My part-time teaching job ended in April, and earlier this week my boss sent me an e-mail saying that she had used MoneyGram (money transfer) to send my pay for April and that I just needed to go to the office, located downtown, to get it.
I think I audibly groaned. While the prospect of dealing with this didn't send me into a panic as it may have a year or year and a half ago, I knew it wasn't going to be as easy as she made it sound. And yet it didn't end up being as hard as I had imagined it could be.
One reason I get apprehensive about these things is that, especially in "office" situations (e.g. the bank, a doctor's office, or the post office), I just don't understand what's going on. There are always lots of people sitting and waiting for something, and a few people standing around waiting for something, and a few people sitting behind the desk or counter, but whereas I would know what to do if I saw this in the United States, I still don't understand the system here in Morocco; I just know that it's different. This is not a "queuing" culture, so I know that even if something looks like a line, my best move isn't always to go stand in it.
Here's where I lucked out, because one of the staff members of the building where I live happened to be in the post office (which is where I went because it was the first place I noticed with a "MoneyGram" sign outside), and he told the woman whose job it is to coordinate the customers what it was that I needed. So I sat and waited for 15 to 20 minutes, which is not so long of a wait in Morocco but long enough to make me wish my boss had just deposited the money in my bank account.
In some way mysterious to me, the woman then decided it was my turn to go up to the counter, and I showed the woman behind the counter the number my boss had given me. It was obvious that this number did not look right, and she conveyed to me that I was in the wrong location and that I needed to go someplace called "Wafa Cash" that was somewhere near Banque Populaire.
I wandered around town a little bit and noticed several other MoneyGram signs but no place that said "Wafa Cash." I called my boss, but she didn't know specifically where I needed to go to get the money, so then I had to text the other teacher she had hired to find out if he knew where I needed to go.
At this point, I think I had spent close to 45 minutes trying to get my money. Luckily, I got good instructions from the other teacher and found the right MoneyGram office. (It had a variety of signs outside, including one that said "MoneyGram" and "EuroSol," but of course there was nothing that said "Wafa Cash." That sort of thing, however, is common in small towns and is not particular to Morocco.) There was no line of people inside the small office, but I still had to wait a good five or 10 minutes while the man behind the counter typed on his computer, filled out forms, and photocopied my national identity card.
In the end, it only took me about an hour to get my pay from April. It could've been a lot worse.
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
Showing posts with label working. Show all posts
18 February 2012
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.
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.
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.
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| How would you like it if this little box were your workplace? |
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.
28 December 2011
Junk food
In one of my English classes on Monday, I wanted my two students to read a short (and, admittedly, pretty stupid and boring) passage from the textbook about the world's oldest woman who, at 109 years old, ate only junk food. I asked the students if they knew what junk food was, and they had totally blank looks on their faces. I started at the beginning, explaining the word "junk," and then gave examples of junk food, pointing out that many foods in this category are fast food and/or are high in sugar or fat. They still looked perplexed. I thought more examples would help, but each time I asked them about a food and asked if it went in the "junk food" or "not junk food" category, they got it wrong.
"Is fruit junk food?" They stared at me. "No, in the United States, we say it's not junk food. It's healthy food." I said. I did the same for hamburgers and pointed out that Americans consider just about anything from McDonald's to be junk food.
"Okay, what about fish?"
"That's junk food," one student said. Only if it's fried, I explained.
"Chocolate?"
"Not junk food," they agreed.
And then it hit me. What a ridiculous concept! (Yeah, I can be a little slow.) Food is what sustains and strengthens our bodies. The concept that some food is essentially garbage is bizarre and probably isn't culturally relevant in a country where many people are just happy to have full bellies. I remembered Michael Pollan's discussion in The Omnivore's Dilemma about Americans' weird relationship to food.
When I came home and told T about this, he reminded me that our Canadian friend Sarah, a kindergarten teacher at the K-12 school associated with the University, struggled for weeks to get the parents of her students to send "healthy" snacks to school. She spoke, with horror, of watching one child eat a snack consisting of chocolate pudding scooped out of the cup with Kit Kats. After my confused ESL lesson on "junk food," I wondered whether Sarah had been making false assumptions, like I had, that food can be objectively divided into transcultural categories of "good" and "bad," "healthy" and "unhealthy."
And I'm curious to know if any of you have had similar experiences when engaged in multicultural discussions about food.
