On My Home On Derb Errome

I moved. I felt like Fes Jdid was sucking the sweetness right out of me, so I opted for a fresh start: back to the medina, to a little place called DERB ERROME.

The house I live in is beautiful. It’s owned by a friend of a friend...one of those brave souls who bought and is in the process of restoring an old Moroccan home.

I live on the first floor...a lovely little apartment with plenty of space for dancing (a must), and a nice big window. The window is key. It lets in sunshine and the noise from the street below. (Of course by “street” I mean what anyone in America might call an alley...in Arabic we call it a DERB.) The noise from the street took some getting used to, but it’s certainly grown on me. It’s the noise of guides leading groups of tourists in English, French and Spanish. It’s the clinking and clomping of donkeys carrying Coca-Cola or tanks of gas to the hanut on the corner. It’s the music of weddings in the huge house next door, where the owners rent their home out for parties. It’s the noise of laughter and gossip and boys playing soccer. It’s the noise of people living. I love it.

Upstairs I have a terrace. A beautiful terrace. It has an incredible view of the city I love. Already this terrace has become the site of dinner parties, dance parties (thanks to the free live music from weddings next door), movie nights, guitar jams, morning coffee, and sunset beverages.

Have a look. DAR DARKOM (My home is your home.)

Look, Mom! I cook! That chicken that I'm cutting up in my sink was alive when I bought it, and we ate it several hours later. Also, notice the window.



A view of Derb Errome from my terrace.


The terrace view of my city in the evening.


(Photos taken by my lovely little sis)

On Sugar and Spice

Coffee is a very important part of my life. Moroccan coffee is intense. It’s strong, often spiced, and extremely sweet. However, most everyone knows that I like my coffee MASUS – with absolutely zero sugar. It makes me an oddity...welcome to my life.

Sometimes people ask why I don’t want sugar, in which case I usually quote The Great Santini: “I don’t want anything to make me sweet.”

Latifa indulges my obsession with masus coffee, but Soukaina refuses. She insists that drinking unsweetened coffee is “so un-Moroccan” and dumps absurd amounts of sugar into the pot as she’s brewing it. She knows I’ll still drink it because I can’t function without it. What really gets me about Soukaina’s coffee, though, is that as sweet as it is, it still has the kick from the spices. Interesting.

*

Last month I got in a fight with a cab driver. He wanted a tip. I refused to give it to him because he had offended me. He had muttered some uncomplimentary things about me while he drove me to my destination. He didn’t realize at the time that I understood Darija.

You can imagine his surprise, then, when we found ourselves in the middle of the street, screaming at each other in Darija over a Dirham (roughly 11 cents). A couple of bystanders came, intending to rescue their local GAURIA (white girl), and gave him the dirham he asked for so he’d let me be. I walked away, still furious, shaking my head and thinking, “you guys just don’t get it.” It was the principle of the thing, right?

Minutes later, by the time I reached my door, I was still furious, but no longer at the cab driver. I couldn’t believe I let myself explode like that. True, he started it, but I absolutely lost it. I kept replaying the scene in my head. Who was that girl? Where did all that rage come from? Where was my sweetness? Where was my grace?

The cab driver was the proverbial straw that broke my back. At that moment I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d had enough. Enough of fighting for respect. Enough of having to defend and explain myself. Enough of letting things go, or pretending I don’t understand what people mutter. I had built up months of anger and wounded pride.

I definitely am not that girl, screaming like a lunatic over an insult and 11 cents. But nor am I the Sugarplum Fairy of public diplomacy, conquering hearts and minds with sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. There has to be some middle ground.

A particularly poetic Moroccan said to me a while back, “If you’re too sweet, people will eat you like a cake.”

True, friend. But if you’re too bitter, they’ll spit you out altogether.

What to do?

*

My mom sometimes refers to my little sister JENNA and me as Sugar and Spice. When we ask which is which, she diplomatically answers that there’s some of both in each of us – with different proportions, of course. But everyone knows that Jenna’s a tender-hearted darling and I’m a bit more ornery.

Jenna’s been here visiting me in Fez for the past couple of weeks. Through the dance parties and dinner parties, adventures in Fez and beyond, and good old-fashioned sister bonding, her sweetness has rubbed off on me a bit.

I’m realizing that the only way to maintain my sanity in Morocco (or elsewhere) is to stay as sweet as possible (apologies to the Great Santini) without losing my spice.

