. So, we decided to have a pause and get a coffee/tea and patisserie. Really, one coffee, one mint tea, one patisserie. This cost us just under the amount we would have spent at the Hotel Excelsior – 200dh! But, sitting on those couches for an hour and a half and chatting was worth the money.

According to our guidebooks, the trains run from Casa to Rabat until midnight. So we figure, what the hell, we’ll schlep (again with the schlepping) our stuff around for the day, have a nice dinner in Ayn Diad and then head back to Rabat. Of course though, Ramadan overtakes us once again. In fact, the trains cease running at 21h, so we’re told, although no one really knew for sure. Alright, we’ll skip the walking around, and just go for the dinner. So we hailed a petit taxi – in Casa, the petits taxis are actually red, as opposed to the blue in Rabat – and headed for Ayn Diab, the “chic” neighborhood, but as we drove a bit, the Mosque (Hassan II) appeared before us, and we decided to stop and check it out.

Apparently this mosque is one of the top three in size in all of the Arab nations. I’m not exactly sure how it could be beat, as it was enormous. Truly, it made me think, “everyone stereotypes Americans as having to have all things grandiose…maybe they should take a step back and check out this fucking larger than life, or any shopping mall, mosque.” Dana explained that she had read that the area where the Mosque was built had formerly been a really poor area (right on the ocean as well). And one day (not so long ago, as it’s a very new Mosque as well), the poor were swept out, so that a half-a-billion-dollar Mosque could be constructed. No assistance given to those left further impoverished.

In any case, while the size was intimidating to say the least, it is a fantastically beautiful Mosque, with an unbelievable amount of detail focused on each piece of the construction. It’s nears on being indescribable (hence the 50 photos I took).

Alright, so now you’ve heard about the Mosque. As for the rest of Casa – or at least the minor parts we managed to visit – it is super dirty. Dirty and dusty. I have a feeling though that we didn’t make it to the chi chi shopping areas, or cleaned-up café-lined streets. And when we did finally take a cab, after walking over a mile to reach a restaurant, we drove through a neighborhood with gorgeous huge houses. I can’t in all fairness judge Casa from today. But what I do admit is that I felt significantly less secure there than I do in Rabat. And that was comforting.

So we submitted to many failures to day, all really of my own faults. But what you’ve just read isn’t quite the end of it yet…

Dana and I ended up on Boulevard de la Corniche, in search of a nice restaurant for dinner. Of course, it’s Ramadan, but we expected that Casa would be a little more accommodating to Westerners and tourists alike. Well, failure. As you should know, between 6:30 and 7:30 PM, the f’tour takes place, leaving any sign of life well to be desired. Apparently, this is also the case in Casa, as we just pulled up in our petit taxi at about 6:30 to this boulevard lined with closed restaurants. We happened upon a hotel serving a buffet f’tour, but neither of us were too thrilled about the option, so we strolled the entirely deserted street (literally, in the middle of the street), and happened upon a restaurant where the waiters were inside having their f’tour. They immediately insisted they were open, and we took a table. Thank God we’re women. There’s no way this would have happened if we were two grungy American men. But two American women, and the all your wishes come true. Relatively speaking anyway.

I specifically ordered a half veggie/half plain pizza, and fried calamari (to share). The calamari was good actually. Then the pizza came. Mais, c’est quoi – c’est de la viande? I asked, as there was no way that pinkish brown stuff was any sort of vegetable. I’m pretty sure there was no meat included on the order. Dana repeated what I said in Arabic, continuing to tell the waiter that I don’t eat meat. The waiter was taken back for sure, explaining that it was a specialty of the chef. In other words, he had thought highly of us and wanted to offer us something special other than just vegetables. Alright, failure. At this point, I wasn’t about to send anything back, and I simply thanked him, and told him it was no problem, that we really appreciated his offering. I did appreciate it – and how were they to know I didn’t eat meat? In all honesty, that was probably the best slice – the one with the lamb on it…

We left the restaurant at about 20h to catch a train (better safe than sorry), and the manager helped hail a taxi and pointed the driver in the right direction. In Casa, it seemed as though those who knew we were Anglophone, wished to speak with us in English. Imagine that.

