One of the upsides to international living is that one gets to meet many people who are from and/or have lived in different places all over the world. A downside is that those people, some of whom become one's friends, often leave to go back to those other places.
There is an inherent transience to this lifestyle that I was warned about but that I didn't dedicate much time to thinking about – there were just so many other "more important" things for me to consider before and after moving here. I became more aware of it after we moved here and found it difficult to make friends with the more established members of the University community. The fact is, many people who have been here for several years don't bother to get to know the new people because we are all just coming in and out of a revolving door. Why invest emotional energy and time into establishing a relationship with someone who's just going to leave after a few months?
The flip side to that viewpoint is that, because so many of us are new to this place, relationships can be established somewhat easier and more quickly than in other settings. It's almost like college all over again, and I love that sense of being in a community in which it's okay to rely on each other, to borrow popcorn or rice, and to drop by each others homes unannounced.
Nevertheless, I have to learn to cope with my friends leaving. As I gave LW a big hug yesterday (she and her family are returning to Connecticut today), I realized that I'm used to being the one who leaves! I have always thought it's easier to be the "leaver" than to be the one who is left behind, and now I know that's true. LW and her family have become such an integral part of my life here that their sudden absence is almost tangible. (Now I have to do yoga by myself in the mornings. Who will I get coffee with? Who will we watch Modern Family episodes with? Whose garden will we hang out in now? Who will help me decide what to cook with all the random vegetables in my refrigerator?) And the Ws have reminded me that, as long as I stay with this mobile lifestyle, I will keep having to say good-bye over and over again.
28 June 2011
27 June 2011
The stork
At 7:30 this morning, while I was sitting sleepily on the edge of my bed (yeah, yeah, I'm sleeping in a little more these days), our cell phone rang. It was my friend LW calling, and as soon as I answered she said, "We have an emergency, a real emergency, and we need your help." My mind started racing. Had something happened to one of her little girls? Did the emergency have something to do with the fact that this is the family's last day in Morocco before moving back to Connecticut? If they were having a real emergency, what was I possibly going to do to help them?
LW quickly explained that this was not a "bad emergency." You see, the W's cat, Sammy, is quite the birder. She has brought several birds home to the family and one time even caught a starling from a window of their second-floor apartment. This morning, as one of the girls was getting ready to head down the stairs that lead from their apartment to the outside, she saw a stork standing in the stairwell. Sammy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, guarding the stork and keeping it from leaving. How Sammy ever got control of a bird the size of a 10-year-old child is beyond me, and I have no idea what she planned to do with the stork once she had it stuck in the stairwell. Nevertheless, I'm sure she was quite proud of herself for this greatest of conquests. Perhaps she was even confused why her family didn't seem appreciative of her great gift to them.
After LW told me what was going on, as quickly as I could, I ran to their apartment (less than a block away from my apartment) and hissed Sammy away from the door. The Ws came out of their apartment and shooed the oddly reluctant stork outside. Apparently storks are not big into panicking, since the stork decided to stroll around their yard for quite a while before finally wandering out and sauntering around downtown Ifrane. It's possible there's something wrong with the stork, but we did everything we could to save it from Sammy the Bird Killer.
And it was quite a start to my day.
LW quickly explained that this was not a "bad emergency." You see, the W's cat, Sammy, is quite the birder. She has brought several birds home to the family and one time even caught a starling from a window of their second-floor apartment. This morning, as one of the girls was getting ready to head down the stairs that lead from their apartment to the outside, she saw a stork standing in the stairwell. Sammy was sitting at the bottom of the stairs, guarding the stork and keeping it from leaving. How Sammy ever got control of a bird the size of a 10-year-old child is beyond me, and I have no idea what she planned to do with the stork once she had it stuck in the stairwell. Nevertheless, I'm sure she was quite proud of herself for this greatest of conquests. Perhaps she was even confused why her family didn't seem appreciative of her great gift to them.
After LW told me what was going on, as quickly as I could, I ran to their apartment (less than a block away from my apartment) and hissed Sammy away from the door. The Ws came out of their apartment and shooed the oddly reluctant stork outside. Apparently storks are not big into panicking, since the stork decided to stroll around their yard for quite a while before finally wandering out and sauntering around downtown Ifrane. It's possible there's something wrong with the stork, but we did everything we could to save it from Sammy the Bird Killer.