Kind of like Soukaina’s coffee.

On Being Contextualized

I sat in my neighbor’s salon, sweating. Partly from the heat and partly from the social anxiety that attacks me every time I visit a new family for the first time. My hostesses pressured me to continue eating: “Kuli! Kuli! Zidi! Zidi!” (Eat! Eat! More! More!) I tried to refuse, but my protests were no match for four Moroccan women, plus one vivacious little girl, all determined to further extend their hospitality. Defeated, I took another cookie.

Last night was the first time I’ve had tea with my neighbors. We’ve been sharing a front door for the past five months.

“You know,” said MALIKA, my 20-something neighbor that I often exchange greetings with as I come and go, “when you moved in we all just assumed you were MASKHOTA (a ‘bad girl’ of ill repute), but now we know you’re nice.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I dipped a larger-than-usual piece of bread in some olive oil and shoved it in my mouth. I figured having food in my mouth would excuse my speechlessness, but it couldn’t hide the strong flush that came over my face. They don’t call me MATICHA – Tomato – for nothing.

Malika continued, “We see now that even though you live by yourself, you’re still BINT AL-A’ILA – a girl belonging to a family.”

I still felt awkward, so I fidgeted with my teacup. Because I didn’t say anything, the women talked amongst themselves...about me, of course:

“She’s so sweet! Look, she’s shy! See? I told you she’s nice! She came over to check on the baby! She came to Morocco to study...MESKINA! (Poor Thing!) So far from her family! I met her parents a couple months ago. She’s like a photocopy of her mother. And her dad...did you see him? What a nice family!”

As they talked about my family it dawned on me that the turning point in my relationship with my neighbors was when my parents visited in March. Because of work schedules my parents came separately – within one week of each other – but both got a taste of my life. And both had a significant impact on how my neighbors in Fes Jdid see me - especially the ones who share a door with me. Since then what used to be a relationship of suspicion and restrained hostility has gradually developed into cordiality, and finally even warmth.

First, my dad blew peoples’ minds. That American girl who’s always flying solo was suddenly accompanied by a chaperone. (But let’s be honest – with me acting as tour guide and translator, who was chaperoning who?)

The week he came was a stressful one for me. I was having some issues in my house and my neighborhood. But because of that he got great insight into my emotional and physical support systems. He was able to spend time with the Khatabis, who love me and treat me like one of their own. And he got to meet my friend HASSAN AL-FARHAN. This nickname means “Hassan the Joyful” because this man is absolutely oozing with Joy. Also, it rhymes. On top of this, he lives nearby and would drop anything to help me out.

During that particular week Hassan came over a lot – to help with some repairs on my house and to team up with my dad to intimidate some neighborhood shebab who were hassling me. But for propriety’s sake, Hassan and I stopped by to speak to my neighbors about it. We wanted to be absolutely clear about the nature of his visits, lest imagination and gossip run wild. The gesture surprised the neighbors and they clearly appreciated it. They also offered their brothers and sons as reinforcement against any shebab who might give me a hard time. This was the first conversation I’d had with my neighbors aside from “Salaam/Salaam” – Hello/Goodbye.

People really enjoyed meeting my dad. Some young men and fathers of young men saw his visit as a golden opportunity. A couple individuals invited me and Dad to dine with their families – invitations that I was fairly certain would include some talk of dowry. I didn’t even bother translating their requests before flatly refusing.

A week later my mom came, and her experience was quite different. Things had settled down in my world and Mom got to experience something closer to my normalcy. We spent time with Khattabis, of course, visited Dounia’s new house, toured the Medina (Tour Guide: Yours Truly), went shopping for pottery and other goods, and of course spent an entire day at CAFE CLOCK – talking, reading, seeing whatever friends passed by, and catching up on mother/daughter time.

At one point, Mom watched as I wielded my bargaining skills for a pair of sunglasses. Unbeknownst to me, as the price decreased, my audience increased. Malika’s sister Fatima Zahra (FZ JARA) had crept up. It was the first time I’d seen her out of the house, and for the longest time I thought she and Malika were the same person. She complimented me on my bargaining (a high compliment coming from a Moroccan) and we proceeded to have a lovely conversation – our first since I realized she wasn’t her sister.

