There are a lot of things I didn't do that I should have done while I was in Nebraska. One thing I did, though, was spent time with my parents and with some of my friends. I only had one full day with my mom, and we spent that day doing things we don't normally do – like getting pedicures and shopping at the mall.
I didn't get nearly enough time with my mom, but I had a lot of time with my dad. In fact, weeks ago, we planned a camping road trip to get me from Nebraska to Bowling Green, Kentucky. (I'm here for five weeks doing a clinical internship as part of my Master's work in speech-language pathology.)
This was the plan: we would take my dad's truck and his new camper, and we would luxuriously spread out the approximately 16 hours of driving over a period of four days, arriving in Bowling Green on Saturday night or on Sunday morning, with plenty of time to get me settled before Monday morning (today).
As I've written before, though, planning is best thought of as a hobby than anything else. It isn't to be taken too seriously. Just about two hours out on our adventure, not far from Hamburg, Iowa, the engine of my dad's truck suddenly and quite seriously overheated. We got the truck and camper to the auto repair shop in Hamburg (the business name is "Risky Business"). Not long after that, it was clear that the truck wasn't gonna go anywhere unless it was pulled by a tow truck.
I have a tendency – or, at least, I used to have a tendency – to freak out in situations like that. Maybe it was the element of surprise (as my dad said, the truck was the one thing he wasn't worried about), maybe it was the stabilizing presence of my father, or maybe it was just the result of enough years of experience with things not going as planned, but I felt pretty calm at the same time that I genuinely had no idea how I was going to get to Kentucky.
We had the camper set up in Hamburg, but we decided that wouldn't be a very exciting camping location, and staying there wasn't going to get us any closer to Kentucky, so we had somebody tow the truck and take us back to my parents' house. It was sort of like starting over on a video game but with a pretty severe penalty (specifically, we now had no vehicle to get us to Kentucky and no obvious way to go camping).
I offered to try to buy a last-minute plane ticket, but my father, who had worked hard all week in preparation for his vacation, persevered with his dream. He promptly rented a van, and we loaded up all the supplies we could think of for car/tent camping.
I might write later about the actual camping, but the places we went to and the sights that we saw were really secondary to the experience for me. The truly unique part of the trip was having all of that time with my father. I felt that a camping trip of a father and his 33-year-old daughter was something unusual.
I'm writing about this on my blog because one of the things I feel I have gained during my time overseas is a deeper appreciation for and connection to my family, especially my parents. We talk about almost everything in my family, and while at times this can feel like an invasion of privacy, ultimately I am thankful for the closeness and openness we have with each other.
I'm also amazed by my father's dedication to the three women in his life. I realized after we got to Bowling Green that he has always been there when my sister and I have gone off to school (and in case you're wondering, between the two of us, we have now moved to a total of five different schools in five different states).
My dad was pretty exhausted by the time we got here on Saturday, so he stuck around on Saturday and Sunday nights and of course continue to help me by driving me around town to get groceries and other supplies. He was still here when I left this morning for my first day of "boot camp," and when I came back to my room late this afternoon, it felt suddenly very quiet and very empty.
It was at four o'clock this afternoon that it finally hit me: I'm in Bowling Green, Kentucky for the next five weeks. It's a place I've never been to before, and I'm here to learn something entirely new and difficult. I don't have a car and am dependent on people I just met for transportation. My husband is on another continent, and I don't know exactly when or where I'll see him next.
It's one of those experiences I'm sure you've had before, where a big, "future" event (at least, for a long, long time, you thought of it as "future") crashes suddenly and jarringly into the present. This happened on my wedding day (in a good way) and on the day I left for Morocco (in a, well, somewhat anxiety-provoking way).
So here I am--by myself for an extended period of time for the first time in my adult life. Wish me luck.
Showing posts with label transportation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label transportation. Show all posts
11 May 2012
03 May 2012
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.
- 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.
24 March 2012
Done it all
Yesterday, T and I took the new tram in Rabat. I think this means that we have now used every mode of public transportation available in the country of Morocco (with the exception of intra-country flight, which seems like a fairly rare way of getting around within Morocco, and in any case we have used flight to go to and from the country). We have used petits taxis, grands taxis, the bus, the train, and the tram. Many times, these modes of transportation must be used in combinations that can be exhausting. (Yesterday, for example, we used everything but bus to get to, around, and back home from Rabat.)
