I haven't written very specifically about my plans for my future. Some of you know that I have spent this year taking undergraduate courses in speech-language pathology. When it came time in the fall to apply to online Master's programs, I discovered that there was only one program in the United States that would even consider accepting me while I lived overseas. I applied to that one program and proceeded to become increasingly nervous as each day passed.
This morning, I had an e-mail from someone in that program.
31 March 2011
29 March 2011
New Look
In good, old-fashioned procrastinatory-student fashion, yesterday, instead of studying for an anatomy and physiology exam, I spent some time sprucing up my blog. I really liked the multi-colored tagine background, but I wanted something more personal, so I replaced it with a picture of a Moroccan rug that T and I bought in Azrou. In the left-hand column, I added a "label cloud" and a survey/poll. Check it out.
28 March 2011
Grand taxis
I've written before about the various modes of public transportation available in Morocco, including grand taxis. T and I often rely on grand taxis to get us to nearby cities. It is a convenient and affordable, if not particularly comfortable, option – we can go to Azrou, about 20 km away, for less than one dollar each, and to Meknes or Fez, both of which are around 60 km away, for around three dollars each.
What I haven't written about is the taxis themselves. Grand taxis are all old Mercedes Benz's and are, almost as a rule, beat up, shabby, and rather funky smelling. And yet their drivers take great care in decorating their cars and are inventive when it comes to maintenance and repair. It is common to see religious symbols hanging off the rearview mirrors, particularly the protective hand of Fatima. You might see bouquets of fake flowers decorating the dashboard. One taxi I have been in more than once is entirely covered on the inside with a cheerful plastic fish print, like something you might see on a shower curtain in a middle-class Midwestern home. Another taxi driver has toy spiders on his dashboard. Other drivers are fond of ornately decorated tissue box holders.
And why shouldn't these drivers decorate their taxis? If you think about it, the taxi is the driver's office. In some cases, it is even his home. A friend of mine talked to a taxi driver who sleeps in his car (in Ifrane! In the winter!) because he works too far away from his hometown to return home during the work week. I think this also helps to explain the funky smell in many grand taxis.
Grand taxi drivers have a tough job.T and I often regret that language differences prevent us from talking to our taxi drivers, but even when we are in taxis with Moroccans, they rarely speak to the drivers. Drivers must have long, exhausting days. I remember one driver in particular who we were rather concerned about. In January, when we flew into Fez from Sevilla, we chartered a grand taxi from the airport. Our driver was clearly tired, and I remember being relieved when he stopped in Immouzer for coffee.
(Not to digress too much, but I remember also feeling a little worried when that driver stopped for coffee. As far as I knew, there was no such thing as "to go" coffee in Morocco. I thought we would be sitting in the taxi for a long time waiting for him to sip his coffee in the café. I should have known that the workers at the café would just give him coffee in a glass, expecting him to return the glass later on his way back to Fez. That's the kind of thing that's normal in Morocco.)
So here's to the grand taxi drivers, who work long, hard days, who get us where we need to go, with little thanks.
What I haven't written about is the taxis themselves. Grand taxis are all old Mercedes Benz's and are, almost as a rule, beat up, shabby, and rather funky smelling. And yet their drivers take great care in decorating their cars and are inventive when it comes to maintenance and repair. It is common to see religious symbols hanging off the rearview mirrors, particularly the protective hand of Fatima. You might see bouquets of fake flowers decorating the dashboard. One taxi I have been in more than once is entirely covered on the inside with a cheerful plastic fish print, like something you might see on a shower curtain in a middle-class Midwestern home. Another taxi driver has toy spiders on his dashboard. Other drivers are fond of ornately decorated tissue box holders.
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| I have seen more than one taxi with these drain protectors in place of missing air vents. |
Grand taxi drivers have a tough job.T and I often regret that language differences prevent us from talking to our taxi drivers, but even when we are in taxis with Moroccans, they rarely speak to the drivers. Drivers must have long, exhausting days. I remember one driver in particular who we were rather concerned about. In January, when we flew into Fez from Sevilla, we chartered a grand taxi from the airport. Our driver was clearly tired, and I remember being relieved when he stopped in Immouzer for coffee.
(Not to digress too much, but I remember also feeling a little worried when that driver stopped for coffee. As far as I knew, there was no such thing as "to go" coffee in Morocco. I thought we would be sitting in the taxi for a long time waiting for him to sip his coffee in the café. I should have known that the workers at the café would just give him coffee in a glass, expecting him to return the glass later on his way back to Fez. That's the kind of thing that's normal in Morocco.)
