Time Enough
 
Before coming to Morocco, I admittedly did not know a lot about the history, the culture, the politics or the cuisine.  Being a linguist, I did, however, know a bit about the linguistic situation.  That being said, my entire perception of the country and what was in store for me hinged on that perception.  As it turns out, those other things, like history and politics do have an effect, so my preconceptions have thus far proved to off target.  But yesterday, after over 7 months in country, I finally had a day like I had imagined I would be having before coming to Morocco.  It was perfect and blissful and insanely multilingual.  Here's how it went:

8 am:  Aerobics, in Derija (Moroccan Arabic)
10 am: French Lesson
1 p.m.: Research at the Cervantes Institute's library, in Spanish
2 p.m.: Derija Lesson
4 p.m.: Nap and Dinner
6:30 p.m.: Teach English
8 p.m.: Spanish/Arabic Poetry reading at Cervantes
9:30 p.m.: Chat with my roommate in English
10 p.m.: Skype with my boyfriend in Spanish and Japanese

Life is good.  Life is really, really good.
 
I teach a class of 12 year-olds every Saturday, from 10 a.m. to 12 noon.  While I appreciate my students on an individual basis, the experience has taught me that I really don't want to teach 12 year olds.

Last term, I had my students make their own TV shows.  They picked the genre, wrote the scripts and acted it out while I filmed everything on my digital camera.  They were pretty into the project, and some of them turned out quite nice.  Anyway, while the students were busy working, I decided to snap some pictures for my my own posterity.  Right as I snapped a picture of a group of girls, the wildest of the boys decided to throw his marker in front of the camera.  The result?  Priceless. 

Refer me back to this picture if I ever say I want to go back to teaching kids.
Picture
 
A little-known fact about me:  I once acted in a murder mystery dinner theater in Philadelphia.  I had to act, sing, serve food and drink, and arrest the murderer at the end of the show. 

Now, Morocco has it's own murder mystery.  Actually, it's a double homicide. 

I woke up Saturday morning to a repeated thumping noise.  It was very early, so I thought it was weird that my roommate would be awake at all, let along banging doors and knocking things around.  I snoozed until I had to get about a half hour later.  When I opened the door, I saw a bird swoop around and disappear into the living room.  Then a heard a familiar thump.   Once I mustered up the courage to leave my room, I found two dead or stunned birds lying underneath the living room window, belly up. 

Here's the mystery:  There were definitely no birds in the house when Mary and I went to bed.  And all the doors and windows were closed tight.
 
 
Another shout of overwhelming kindness and generosity rises over the general din of 'crappybehavior'.  A friend of a friend (of arguable, a friend) went to Casablanca and bought me two very nice books on the Amazigh language, as well as a nice, hardback daily planner, after hearing that I was interested in learning Shelha.  He refused to accept any compensation from me. 

I thanked the friend of a friend profusely, and was touched by his thoughtfulness.  But the truth is, I find this kind of senseless kindness to be uncomfortable and frustrating.   I can’t repay the man.  And if I do, I fear I will enter into a strange gift-giving debt.  I feel like I already have.  As I was walking away with my books in hand, I also felt a little angry.  It just felt like too much kindness after so much crap from other people.  I wanted to write an open letter to Moroccan men saying that you wouldn’t have to do such overwhelmingly nice things if you weren’t such intolerable jerks all the time.  I would trade my three books for three days without an “hola, guapa!” or kissy noises or “hungry eyes” following me as I walk to work or the bakery. 

It’s a failed attempt at balance… like the litter strewn river leading to the most breathtaking, wild-flower strewn countryside I saw between Fez and Taza.  So much ugliness next to so much beauty doesn’t even the score.  On the contrary, it’s confusing.  It doesn’t make sense.  It’s not balance.  You don’t have to give up the rainbow of wildflowers to get rid of the trash.  And you shouldn’t have to despise acts of unexplained, unrecriprocated kindness because of the prevalence of rude behavior. 

I do think this zealous generosity is a cultural phenomenon, and that I just don’t understand it.  I’ve seen it before in other friends from other areas of the world, and I found it just as confusing and frustrating.  Maybe in North America we have a limit on culturally-acceptable generosity.  I want to understand it though, so if anyone has any insights, please, by all means, share them with me. 

In the meantime, I’ll enjoy my books on Amazigh and focus on the wildflowers. 

 
Spring break commenced on the last Saturday in March, and on Sunday, my dear friend traveled from Rabat to meet up with me in Tetouan.  We spent the night in Tetouan, caught a horribly graphic movie about Gaza at the Mediterranean Film Festival and then hit the road early Monday morning.  Here's the breakdown of our "RiHla Tawila" through the Northeast of Morocco. 

Mon. 29 Mar: Tetouan to Targuist by public bus.  Transport Souhail, I will never ride your buses ever again.  The bus broke down an hour down the road, and after what seemed like hours waiting at a rest stop, we picked up our journey in a half-fixed bus that could only go 15 km per hour.  From Targuist, we took a grand taxi to the tiny village of Beni Boufrah.  Ate a ton, then slept like logs.

Tues. 30 Mar: Hiking in Beni Boufrah to Cala Iris.  Our Moroccan-cum-Basque guide Wafi taught us the words in Arabic for pretty much everything, from the hut-like bales of hay to the red poppies dotting the countryside. 

Wed. 31 Mar: Trip to the local cooperative specializing in aromatic and medicinal herbs.  Relaxed at a cafe in the evening and bonded with a Basque (don't you dare say Spanish) couple.  Because of them, I was able to translate from Arabic to Spanish for the first time in my life.  It was a tangible measure of my hard work and achievement.  I was ecstatic.