"Is fruit junk food?" They stared at me. "No, in the United States, we say it's not junk food. It's healthy food." I said. I did the same for hamburgers and pointed out that Americans consider just about anything from McDonald's to be junk food.
"Okay, what about fish?"
"That's junk food," one student said. Only if it's fried, I explained.
"Chocolate?"
"Not junk food," they agreed.
And then it hit me. What a ridiculous concept! (Yeah, I can be a little slow.) Food is what sustains and strengthens our bodies. The concept that some food is essentially garbage is bizarre and probably isn't culturally relevant in a country where many people are just happy to have full bellies. I remembered Michael Pollan's discussion in The Omnivore's Dilemma about Americans' weird relationship to food.
When I came home and told T about this, he reminded me that our Canadian friend Sarah, a kindergarten teacher at the K-12 school associated with the University, struggled for weeks to get the parents of her students to send "healthy" snacks to school. She spoke, with horror, of watching one child eat a snack consisting of chocolate pudding scooped out of the cup with Kit Kats. After my confused ESL lesson on "junk food," I wondered whether Sarah had been making false assumptions, like I had, that food can be objectively divided into transcultural categories of "good" and "bad," "healthy" and "unhealthy."
And I'm curious to know if any of you have had similar experiences when engaged in multicultural discussions about food.
23 November 2011
On being a teacher again
This morning – despite the fact that, for the past year and a half, I have asserted that I did not want to – I returned to teaching.
Well, sort of. I just started a part-time job teaching English to Ifrane government administrators two mornings a week. I knew soon after this semester began that I was going to need to get a job to give me something to do besides schoolwork, but I wasn't dedicated enough to the idea to aggressively seek a job. This job came to me and was so close to perfect – except for being a teaching job – that I felt I had to take it.
After the first day, I can already tell it will be interesting, and I think I will learn a lot from doing it. Because much of my experience here has been mediated by an American-style university, this teaching job is in some ways my first experience with a Moroccan institution. I have to go to the Ifrane province building to teach, and I walk past several guards on my way. The guards salute one of my students; he's that important.
It didn't take long for me to remember what I loved about teaching and what I hated about it. I enjoy the challenge of trying to decide what to teach and how to teach it. I enjoy interacting with other people in a structured way. I enjoy helping people learn. But one thing I hate about teaching is that, at the same time that it helps me recognize some of my strengths, it also makes me painfully aware of some of my weaknesses. It's hard for me to think of another situation (except, perhaps, lying on a doctor's examination table) in which I feel more vulnerable.
Sometimes I feel incompetent as a student, but to be honest, that isn't often. Being on the student side of the classroom (whether real or virtual) feels pretty natural to me. I feel like I know how to be a student. But being on the teacher side – even though I did it for years – feels strange. I still feel like I don't know what I'm doing, or how I should be doing it.
I guess I'd better get used to that feeling.
Well, sort of. I just started a part-time job teaching English to Ifrane government administrators two mornings a week. I knew soon after this semester began that I was going to need to get a job to give me something to do besides schoolwork, but I wasn't dedicated enough to the idea to aggressively seek a job. This job came to me and was so close to perfect – except for being a teaching job – that I felt I had to take it.
After the first day, I can already tell it will be interesting, and I think I will learn a lot from doing it. Because much of my experience here has been mediated by an American-style university, this teaching job is in some ways my first experience with a Moroccan institution. I have to go to the Ifrane province building to teach, and I walk past several guards on my way. The guards salute one of my students; he's that important.
It didn't take long for me to remember what I loved about teaching and what I hated about it. I enjoy the challenge of trying to decide what to teach and how to teach it. I enjoy interacting with other people in a structured way. I enjoy helping people learn. But one thing I hate about teaching is that, at the same time that it helps me recognize some of my strengths, it also makes me painfully aware of some of my weaknesses. It's hard for me to think of another situation (except, perhaps, lying on a doctor's examination table) in which I feel more vulnerable.
Sometimes I feel incompetent as a student, but to be honest, that isn't often. Being on the student side of the classroom (whether real or virtual) feels pretty natural to me. I feel like I know how to be a student. But being on the teacher side – even though I did it for years – feels strange. I still feel like I don't know what I'm doing, or how I should be doing it.
I guess I'd better get used to that feeling.
03 July 2011
Another downside
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| The white screen of death |
No, not a big deal...but a bigger deal than it would have been, say, 14 months ago, when I was still getting a paycheck in dollars (or any paycheck at all). Fourteen months ago, I would have just gone online and ordered myself a new one. I think it would cost me, maybe, $60.