So here's to the grand taxi drivers, who work long, hard days, who get us where we need to go, with little thanks.
26 March 2011
24 March 2011
Buy this house
Two or three weeks ago, our property manager contacted us to let us know that our renters would be moving out. Our renters? I thought. We still own that house?
Indeed, we do. Being halfway across the world from the house that we still own in Powell sometimes makes it easy not to think about it. But the e-mail from our property manager was a reminder of something big that still ties us to the United States in a very tangible way.
And what kind of surprised me is my ambivalence toward the whole thing. Of course, I want to sell the house. It is a fairly significant financial drain on us, even with renters. If the house is left empty without renters, it will quickly cause serious problems for us. Our lives would be much easier if someone would buy the house.
But there is still a completely irrational part of me that doesn't want to let go. This is the first house that I have owned (and by "I have owned" I mean the bank owns it and allowed us to paint the walls whatever colors we wanted). It is probably the only house I will ever own. T and I worked hard to make that house our home in the three years that we lived there, and, like many homeowners, we had grand plans for the house's future. I had to let go of all of that when I moved out of the house.
I can't go back to it. This is not only for practical reasons, like those related to employment, but for emotional and psychological reasons. Most of the belongings that I associate with that house are no longer my belongings– in fact, for all I know, some of you who read my blog may be the new owners of some of my former belongings. The house that I sometimes think I want to go back to can no longer exist for me.
Somehow, the fact that it is spring also seems to be playing a role in my complex feelings. Maybe this is partly because it has always been in the spring that T and I made plans for the future. Whether it was trying to decide where to go for graduate school, whether to move to Powell, what to plant in the garden, or whether to move to Morocco– all of these decisions were made in the spring. And spring is when I really start to love my house. The grass starts turning green, the lilac bushes get big buds on them, the red-winged blackbirds chat with each other in the backyard, the robins hop merrily in my rock garden. Notice how I can't stop calling it "my" house? And I can't stop wondering… Are the tulips coming up yet? Is the cat coming out from hiding, suddenly friendlier as she always seems to get in the spring? Where will the robins build their nests this year? If I planted a garden, would that white tailed deer return and eat everything in it?
I suppose I'm just going through a normal stage of culture shock, still. Or maybe just a normal stage of…being human. But I will be totally okay when it's time to move on from this stage. And I think I will be okay when it's time to sell my house.
And what kind of surprised me is my ambivalence toward the whole thing. Of course, I want to sell the house. It is a fairly significant financial drain on us, even with renters. If the house is left empty without renters, it will quickly cause serious problems for us. Our lives would be much easier if someone would buy the house.
But there is still a completely irrational part of me that doesn't want to let go. This is the first house that I have owned (and by "I have owned" I mean the bank owns it and allowed us to paint the walls whatever colors we wanted). It is probably the only house I will ever own. T and I worked hard to make that house our home in the three years that we lived there, and, like many homeowners, we had grand plans for the house's future. I had to let go of all of that when I moved out of the house.
I can't go back to it. This is not only for practical reasons, like those related to employment, but for emotional and psychological reasons. Most of the belongings that I associate with that house are no longer my belongings– in fact, for all I know, some of you who read my blog may be the new owners of some of my former belongings. The house that I sometimes think I want to go back to can no longer exist for me.
I suppose I'm just going through a normal stage of culture shock, still. Or maybe just a normal stage of…being human. But I will be totally okay when it's time to move on from this stage. And I think I will be okay when it's time to sell my house.
18 March 2011
Strawberry season
They have gotten me to thinking about seasons--more specifically, food seasons--and the associations we make between specific foods and places. This is something that hardly seems to exist anymore in the U.S., where you can get almost any fresh produce anywhere at any time--asparagus in winter, mangoes in Wyoming, lemons in Alaska, whatever.
This seems like a great thing. In fact, accessibility of a variety of fruits and vegetables is one thing I sometimes miss being here in Morocco. Fresh produce is always available, but exactly what is available is dictated by the season. A friend warned me that, by midwinter, I would be very tired of turnips, and she was right. I haven't seen edible eggplants for months. The only apples that are available right now are bruised and grainy. and yet when they were in season, I was growing very tired of eggplant and apples.