Thurs. 1 Apr: Beni Boufrah to Al Hoceima by Grand Taxi.  Lunch of Fritura (assorted fried fish and seafood plate) before continuing on to Melillia. More bonding with the Basques, who turned out to be great travel companions.  Melodee and I found our way to the Residencia de estudiantes y deportistas and found it very much to our liking, although the complimentary breakfast left much to be desired.    We had our first dinner in Spain, tapas style, and I had the pleasure of introducing Melodee to the wonderful world of Spanish cuisine.

Fri. 2 Apr:  Good Friday.  Beautiful weather, but almost everything was closed.  We wandered for a bit and took a long afternoon nap.  I had Chinese food for the first time in over 6 months and in the evening we had front-row seats to the Semana Santa procession.  Melodee got some nice pictures of the floats featuring Jesus in a coffin and Mary in mourning.  Lots of tinto de verano (wine) for me and caña (beer) for Melodee. 

Sat. 3 Apr: Easter Saturday!  Since we knew we would be traveling back to Morocco early on Sunday morning, Melodee and I decided to celebrate Easter a day early.  We hid kinder eggs for each other around the hotel room (mine was hiding very cleverly in the toilet paper role) and stuffed ourselves with jellybeans.  Then we got some Italian food, napped on the beach and explored the breathtaking Old City.  This was one of my favorite days on the trip.  We wandered the streets taking pictures, eating Dorritos and occasionally sighing contentedly.  We wandered into the Museum of Melillia, were I was given a personal tour by the most precious 7-year-old boy I have ever seen.  He told me all about the history of the town, explained the original uses for the various antiques on display, and even gave me a brief overview of the Boston Tea Party.  My favorite moment was when he explained how to use the old phone board salvaged from the city's old hospital.  "Maybe you want to call someone, say, the Wine-lovers club, for instance."  I told his father, one of the board members of the city's historical society, that the future of Melillia was clearly in good hands.  After our unofficial tour, Melodee and I splurged on an amazing sea-side dinner, and then danced until 2 a.m., when most Melillians were just spilling in to the discotecas. 

Sun. 4 Apr: Melillia to Oujda, via (unfortunately) Nador.  I will dedicate a whole post to Nador, so I won't elaborate on the horrendous experience.  Melodee and I at least made it across the border, with only a few minutes of the usual questioning.  At Oujda we stayed with a Couchsurfing friend, but were so exhausted we just read until we fell asleep.

Mon. 5 Apr: Another night in Oujda, this time at a "good hotel hit by hard times".  Oujda is a great city, though.  Half the size of Rabat, double the size of Tetouan, the city is full of life, despite the economic blow it suffered when the border to Algeria was closed in 1995.  Melodee and I splurged at this amazing women's artisanal cooperative.  I bought Koichi and I each mugs as well as a glass and pitcher set, all hand decorated.  Our attempt to catch a Bollywood film at the nearby theater failed when we discovered  the movie was American dubbed in French and that the theater had clearly not been cleaned since local Pee-On-Things Festival.  We studied Arabic in our hotel room, instead. 

Tues. 6 Apr: Oujda to Taza by train.  Melodee politely talked to the women we shared the car with.  I looked out the window and wished I were in Japan, where trains are for sleeping and talking is taboo.  Aside from just being grumpy, I wanted to relax on the train, and the one woman in particular had several obnoxious habits, such as cracking gum, drinking abandoned drink boxes, taking up an entire seat, asking obnoxious questions and being otherwise unintelligible.  Once we arrived in Taza, there was some drama with out hotel room which I would rather forget.  Neither Melodee nor I were in great spirits, so we took it easy, got a good meal and went to bed early. 

Wed. 7 Apr: Very early.  Much earlier than we had intended.  Somehow we had set the alarm clock an hour behind, and I didn't realize it until after we were both showered the next morning.  I did a double take as I looked at my wristwatch, then stuck my head out of the hotel room to ask the maid to confirm the time.  8 a.m.  We had intended to wake up at that time, but instead left the hotel shortly after 8 and had a nice, calm breakfast served by a nervous and timid waiter who giggled giddily when I spoke to him in Moroccan Arabic.   The train to Fez that morning was much more pleasant than the one the day before, although our cabin mate did continue to speak to me in Spanish and French even though I told him that I only spoke Arabic.  I even gave him the option of Standard or Moroccan.  Somehow this was confusing for him, because he kept going in Romance.  And I kept pretending not to understand.  The things you do to learn a language!  One of Melodee's friends met us in Fez and we stayed with his family.  Fez is very tough on "fake guides" who try to show tourists around and then charge a ridiculous price.  They are so tough, in fact, that our friend couldn't show us around the town for fear of being accused of being a "fake guide", fined and  possibly arrested.   Luckily his brother/friend (?) was an official guide (for Italians!) so he showed us around in a mix of Arabics and "Romancified" English.  Fez was an amazing whirlwind, and I hope to go back someday.  It was definitely the best night on the Moroccan part of this trip.

Thurs.8 Apr:  Fez to Taza, via a CTM bus.  We had considered spending an extra night in Fez, but both Melodee and I were ready to get home.  The bus ride was (thankfully and relatively) uneventful.  Melodee "fired" all of the culturally insensitive tourists, and had me in stitches in the process.  She made some good points though.  What's the point of wearing legwarmers with a low-cut top?  So your legs are cold but your chest isn't?  And as my roommate Mary had previously pointed out, why wear a scarf with a tank top?  The experience made me feel very old and very isolated.  I wanted to go over and say, "Excuse me, young people, can you explain this to me?  Is this the new cool thing in the western world?"  Also, 100 dirhams to the guy who can explain the Spanish subculture of dreadlock-mullet-heads.  And has half the Spanish male population converted, or do they just really happen to like Morocco? 

There's no place like Morocco, and being that it's  home for now, there's no place like home.