And it was quite a start to my day.
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| Birds of the world, beware this dangerous beast. |
20 June 2011
The King's Speech
On one of our two days in London last weekend, on our way to someplace else we walked past this:
Let me give you a closer look:
I thought this was rather fortuitous given the popularity of the recent film about Lionel Logue, given that I certainly had no idea where his former office was located nor would I have thought to look for it, and given my current career interest.
Let me give you a closer look:
I thought this was rather fortuitous given the popularity of the recent film about Lionel Logue, given that I certainly had no idea where his former office was located nor would I have thought to look for it, and given my current career interest.
13 June 2011
Weekend in London
This may sound crazy to someone living in the United States or New Zealand, but T and I went to London for the weekend (we left Ifrane at 4:45 PM on Thursday and were back at our apartment before 9 PM on Sunday). A few weeks ago, we found out that T's sister and her family would be in London for a few days. We decided that London is so close (about a three hour plane ride) that we had to go see them, even if it was only for two days.
Before we went there, T's sister asked what we would want to do in London. Knowing that our main focus would be visiting with family, we decided to forgo any of the usual sightseeing and focus on three goals:
1. Have a beer. (have I yet said anything about the beer in Morocco? Morocco has only three beers: Stork, Flag, and Casablanca. I am being generous when I say that these beers are somewhat uninspired. I am not the first nor last beer snob to be a bit devastated by the dearth of good beer.)
2. Eat Indian food. (By the way, Indian food is so ubiquitous in London that I got quizzical looks from the locals when I told them this was one of the goals for my visit.)
3. Go grocery shopping.
In case you're wondering, I accomplished these goals. I had Indian food two nights in a row, and I came home with a suitcase full of frozen tofu, vitamins and herbal supplements, Ziploc bags, PG tips, rice wine vinegar, sriracha sauce, and other goodies.
I also realized during my two short days in London that I was experiencing double culture shock. First of all, I had the obvious culture shock of going from a small town in a developing African country to an almost unimaginably enormous urban area in a developed country. T's sister took me to Tesco for grocery shopping, and I froze up a little when I got to the long aisle that was dedicated entirely to yogurts. I was impressed by many mundane things – pedestrian crosswalks, wheelchair accessibility and accommodations in many places, restrooms with toilet paper and soap and working hand dryers. Everything seemed so incredibly clean, organized, and orderly! In addition, I had trouble adapting to the prices of things. One day, T and I bought an "inexpensive" sandwich to share for lunch, and I realized that our shared sandwich was the same price as about 35 baguettes here in Morocco. On Sunday, on our bus from London to the Stansted airport (it was much cheaper to fly out of Stansted than Heathrow), the bus driver announced that we should buckle our seatbelts because we would be on the highway. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that once we were back in Morocco, we would be taking a grand taxi over mountain roads, dodging donkeys and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles, and we almost certainly would not even have seatbelts.
London is also different from the United States, which is sometimes easy to forget because we do (basically) speak the same language. But same language does not equal same culture. I should add here that somehow I had gotten the idea that people in London would be...well, if not unfriendly, a bit reserved. I found everyone to be quite friendly, helpful, and accommodating to our occasional cluelessness about things like how to scan our credit card at the grocery store.
It was very hard to leave family members after spending only two days with them, but I was also concerned about how I would feel coming back to Morocco. On the plane to Fez, and on the taxi ride from there to Ifrane, I engaged in a little introspection. I was a bit surprised and relieved to find that I didn't feel any sense of dread or disappointment or depression about coming back here. All reservations I had related to one factor: all of my significant difficulties here have to do with the language barrier. It became very clear to me this weekend that if I am going to stay here and be able to function, I need to make an attempt to learn Darija or French. I don't know when or how I'll do it, but I need to try.
T and I have also made a resolution to go on more weekend trips to Europe. This may be the only time in our life that we have the opportunity to do that.