But isn't it the seasonality and association with place that makes many foods so wonderful? I know one reason I love and crave pumpkin pie is that, as a child, I only got it twice a year, at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I have memories from my childhood of anticipating the first juicy watermelon or ear of sweet corn of the summer. I remember picking and eating strawberries and raspberries from my parents' backyard. We did the same with asparagus, peas, and other garden fruits and vegetables. Throughout my childhood, the only time I got those foods was when they were ready to eat straight from the garden.
In my adult years, I have seen an increasing variety of produce become available year-round at grocery stores in the U.S., including childhood favorites like watermelon and strawberries. but I think buying and eating those foods regularly causes them to lose their emotional associations and, yes, some of their tastiness. I have thought about this each time I have bought a package of fresh strawberries. I am enjoying them while they're here; I recognize that it is the limitation on their availability that allows me to enjoy them so much.
15 March 2011
10 March 2011
Medina cats
(This blog post is in honor of Citrine. Note that most of these pictures have appeared in previous blog entries; this is just my opportunity to put them all in one place.)
Street cats in Morocco (many of whom live in Medinas) have a tough life. If, for some reason (for example, if you happen to be a misanthrope) you cannot find inspiration in other people living good lives in the face of great adversity, perhaps you can find inspiration in the cats doing basically the same thing (with slightly more willingness to eat out of garbage cans).
Let's just take a moment to appreciate the Medina cats.
Street cats in Morocco (many of whom live in Medinas) have a tough life. If, for some reason (for example, if you happen to be a misanthrope) you cannot find inspiration in other people living good lives in the face of great adversity, perhaps you can find inspiration in the cats doing basically the same thing (with slightly more willingness to eat out of garbage cans).
Let's just take a moment to appreciate the Medina cats.
09 March 2011
On bugs
I think that a lot of Americans (myself included) convince ourselves that we can avoid bugs. Many people go to great lengths (mostly chemical) to keep spiders, flies, and every other crawly little thing out of their homes. Some people, and some city governments, apply chemicals to reduce bug populations out-of-doors.
We also convince ourselves that we can avoid bugs inside our bodies; in other words, we think we can avoid eating them. In fact, we have so strongly convinced ourselves of this that we find it worth remarking upon if, on a walk or bike ride, a bug enters our mouths. We might exclaim, surprised, "I swallowed a bug!"
Well, here in Morocco, I am having to make peace with bugs. I am under no such delusion that I do not eat bugs. In the U.S., if I bought food with bugs in it, I returned it. Here, I have picked through a whole bag of rice to make sure I wasn't boiling (very many) bugs with my rice. I have spent an hour picking through white beans. Only once did I throw out something because it was bug infested; I had purchased a kilo of dried chickpeas, and every single chickpea had a little bug in it.
In my home, too, I am working on making peace with the bugs. I have no problem with the teeny tiny spiderlike bugs that, for some reason my human brain cannot comprehend, love living in our shower. I usually don't even bother anymore trying to kill silverfish, and those guys creep me out more than earwigs do.
I would rather they found some other apartment to live in, but I am also, for the most part, okay with the colony of ants that check out our kitchen daily to see if we have left any molecules of sweet foods for them. I would much rather put up with the ants than with the alternative of someone coming in and spraying copious amounts of a chemical in my apartment, which is what I'm 100% sure would happen if I complain too much about the ants.
A couple of months ago, when T brought home a house plant that was completely infested with mealy bugs, I'll admit I was irritated. They are very disturbing. But rather than immediately banishing the houseplant to the outdoors, as I probably would have done in the U.S., I spent hours that day picking off the bugs and their millions of eggs. And eventually I became okay with the fact that I had probably missed some.
Even cockroaches don't bother me as much as they used to (this relates to the decrease in my standard of cleanliness which I think is a coping mechanism). After a nice vegan meal in Essaouira with our friends Brian and Sara, T instructed Brian to shake a cockroach off of his hat. As I watched a second cockroach climbing on the wall behind Brian, I noted with surprise that I didn't really feel much of anything. I wasn't surprised. I wasn't disgusted. I wasn't regretful. I thought, It's a food establishment. Just as it attracts cats and dogs, it attracts other food loving creatures, including cockroaches.
My advice to everyone: try to make peace with the bugs. Your life will be easier, and you will be happier. The bugs will be, too.
