Things I forgot to say in my previous post

I was in such a rush last night to get pictures of our trip to the Cascades d'Ouzoud up on my blog that only later did I realize I hadn't written about half of the things I had intended to. So here are some of those things, in no particular order:


- Even in places in Morocco where the landscape looks familiar (T and I have, on multiple occasions, been reminded of Wyoming and Montana), there are frequent reminders that I am in a foreign country. No matter how remote a road seems to be, there will always be pedestrians, hitchhikers, and people on donkeys traveling along that road. I often wonder where they're coming from and where they're going.

In remote locations, one is also likely to encounter people trying to sell things. When we got onto the mountain roads not far from Ouzoud, we started seeing people along the road holding up little bundles of fresh herbs and making a variety of mysterious gestures which we assume meant something like, "Please buy these herbs! I really need money. Don't you feel sorry for me?" And we did; we felt sorry for them.

Many of these people – many more than I would have guessed – were children, often very, very young children. As we drove, we discussed the pros and cons of stopping to buy some of the herb. (I think it was some kind of mountain thyme, but I'm not sure.) I imagine they couldn't have been selling the little bundles for more than one or two dirhams each, and I wonder what could possibly have been the maximum amount of money someone might bring home at the end of a long day of standing by the roadside. Seeing these people was a reminder both of how difficult the job situation is here (it's unimaginably worse than in the U.S., I guarantee) and of how hard people try to come up with ways of having even a tiny income.


- I should have taken the opportunity yesterday to spend a little more time explaining exactly what a riad is. Basically, a riad is a large, multilevel house with a central area that is open to the sky. Most of the riads I have stayed at (many have been converted into somewhat upscale bed and breakfasts) have had some form of covering on the rooftop terrace to provide some protection from the elements to the central patio/garden, but this is not always the case.

In the United States, indoor and outdoor spaces are usually carefully separated from each other; "indoor" and "outdoor" are mutually exclusive categories. This is not true in Morocco, and riads illustrate well the lack of a clear distinction between the two. As I mentioned in my previous post, the riad we stayed at has a full-sized orange tree growing in the middle of it. Above the orange tree, at the level of the rooftop terrace (another characteristic of a riad), a clear plastic tarp has been stretched to provide some protection from the rain (although there are a few inches on all sides that are not protected by the tarp, which means that one can get rained on while standing in certain places on the ground floor). At the center of the tarp is a large plastic tube that goes down to the base of the orange tree, so that when it rains the water follows the tube and waters the orange tree!

This lack of separation between indoor and outdoor means that, when the weather is nice, a riad is a lovely place for hanging out and relaxing. But when the weather is cold, the riad is also cold; many owners go to great lengths (and, I'm sure, expenses) to try to bring their riads up to Western standards of comfort regarding winter temperatures.

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.

Melilla, Spain

Monday was Eid al Adha, or Eid Kbir, a big Muslim celebration which I wrote a little about last year (here and here). T had a few days off from teaching, and we decided weeks ago that we wanted to go somewhere that wasn't Morocco when the Eid break came. When I told my friend Michael this, he wrote (whether sarcastically or not, I don't know) that he was surprised I didn't want to stay and experience the Eid. The truth is, when called upon, I can drum up a great deal of respect, or at the very least tolerance, for a wide variety of cultural practices. But that doesn't mean I am interested in participating in or observing them. For goodness' sake, there are aspects of my own culture that I'm not interested in – like keeping track of celebrity marriages, divorces, and international adoptions, or watching American Idol. So if you're interested in reading more about Eid al Adha, you'll have to look somewhere else, like here.

Because I went to Spain.

On hiring a maid

When I was in high school, one of my friends was the son of the richest man in town (town = approximately 2500 people). My friend lived in a big, new house on top of a hill near the edge of town. A major indication that his family was affluent? They actually hired someone to clean their house for them! This was a totally foreign concept to me; before I met this friend, I had never known anyone with a maid.*

And now I have a maid. Hafida has been working for me for several weeks now. Before coming to Ifrane, I had read that many people hire maids to do laundry, clean, cook, shop, etc. Hiring nannies is also a common practice. But the idea still seemed a little silly to me. I wondered, why in the world would I not be able to do these things myself? And I hated the ideas of inequality, servitude and privilege that the word "maid" conjured up in me.

However, it was pointed out to me several times by several different people that earnings that would put my husband and me below the poverty line in the U.S. could afford us quite a comfortable life in Morocco. T's income is several times that of the average Moroccan's income. Do we not have a social responsibility to try to find ways to share our money with the locals? Most of us don't feel inclined to start walking around and handing out money to strangers on the street. But if we can hire a local woman, and if the money we pay can help her buy groceries or medicine for her sick husband or whatever, do we not have a responsibility to hire her?

Also, as I have pointed out before, I really hate doing laundry. :)

So now Hafida comes for three hours on Mondays and two hours on Thursdays. For this (and please don't think me a bad person when I tell you this), I pay her the equivalent of about $15.

At first, even though I was okay with the idea of hiring someone, having her in the house and asking her to do things made me nervous. At one point I found myself helping her make the bed. I just wasn't getting this whole maid thing.

I figured out that it's best if I just write her a list (Did I mention that she speaks some English? Along with Berber, Darija, and French? And she probably didn't go to high school!) and then either leave the apartment or lock myself in my office where I won't be tempted to micromanage. For the most part, she does a great job. Yesterday, one of the items on the list I gave her was "cook lubbiya" ("lubbiya" means "beans," but it's often used to refer to a dish of seasoned white beans). She found what she needed in the kitchen and made us a big pot of delicious lubbiya. T went back for seconds; he never does that when I make lubbiya!