We arrived at Casa Port around 20h15. The next and last train for Rabat departed at 21h30…

So, finalment, I arrived chez moi, at about 23h.

And there are chicken heads in my sink. Chicken heads. Hm, chicken heads.

There are the words I learned today (and as usual, I spell them phonetically, not properly. Pleas note also, that should you have roubles in understanding my sporadic French interruptions, these are correctly spelled, and you may refer to any French-English translation mechanism to find their true meaning.)

Yallah – come here
Shoufte - look
Ma arafch – correction, I don’t know
Ta araf – You know?
Ahem dellah – I forget what this means exactly, but it’s kind of like “praise Allah” and is used in nearly every other sentence/phrase
Waha – correction, Alright

Arabic Lessons

2006-10-07T17:47:00.000-04:00

I've been here a week or so. This is what I've learned:

Salem elekum - hello
Marafchi - I don't know
Choukran - Thank you
Ana - Me/I
Wa - And
Bizek - Too much money
Wahfa - Alright
Shnouk - What?
Labasz - You're good / I'm good
Zitoune - Olive
Tobla - Table
Kes - Glass
Insha Allah - If God wills
Ramadan Moubarak - Happy Ramadan

**Please keep in mind, these are all spelled as I hear them...

a day in the life of an american expat

2006-10-07T17:45:00.000-04:00

It’s Saturday, the 7th. The prayer is just starting in the background, as the sun is descending. It’s just after 6.

I’ve just returned from looking at apartments. Yes, again, I’m on the lookout. I can’t stand the smell of cat pee and vomit anymore. It’s quite distracting. So I went with Dana, who’s looking to get out of her family’s house, as she suspects one of them to be a thief. I really hope Isolde will give me part of my money back. I really don’t want to lose all of it. As it is, I should be registering for unemployment collection.

Wow, the prayer is so beautiful – it’s some sort of chant or song if you will. I don’t think I’ve ever heard this before. In the background, there are a few cars rushing to get home, but otherwise, only the sound of my keyboard as I type.

Anyway, Dana has decided she needs to get out. So we’re looking at a deux pièces again, and since she’s only staying for another two months, it will be a perfect way for me to save a little in the interim And, on top of that, since we’ve agreed on a non-meublé, she’s offered to pay a considerable amount more so that I’d be able to afford furnishings. I’m cutting it quite close, and if I don’t get money back from Isolde, I think I’m going to need an advance of some sort from the ALC.

I was just thinking, ideally, should I have unlimited funds, I would move out on my own. So perhaps that’s how I should be thinking. But then again, I also think that if these damn cats didn’t live here, I would really like this apartment. It’s big, spacious, has many of the necessities.

So other than this ongoing dilemma, which by the way, is severely dampering my experience here, I had a very enjoyable Saturday. I went to the Medina this morning, for the first time alone, to see whether my inadequate bargaining skills would improve. Not exactly. I had several missions. One, the desk. Two, this bed cover that I have seen a few times, that always catches my eye. Three, a mirror.

I didn’t buy a thing.

However, I did approach one of the furniture makers in Oudaya (the outskirts of the Medina). I passed many shops, and was typically intimidated by the men working outside, who paused to glance, or even bid me bonjour. I was ready to give up and wait for a local to accompany/rescue me, but, tout à coup, I happened upon a small shop, one that did not house many men, or lingerers, and as I peered inside to look at the original craftsmanship, an older gentleman came around to greet me. I spoke to him in French, and he asked me if I was French, or Canadian. I told him American, and he smiled. During our interaction of maybe an hour, he tried to let out a few English words. He said he loved America and has a sister that lives there.