But now $60 is a lot more to me than it was then. I've been thinking about this a lot lately since T and I have been seriously talking about returning to the States for a month. I'm having to seriously face the fact that wages which allow us to live a pretty comfortable (if not extravagant) life here would put us on food stamps there. We're doing great as long as we don't need anything that comes from an American or European economy. But as I have been pondering what I'll do while I'm back "home," I have inevitably and consistently come up against the wall of economics. The things I want to buy, the things I want to do, will all cost dollars, which I'm not earning anymore.
I know this makes me sound awfully materialistic. It may also sound like I'm throwing a pity party for myself, but I'm not at all. I'm just working right now on a mental shift, which is always difficult. I will be in the States (incha'allah, as we say here), but I won't be part of the U.S. economy (which is pretty much true for a lot of people living there, come to think of it). I will have to prioritize the things I want to spend money on (tofu or haircut? vitamins or clothes?) and will have to "make my own fun," as the saying goes.
And, if I can't get it working, I'll have to learn to live without my MP3 player.
12 April 2011
On how I have changed
Lately, I have been thinking about whether it's even remotely possible (financially speaking) for me to visit the States for a couple of weeks this summer. And that has led me to reflect on a variety of things. What do I miss about the United States? What things will seem strange to me when I return there? Have I forgotten how things work there? (I have a friend who was here in Morocco for two years through Peace Corps, and she told me that, when she returned to the States, she discovered when she tried to put gas in her car that she'd forgotten how to do it.) Have I changed, and how much, and in what ways? And will people notice?
I'm very aware, sometimes achingly aware, of many of the things that I miss from back home – tofu, grilling outside, good beer, organic food, chiropractic care, alternative medicine options, content and well-fed domestic animals, the English language.
I've also been in Morocco long enough that I know some of the things that I will miss when I leave – the slower pace of life, mint tea, the ubiquity of cafés with good strong coffee, public transportation, hired help (who wouldn't miss that?).
The question of how I have changed is of most interest to me. I have spent large chunks of my life either wanting or trying to change myself, with little success. Perhaps we go through the most change when it is not our primary goal but a natural consequence of some other action that we take. How have I changed? Here in Morocco, mostly due to the language barrier, I have become more introverted (even though I didn't think that was possible). I think I will be more outgoing in the States. I think I will be thrilled that I can communicate with nearly every human being I see. I used to hate making almost any kind of phone call; I don't think that will be the case anymore. I think, at least for a while, I will be happy to be able to so easily talk to the person on the other end.
Another aspect of myself that has changed – and I'm really not sure how I feel about this – is the "working" self. Up until last May, I always worked (except for a couple of stressful periods of unemployment, during which I was still putting in 30 to 40 hours a week to try to find work). I have always thought that working a lot is something I should do and is something I need to do. I'm starting to understand that it is possible to have a balanced life, to work hard and work well, to contribute positively to the world, but without working all the time. This is not something I have yet achieved, and I'm not sure it's something I can achieve, but I have met people here who are doing it or trying to do it.
There are other ways in which I have changed that have not made me happy at all. Despite the facts that I don't own a car and I walk much more than I used to, I have still managed to gain weight here. In response to this, a couple of weeks ago, I renewed my commitment to increased exercise and strengthening my body through yoga, weightlifting, and more walking. This is just the most recent in a long string of mostly futile attempts to actively change myself, so we will see how it goes.
I'm very aware, sometimes achingly aware, of many of the things that I miss from back home – tofu, grilling outside, good beer, organic food, chiropractic care, alternative medicine options, content and well-fed domestic animals, the English language.
I've also been in Morocco long enough that I know some of the things that I will miss when I leave – the slower pace of life, mint tea, the ubiquity of cafés with good strong coffee, public transportation, hired help (who wouldn't miss that?).
The question of how I have changed is of most interest to me. I have spent large chunks of my life either wanting or trying to change myself, with little success. Perhaps we go through the most change when it is not our primary goal but a natural consequence of some other action that we take. How have I changed? Here in Morocco, mostly due to the language barrier, I have become more introverted (even though I didn't think that was possible). I think I will be more outgoing in the States. I think I will be thrilled that I can communicate with nearly every human being I see. I used to hate making almost any kind of phone call; I don't think that will be the case anymore. I think, at least for a while, I will be happy to be able to so easily talk to the person on the other end.