Everyone loved meeting my mom. The neighbors quoted a Moroccan saying to me last night: “Qlab l-qula ala fumha, Tatlaa l-bint li umha” It’s not worth translating literally into English because it makes no sense, but the meaning is that if you want to see what a girl will be like, just look at her mom. Also, it rhymes.

Overall, my parents’ visit made great strides in my once forsaken attempts to forge peaceable relations with the neighbors. Generally in Fez, and particularly in my neighborhood, if a young woman lives by herself it’s assumed that she did something wrong – had some breach with her family and was sent out on her own. But for me, that’s just not the case.

It seems that the most important thing that my neighbors saw while my parents visited is that I have parents. I belong to someone. I come from somewhere. On top of that, they saw that my parents know where I am and what I’m doing. And they support it. In other words, my parents put me in context.

Perhaps equally important, the neighbors also saw that my dad couldn’t trade me in for 10,000 camels, even if he wanted to.

On An Enriching Vacation With A Minor Deportation

I trudged down a desert highway with my two bags full of dirty clothes and quickly melting Israeli chocolate. I guess I shouldn’t have left my sunscreen behind. In the distance I saw what might be a bus stop, and I was on a mission to find Israeli bus 961. Only then could I get up north to Beit Shean in Galilee, and hopefully – hopefully - make it across the border back to the Jordanian side.

How did I get here?

I suppose we have to rewind 2 weeks.

*

For the first week of May I had been sent to Amman, Jordan for Fulrbight’s annual Enrichment Seminar for the Middle East and North Africa (MENA) region. There were 2 conferences – one in Rabat (the capital of Morocco) and one in Amman (the capital of Jordan) to give researchers a broader understanding of the region we live in, and thereby enrich our research experiences. I was one of the lucky Moroccan researchers chosen to go to Amman. Naturally, I decided to further my enrichment by adding about 2 weeks to my stay and traveling around the region. Adventures ensue.


ADVENTURE IN AMMAN: Realizing Moroccan Specificity

We began with three days of conferencing – presenting research and listening to presentations, guest speakers, the US Ambassador to Jordan, discussion groups, eating lots of food and drinking lots of coffee. It became apparent pretty quickly that Morocco is somewhat of an outlying case in the region. Should North Africa really be lumped in with the Middle East? We’re not exactly Arab; our dialect Arabic is unintelligible to everyone else in the region; we don’t have the oil or the “holy history” of the rest of the region. Basically, we’re MENA oddballs.

On the other hand, what other region would we belong to? Europe? Certainly not. Africa? No.

MENA it is, then.


ADVENTURE IN THE PROMISED LAND: Where’s The Milk and Honey?

On the last day of the conference we took an excursion. First to Mount Nebo, from which Moses surveyed the Promised Land and where he was last seen. It looked like a barren desert to me, but I’m sure at one point it was flowing with milk and honey. Or maybe it was a simple matter of perspective...not quite as barren as the desert the Israelites had been wandering in for 40 years.

From Party in the Promised Land

Next was a trip to the Baptism Site. Of Jesus, that is, in Bethany Beyond the Jordan. But the Jordan River has now dried into more of a gently trickling creek, and is no longer connected to the pool in which Jesus is said to be baptized. But the site is preserved, with an ancient church, a plaque from King Hussein, and a tasteful mosaic commemorating the Pope's visit to the site.

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

We finished the excursion with a sunset swim at the Dead Sea, and suddenly all seemed right with the world.

From Party in the Promised Land

To top it all off, we were given toolish hats and tote bags that say “Fulbright” on them in English and Arabic. Sweet.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN PETRA: Discovering a Lost City

For my next adventure I hopped on a bus with my dear friends and colleagues CAITLYN and SAM to the lost city of Petra for a couple days. It’s beyond me how an entire city can just get lost lost, but I now believe that Jordanian Bedouins are without a doubt the best secret keepers in the world.

It’s a city, probably built in the 6th century BC, carved (yes, carved) into the caverns and canyons of the natural rocky desert terrain. Somehow it was lost – that’s right, lost for hundreds of years before its “rediscovery” by a Swiss explorer in the early 19th century. Unbelievable.

It is by far the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m not sure anything could possibly top it. Words do nothing for it, so I'll post a couple pictures here, and you can satiate your curiosity by clicking the link to my photo album, "Party in the Promised Land"

From Party in the Promised Land

On day 1 of Petra, Caitlyn and Sam and I hiked all around, seeing the main sites, herding goats, and climbing on things we probably shouldn't climb on.