Before we went there, T's sister asked what we would want to do in London. Knowing that our main focus would be visiting with family, we decided to forgo any of the usual sightseeing and focus on three goals:
1. Have a beer. (have I yet said anything about the beer in Morocco? Morocco has only three beers: Stork, Flag, and Casablanca. I am being generous when I say that these beers are somewhat uninspired. I am not the first nor last beer snob to be a bit devastated by the dearth of good beer.)
2. Eat Indian food. (By the way, Indian food is so ubiquitous in London that I got quizzical looks from the locals when I told them this was one of the goals for my visit.)
3. Go grocery shopping.
In case you're wondering, I accomplished these goals. I had Indian food two nights in a row, and I came home with a suitcase full of frozen tofu, vitamins and herbal supplements, Ziploc bags, PG tips, rice wine vinegar, sriracha sauce, and other goodies.
I also realized during my two short days in London that I was experiencing double culture shock. First of all, I had the obvious culture shock of going from a small town in a developing African country to an almost unimaginably enormous urban area in a developed country. T's sister took me to Tesco for grocery shopping, and I froze up a little when I got to the long aisle that was dedicated entirely to yogurts. I was impressed by many mundane things – pedestrian crosswalks, wheelchair accessibility and accommodations in many places, restrooms with toilet paper and soap and working hand dryers. Everything seemed so incredibly clean, organized, and orderly! In addition, I had trouble adapting to the prices of things. One day, T and I bought an "inexpensive" sandwich to share for lunch, and I realized that our shared sandwich was the same price as about 35 baguettes here in Morocco. On Sunday, on our bus from London to the Stansted airport (it was much cheaper to fly out of Stansted than Heathrow), the bus driver announced that we should buckle our seatbelts because we would be on the highway. I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that once we were back in Morocco, we would be taking a grand taxi over mountain roads, dodging donkeys and pedestrians and bicycles and motorcycles, and we almost certainly would not even have seatbelts.
London is also different from the United States, which is sometimes easy to forget because we do (basically) speak the same language. But same language does not equal same culture. I should add here that somehow I had gotten the idea that people in London would be...well, if not unfriendly, a bit reserved. I found everyone to be quite friendly, helpful, and accommodating to our occasional cluelessness about things like how to scan our credit card at the grocery store.
It was very hard to leave family members after spending only two days with them, but I was also concerned about how I would feel coming back to Morocco. On the plane to Fez, and on the taxi ride from there to Ifrane, I engaged in a little introspection. I was a bit surprised and relieved to find that I didn't feel any sense of dread or disappointment or depression about coming back here. All reservations I had related to one factor: all of my significant difficulties here have to do with the language barrier. It became very clear to me this weekend that if I am going to stay here and be able to function, I need to make an attempt to learn Darija or French. I don't know when or how I'll do it, but I need to try.
T and I have also made a resolution to go on more weekend trips to Europe. This may be the only time in our life that we have the opportunity to do that.
05 June 2011
Zaouia d'Ifrane hike
Yesterday, I went on a hike with a Brazilian, a Moroccan, an American, and a Portuguese-Canadian (sounds like the set up for a joke, doesn't it?). Our hike began in Zaouia d'Ifrane, a (somewhat) nearby village with a name confusingly similar to the name of the town in which I live (ifrane means "caves").
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| We hiked to the top of the cliff/ridge in the background. |
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| This was one of the most visually interesting Moroccan towns I have been in! |
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| I made this picture extra large so you might be able to see the baby stork in the nest. |
03 June 2011
Things I'm thankful for
With all this extra time on my hands right now (I'm between semesters in school), as usual, I'm becoming reflective. This can be dangerous, but right now I'm reflecting on positive things. Specifically, I'm thinking about how "blessed" (I can't think of any other word for it) I have been to be surrounded for much of my life by people who are always demonstrating to me how to be truly good and truly generous.