Another aspect of myself that has changed – and I'm really not sure how I feel about this – is the "working" self. Up until last May, I always worked (except for a couple of stressful periods of unemployment, during which I was still putting in 30 to 40 hours a week to try to find work). I have always thought that working a lot is something I should do and is something I need to do. I'm starting to understand that it is possible to have a balanced life, to work hard and work well, to contribute positively to the world, but without working all the time. This is not something I have yet achieved, and I'm not sure it's something I can achieve, but I have met people here who are doing it or trying to do it.
There are other ways in which I have changed that have not made me happy at all. Despite the facts that I don't own a car and I walk much more than I used to, I have still managed to gain weight here. In response to this, a couple of weeks ago, I renewed my commitment to increased exercise and strengthening my body through yoga, weightlifting, and more walking. This is just the most recent in a long string of mostly futile attempts to actively change myself, so we will see how it goes.
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. :-)
09 February 2011
Still here
I'm still here, everyone. Besides a recent day trip to Fez with friends (which I still may write about later), I just haven't done anything "blog worthy" lately.
What I have done is gotten myself beneath a nearly unmanageable pile of schoolwork by taking five difficult online classes. What I have done is turned down hikes, book discussions, and coffee breaks to study for exams. What I have done is gotten my first "C" on an assignment because, despite turning down all opportunities for distractions, despite the fact that I don't have a job, despite the fact that I hire someone to do my laundry and dishes and cooking, I didn't have the time that I needed to put into it.
And what do I keep thinking? I wish I had worked less hard when I was in college the first time around, when the stakes weren't as high as they are now. When I was in college 10 years ago (okay, more than 10 years ago), I also turned down social events to do school work. But I didn't need to. I didn't need to get A's in every class. I didn't need to read every chapter of every textbook that was assigned.
That's a strange confession to make: I worked too hard in college.
Now, I have to get A's and B's in all of my classes if I want to have any chance of pursuing my desired career. There's no class like Introduction to Theatre on my schedule (sorry, theater professors) to provide some relief from the "heavy" classes. And while I know I'm not "old," my brain and body aren't as flexible now as they were back then, and I do have to work harder.
So what was my point? Oh, yes. I'm still here. In Morocco. At least, that's where I was the last time I checked.
What I have done is gotten myself beneath a nearly unmanageable pile of schoolwork by taking five difficult online classes. What I have done is turned down hikes, book discussions, and coffee breaks to study for exams. What I have done is gotten my first "C" on an assignment because, despite turning down all opportunities for distractions, despite the fact that I don't have a job, despite the fact that I hire someone to do my laundry and dishes and cooking, I didn't have the time that I needed to put into it.
And what do I keep thinking? I wish I had worked less hard when I was in college the first time around, when the stakes weren't as high as they are now. When I was in college 10 years ago (okay, more than 10 years ago), I also turned down social events to do school work. But I didn't need to. I didn't need to get A's in every class. I didn't need to read every chapter of every textbook that was assigned.
That's a strange confession to make: I worked too hard in college.
Now, I have to get A's and B's in all of my classes if I want to have any chance of pursuing my desired career. There's no class like Introduction to Theatre on my schedule (sorry, theater professors) to provide some relief from the "heavy" classes. And while I know I'm not "old," my brain and body aren't as flexible now as they were back then, and I do have to work harder.
So what was my point? Oh, yes. I'm still here. In Morocco. At least, that's where I was the last time I checked.
25 January 2011
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.
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.
29 November 2010
Day three
This is day three of rain in Ifrane, and the forecast calls for more of the same for the rest of the week.
Those of you who live in rainy parts of the world might be thinking, "So what?" Maybe I should explain what it means to rain in Ifrane. Once the rain starts, there will be no hint of the sun or of blue sky for days. The rain never stops. The lake between the University and Centre Ville floods. And the rain is accompanied by wind that would put to shame that in Cheyenne, Wyoming. And, of course, it is cold. Think about the fact that many residents of Ifrane are pedestrians (being unable to afford their own cars) and that they live in unheated homes. We do much of our shopping in outdoor spaces. Add to all of that the fact that many ceilings and windows leak (including ours)*, and you might begin to understand why the rain is so miserable here.