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

From Party in the Promised Land

On day 2 of Petra I was having some knee problems, so I sent my friends on a hike and ended up spending the day hanging out with 8-12 year-old Bedouin boys. They got tired of trying to sell postcards to tourists and decided to talk to that weird white girl who speaks Arabic instead. Story of my life.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN TEL AVIV: Beaches, Bars and Shopping Malls

At the conference I particularly bonded with the Fulbrighters from Israel. They were also oddballs, for obvious reasons. I decided that I could add to my enrichment by going to Israel and hanging out with them for several days. Why not? So I got on a bus and headed for the northern border crossing. My plan was to start up north, spend a day in Tel Aviv, then head on down to Jerusalem, then finaly back to Amman. Plans soon changed, as they tend to do in this part of the world.

I fell in love with Tel Aviv. I stayed with Morgan, one of the Fulbrighters, and had a blast with her. I’m not sure what impressed me most – The beach? Western coffee shops? Girls wearing skirts and tank tops? People jogging at night? Bars? Recycling bins? The mall? A religious obedience to traffic signals? It felt like a little slice of heaven in the Middle East.

Granted, this is all very superficial, and I can’t really overlook the problems I have with a religious state and the national and international political and sociological problems that go with it. But from a vacationer’s standpoint, superficial glory is ok.

I got sucked into Tel Aviv and ended up staying a little longer. But when it comes down to it, I can do whatever I want. I’m on vacation.


ADVENTURE IN JERUSALEM: Jungle Boogie in Jesusland

Eventually I made it down to Jerusalem, where I stayed with yet another Fulrighter named Amalia. I spent my first day there wandering around the old city: Dome of the Rock, Holy Sepulchre, Wailing Wall, etc. More incredible history under my feet.

One thing that has really struck me about this region is the acknowledgment of religious diversity. That’s not to say that the religions peacefully coexist (obviously) but there are churches and mosques and synagogues everywhere – in Israel and Jordan, at least. Coming from Morocco, where the existence of Christians isn’t even acknowledged, it was a shock to see churches and crosses everywhere I turned.

I came at an interesting time, as it was “Jerusalem Day” – an extremely controversial celebration of when Israel “took back” Jerusalem. But a party is a party, and a concert is a concert. I went with Amalia and her friends to a massive concert in a park. Much to my surprise, Kool and the Gang was playing. That’s right. Kool and the Gang. Jungle Boogie...Celebrate...Get Down On It...

Surreal.

The next day was another day of sight seeing in the old city. Crosses still amazed me. I couldn't stop photographing them.

From Party in the Promised Land

ADVENTURE IN NOWHERELAND: Neither Here Nor There

Finally the time came for my return to Jordan. I was going to spend my last several days just hanging out with JULIA, a friend from Wheaton who is currently living and studying in Amman. I had entered Israel from the northern border, and planned to return through the middle one. It’s almost a straight shot from Jerusalem to Amman, and would take only about an hour by car without the security and formalities of border crossing. But that, of course, would be too easy and would give me very little to blog about.

I exited Israel and boarded the bus to the other side to go through Jordanian security. I had been told that going into Israel was the hardest part, but going the other direction should be a breeze. Lies.

A Jordanian security official boarded the bus and promptly told me that I couldn’t enter Jordan from that crossing. He said that by entering Israel I canceled my Jordanian visa. I’d have to get a new one and re-enter the country from the same border I had come through – up north.

This meant that I would have to return to Israel, find my way to the northern border, get into Jordan, then find my way back southward to Amman. Lame.

He made me get off the bus and wait there, somewhere in the nothingness between Israel and Jordan. He had my passport. I just waited. Finally a bus full of Americans came by to take me back to the Israeli side, where I had to go through the Israeli security again. They gave me one of those dreaded security stickers that says I’m dangerous, probably because I’ve spent time in Muslim countries. The border police took me aside for a chat. It all turned out well enough, because I’m so sweet and kept my cool. We ended up chatting about my Amazon Kindle. I talked to them about the pros and cons of reading on an electronic book, and eventually they passed me through into Israel. Again.

Once back on the Israeli side I had to figure out how to get to the northern border. Of course all the taxi drivers knew I was stranded and wanted to charge me about 10 times more than I could afford to take me up north. I had to do some creative problem solving. I found out the bus number from some of the Israeli border police. The next step was getting to the bus, since it’s illegal to walk the 2km from the border to the highway. I’d get shot. I found a tour bus driver who took pity on me, and allowed me to hitch a ride to the highway. He dropped me off and I had to walk until I hit the bus station.