I told him I wanted a desk, and he didn’t have any in the little shop, so he pulled out some pictures of past creations that he said he would be able to reproduce. They were truly beautiful pieces – very detailed, very Moroccan. But they looked like traditional desks, and I told him I really wanted something longer and simpler, perhaps using a door. So he brought me around to view my options, and we came across an old door, exactly the size I wanted, from Fes, made of cedar. It was nothing special, nor attractive per se. But he continued to explain that he would sculpt the door with any design I so desired. I asked him, stupidly, if it was he himself that did the work, amazed that anyone could produce such fine and well constructed pieces, and he laughed as he said of course.

2000dh, and one week it would take. He would take care as well of getting a piece of glass to cover it, as well as to help with delivering it. I asked him if he could negotiate a little, but in reality, just over 200$ for such an incredible piece of work is a complete bargain in itself.

I told him I would come back, today or tomorrow. By now, it will be tomorrow. I really want it. But can I afford it?

Afterwards was when I went off to Agdal with Dana and another ALEF colleague. We all met at the Pizza Hut on Avenue de France. I told Dana to call Naima, as she lives in Agdal (and she is Moroccan) to see if she might know of anything. Well, I guess she didn’t, but even better – she came with us to negotiate.

The process of looking for an apartment is unheard of. It consists of walking (well, in this case, driving) around, looking for signs and stopping to ask random people. It’s an act of randomness. We saw one sign, immediately, and stopped the car. Naima asked everyone that was around about the apartment. And though we never saw that original one, we did see four others. Yes, four. From asking. In a matter of an hour and a half.

This experience reflects greatly on how the Moroccan society operates – it’s incredibly informal, where strangers play with other parents’ children on the streets, and everything you want you get, just by asking.

Naima is an incredible and very pleasant woman. She told me that when she went to Toulouse to help her daughter move, everyone was so helpful to them. And this is why she in return is so helpful to us.

Which would then lead me to conclude that I will undertake the next step of helping someone else. Hmm, pass it on.

I told her (and I apologize for the incessant reiteration of this) that I am so shocked by this quality – the desire to help others while desiring and receiving nothing in return. She replied, yes, Americans think all Muslims want to kill them. Haha, I laughed, we laughed, as she explained she saw something about this on a TV show last night, and we both dismissed the idea as something completely foreign, to both of us. This was an interesting comment I must say, because it was the first time since I’ve arrived that I’ve heard a Moroccan make a reference to this global tension. I wasn’t really sure whether Moroccans themselves were apathetic or unaware, but I do actually believe that it’s more of a dismissal on their part of silly assumptions and bizarre judgments. Impressive.

It’s now 8:30, and my new roommate will be home soon. I’m not looking forward to this meeting.

Tomorrow I’m off to infamous Casa... or so I hope.

the infamous and long awaited f'tour

2006-10-06T20:20:00.000-04:00

It’s 11:11, make a wish. (Does it count though since I’m on a 24 hour clock?)

I just got home from my first f’tour, chez the Larouissi’s. Chakib, the gentleman of the maison was well missed, but then again, who can blame him as he accompanies the King wherever he goes. Soraya, his wife, who works for Royal Air Maroc, regardless, invited me to her home tonight, to break the fast of Ramadan with her, her son Driss and his friend Sami. Driss and Sami are totally adorable teenagers, who attend the impressive, semi-private, Lycée Française and who actually speak English quite well.

I smell right now of Moroccan oil, as Soraya insisted I put some on in the car on the way home. It’s quite strong.

In any case, I was very nervous about this dinner, and I think that it could have gone slightly smoother, as my French was unstable, but I think I passed. Soraya only invited me five times to come and live with them. I think she was also concerned when she dropped me off at my apartment.