I find weather like this to be extremely unmotivating. Somehow, T and I managed to make ourselves go down to the taxi station yesterday, take a taxi to Azrou, and walk around Azrou to go Christmas shopping. But now that I'm back in my apartment, I may not leave until the rain does. Especially now that… I have someone else to do my laundry for me! That's right; the only (non-literal) ray of sunshine on this gloomy, rainy day is that I have finally managed to hire a "maid" (an entry on my feelings about that word, and about the experience of hiring someone to do my laundry for me when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, will come later). Today, I didn't have to drag my laundry through the cold rain.
*I have had leaky ceilings before, when I lived in the States. In the past, that sort of thing drove me nuts. But when I got up this morning and found the peeling paint on our ceiling and the wet spot on the carpet below it, I just calmly grabbed a towel and a bucket and called T to ask him to submit a work order. Living in a foreign country really is changing me. :-)
Those of you who live in rainy parts of the world might be thinking, "So what?" Maybe I should explain what it means to rain in Ifrane. Once the rain starts, there will be no hint of the sun or of blue sky for days. The rain never stops. The lake between the University and Centre Ville floods. And the rain is accompanied by wind that would put to shame that in Cheyenne, Wyoming. And, of course, it is cold. Think about the fact that many residents of Ifrane are pedestrians (being unable to afford their own cars) and that they live in unheated homes. We do much of our shopping in outdoor spaces. Add to all of that the fact that many ceilings and windows leak (including ours)*, and you might begin to understand why the rain is so miserable here.
I find weather like this to be extremely unmotivating. Somehow, T and I managed to make ourselves go down to the taxi station yesterday, take a taxi to Azrou, and walk around Azrou to go Christmas shopping. But now that I'm back in my apartment, I may not leave until the rain does. Especially now that… I have someone else to do my laundry for me! That's right; the only (non-literal) ray of sunshine on this gloomy, rainy day is that I have finally managed to hire a "maid" (an entry on my feelings about that word, and about the experience of hiring someone to do my laundry for me when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, will come later). Today, I didn't have to drag my laundry through the cold rain.
*I have had leaky ceilings before, when I lived in the States. In the past, that sort of thing drove me nuts. But when I got up this morning and found the peeling paint on our ceiling and the wet spot on the carpet below it, I just calmly grabbed a towel and a bucket and called T to ask him to submit a work order. Living in a foreign country really is changing me. :-)
14 September 2010
How many Moroccans does it take to change a lightbulb?
This isn't the beginning of a racist joke. It's the beginning of a reflection on how the definition of "work" is strongly culturally bound. This isn't something I had thought much about before moving to Morocco.
Before T and I came here, B (who lived here for a few years) told us a story about an attempt to pay one of his utility bills (I forget now which bill it was). He went to the office of the utility company to pay his bill. The office was open; B had the right amount of money; people were working there. Nevertheless, he was told he couldn't pay his bill because the man whose job it is to take the money was not there. If I remember correctly, B had to make more than one trip and spend quite a bit of time waiting. Apparently the-man-whose-job-it-is-to-take-the-money also worked in another office at the same time that he worked in this office and had to be summoned back to this office in order to take B's money.
Here's the great part of the story: When the-man-whose-job-it-is-to-take-the-money showed up, he walked behind the counter, took B's money from his hand, and handed it to one of the other office workers who had been there all along.
His job was literally, and solely, to take the money.
I don't have such an extreme story from my own experience, but I did start observing similar "jobs" almost from the moment I got off the plane in Casablanca. I used a couple of the restrooms in the Casa airport, and each bathroom had its own attendant. The job of the attendant in the first restroom appeared to be to sit in the restroom and notify people that the soap was out. The job of the attendant in the second restroom appeared to be to talk to her counterpart in the nearby men's restroom.
There are also guards everywhere. The University campus has two sets of guarded gates that people must go through to get onto campus. There is also always some sort of guard standing by the road in town leading to what I think is the public swimming pool. And if you park in downtown Ifrane, you don't pay for a parking spot, but when you leave, you pay an attendant for "watching" your car.
My favorite work set up was in Banque Populaire (our Moroccan bank). The door into the bank is always locked, so the bank pays a man to unlock the door when people walk up to it so they can get in (I was in the bank for quite a while and never saw the man deny anyone entrance). This man is also paid to take numbered tickets from a machine and hand each person one so everyone knows when it's their turn to go up to the counter.
Oh, and speaking of the counter...when we went to the bank, there were only two tellers working, and they were working at the same station. The only other employee we saw was a guard. The line was long, and if we hadn't basically cut in line, the bank would have closed and we would have been turned away before our number was called. I'm sure many people were turned away at closing time that day.
