Happy to have a cold

I never thought I would be happy or relieved to have a cold. Despite the fact that colds affect me with some frequency, I tend to be a big, whiny baby every time I get one. But given the other ailments that have plagued or could be plaguing me, I'm finding a strange comfort in having a gold ol' cold right now. I have a warm apartment, lots of soup recipes, and plenty of herbal teas and ginger. So bring it on, cold. Bring it on.

A plea

Okay, everyone, for 18 months I have regaled you with tales of adventure, embarrassment, beauty, despair and triumph, and I haven't asked for anything in return (okay, there was that one time, but that was pretty much it). 

But today I'm sending out a real plea. One reason I haven't been blogging a lot this semester is that my graduate program has become much more challenging this semester. (Several of my classmates have part-time or full-time jobs and children and are completing this program, while I have only a very part-time job, no children, and a maid and feel overwhelmed sometimes. What does that say about me?)

Anyway, for my Phonology course, I need to find a speech-language pathologist who will discuss with me a client with a phonological disorder. My professor has given me permission to do this long distance, so I'm looking for an SLP and client who will let me talk to and observe them via Skype.

Given how busy the average SLP is, I'm not sure how likely this is to happen. But if you have a friend or family member who is an SLP, perhaps someone who was done a great kindness by someone else and is looking to "pay it forward," let me know. 

And in any case, wish me luck.

Say it ain't so

In the midst of some Internet woes over the past few days, I came across this post on The View from Fez about the rumor that Maroc Telecom is deliberately sabotaging Skype in an attempt to force its customers (i.e. everyone in Morocco) to pay for phone services.

My guess is that this is true. But are there any (legal) actions that can be taken? (There are always illegal workarounds available for those in the know.) And (I guiltily admit this is what's most prominent in my mind right now) is this going to affect my access to Skype?

On things being guarded

One of the things that struck me soon after moving to Morocco was the fact that there are guards everywhere. The University is guarded at all times by at least one security officer who stands attentively outside the large gate through which one must pass to enter the University. (Sometimes the gate is halfway closed, requiring even closer scrutiny from the security guard. I clearly remember it being closed for a couple of days after the bombing in Marrakesh last spring.) How they know who is "authorized" to enter campus and who is not remains a mystery to me, but I have been stopped a couple of times and asked to give my name and reason for being on campus ("Jennifer Sheridan, my husband is faculty.") We have joked with friends about how the security officers seem to be satisfied if we simply tell them our names, as if they either have memorized a list of authorized names, or they really just want to know if we know our names.

Now the University library is guarded, too, with security officers who search the bags and purses of all individuals entering--to make sure they aren't sneaking in contraband water bottles or snacks.

We have driven on the tollway at times when, the best we could figure out, the King was about to pass through. There were guards stationed every few hundred meters along the road, just standing there, waiting for the King's motorcade to go by.

How would you like it if this little box were your workplace?

The perimeters of cities are guarded. The building downtown in which we live has a guard. The bank has a guard (who also serves as a chaos-preventer). The new Morocco Mall in Casablanca is heavily guarded. Grocery stores have guards.The King's palace in Ifrane is, of course, guarded.

And, most interesting to me, many private homes are guarded. Our building is at the end of a quiet street lined with large, expensive, and mostly empty homes. Outside of several of them are these little huts, really just big enough for one or two men to stand in. While the houses sit empty, guards huddle outside in the huts at all hours, in all weather, chatting with each other, listening to music, and drinking mint tea. This job is one of the most difficult for me to understand. First of all, why can't they just hang out inside the houses? (As if I don't know the answer.) And what are they guarding the homes from?

My admittedly uneducated impression is that many of the guards in Morocco serve the purpose of keeping the poor separated from the rich. Some of the guarding, such as lining the streets when the King passes through, seems largely for show. (What are they guarding the roads from? Is there a danger of some guy with a knife jumping out of the bushes and attacking the King's motorcade?) The guards are certainly not concerned about me; by definition, because of my skin color, I am not a threat. (It's strange to be subjected to less scrutiny because I am a foreigner, since in my own country, foreigners tend to be the subject of more scrutiny.)

Ultimately, I feel very safe in Morocco, but not because of all the guarding. It's something I'm still not used to, and it still makes me feel uncomfortable at times. But, as T has just pointed out to me, "It's a job." So maybe I need to let go of the class separation I sense behind it and just accept it.

On having an accent

One of my English students, Khalid, has excellent pronunciation (which, I should mention, isn't entirely unusual for Moroccans speaking English even as their third or fourth language). Still, his pronunciation is impressive considering that he is a "high beginner" and that he generally doesn't talk.

Today in class, we listened to a short conversation from the CD that comes with our textbook. The people having the conversation were Scottish and, thus, spoke with a Scottish accent. When I asked the students to repeat and practice the conversation, Khalid immediately adopted a Scottish accent.

I was a little jealous of his ability.

Rough start

Last Monday was a "little" eid, and T had the day off from teaching. Weeks before, we had decided that we wanted to go to Melilla or Ceuta for the long weekend. We asked our friends Sarah and Terry if they wanted to rent a car and go with us. We decided we would go to Ceuta since none of us had spent much time there before.

For a full week, I could think of almost nothing else. I was desperate to get out of Morocco at the same time that I had a very fuzzy sense of why or of what I wanted to do in Ceuta.

And so, as is too often the case when we want something very badly, it seemed that the forces of the universe were conspiring against our planned European getaway.

First, Sarah and Terry spent the entire week leading up to our trip making phone calls to a car rental agency, and each time, the exchange went something like this:

Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."
(Sarah and Terry wait a few hours, then call the agency back.)

Terry: "We want to rent a car for Friday."
Car rental representative: "Okay, we'll call you back in 10 minutes."

This went on over and over again until Thursday night (the night before we were scheduled to leave) when our friends enlisted the help of a Moroccan friend, who finally lined up a car for us – at twice the price it should've been. At about 7:00 that night, then, we were desperately calling other car rental agencies to try to get ourselves a better deal.

We found a car at a better price, but the company required a 20,000 dirham deposit (that's "only" about $2500, an obscene amount of money here in Morocco that none of us would be able to get our hands on with such short notice).

About an hour later, we got in touch with a car rental company in Azrou (about 20 km away) that was willing to rent us a Kia Picanto for a good price. They even said they would deliver it to us here in Ifrane for a reasonable delivery fee.

It was a little stressful not knowing less than 24 hours before we were leaving how we would get to Ceuta, but I thought things were okay.

Can and Can't

What you can't (or, at least, often don't) get at the University health center:

     -A urine test
     -Blood drawn
     -Blood tests
     -Any other kind of test, really
     -Long-handled cotton swabs (apparently, they don't exist in Morocco) 
     -Routine blood pressure, temperature, or weight checks
     -Thorough physical examination
     -Questions about any allergies you might have
     -Explanations of medications being prescribed to you
     -Explanations of anything in fluent English
    

What you can get at the University health center:

     -A box of surgical gloves, for free
     -Several tongue depressors, also for free
     -A laryngeal mirror, again at no cost! (or is a dental mirror? I'm not sure on the difference)
     -A signature and stamp on a form indicating that you are healthy, after a very cursory physical examination
     -A signature and stamp on a form indicating that you have tested negative for tuberculosis without taking any test (don't worry, I didn't do this)
     -A signature and stamp on anything, really
     -A variety of medications for treating all kinds of stomach and intestinal discomfort and distress
     -Explanations of many things in fluent French