At 6:30, we broke the fast – on the table (remember, there are four of us) was herera – a traditional lentil soup, surrounded by little plates filled with pastries and small bites. All around, so much food. I ate the soup, which was very good, as well as some sort of crèpe filled with cheese. I was prepared in advance to pace myself as I haven’t been eating much as it is, and the process of f’tour and dinner could be rather long. I mean, to be honest, I could have called it a night after the soup and crepe. But that was only the beginning…

After the f’tour – the f’tour is only the initial break, we paused to have mint tea, and chat. This took place upstairs in one of their many Moroccan salons. About two hours later we descended again for the actual dinner. Dinner consisted of salad and something like tabouli, as well as roasted eggplant. These were all fantastic – filled with flavor and spices. The main course was a kefta tagine – the kefta was cooked in tomato sauce. At this point, we chose to put away the silverware and eat like true Moroccans – with our hands. I had my first lesson in how to do it…yes, there is a right and a wrong way! Three fingers are used – two hold the bread and scoop up the kefta, and then the thumb swoops in to hold it all in place. After my first bite, I got it down pretty well. This was all served with grape juice…which tasted amazing. I mean, it wasn’t like a Welch’s juice or anything - it was simply freshly pressed grapes sans additives.

My Moroccan friend, Badre, last night forewarned me that I was most likely entering a “new” Moroccan family atmosphere, as they call it. In this sense, he simply meant that there would certainly be silverware.

I wasn’t forced to eat anything, but everything that was served I did try, with the exception of all the mini plates in the f’tour. So luckily, I don’t feel as though I consumed three meals, and the way we ate was well paced, to allow proper digestion of course. How I’ll feel tomorrow is another story.

Let’s jump back a little…

So, Soraya, her son Driss and his classmate Sami, picked me up in their Renault. It seemed like a normal vehicle. We drove up toward Souissi, where I happen to work, and I pointed this out, at which time Soraya informed me that they actually live only a few minutes from my office. Well, my office is quite nice, as is the area that surrounds it, so I expected luxe quoi. We drove up and eventually came into their street, pulled into their driveway, which was hidden behind these magnificent wood and metal carved doors, and parked in front of their other car – a new Mercedes.

Now, many traditional Moroccan families have several children running about. Soraya and Chakib have only Driss (well, in fact they have older twins who live in France). Their house, or villa maybe it would be dubbed, is gorgeous. Spotless, as if it’s scrubbed daily (which wouldn’t surprise me), featuring carved stone and woodwork all around. On the main floor was a small dining area, a large traditional Moroccan salon and a smaller adjoining, more informal one, as well as an enclave that looked as if it was meant for prayer. It was decorated throughout with traditional Moroccan artisan work, as well as collected items from around the world. Downstairs is the very large and well equipped kitchen, along with the sitting area (which probably could have sat about 50 people) and a smaller sitting room next to it. Unfortunately I missed the tour of the upstairs, but I did see the library that was exposed…and very appealing (from which I later borrowed two books).

The household maintains one servant, Aisha I think her name is, who speaks only Arabic, and caters after your every need. She didn’t smile once, although I suppose if I were in her place I would find no reason to smile either…

I learned how to say cockroach, olives, table and glass tonight. I also watched Star Academy and a show from Qatar on Islam and Ramadan. I learned that each year (which, in the Islamic calendar, determined on the moon, is shortened by three days) there is a theme to Ramadan. Last year it was the Prophet. This year it’s the 94 names of God (i.e. the Pardonner, the Creator, etc.).

I still can’t get over how kind everyone is. Soraya insisted I call both my parents during our break in eating. She patiently listened to my weak French, and informed me of many marvels that contribute to the Moroccan identity, as well as the Muslim one. Driss and Sami spoke English with me for a few minutes, and I think they were excited to have an American girl come to eat with them. It was Sami that tought me how to say cockroach.

It was a little uncomfortable, but I think only I felt that discomfort. Soraya called Michael, our mutual contact, and told him that I was completely cute and very nice. It’s so touching to meet people that automatically care, as if it’s their default emotion, and who wish to extend whatever they are able in order to make your life better and make you happier.

J’ai de la chance. Grave.