My American sensibility says: Why pay a guy to unlock a door and hand people tickets? That's not essential work! Why not train him or someone else as a teller so the line can be moved along more quickly? Why not split up the two tellers who are working? But the fact that I have those thoughts shows that one's sense of what constitutes "work" is culturally bound. Morocco is a very poor country, with a lot of uneducated people who need jobs. Culturally, then, it makes sense to pay people to mop the sidewalks or attend the restrooms or whatever.
There's also another aspect to this idea of "work," which is that there is an amazing entrepreneurial spirit here. People create jobs out of almost nothing. There is a man who walks around the souk selling drinks of water. There are other people who sell plastic grocery bags at the souk. In Fez, I saw a young boy standing in the middle of the road selling boxes of facial tissues to people driving by.
I'm sure there must be jobs in the U.S. that make very little sense to people from other cultures. In fact, once I start thinking about it, there are jobs in the U.S. that don't make sense to me, especially all the paper-pushing jobs created by the private health insurance industry. But maybe that's a topic for another day. Right now, I have to go do laundry, which involves giving a ticket to a woman whose job it is to start the washing machine for me.
Before T and I came here, B (who lived here for a few years) told us a story about an attempt to pay one of his utility bills (I forget now which bill it was). He went to the office of the utility company to pay his bill. The office was open; B had the right amount of money; people were working there. Nevertheless, he was told he couldn't pay his bill because the man whose job it is to take the money was not there. If I remember correctly, B had to make more than one trip and spend quite a bit of time waiting. Apparently the-man-whose-job-it-is-to-take-the-money also worked in another office at the same time that he worked in this office and had to be summoned back to this office in order to take B's money.
Here's the great part of the story: When the-man-whose-job-it-is-to-take-the-money showed up, he walked behind the counter, took B's money from his hand, and handed it to one of the other office workers who had been there all along.
His job was literally, and solely, to take the money.
I don't have such an extreme story from my own experience, but I did start observing similar "jobs" almost from the moment I got off the plane in Casablanca. I used a couple of the restrooms in the Casa airport, and each bathroom had its own attendant. The job of the attendant in the first restroom appeared to be to sit in the restroom and notify people that the soap was out. The job of the attendant in the second restroom appeared to be to talk to her counterpart in the nearby men's restroom.
There are also guards everywhere. The University campus has two sets of guarded gates that people must go through to get onto campus. There is also always some sort of guard standing by the road in town leading to what I think is the public swimming pool. And if you park in downtown Ifrane, you don't pay for a parking spot, but when you leave, you pay an attendant for "watching" your car.
My favorite work set up was in Banque Populaire (our Moroccan bank). The door into the bank is always locked, so the bank pays a man to unlock the door when people walk up to it so they can get in (I was in the bank for quite a while and never saw the man deny anyone entrance). This man is also paid to take numbered tickets from a machine and hand each person one so everyone knows when it's their turn to go up to the counter.
Oh, and speaking of the counter...when we went to the bank, there were only two tellers working, and they were working at the same station. The only other employee we saw was a guard. The line was long, and if we hadn't basically cut in line, the bank would have closed and we would have been turned away before our number was called. I'm sure many people were turned away at closing time that day.
My American sensibility says: Why pay a guy to unlock a door and hand people tickets? That's not essential work! Why not train him or someone else as a teller so the line can be moved along more quickly? Why not split up the two tellers who are working? But the fact that I have those thoughts shows that one's sense of what constitutes "work" is culturally bound. Morocco is a very poor country, with a lot of uneducated people who need jobs. Culturally, then, it makes sense to pay people to mop the sidewalks or attend the restrooms or whatever.
There's also another aspect to this idea of "work," which is that there is an amazing entrepreneurial spirit here. People create jobs out of almost nothing. There is a man who walks around the souk selling drinks of water. There are other people who sell plastic grocery bags at the souk. In Fez, I saw a young boy standing in the middle of the road selling boxes of facial tissues to people driving by.
I'm sure there must be jobs in the U.S. that make very little sense to people from other cultures. In fact, once I start thinking about it, there are jobs in the U.S. that don't make sense to me, especially all the paper-pushing jobs created by the private health insurance industry. But maybe that's a topic for another day. Right now, I have to go do laundry, which involves giving a ticket to a woman whose job it is to start the washing machine for me.
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