We also convince ourselves that we can avoid bugs inside our bodies; in other words, we think we can avoid eating them. In fact, we have so strongly convinced ourselves of this that we find it worth remarking upon if, on a walk or bike ride, a bug enters our mouths. We might exclaim, surprised, "I swallowed a bug!"
Well, here in Morocco, I am having to make peace with bugs. I am under no such delusion that I do not eat bugs. In the U.S., if I bought food with bugs in it, I returned it. Here, I have picked through a whole bag of rice to make sure I wasn't boiling (very many) bugs with my rice. I have spent an hour picking through white beans. Only once did I throw out something because it was bug infested; I had purchased a kilo of dried chickpeas, and every single chickpea had a little bug in it.
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| I had to zoom way in to get a picture of this little guy. |
I would rather they found some other apartment to live in, but I am also, for the most part, okay with the colony of ants that check out our kitchen daily to see if we have left any molecules of sweet foods for them. I would much rather put up with the ants than with the alternative of someone coming in and spraying copious amounts of a chemical in my apartment, which is what I'm 100% sure would happen if I complain too much about the ants.
 |
| It took me a long time to figure out that these were living things. |
A couple of months ago, when T brought home a house plant that was completely infested with mealy bugs, I'll admit I was irritated. They are very disturbing. But rather than immediately banishing the houseplant to the outdoors, as I probably would have done in the U.S., I spent hours that day picking off the bugs and their millions of eggs. And eventually I became okay with the fact that I had probably missed some.
Even cockroaches don't bother me as much as they used to (this relates to the decrease in my standard of cleanliness which I think is a coping mechanism). After a nice vegan meal in Essaouira with our friends Brian and Sara, T instructed Brian to shake a cockroach off of his hat. As I watched a second cockroach climbing on the wall behind Brian, I noted with surprise that I didn't really feel much of anything. I wasn't surprised. I wasn't disgusted. I wasn't regretful. I thought, It's a food establishment. Just as it attracts cats and dogs, it attracts other food loving creatures, including cockroaches.
My advice to everyone: try to make peace with the bugs. Your life will be easier, and you will be happier. The bugs will be, too.
08 March 2011
Working in Morocco
Back in September of 2010, I posted a blog entry in which I reflected on how the concept of work-that's-worth-paying-someone-for is culturally bound. One of my examples was the guy at the bank whose job it is to unlock the door and hand people tickets (and, I forgot to mention, shout out the number – in Arabic and French – of the person whose turn it is to go up to the teller).
I have to revise my attitude toward that man's job because, since posting that blog entry, I have been to the bank when he has stepped out to get himself a snack.
It was total chaos. No one knew what to do. Each time someone would come in, that person would stare with a puzzled look at the machine that ejects tickets. Other people waiting for their turn gave advice, but it inevitably seemed to be the wrong advice. People were coming and going all willy-nilly. It was a mess, and as soon as the man returned, he instilled order within a matter of minutes.
What's my point? That I've had too much wine this evening? No, it's that I'm learning to give the apparently nonsensical things some time. I'm learning about Morocco and Moroccan logic. And I'm learning that it's best not to go to the bank when the ticket guy is on his break. :-)
I have to revise my attitude toward that man's job because, since posting that blog entry, I have been to the bank when he has stepped out to get himself a snack.
It was total chaos. No one knew what to do. Each time someone would come in, that person would stare with a puzzled look at the machine that ejects tickets. Other people waiting for their turn gave advice, but it inevitably seemed to be the wrong advice. People were coming and going all willy-nilly. It was a mess, and as soon as the man returned, he instilled order within a matter of minutes.
What's my point? That I've had too much wine this evening? No, it's that I'm learning to give the apparently nonsensical things some time. I'm learning about Morocco and Moroccan logic. And I'm learning that it's best not to go to the bank when the ticket guy is on his break. :-)
04 March 2011
Maid mystery #1
Interesting things are bound to happen when you bring someone into your home to do the job of housekeeping. The chances of interesting things happening increase significantly when you are communicating with that person in writing in a language with which she is fairly unfamiliar. Chances increase even more when you and that person are from relatively different cultures.
People warned me that, because of these linguistic and cultural differences, I was going to come home someday to some kind of surprise. Earlier this week, I went into the bedroom to put away our clean laundry (thank you, Hafida!) and found that I had several new and unfamiliar articles of clothing.
But that wasn't really a surprise nor a mystery. It's easy to figure out how Hafida accidentally brought home someone else's laundry along with our own.