I really appreciate Hafida's help, especially since my course load this semester is so much more difficult than last semester. But that doesn't mean I'm entirely comfortable with the situation. Whenever she's here, and even when she isn't, I find myself trying to imagine what her life is like. I wonder what she thinks my life is like. I wonder how I can justify spending more money on one night in a nice hotel than she earns working for several months. I think about her six-year-old son, who is in school. What will he do when he grows up? What are her dreams for him? What are her dreams for herself?

Maybe someday I will be comfortable enough with Hafida to ask her some of these questions. Insha'Allah.



*If the word "maid" makes you uncomfortable, you aren't alone. That word has connotations that make me cringe. But it's the term that is conventionally used here in Morocco, and in some ways, it accurately reflects the work that such women do. "Cleaning lady," "house cleaner," and "housekeeper" don't entirely reflect the scope of their work nor the class inequality that generally exists between them and their employers. Now I'll bet you're even more uncomfortable.

On going to the dentist

Last Friday evening, after spending a wonderful but long day in Rabat with my friend LW, I decided to relax on the couch while watching TV, eating some popcorn, and drinking a beer. After biting into a particularly crunchy piece of popcorn, I noticed that one of my molar teeth felt a little funny. I touched it with my tongue, and I went cold. A chunk of my tooth was missing.

As far as I was concerned, one of my biggest fears had come true. I had gotten some crazy idea in my head about Moroccan dentistry that it consisted only of getting teeth pulled (without anesthesia) at the souk by people who may or may not be dentists (yes, you can get dental work done at the souk). I have been experiencing a little bit of "Morocco fatigue," so the idea of having to find a competent and hygienic dentist, figuring out how to make an appointment, figuring out how insurance works, getting to the dentist, and communicating with the dentist was exhausting. In addition, never before had I broken off a chunk of a tooth, and I wasn't sure how much pain I could potentially be in, nor did I know what might be required to fix it.

Luckily, there is an American trained, English speaking dentist in Fez who is used to working with people from the University. And luckily, I have a generous friend here (LW) who was willing to take me to the dentist. The office even had a receptionist who spoke English. Communicating my problem wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it might be.

However, this was the most painful dental work I can remember having. I was warned that this dentist is "rough." I think she's used to people telling her that what she's doing hurts, so she didn't believe me when I said that the anesthesia she injected did not extend to the tooth she was working on. Tooth nerve pain – ouch. She filled the heck out of the tooth and warned me that it would be sensitive for several days. I'm still a little nervous because if the sensitivity doesn't go away, I may need to have a root canal. If that happens, she had better do a more thorough job with the anesthesia.

It cost me 500 dirhams to have this work done. That's a little over $60, which is affordable even if the insurance company doesn't reimburse me for 80% of the cost. That seems so absurdly cheap to me as an American, and yet it is a cost that is completely out of range for many Moroccans. If I were an average Moroccan, I would probably just have to live with what was left of my tooth, and if it got bad enough –if the whole tooth rotted out –I would go to the souk and get it pulled out. There would be no other option.

Tarmilat

Yesterday evening, T and I went with a group of members of the University Christian church and a few sociology students to the nearby village of Tarmilat. Not more than a ten minute drive outside Ifrane, Tarmilat is really just a collection of houses (like the one pictured at right) in which about 24 families live.

Apparently, these families were brought there decades ago to be sheepherders for the rich families of Ifrane. While some of the villagers now have their own flocks of sheep, they still have no legal rights to the land on which they live – they're basically squatters.

Members of the church became interested a few years ago in helping the villagers of Tarmilat. To make a long story short, the village women were taught how to make rugs, blankets and other handicrafts out of the wool of their sheep.

Soon after we arrived in Tarmilat, with the rock-covered hills all around us covered in gentle rose-colored light from the setting sun, the women of Tarmilat laid out their handicrafts for us to look at and, they hoped, to purchase.

These are the blanket that T and I purchased.

When it grew dark and cold, we were invited inside one family's home for a meal. As you can probably tell from looking at the pictures of these houses, they are extremely simple. A person of normal height can only stand up in the middle of the house. The house we entered had no furniture except for a china hutch at one end. Next to the hutch was a tall pile of wool blankets. The floor was covered with rugs. T asked someone what the families do in the winter, and she pointed out a place in the ceiling where a hole could be made. The families build fires under those holes and use pipes to carry the smoke out of the houses. Most of the homes don't have electricity, although some families are using the money from selling their wool blankets to install solar panels. The community also now has a couple of literate women and even a schoolhouse.

I wish I had taken pictures of the meal they served us. It seemed incredibly extravagant, especially given the surroundings. It began like a traditional ftour meal, with dates, melwi, and chebakia. That was followed by whole roasted chickens, which, I was told (and I had to take people's word for this) were delicious. After that, the women brought out giant plates of steaming couscous and pumpkin. Everything was served on small, round tables, around which people gathered, sitting on the floor. We all ate from the same dishes, with our hands. It was the closest T and I have yet come to eating a traditional Moroccan meal, Moroccan style. (For those of you worried about the idea of a bunch of poor Moroccan women feeding rich Moroccan students and Americans, please note that we paid the women for the meal.)

After the meal, we put our shoes back on and exited the house. We were greeted by a breathtaking autumn night. The sky, unobstructed by buildings or trees, undimmed by electric lights, was the clearest, most beautiful night sky I have ever seen.

I left Tarmilat wondering how best I could cognitively represent or conceive of the lives of its people. The common responses of pity or romanticization are clearly too simplistic. What are their lives really like? How do they feel about living in their rock and tin houses, cooking their meals over open fires? What dreams do they have for their sons and daughters? And with a university with great wealth so close by, what is the responsibility of this university community to Tarmilat? These are the things I wondered about on the van ride home, in the dark.