If you are from or have lived in a big city like New York or Tokyo or Hong Kong, you're probably wondering why this is worth noting on my blog. You have to understand that I grew up in rural Nebraska and didn't even ride a city bus, subway or taxi until after I was out of college. Until these last couple of years in Morocco, public transportation remained a novelty – and a bit of a mystery – to me.
Many people have told us we might be happier if we had a car here. It's true that, as "nature lovers" more than "city people," T and I sometimes find it challenging to get to the places that would be most interesting to us because they are off the beaten path. Nevertheless, I am glad, for many reasons, that we have chosen not to try to get a car while here. Not only has it been cheaper, but it has been a wonderful learning experience (for me, especially) to figure out how to get around the country without a personal vehicle. (And in the times when we have really needed a car, we have been lucky enough to have wonderful friends who have lent us theirs.)
If you are from or have lived in a big city like New York or Tokyo or Hong Kong, you're probably wondering why this is worth noting on my blog. You have to understand that I grew up in rural Nebraska and didn't even ride a city bus, subway or taxi until after I was out of college. Until these last couple of years in Morocco, public transportation remained a novelty – and a bit of a mystery – to me.
Many people have told us we might be happier if we had a car here. It's true that, as "nature lovers" more than "city people," T and I sometimes find it challenging to get to the places that would be most interesting to us because they are off the beaten path. Nevertheless, I am glad, for many reasons, that we have chosen not to try to get a car while here. Not only has it been cheaper, but it has been a wonderful learning experience (for me, especially) to figure out how to get around the country without a personal vehicle. (And in the times when we have really needed a car, we have been lucky enough to have wonderful friends who have lent us theirs.)
20 March 2012
How I came to be walking down the streets of Meknes with a woman holding a plastic jar with pieces of my stomach in it
This blog entry contains some personal medical information. Although I am providing this information for the purpose of illustrating what I think are interesting cultural differences, if this sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, you can skip reading it. Rest assured that, despite the provocative title, nothing dangerous happened to me today, and my health is relatively stable.
I have hinted in previous posts that my health has not been at its best since coming to Morocco. I haven't written much about it because…well…I didn't think it was really that interesting.
But in some ways, I guess it is, and maybe writing about it is relevant to the purpose of this blog. Definitions of and attitudes toward health and sickness are culturally bound. (An example with which many Americans might be familiar is the changing stance of the American Psychological Association on homosexuality.) The procedures used for identifying and treating illness – from how one makes a doctor's appointment to options for laboratory work – also change from culture to culture. The theoretical frameworks from which doctors approach diagnosis and treatment may be different, and the social roles of doctors and "patients" are also culturally defined.
I am someone who has always found medical systems difficult to understand and navigate, even with parents who are nurses, even in my own culture, even communicating with people who speak the same native language I do. As I wrote about previously, all of those things that cause difficulty for me in the U.S. cause more difficulty here.
I have hinted in previous posts that my health has not been at its best since coming to Morocco. I haven't written much about it because…well…I didn't think it was really that interesting.
But in some ways, I guess it is, and maybe writing about it is relevant to the purpose of this blog. Definitions of and attitudes toward health and sickness are culturally bound. (An example with which many Americans might be familiar is the changing stance of the American Psychological Association on homosexuality.) The procedures used for identifying and treating illness – from how one makes a doctor's appointment to options for laboratory work – also change from culture to culture. The theoretical frameworks from which doctors approach diagnosis and treatment may be different, and the social roles of doctors and "patients" are also culturally defined.
I am someone who has always found medical systems difficult to understand and navigate, even with parents who are nurses, even in my own culture, even communicating with people who speak the same native language I do. As I wrote about previously, all of those things that cause difficulty for me in the U.S. cause more difficulty here.
28 August 2011
On taking the train at night during Ramadan
On Wednesday at 8am (Central Standard Time), T and I left the small town in Nebraska where we had spent most of our time the past five weeks and began our two day journey back to Ifrane, Morocco.
At 6:45pm (Greenwich Mean Time) on Thursday, we were sitting on the train from Casablanca to Meknes and were on (what we hoped would be only) the second to last leg of our travel (we would still need to get a taxi from Meknes to Ifrane).
There were, for once, very few passengers on the train. It's not much fun to travel during Ramadan, the holy month during which healthy adults are forbidden religiously, culturally, and legally from eating, drinking, or smoking from sun up to sun down. The few passengers in our train car looked tired, and most of them sat quietly, watching the sun go down. Many of them had their bottles of water, their dates, and their bagged breakfasts (for this would be their first meal of the day) sitting in front of them, ready to be eaten the minute the sun slipped below the horizon.