Our recent guest, MA, is an example of this. She had asked if she could bring anything for me from Liberia, and while at first I thought, "what the heck could I possibly want from Liberia?" I decided it was worth asking for certain food items that I haven't been able to find here. As a vegetarian in the United States, even in a small town in Wyoming, I had lots of protein options available to me (cheap good cheese, tofu, tempeh, lots of different kinds of beans, fake meats, etc.). So I asked MA to bring me the beans that I can't find here – red lentils, black beans, and pinto beans. I also asked her for curry paste. It sounds silly, but if you had to eat chickpeas and white beans every day, you'd probably be very thankful when a guest showed up at your house with this:
I cooked a curry feast for my ninth wedding anniversary two days ago, and it was delicious, and I silently thanked MA as I ate my dinner.
I was really touched by MA's generosity, and I got to see her demonstrate it over and over during her time here. She might end up reading this post, but she won't be surprised to read that I think she directed that generosity towards T and me a little too much. But I also know that back home she does a great deal of good for those around her, and she, like many others in my life, inspires me to try to be good and generous, too.
Our recent guest, MA, is an example of this. She had asked if she could bring anything for me from Liberia, and while at first I thought, "what the heck could I possibly want from Liberia?" I decided it was worth asking for certain food items that I haven't been able to find here. As a vegetarian in the United States, even in a small town in Wyoming, I had lots of protein options available to me (cheap good cheese, tofu, tempeh, lots of different kinds of beans, fake meats, etc.). So I asked MA to bring me the beans that I can't find here – red lentils, black beans, and pinto beans. I also asked her for curry paste. It sounds silly, but if you had to eat chickpeas and white beans every day, you'd probably be very thankful when a guest showed up at your house with this:
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| Actually, this is just a sample of what MA brought me. I have several more pounds of black beans and pinto beans. |
I was really touched by MA's generosity, and I got to see her demonstrate it over and over during her time here. She might end up reading this post, but she won't be surprised to read that I think she directed that generosity towards T and me a little too much. But I also know that back home she does a great deal of good for those around her, and she, like many others in my life, inspires me to try to be good and generous, too.
02 June 2011
A day in Fez
On Tuesday, my friend LW took our visitor MA and me to Fez, and it was the first time I have had what I would call a great day in Fez.
Our trip started with a visit to Marjane, a place I generally detest visiting. But there weren't many supplies I needed, so I was able to wander leisurely and watch MA (who, you might recall, currently lives in Liberia) exclaim in wonder at the abundance of stuff that is available for relatively cheap. (Since Marjane is almost identical to a big Walmart or Target, I think some people who have always lived in the United States might be a bit mystified by our excitement at the realization that you can get soymilk, cheddar cheese, a blender, new underwear, or – in MA's case – real coffee in certain other parts of the world.)
After Marjane, we went to the Fez Medina. The air was cool (for once), and the Medina wasn't particularly crowded, and we walked around just long enough to enjoy it without getting too tired or overwhelmed.
We enjoyed a long lunch at Café Clock, and then we headed back out to drive MA to the riad she had decided to stay at for the night. We tried to park outside the Medina and had a very Moroccan moment as the parking attendant, who had just helped us to put the car in a somewhat tight parking spot, began yelling at us for parking there. He then demanded 10 dirham, which was a big mistake (parking virtually never costs more than two dirham). That set off a bout of righteous indignation in LW. The moment became even more "Moroccan" when a pedestrian who spoke English tried to make peace between LW and the irrationally upset parking attendant (he did this even though he realized he wasn't needed because LW speaks very good Darija). We eventually moved the car, and all was right with the world again.
As LW and Abdul, one of the owners of the riad, realized that they share a common friend, I was once again reminded that the world is not so big, and that Morocco is a very small place. Abdul entertained us with stories about Fez's Jewish history. I was quite amused because the fact that he is Muslim in no way prevents him from having great pride in being Jewish.
On the drive home, not far from Ifrane, LW and I picked up a hitchhiking* Berber woman. She didn't seem to speak much Darija, but she gave us both big kisses when she got into the car. She saw an empty water bottle and asked for it, then proceeded to fill it (and cover the floor of the car) with fresh cow milk. In Ifrane, she tried to pay us, but we refused and accepted more kisses instead.