*

And now we’re back where we started. I’m sweating, burning, hauling luggage down a desert highway, with my eyes on the box in the distance that might, just might, turn into a bus stop for Bus 961 which would take me up to Beit Shean, a town 6km from the Jordanian border.

It was. Hamdulilah. Finally the bus came, and I boarded. It was already full of Israeli soldiers. All with guns. GUNS! On the public bus! It was about an hour and a half ride to Beit Shean, and one of the soldiers said he’d let me know when we got there. He probably got sick of me asking “where are we?” at every stop.

Finally in Beit Shean, I sat down in a restaurant for a sandwich and some water. I made friends with the girl who worked there, and she offered me a ride to the border. I geared myself up for Border Crossing: Round 2. This one went much better.

The Jordanian passport stamper remembered me from when I came through 5 days before. His friend had asked me to marry him. When I got up to the counter he said, “Megan! Megan who lives in Morocco! How was your trip?” I was shocked that he remembered me. I sent my regards to his friend, reaffirmed that I’m still not interested in his proposal, and walked out the door into Jordan...beautiful Jordan.

A British woman and I shared a Taxi back to Amman.


ANOTHER ADVENTURE IN AMMAN: Real Life and R&R

When I got back to Amman I met up with Julia. Since then we have been just...chilling. In cafes, at home, with her friends. It’s been a much needed wind-down before I make my return to Morocco. As much as I love these adventures, it’s real life that really fascinates me. Just living and functioning in Fez or Amman or Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. Or Petra if you're a 10 year-old Bedouin.

I’m very much looking forward to going back to Fez tomorrow. But I can certainly say that in the past 2 weeks I have been successfully enriched.

On the Unintended Consequences of Asserting My Feminist Agenda

We walked into the room and every head turned to stare at us: four 20-something American women, all sweaty from the aerobics class we had just finished, and all soaking wet from the sudden downpour we found ourselves in. We sought refuge in the nearest establishment – a famously de-facto all-male cafe on the edge of the medina. We all took a deep breath and walked into the shelter, already full of – well – Moroccan men. Some had come much earlier to watch the soccer game. Others, much like us, decided they wouldn’t mind some coffee or tea while they waited out the storm.

The difference with us, of course, is that we’re women. According to Moroccan cafe culture, the cafe is strictly male space, not to be trespassed by women. We were clearly unwelcome.

Our efforts to slip in without creating a fuss were far from successful. Finding four chairs in the already crowded cafe was a challenge in itself. To their credit, a couple guys offered us their chairs, but we refused, finally finding four empty ones and carrying them (with the help of the waiter) to our table in the back of the room. We sat down and immediately felt eyes burning into our skulls.

“What are these American girls doing in our manspace?”

But let’s be honest. I derive some sort of sick pleasure from shaking things up a bit in cafe culture. That evening my friend and colleague LAUREN PEATE wonderfully referred to our invasion of manspace as “asserting our feminist agenda.”

Yes, men. A woman stranded in a storm gets just as wet and cold as a man does. I’ll go into the cafe. Because I can.

I frequent several otherwise-all-men-cafes. But each one takes a lot of work to get to the point where I feel comfortable there. It’s day after day of the same thing...

YES, I want black coffee, without sugar.
NO, I don’t have a male escort.
YES, I know the price – I can read the sign (in Arabic) so don’t try to rip me off.
NO, I’m not a tourist.
YES, I will just sit here, drink my coffee, and watch people walk by.
NO, I didn’t come here to make conversation.
YES, I have a phone number.
NO, you can’t have it...

Really I don’t want much, except coffee. And respect.

*

My dad came to visit last month, and he’s a bit of a coffee addict. When he needs his coffee, he needs his coffee, so I ended up sitting in lots of these cafes, which are far more numerous than the female-friendly ones where I generally go to get work done. At one point we went to a cafe near my house in Fez Jdid. Until then I had specifically avoided that cafe and others like it in my neighborhood.