The mystery came yesterday. After Hafida had been here and done some cleaning up and some chopping of carrots and onions for me, I came home and found that she had done everything as I wanted it. And in the fridge in little plastic baggies were half of a tomato and about 7/8 of a lemon.
I have told Hafida to help herself to tea or a piece of fruit or whatever while she's here (the only reason I don't offer her more is that she's only here for a couple of hours at a time). So did she help herself to half a tomato and an eighth of a lemon? Was she hungry for a teeny tiny tomato salad? Doesn't that seem weird?
And what does this say about how bored I am with my life that I really, really want to know about the tomato and lemon?
People warned me that, because of these linguistic and cultural differences, I was going to come home someday to some kind of surprise. Earlier this week, I went into the bedroom to put away our clean laundry (thank you, Hafida!) and found that I had several new and unfamiliar articles of clothing.
But that wasn't really a surprise nor a mystery. It's easy to figure out how Hafida accidentally brought home someone else's laundry along with our own.
 | |
| I know, lame visual. |
I have told Hafida to help herself to tea or a piece of fruit or whatever while she's here (the only reason I don't offer her more is that she's only here for a couple of hours at a time). So did she help herself to half a tomato and an eighth of a lemon? Was she hungry for a teeny tiny tomato salad? Doesn't that seem weird?
And what does this say about how bored I am with my life that I really, really want to know about the tomato and lemon?
03 March 2011
Political animal (part II)
Someone e-mailed me a legitimate question about whether the political unrest is in any way impacting my life, even if it's just made some goods in short supply.
At this point, the answer is, not really. It does have the potential for inconveniencing us. For example, this past Saturday, we needed to take care of some business that we normally would have been able to deal with in Fez (about an hour away from Ifrane). However, the demonstrations were going on in front of the building that we were going to need to visit. Because of this, we had to go to Rabat instead, which is a good 3 to 4 hours of travel each way. That was a little...annoying.
So I mostly get to just sit back and be excited for the people who are seeking recognition of their rights as human beings.
At this point, the answer is, not really. It does have the potential for inconveniencing us. For example, this past Saturday, we needed to take care of some business that we normally would have been able to deal with in Fez (about an hour away from Ifrane). However, the demonstrations were going on in front of the building that we were going to need to visit. Because of this, we had to go to Rabat instead, which is a good 3 to 4 hours of travel each way. That was a little...annoying.
So I mostly get to just sit back and be excited for the people who are seeking recognition of their rights as human beings.
01 March 2011
Political animal
I had an e-mail from my uncle Jim waiting for me in my inbox this morning: "I bet you've got some observations about what's happening."
Oh no, I thought. The time has come. I'm going to have to write about this whole revolution-in-the-Arab-world thing.
'Cause, you know, I live there. Or whatever.
The problem is that I have nothing intelligent, informed, or insightful to say about the situation. I am not, and never have been, a particularly political animal. I am interested in but do not understand the historical contexts behind what is going on in these nearby countries. I can't sit through more than 10 minutes of news at a time. And my highly educated and informed uncle is asking me for observations.
So. Here are my unintelligent, uninformed, uninsightful observations, followed by Web links for those of you who want actual useful information about what's going on over here.
What I keep hearing over and over again is that Big Revolution isn't going to happen in Morocco. Yes, Moroccans are demonstrating in some of the cities. (Remember that I live in a Moroccan version of Powell, Wyoming, so everything is quiet here.) I suppose what's going on in other countries has added some momentum to these demonstrations. But the mantra of my friends who don't think anything big is going to happen is this: "Moroccans love their king." They can call for an end to corruption, and they are calling for that, and I completely support that, but I can't imagine anyone calling for imposing limitations on the king's power.
Keep in mind, too, that because I don't understand French or Arabic, I'm probably getting my news about Morocco (and all these other countries) from the same news sources you are, like CNN and BBC. Moroccan news is not likely to be particularly more accurate or more informative than those sources.
My understanding, then, is that something could happen here but it's not going to be like what happened (and is happening) in Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, etc. For the moms in my audience: we're safe here (as safe as we would be in the United States, anyway).
But if you're interested in reading more about the situation in Morocco, here are some links you can follow:
-The View from Fez (a blog)
-Go to NPR's Web site and do a search for "Morocco." I think their coverage is fairly balanced, accurate, and non-sensationalist.
-Go to NPR's Web site and do a search for "Morocco." I think their coverage is fairly balanced, accurate, and non-sensationalist.
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