The day before this, I was having an "I hate Morocco" day. I could try to explain why, but the explanation would be even more boring than my description of what I did in Fez on Tuesday. On Monday, everything was irritating me. On Tuesday, I loved it all – the bargaining, the good-natured faux guides in the Medina, the slow restaurant service, the ritualistic parking attendant argument, the over-the-top riad hospitality, the over-the-top thankfulness of the woman who hitchhiked with us, everything. Tuesday was a good day.
*I hate to use this word because of the connotations of danger and social unacceptability that it has for many of us in the United States. Almost all roads in Morocco that I have been on have been lined with people waiting to hitch rides. It seems to be a very common mode of transportation, sometimes even in what we would consider to be emergency situations; I have been told that some people hitchhike to the hospital. So here it's good to give rides to people if you can.
Our trip started with a visit to Marjane, a place I generally detest visiting. But there weren't many supplies I needed, so I was able to wander leisurely and watch MA (who, you might recall, currently lives in Liberia) exclaim in wonder at the abundance of stuff that is available for relatively cheap. (Since Marjane is almost identical to a big Walmart or Target, I think some people who have always lived in the United States might be a bit mystified by our excitement at the realization that you can get soymilk, cheddar cheese, a blender, new underwear, or – in MA's case – real coffee in certain other parts of the world.)
After Marjane, we went to the Fez Medina. The air was cool (for once), and the Medina wasn't particularly crowded, and we walked around just long enough to enjoy it without getting too tired or overwhelmed.
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| Lunch at Cafe Clock |
As LW and Abdul, one of the owners of the riad, realized that they share a common friend, I was once again reminded that the world is not so big, and that Morocco is a very small place. Abdul entertained us with stories about Fez's Jewish history. I was quite amused because the fact that he is Muslim in no way prevents him from having great pride in being Jewish.
On the drive home, not far from Ifrane, LW and I picked up a hitchhiking* Berber woman. She didn't seem to speak much Darija, but she gave us both big kisses when she got into the car. She saw an empty water bottle and asked for it, then proceeded to fill it (and cover the floor of the car) with fresh cow milk. In Ifrane, she tried to pay us, but we refused and accepted more kisses instead.
The day before this, I was having an "I hate Morocco" day. I could try to explain why, but the explanation would be even more boring than my description of what I did in Fez on Tuesday. On Monday, everything was irritating me. On Tuesday, I loved it all – the bargaining, the good-natured faux guides in the Medina, the slow restaurant service, the ritualistic parking attendant argument, the over-the-top riad hospitality, the over-the-top thankfulness of the woman who hitchhiked with us, everything. Tuesday was a good day.
*I hate to use this word because of the connotations of danger and social unacceptability that it has for many of us in the United States. Almost all roads in Morocco that I have been on have been lined with people waiting to hitch rides. It seems to be a very common mode of transportation, sometimes even in what we would consider to be emergency situations; I have been told that some people hitchhike to the hospital. So here it's good to give rides to people if you can.
01 June 2011
Oum Er-Rabia
For the past week, T and I had a visitor – an old S family friend from Alaska who is now living and working in Liberia. I'll call her MA. She's much more of an urbanite than T and I are, but she still seemed to enjoy our adventure this past Sunday which involved going to a place in the countryside that isn't even on the map. It's near the village of El Borj, about an hour and a half drive from Ifrane:
View Larger Map
MA, T and I went with our friends LW and JW. Their two girls rode in a separate vehicle with a couple and their three children. The couple have been staying in Ifrane temporarily while working on a documentary about the lives of Arab women (with a focus on food).
We drove to the source of Oum Er-Rabia which, according to Wikipedia, is the longest river in the country of Morocco. The views on the way to and from our destination were spectacular, reminding me of Wyoming and Montana and making me just a tiny bit homesick.
View Larger Map
MA, T and I went with our friends LW and JW. Their two girls rode in a separate vehicle with a couple and their three children. The couple have been staying in Ifrane temporarily while working on a documentary about the lives of Arab women (with a focus on food).
We drove to the source of Oum Er-Rabia which, according to Wikipedia, is the longest river in the country of Morocco. The views on the way to and from our destination were spectacular, reminding me of Wyoming and Montana and making me just a tiny bit homesick.
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| This looks like a pretty typical Berber home in the countryside. |
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| The poppy fields are gorgeous right now. |
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