Soon everyone began to eat quietly, including T and me. We hadn't been engaging in a strict fast, but had been experiencing the de facto fast that often comes along with traveling. After a few minutes, a man came along with a cart and handed out small packages of dates to everyone--even to T and me. It was touching and marked the first moment for many days when I didn't feel apprehensive and even a bit depressed about returning to Morocco.
At 6:45pm (Greenwich Mean Time) on Thursday, we were sitting on the train from Casablanca to Meknes and were on (what we hoped would be only) the second to last leg of our travel (we would still need to get a taxi from Meknes to Ifrane).
There were, for once, very few passengers on the train. It's not much fun to travel during Ramadan, the holy month during which healthy adults are forbidden religiously, culturally, and legally from eating, drinking, or smoking from sun up to sun down. The few passengers in our train car looked tired, and most of them sat quietly, watching the sun go down. Many of them had their bottles of water, their dates, and their bagged breakfasts (for this would be their first meal of the day) sitting in front of them, ready to be eaten the minute the sun slipped below the horizon.
Soon everyone began to eat quietly, including T and me. We hadn't been engaging in a strict fast, but had been experiencing the de facto fast that often comes along with traveling. After a few minutes, a man came along with a cart and handed out small packages of dates to everyone--even to T and me. It was touching and marked the first moment for many days when I didn't feel apprehensive and even a bit depressed about returning to Morocco.
17 July 2011
Casbahs to cornfields
We begin our journey to Nebraska at 1:30am tonight when Ahmed the grand taxi driver will pick us up. He'll drive us straight to the Casablanca airport, and then it's on to Lisbon, Newark, Chicago, and finally Nebraska.
If I have observations or insights while there, I'll post on my blog. If not, check in with me at the end of August.
If I have observations or insights while there, I'll post on my blog. If not, check in with me at the end of August.
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.
22 May 2011
When you mail stuff to Morocco…
Back in November of 2010, the supply of vitamins and other supplements that I had brought with me was running low. I ordered the most essential products and had them mailed to my parents, who then repackaged everything and mailed it on to me. I knew it was a risky endeavor, so I wasn't surprised when the package seemed to be taking weeks to get here.
Weeks turned into months. I think it was in March that I finally accepted the fact that I was out a lot of money (in dollars or dirhams), and the box was probably sitting in a customs office in Casa, where it would remain until the end of days.
A few days ago, I received an e-mail from my mom. The box had, after nearly six months, found its way back to Nebraska. It was returned because I had not picked it up. Since it was never at the post office in Ifrane, I'm very curious to know where exactly the box was waiting for me to pick it up.
Oh, if only that box could tell its story, what a story it would be. And oh, the joys of living in Africa.
Weeks turned into months. I think it was in March that I finally accepted the fact that I was out a lot of money (in dollars or dirhams), and the box was probably sitting in a customs office in Casa, where it would remain until the end of days.
A few days ago, I received an e-mail from my mom. The box had, after nearly six months, found its way back to Nebraska. It was returned because I had not picked it up. Since it was never at the post office in Ifrane, I'm very curious to know where exactly the box was waiting for me to pick it up.
Oh, if only that box could tell its story, what a story it would be. And oh, the joys of living in Africa.
06 April 2011
A few of my favorite things II
When I'm feeling down or homesick, it sometimes helps for me to reflect on things I like about Morocco:
-Coming home on Mondays and Thursdays (the days Hafida works) to a kitchen counter free of dirty dishes.
-Moroccans feeding the pigeons.
-Morning yoga with my friend LW.
-Cheap public transportation.
-Afternoon tea with meloui.
-The fact that the servers at the bakery (which is about a block from my apartment) know me and know my usual order of nuss nuss (literally "half half," half strong Moroccan coffee, half milk).
-Fresh, cheap produce.
-Reliable water, electricity, and Internet (fingers crossed!).
-Coming home on Mondays and Thursdays (the days Hafida works) to a kitchen counter free of dirty dishes.
-Moroccans feeding the pigeons.
-Morning yoga with my friend LW.
-Cheap public transportation.
-Afternoon tea with meloui.
-The fact that the servers at the bakery (which is about a block from my apartment) know me and know my usual order of nuss nuss (literally "half half," half strong Moroccan coffee, half milk).
-Fresh, cheap produce.
-Reliable water, electricity, and Internet (fingers crossed!).
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.
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