I think one of the reasons I avoided it until then was because I knew that the men in it sit there and watch me every day as I go about my business. Not to sound self-important, but I figured they must talk about me at least from time to time...you know, “Here comes that white girl again...” and that kind of thing. The thought of actually sitting with them was terrifying. A major disadvantage of my improving darija is that I have the misfortune of hearing and understanding what people say about me when I’d much rather remain blissfully ignorant.

While my dad and I conspicuously sat there – the foreigner and the woman – I got a phone call and everyone in the cafe heard me speaking in darija. As I was leaving, one man commented...

“So, you speak darija?”
“Yeah,” I told him, “I live here.”
To which he responded, “Well we all know you live here. But it’s great that you speak darija. You’re welcome here anytime. You’re very respected in this cafe. Come here to take your breakfast.”

It was an awkward conversation. Welcoming, yes, but also strange. Several times since then I’ve sat at that cafe (without my father as an escort) and have felt incredibly awkward every time. But, of course I play it cool. I have my routine. I go to buy HARCHA or MALAWI – two Moroccan breads that are wonderful for breakfast – then go to the cafe. I always drink the same thing – black coffee, no sugar – and just...sit. I look straight ahead toward the street, but I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on there. Mostly I just think and process. I gather my thoughts and plan out my day. I spend a quiet 20 minutes, then go on with my life. I love it. I also try to pretend that there aren’t people staring at me and wondering what I’m doing in their manspace.

*

The other day I was approached on the street by the same man who had welcomed me to his cafe several weeks before – I call him HASSAN DIYAL QHWA. He was friendly enough. He welcomed me back to Fez after my 5-day absence and he said that next time I came to the cafe he wanted to talk to me about his daughter – an 18-year-old who loves music. He always sees me walking with my guitar, so he thought we should meet. I agreed to meet her. After all, that’s my job, right?

The next morning I met Hassan at the cafe, and he introduced me to his daughter, AFAF. I went home with her to drink tea, and Hassan went back to the cafe. Note, please, that Afaf isn't allowed to sit in the cafe. Afaf and I chatted about music, sports, school, and traveling. I like her. She's spunky. Her dad doesn’t like her to go running by herself, so I told her we can go running together. I have a new running buddy.

Later, after lunch (Moroccan visits generally last all afternoon), Afaf went back to school, but I got to hang out with her parents. Hassan and I had a lovely little chat about how everyone perceives me in the cafe. It was without a doubt one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. He gave me a play-by-play of the commentary about me:

Look at that foreigner...wait, we’ve seen her before...wait, we see her everyday? Does she live here? She DOES live here! What’s she doing here? She must be a trouble-maker. No, I’m sure she’s a student. She likes music, she’s always carrying that guitar. And clearly she does sports, because sometimes she piles her hair on her head and is sweaty. Look how mean she is! Why is she so mean? No, she’s not mean. Look at how friendly she is to the banana man. She just doesn’t talk to people she doesn’t know...like a Moroccan girl. Wait...what’s she doing in our cafe?!?! What’s she DOING?!?!?! Why is she here? Probably because she wants coffee. But doesn’t she know that women don’t come to men’s cafes? Well, she’s Western, she does what she wants, AFRITA! But look at how she sits when she’s here. She ignores us all. She doesn’t even stare at people on the street. She just thinks. She’s not looking at us, she’s just looking at herself. She sits in the cafe like a Moroccan man. Wait...WHO IS THIS??

In summary, Hassan told me that shwia bi shwia I have been shattering every perception anyone has about me.

This went on for a while, complete with Hassan’s imitation of my demeanor while I sit in the cafe. It was – I have to say – accurate and hilarious, yet a bit disturbing that the tiniest gesture can’t go unnoticed.

And so it seems that by “asserting my feminist agenda” (Peate, 2010) I have opened Pandora’s box. I now get the good, the bad, and the ugly of what the cafe people say about me. But I also have met a wonderful new family in Fez Jdid who treats me like I’m their own.

Well worth it.

On Crosswalks and Catalyzing Change

Most every chronicle of an American’s adventures in the Middle East undoubtedly includes a mention of the traffic situation. Learning to cross the street in Morocco – or any other Arab country, I’m told – is an art form, and one that may save your life. There are crosswalks in which pedestrians have the legal right of way. But they mean nothing.

In the months that I’ve been here Arabic TV stations have aired a series of horribly graphic commercials. They depict gruesome traffic accidents and one even shows the dead bodies of school children hit in a crosswalk. They end with a plea: “We need to change our behavior.”