4 October 2006 (well, technically it’s the 5th), just returning from the Medina

2006-10-06T20:19:00.000-04:00

It’s so quiet out, clearly because it’s just past 1 AM…Im sitting, as usual on the terrace…I think this was the best advantage of choosing this apartment. Earlier I was out with my friend Badre, who I find completely charming. I feel like he will become a very good friend. It’s amazing the way he treats me, as a person and as a human. This is most surely a rarity. We went to the Medina – I’m always in the Medina, though I don’t find all parts of it altogether pleasing…but there are certain areas of it that I do very much enjoy – these parts where the artisans are located, where they sell furniture and clothing.

Badre’s eyes lit up when we spoke of djellabas, and he’s practically convinced me to buy one, though I do feel it would be completely bizarre to walk around, me, a blond haired American, in one. But I really want to do it, because I can’t even begin to imagine how I would feel dressed in traditional garb. I think it would be incredible. One day, I think I’ll buy one, and surprise him…I think he’d be soooo surprised, it would be hilarious. Definitely worth it. Maybe I’ll buy a veil as well, although this may be pushing it….

Bon, allé, time for dormir.

Bonne nuit.

3 October 2006, the apartment's first nuit

2006-10-06T20:14:00.000-04:00

It’s maybe like day seven or something… I’m so used to an international keyboard this is really going to be a challenge. Bon, voila. I’m in my new apartment, with my roommate’s boyfriend. I now understand what Gary was referring to. It would be OK if he was English, or even French, but our language barrier really deters us from communicating very openly, let alone from interacting on any sort of human level. I feel regret maybe about taking this apartment now, although in fact I feel I’ve made a wise choice. I do have access here to everything, a nice terrace, and right now I’m listening to the prière of the Tour Hassan. The area is nice quoi, but not exactly what I prefer. I think it will be a little better once Isolde arrives. Then I won’t have to be nice to Hicham so much – he’ll be able to survive on his own well, with her anyway. But, like I explained to Badre, who I feel will become a very close friend, I think this is an excellent opportunity for me to build up, so that I can eventually move out onto my own, maybe in two months or so. I already have bed linen, though I’d really like to wash it…tant pis.

I’d like to buy a bed, a dresser and a desk. Everything else can come later, and will come I think. I don’t want to buy too much because I think it will be tough to schlep it all, and I’m fed up with schlepping. I’m wondering when I’m going to feel comfortable, in eating in moving around, in living. I don’t feel comfortable right now, which sucks. I guess it will come with time, once I’m a little more settled. It’s not even 8 and I’m so tired. I had a hell of a time sleeping last night, and I’m really hoping tonight will be a little better. I’m also hoping I don’t have a bad reaction to the peas and Activa that I ate for dinner. Things are just not meant to be cold here. The cat is under my bed. Fuck. I just want a turtle, not a cat.

I’m going to submit a paper to NYU’s journal of human rights. I think this is a swell idea, and I’m seriously ready to be seriously published. Hmm, what to write about, what to write… I kind of want to write about Ramadan. Yes, the cat is gone!

the start-up (29 September 2006)

2006-10-06T20:03:00.000-04:00

It’s day three, and the international keyboard thing is still fucking me up apparently. Fucking flies in my face! Evil fly, this fly is of bad Moroccan heritage. I wish he would fly away.

Anyway, I think I was just extended an invitation to the Palace, or at least from a member of the Palace. Chakib, what a nice gentleman, said his wife had offered for me to even stay there. That might prove to be a bit bizarre, but I think I’d be interested in dinner, or a whiskey anyway. But then, following his advice, I called Soraya, twice, after she hung up on me the first time…and then the second. So, now I’m not so sure. Maybe my French isn’t what I thought it was. Maybe she thought it was a prank call…but do they even have Yellow Pages in Morocco??

So today I went to look for a cell phone. I didn’t get lost, and I walked for maybe an hour, but I failed, once again, at my mission. Well, the day isn’t over in fact, but it’s close, and I really wanted one. Really, although I don’t know if it’s going to be a big ordeal or what.

Fucking Gary. I’m so tempted to look elsewhere for a paying job. I think I might be able to find one. Once I get an apartment, since I’ll have so much time before work, I may just do that. And then be like, oh Gary, yeah, fuck you. Choukran for your help. Really, it’s amazing how he and I are American and how much severely less welcoming he is than any Moroccan or French (yes, even French) person I’ve met.