I don’t drive here, and Mom, you’ll be glad to know I recently turned down an offer for a motorbike. Deep down I REALLY want to be that American girl who rides a motorcycle (certain cause for speculation – my specialty), but the thought of driving on the streets of Fez fills me with such fear it could only end in disaster.

But I’m a passenger often. I’m pretty picky about my drivers, but taxis are the luck of the draw. Very often riding in someone’s car prompts a discussion about the rule of law, corruption, and civil responsibility. They all think I’m an up-tight American and I think they’re all insane Arabs. Inter-cultural dialogue is a such a beautiful thing.

The truth is, if you follow traffic laws in Morocco you’ll never survive, because everyone else drives like a maniac. It’s like an Olympic wrestler taking on the EFC champ: if he tries to fight clean he won’t stand a chance. In order to get from Point A to Point B you invariably have to concede that a two-lane road can actually accommodate the width of four cars, and you have to tailgate because if someone sees half a car’s length in front of you they’ll cut you off to get 5 meters closer to the red light. Not to mention young men (and old men...and women) feel the need for speed, and in Morocco the concept of the queue (as in waiting your turn for ANYTHING) is entirely foreign and counter-intuitive. The only way to survive on the streets of the Maghreb is to get with the system...the unwritten code that Americans will never understand, but taxi drivers seem to have down to an art.

But still...a little order couldn’t hurt.

Among my acquaintances is a guy named SIMO. He loves to tell me about his narrow escapes from the law. (I’ll admit it before I get scores of comments decrying my hypocrisy...The high school version of myself wasn’t known for following the letter of the law when it came to driving. And I saw every evaded ticket as a testament to my powers of persuasion. But shame on me.) Instead of flashing a smile and charming his way out of a citation, Simo simply halves the amount of the ticket and slips it to the police officer in cash.

“A 400dh ticket? Oh no! I can’t possibly afford that...how about I’ll give you 200dh and we’ll call it a day?” Or in the unfortunate circumstance that he doesn’t have 200dh cash with him... “How about 100dh and 3 cigarettes?”

At least once a week Simo would regale me with tales of his bribery and they would never sit well with me. I’ve heard all the arguments:
-The police don’t get paid very much...they’re EXPECTED to take bribes
-It’s the same as a tip for good service.
-The police double the amount of the real fine so they’d be taking a cut anyway.
-I can’t afford the ticket, and I don’t want them to take my license away.
-Everyone else does it, why not me? You gotta get with the system.

But what it all comes down to is that Simo pays off a police officer time after time after time and has never learned...until about a week ago when he had a big and dangerous accident. Car totaled, two people in the hospital. Idiot.

So what’s my point?

The laws are there. Police need to start enforcing them. And drivers need to start obeying them.

Back to crossing the street...

Last month I was walking with some Moroccan university students. They insisted that we cross the street in the crosswalk (wait...we have those in Morocco???). Their reasoning was a lovely brand of academic idealism, much forgotten in the US:

“Social change begins with individual action.”

Yalla.

On Getting Your Money's Worth

Dear U.S. Taxpayer,

Yes, I know. I seem to have fallen off the face of the planet. But take it as a sign that you’re getting your money’s worth.

Sometimes I think it’s unbelievable that you (yes, you) are paying for me to study Arabic and live in Morocco. But in the past 6 weeks I have been earning every penny (dirham, actually, since I’m paid in Moroccan currency). My language study has been put into overdrive – 20 hours of upper-level Fusha a week. I’ve been almost entirely consumed by schoolwork and I have been putting your money to good use. My head is about as full as it can be right now, juggling 2 languages – one in the school, the other in the street.

But lest this open letter to my creditors become complainy, I have to say that my many hours of studying have been punctuated but all sorts of cultural activities designed to give me some illusion of physical, intellectual and emotional balance: guitar classes, dance classes, dance parties, birthday parties, engagement parties, dinner parties, embassy parties...

I’m sorry that my blogging (and emailing) has fallen by the wayside. Truth be told, I have a lot of thoughts running through my head at the moment. It simply takes time and energy to form those thoughts into words. But it’s a valuable process for me. Until I make words of them, they’re just a jumbled up mess and my life makes no sense. I need to get back to writing. Now that I finished my final exam, I should have more time for processing, formulating and articulating. Stay tuned...more to come in the next couple of days, inshallah.


Sincerely,
Megan Pav