I feel though, even without the useless assistance of the ALC, that I have a somewhat strong base here. I’ve already made two friends in Mohammedia / Casablanca – Yasmine and Kathleen, who hopefully I’ll visit this weekend, with another American friend, Dana, who is also an intern at ALEF.

Last night I attended this dinner soiree to bid au revoir to what would have been a fellow colleague. He’s going to UNESCO. I should have said, “oh congratulations, that’s wonderful…can I come with you??” But instead, I stuck it out with the English speakers. This reflects greatly on my insecurity, and I do hope to take on a more diplomatically assertive mentality, so that I might bond with my bosses and connect with those who are intelligent, efficient, passionate, and then of course, somewhat connected. This could lead very far, if only I allow it to. But my naivite, youth and inexperience hinders all, and I’m afraid it could be my greatest weakness and downfall of all.

Wouldn’t it be nice if things were simple? Like if I was walking on Mohammed V, and accidentally bumped into someone who said, “yes, Rachel, we’ve been waiting for you. Here’s your cell phone, you have international expanded coverage. And oh, I nearly forgot – here are the keys to your Agdal apartment, along with a generous stipend for furnishings. It’s a two bedroom, but you can use the other room for an office.” Keep dreaming Rach. I’m not sure what most people dream about, but these are my fantasies. “pick me pick me”. I am here, I want not to be noticed, but recognized, appreciated, respected and yearned for. This will be accomplished, but after much work, dedication, passion – things I have to give, and I will give. I’m only 24 afterall, and I’m making my way, as they say. I’m making my way.

I was forewarned about arriving in the midst of Ramadan by everyone…in fact, people are still telling me, as if I’m a delinquent. OK, so maybe I don’t get and know all that is Moroccan, Arab, Muslim, but I know it’s Ramadan! I know people don’t eat, they fast throughout the day. What I didn’t know is not only do they not eat, they don’t drink (water that is), nor brush their teeth. Nothing at all, during the day. The fast is broken at about 6:30, at which time the city stops. Literally. There are no people to be seen whatsoever, anywhere. No cars, no cabs – even here, by my hotel. This is called something like “letour”…I don’t know how it’s spelled, but I think that’s what they call it So they start with herera (again, I think) – a form of lentil soup, then sweets. Then they break, have tea, then eat, then break, then eat again at around midnight. I’m eternally grateful I’m not staying with a family. There’s no way I could eat like this. The most interesting part of it all though is that women do not follow this when they’re on their periods – they’re allowed to eat and do normally as if it was not Ramadan. I at first found this almost a little silly, but I know consider it one way in which women are respected within Islam. Very interesting.

So, it’s now nearly 1:30, and I’m going to call Rahima at ALC soon. She’s nice, but useless. Then at 4:15 I’m going to meet Badre to see an apartment. Then I’m going to meet Nadia around 8. Sometime in between these times I will get a cell phone. I promise.

Bon, ca y est. Life is good, and it’s getting better moment by moment. Choukran Morocco.

bienvenue au maroc

2006-10-06T08:43:00.000-04:00

(this is actually dated september 29 2006)

The story of my life…or what’s about to become my life…

Now that I’ve been typing on an international keyboard, I have to reccustom myself to this “normal” keyboard.

I arrived only yesterday in Rabat’s baby airport. Surprisingly small for an international airport, one in the capital city, but very royal looking, simple to navigate around at least. But the story begins actually before that landing.

I flew into Charles de Gaulle, my second home’s airport, with a two hour layover. So, I naturally ventured toward the shabby airport café for an overpriced café. So tempted to just call it a day and forgot the Moroccan mission for a better Parisian excursion, I called Robyn as she was on her way to rehearsal. It was so bizarre, me sitting in Paris, well the outskirts anyway, and her to be just a few miles away, and for me to just leave without even popping in to say hello. Had I known at the time that the shanty of a workplace I was about to encounter would not even be up and running until the end of October, I may have opted for a longer layover. Fuckers.

Anyway, as I’m sitting in the café, sipping the café, a guy across from me catches my eye. I continue with my conversation, and then once ended, just staring into nothingness, wondering why I’m so un-sentimental, why I don’t cry or yell out, or melt to the floor in panic and anxiety. After hearing my Anglophonic words, he smiles and says hi in English. Good English. He looks North African, but it wasn’t until a few moments passed that I thought, hey, what if we were on the same plane. Ha, tant pis, he’s gone, and anyway, I’m not the type of person to instigate interaction, let alone with strangers. Time to head to the symbolic gate, where I scan and type people, and low and behold, he’s sitting there at my gate. Go figure, looks like he’s Moroccan afterall.

I smile, and proceed to the counter where I wait forever for someone to acknowlede that I am a tangible person, and then I continue to explain that I’d like to verify the transference of my luggage. Surprisingly, the French airport people are kind of nice. Who knew. OK, it’s settled for now, and I wait a little longer to board the plane, again perfectly calm and apathetic, as if my life is not about to unbelievably change. As if my destination is not quite Africa. It is Africa though. Perhaps the calm comes from loss of energy.

I’m a little pleasantly surprised with how easily and well I switch into Frenchie mode, and trick people into believing I am of French origins. It’s been helpful, to say the least. I board the Air France little plane, taking a window seat. A woman sits next to me, well with one seat in between us. She’s a naturally friendly soul, smiles at me and just starts speaking. Very nice. I should have followed up and gotten her phone number. Oh well. We talk about her sisters, one who lives in Nashville, the other in Russia. She herself lives in Sale, a semi-town of Rabat. I told her about what I’m doing, and she encourages me, and offers her assistance. Luckily, a smelly man came and sat in between us. He smelled like nastiness, but he at least put an end to our conversation, which I’m not sure I could have kept up much longer…

So, the café/gate guy walks onto the plane, past my aisle, smiles and says ‘hi’ as he takes his seat, right behind mind. OK, now I’m not a believer in signs per say, but I felt like enough was enough, we should talk – he speaks English as do I, and that was a good enough reason why he should be in my cell phone directory.

Well, up and away we went, and I bid au revoir to France. I slept maybe a half hour, possibly an hour, before they brought us food, mostly fishy food, which I could barely stand the sight of, let alone inhale into my body. I ate the mini baguette and brie, and that sufficed.

We flew over France and Spain – places that I had been – Bordeaux, Biarritz, the pyranees, Grenada (well, ok not there) were pointed out to us by the pilot as we passed over them. The sight awed me, unusually so as I’m not one to fall to things such as this. But what really took my breath away was when we reached the tip of Spain, and kept going, over the Straight of Gibraltar and into the tip of Africa. Seeing the two continents, so close, practically touching, knowing that I was leaving Europe and headed for Africa, words cannot describe. So beautiful. I don’t want to ever let that image go.

We landed and disembarked on the runway, as I don’t even think the airport has any gates. This is when café/gate/plane guy and I started chatting it up. Cute guy. He was just coming from a two month vacation in Chicago. So we talked about meaningless nothings as we proceeded together through customs and baggage. Good background, but the one thing I’ll remember was his notes about Ramadan – ‘no eating, no drinking, no smoking, no sex.’ Didn’t I just see you smoking and eating? Well, obviously, traveling time is excusable; however, each day taken away from Ramadan must be added following the conclusion. Righto. I was leafing through my guide book later that night, which mentioned to avoid taboo subjects such as politics, the king, sexual comments and something else. By the end of my first day, I had already covered everything other than the ‘something else’. Another go figure.

Anyway, Badr is his name, and I think I’ll call him.

I still haven’t left behind my American mentality where empty offers are the way of life, and genuine friendliness is hard to come by. This is hard for me, having people actually willing and wanting to help me. Not to have pettiness run rampid. And for no apparent reason at all...

Just comme ca.